Hidden Scars

by Mark de Castrique

  “Yeah. The glamour part faded on about the sixth take. How about you? When’s your first stand-in for Grayson?”

  “I’m what they call a weather cover. If we get another miserable day like yesterday, then they’ll shoot some scenes with Grayson and me. Grayson’s a good guy. I like him.”

  Nakayla patted my leg. “Think I have a shot at sleeping with a stand-in for the stars?”

  “Maybe. If you buy me dinner first.”

  Dinner was takeout from the deli section of Ingle’s grocery store. Nakayla picked up a rotisserie chicken, Caesar salad, and a broccoli casserole and we had a quiet dinner at my apartment. We were on our second glass of a dry rosé when my cell phone buzzed. I’d left it on the kitchen counter and wasn’t inclined to move from my chair.

  “Shouldn’t you get that?” Nakayla asked.

  “It can go to voicemail. You know my policy during meals.”

  “Yeah. Never let a phone call interfere with your drinking.”

  I clinked her glass. “Words to live by.”

  Nakayla and I cleaned up my kitchen around nine. She handed me my phone. “Remember, you have a message.”

  I retrieved it. “Sam. It’s Harlan. Harlan Beale. Listen, it might be nothin’ but I don’t like it. Can you meet me at the college first thing in the mornin’? I got somethin’ I want ya to see.” I heard a background shout that was unintelligible. “Okay,” Beale yelled at someone. “Over here.” Then he spoke softer. “Gotta go. See ya tomorrow.”

  I played it again on speaker. “What do you make of that?”

  Nakayla shrugged. “Maybe he found something in the book. Some photograph without Paul Weaver that meant something to him.”

  “Why didn’t he just tell me?”

  “He’s in his eighties, Sam. Probably not a big phone talker. And besides, it sounded like he was meeting someone.”

  “We ought to have him meet Violet Baker. If they start talking about the old days, maybe it’ll spark some memory.”

  “Like old grudges?”

  “Maybe. I’d like something more solid to work with. This case is like Bucky’s Venetian-blind dome—not quite able to support itself.”

  “Well, maybe Harlan Beale’s about to change that.” Nakayla grabbed my hand. “Come on, stand-in for the stars. The sooner we’re in bed, the sooner it will be morning.”

  “Why rush it? Morning, that is.”

  Somewhere down in the depths of sleep, I heard my phone ring. I would have worked it into a dream, but Nakayla elbowed my side.

  “Better get that. It’s three o’clock.”

  “Oh, shit,” I mumbled. “Nothing good happens at three o’clock.” I looked at the screen. Five letters. Newly.

  I answered and spoke the written word. “Newly?”

  “You know Harlan Beale?” the homicide detective asked.

  “Yeah. Is he in trouble?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Did he tell you to call me?”

  “We found your card in his pocket. Nakayla’s too.”

  I felt the ice crystallize in my stomach. “Please. Don’t say it.”

  “Sorry, Sam. He’s dead.”

  “Are you at his house?” I fought to clear my head. Harlan Beale’s house was out of Newly’s jurisdiction. So was the movie location.

  “No. I’m at the Black Mountain College Museum in town.”

  “Then stay there. I’m coming.”

  Chapter Nine

  The old mountaineer lay under a fallen bookcase in a back room of the small museum. His upturned face was partially exposed beneath the heavy wooden shelves that had crashed onto his body and cut into his forehead. Blood stained his white hair and beard. Books of all sizes were scattered across the floor. Many appeared to be college catalogues, more like pamphlets than books. Other larger volumes had titles like The Black Mountain Experiment and The Arts at Black Mountain College.

  Newly and his partner, Tuck Efird, knelt on either side of the body. I could see the open pocket on Beale’s chest where one of the detectives had extracted our business cards.

  Nakayla and I had put on shoe-coverings and been admitted to the scene.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked.

  Newly got to his feet and peeled off his latex gloves. “First indication is he tried to climb up the shelves to reach a book on the top. The case was attached to the wall by lightweight brackets. They broke away and he fell backwards.”

  “First indication? What’s a second?”

  “Well, there’s a two-step stool in the back storeroom. That should have been adequate to reach the top shelf. We’ll remove the body and bring the museum director in to see if anything’s missing.”

  “Why would you think that?” I asked.

  “I don’t. But if something’s gone, then we have a pretty good indication that Beale wasn’t here alone. You and Nakayla are here because two days ago you asked for my help on a 1948 Black Mountain College murder. Your business cards tie you to the deceased and the deceased meets his maker in the museum tied to your case. What was he looking for, Sam?”

  “We’d asked him to identify some students in one of the Black Mountain books Nakayla got from the Pack Library. I guess Harlan was trying to match pictures to others where names might be listed. He called last night saying he had something to show us.”

  Newly glanced at Nakayla and back to me. “Show you here, in the museum?”

  “It was a voice message,” Nakayla said. “He asked us to meet him at the movie location this morning. He didn’t mention the museum.”

  “Maybe he planned to take something from here and bring it to you,” Newly mused. “Do you remember exactly what he said?”

  “Better than that.” I pulled out my cell phone and retrieved Beale’s voicemail. “Sam. It’s Harlan. Harlan Beale. Listen, it might be nothin’ but I don’t like it. Can you meet me at the college first thing in the mornin’? I got somethin’ I want ya to see.” We listened to a muffled voice a distance away from Beale, then Beale shouting, “Okay. Over here.” And then, barely above a whisper, his final words, “Gotta go. See ya tomorrow.”

  Tuck Efird stood. “The museum is open to the public. What was so goddamned urgent that this old man tried to scale a bookcase like a monkey? You could have just met him here.”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about coming to the museum, during or after hours. How’d he get in?”

  Efird jerked his head toward the back hall. “Broke in through the rear door. Jimmied the deadbolt. He dropped the crowbar just inside.”

  “No alarm?” I asked.

  “He disabled the power box on the exterior wall,” Efird said. “Killed the whole system. If there was battery backup, it didn’t kick in.”

  “So, who reported the death if there was no alarm?”

  “A call came in a little after two. Someone passing by heard a crash inside. Called 911 but didn’t leave a name.”

  “You get a trace?”

  “Too soon,” Newly said. “The 911 operator said the caller sounded drunk. And young. Could have been a kid out after his curfew.”

  “Who was first on the scene?”

  “My nephew, Ted,” Newly said. “He was on overnight and got here within ten minutes.”

  Newly’s nephews Al and Ted Newland were identical twins. Both were patrolmen.

  “Ted called me direct,” Newly said. “I got here about two-thirty. Tuck was ten minutes behind me.”

  I weighed the intervals. “So, not much time could have elapsed between the 911 call and Ted’s arrival.”

  “Correct,” Neely said. “M.E.’s on his way, so we should be able to confirm that with a body temp.”

  “Were the lights out when Ted arrived?” Nakayla asked.

  “Yes,” Efird said impatiently. �
�We told you the power had been cut.”

  Nakayla walked the perimeter of the room, studying the scattered books.

  “What?” I asked.

  “If the museum was dark, then where’s Harlan’s flashlight? I doubt he disabled the power and then tried to crawl up a bookshelf in hopes of feeling the right volume.”

  Newly and Efird stared at each other. Both looked embarrassed that neither had made that connection. I hadn’t either, but I moved closer to Nakayla as if I could share the credit for her observation.

  “There’s your missing item,” I said. “Not something taken from the museum but something that should have been brought here by Harlan.”

  “Maybe it’s with him under the bookcase,” Efird said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “You’ll know after the M.E. checks and releases the body.”

  Ted Newland came in from the front room of the museum. He clutched his two-way radio in his hand. “Uncle Newly.”

  We all gave him our full attention. Ted only used “Uncle Newly” when he was excited. “Dispatcher said you might want to know there’s a fire at Lake Eden. It’s on the Black Mountain College movie set.”

  Newly looked at me. “Out of our jurisdiction.” He emphasized “our” and I got the message.

  “Nakayla and I will head there now.”

  “Your choice,” he said. “I’d like to see those pictures Mr. Beale was trying to identify.”

  “I don’t see the book here,” Nakayla said. She gave Newly the name and description of the cover. “He might have left it in his truck.”

  “His truck…” I repeated. “Is it here?”

  “In the alley.” Efird said. “We ran the plate, and we’ll give it a thorough search.”

  “The book could be at his home.” I flashed back to our conversation in Beale’s living room. “Oh, crap. He’s got a dog. Someone needs to check on him.”

  “Out of our jurisdiction,” Newly repeated. He looked down at the body. “But I’ll give you his next of kin once they’ve been notified. And if anything seems interesting at the fire scene, you know how to reach me.”

  Nakayla and I arrived at Lake Eden to find volunteer fire department trucks surrounding what was more of a giant campfire than an out-of-control blaze. Fireman sprayed water on a stack of lumber that lay between the production offices and the lakeshore. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the burning material was the re-order of the supplies that had been stolen only two days earlier.

  I saw Arnold Osteen silhouetted against the orange glow of the flames. He was in an animated discussion with one of the firemen and his arms were in constant motion as he gestured from the burning wood to the production offices.

  “This whole project is turning into a goddamn nightmare.” Nancy Pellegatti made the pronouncement as she stepped between Nakayla and me.

  “Were you here working?” Nakayla asked.

  The producer wore the same black jeans and turquoise T-shirt from the day before.

  “No. Arnold called me about half an hour ago. I threw on clothes and Marty and I sped over. He’s in his office trying to decide what to shoot. We can get the close-ups of Grayson and Nicole from the dome scene, but we were supposed to start the construction sequence this afternoon. I’ve got twenty extras scheduled for noon.” She looked across the lawn to Osteen. “Arnold’s going to have a coronary. His Midas touch has flipped. Everything he touches turns to shit.”

  “How’d the fire start?” I asked.

  “The firemen haven’t said. I spoke with the guard. He claims he was making rounds by the grip and lighting trucks on the other side of the building. He came around the far corner and saw flames. He says there were cans of paint and thinner beside the lumber. They’d been used in some touch-up work in one of the cottages.”

  “Is he a smoker?” Nakayla asked.

  “Yes. I’ve seen him puffing his cancer sticks at his checkpoint.”

  “Was he the guard who got called off the night the supplies were stolen?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But he’s from the same damn temp company. These guys aren’t even rent-a-cops. I had to get the uniforms from a local costume shop.”

  “We heard,” I said. “See if you can get Arnold to switch to Armitage Security Services. I know the owner. His people are top-notch.”

  Pellegatti spun around to face us. “That’s who I wanted from the beginning. I knew we couldn’t bring in L.A. security, but I’d gotten good references on Armitage from other crews who’d shot in the area. No, Arnold said we had to save money wherever we could, and that Black Mountain had zero crime. Now he’s going to have to buy the same materials for the third time.”

  “Have you fired any disgruntled employees?” I asked. “Anyone who might be wanting to sabotage the film?”

  “No. Crew chemistry is good. Department heads are level-headed. We’re employing a lot of locals, and they’re grateful for the work, given the boneheaded moves by your legislature that have all but destroyed the industry. The biggest challenge is Arnold. He’s not a movie person and he thinks this is a glorified real estate deal. But he’s teachable. Wish I could say the same for his nephew.”

  Her reference to Roland Cassidy sparked the memory of his outburst at the script changes.

  “Could Roland be so petty as to do something like this?” I asked.

  “I’d say no. A halfway decent film will increase book sales.” She turned back to the fire. “But this started somehow. So, who knows? I just hope this is the last setback. It’s hard enough when everything’s working smoothly.”

  Nakayla looked at me and arched her eyebrows. I understood her unspoken question. Should we tell Nancy Pellegatti about Harlan Beale?

  As if she sensed our silent conversation, Pellegatti turned again to face us. “But why are you here? Who called you?”

  “We have a friend who’s a police detective in Asheville. He knows we’re involved with the film.”

  “So he called you in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes. But not about the fire.” I looked beyond Pellegatti to where Osteen was still talking to the fireman. “We need to speak with you, Marty, and Arnold together. Can you get them to the conference room where we met yesterday?”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m telling everyone at once, or you can wait and hear it from the Asheville police.”

  At the mention of the police, she gave me a hard stare. Through gritted teeth, she said, “The building’s unlocked. Go ahead. I’ll bring Arnold and Marty as soon as I can.”

  I sensed she wanted Nakayla and me away from Osteen when she gave him my ultimatum. Otherwise, he would have wanted an immediate explanation, something I didn’t want to happen in front of the first responders.

  We waited in the small conference room about five minutes before Nancy Pellegatti herded in Marty and Osteen. The director had deep blue circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. Osteen’s eyes were bloodshot from the sting of the smoke. Soot streaked his stubbled cheeks.

  Osteen took the chair beside me. “Why are you bringing in the Asheville police?” he asked curtly.

  “I’m not. They’ll be here on their own.” I paused, making sure I had their full attention. “Harlan Beale was killed last night.”

  Nancy Pellegatti drew in a sharp breath. Marty Kolsrud’s eyes widened. Arnold Osteen slid back his chair as if to put distance between himself and the messenger with bad news.

  “How?” Osteen asked. “He was fine when I last saw him.”

  “What time was that?” I asked.

  “Six-thirty or seven. The crew was wrapping for the day. He was helping the carpenters get the building materials together.” Osteen looked at Pellegatti. “The materials that are now a heap of smoldering ruins.”

  “How did he die?” Marty Kolsrud asked.r />
  “His body was found in the Black Mountain College Museum in Asheville. It looks like a heavy bookcase fell on him.”

  “Why would an accident in the museum bring the police here?” Osteen asked.

  “Because the museum is clearly tied to research for the movie. And they believe Harlan disabled the alarm system and broke in.”

  “To rob it?” Marty asked. “Roland took us there. Couldn’t be more than forty dollars in their donation jar.”

  “No. He was looking for something else. Possibly something to help us with our case.”

  “The student who died under suspicious circumstances,” Marty said.

  “Yes. Paul Weaver. Harlan called us last night to say he wanted to show us something. Something he said wasn’t right.”

  “A clue about the student’s death?” Osteen interjected.

  “Possibly.”

  Marty leaned forward. I got the feeling the director was eager to explore where this unfolding story was going. “Did he call you from here?”

  “I don’t know for sure. It was a voice message. But I was to meet him here this morning.”

  “Can we hear it?”

  “The Asheville police have it,” I lied. I didn’t want anyone other than the police to hear it, especially if there were voices in the background that could be identified.

  I looked at Nakayla, offering her the lead.

  “When we heard from the police that there was a fire, we came over to see if we could help,” she said. “And we know Harlan was an important part of your team as local historian and advisor.”

  “Yes,” Osteen said. “His death’s a terrible loss. He worked closely with Roland.”

  “Were you aware that Harlan and Roland got into a shouting match yesterday?” Nakayla asked.

  “No. But my nephew was upset that I’d agreed to change those elements of the film Marty recommended. Roland was pissed and primed to shout at any and everyone.”

  “You don’t think he’d take any spiteful action?”

  “Like what? Kill Harlan? Start this fire?” Osteen shook his head. “Roland may be my flesh and blood, but he’s basically gutless. And if he was going to be spiteful to anyone, it would be me. He came whining to my house last night about the script changes, and I told him not only were we shooting Marty’s revisions, but I was changing the name of the film.”