Hidden Scars

by Mark de Castrique

  “What?” Marty said in surprise.

  “Yes. I was going to tell you this morning. I know the film’s based on Roland’s book, but Love Among the Ridges sounds too damn sappy. We’re going to call it Battle Scars. It fits both the physical and psychological dilemmas of the characters.”

  “Damn, Arnold,” Marty exclaimed. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

  “I can have a good idea once in a while.”

  “But that further distances Roland from the film,” I said. “Unless they read the credits carefully, the audience might not know it’s based on his novel.”

  “Then he can re-title his novel,” Osteen snapped.

  “You told him that?” I asked.

  “Yes. And he didn’t like it. But I don’t see him committing murder or arson. He’ll sulk for a few days at most, and then show up on set probably wearing some outrageous ascot and carrying his book under his arm.” Osteen turned to Marty. “Let him rewrite a few lines of innocuous dialogue and he’ll be fine. Believe me, I know him.”

  “All right,” I said. “Unless anyone has an idea of why Harlan wanted to see us this morning, we’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Will our call time be the same?” Nakayla asked Nancy Pellegatti.

  The producer looked at Marty Kolsrud. “What do you want to shoot?”

  “We’ve got to get that smoldering debris out of here. I was going to film close-ups from yesterday, but I can’t have smoke drifting into the shot.” He turned to me. “I’ll probably work with you and Grayson.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s four-thirty. Can you be back here at nine?”

  “I can if you can,” I said.

  “Well, I’m going to crash on my office floor, not for the first time. Try to get some sleep.” He looked to Osteen. “We’ll do the best we can, Arnold.”

  “I know,” Osteen said softly. “And I’d like to have a short meeting with the crew. Reassure them that nothing’s going to stop us from making this picture. And also say a few words about Harlan. He was well liked and people are going to be upset. Nancy, when funeral arrangements are complete, maybe we can schedule the shoot day to allow as many as possible to attend his service.”

  “We’ll work on it,” Pellegatti said.

  “Go ahead,” Osteen said. “I have a few more things to discuss with Nakayla and Sam.”

  When the two filmmakers had left, Osteen said, “I’d like to hire you.”

  “To do what?” I asked.

  “See if there’s any possibility that someone’s deliberately sabotaging this project.” He glanced at the door. “I didn’t want to get into it in front of Marty and Nancy because I don’t want them distracted. We lose this location when summer camp preparations begin in mid-May.”

  “Do you have enemies?”

  “I’m a real estate developer. Of course I have enemies. I’ve gotten property rezoned that pissed off neighborhoods. I’ve undercut competitors. But to commit theft and arson is such an extreme action, that I’m clueless as to who would do such things.”

  “We already have a case.”

  “A seventy-year-old death,” he said. “How’s that a conflict of interest?”

  “I don’t know. But Harlan Beale’s death occurred less than three hours ago, and until we determine there’s no connection to whatever he was going to show us, we’re not taking other assignments. My advice, hire Armitage Security Services and get rid of these jokers you’ve got running around in costumes.”

  Osteen clenched his jaw. He didn’t like my refusal to work for him. Then he relaxed. “All right. But if you come across something that connects to my problems, would you at least tell me?”

  “That’s why we came here before the police.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.” He shook our hands. “See you in a few hours.”

  When we were in the car, Nakayla said, “We’ll get back to your apartment just in time to get ready to return.”

  “We’re not going to my apartment.”

  “Where then?”

  I started the engine. “I want to get that Black Mountain College book from Harlan’s house. And someone’s got to break the news to Ol’ Blue.”

  Chapter Ten

  Driving down the one-lane road to Harlan Beale’s house was like driving through a narrow canyon. Clouds covered the moon and stars, and in the dark, the trees on either side became a black wall, illuminated only by the fleeting throw of my headlights.

  I knew Nakayla and I would be on thin ice going into the home of a deceased man whose death was currently the focus of a police investigation. The potential charge of trespassing would be even more flagrant if Beale had locked his house and we broke in. But, if someone had been with Beale in the museum, then that person might have attempted to stop him from connecting some picture or document to Paul Weaver. That involved our case, and I would risk the wrath of Newly in order to be first to examine whatever notes Beale might have left.

  As we neared the house, I slowed until the engine noise diminished to little more than an idle. If someone had been with Beale in the museum, there was the possibility he or she might be here, perhaps destroying any trace of involvement.

  As the dark shape of the house appeared, I killed the headlights and parked about twenty yards away. “Let me approach first,” I told Nakayla. “I’d prefer you remain out of sight.”

  “And if there’s trouble?”

  “Get the hell out of here and speed-dial Newly. I’m leaving the keys in the ignition.”

  “No way.” She lifted her handbag from the floor and extracted her pistol. It was a Colt twenty-five caliber semiautomatic, perfectly sized to be an extension of her hand. She racked the slide, loading a round into the chamber.

  I knew arguing with her would be futile. And she was an excellent shot. If trouble lay inside, Nakayla and her pistol would be welcome backup.

  “All right,” I conceded. “Keep to my left. I’ll stay right.” I didn’t want to block Nakayla’s line of fire if things really went off the rails.

  She trailed me by about fifteen feet. I kept my hands visible and my Kimber tucked in the small of my back.

  I stepped up the cinder blocks and onto the porch. The creak of the old boards sounded like thunder. Immediately, a mournful howl arose from the other side of the door. Ol’ Blue was on duty. I relaxed. If anyone waited inside, I doubted they’d left Blue free to roam.

  “Blue,” I cried, hoping he’d remember how Harlan Beale had welcomed me into his home.

  The howls became baritone barks of excitement, free of menace.

  “It’s me, boy. Sam.”

  “What? Did you give him a business card?” Nakayla’s wisecrack told me she, too, was relieved to hear the dog.

  I tried the door. It was unlocked. I opened it and then crouched down on the threshold where Blue could see me face-to-face. He sniffed my shirt and neck, then slobbered a drooling lick across my cheek.

  “Come up and let him greet you,” I told Nakayla. “And lose the pistol. He might take that as aggression.”

  Blue gave Nakayla no more than a cursory sniff and then walked to the edge of the porch. He stared into the darkness.

  “He’s looking for Harlan,” I said. “Let’s get him inside. We might not have much time before Newly or the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department show up.”

  I gave a whistle, entered the living room and felt along the inside wall for a light switch. Two bulbs in an overhead milk-glass fixture burned with low-watt intensity. Harlan Beale had probably paid his electric bill with loose change.

  Blue went over to his rug and flopped down on his side. Even in this hound dog repose, his brown eyes remained wide open and fixed on the front door. He was watching for his master.

  “What are we looking for?” Nakayla asked.

  “The book you gave him. I’m hoping h
e saw something that led to his middle-of-the-night run to the museum.”

  The living room yielded only a few back issues of Field & Stream. In the kitchen, we found the Black Mountain College book open on a small dining table covered with a plastic, red-checked cloth. Beside the book lay a blunt pencil and a notepad bearing a Holiday Inn logo. One of the out-of-town crew members must have given it to him.

  Beale had started a list of names: Ellie Johnson, Merce Cunningham, Bucky Fuller, Harold Green, Martha Kepler, Arthur Penn, Josef Albers, and Anni Albers. Some I recognized; some may have been students. Each name had single or multiple page numbers scrawled beside it. It appeared Beale had gotten about two-thirds of the way through. The photograph on the open right-hand page was of Buckminster Fuller, students, and the collapsed dome, the scene re-created for the movie the day before. Beale had drawn a faintly penciled circle around Paul Weaver. His name appeared in bolder letters at the bottom of the list. Beale had written “Weaver and ???” I examined the photograph more closely and noticed a penciled circle around a woman whose back was toward the camera. She wore a horizontally striped blouse and dark shorts. The black-and-white picture showed she was a white woman, probably a student.

  We moved on. Beale’s kitchen was spotless, although the porcelain sink had stains that suggested mineral-rich well water. Fake marble linoleum covered the countertops and floor. A triangle of worn paths showed the countless footsteps from sink to stove to the old Frigidaire in the corner. To the right of its base were two matching cereal bowls, one with water, the other empty but obviously Blue’s food dish. A cabinet under the sink held a fifty-pound bag of Jim Dandy dog food.

  The only other item of interest in the house was a white, empty iPhone box atop Beale’s bedroom dresser. I remembered he said Roland Cassidy had given him the phone when they were collaborating on research for Cassidy’s novel. But that had to be a while ago because the book must have taken at least a year or two to bring to publication.

  I lifted the box. “This might be the answer to the missing flashlight. He probably had an app on his phone.”

  “Newly didn’t say they found a phone.”

  “No. But it could have been under the bookcase.”

  “So could a flashlight,” Nakayla said. “But you’re probably right. Remember to ask him.”

  I didn’t have to wait long. My cell buzzed a few seconds later. I read the screen. “It’s Newly.”

  “Better answer and fess up.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked without bothering to say hello.

  “When Harlan Beale called you last night, where was he?” Newly asked.

  “I gathered he was still at the movie location. You heard him yell to someone. Why?”

  “We’re finished at the museum and there’s neither a flashlight nor phone with the body. Either would have shown how he could have navigated in the dark.”

  I mouthed “No phone” to Nakayla. She pointed to the empty box on the dresser.

  “Newly, we’re at his house,” I said.

  “What? Why?” The detective clearly wasn’t happy.

  “I came to check on the dog and see if Beale left the book here we’d asked him to examine. Don’t worry, we’ve been careful. The house was unlocked and we haven’t disturbed anything.”

  “Did you find the book?”

  “Yes. And he wrote down some names on a pad next to it. He stopped on a photograph that depicted a scene the crew shot yesterday. Two of the people in the photograph are circled in pencil. One is Paul Weaver, the other is a woman who’s not facing the camera.”

  “Leave everything as it is,” Newly ordered.

  “Okay. I know Beale had a cell phone. The empty box is still in his bedroom.”

  “Then he either didn’t take it from his house, or he left it somewhere at the location. I’ll request the call record from the wireless company to see if he phoned anyone after you.”

  “Do you want us to look here?”

  “No. Take the dog and get out of there. I’ll want my forensics team going through it and I don’t want to explain why your fingerprints are there.”

  “I’ve been in the house before, so what are a few more?”

  “Sam, don’t make me play the hard ass. If you want to stand in the yard, fine.”

  “What should I do with Blue?”

  “Who?”

  “The dog. Why’s he have to leave?”

  “Because with my luck he’ll either chew up or pee on a clue. I’ll give you the book and the notes as soon as we can release them. I know they’re important to your case and your client. But for now I can’t rule out that Harlan Beale’s death was a homicide. You know the drill as well as I do.”

  I did, and I didn’t argue. “Okay. We’re leaving.” I ended the call.

  “Sounds like Newly’s giving you a new friend.”

  “You and me. Joint custody is only fair.”

  She shook her head. “Not if he howls.”

  “At least you’ve got a house. I’m on the fourth floor.”

  “With more dogs in your building than people.”

  Nakayla had a point. I lived in the Kenilworth Inn Apartments, a huge old resort hotel that had also been a military rehab hospital and a mental institution before the conversion to rental units. And life in Asheville revolved around dogs. Blue would just be one more.

  “All right. We’ll take him to my apartment. Have you seen a leash?”

  Nakayla laughed. “I doubt if Blue’s ever been on a leash in his life. Surely Harlan has some rope somewhere.”

  I found a coil of quarter-inch rope in the tractor shed and knotted it through Blue’s collar. The hound just lay on his bed without protest. “Come on, Blue. Let’s go for a ride. You want to flip Nakayla for shotgun?”

  She came from the kitchen carrying the two bowls. “I’m not sitting in the back for a dog. Put his rug on the seat so something smells of home.”

  Blue hopped in the CR-V with surprising ease. Nakayla took the bowls with her to the front passenger seat.

  “I should bring that bag of food,” I told her.

  “Put it in the rear or Blue might eat half of it between here and Asheville.”

  I returned to the kitchen and pulled the nearly full bag out of the cabinet. Before lifting it on my shoulder, I looked around the kitchen to make sure all was as we’d found it. The bowls and food were the only missing items. I glanced at the table, wishing I could take the book and notes. Then the obvious dawned on me. Newly ordered me not to take them, but he didn’t tell me not to photograph them. I pulled my phone and took several shots of the notepad and open page. If the library had a second copy, then we wouldn’t have to wait for Newly to release this book to pursue potential leads.

  Blue settled down on his rug and rode without so much as a whimper. Dawn was breaking when I parked behind the apartment building, opting to bring Blue through a back entrance rather than the lobby. He peed on every bush and shrub between the car and door, claiming the territory of his new surroundings.

  My apartment is one bedroom with a full kitchen, single bathroom, and a living area that’s furnished as a combo den and dining area.

  Nakayla dropped Blue’s rug by my recliner. “I figure you men will want to be together. You can bond while I take a shower.”

  Two hours later, Nakayla and I were changed and ready to return to Lake Eden. Blue sat staring at the door.

  “Should we leave him here?” Nakayla asked.

  Blue looked back at us, big brown eyes scanning our faces.

  “I don’t know. What if he starts howling?”

  The dog stood and stepped closer to the door.

  “Well, he obviously senses we’re leaving,” Nakayla said. “What’s the high temperature today?”

  I pressed the weather app on my phone. “Sixty-eight. Not too bad if
we crack the windows.”

  So the three of us pulled into the movie lot a few minutes before nine. Smoke still hung in the air and the roar of a diesel engine told me Marty Kolsrud wasn’t directing any scene with sound.

  We parked in the shade of a white pine, rolled down the windows enough to keep Blue from sticking his head out, and walked toward the production office.

  “No guard this morning,” Nakayla remarked.

  “What good are they? The boy scouts would have done a better job.”

  We rounded the corner of the main building and discovered the source of the engine’s noise. A Caterpillar front-loader was clearing the burned debris, lifting scoops of the wet mess into the bed of an Osteen Developments dump truck.

  Arnold Osteen stood near the truck’s cab talking to a silver-haired man in a blue suit. Nathan Armitage, a good friend and owner of Armitage Security Services. He spotted us from the corner of his eye and waved us over.

  Osteen turned to greet us. “Well, I’m doing what I should have done two weeks ago, hired professionals. Nathan says he can have his first two-man team in place this afternoon—one to watch the gear, the other to check people in and out.”

  “And overnight, two guards can patrol a wider perimeter,” Nathan said. He glanced at the pile of charred rubble. “And none of my guys are smokers.”

  “Is that the prevalent theory?” I asked. “Someone tossed a match or cigarette?”

  Osteen shrugged. “What else could it be? Paint and thinner cans were beside the lumber. The carpentry crew did some touch-up work in one of the cottages yesterday. They left brushes and cleaning rags with the paint. Flammable enough, the firemen said.” Osteen shook his head. “Only one likely to make any money out of this movie is the lumber company.” He turned to Nathan Armitage. “Thanks for responding so quickly. Let’s go to my office and I’ll sign the contract.”

  As the two men started to walk away, I grabbed Nathan’s arm. “Can we talk a few minutes before you go?”