Built for Murder

By L Frank Turovich

The popular TV show Building Memories is filming a new season in Austin but someone keeps sabotaging the project. Erich Rambles is called upon for help. That is until someone murders a popular cast member right before him. Erich tries to leave the murder alone, yet every clue he uncovers about the project has some bearing on the death. When a second body appears at the project site, the two cases merge and become very personal for Erich.
Warned away by the lead detective, Erich walks a fine line between solving the murder and losing his license.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L Frank Turovich
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781940246109

L Frank Turovich

L Frank Turovich (1956- ) was born and raised in Flint, Michigan where he became a rabid reader of science fiction, fantasy, mysteries, comics and everything else not nailed down. He’s spent time in the Marine Corp before breaking into writing via articles in Nibble Mac and Inside BASIC magazines, then graduated to technical writing, training, and managing teams for companies like Zedcor, Metrowerks, Motorola, Freescale Semiconductor, and Nokia, before leaving to pursue his fiction writing ambition. He currently resides in Michigan in a home filled with books, computers, and two cats (Java and Larry).

Book preview

Built for Murder

An Erich Ramble’s Mystery

By

L Frank Turovich

Copyright ©2019 by L Frank Turovich

All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

It’s rare to witness a star’s death.

Having served two tours in Iraq I’ve seen death more times than I care to count. From fellow Marines, friends, enemy Iraqi soldiers, and innocent civilians caught between warring factions. The deaths varied from bullets, IEDs, car bombs, air strikes, falling buildings, and once by an unseen drone, both deliberately and by accident. It seems obvious the older I get, the more likely Death and I will meet and the longer I have to wait the happier I’ll be. It’s the main reason I left the Corps, death being too close, too immediate, too intimate to ignore.

To watch a star die, you need the right connections.

On this day, I did.

Denise Yoshimura, my gorgeous and intelligent girlfriend ran a catering business called Roadhouse Catering with her BFF Madison. It specialized in serving unique world cuisines to hungry work crews around Austin. They favored long-term contracts at project sites serving food for weeks or months at a time. They were currently feeding the Building Memories crew while they remodeled a local home for the upcoming television season.

For those of you who don’t know, Building Memories is a multiple award-winning television show that shows how to convert normal homes into state-of-the-art showplaces, to impress the neighbors and raise their taxes. It’s hosted by the genial Thomas Rhodes, a red-haired easterner who squires viewers through various project activities. It’s his job to ask the tradesmen; the ones doing the real work, leading questions so viewers understand the process. The most popular tradesman being Master Carpenter and cohost Anthony Sherman, a friendly bear of a man whose knowledge of construction was encyclopedic. He specialized in creating gorgeous, highly detailed, custom cabinets and furniture.

I knew this because Denise sat me down last weekend to watch a few episodes, giving me a running commentary on the biographical and historical events she probably cribbed from Wikipedia. I loved the hours of couch snuggling but was not impressed with the show. It was informative, but uninteresting. Probably because I’m more a hunter than a crafter.

I was wondering how to disengage our tangled bodies and make dinner when Denise nibbled my ear. It sent goosebumps down my neck and spine.

I think Ama has a job for you, she said.

Who’s Ama again?

Show producer. Denise exhaled softly against my neck.

Why me?

She needs someone of your type. You know, a PI.

How does she know I’m an investigator?

Denise rolled her beautiful brown eyes. I cannot tell a lie, I told her, she said.

Traitor, I’m not into site security, it’s boring.

Denise jabbed my belly playfully. No, it's something else.

Any hints?

Nope, but you’ll like the homeowner. She smiled mysteriously.

I searched for a reason behind her teasing behavior. As had happened many times before I came up empty.

Who? I asked.

She swiveled onto her knees, leaned over and whispered. Because the house belongs to Robert Hutchinson.

Robert Hutchinson was one of my favorite actors. Seldom the leading star, his prominent nose and ethnic features a familiar sight in dozens of movies both large and small. He was a character actor and his specialty was playing the stern and loyal right-hand men, sometimes to the hero, sometimes the villain. His presence was a mainstay of classic movie scenes and the basis for several memes on youTube. Nominated several times, he placed but never won a big award, always getting beat out by a more popular and marketable actor. At some point he disappeared off the movie path and now seen only in reruns on late night cable. That he was living in Austin, my adopted city, peaked my interest. I wanted to talk with producer Ama right now.

Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

I was saving it for a special occasion, Denise said.

What kind of occasion?

She snuggled closer and nibbled my ear again. This kind.

Dinner was late that evening.

Denise arrived in the company’s lone catering truck, white and festooned with a colorful photogenic logo of a cowboy in chaps astride a rearing quarter horse lassoing a huge margarita glass. Huge letters underneath proclaimed Roadhouse Catering while assorted smaller decals declared it AUSTIN’S #1 BEST FOOD TRUCK 2017 and FOODIES FAVORITE 2018. A rollout awning hugged the side panel above the serving windows, all of them covered by menus and various license stickers. It roared to a heaving stop of squealing brakes that had me stepping back. The sliding door slammed open.

Hey, Denise said. She had tucked her auburn hair under a white chef's beret and her smile warmed my insides. Her complexion was so smooth and perfect she needed no makeup to enhance it. The bronzed skin of her Spanish mother merged well with the almond eyes and delicate features inherited from her Japanese father. She wore a white chef’s jacket over a bright red shirt, a pair of designer jeans, and flats.

We exchanged hugs and a quick kiss.

Someone slapped my arm, hard. I turned to the company’s co-owner, Madison Forsythe, who greeted me cooly. Erich.

She sat on a storable seat, her arms crossed, and tapped her foot in the air. Denise and Madison were BFF’s long before I came onto the scene and dated Denise. Madison, or Mad for short, didn’t think I was a great match for her best friend and was always sarcastic with me when all of us were together. I ignored her as usual and did my best to stay polite.

Madison, I said. Didn’t see you there.

Madison was a petite woman with curled blond locks, a heart-shaped face and enough energy to power an electrical turbine. Her attire matched Denise’s except her shirt was emerald green and slacks white. She was short enough she could stand upright in the truck without bending. Not me, my neck always complained after spending any amount of time inside.

I shut the sliding door and fumbled open the passenger seat. Denise sped away with a surge of power and a lurch forcing me to fall into the seat. Cooking items rattled on shelves and inside drawers behind me.

We in a hurry? I asked.

Denise flashed a grin and shifted gears.

I like to get there early. Gives me time to watch the stars.

You sure they’re stars?

Don’t be a loser, said Madison. They’re on television aren’t they?

I shrugged, not willing to argue with that logic. My empty stomach rumbled as the wonderful smells of lunch registered. What’s on the menu today?

I can cook and even bake a little, enough to stay alive. But Denise was a trained chef and could produce a feast from shrimp, a box of macaroni, and some leafy vegetables that would rival a family’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Tuesdays are brisket days, rubbed with a secret selection of herbs and spices, then slow cooked to perfection over open coals. Served on plates with barbecue sauces from mild to death, fresh-baked rolls, some rice pilaf and mixed veggies on the side, or fill one of our delicious ciabatta buns with brisket slices, topped with as many onions and pickles as you can pile on. Madison chanted like a medicine barker. "For dessert we have the best rum-flavored tres leches cake in town."

My stomach growled in anticipation. Lunch couldn’t come soon enough.

Denise entered MoPac Expressway, the main conduit for traffic along the west side of Austin and cruised south. Traffic was light between the daily rush hours into and out of downtown Austin, and the lunchtime rush around the city as they sought to fill empty bellies.

Who else will be there?

Well, lots of people. The staff is solid, Ama and Thomas are always around, Anthony Sherman if he shows up, and the rest whom I don’t know. Then there’s Robert and his wife Susan, they own the house, and Guillermo the local contractor, and dozens of technicians and laborers to do the work.

You’re on a first name basis with Robert Hutchinson?

Denise grinned. He’s friendly. Are you jealous?

What’s Anthony like? Madison asked.

Girl, you stay away from him, Denise said. She looked at Madison in the rear-view mirror. That man can build anything, but he’s damaged goods.

He could build me something. Madison put on a hopeful face, wiggled her butt, and sighed.

He’s old enough to be your father.

Madison leered. Doesn’t matter, when I think of those strong hands, ruff!

It’s not his hands I’m worried about, Denise said. She waved a finger at Madison’s image in the mirror. You keep your distance from him, okay?

Yes, mother. Madison sighed, but her eyes twinkled.

We turned off MoPac and proceeded west along a former farm to market road converted into a four-lane highway. Like most roads in Texas, it had anywhere from three to five names associated with it. A knowledgeable person could determine how long someone had lived in Austin by the name they used to describe the street.

Austin continued to grow faster than the national average and this neighborhood was ground zero for newcomers. We passed multi-floored business centers, expanding apartment complexes, strip malls, fast-food joints and gas stations, all built in the last few years. After a few miles, the landscape changed to the brown and undernourished scrub trees and brush that covered the hillsides like parasitic growths. Denise turned into a single asphalt lane flanked by a pair of wind-shaped mesquite trees and tangled foliage. A plaque on a sturdy stone mailbox with the name Hutchinson guided us to the work site.

Here we are.

The driveway twisted through the thin Texas woods, providing just enough coverage to hide the house from the main road. When the view expanded, there was a circle drive littered with work vehicles. Parked before the front steps was a blue van and a long haul truck and trailer, its loading doors open with a pile of cables and boxes on the ground. Both had Massachusetts plates and decals advertising the Building Memories show. Nearby were several haphazardly parked pickups commonly used by local day laborers. A gray late-model Cadillac stood parked before a four-door carriage house on the west side of the house.

The house itself was one of those mammoth two-storied McMansion’s that American excess continued to push buyers into. The parts not undergoing renovation looked in perfect shape but what did I know, I lived in a duplex.

I levered myself out of the food truck and stood in the bright heat of the day. The sound of electric saws, pneumatic nail guns, and business-like yells filled the air. Helmeted construction workers moved in purposeful motions, carrying building materials and tools into the house from which the muffled building sounds echoed. Laborers glanced at the truck in hungry anticipation. The ladies jumped off the food truck and looked around.

We’ll be right back, Mad, Denise said.

Madison was already unrolling the truck awning. Yeah, right, she said. Make me do all the work.

You da girl, Mad, Denise said.

Come on. Denise tugged my sleeve and tossed me a plastic hard hat from a large container. She replaced her beret with one for herself. Safety, they yell if you aren’t wearing one, she explained. It was lighter than expected and didn’t feel like it would protect me from anything but a rare rain shower. Whatever, I put it on.

Three people stood on the entrance stairs of the home. One was definitely an older version of Robert Hutchinson, the other I recognized as show host Thomas Rhodes, and I guessed the suited woman was the producer Ama who wanted to meet me. The men wore jeans, work shirts, and leather belts filled with tools. We stopped a few steps away and waited our turn.

Since Anthony’s not here Robert, you’ll replace him for this scene. Ama’s voice was rich and deep. Plus, we like to involve the homeowner when we can.

Sure, sure. I’m just not familiar with the saw. Robert Hutchinson was stouter, a mite grayer, and far less imposing in person. Hollywood is all about creating larger-than-life characters who are mundanely normal in reality. Robert’s fireplug build and beefy neck had once looked imposing on screen but now softened by age. He was also shorter than I expected. I guess it’s true what they say, film adds pounds and inches.

I can help you with that, Thomas said.

Thomas Rhodes matched his persona in the episodes Denise had made me watch. He was one of those friendly, patient and persistent people that couldn’t resist assisting someone in need of help. He would be the first to volunteer and the last to leave, all the while telling stories and making jokes to make the job easier for everyone. Then, with the job done, he would organize a happy hour and buy the first round.

Thanks, I appreciate it. Robert smiled in gratitude.

No problem, Thomas said. He turned to Ama. Anthony will scream.

Too bad, he's late. The big woman patted Robert’s shoulder gently. Just focus and you’ll nail it, like riding a horse, bicycle, or something like that.

Robert smiled awkwardly at her well-meaning support.

Thomas spotted Denise and a dazzling smile replaced his worried expression. Denise, you’re early today.

Good morning, Denise said. Sorry to intrude, just wanted to introduce Erich Rambles. She pointed at each. Erich, this is the host Thomas Rhodes, the show’s producer and director Ms. Ama Drury-Mather, and you recognize Mr. Hutchinson.

I shook hands all around, ending with my idol. Wonderful to meet you Mr. Hutchinson, really an honor. I’ve watched all your films, several times. I realized I was babbling and stopped. It was childish, but I never wanted to wash that hand again.

The honor is mine. Without fans like you, I wouldn’t have had a job in those days. Robert said. He beamed at Denise. So, you’re the one this pretty lady talks about. My suggestion, marry her now. Don’t let her out of your sight for a moment.

Denise eyes darted to mine and blushed.

I’ll keep that in mind, sir.

No sirs, Erich. Call me Robert, he said with a smile.

I grinned back feeling giddy, like I’d drunk too many shots in a row. My idol and I on a first name basis? How great was that?

Smile, Denise said.

She took our picture with her phone camera. I was still holding Robert’s hand and released it. Denise frowned at the image on her phone and then brightened. She held it out so Robert and I could see. I was shaking hands with Robert Hutchinson and wearing a goofy grin, like a five-year-old at a circus.

That’s a keeper, Robert drawled.

I like it, Denise said. It’ll look good in your office. I scowled. I hate having my picture taken. Reality never matched my internal image and always left me feeling like an imposter on film. Who was that pretender?

A worker in a hardhat strode up. His compact build bristled with natural health built from years of manual labor while his dark curly hair and handsome face were straight from the Mediterranean. He eyed me with an irritated expression.

You an electrician?

I shook my head. Sorry, no.

He rounded on Thomas and Ama. Damn it, we need an electrician. I got people just sitting around and I don’t pay them to do that.

He’s on his way, Ama said. Had the wrong date on his calendar.

We’ll never make our deadlines at this rate, the man said.

Erich, this is Guillermo Renaldi, the contractor, Thomas said. He manages the project’s workforce.

We shook hands, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere.

When can we expect that electrician? Guillermo asked.

On his way now, Ama said. Get your people ready. I’ll send him over as soon as he arrives. Guillermo nodded and strode away.

Come on, Robert, Thomas said. Don should be ready. Let’s get you set up.

Right, Robert said. He shook my hand again, then followed Thomas into the house.

Ama turned. Let’s talk, Mr. Rambles.

Chapter 2

Alone now Ama turned to Denise and I. Mr. Rambles, when Denise told me what you do for a living it intrigued me. I have a little problem I’d like you to look into.

Confident, tall, and physically imposing, Ama reminded me of Oprah on steroids, big-boned and healthy. Her broad ebony face glowed while her smile dazzled with enhanced enamel. Tightly braided black hair rose in a bun above her head with a few artfully arranged strands dangling along her cheeks, each sprinkled with colorful beads and metal rings. She wore a dark gray skirt and coat and expensive fuchsia blouse underneath.

Call me Erich, I said. What kind of problem?

Someone’s trying to sabotage the show, Ama said. Not with explosions, more like termites. She cocked her head. And this is the perfect time to do it.

Why is that?

Because we’re away from home, Ama said. Far from our usual support.

Tell me.

I have no evidence, only suspicions. She gave me an appraising look with her dark eyes. How much do you know about the show?

Little, I said. Assume I know nothing and start there.

Ama worked her lips in and out as she considered what to say.

Fine, I took over as producer and director of Building Memories several seasons ago. Everyone was sure I’d fail. Her face hardened. But I showed them. We had some initial troubles, normal for any shoot with a new crew, but when the season aired it got rave reviews from the public. Viewership went up making the studio happy.

The next season went pretty much as the first did. Still had a few problems, every project does, but we worked through them. This season it’s different, deliberate as far as I can tell.

Could you be more precise?

Sure, someone’s messing with our workflow. Orders get changed or cancelled randomly, delivery dates swapped, all for maximum confusion and at the worst time. On this job, man order for two stacks of plywood became fence posts. An entire truckload of fence posts, enough to build fences around three houses. She glanced at me warily. There are no plans for fencing in this project at all.

In addition, the order was late, Ama said. We scrambled to find another supplier for the plywood. It delayed construction by days. I remember approving the correct order and yet it changed by the time of delivery. We’re stymied on how it could happen.

Other problems include electricians and other specialists that show up when we don’t need them, come in at the wrong times, or cancel without rhyme or reason. All were scheduled before we left Boston, and yet when we arrived the dates and times had changed. She shook her head. It’s sabotage or ghosts, and I don’t believe in the latter.

Who would sabotage the show?

No one, Ama said. It’s a great staff and most of them have been working together for years. The only new member is Meiling Cheng, the show intern, and Don’s nephew Luis.

A lanky man wearing a baseball cap shouted from the doorway. Ama, the shot’s ready.

We’ll talk later. She turned away and then back. Ever seen a live recording? I shook my head. Ama smiled. Come on, you’ll love it.

We followed Ama into the house. We turned right into a dining room, one sized to hold my entire duplex. To the left were the bony frames of a new kitchen with empty cavities waiting for appliances. An electric saw dominated the center of the kitchen while several squares of cabinet board leaned against its side. Robert was practicing the scene while Thomas provided helpful hints.

The lanky man peered through the lens of an expensive-looking camera, his cap reversed on his head. A younger man with a family resemblance to Baseball Cap Guy, adjusted knobs on a fancy box as the cameraman gave directions. The stage lights illuminating the room dimmed and brightened until baseball cap said, Right, set it, good.

Don? Ama said.

A moment, Don the lanky cameraman replied. The younger man repositioned an audio boom close to and above where Robert stood. An Asian woman stepped hesitantly in front of Robert with a board clapper and waited.

We ready? Ama asked everyone.

I heard the screech of tires on the driveway outside. A red Mustang slewed to a stop near the Cadillac. A man wearing a plaid shirt and full beard struggled his bulk out of the miniature car and wove his way towards the house. It was Anthony Sherman, the co-host and expert carpenter finally making an appearance.

Madison ran to him and talked. He stopped looking irritated and owlishly blinked. She was almost jumping up and down in eagerness as she held out a menu pad and pen. Instead, he leered and said something with a mean twist of his lips while groping his crotch. Madison paled, straightened, and then stalked away, her back rigid. He watched her for a second, spat, and then continued to the house. Right then I was sure he and I would not get along.

Anthony Sherman stalked into the dining room as if he owned it. He was nearly as tall as Thomas but outweighed him by an easy fifty pounds or more, all of it settled around his waist and hips. It was obvious he had once been in good shape, but the years had not been kind to him. He had thinning brown hair and the lumberjack cut to his beard could not hide the graying. His skin was flush from too many late night drinking sessions, and trails of tiny veins on his bulbous nose.

What the hell is going on here? Anthony Sherman demanded.

Where have you been? Ama asked.

Fuck you, bitch. I’m here now. The smell of alcohol tainted the surrounding air. Ama gave him a stern look over crossed arms.

Anthony, Thomas said. He sniffed. Dammit, you’re drunk.

I ain’t drunk, Anthony proclaimed solemnly. He looked past Thomas and Ama at where Robert stood, a pair of eye protection goggles atop his head and wearing protective gloves. What do you think you’re doing? he asked in a low growl.

He’s doing a scene, Ama said.

That’s my scene.

Not anymore, Ama said. You weren’t here, Robert's replaced you.

You gave him my scene? My scene?

To repeat, you weren’t here.

I am now! Anthony bellowed in her face.

And drunk, Ama said. Her beaded braids clacked together angrily. I can’t put you in front of a camera drunk.

I’d heard enough from Anthony and it was making me angry. There are several things that set me off and bullying women was near the top. While a fight might cost me work, I don’t tolerate abusive behavior towards friends or clients. Insulting Madison had annoyed me. I was positive Ama could take care of herself but I refused to let it go that far.

I edged my shoulder between them like a sliding door and blocked any direct confrontation. In a calm voice I said, Let’s just settle down. The room stilled as I spoke.

Who the fuck are you? Anthony’s red-rimmed gaze turned on me. Sherman leaned close and gyrated shoulders and arms in intimidation. I leaned over him, grim faced and not giving an inch. I wasn’t as broad or heavy as he was, but I would not back down either. Denise touched my arm, light but reassuring.

Calm down or I’ll bounce you out of here.

Thomas suddenly pulled Sherman away, a placating tone in his voice. They stopped a few steps away and I could hear them arguing. I let out a breath I had not known I was holding.

Thank you, Ama whispered. He’s unreasonable after he’s been drinking. She turned to the cameraman. We ready?

Sure, Don replied, unaffected by the confrontation. He glanced at the Asian woman. Mei?

The intern Meiling stepped before the camera with a movie clapperboard in hand. Someone labeled it Building Memories, S30, Director Ama Drury-Mather, Camera Don Hood, the Date, and the Scene and Take numbers. She looked nervous and trembled slightly as she stood before the camera, gaze cast down.

Places everyone, Ama said. Quiet on the set.

Action! Thomas directed.

In an almost inaudible voice Meiling said, Scene 43, Shot #1. She snapped the board and walked out of camera view.

Robert heaved the cabinet board up and placed it flat on the table saw’s surface. He faced the camera and began. "Next, we need to cut the cabinet faces