Murder in Concrete by Arthur Coburn

Author:Arthur Coburn [Coburn, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC022000 Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General
ISBN: 9781509253395
Published: 2023-09-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 28

In my room, I relaxed, figuring I’d be safe as long as this guy believed I would work with him. Though he unnerved me, he hadn’t triggered a PTSD outburst or a vision of Dad’s mutilated jaw or Mom’s slit throat. Progress, perhaps.

After changing into clean clothes, I went to the Ford service bay. Royal leapt toward me, wagging his tail. I was pleased he didn’t leap up and put his paws on my chest. After I fed him, I walked across the repair bay to a makeshift screening area and helped arrange three dozen folding chairs to face a fabric screen mounted on the wall. A 35mm projector stood in a plywood enclosure facing a window in the front.

I printed “Dead Girls Don’t Lie” on scraps of paper and left them on various chairs. I studied the crew as they came in, grabbed pizza slices and beers from a table, and sat. Neither Dale nor any of the others touched my paper scraps.

Brett and Della didn’t show up. The lights dimmed, the projector whirred, and images flashed on the screen. Brett was more handsome on film than in person, the camera capturing sureness in his movements and intensity in his eyes. His voice on the soundtrack resonated with strength.

In her shots, Della had leapt back ten years. Soft lighting, diffusion filters, and subtle makeup muted the lines on her face, and accented in her eyes the icy blue fire I’d seen when we met. Hollywood could create magic after all. The camera and the pair’s acting—no traces of their mutual animosity appeared on the screen—made it look as if romance burned between them.

With illusion so ingrained in this movie world, I doubted I would recognize my dad if he walked up to me and said hello.

Dale left as soon as dailies were finished. I followed him to the hotel bar, where two waitresses in bustiers and red skirts puffed out with crinolines wound their way between the tables, carrying trays loaded with plates of fries, burgers, and beers. Strings of colored lights and a huge black-and-white rodeo poster hung on a side wall.

While Dale’s crew clustered at the bar, he sat alone in an empty booth, eyes downcast, shirt collar turned up as if to ward off a raw wind. He was shredding a cocktail napkin into strips and drinking from a mug of beer.

I grabbed a dish of pretzels from a wait station and set it on his table. “I don’t blame you for being irritated by my questions the other day.”

“It’s fine, kid.” He motioned toward a space opposite him.

I sat, ordered a beer from a passing waitress, and slid the pretzels toward him. “I have no ambition to be a cinematographer. I’m not trying to sneak onto your crew, so, please don’t get nervous when I say your dailies amazed me.”

He shredded another napkin. The waitress brought my beer, and I drank. “Your images made me realize you’re a painter—with a camera instead of brushes.

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