Hidden Scars

by Mark de Castrique

  I put my hand on the knob and then hesitated. “Now, we’re not signing anything before checking with our agent.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Nakayla said. “The only agent we’re likely to have will be selling us insurance.”

  We stepped into a large room populated with gray metal desks that looked like they’d been commandeered from a used furniture store. Eight were arranged in the center in two rows of four. Another five were pushed facing the walls. The person at each was armed with a computer and cell phone, and most were using them simultaneously.

  A young woman at the nearest desk looked up from her laptop and frowned. “Didn’t your agent tell you? Extras have been canceled for the day. We’ll let you know when the build scene’s rescheduled.”

  “We’re here to see Mr. Osteen,” Nakayla said.

  The woman’s frown deepened. “He’s in a meeting. I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

  I stepped closer to her desk. “Would you get word to him that Nakayla Robertson and Sam Blackman from the Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency are here?”

  The woman stood. I noticed she wore no makeup and sported bags packed for an ocean voyage under her eyes. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  “Look,” she said, “I don’t care if you’re from the office of the President of the United States, Mr. Osteen is in a meeting with the director and line producer and is not to be disturbed.”

  “It’s about the incident this morning.” I tried to sound like I knew what the hell incident I was talking about.

  “Then I’m sure he’ll want to see to you. BUT…” she barked the word… “it will be after they’re finished. We have no spare chairs, so if you can wait in your car, I’ll signal you from the door when he’s free.”

  I looked at Nakayla. She shrugged. Neither her brains nor my good looks were getting us beyond this dragon lady.

  “All right,” I said, “but he’ll be upset if he doesn’t know we’re here.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no way he’ll be more upset than he is already.”

  She glanced over her shoulder just as a door swung open on the back wall. A man came charging out, his face as red as his scarlet golf shirt. He stopped and swept his gaze across the bullpen.

  “If I find it was someone on this crew, I’ll kill the son of a bitch. I swear I will.”

  The woman turned back to us and smiled for the first time. “Mr. Osteen will see you now.”

  Chapter Four

  “Come on.” I moved quickly around the pod of desks in an attempt to intercept Osteen.

  Instead of following me, Nakayla circled to the other side so that unless Osteen ducked back through the open door, he would have to encounter one of us.

  Arnold Osteen was a tall, lanky man whom I pegged for early sixties. He had a country club air and a golf tan. He glanced over his shoulder at a woman and two men trailing behind him.

  “I mean it,” he said. “Goddamn it, the lapse was inexcusable.”

  The woman looked to be in her late thirties, small and thin, but carrying lightning in her eyes that flashed at the bigger man with an intensity that told me she wasn’t intimidated by Osteen’s rant. “And if you’d hired the firm I recommended, this never would have happened.”

  Osteen wheeled around to face her. “You don’t know that.”

  “Neither do you,” she shot back.

  The two were unconcerned that their shouting match took place in public view.

  Osteen stepped closer to her. “It’s my money paying for all this.” He swept his right arm in an arc across the room.

  “Well, with Acme Security, you certainly got what you paid for, didn’t you?” She pivoted, pushed her way between the two other men, and disappeared back down the hall.

  “Mr. Osteen, may we have a word?” I interjected the question before he had a chance to shout at anyone else.

  He turned, ready to bark at whomever had interrupted him. When he saw I wasn’t one of the staff, he checked his anger. He also looked beyond me, searching for why I’d said “we.”

  Nakayla joined me. “We’re from the Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency,” she said. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

  Our names sparked recognition in his eyes. “Who called you? The police are handling everything.” Osteen turned to the two men still standing in the doorway. “Marty, tell Nancy to order the replacement materials. Tell her to make sure Raymond gets both sets of receipts—originals and replacements. I’ll find the money somewhere.”

  Marty ignored him. He studied Nakayla like he was examining a piece of sculpture and was pleased with the appraisal. The man was about my height, five-nine or five-ten. I estimated his age to be around forty. He had bushy blond hair and one of those beards that looked more like he’d forgotten to shave.

  His eyes were sky blue, and for all I knew the striking color could have come from special contact lenses. There was an air of urgent energy about him, the kind I’d seen in men in the service who were never at ease.

  “Are you a dancer?” he asked Nakayla.

  She laughed. “Not since I was twelve.”

  “I’ve got this, Marty,” Osteen said. He focused on me. “Thank you for your interest, but I’m satisfied that the police will do all that’s possible.”

  I decided I needed to get the man’s attention. “We’re here about a suspicious death, Mr. Osteen. Surely that merits a few minutes of your time.”

  Marty and the other man, who had yet to be introduced, froze. Osteen made a small O with his lips and shifted his gaze between Nakayla and me.

  “In that case, let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

  “Who is it?” the second man asked. He appeared to be in his late twenties —pudgy with thinning black hair. He wore a tweed sport coat although the temperature had to be at least seventy. He clutched an iPad in both hands.

  Osteen cleared his throat with a guttural growl. “They want to talk to me, Roland. You and Marty concentrate on salvaging today’s shoot. I don’t want the crew sitting on their asses all day. And no overtime.”

  Osteen motioned for Roland and Marty to step aside. “This way,” he told us and walked back into the hallway.

  We followed him through several rooms until we reached a stairwell. We climbed to the next level and then walked down a long narrow corridor with windows on the right and closed doors on the left. It was like walking down the hall of a nineteen-fifties motel.

  About halfway down the length of the building, a door opened on the right and Osteen led us out onto a second-floor covered balcony. Although the mist still hung low, I could see the lake only fifty yards away at the far edge of the lawn.

  Osteen motioned to the patio furniture clustered near the balcony’s railing. “If this is too damp for you, we can move inside. Myself, I like fresh air and a little privacy.”

  “This is fine.” Nakayla sat on a cushioned chair.

  Osteen and I took seats facing her. The real estate developer-turned-movie mogul leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “So, what’s this about a suspicious death? We’ve had no accidents.”

  “It happened in 1948,” I said.

  Osteen leaned back and laughed. “Well, I’ve got the perfect alibi. I wasn’t born until 1950.”

  “We’re not here looking for suspects,” Nakayla said. “A young man fell to his death in what appeared to be a hiking accident. He was a student at the college. His sister has reason to believe his death might not have been accidental.”

  Osteen threw up his hands. “Look, I’m sorry that whatever happened happened. But that was nearly seventy years ago. I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “This film you’re producing is set at the college,” I said. “What time period?”

  “Late nineteen-forties and early fifties. I unders
tand they’re collapsing some events into a tighter timeframe. Story structure, they call it.”

  “So, our young man’s death falls within the period of your film,” Nakayla said.

  “Yes. And, frankly, it sounds more exciting than the script we’re shooting.” He spread his hands in a gesture of cooperation. “Look, maybe Roland knows something about your case. He did a lot of research.”

  “The guy downstairs with Marty?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Roland Cassidy. He wrote the book.”

  I shot a glance at Nakayla.

  “L.T. Hart’s his pen name,” she explained. “You bought the rights?” she asked Osteen.

  “I got the family discount. Roland’s my nephew. My sister’s boy.” He shook his head. “This whole thing could become a goddamned nightmare. At least in real estate, if a deal goes bad, you still own some dirt. Make a bad movie and you can’t pay people to watch it.”

  “Didn’t the book sell well?” Nakayla asked.

  “Well enough, I guess. But plenty of books have been screwed up for the big screen.”

  “Is Roland writing the script?” she persisted.

  “Good God, no. That’s why I brought in Marty and Nancy. They’ve got Hollywood creds. I told Roland if I’m going to crawl out on a limb with investors, we’re not making this some glorified home movie. That means hiring people who know what the hell they’re doing. Of course, that pissed off Roland. He not only wanted to write the script, he wanted to direct.” Osteen gave a humorless laugh. “He’s my flesh and blood, but he couldn’t direct a one-car funeral.”

  “Who are Marty and Nancy?” I asked.

  “Marty Kolsrud is a director/writer. He did that TV series Into the Depths about the fictional West Virginia family where one son went from coal mining to meth production while his brother went from coal mining to law enforcement. Got good ratings and I’m told working on a TV budget is good training for an independent film. And Marty’s hungry. I got him at a good price. Nancy Pellegatti is the line producer. She’s supposed to be able to squeeze blood out of a nickel. My kind of woman.”

  I thought about the confrontation between them we’d witnessed downstairs. “You seemed to believe we were here for some other reason. Is there some way we can help?”

  Osteen stood. Nakayla and I remained seated, not accepting his signal that our conversation was over.

  He leaned against the balcony’s railing and did his best to appear nonchalant. “We had some construction materials stolen last night. Lumber, steel, nails, that sort of thing. The students at Black Mountain College actually built this building and several cottages. We’re recreating those events in some of the key scenes. We were supposed to start today, but the weather nixed those shots. Just as well, since we have nothing to build with.”

  “And your security?”

  “You mean lack thereof?” He pushed himself away from the railing and started pacing. “They say it was a schedule screw-up. The night guard claims he was told he wouldn’t be needed. The man on the previous shift said he got a call that we were cutting back overnight coverage and when his eight hours were up, he could leave.”

  “Who made these calls?” I asked.

  “Someone identifying himself as Curt Altman, an assistant producer speaking for Nancy Pellegatti. We have no Curt Altman on the film.”

  Nakayla shook her head. “And the guard just walked off without confirming with anyone? Where’d you find this security team?”

  Osteen reddened. “I screwed up. I got a temp company to supply some guys. It wasn’t like they were carrying guns or anything. Just be onsite and check people in and out. They were cheaper.”

  “And the name Acme?” I asked.

  “It was the name on the costumes we rented.”

  “Well, it sounds like an inside job,” I said. “Someone knew the materials had been delivered and made the calls. If the guards didn’t comply, then the theft wouldn’t have happened. When the ruse worked, some trucks rolled in and were loaded and gone in a few hours.”

  “Yeah. That’s what the police said. Guess I’m going to have to eat the loss because we have to have the materials.”

  Nakayla gave a slight nod of her head signaling she had no more questions. We both stood.

  “Thank you for your time,” Nakayla said. “And it sounds like Roland Cassidy is the person we should speak to.”

  “Yes. Let’s go to his office and see if he’s free.”

  We followed Osteen farther down the narrow hall to the last door on the left. He gave a sharp rap and opened the door without waiting for a response.

  Cassidy sat hunched over a scarred wooden desk, his face buried in pink pages spread across its top. He jerked up as Osteen entered. “What now?” he snapped.

  Osteen stepped aside to reveal Nakayla and me. Cassidy reddened slightly, then tugged at the lapels of his tweed jacket in case we didn’t notice his writer’s trappings.

  “I believe you can help, Roland. I would appreciate if you took a few minutes out of your busy schedule to talk with them.” The sarcasm in his voice embarrassed everyone but Osteen.

  I looked at the desk. Stacks of paper in a rainbow of colors gave the impression the man was hard at work on something.

  Nakayla stepped closer. “We’ll only take a few minutes and then we’ll be out of your hair.” Her soothing tone eased the tension.

  Cassidy nodded. “Of course. Anything I can do.”

  “Good. Then I’ll leave you to it.” Osteen headed out the door, and then pivoted. “And if I don’t think the police are doing their job, I’ll be in touch.”

  As his footsteps echoed down the hall, I closed the door to Cassidy’s office and leaned against it. Cassidy frowned at the prospect of being a prisoner.

  “I’ll stand,” I said. “Nakayla can have the chair.” I gestured to the single guest chair in the corner of the small room.

  Nakayla sat and leaned forward. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Cassidy. I’m a big fan. In fact, my book club was discussing Love Among the Ridges this past weekend.”

  Cassidy puffed out his chest and smiled. “Really? Well, you should have contacted me. Perhaps I could have been there.”

  “That would have been marvelous. Perhaps with your next book? I do hope you’re writing one.” Nakayla fawned over the man like she was a member of Captain’s harem. If she fluttered her eyelashes, I was leaving.

  “Well, I am,” Cassidy said. “But it’s hard to make much progress when this script is so all-consuming.”

  “I thought Marty Kolsrud was writing the script,” I said.

  Cassidy gave a dismissive wave. “He’s making some minor tweaks—for camera blocking.”

  I looked at the stacks of pages on his desk and the rainbow of colors. “Minor tweaks?”

  “Yes,” he insisted. “Even minor tweaks generate a reprint of the scene. Everything is color-coded so we know we’re all working from the same version.”

  I looked at the pages he’d been reading when we entered. “And today is pink?”

  “Yes. The weather forced us to shoot a simpler scene in one of the cabins. I’m revising the dialogue for authenticity.” He turned to Nakayla. “It’s rather my specialty.”

  “I loved the dialogue in the book. So real. It was like my mom was talking to me.”

  “Your people had a mountain dialect?” Cassidy blurted the question without thinking how patronizing it sounded.

  “Yes, we’ve been out of Africa, oh, almost three hundred years. And we’re very quick learners.”

  Cassidy blushed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you don’t have any accent at all.”

  “I’ve been giving her elocution lessons,” I said. “Tell the man about the rain in Spain staying mainly on the plain.”

  Nakayla shot me a glance that would have killed a lesser man. “Don’t min
d Sam,” she told Cassidy. “He’s always wanted to use the word elocution.”

  Cassidy looked at me warily. “Whatever.”

  Nakayla slid her chair closer to his desk. “As we said downstairs, we’re investigating a suspicious death. He was a Black Mountain College student in 1948.”

  “In 1948?”

  “Yes. We know that falls within the time period of your research,” Nakayla said. “He fell from a bluff while hiking.”

  Cassidy shook his head. “It doesn’t sound familiar. What was his name?”

  “Paul Weaver. He was a World War II vet, here on the G.I. Bill.”

  “There are lots of Weavers in these hills, but I don’t remember one at the school. Of course, I mainly focused on the famous people—Buckminster Fuller, Arthur Penn, Merce Cunningham—you know, the people who went on to do great things.”

  “But your main characters weren’t famous,” Nakayla said.

  “Because I made them up. Yes, some were composites of people’s stories, but none of them fell off a cliff.”

  “Where did you get these stories?” I asked.

  “Talking to the old-timers. There are still a few alive who remember the college.” His face brightened. “You should talk to Harlan Beale. He’s working as an advisor on the picture.”

  “Was he a student?”

  “No. He worked as a handyman—part time, since the college was always hurting for money and couldn’t pay full-time wages. He was like sixteen when he started. That was back in 1948. If anybody knew this Paul Weaver, it would be Harlan.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “There’s a makeshift carpentry shop up on the knoll by the entry road. It’s a big white tent.” Cassidy paused. “But he might not be there now. I think Nancy sent the carpenters home.”

  “Because of the theft?”

  “Yeah. We probably won’t get a replacement delivery for a day or two.”

  “Do you have his home address or phone number?” Nakayla asked.

  “Sure. He lives up near Ridgecrest.” Cassidy pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and swiped through his contacts. He picked up one of the pink pages of script and wrote Harlan’s information on the back. He passed the paper to Nakayla. “A little souvenir of the movie.”