by Gail Bowen
Zack and I had started reading in bed before we turned out the lights. There was not much stillness in my husband’s life. He still routinely worked at least ten hours a day, and trial law is high stress. In an ideal world we would take long walks and make love more, but we did not live in an ideal world. For the time being, reading in bed before we turned out the lights would have to do. I’d just put the New Yorker with the Hemingway article on Zack’s nightstand when Ben Bendure called. The weakness was gone from his voice, and he sounded almost like his old self.
“I’m not even going to ask how you are,” I said. “It’s so good to hear that rich, rumbling bass again.”
“It’s good for me to hear my voice too,” Ben said. “Laryngitis is cruel and unusual punishment for a garrulous, opinionated old man.”
“None of those adjectives applies to you,” I said. “I’ve missed you, Ben. Email isn’t the same.”
“Agreed. Do you have time for a real talk?”
“I do,” I said, kicking off my shoes and settling cross-legged on the bed.
“Good, because you, Roy Brodnitz and the fate of Sisters and Strangers have been much on my mind.”
“Anything specific that you want to know?” I asked.
“Everything,” Ben said. “Tell me everything.”
And I did. I started with my ambivalence about the table meeting that morning: my excitement about the passion, intelligence and energy of the people in the room, but my almost atavistic fear that what those strangers were taking from my life might diminish me.
“Many cultures have believed that the camera can steal the soul,” Ben said. “We dismiss their beliefs as primitive, but I’ve often thought they were onto something. When I leave my camera rolling in the face of someone’s unspeakable loss, I am stealing something from them. I justify my action by saying I’m simply showing a truth about the human condition.”
“Does that rationale work for you?”
“No, because I know that the real reason I keep the camera rolling is because I want to make a great documentary. My need to leave my mark matters more to me than my subjects’ right to keep their inner lives private. That’s unpalatable, but it’s the truth.”
“Ben, there’s another truth. You’re an artist. The Poison Apple exposes a wickedness that we need to understand. Snow White, the Evil Queen and the mirror that tells the truth will always be part of the human story. But there is hope because people like Sally defeat the Evil Queen by living passionate, fearless lives.”
There was a pause on his end. “Joanne, Sally wasn’t the only one who defeated the Evil Queen. You raised Sally’s daughter to be a young woman who knows the truth about her mother and her grandmother and who understands and accepts herself. That’s no small accomplishment.”
I felt a rush of relief. “Ben, you have no idea how much those words mean to me. I overthink everything, and I can’t afford to get so mired in the existential swamp that I can’t help solve the practical problems facing Sisters and Strangers.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Ben said. “I was fond of young Roy, and of course I’ve known you forever.”
“Maybe it would help if you let me just talk it out,” I said.
Ben was sanguine. “Sometimes that does clarify a situation.”
“Here’s hoping,” I said. “I guess the most pressing problem is Ainsley Blair. Everyone understands that she’s grieving, but after the meeting this morning Georgie Shepherd took me aside and told me that the production can’t go ahead without Ainsley being actively involved as director. She’s just not there. I suggested hiring someone on an interim basis, but Georgie is afraid that would open the door to Ainsley hiring her ex-husband, a man named Buzz Wells.”
Ben seldom raised his voice, but when he heard Buzz Wells’s name, he bellowed, “Not him — not ever! I had no idea Ainsley Blair had been married to that man. He’s feckless and ruthless, and he has a serious gambling problem. Stay away from him, Joanne, and keep him away from the production. I don’t know Ainsley Blair but I’ve seen and admired her work, and I’ve heard nothing but praise for her as a director. She doesn’t need Buzz Wells. When is the first day of principal production?”
“June 11.”
“Judging from what I’ve heard about Ainsley’s commitment to her colleagues, I would bet my bottom dollar that when she walks onto the set that morning, she will be prepared.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “There’s so much riding on this series.”
Ben’s voice was gentle now. “Try not to lose your perspective, Joanne. That’s an occupational hazard of this business. When I had my first success, I was riding high — too high. My father worked on the line at the Viceroy Rubber plant, and I guess he’d had enough of my crowing. He told me Harry Enfield, the man who worked next to him on the line, saw one of the first movies I ever made and he didn’t think it amounted to much. According to my father, Harry said it was ‘just a bunch of shifting pictures.’”
I laughed. “I’ll hold onto that thought,” I said. “Ben, I’m very glad you’re there. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
As soon as I broke the connection, I realized I hadn’t told Ben about the book on Ernest Lindner’s life and work that Taylor had loaned Roy. The memory of Roy’s wanton destruction of a book devoted to the career of an artist he revered broke my heart, and I knew learning about the incident would be painful for my old friend. When we’d ended our phone call, Ben and I were both in good spirits. He deserved a respite from the sorrow that enveloped us all since Roy’s death, and I decided news of the defaced book could wait.
I called Georgie and left a message. I passed along Ben’s “shifting pictures” story and told her that Ben was confident that Ainsley was a professional who would be prepared when she walked onto the set on June 11. Georgie got back to me before the hour was out, and she too, was optimistic. “There’s been a breakthrough,” she said. “I’ve tried a dozen approaches with Ainsley, and nothing worked. I might as well have been talking to a catcher’s mitt, but when I told her what Ben Bendure said about her professionalism, she listened. Tonight, she and I are going to set up a schedule for her to meet with department heads. Fingers crossed, Jo, but tell Ben Bendure if this works, I’ll treat him to an afternoon watching the shifting pictures of his choosing and I’ll throw in a super-sized popcorn with extra butter.”
* * *
For the next three days, Ainsley met with the department heads as scheduled. By all accounts the discussions were mutually beneficial, and Georgie and I were able to get back to our writing. It seemed that Ben was well on his way to claiming his super-sized movie snacks, but on the morning of Friday, the 13th, the first hints of a troubling undertow appeared.
Esme and Pantera and I were late starting our run. Rain had been predicted, but by sunrise, the rain had held off, so at six fifteen we set off. There was a chill in the air, and the wind was shaking the branches of the native bushes that had been planted on the creek banks as flood protection. It was not a pleasant morning to be outdoors, so except for a few hardy souls, the dogs and I had the bike trail to ourselves. I had stopped to retie a shoelace, when my phone vibrated.
The caller was Charlie D, and he knew my priorities. “Everybody’s fine,” he said. “Madeleine and Lena are having the time of their lives, and Mieka has discovered her inner Uptown Girl.”
“In that case, I’ll let my pulse know it can stop racing,” I said.
“Don’t send out that message just yet,” he said. “I’m calling about Sisters and Strangers. I’ve been hearing rumours. I haven’t passed anything along, because we live in the age of disinformation, and I needed to make certain I knew the facts. I still don’t have the whole picture but what I know is coming from a credible source, and we can’t ignore it.”
The first drop of rain hit me. The sky was now leaden, and Pantera, who despite her tough
bullmastiff exterior loved a warm fire on a chilly day, shot me a baleful gaze. I stroked his head, mouthed the word “sorry” and returned my focus to Charlie D. “I’m on the bike path with the dogs and it’s starting to rain,” I said. “Can I call you when I get home?”
“I have an interview waiting in studio,” he said. “How close to home are you?”
“At least fifteen minutes away,” I said. I pulled up the hood of my windbreaker. “You might as well go for it.”
“Okay. Julian Chase, the head of MediaNation’s entertainment division, has been asking me questions about the series.”
“Why would he have questions about a series that’s still in pre-production?”
“Because of Roy’s death. Jo, some people, including Julian, don’t believe Roy’s massive heart attack was just a tragic twist of fate.”
Charlie D’s words were a body blow. I’d come to a bench that overlooked a favoured nesting place for the creek’s ducks, and I sank onto it. Baffled, Pantera and Esme looked up at me. The rain was steady now, and we did not normally stop in a rainstorm, but I needed time to take in what I’d just heard. Finally, I said, “I thought we all agreed Roy died of a broken heart because he’d lost his ability to write. I know we discussed the possibility that Roy had tried a hallucinogen, but Roy is dead. Whatever he did in those last hours is irrelevant.”
“Not to everyone,” Charlie D said tightly. “Someone working on Sisters and Strangers believes that Roy either didn’t understand the potential danger of what he was ingesting or didn’t realize that someone had tampered with the water bottle he was carrying.”
I was shivering. “How did you find that out?”
“Anonymous tip. But this person knew things that are not public knowledge.”
“Like the fact that some of us suspected hallucinogens had induced Roy’s frenzy that afternoon,” I said. “But why would anyone want to kill Roy?”
“Here’s where the narrative gets murky,” Charlie D said. “There are two stories, but they agree on one point: the intent never was to kill Roy Brodnitz. In our anonymous tipster’s account, the hallucinogens came from someone working on Sisters and Strangers who gave the drug to Roy believing it would rescue Roy from the creative block that was crippling him.”
“And the second account?”
“It’s almost the same, except in this case, Roy didn’t knowingly take the LSD. Someone wanted Sisters and Strangers to tank, and for that to happen, they needed Roy out of the picture. Both stories agree on another salient point. Roy’s death came about by accident: whoever got the drug to him did not foresee the result the hallucinogen would have. What happened was the result of a miscalculation.”
The rain had quickly stopped, but I didn’t move from the bench. “I’m not following this.”
“That’s because there are huge pieces missing from the puzzle,” Charlie D said. “But today Julian Chase told me something that you need to know. Julian believes that what happened to Roy was payback for whatever Gabe Vickers did to undercut the company that produced the six-part series the network was prepared to green-light until Gabe Vickers shoved it out of the way.”
“So someone from a rival production company is behind what happened to Roy on the island,” I said, stroking the dogs’ backs with a calmness I didn’t feel.
“That’s the theory,” Charlie D said. “And apparently, when Mr. or Ms. X learned that despite Roy’s death, pre-production on Sisters and Strangers continues to move along, they did not accept defeat. They are putting out the word that Sisters and Strangers is already on shaky ground and that another stroke of bad luck could finish it.”
“That could be construed as simply a statement of fact,” I said.
“It could,” Charlie D said. “I guess it depends on tone and context. Julian Chase is working on the identity of the person behind the words. Whatever the case, there’s no disputing the fact that someone working on Sisters and Strangers is communicating regularly with Mr. or Ms. X.” He paused. “Jo, I have a bad feeling about this. Tread softly.”
* * *
When Pantera, Esme and I got home, Zack was dressed for court, but the coffee was on and there was a stack of towels on a chair by the kitchen door. I removed my windbreaker, gave my hair a desultory towelling and then started drying Esme.
Zack wheeled over. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I need a minute,” I said, and I continued rubbing Esme’s curly black coat. Zack picked up a towel and despite his beautiful Harry Rosen suit, started drying Pantera, all one hundred and thirty pounds of him. When both dogs gave their final shake, I filled their food bowls and sat down at the kitchen table.
Zack poured me a cup of coffee and moved close. “I take it something happened out there.”
“Not out there,” I said. “But there is trouble, and it’s closer to home.”
As a trial lawyer, my husband had learned to be an active listener, soaking up information without comment or question until the person speaking is through. As I related what Charlie D told me, Zack’s dark eyes never left my face. When I was through, he sighed. “Well, fuck. I hate situations where there’s not enough information to involve the cops, but too much to ignore.”
Hearing him say it made me realize the significance of Charlie D’s information even more. “An impasse.”
“Right,” Zack said. “We’ll have to count on Julian Chase and Charlie D to ferret out what they can in New York, but we can handle this end. Georgie Shepherd is still nominally the executive producer of Sisters and Strangers, isn’t she?”
When I nodded, Zack said, “That’s a break. If she checked the CVs of everybody who’s working on pre-production, we could eliminate the people on the Sisters and Strangers payroll who never worked in the U.S. That’s a start, and once we hear the name of the other production company we can see if any of the crew working on Sisters and Strangers have been connected with them. Let me know Georgie’s feelings about looking at the CVs. She may have privacy concerns, but right now, anybody who works in the Living Skies offices has access to those files, so convincing Georgie that this is a case where the end justifies the means shouldn’t be difficult.”
“She’ll be here at nine o’clock to start work, I’ll talk to her then,” I said. “My immediate concern is that you have dog hair on your suit. I’ll get the clothes brush.”
Zack moved his chair towards me. “I’ll be in court,” he said. “My robe will cover the dog hair. What I need is a kiss for luck and make it a good one, because I think I’m already screwed, blued and tattooed on this case.”
* * *
When Georgie arrived, she seemed more relaxed than she had been since Roy’s death. She and the dogs exchanged their usual exuberant and mutually affectionate greetings, and after she refused coffee, we went straight to the home office. Georgie settled in, pulled out her laptop, turned it on and said, “Anything new on the horizon?”
“As a matter of fact there is,” I said.
Georgie scowled when I told her about Charlie D’s phone call. “A traitor in our midst and an enemy at the gates,” she said. “It’s possible that the rumours swirling around MediaNation are just the product of someone’s overheated imagination, but I guess that’s too much to hope for. We have to tackle this head-on. I have no problem with checking the CVs. Zack’s right that the privacy concern is negligible. We’re not opening up the entire employee file, just a résumé that’s wholly work-related.
“I agree it’s unlikely that a Canadian whose entire experience in the industry is in Canada would be funnelling information about Sisters and Strangers to an American production company, but it’s not impossible,” Georgie said. She narrowed her eyes. “Incidentally, how come nobody knows the name of our rival production company? Surely there’s a record of its name and officers somewhere.”
“From what Charlie D says, MediaNation is hot on the trail,
but so far nothing definite.” I picked up my phone. After I texted Zack, telling him Georgie would go through the CVs, I said, “Well that’s taken care of. Time to go to work?”
“Yes, because I have to leave early. Chloe and I are getting our hair styled this afternoon. She’s so excited about Nick’s party tonight. She’s been poring over her teen magazines deciding on just the right look.”
“Mieka was crazy about those magazines,” I said. “Taylor not so much, but Mieka had a subscription to Seventeen for years. Is it still around?”
“Yep. Going strong, and it’s Chloe’s favourite. She loves to look at the ads with me and guess what the girls in the pictures are doing. I’m sure they’re doing exactly what they were doing when Mieka was reading Seventeen — going to school or dances or rock concerts or to the beach with their friends.” A shadow passed over Georgie’s face. “Once in a while, Chloe asks me when she’ll be doing all those things. It’s a hard question to answer, but I do my best.”
* * *
Georgie and I made ourselves sandwiches and worked through lunch. When she was ready to leave, I walked her to the door. “That was a productive morning,” I said.
“It was. Now we can play hooky without feeling guilty.” She hesitated. “Joanne, I know Zack and Charlie D are aware that someone out there does not wish us well, but I don’t think we should mention it to anyone else.”
“I understand,” I said. “Loose lips sink ships, and our ship is already in uncertain waters.”
* * *
Our family’s gift to Nick was a pair of cashmere-lined leather driving gloves, like the pair Zack owned and Nick claimed to lust after. I’d just tied the bow on the present when the doorbell rang. The caller waiting on the porch was Kyle Daly. I’d seen him the day before, and he’d been fine, but he was now sporting a black eye that looked painful.
