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called. We’re also coordinating with CSR.”
    At the mayor’s blank expression, Gordon added, “That’s the County’s Crime Scene Response unit. You know, kind of like CSI on television, but for real.”
    The mayor shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, I know what it is. I’m shocked that this happened to us.”
    Us? What us? It happened to Marianna .
    “I assure you, we’re staying on top of things. My officers are already taking statements. Have they talked to you yet?”
    McKenna’s eyebrows rocketed upward. “Me? Why would they talk to me?”
    “Because you were here. You might have seen something.”
    “No, of course I didn’t see anything. I was standing with you the whole time.”
    “And you’d just arrived, straight from your office, right?”
    “Yes, as I told you. We were going to discuss the press conference.” He paled further. His jaw dropped. “Oh my God. The press conference. There’s no time to cancel it. No, we can’t cancel it. Word of this will have spread by then. We’ll have to use the opportunity to explain we’re doing everything that can be done.” He peered at Gordon. “You don’t think you’ll have this solved by then, do you?”
    “I strongly doubt that, sir. But I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. You have a way with the press.”
    Gordon would rather face whoever had killed Marianna—assuming it was a homicide—in a dark alley, unarmed, than speak to the press. He still got the jitters when he had to address his troops at a briefing.
    “As long as you’re here, Mayor, did Marianna ever mention any issues, any problems with the production? Anyone who might have wanted her out of the way?”
    “No, of course not. She had some rough edges, but being a woman in a position of power often means having to be more aggressive than a man would in the same job. Sad, but equality is—well, it isn’t . Not where it should be by now, at any rate.” McKenna paused, as if realizing he’d strayed from the main point of their discussion. “In our meetings, she never indicated any strife between herself and the rest of the production people.”
    “No complaints from any of the citizens?” Gordon asked. “Nobody grumbling about how having a movie crew here was going to mess up their routines?”
    “Not to me,” the mayor said. “I would think complaints would be channeled through your office.”
    Laurie, Gordon’s admin, hadn’t reported anything negative. The questions she’d fielded had been from people wanting to see more of the filming, not less.
    Gordon’s radio interrupted. Gordon lifted his hand. “Sorry, Mayor. I need to deal with the police side of things.” He turned his back on the man. “Hepler.”
    “Sir,” Titch said, “the director is about ready to explode. I think you should get in here.”
    “Where are you?” Gordon asked.
    “Daily Bread, sir. Locals are at Finnegan’s.”
    “On my way.” Gordon turned to the mayor. “I’m going to talk to the crew now. Bottom line, until we’ve cleared the scene and questioned everyone, filming is stopped. I’ll keep you posted, but you’re the expert at dealing with the media. I’m sure you’ll know what to tell them.”
    He strode past the mayor, toward Daily Bread, before the man had a chance to respond. The clumping of the mayor’s boots followed, but Gordon kept his pace brisk, and the man went off in his own direction.
    Gordon opened the rear door to the diner. A small corridor branched off, the dining room to the right, the kitchen to the left. He poked his head into the kitchen. The wait staff was busily arranging cinnamon rolls, muffins, and cookies onto large platters. The aroma of brewing coffee taunted him. Angie was sprinkling filling onto a rolled-out sheet of dough. She gazed up, her eyebrows raised in question. He shook his head, then moved into the dining room.
    Lionel Dawson, a short, stocky man with a trim goatee and booming voice, intercepted him as soon as Gordon