Lights, Camera . . .

by Carolyn Keene

  Then he seemed to look through me. Without a word, he stormed toward the door. I stepped out of the way just in time to allow him to pass by.

  Morris watched Halloran stomp off. Then he glanced over at me, and looked away quickly. His face was hard to read, but he looked as if he was hiding something. Was it embarrassment? Or anger? Guilt, maybe? I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it looked like he didn’t want to face me.

  Finally I broke the silence. “Morris? What was all that about? Do you know Jack Halloran?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I met him a couple of times when we first started talking about this project. He seemed totally on board with it then and offered his support. Seems to have changed his mind, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It sure sounds like it. What brought this on, do you suppose?”

  “He said he got a copy of the screenplay in the mail, and that it completely distorts the truth about the robbery and about his family.”

  “Well, since the truth is that his ancestors did in fact pull off the biggest heist in this state’s history, I’m not sure what he’s upset about. I know Althea’s script is accurate. Luther’s seeing to that.”

  “I told him he was way off base, and that there was nothing in the script that attacked his family from a personal standpoint. But he’s adamant about shutting us down.”

  “Did he show you the script he got? I wonder if he got the final version.”

  “No, I didn’t see it,” Morris answered. “You don’t suppose he’s behind some of the problems we’ve been having around here? He’s got a lot of money—that can buy a lot of sabotage.”

  “I don’t know—he has a pretty good reputation, Morris. He seems to be an upright guy—he’s on all the right boards, sponsors some major charities, and runs a corporation full of loyal employees.”

  “Yeah, a lot of people are like that until you start digging up the past.” Morris got this strange expression again. Was he finally reaching his limit? He looked as if the prospect of a major fight with Jack Halloran was going to be the final blow.

  “If you need to talk to someone local about any legal—”

  “No, thanks, Nancy.” He cut me off before I could say any more. When he turned, his expression was still a mystery. “I have to get to a finance meeting,” he said, looking at his watch. He definitely wanted me out of there.

  “Sure, no problem,” I answered. “But, remember—”

  “Thanks,” he said. He clipped the word off so fast, I barely heard the s.

  I could tell he wasn’t in any mood to talk about production problems, so I smiled, wished him good luck, and left.

  As I walked along the path, I went over the confrontation between Morris and Halloran in my mind. Halloran was right about most of it, of course. There had definitely been problems with the production from the very beginning. But that business about the script—that made no sense at all.

  Morris was right too. Halloran certainly had the technical expertise and resources—and the money—to pull off all the sabotage. If he was determined to stop the making of Stealing Thunder, he could do it—one way or another.

  As I walked I heard a sputter, and the huge work-lamps scattered around the compound began coming back to life, even though it was still light out. “Bess, you rock!” I whispered.

  I stopped by Mrs. Fayne’s catering tent for a latte, and found Harold Safer there, talking with her about his cheese samples.

  “Nancy! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Mr. Safer announced. Sometimes his speech is very dramatic.

  “Mr. Safer. Bess told me you were here.”

  “Is this one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to River Heights, or what?” Harold said. “A movie . . . being made right here . . . and you’re the star!”

  “Now, Mr. Safer, you know better than that. You know the Rackham Heist legend as well as I do. Esther played a pretty small role then, and I’m playing a pretty small role now.”

  “But you’re in the movie, Nancy. You’re actually acting with one of the giants of the Broadway stage.”

  “Herman Houseman.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Safer said. “I saw him in Long Day’s Journey into Night six years ago. It was a triumph.” As I watched him describe the event, I noticed something remarkable.

  “Mr. Safer,” I blurted out, interrupting his story. “Do you realize that you look like Herman Houseman?”

  “Me? Oh, don’t say that,” Mr. Safer protested. “He’s so handsome, with such a classic profile and dramatic eyes.”

  “Just like you,” I insisted. “No kidding, you could be his double—his stand-in.”

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Safer said. “Never. I could never presume to fill his shoes.” I could tell that the idea appealed to him, in spite of his denials. “Still,” he continued. “I’d surely love to meet him, to actually shake his hand—to tell him of my admiration for his marvelous talent.” He paused, waiting for my response.

  “Sure, Mr. Safer,” I agreed. “Come on, let’s see if he’s around right now.”

  Mr. Safer took off his chef’s apron—the one that modestly declared HAROLD SAFER, CHEESE MERCHANT in Old English script. Then he washed his hands, combed his hair, and proclaimed that he was ready.

  We walked to Mr. Houseman’s trailer. It had the best location in the compound, on the bluff, with a beautiful view of the Muskoka and the meadows and forests beyond, leading to the horizon. Painted on his door was his name and a gold star.

  Harold took a deep breath as we approached, and released it in small whistling puffs.

  I knocked several times, but there was no answer. I thought I saw a curtain move slightly, so I called out. “Herman? It’s Nancy Drew. Are you in there?”

  There was still no response, not even another curtain flutter.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Safer, I guess he’s not here right now. He could be in a dozen places—coaching, wardrobe, memorizing lines, rehearsing. He wouldn’t want to be interrupted in any of those, I’m sure. Can you come back up tomorrow? I’ll track him down for you then.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Safer said. “I really need to get back to town anyway.” I saw how disappointed he was, and I was determined to get him an introduction. He walked back to Mrs. Fayne’s catering tent, and I strolled over to the generator semi. It was locked, so I went to the shop and found Bess there.

  “I was just going to look for you,” she said. “Has Harold Safer found you yet? He was bugging me again about talking to you.”

  I told her about my conversation with him.

  “Are you sure Mr. Houseman wasn’t hiding in the trailer and just not answering you?” Bess asked. “He doesn’t seem very friendly to me. He’s definitely got an attitude.”

  “Well, I’ll wear him down—for Mr. Safer’s sake. Is the generator fixed?”

  “It is. When the sun goes down tonight, we’ll have lights—at least for a while. I closed shop for dinner, but some of the crew will be back this evening for another shift. And they’ll have power, at last.”

  “So are you coming back in, too? I’m looking for a ride home. I have a coaching session tomorrow, and then a major rehearsal with the Rackham boys. And I don’t know all my lines yet. I have to get those down before then. I’m taking the evening off so I can show up prepared. If you’re planning to stay for the evening, I might be able to catch Mr. Safer before he leaves.”

  “Actually, I was planning to go home for a shower and change of clothes at least. I’ve been working in that damp old semi nearly all day. I might come back later, but I can take you now if you’re ready. I talked to George a little while ago. She ran into another glitch, and intends to stay all night, if necessary, so she can finish the computer recovery by tomorrow.”

  We stopped by the catering tent to leave a message for George with her mother. Then Bess drove me back to River Heights.

  “What about the Musketeers?” she asked as we zipped past their protest camp.

  “I definitely want
to talk to them, although I agree with Luther that they’re probably not behind the really serious problems with Stealing Thunder. Check back with me later this evening. If I’m comfortable with my lines by then, we can finally talk to the Musketeers on the way in to work tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We spent the rest of the ride to town talking about the case. I told her about my conversation with Jane Brandon, and our speculations about the padlock and blood at the generator semi. Then I relayed the exchange I’d overheard between Morris and Jack Halloran.

  “Halloran,” Bess murmured. “He probably makes more money in a week than Morris’s budget for the whole movie!”

  On Tuesday morning Bess picked me up, and we drove straight to the Muskoka Musketeers’ protest camp. George had stayed up most of the previous night, but had finished the data recovery. She had agreed to spend the next several days dividing her time between computer technical support and helping her mother with the catering.

  The Musketeers’ camp was pretty rustic: makeshift shelters mixed with weathered, well-used hiking tarps and fresh-out-of-the-box family-size pup tents.

  “Hi, I’m Bongo,” a friendly young man said as we got out of the car. “Are you here to join the cause?”

  “Not exactly,” I answered. “I just wanted to ask you all a few questions.”

  “You’re reporters? Great,” he said. “Hey, everyone, come on over. We’re getting some publicity at last!”

  I saw no reason to dispute his claim. I took my notebook and pen from my jeans pocket. I could tell from Bess’s smile that she would play along.

  “So, you’re saying that the moviemaking company is disturbing the environment, is that right?” I began.

  “Sure, man,” Bongo said. “You got big semis tearing up all these little country roads. Machine shops, carpentry shops, food preparation. It’s like they’re putting in a little village up on that bluff. You can’t do that. What about all the waste and sewage? Where’s all that supposed to go up there?”

  “Well, I assumed the company has waste disposal plans in place, don’t they?” I suggested. “Some sort of operation that either recycles or gathers up waste to be deposited in the city dump, maybe?”

  “Do they have a plan?” Bongo asked. “That’s all we want to know. What are they doing to protect the environment while they’re there? And what do they intend to do to restore it to its original state when they leave?”

  “Right,” several Musketeers shouted.

  “And what about the wildlife?” Bongo continued. “How about all the creatures who’ve been living there undisturbed for centuries? How do they handle all the disruption? What steps are being taken to protect the wildlife?”

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “we hear you used a skunk to make a point about your protest. I’m not sure capturing a skunk, locking him in closet, and leaving him to whatever fate he gets when he’s discovered is the best example of protecting the wildlife.”

  “Okay, okay, that might seem a little harsh,” Bongo admitted. “But sometimes there have to be sacrifices in order to gain a larger victory.”

  “There have been other incidents in the compound,” I said.

  “Yeah, we’ve heard about some of ’em,” Bongo said. Some of the others around him nodded, and some smiled. “Computers whacked up, generator blitzed.” He frowned at me. “Hey, you’re not implying—”

  “She’s not implying anything,” Bess interrupted with one of her winning smiles. “We’re just trying to get all the story.”

  “We’re not really into destructive behavior,” Bongo said. “We prefer our messages to have a little whimsy.” He smiled proudly. As he talked on about his cause, I dutifully took a few notes. Finally, I cut him off.

  “Well, thank you,” I said. “I believe I have enough for my story.”

  “Say, which outfit are you with?” he asked, following us to Bess’s car. “You with print or broadcast?”

  “I’m a freelancer,” I told him, climbing into the passenger seat. “I’ll let you know when I sell the story.”

  “Mm-hmmm, you do that,” he said, closing my door. “Nice car, by the way.” Bess started the ignition. “Hey, we’re not the only local residents who are fighting this movie. Do you know they’ve got a couple of mountain lions up on that bluff? We haven’t had mountain lions around River Heights for fifty years,” he called out, as Bess backed up to turn around.

  “Talk to some of the farmers in the area,” Bongo continued. “See how happy they are about someone reintroducing a mountain lion into the neighborhood.”

  I was a little late when I finally arrived at the coaching trailer. The dialogue coach, Donnalee Collins, was waiting for me, but she didn’t say anything about my being late. She was entertaining Jake Brigham, the animal wrangler, with stories about her years on Broadway.

  Donnalee looked familiar to me as soon as I saw her. There were some posters and still shots on her trailer wall, and I recognized her as the host of a long-running series on the History Channel.

  First she showed me how to use an old-fashioned way of speaking so that it sounded natural and not fake. We worked with a mirror, so I could see how my face muscles moved to form certain sounds. Then she taped me as I ran some of my lines, so I could actually hear my speech the way it sounds to everyone else.

  Jake had brought the canary that would play Muriel, Esther Rackham’s pet bird. The canary was trained to do its part, but it was time to coach me in mine. During one of the scenes, I was supposed to let Muriel perch on my finger, while I fed her tidbits with the other hand.

  I’d been around pet birds before, although I’d never had one of my own. But I’d never actually fed one by hand, and there’s sort of a trick to it. I had to learn how to feed the bird just the right amount of food and hold it just the right way. That meant neither I nor Muriel would let the scene get sloppy by dropping the food. It also meant not having the bird mistake my finger for a tidbit.

  As Muriel and I worked, Jake and Donnalee guided us both through our paces. When Ben Alvarez arrived, I was ready to rehearse the scene, with him playing Esther’s brother Ross Rackham.

  “How’s Luke?” I asked him, as Jake and Donnalee moved the furniture around to set up the scene. “Is he still in the hospital?”

  “No, he came back to the hotel last night,” Ben answered. “But he was still looking pretty green. He said he felt a lot better this morning. I trust we get a rain check on that tour of River Heights nightlife?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured him. “Just let me know when Luke is ready to party.”

  The run-throughs went really well, and I was so glad I’d taken the time the night before to get my lines down perfectly. We had a half-hour break before the next rehearsal, so I checked in with Jane and Dave to tell them about my interview with the Muskoka Musketeers. They agreed with me that the chances were pretty slim that the Musketeers could pull off some of the major sabotage that had taken place.

  Then I met up with Ben and Jake at the menagerie, and we rehearsed the buckboard scene again—this time with Ben driving instead of Jake. We worked for a couple of hours, and the last few times went pretty well. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time we rehearsed that scene. We also made the rounds in the wagon a few extra times, while I held the reins.

  By five thirty even Jake had had enough, and he declared the rehearsal over. Ben and I wandered over to the catering tent for some food. “George!” Ben called out when he saw her bringing a tray of fruit to the buffet table. “You’re working here now? Is there no end to your talents—a computer genius and a marvel in the kitchen? Marry me—marry me now!” Then he clasped his hands over his heart and dropped to one knee.

  “On your feet, Romeo,” George said with a laugh. “I’m way too busy to get married right now. Get back to me in about ten years, and we’ll talk.”

  “Wounded!” Ben cried in a booming voice. “Wounded to the quick by the young maiden with eyes the color
of bittersweet chocolate. Bittersweet indeed.” He slumped into his chair.

  “Enough,” George groaned. But she raised one eyebrow and flashed him one of her best smiles.

  After we ate, we packed a box with a sandwich and juice for Bess, and lattes and biscotti for all four of us. Then we pulled Bess away from the shop long enough for an impromptu picnic and dessert at the edge of the bluff. While we watched the sunset, Bess and I told Ben and George about our encounter with the Muskoka Musketeers.

  By the time I left the compound that evening, both Bess and I felt really wiped out. My body ached from bouncing on the buckboard and handling the reins of the horses. Although I was eager for a hot shower and my warm bed, Bess and I made a quick stop at the hospital on the way home to check on Luther.

  Althea was visiting him when we arrived. Luther looked and felt a lot better, and told us he’d be back to work the next day. They were happy to hear I had finally interviewed the Muskoka Musketeers. But they were both surprised to learn about Morris’s verbal bout with Jack Halloran.

  “I can’t imagine what version of the screenplay made Halloran so angry,” Althea said.

  “Did you send him a copy of the script?” I asked her.

  “No, I’d never do that,” she answered. “I wouldn’t want it floating around out there. It upsets me just to think about it.”

  “I’m going to contact him about it,” I assured her.

  “Well, at first it was tempting to think this movie was merely jinxed,” Luther said, with a half smile. “That maybe Althea’s attempt to bring this dark story to the screen had aroused the angry ghosts of the Rackham brothers. But it’s pretty clear that this production is being sabotaged by more human hands—although, I agree, probably not the earnest hands of the Musketeers.”

  “Do you think maybe the Rackham ghosts are expressing themselves through their descendent Jack Halloran?” Althea offered.

  “That’s hard for me to believe,” Luther said, “but not impossible.”

  “Well, the whole thing is impossible for me to believe,” Bess said with an exasperated sigh. “This is a practically-no-budget film—”