Newly raised his hand. “Whoa. You’re moving too fast. Slow down and connect the dots.”
I walked him through the history we’d uncovered and that Nadine Oates had clearly lied about her familiarity with Paul Weaver. Harlan Beale appeared to have known more about Weaver as well, evidenced by what he shared with Roland Cassidy that wound up in Cassidy’s novel.
“So, you’re going to talk to Cassidy?” Newly asked me.
“Unless you want to.”
“No. I don’t have the cause. Stories about Paul Weaver are just that. Old stories. Bring me a present-day motive that I can act upon. And Cassidy has an alibi for the time of Beale’s death. He was dining with the actress Nicole Madison. She confirmed they didn’t leave the restaurant till after ten.”
“And you know Beale was dead by then?”
Newly picked up the manila envelope and slid out several pages. “The M.E. report determined Beale died between eight-thirty and ten-thirty. And he died elsewhere. Hypostasis confirms it.”
Hypostasis or livor mortis was the discoloration of the skin as gravity affected the non-circulating blood.
Newly continued. “Beale’s body had lain on its stomach for several hours before being placed in the museum and the bookcase toppled. He’d died from a blow to the head, but not from hitting the floor. He was struck by a hard, rounded object like a tire iron.”
“Any speculation as to where he was killed?”
“No. Although he had to have made it home from the movie location if he’d been reviewing that book of Black Mountain College photographs.”
“What line of inquiry are you following?”
“We’re interviewing cast and crew to see if there was any trouble on set. Your Weaver connection is intriguing, but with Cassidy alibied, that leaves only three ninety-year-old women, not a promising suspect pool.”
“What about Beale’s phone?” Nakayla asked. “It didn’t just happen to wind up in Blue’s dog food bag.”
Blue looked up at the sound of his name. He lay by my feet on the bed Shirley bought him.
Newly set his coffee on the table and pushed the M.E. report to the side. Underneath were several photographs. “We pulled these off of Beale’s phone. Looks like he took pictures of some of the sets. Plus a picture of the construction materials they had to restock.”
“Can I see them?” I asked.
Newly slid them across the table.
I recognized the cottage where we had watched Grayson and Nicole film the house of cards scene. There were other interiors—the dining hall, a library, and a classroom where Dustin Henry as Bucky Fuller taught a group of students. Another photograph showed Fuller and the class standing in front of a stack of lumber. The last picture was just the stack, although I wasn’t sure if it was the stolen material or the replacement lumber that had later been set ablaze.
“Can I have these?” I asked.
“All this is for you. Off the record, of course. I’m not proud. I’ll take help from anyone.”
I dropped the photos and reports back in the envelope. “Then you won’t mind if we seek some outside help as well.”
He cocked his head and looked at me suspiciously. “Who?”
“The U.S. Army. And the FBI.”
Newly laughed. “Hey, they’re not coming out of my budget. So, knock yourselves out.”
After Newly left, Nakayla telephoned Violet Baker to update her on our progress. Blue and I took the opportunity for a walk around the block.
The country hound was quickly developing an interest in city life, especially the multitude of other dogs sharing the sidewalk—every breed from toy poodle to great dane.
We were coming up Biltmore Avenue near the Diane Wortham Performing Arts Theatre when my phone buzzed. I expected it was Nakayla wondering which pub had captured Blue and me.
The 213 area code signaled Hollywood was calling.
“Benedict Cumberbatch,” I said in a bad British accent.
A brief pause and then a woman laughed. “Thank God. I was afraid we were going to have to settle for this local yokel named Sam Blackman.”
“Sam taught me everything I know.”
“Then he’s forgotten a lot.”
I recognized the voice. “What’s up, Camille?”
“We just got an updated weather report. Tomorrow’s supposed to be rainy and chilly.”
I didn’t understand why the assistant director was calling me. Neither Nakayla nor I were scheduled to shoot the next day.
“I don’t have a call time.”
“You do now. Marty would like to use the day for prosthesis shots—you know, matching you to Grayson. Marty’s compiled a list of close-ups needed throughout the movie. We can get most, if not all, tomorrow. No exteriors, no sound. We could shoot in a hail storm. It would really help us out.”
I’d planned to spend the next day working our case. Roland Cassidy and Nadine Oates both knew more than they’d shared. And I wanted to make good on my pronouncement to Newly that I was contacting the U.S. Army and the FBI.
But being on set still offered the chance to confront Cassidy. Plus, I was bothered that Beale had hidden his phone, and yet the police had found only a few innocuous photographs on it.
“What time do you need me?”
“Seven. We’ll want to get you and Grayson in matching wardrobe, and we have several prostheses from the World War II era we’d like to try.”
“Then I’ll see you at seven.”
“Thanks, Sam. Come fifteen minutes early and report to catering for a hot breakfast.”
“Do I get my own star trailer?”
“No. But you can eat in your car and use your imagination.” Camille disconnected.
When I returned to the office, Nakayla told me that Violet Baker remembered Nadine Oates living at the farm next door. Although Violet had been young, she understood her big brother and Nadine had been boyfriend and girlfriend, and that the relationship had changed after the war. Violet wasn’t aware of any animosity or hostility between them.
I told Nakayla about my movie role for the next day and we agreed to divide up the work. She would research the Weaver family, check the Registrar of Deeds, tax records, and other information that might provide insight as to when they sold the farm and to whom. She would also look into any records she could find that mentioned the political leanings of Eleanor Johnson and Leah Rosen. My opinion was Nadine Oates, jilted lover, was fabricating accusations, but we needed to check it out.
Meanwhile, I’d seen enough of the film business to know there would be downtime between shots. I planned to call a former Army colleague who worked in personnel records at Fort Bragg and see if he could access any data on Paul Clarence Weaver’s service, particularly the circumstances of his discharge. My gut told me there was a connection between Weaver’s military experience and the college. But I didn’t know who wanted him dead in 1948, and how that tied into the undeniable murder of Harlan Beale. As Newly pointed out, when our only suspects were three ninety-year-old women, we weren’t exactly hot on the killer’s trail.
***
Parts of disembodied mannequins. That’s how I viewed the three left legs lying on the table in the large room dedicated to prop storage. Marty and Grayson flanked me as we looked at the vintage devices. All three were variations of the same design: a wooden lower leg attached to a leather sleeve that laced around the thigh like a heavy-duty corset.
Marty ran his hand along the surface of the closest one. “What do you think, Sam?”
“I think I’m glad I’m living in the twenty-first century.” I circled the table, examining the choices. “The key will be finding one that’s the correct length.”
“We asked for a man five-foot, nine or ten inches,” Marty said.
“That’s a general indicator.” I looked at Grayson. “We might be the
same height but not the same leg length.”
“True,” Grayson said, “but I actually don’t have to wear it. Marty will detach the upper sleeve and show me lacing it up without filming below the knee. That’s when your close-ups will be used.”
“Will I just be shown putting it on or close-ups of the leg in use?”
“Probably just putting it on,” Marty said. “But I would like you to walk with it so that Grayson can mimic the gait.”
I picked up the middle prosthesis that had the shortest sleeve. “I’ll need to take my pants and prosthesis off. Is there a place I can change?”
Marty signaled to a woman arranging clothes on a portable rack. “Crystal, bring the wardrobe for Grayson and Sam for our first scene.” He turned to me. “Grayson will take you to a makeshift dressing room down the hall. Things are rather primitive here.”
I laughed. “You call this primitive? Remember, I was in the Army.”
I followed Grayson and Crystal to a smaller room that must have once been a dorm space. Crystal hung two outfits on another portable rack. I noticed she wore a utility belt chock-full of pin cushions, spools of thread, scissors, and tape. In her early forties, she was a little overweight and had the edge of a red-and-yellow tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve of her right arm. The design looked intricate.
She eyed me like measuring me for a suit. “What kind of underwear are you wearing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Grayson made an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a laugh.
“Boxers or briefs? You’ve got to have your pants off for the close-up of the prosthesis. We can’t have you wearing some leopard-skin Speedo. You should have been told to wear plain boxers if you have them.”
“Sorry. I’m wearing gray underwear that’s a brief but with material part way down my thigh.”
Crystal frowned. “I’m sure they’re very comfortable and very anachronistic. I’ll see what I can find. In the meantime, try the leg and the pants and shirt. Marty will just have to shoot around your underwear till I can find something more appropriate.” Crystal gave both of us a hard stare. “And, for God’s sake, don’t either of you spill anything on the clothes. Since I’m trying to fit both of you with the same outfit, we don’t have any backups.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “She’s a tough cookie. And you’re a star and she cuts you no slack.”
“You’ll learn in the movie business you’re only as good as your crew. Crystal knows her job and she’ll always make you fit your britches no matter how big you think you are.”
“Or fit your briefs and boxers.”
Grayson laughed. “True. Now show me how that antique leg works.”
I stepped out of my pants and pulled my left stump free of my prosthesis. The World War II device was awkward to manage. The socket wasn’t nearly as form-fitting and the leather sleeve that laced around the thigh chafed my skin. I stood and took a few tentative steps around the room. As I feared, the length of the leg was about an inch longer than my right.
“The other legs will be either too short or too long,” I said. “I’ll have to go with this one. The hinge lets the lower leg move with my below-the-knee action, but I have to swing my left leg a little wide for the stride.”
Grayson studied my motion. “It’s not bad, but it’s enough to signal something’s amiss. I think the best way for me to duplicate the walk is to have my left shoe built up about an inch. Let’s go ahead and change and then ride a golf cart up to the shooting cottage. That’s where Marty wants to start.”
I left my good prosthesis tucked away in a corner. “Can we swing by my car on the way? I need to pick up something.”
The predicted rain began to fall. I’d had the foresight to bring a poncho that not only kept my clothes dry and spared me the wrath of Crystal but also protected the envelope I’d retrieved from the CR-V, the envelope containing the prints Newly had made from the photos on Harlan Beale’s cell phone.
Marty loved the look of the leg. He shot close-ups of me putting it on, then taking it off. We changed angles in the cottage and propped the room to look like another. Marty explained it was easier to move furniture than transport the lights and cameras to another interior.
We filmed most of the shots in my underwear. The crew was as indifferent to my semi-nakedness as the staff at my doctor’s office. Grayson and I often exchanged places. I’d be filmed when the missing leg needed to be seen; Grayson would be in the same setup when they shot from the thigh up. He wore a pair of old boxers authentic to the period. At one point, Marty suggested we share the underwear so that the camera wouldn’t be so confined on the close-ups. Grayson and I nixed that idea and Marty didn’t push it.
We were setting up for the final shot before lunch when Mick Ritchie came over. We’d said hello earlier, but his electrician duties kept him running back and forth from the set to the generator.
“You know, Sam, if you catch pneumonia, you can sue their pants off.”
“Actually, under your lights, I’m probably the most comfortable person in the room.”
“Aye that. These HMIs do put out the heat.” He stepped closer. “Listen, are you doing anything about Harlan’s death?”
“What do you mean?”
He lowered his voice. “Rumor is Harlan was doing some work for you. Looking into the death back in forty-eight when he was a boy.” He raised his hands palm out. “I’m not saying you’re responsible. It’s just that Harlan was a friend and if there was some sort of connection, I think you’d want to get to the truth. Everybody knows you’d do a better job than the Asheville police or Buncombe County deputies.”
“What do you think happened?”
Ritchie stroked his beard. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. He must have thought something was important in that museum.”
“Did you spend much time with Harlan?”
“Sometimes we’d sit together at lunch, but he didn’t say anything that would lead me to believe something was troubling him.” Ritchie paused. “Other than Roland.”
“Roland?”
“Well, you know what a pain in the ass he can be. Mr. ‘I’m an Author and You’re Not.’ I heard about the shouting match between him and Harlan. But Roland doesn’t have the guts to do anything but spout off.” Ritchie looked at me quizzically. “That is, if there’s any talk about Harlan’s death being more than an accident.”
“No talk.” And that was true. We were way beyond talk, but the case was Newly’s to discuss, not mine. “There is one thing. Harlan happened to send me some pictures from his phone. We were talking about his duties here. Could you take a quick look and tell me why they’d be important?”
“Sure. Glad to.”
I unwrapped my poncho from around the manila envelope and extracted the photos. Fortunately, Newly hadn’t identified the prints as police property.
Ritchie quickly flipped through them. “Harlan probably took these for continuity. In case we had to come back and reshoot something. These group shots of the actors also show wardrobe.”
“And that was part of Harlan’s job?”
“Nah. He was just super conscientious. He was an advisor to Roland and the film, but also a good handyman. Even at his age, he put in a good day’s work. I had to tell him to cool his jets a few times. He wasn’t union and he’d take on a task he wasn’t authorized to do.”
“Did other members of the crew resent that?”
“Nah. Nobody felt threatened by Harlan. It’s just that we have a very definite system of responsibilities.”
“And why the shot of the lumber?”
Ritchie looked at that photo again. He shrugged. “He liked to check what was delivered. In case something went missing or an order was incomplete. He’d paint the ends of the boards as an identifying mark. He said it’s w
hat they used to do back during the days of the college. So the materials the scene shop purchased were not only to be used for construction but also to be used in an authentic way.”
I looked at the photograph of cast members in front of the materials. “Was this for the construction scene?”
“Most likely. These roles would all be part of the construction scene.”
“But you never shot it. The lumber was stolen, right?”
“Yes, but we shoot out of sequence. All of these actors might have already appeared in other scenes taking place the same day of the story, so continuity must be maintained when they come together.”
“Got it. Thanks.” Another thought crossed my mind. “You said Harlan knew a lot about handyman work. Did that extend to electricity?”
“Oh, yeah.” Ritchie winked. “Sometimes I’d ignore the union rules and let him pull some power cables or top off the fuel in the generator. The man loved to work.”
We wrapped the last shot of the morning and the crew broke for lunch. I decided to ditch the old leg for my good one and change back into my own clothes so I could spill as much food as I wanted. As I headed back toward the wardrobe room, I heard the producer Nancy Pellegatti shouting in her office.
“Goddamn it. I told you to leave her alone. The woman wants nothing to do with you. If you don’t stop harassing her, I’ll have you barred from the set.”
“You can’t do that. I have a contract.”
I recognized Roland Cassidy’s voice.
“A contract doesn’t trump a restraining order,” Pellegatti countered. “And that’s what she’ll get. I’m trying to be your friend here, Roland.”
“Yeah, right. With friends like you and Marty, it’s a wonder I don’t have knives sticking out of my back. None of you would be here without me and my book.”
“How can I forget? Now please leave before Nicole and I both get restraining orders.”
I ducked into an empty room on the hall to avoid Cassidy and waited until his footsteps faded. Then I went to Pellegatti’s office and knocked.
“What is it now?” she snapped.
Hidden Scars Page 15
