Shards of Betrayal, page 5
Westbrook’s dark eyes flashed with frustration. “I won’t deny the arguments. Seth and I? We’ve locked horns more times than I can count. He’s got a whole lot of big ideas—but he doesn’t have the time, the money or the equipment to back them up. And that has led to trouble.”
The bulb overhead threw deep shadows across his face. Made it hard to read his expression. But I didn’t have to. His voice told me all I needed to know. The old man wasn’t just frustrated. He felt insulted. I could understand that. I didn’t enjoy making people feel insulted. But it came with the territory. You ask enough questions and it happens. So his hurt feelings didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that he made sense.
A lot of sense.
“But,” he went on, “I respect what he’s trying to do. Always have. I’ve seen him grow from a kid full of ideas to someone who can make them land. I’d never do anything to block his success or the success of this movie.”
Thunder rumbled through the walls, barely audible over the set noise outside.
“Here, let me show you something.” Westbrook put down the pliers and went to the desk. Reached up to a shelf above the desk, took down a framed photograph and handed it to me. The image must’ve been at least fifteen years old. It showed a younger Westbrook standing beside a beaming Seth. Their arms were slung around each other’s shoulders and they were holding an award between them.
Westbrook tapped the picture. “Seth and I, we go back a long way. This picture was taken when Seth first got out of school. I was a teacher back then, not full-time, just part-time for the fun of it.”
“And he was one of your students?”
“That little award there, it was just something I rigged up for him. The boy had talent. Still does.”
I handed him back the photo. He carefully put it back in place. Then he turned back to me. “Let me ask you something. Who put you on to me? Clay?”
My silence answered him.
“Thought so.” He stepped closer, his broad frame looming over me. Then he reached past me, pulled open a drawer, the metal handle squeaking as he tugged it open. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a folded piece of paper. Its edges were softened with handling.
“I didn’t have a lot to give, but I gave what I had and I don’t want to lose it.” Westbrook’s fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the document and handed it to me.
It was a financial agreement that detailed Westbrook’s investment in the film. The sum was modest by a rich man’s reckoning, but significant for an old cameraman. The document was signed and notarized, a tangible proof of his stake in the project.
“Listen, I’ve been here since day one. Put my money where my mouth is. You think I’d sabotage my own investment?”
I ran my fingers over the embossed seal. The rough texture confirmed its authenticity.
He let out a sad laugh. “Seth’s always been a dreamer. That’s not news. And yes, we argue. But we argue because we both care about the picture. He wants to push boundaries. I want to make sure we get it done. You can call it a clash of egos if you want, but it’s not sabotage.”
“What would you call it, then?”
“Reality.”
Outside, there was a burst of thunder and the summer rain began to fall. The steady patter of raindrops beat against the roof. The damp air seeped through the cracks in the walls.
I looked up at Westbrook, seeing him in a new light. The determination in his eyes matched the money he’d put down. I carefully folded the document and handed it back to him. “But if not you, then who?”
Westbrook’s gaze went to the small window. Rain shadows played across his face. “Grace. Seth’s wife.”
“Grace?” I frowned. “But she—why would she—?”
“She has dreams of her own.”
I have to admit I was dumbfounded. I started to ask another question, but he raised a finger to his lips. “And that’s all I’m saying.”
CHAPTER 9
The heat radiated off the pavement in shimmering waves as I arrived at the Little Harlem Theater, a small vaudeville venue on East 125th Street. The marquee proclaimed “Coming Soon: Grace Carter’s Visionary Production.”
Inside, Grace stood center stage, directing a trio of actors through a complex scene. Her presence filled the theater.
“Hold that pose.”
She had the effortless poise of someone who has mastered both sides of the spotlight. Speaking to a young actress, she showed her the angle she needed. The girl followed the cue perfectly and Grace nodded in approval.
“There. Now you’re capturing the moment instead of chasing it.”
Grace spotted me at the back of the theater and called for a break. “Five minutes, everyone.”
She beckoned me to the side steps. The other actors watched her go with both respect and envy. Even in a simple day dress, she had the presence of someone standing center stage.
“Lanie. I wondered when you’d come calling.”
Her ruby ring caught the light as we shook hands.
“Grace. Thank you for seeing me.”
“I assume this isn’t a social call.”
Backstage was busy with the excited chatter of stagehands checking equipment and actors running lines. The scent of fresh paint and sawdust tickled my nose. She led me into a small office. Posters of past productions adorned its walls. Blueprints were spread out on a side table. She closed the door for privacy.
“Something to drink? Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
She settled behind her desk with the same fluid motion I’d seen on stage. She took out a cigarette case and offered me one. I declined and sat opposite.
“So,” I began. “Seth’s film has problems.”
“Yes, well, problems do have a way of finding ambitious projects, don’t they?” She reached for the silver lighter on her desk.
“Several accidents in a month isn’t just bad luck.”
Grace struck the lighter. The flame caught, its reflection dancing in her dark eyes as she lit her cigarette. “That set’s been under pressure. Tempers flare. Not everyone adapts well to the new pace Seth demands. Especially those who’ve been around a long time.” She inhaled deeply, then clicked the lighter shut and set it down. “What exactly do you need from me?”
“Someone’s sabotaging the film. Someone with access, knowledge and motive. I’m trying to understand who benefits if Soul Redemption fails.”
“Are you? Or are you just digging for dirt?” She smiled to take some of the sting out—some, not all. “We’ve built something here. Carter Films isn’t just Seth and me. It’s a family. And families don’t always take well to outsiders sniffing around.”
Holding her cigarette high, she blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Now, Seth told me you’d agreed not to mention what happened yesterday or last week. Yet, here you are.”
“I promised I wouldn’t write anything—right now. But I still need to understand what’s happening.”
She studied me, smoke veiling her face like lace. “You’ll forgive me for being so direct, but I’ve been burned by reporters before—especially by ones I like and who I thought liked me.”
“You needn’t worry—”
“But I do. Seth’s a big boy. He should know how to protect himself. But he doesn’t. Not always.”
“And so it falls to you …”
“Exactly.” She took another drag of her cigarette, tapped it over the ashtray. “If you think I’d sabotage Seth’s film, you’re wasting your time. And mine. I have my own dreams, my own ambitions, yes. But sabotage Seth’s work? Never. That would be cutting my own throat.”
She made it easy to believe her—as charming as any diva.
“Why would you even think I’d suspect you?”
She laughed. “Because you’re here. You’re a reporter. And right now, you’re weighing my words like you’re pricing diamonds on credit.”
“It’s my job to question.”
“And mine to convince.” She was silent a moment, thinking. “How about this? I’m a woman of the theater, the stage. I can direct an actor from twenty feet away, but a camera dolly? A lighting rig?” She gave a dismissive gesture. “They might as well be machinery from the moon.”
That could be true. Theater and film were different worlds, each with its own language, its own equipment.
However, the two worlds weren’t mutually exclusive. Actors crossed the boundaries, worked in both mediums, all the time. And they gained knowledge about both.
Of course, Grace could’ve been one of those performers who had absolutely no interest in learning the technical aspects of filmmaking, who resisted it, in fact. But there was a simple solution to that.
“You wouldn’t need to know how. Just who to ask.”
“An accomplice.” She inclined her head thoughtfully and gave a little nod. “Smart angle. Except …”
She picked up her ashtray and walked to the table with the blueprints.
“Maybe I should mention that this will be my last picture with Seth.”
“Really? Why?”
“There’s no trouble in paradise, if that’s what you’re thinking. Quite the opposite.”
She bid me to come stand beside her. “You and I, we both know that dreams aren’t just pretty things you hang on the wall. They’ve got teeth.”
She spread out the large sheets.
“I’ve spent ten years playing other people’s stories when I could’ve been creating my own. I’ve earned my freedom. Now, it’s my turn.”
She gestured to the theater plans with a sweep of her hand, ash barely clinging to her cigarette. “This theater, these renovations—they’re mine. When the film wraps, I’m launching my own company.”
“Sounds like you’re eager to move on.”
“I’ve put everything into each frame of Seth’s films. But the stage has always been where I truly breathe.”
“And Seth?”
She tapped her cigarette over the ashtray with precise movements. “He and I understand each other. We’re partners. The film does well, he helps fund this place. That’s the deal. I finally get to create something that’s mine. Not asking permission, not playing someone else’s vision.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Do I? I’m just tired. I love my husband and I love what we’ve created together. But it’s time to move on.”
“So you wouldn’t risk the one thing that gets you everything.”
“Exactly.”
“Then who would? Who benefits if the film fails?”
She took her time answering. “Everyone Seth ever fired. Anyone who didn’t get the part. Or the credit. You want ten names? Twenty?”
She paused. “Wait. Let me ask you something. Why did you come see me today? Did Westie send you?”
“I told you. I—”
“Did he sic you on me? Give you some nonsense about me wanting to destroy my own husband’s film?”
I gave her a half-smile. “I’m not a dog, Grace. No one ‘sics’ me on anything. I did have questions for you, yes.”
She smiled cynically. “My, you are discreet, aren’t you?”
“I try to be.”
“Well, I hate to tell you, but Westie’s not the man he used to be.”
“You think he’s behind this?”
She hesitated. “I’ve worked with him for years. But lately? His setups take longer. He second-guesses. And when Seth suggests something bold, something modern, anything that requires precision, he refuses. And then he accuses Seth of being difficult.”
She leaned in close and lowered her voice confidentially. “Two weeks ago, Seth suggested a complicated tracking shot. Westie exploded, said it couldn’t be done. Clay stepped in, worked out how to do it. You should have seen Westie’s face.”
“That doesn’t make him a saboteur.”
“No? But pride’s a dangerous thing. What happens when a man knows he’s slipping? Realizes he’s losing everything that defines him?”
“Any proof?”
“Just what I see. And what Clay sees. He’s been covering for Westie. Ask him.”
She ground out the cigarette. “You came here thinking I was your saboteur. But ask yourself—what do I gain from ruining Soul Redemption? And what does Westie gain from proving he’s still indispensable?”
I picked up my purse. “You make a compelling case. Then again, you’re an actress. That’s what actresses do.” I smiled to take some of the sting out—some, not all.
But she didn’t flinch. “Not this time. Seth’s film matters too much—to both of us. We can’t afford to let anyone tear it down.”
“I’ll look into Westbrook some more.”
“Do that.” She stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “When this is all over and Seth’s film premieres, I hope you’ll write about what he’s accomplished rather than what almost stopped him.”
She extended her hand again and clasped mine with confident ease. “I believe in my husband’s work. It matters too much—to all of us—to let anyone stand in its way.”
I stepped into the hallway. The sounds of backstage preparations flooded back. Her words followed me.
What did I know for certain?
That someone wanted this film to fail.
And that nearly everyone had a reason to see it succeed.
Nearly everyone.
CHAPTER 10
I had a lot of ladies club meetings to attend after leaving Grace—meetings that were, believe it or not, part of my job. So it was near the end of the workday when I finally got to the newsroom.
Trouble was waiting. Typewriters stopped. Chairs creaked. Eyes turned away.
Sam called from his office. “Lanie. In here. Now.”
As soon as I stepped inside, he thrust a newspaper at me. Didn’t meet my eyes. Didn’t say a word. When our fingers brushed, he pulled his hand quickly as if burned. It wasn’t just anger I sensed, but something worse—resignation, plain and final.
I don’t know if he was thinking about the key. I know I was—until I saw the paper, saw the headline.
The bold letters jumped off the page.
A FILM SET TO DIE FOR: THE
TROUBLED MAKING OF SOUL REDEMPTION
My stomach turned over.
Is Seth Carter’s highly anticipated Soul Redemption doomed from the start? Unexplained accidents, financial woes and rumors of sabotage have cast a shadow over Mr. Carter’s ambitious production. Sources close to the set describe mounting tensions and a director whose vision might be too grand for reality to handle. The production is reportedly spiraling out of control, plagued by mysterious accidents, fractured relationships and a mounting sense of dread.
“It’s a disaster,” said one source close to the production. “Every time we think we’re back on track, something else goes wrong. It’s like the film is cursed.”
Some crew members are whispering that someone might be pulling strings behind the scenes to ensure Mr. Carter’s failure. Others suggest the chaos is internal, a result of rising tensions among the cast and crew.
“People are scared,” said another source. “One minute, it’s a piece of equipment malfunctioning; the next, it’s a set collapsing. No one feels safe. And the worst part is, we don’t know who or what’s behind it.”
Some are pointing the finger at Mr. Carter himself, claiming his perfectionism is creating a toxic environment. “He demands everything, gives nothing and blames everyone else when things fall apart,” said one disgruntled crew member.
While Mr. Carter remains tight-lipped, refusing to address the growing speculation, one thing is clear: Soul Redemption is teetering on the edge. With rising costs, a fractured crew and whispers of sabotage, the film’s future is as uncertain as its troubled present.
The story was riddled with speculation and unnamed sources. It was also effective. And very damaging. “How did they—?”
“Doesn’t matter how. It’s out there now.” Sam tapped the byline. “Did you notice?”
I’d been so struck by the headline, I hadn’t noticed the name of the reporter beneath it. Now I did.
Selena Troy.
I looked up. Sam pushed away from his desk, paced to the window. “Yeah. Her.”
Selena Troy. The ambitious little obit writer who’d moved through our newsroom like a rumor with a deadline—fast, corrosive and never burdened by facts. I hadn’t thought of her in more than a year—not since she stormed out of the Chronicle, chasing dreams she swore were too big for our paper to handle.
I tossed the paper onto his desk. “She hasn’t changed.”
“Apparently not.” Sam stayed at the window. A cloud passed over the sun, throwing shadows across his face. “She’s still treating the news like it’s her personal playground.”
He went back to his desk, picked up the paper again and studied it like he still couldn’t believe his eyes. “And now I’ve got to explain why one of my best reporters sat on a story while a death notice diva scooped us.”
I sank into the chair across from his. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
“Trouble doesn’t begin to cover it. Management’s demanding to know how we got scooped by this trash.” He dropped the paper, rubbed his temples. “And the fact that it’s her? That just makes it worse. Makes it look like we trained her up just to watch her bite us.”
“She always wanted my column.”
“Doesn’t matter what she wants,” Sam snapped. “What matters is that she’s dragging us into a mess we might not get out of. Management’s furious and they have a right to be.”
His office was hotter than ever, but I felt a chill. “The story isn’t even accurate—”
“It’s out there. That’s what matters.” He dropped down heavily in his chair. “It might be one of the worst pieces of reporting I’ve seen. But when it comes to the basic facts, it’s telling the truth.”
Sam rubbed his chin. “Management wanted to know if we knew about the sabotage. They knew you’d been there. I had to admit that yes, we knew. Claiming ignorance would’ve made us both look like fools.”
