Lights, Camera . . .

by Carolyn Keene

  First I told my friends about the problems on the location shoot. Then I described the embrace Mr. Houseman gave the woman in the shadows.

  “Wow, who was it, do you think?” Bess asked, her eyes wide.

  “It could have been anyone—I didn’t see her at all.”

  “Not Althea,” George guessed.

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “She and Luther seem to be getting very close. But I didn’t see the woman, so it’s possible.”

  “It could have been Donnalee, or Rita, or Jane Brandon, or any of the other women in the compound,” George said.

  “Or it could have been someone from town,” I pointed out. “But let’s get back to focusing on the sabotage. I’ve come to the conclusion that it all had to be instigated by someone who knows how the different areas of the production work.”

  “But that means they have to know when to do these things,” Bess said.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” I nodded. “The sabotage has to be perpetrated by someone who not only knows how the different aspects of moviemaking work, but also knows this particular production’s schedule.”

  “Someone on the inside!” Bess said, her eyebrows raising. “Really? Well, I guess that nixes the Muskoka Musketeers and Jack Halloran from the suspect list, doesn’t it?” Bess asked.

  “Unless Halloran is paying an inside operative to do his dirty work,” George muttered, chomping into her egg sandwich.

  “Now that the filming has actually begun, things could get really messy around the set,” I pointed out. “I need evidence . . . clues . . . something that leads us to the culprit. If it’s someone on the inside, there’s got to be some evidence we can get our hands on. George, you said you have news. I’m hoping you found out something after going through all those computers.”

  “I did,” she said, “but I need more time to trace it. I found the programs that connect to the generators. They were supposed to be loaded on two department’s computers: maintenance and security. But there’s evidence that a third computer was involved, and the generator program was overwritten with new instructions on that one. I’m tracing its owner.”

  “So we identify the computer owner, and we might have the saboteur,” Bess concluded. She took a bite of her ginger-peach muffin. “But I’d still like to know who’s kissing Herman Houseman,” Bess added.

  “I was going over there to thank him for being so nice to Mr. Safer,” I said. “Houseman was pretty kind when I introduced him.”

  “Don’t forget, he’s a really good actor,” Bess pointed out. “While you were on location, Mr. Safer took a beautiful basket of goodies over to Houseman’s trailer. But ‘The Great One’ brushed him off. Said he was too busy to talk to him.”

  “Mr. Safer was crushed, right?” George guessed.

  “He said he completely understood—but I think it was rude,” Bess declared.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “Just accepting the basket would have been enough to make Mr. Safer happy for days. There really isn’t any excuse for deliberately snubbing him like that.”

  “You know,” George said, hesitating for a moment. “There was a computer full of e-mails about meetings. And they were all signed H. That could have been Herman. I haven’t sorted out who his correspondent is yet, but it won’t be long. I keep getting distracted by people wanting help reloading their software.”

  “Maybe it’s his kissing partner,” Bess said with a wink.

  “Okay, keep at it,” I urged. “I’m determined to talk to Jack Halloran. I want to see that script he got. I tried to phone him, but he won’t take my calls—and he won’t return them either. He knows I heard his fight with Morris and figures my loyalty is with him. But I’ll keep after Mr. Halloran—I’ll park outside his office if I have to.”

  “What can I do, Nancy?” Bess asked.

  “Just keep your ears and eyes open,” I said. “You’re right in the thick of the activity, so you’re bound to hear all the speculation and rumors. We need to get this case solved soon! I feel like we’re sitting on a time bomb.”

  When we got to the compound, everyone was buzzing about the big scene Herman was about to shoot in the soundstage. It was our first chance to see the great actor at work, so the three of us joined other observers behind the cameras.

  Surprisingly, he spent the first hour blanking on lines and bungling cues. “This is absurd,” he finally yelled. “I can’t recite these lines. They’re clearly written by an amateur!”

  “Cut!” Morris called.

  “Amateur?” Althea bristled. She was standing between Morris and Lee Chang. “Perhaps if the lines were being said by a professional,” she continued, “instead of a half-baked ham . . .”

  At that, Herman turned on his heels and stalked off the set.

  “Looks like old Herman’s having some trouble with his lines,” George whispered. “You’d think someone with all his Broadway experience would be able to remember them better than this.”

  “Live theater and film are really different for actors,” I reminded her in a whisper. “There are a lot of distractions when you’re shooting a movie scene—a lot of stopping and starting.”

  “And sometimes there are stops in the middle of lines,” Bess said. “It’s hard to keep the flow.”

  “Keep the flow?” George said. “Give me a break! If you ask me, Herman Houseman’s distractions are more personal than professional.”

  “Are you talking about last night?” I asked.

  “I am,” George said. “Plus all those e-mails. All I’m saying is he seems to have some whole other agenda aside from making this film.”

  After a lot of pleading by Morris and Rita, Herman returned. But the scene didn’t get any better. Finally Morris yelled “Cut!” for about the fiftieth time. He, Herman, Rita, and Althea all huddled in a loud discussion for a few minutes. Then they left in four different directions.

  “I have to get to work,” Bess said. “It’s afternoon already, and we’re trying to get the boat set ready for the big fire scene at ten tonight.”

  “Why so late?” George asked.

  “It probably has something to do with the finance guys Morris is meeting with this evening,” I told them.

  “Well, I can’t play hooky any longer either,” George said. “Anybody for supper in a couple of hours?

  “Probably not,” I said. “I’m going to run a few errands. I’m free until the shoot tonight. I think I’ll pay a visit to Harold Safer, and then camp out at Jack Halloran’s office.”

  “Mr. Safer?” Bess asked. “I assume you’re after more than just a cheese sandwich.”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I answered. “Just curious about something, I guess. I’ll fill you in later, after I talk to him.”

  My friends went back to work, and I took off in the direction Althea had gone. I wanted her opinion on Mr. Houseman’s problems with his lines.

  My hunch was right. Althea and Luther were working at one of the rustic picnic tables along the river. It was an absolutely beautiful day—sunny and breezy. A couple dozen Canada geese paddled in formation on the choppy dark Muskoka.

  “Nancy!” Luther greeted me. “Come interrupt us. We can use the break.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Althea said with an affectionate smile for Luther. “I’m really under the gun here.” Then she looked at me. Her expression was friendly, but I could tell she hoped I wouldn’t interrupt them for too long.

  “I only have a minute,” I told them, taking a seat at the table. It was littered with white, yellow, blue, magenta, and green pages. Each color represented a different revision of the script.

  “I saw you watching the shoot this morning,” Luther said. “What did you think?”

  “Funny you should ask,” I answered. “That’s why I’m here. I’m interested in what you two think is going on with Mr. Houseman.”

  “He’s a jerk,” Althea said abruptly, throwing down her pen. “He hasn’t learned his lines. He’s been in coaching
for weeks, and he still stumbles through his part. Now he wants Morris to make up cue cards and have them scattered around the sets, so he can just read them and won’t have to memorize anything. Whoever told this guy he could act?”

  “Lots of people,” Luther said gently. “And you know that. Why he seems unable to demonstrate it on this particular occasion, though, is anybody’s guess.”

  “That’s what I’m really curious about,” I said. “He’s not even close to living up to his reputation. You two are more on the inside than I am. Have you heard any reason why Mr. Houseman’s having so much trouble? Is he sick? Any personal problems you know about? Professional problems with Morris or the studio?”

  Althea shrugged, and Luther shook his head. “Nancy, we haven’t heard anything to explain it,” he said. “It’s just taking him longer than we all thought it would to adjust to film schedules and the whole moviemaking process, I guess.”

  “I’m a little harder on the old guy than Luther is,” Althea admitted. “I don’t think Herman is even trying to get it right.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “If you do hear anything, let me know. Do you know where Morris is? I’d like to talk to him, too.”

  “No way you’ll get to him right now,” Althea warned me. “He’s in his office in a meeting with finance people—studio bankers have flown out from the coast. Believe me, you don’t want to be even close to that meeting.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I nodded. “I’ll see him later at the fire shoot.”

  When I left Althea and Luther, I went to my message box in the woman’s dressing-room trailer. Crew members left messages there about schedule changes, costume fittings, and script notes. I had only one computer-printed message: I have information about the so-called accidents on this production, and proof about the canary release! Meet me in the menagerie at seven. Signed, a Friend.

  I’ve had messages signed “a Friend” before, and that wasn’t always an accurate description of the author. But I knew I couldn’t ignore it either. I pocketed the note and drove back to town.

  First I went to Safer’s Cheese Shop. I wanted some quick background on Herman Houseman and figured that Mr. Safer would be my best source of information. I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject after Bess’s account of his last encounter with the actor. But I didn’t have to worry. Mr. Safer brought up the subject the minute I walked into his shop.

  “Nancy! I’m so glad you’re here!” he said, rushing to greet me. “I can’t thank you enough for introducing me to Herman Houseman. It’s the highlight of my year by far. What a man! What an actor! And how lucky we are to have him for a while—here in River Heights! It’s unbelievable.”

  “We’re very lucky,” I said, nodding. “You mentioned seeing him several years ago on Broadway, right?”

  “Yes—and what a treat it was! Of course, it was nothing like meeting him in person.”

  “What has he been doing since you saw him on stage? I believe this is his first film, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but only by his choice. He gets dozens of offers and turns them down. And all of them are very lucrative, I might add. He had a sort of slow period for a few years, but then it was as if he’d been discovered all over again—the offers began pouring in. Especially lately. Probably because of his triumph in Long Day’s Journey into Night, his star has never been higher. People are clamoring for his talent, and paying dearly to get it. His agent can practically auction him off to the highest bidder.”

  We chatted a little more, and then I left. Mr. Safer had no answer for the puzzle I had to solve: If Herman Houseman was being offered a ton of money for all these other jobs, what was he doing on a low-budget production like Stealing Thunder?

  From the cheese shop I went straight to Rackham Industries. I was determined to see the script that made Jack Halloran so angry. When I told his secretary that I wasn’t leaving until he saw me, she finally ushered me into his office.

  “What is it, Nancy?” Mr. Halloran barked from behind his desk. “If you’re here to plead the case for Stealing Thunder and Morris Dunnowitz, you’re wasting your breath. I’ve made up my mind to fight that production to the finish.”

  “I’m not here to argue with you,” I said. “I want to know just want one thing. Who sent you the script?”

  “I don’t know. It was dropped off here at the office—I assume by a courier. Why?”

  “May I see it?”

  “I guess so.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a plain manila envelope and handed it to me. I skimmed through it, jumping from scene to scene.

  “Mr. Halloran, this isn’t the screenplay for Stealing Thunder. I don’t know who wrote this, but this is not the script we’re shooting.”

  He grabbed it back. “What do you mean?” he asked. “It has to be.”

  “But it’s not. I’m playing your ancestor Esther Rackham, and I’m very familiar with the script. Someone has pulled a major hoax here, and I’m afraid you’re the victim. Because of that, I’m sure I can persuade Morris and Althea Waters, the screen-writer, to let you read the correct version. I think you’ll see there are no lies or distortions in it. You know that Luther Eldridge would not be consulting if there were!”

  Mr. Halloran studied my face hard, as if he was trying to bore right into my brain and see if I was telling the truth. “All right, if you can set it up, I’ll read the real screenplay.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  By the time I got back to the compound, it was six forty-five. The sun had set, but the sky still glowed with a dull dusky light. The air was cool, so I zipped a red sweatshirt on over my jeans and T-shirt.

  I walked around the soundstage to the menagerie. The horses were still outside, in a pen next to the stable. They whinnied at my arrival and ran in circles a couple of times. They seemed restless—maybe they knew there was a shoot in a couple of hours.

  I looked around for Jake, but there was no one near the place, so I selected a spot bathed in bright light from a portable security lamp and sat down on a stump to wait for “a Friend.”

  Seven o’clock . . . a quarter after. Still no one came, and there was no sign of Jake. The horses were really restless by then, and they were still circling the perimeter of the pen. The pale light was gone from the sky by that time, and everything looked gray.

  I started to feel a little jittery myself. I walked over to pat a couple of the horses and maybe calm them—and me—down. But they jumped back, and one reared on his hindlegs and snorted.

  A low noise caught my attention. I followed the sound about thirty yards over to the trailer Jake had shown us—the temporary home of mountain lions Kaia and Thunder. “So that’s why the horses are nervous,” I muttered to myself. “I can’t believe Jake would leave one of the cats out here all by itself.”

  But he had. Thunder was pacing back and forth against the wall of the huge cage. A high metal roof kept him inside, but he was clearly not happy. “Hey, fella, where’s your pal?” I said to the cat, in my most soothing tone. “Jake? Hey, Jake. Where are you?” I knocked on the trailer door, but there was no answer, and it didn’t budge.

  I wasn’t really afraid of the lion. It was a trained animal, and used to people. But I was still cautious—after all, I wasn’t his trainer. So I hung back about five or six feet from the cage and tried to comfort the restless cat.

  “Thunder, be cool,” I murmured. “Jake will be back soon, I’m sure. Just settle down, boy. I’ll wait here with you. We can just hang out—”

  It happened so fast, it was like a streaking meteor—you see it, and then it’s gone. Thunder crouched back, bared his teeth, and pounced. He hit the cage so hard that the door popped open. And the strength of his leap vaulted him straight at me.

  10

  What’s My Motivation?

  Thunder flew at me in a tawny streak. Instinctively I dove toward the right, shielding my head with my arms.

  The lion sailed over my body and landed with a soft thruuump in th
e grass. In an instant he was out of sight.

  For a few seconds I was overcome by a flood of tremors. When they finally stopped, I punched in the autodial key on my cell that connected me to the security trailer. I told Dave Linn what had happened, and he and Jane were there in minutes.

  “We’ve got to find Jake,” I told them. While Dave searched around the menagerie area, Jane entered the combination into the trailer lock. We found Jake tied up inside. He was conscious, but he had a nasty bump on the back of his head. He didn’t remember what had happened—only that he’d been knocked out from behind.

  Jake refused to go to the on-site doctor’s office, and insisted on going after Thunder immediately. He, Jane, and Dave rode two horses and a security van off toward the woods in the same direction as the running Thunder. By the time Chief McGinnis of the police arrived, the posse had already returned, with Thunder safely locked in the van. Jake transferred the cat into its “room” in the trailer, and then finally went to get checked out by the doctor.

  “Well, my job here is done,” Chief McGinnis announced. He often does that—takes credit for the work that others do. But I let him get away with it, because he’s an excellent source in the River Heights Police Department, and he often helps me on cases—sometimes unintentionally.

  “I’m going to turn in a report to Morris,” Jane said when the menagerie had finally calmed down for the night. “Do you want to come?”

  “I’ll be along in a few minutes,” I told her. “I have to get changed for the fire scene.”

  I was going to wait until Jake got back from the doctor’s office, but I just couldn’t. I had to examine that outdoor cage. He had bragged about how secure it was. If so, why did the door pop open when Thunder lunged at the cage wall? It had all been so fast, I hadn’t really seen what had happened.

  I went back to get a closer look at the door. Amazingly, it was still locked shut. It had been the hinged side that had broken away. I examined the door closely, and confirmed my suspicion. The door had been hanging by a thread—a screw thread.