by Gail Bowen
Waves of relief, frustration and deep sorrow washed over me. “Since before Christmas, I’ve believed Roy was angry at me because he thought I’d suggested Ainsley was implicated somehow in Gabe’s death. If Roy had told me the truth, we could have worked it out. All that suffering, and now it’s too late.”
“Don’t go there, Jo,” Zack said, and his voice was gentle but forceful. “We did our best, You and Taylor and I all tried to get through to Roy, but nothing worked. Taylor was hurt, but Joanne and I were afraid. We had both been with one of my law partners on the day he committed suicide. My partner said he felt the grace had been withdrawn from his life, and he drove his car off the boat dock at the lake where we all have cottages. He’d locked the doors, and there was no way to save him.”
I picked up on Zack’s parallel. “Charlie D, during that interview did you sense that Roy Brodnitz had reached that point?”
“I did. What’s worse, so did Roy. He was despondent, but he kept on talking. It was agony to listen to him. Twice I asked him if he wanted to stop and finish the interview at a later date. He refused. He was obsessed. He kept repeating the words ‘Something was taken.’ Finally and mercifully, he stopped talking. I walked him out of the studio, and now I have to edit what I have. Any suggestions?”
“You could cut the interview at the point before Roy realizes the gift has been withdrawn,” I said.
Charlie D stood. “I could, but as you said yourself, Jo, that’s not where the story ends. Roy wrote his own ending to the story that afternoon on the island. And what he did there deserves to be acknowledged too.”
After our son-in-law left, Zack looked at me. “So what do you think?”
“There’s no easy answer to this one,” I said. “Charlie D is a compassionate man, but he’s ethical. No matter what he does, he’ll feel he made the wrong choice, and he’ll suffer. So will Taylor and Vale and Ben when I tell them that Roy’s dead. So will we, when we remember the Roy who took such delight in showing us how good it felt to be alive in the city he loved. And I can’t even begin to imagine what Ainsley’s going through and what’s ahead for her.”
Zack wheeled over to me. “Time to go outside, look at the forsythia and take some deep breaths.”
The news about Roy was cruel, and I was grateful that Vale was with Taylor when I delivered it. Taylor said she and Vale were planning to have an early dinner, then build a bonfire on the beach and watch the sun set. The image of the two young women building a fire together as the sun dipped towards the horizon resonated with me. “I think that’s a fitting way to honour Roy’s memory,” I said.
“I hope so,” Taylor said, and her voice was strong. “No matter what happens in the future, Vale and I will both always be grateful to Roy for bringing us together.”
* * *
When I called Ben, he was angry, not at Roy but at himself, for not picking up on the fact that Roy was in dangerously deep waters emotionally.
“I might have helped him,” he said. “I’ve been there myself. I had great success in my twenties. When I hit thirty, it was as if the well dried up. I started a dozen projects — all execrable. I thought my life was over. I considered suicide. Instead, I decided to finish my degree and become a high school teacher. I liked teaching. I was content with my life. On my fortieth birthday, I woke up with an idea that ended in an Oscar nomination, and I’ve been making documentaries ever since. Some failed, some succeeded, but each of them enriched my life. I wish Roy could have had that chance.”
“So do I,” I said.
When I ended my call with Ben, Zack wheeled in and handed me a martini.
“You are the best,” I said. “As Angus would say, I’m feeling stabby.”
Zack narrowed his eyes. “I never quite got that — does it mean you feel stabbed or that you feel as if you want to stab?”
“Both,” I said, and the sip I took from my martini was a large one.
* * *
Luckily, my glass was still half full when Georgie Shepherd arrived. She didn’t waste time on preamble. “I assume you’ve heard the news about Roy.”
“I have, and I’ve been dealing with the fallout. I haven’t had a chance to process everything that’s happened.”
“Well start processing,” she said. “Can I come in? Because I just got off the phone with Ainsley, and you and I have some decisions to make pronto.”
I touched her arm. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was taken aback. Come in. Zack’s in the kitchen. Shall I call him?”
Georgie eyed my martini enviously. “I could use one of those.”
“Make yourself comfortable in the living room, and I’ll bring you one.”
Zack had just started assembling his new favourite dish, a Cobb salad with chicken, so after I explained the situation and he poured Georgie’s martini, I left him to it and joined Georgie in the living room.
When she saw the martini, she beamed and took a large sip. “That hit the spot,” she said. “Now there are decisions to be made.”
“What kind of decisions?”
“Let me lay out the situation. As tragic as it is, Roy’s accident doesn’t change the facts: the first day of principal photography is still Monday, June 11, and there are still serious problems with the script.”
“But you’ll write the script now, won’t you?” I said. “That’s why you came to Regina.”
“Yes, I’ll be writing the script, but Ainsley has decided to bring someone in to replace me as executive producer.”
“She has a production manager,” I said. “Fawn Tootoosis has been part of every decision that’s been made since Gabe died.”
“And Fawn knows what she’s doing,” Georgie said. “Twenty-five years of freelance industry experience as a producer, production executive, line producer and production manager, and hundreds of hours producing prime-time TV series and feature-length projects. Fawn is doing a bang-up job for us, and everybody likes working with her.”
“So what’s the rationale for replacing her?”
“Ainsley says that to complete this project without Roy, she’s going to need the support of someone she’s known and worked with for years. Buzz Wells fits the bill, and Ainsley wants to get him on board.”
“I appreciate Ainsley’s need for support,” I said, “but bringing someone else in at this stage is an insult to Fawn.”
“Agreed, but Ainsley doesn’t see it that way. She says she’s not firing Fawn; she’s giving her an opportunity. Ainsley says working with Buzz Wells will put an international stamp on Fawn’s résumé which so far has been largely Canadian.”
“If that’s the case, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is Buzz Wells. He is freaking Rumpelstiltskin.” She took another large sip from her drink.
Despite everything, I laughed. “Rumpelstiltskin? Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know,” Georgie said. “But many people in the industry seem to believe Buzz has the power to turn straw into gold.”
“But you don’t want him touching our straw.”
“Not much gets by you, does it?” Georgie said. “But you’re right. We don’t want Buzz’s fingerprints on this.”
“If Ainsley’s directing, and you’re writing the script, you’ll be able to maintain control.”
“I’ve worked with Buzz before,” Georgie said. “He started as a writer and rose through the ranks. Writers’ rooms are Darwinian — nature red in tooth and claw — survival of the fittest. But even in that less-than-salubrious atmosphere, Buzz was always a standout.
“I was a writer on a couple of series where he was the showrunner. He always got decent work out of me and the other writers, but only after he’d broken us. I guess I called him Rumpelstiltskin because, like Rumpel, if Buzz doesn’t get his way, his face turns red, and he stomps his boot until his opposition’s head cracks open.”
“Why would Ainsley want him?”
“Because as soon as Buzz heard about Roy, he called and volunteered to take over. Plus, she and Buzz used to be married, and Ainsley knows he’ll get the job done.”
“Wow. Ainsley’s two husbands were Rumpelstiltskin and Gabe Vickers. She’s an intelligent, gifted, attractive woman, why would she marry men like that?”
Georgie’s laugh was short and derisive. “Riddle me this one, Batman. Why does anybody marry anybody?”
“Point taken,” I said. “So what do we do?”
“We need to talk Ainsley down, and I think it can be done. Buzz offered her a life preserver at a time when she was vulnerable. Luckily for us, Buzz can’t get here for three weeks, so Fawn and you and I have time to convince Ainsley that we don’t need Rumpelstiltskin. Here’s what I propose. The production schedule is moving along without a hitch. Fawn just has to keep it moving, and she can do that with one hand tied behind her back. The big problem is the script or lack thereof, but I believe that together, you and I can handle that.”
Rattled, I leaned back in my chair. “Georgie, I’m not a scriptwriter. I taught political science. I know how to do research and write academic papers and political speeches. I’ve written some scripts for a series the producer privately referred to as ‘Issues for Dummies’ — small nibbles at big questions like the power of the religious right, the challenges to women in politics and the Canadian judicial system, but nothing creative. The division of labour between Roy and me was clear-cut: I told him the history of the Ellards and the Loves and introduced him to people who knew Sally and me, and of course, Taylor was a link. Sally gave birth to her, but I was raising her. Roy felt that understanding how Taylor had come to terms with what was certainly an extraordinary situation would give him insights into our relationships with one another. Roy and I talked, I answered his questions, and when he felt he had what he needed, Roy wrote the script.”
“And that’s all I’m asking from you, Joanne,” Georgie said. “I wish you and I had more time to sort this out, but I couldn’t approach you until Roy said he needed help, and he never did.”
“If Roy had just opened up, everything could have been different.”
“You think Roy’s death was connected with his work?”
I hesitated, and then set down my glass. “I know it was — at least indirectly. This afternoon, Charlie Dowhanuik told me about an interview he did with Roy.”
Georgie listened to my account without comment. When I finished, she slapped her forehead with her palm. “Roy never should have signed the contract to write Sisters and Strangers. Thanks to Gabe’s genius in putting together a production, there was a very tight deadline on the project, and Roy couldn’t meet it. He’s a romantic — like Keats, Shelley or Whitman. And the conditions have to be exactly right for romantics to spin their shining web. Keats had his nightingale; Shelley, his skylark; and Whitman, his own ecstatic self. When the moment was right, they wrote. Des Love’s painting, Aurora, gave Roy his moment, and he wrote The Happiest Girl. Adapting the play that he had created with such euphoria simply extended the right moment for Roy. Did he ever tell you how long it took him to write that screenplay?”
“No.”
“Three weeks,” Georgie said. “Exactly the same amount of time it took Edna O’Brien to write The Country Girls. That play was so deeply ingrained in Roy that adapting it was a snap.”
“But Sisters and Strangers was not a snap.”
“Far from it. I’ve known Roy for fourteen years. He always saw himself as an artist. Scriptwriters like me see ourselves as carpenters, using our tools to make something worthy out of the material we’ve been given. When something goes wrong, we shrug our shoulders and try again, but resilience was never part of Roy’s character. When something went wrong for him, he shattered. Which leads us back to the tape. Did Charlie D tell you how he’s going to edit it?”
“No. When he left our place, he hadn’t made up his mind. I suggested cutting the interview at the point where Roy is exuberant at the prospect of writing Sisters and Strangers. Charlie D said he understood my reasoning, but he felt what Roy said about the light going out for him after Gabe’s death was part of the story too.”
“True, but Joanne, Roy’s story doesn’t have to end with the light going out.” When Georgie continued, her voice had new energy. “If you and I work together we can make Sisters and Strangers what Roy believed it could be, and the only name on the writing credit will be Roy’s.”
“That would mean a great deal to Ainsley,” I said. “For that matter, it would mean a great deal to me. But I’m still foggy about what I have to offer.”
“Facts, insights, memories, details — you were there, Joanne. All I know about your life and about Des and Sally is what’s already in the script or in Roy’s notes. It’s not enough. Roy told both Ainsley and me that you read every word he wrote, pointed out lines that didn’t ring true and suggested alternatives.”
“So you’ll just need me to do what I was doing with Roy?”
“That’s it.”
“I can do that.”
“If you decide to stretch yourself, feel free to give me a hand with the writing.” Georgie raised an eyebrow. “And don’t give me that ‘shucks, me write?’ look. I read your biography of Andy Boychuk.”
“That book’s been out of print for years,” I said. “Where did you even find a copy?”
“The Regina Public Library.”
“Georgie, writing the biography of a Saskatchewan politician is very different from writing a six-episode limited TV series.”
“They both use sentences,” Georgie said curtly. “Can you be at my office tomorrow morning at nine?”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter Four
The Living Skies offices are in the same building as the Saskatchewan Production Studios where Roy and I shared the writers’ room. The production studios are within easy walking distance of our house, and the morning was brisk enough to put a spring in my step. I arrived early, in time to pick up notes that I thought might be helpful in my meeting with Georgie.
Sixteen years earlier the Fine Arts building of the old University of Regina campus had been gutted and re-constructed as a movie and TV studio facility. The three sound studios were state of the art, but parts of the building, including the wing of classrooms that included the space now used as the writers’ room were left untouched, and they had retained their homely early twentieth-century charm.
Movie equipment is expensive, and security in the sound studios was tight, but because Aurora, the Desmond Love painting Roy credited with saving his sanity, now hung in our office, the door was always kept locked. That morning as I walked toward the writers’ room, I saw that the door was open — just inches, but enough to quicken my pulse. I continued down the hall, and for a few moments, I stood on the threshold, holding my breath, listening. The only sound I heard was the ticking of the old classroom clock on the wall. “Is anyone here?” I said. When there was no response, I stepped inside.
My eyes travelled immediately to the space where Aurora hung. The painting was in its place. I moved further into the room. The blinds were drawn, but there was enough light for me to see that someone was lying on the couch where Roy slept if he worked far into the night. When I moved closer, I recognized the sleeper as Ainsley. She had covered herself in the trench coat Roy kept on the hook by the door in case of a change in the weather. I tiptoed out of the room, closed the door behind me and started down the hall, deeply shaken by my glimpse into Ainsley’s solitary pain.
* * *
Gabe Vickers left his mark on our city in many ways, and one of the most striking was the giant, light-filled office he’d had built in what had once been a warehouse at the back of the original Fine Arts building. The space was large, 10,000 square feet, but Vickers had big plans for his production company, and he wanted
a showcase. Under the soaring ceilings, every piece of the office’s infrastructure was in plain sight: steel beams, trusses, ducts, huge concrete planks — everything painted in primary colours. The space evoked a child’s Meccano set and sent a clear message: the tools for creativity are all around us; use them.
Georgie Shepherd’s office was glass-walled, and the furnishings, like all the fixtures in Living Skies, were sleek and functional. Georgie was on her phone, but when she saw me, she beckoned me in and indicated that I sit in the chair across from her.
After she finished her call, she groaned. “More bad news if we hadn’t had enough,” she said. “Ainsley’s disappeared. The crew were all staying at the same hotel, and this morning, Ainsley wasn’t in her room; she wasn’t in the hotel restaurant, and she hadn’t checked out. Nobody has a clue where she is.”
“I do,” I said. “She’s down the hall, asleep on the couch in the writers’ room.”
Georgie rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“No. I arrived early, and there were some notes I needed, so I went to the writers’ room. The door was open. I stepped inside, saw Ainsley, took the notes and left.”
“She didn’t hear you?”
I shook my head. “No, she was asleep the whole time.”
Georgie picked up her phone. “I’ll call Nick and let him know Ainsley’s here.”
Nick Kovacs was the lighting director on the film. He and Zack had been poker buddies for years, and Taylor and I were very fond of him and his daughter. Rough-hewn, large-featured and burly, Nick had the slow deliberate step of a man whose life has been spent in hard physical labour. Fate had dealt Nick his share of punishing blows, but Zack said that no matter how tough life got, Nick never took a dive, and he never threw in the towel.
His parents had died within months of each other, leaving Nick, who was in his graduating year of high school, to care for his three younger brothers and keep Kovacs Electric, the family business, afloat. After graduation, Nick took a year off to ensure that the business and his brothers were on solid ground and then earned a diploma in electrical engineering from Saskatchewan Polytechnic. During the years when the province’s film industry thrived, Nick worked closely with lighting designers on films and TV shows. It was a first-rate apprenticeship, and after the production companies decamped, Nick continued to learn. Kovacs Electric was now a large and successful company that provided lighting for film, theatre, rock and pop tours, corporate launches and TV and industrial shows. Nick had been the lighting designer for The Happiest Girl and was now in charge of lighting Sisters and Strangers.
