by C. S. Poe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Lights. Camera. Murder.
Dedication
INT. PROLOGUE – DAY
INT. CHAPTER ONE – DAY
INT. CHAPTER TWO – DAY
EXT. CHAPTER THREE – NIGHT
INT. CHAPTER FOUR – DAY
INT. CHAPTER FIVE – NIGHT
INT. CHAPTER SIX – DAY
INT. CHAPTER SEVEN – DAY
INT. CHAPTER EIGHT – NIGHT
INT. CHAPTER NINE – DAY
INT. CHAPTER TEN – DAY
EXT. CHAPTER ELEVEN – DAY
Coming Soon
About C.S. Poe
Also by C.S. Poe
Lights. Camera. Murder.
by
C.S. Poe
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Lights. Camera. Murder.
Copyright © 2019, 2020 by C.S. Poe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: [email protected]
Published by Emporium Press
https://www.cspoe.com
[email protected]
Cover Art by Reese Dante
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
Published 2020.
First Edition published 2019. Second Edition 2020.
Printed in the United States of America
Digital eBook ISBN: 978-1-952133-18-3
Lights. Camera. Murder.
By: C.S. Poe
Private investigator Rory Byrne has gained a reputation as someone the elite of New York City can trust to solve their problems quickly and quietly. So when a hotshot television producer hires him to recover a stolen script, Rory will have to go undercover on the set of a historical drama to complete the job. He has his hands full trying to investigate a skeptical crew while they work around the clock on The Bowery, a new show that promises to shake up the television industry. To make a delicate situation more complicated, the production is led by out-and-proud actor Marion Roosevelt, and Rory is downright smitten.
But every member of the cast and crew is a suspect in the theft. And the deeper Rory delves into their on-set personalities, the more suspicious Marion’s behavior becomes. If Rory is to uncover the theft without sacrificing the fate of The Bowery, he will have to trust his identity and his heart to Marion.
For Reese.
I shine because of you.
INT. PROLOGUE – DAY
GET BENT, DIPSHIT
The love note was scrawled across my grocery list on the refrigerator door. Which was fine. I preferred keeping all my reminders in a central location. Now I knew I needed to pick up milk, sugar, bread, and a new boyfriend.
My cell rang as I splashed some cream into my coffee. I pushed my tortoiseshell glasses up my nose and turned to pick up the phone from the counter behind me.
Caller ID: Nate.
Shocker.
I pressed Accept and put the phone to my ear. “Good morning, sunshine. I got your message.”
“You’re a sonofabitch, Rory!”
“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”
Nate’s audible gasp allowed me enough time to indulge in that first sip of morning coffee. “Only an asshole breaks up over text message,” he accused.
I winced at his shrill tone, pulled the phone away from my ear, set it to speaker, and put it back on the countertop. “I only have one rule, Nate.”
“Screw your rule.”
“And you broke it,” I continued without missing a beat.
“Maybe if you were a contributing member in our relationship, I wouldn’t have had to find someone else to fuck me senseless.”
I stared at the phone and messed my already disheveled hair with one hand. “I told you when we started dating just how much I worked.”
“And?”
“And if you need it day and night, I’m probably not the most suitable candidate in the dating pool.”
Nate let out a frustrated growl and then shouted loud enough to cause mic distortion, “Can you pretend like you give a damn right now?”
“It’s not worth my energy. You swore to never lie, and I caught you in one.” I took another sip of coffee while he sputtered and hissed. “Oh. I’d like my extra key back.” I gave the note on the fridge a second glance.
“Burn in hell, Rory.”
“Have a good life, Nate.”
“Hey, while we’re at it—I fucked your coworker too!” he screamed.
“Yeah, I know. Bye-bye.” I hit End, promptly deleted Nate’s contact information from my phone, and walked out of the kitchen.
LIGHTS. CAMERA. MURDER.
INT. CHAPTER ONE – DAY
FADE IN
The phone was ringing again.
I walked out of the steamy bathroom, wrapping a towel around my waist. I grabbed the cell from the kitchen counter. “Byrne.”
“Rory.”
I straightened instinctually. “Good morning, ma’am,” I said to Violet Shelby, my supervisor at Dupin Private Investigations. She’d been working for the company since the ’80s. And while Shelby no longer answered telephones for her boss, but instead was the boss, she’d never been able to shake the shoulder pads and power suits of those bygone days.
“It’s a morning,” she corrected. “What do you know about movies?”
I opened my mouth, paused, then gradually said, “I… took a film-appreciation course in college about a hundred years ago. I mostly recall the insides of my eyelids.”
Shelby chuckled. “You talk like you’re an old man.”
Forty-five, but Shelby hadn’t called to ask what year I graduated.
The brisk air of the apartment—a January chill that not even central heating could entirely dissipate—caused gooseflesh to rise on my damp skin.
“Does the name John Anderson mean anything to you?” Shelby asked.
“Wes Anderson’s less successful half-brother?”
“Funny,” she replied, but her tone implied otherwise. “He’s a hotshot television producer here in the city.”
Hotshot. That was code for Royal Pain in the Ass.
“Uh-huh.”
“I just finished a consultation call with him,” she continued. “This will be an undercover case for you.”
“As?”
“Well….” There was an uncharacteristically lengthy pause on her end. “It’s a little outside the box for Dupin,” Shelby warned. “I’m sending you onto a live set. A television show being filmed at Kaufman Astoria Studios out in Queens.”
I put a hand on the doorframe and tapped the wall absently. “What exactly is the case, ma’am?”
“Theft. An inside job with a limited timeframe for investigation.”
My towel started to slip, and I grabbed one corner, holding it against my hip. “Can you elaborate?”
“Unfortunately not. It’ll be up to you to get further details from Anderson. I know, I know,” she continued, almost as if she sensed my oncoming comment regarding my dislike of intentionally vague details. “But he came to us at the endorsement of another hotshot client. You know how they all are. He’s looking to have this wrapped up quickly and quiet
ly.”
“Aren’t they always?”
She snorted. “The suspect will be dealt with internally.”
Always sounded a bit mob-ish when Shelby said that.
I started toward the bedroom. “All right. I’m getting ready now.”
“I should warn you,” Shelby said before I had the opportunity to end the conversation. “There are nearly a hundred people on set. They’re all considered suspects.”
Dress like a PA.
That was an easy enough instruction—if I knew what the hell a PA was. But Shelby hadn’t elaborated on the matter. I suspected she wasn’t certain herself and simply reiterated the undercover suggestion provided by Mr. Anderson.
So I googled it.
Physician’s assistant.
I kept scrolling on my phone. Google seemed pretty convinced this was what I wanted—even went so far as to suggest courses for becoming a PA, salaries, and stats related to the industry.
I tapped the browser bar and redirected my search to include: what is a film PA?
And there it was at the top of the feed—production assistant. Although the title didn’t suggest much by way of wardrobe. I stood in the middle of my bedroom, naked but for a pair of boxer briefs, perusing a few blogs on basic film industry etiquette before stumbling upon a recent article that fit the bill: “My First PA Gig. Now What?”
My thoughts exactly.
Not that I was looking to make a career change, but one of the traits of a successful PI was being able to blend into any environment like a chameleon. I’d been Shelby’s top undercover man for nearly a decade. I sniffed out business fraud in action like a bloodhound, all while playing the role of some newly hired, clueless stooge. But performing for the benefit of the white-collar crowd around a water cooler was a lot easier than acting in front of professional actors. And if I had close to a hundred cast and crew members to sort through regarding this theft of… something, I needed to have a firm handle on the sort of environment I was walking into.
The article suggested closed-toed shoes, comfortable layers, and to expect being on my feet all day. All right. So not the correct industry to flaunt four-hundred-dollar, turquoise Fluevog Oxfords. And I definitely wouldn’t need to waste time hemming and hawing over a matching tie.
I tossed the phone on the bed.
Gary, my Siamese cat, raised his head from the pillows and made a sleepy pigeon sound in response.
“Sorry, baby,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Daddy’s got to work.”
Gary yawned and squeaked out another half-hearted meow.
“I know,” I answered before opening the closet door. “But if you want to keep living this extravagant lifestyle, one of us has to bring home the bread. Right?”
No response.
I glanced at the cat again. He was asleep. Little shit.
I turned my attention back to the closet and sifted through the contents. The clothes were mine, in the sense that I’d paid for them, but I considered my wardrobe that of a theater production’s. A costume to suit every situation, every atmosphere, every sort of case a Dupin PI was entrusted with.
For the apparel oft proclaims the man, as Polonius said.
Sometimes, though, dressing for me was… a curious predicament. Such occasions were rare, however. I worked a lot. And that was fine. Investigating was what I did—what I was. I needn’t be concerned with Rory Byrne because my skills were always in demand. Besides cleaning Gary’s hairballs off the kitchen floor and being some man’s soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, dishonesty was the only consistency in this otherwise topsy-turvy world.
I tugged free a long-sleeve plaid shirt that must have been as old as the grunge movement itself, and a broken-in pair of Levi’s from a shelf underneath. I put the clothes on, walked to the bathroom while buttoning the shirt, and took a look in the mirror. I’d definitely grown into my chest and shoulders since the last time I’d worn this homage to Pearl Jam, but it’d do in a pinch. I ran my fingers through my strawberry-blond hair a few times, letting it lie wherever and giving myself a less posh look to match the rest of the ensemble.
I went down the hall, fetched my peacoat from the closet near the front door, and looked back toward the kitchen as I adjusted the jacket collar. Morning sun poured through the blinds onto the table piled with soldering equipment and half-finished projects that were my “de-stress hobby,” and cast sharp rays of light across the stainless-steel fridge. Nate’s addition to my grocery list shined like a beacon and reinforced my whole point about humans. I returned to the kitchen, gently plucked the note free from under a Cat Dad magnet, folded it, and slipped it into my coat pocket.
I didn’t like Long Island City.
But I did like their parking fees.
Leaving my car in a garage for the day at a third of the price I’d have paid in Manhattan, I walked four blocks to Kaufman Studios. Despite the bright, sun-shining, blue-sky day, the mercury was flirting with zero. The Queens neighborhood wasn’t the wind tunnel that my block on the west end of Midtown tended to be, but the sidewalk still leeched the life out of me with each step, until by the end of my brisk, twelve-minute walk, I felt as if I was walking on pebbles, not toes. I crossed the street and took a right toward the security box outside the studio gates.
“Rory Byrne?”
I stopped midstride and turned, shoulders hunched against the cold.
A short, round man in his fifties was picking his way along the slippery sidewalk. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, wore spectacles too small for his face, and had on a pair of those wraparound earmuffs.
“Yes?” I asked.
He was huffing by the time he reached my side, little plumes of air briefly suspended in the cold. “Tall blond man with glasses, just like Ms. Shelby said. And on time too.” He tilted his hand to confirm the hour on his watch and spilled coffee in the process. “Oops—shit.” He hesitated a minute, stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, then offered a free hand. “John Anderson. I’m the client. Your client, that is.”
“John,” I repeated, shaking his hand. “How are you doing?”
“Not good. My nerves have gotten the best of me, I’m afraid,” he muttered before removing the cigarette and blowing smoke to one side.
“I see that.” I pointed to security. “Would you like to talk inside?”
“No! No, no, we can’t do that. Someone might overhear,” John hastily answered.
I tucked my hands back into my coat pockets and watched John tap ash from the cigarette almost a bit too aggressively. He shoved the stick into his mouth and chewed on the filter.
“How about you bring me up to speed on this theft.”
This was when a client (or ex-boyfriend) decided whether or not they liked me. And it was fine if they didn’t. I could still see my investigation through to completion even if they had no interest in a round of beers afterward.
Working on everything from cheating spouses to business fraud to missing persons makes for a lot of potential bullshit to sift through. The best method of approach was to look for deception right out of the gate. I couldn’t get caught up in whether John Anderson was a good person.
I actually didn’t care.
All I wanted was the truth and nothing more.
“A script was stolen,” John said. “My script.”
“From this television show?”
I studied his jittery movements.
Too much caffeine? Definitely.
Anxiety from being questioned? Probably.
Concealing information? Still uncertain.
“No.” John shook his head and removed the cigarette from his mouth. “It has nothing to do with this.” He waved his coffee cup at the studios behind me. “The Bowery, I mean. It’s a script I wrote. Unpublished, but it’s still protected by copyright law. This is a theft of my intellectual property. I’m a producer. I know all about—”
I held a hand up.
John frowned, sipped his coffee. “Sorry. I’
m a little out of sorts. I haven’t slept. I think I’ve developed an ulcer.”
“Can you tell me why you believe the script has been stolen?”
He looked up at me, squinting behind his spectacles. “Because on Saturday night it was in my office, and yesterday it was gone. Are you new at this?”
“Twenty years this June. Who has access to your office besides yourself?”
John blanched a little. “I don’t always lock it, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s kind of an honor system, you know?”
What was that saying, the road to hell is paved with good intentions?
“Then who knows about this creative endeavor of yours?”
John shrugged dramatically and huffed a few times. “I haven’t the faintest.”
A lie.
“I can’t do my job if you lie to me, John.”
“I really don’t know,” he insisted. “Honest. I got a little, erm, drunk a few weeks back. I could have talked to anybody.” He looked at his mangled cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and stomped on it. John wedged his coffee cup between his chest and arm, fished out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, and lit a new stick. “But I’m here to tell you the script would have been stolen for the idea.”
“Is this your belief, or do you have proof?”
“B-both,” he stammered. “Mr. Byrne—”
“Rory is fine.”
John licked his lips. “Rory. What do you know about The Bowery?”
“Nothing,” I said simply.
“It’s going to shake the very foundation of the television industry when it premiers,” John said. “A historical drama, turn-of-the-century New York City. Thomas O’Sullivan is an Irish gang leader. He’s also a gay man in a committed relationship. Throughout the entire show, mind you. None of this tragic, gay-character-dies-in-the-end garbage. And we don’t shy away from anything. Violence—sure. Sex—of course. But it’s the romance that makes this show what it is.”