Page 25 of Once Broken
Crystal chuckled warmly.“I may quote you on that in my next column.There’s something to be said for standing on principle.”
They chatted for a few more minutes about the festival’s potential rescheduling before Crystal had to end the call.“I’ll see you at eleven, Mr.Coonfield.And thank you again for making this possible.”
“My pleasure, Ms.Keene.See you tonight.”
Ted ended the call and sat in contemplative silence, listening to the subtle creaks and groans of the old theater settling around him.Having Crystal Keene thank him for his dedication to traditional projection felt like vindication after months of being told he was obsolete, a dinosaur too stubborn to evolve.
With hours to kill before Crystal’s arrival, Ted decided to indulge himself.He’d watch part of the film now, alone in his booth, a private communion with the art form he’d devoted his life to preserving.He flipped the switch on the first projector, and the lamp blazed to life once more.
Below, on the screen,Dandelion Daysbegan to unfold.The speakers in the booth crackled slightly before delivering the orchestral score, swelling with the nostalgic strings that perfectly captured the film’s themes of memory and loss.Ted settled deeper into his chair, watching the familiar scenes with the same attention he’d given them when the theater was full of paying customers.
Roberta Rimes appeared on screen, and Ted leaned forward slightly.Even in her final role, playing a novelist returning to her rural hometown after decades away, she possessed a luminous quality that transcended the celluloid capturing her image.Her character—a famous writer revisiting the places and people of her youth—moved through the pastoral setting with a grace that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface.
“They don’t make stars like you anymore,” Ted murmured, watching Rimes deliver a particularly poignant monologue about the passage of time.Her face filled the screen, the 35mm film rendering every nuance of her expression with a depth and texture that digital could never quite replicate.This was what Ted fought for—this warmth, this grain, this imperfect perfection that made film feel alive in a way ones and zeros never could.
As the story progressed, Ted found himself drawn once more into its gentle rhythms.He’d projected this film dozens of times over the years, yet it still held his attention, still moved him.The subtle clicking of the projector, the slight flutter of the image—these weren’t flaws to be corrected but reminders of the mechanical miracle unfolding, twenty-four frames per second transforming into fluid motion, into life, into art.
So absorbed was he in the film and his own thoughts that the sudden knock at the booth door nearly launched him from his chair.The sound was jarringly out of place—sharp, insistent, and utterly unexpected.Ted’s heart hammered against his ribs as he stared at the door, momentarily frozen.
Who could possibly be here?The theater was closed, Crystal wasn’t due for hours, and he’d told no one else about tonight’s private screening.Had someone seen the lights on?
The knock came again, more urgent this time.
“Hello?”Ted called, his voice sounding thin in his own ears.“Who’s there?”
No answer came, only another knock.
Reluctantly, Ted rose from his chair and moved toward the door.Perhaps it was the building’s owner, checking on the property.Or maybe some film enthusiast had noticed the activity and gotten curious.He reached for the handle, suddenly wishing he’d locked the theater’s front door after all.
The heavy booth door swung open, revealing a figure silhouetted against the dimness of the stairwell.Ted had only a moment to register the presence—a dark figure against darkness—before something hard and heavy swung toward his head.
Pain exploded across his temple, bright and shocking.His vision fractured into sparkling fragments, the world tilting sickeningly as his knees buckled.As consciousness fled, his last thought was of the projector still running behind him, Roberta Rimes’ face still illuminating the screen below, unaware and uncaring that her faithful audience of one had just been violently banished.
CHAPTER TEN
The café welcomed Riley and Ann Marie with the comforting aroma of freshly ground coffee and pastries.They chose one of the outdoor tables, shaded by a large umbrella and positioned just off the sidewalk.Riley sat where she could observe the entire space, her trained instincts automatically selecting a position that kept her back protected.Even in this mundane moment—two colleagues grabbing coffee between investigative tasks—the habits of decades in law enforcement remained, a second nature as intrinsic to her as breathing.
“I’ll grab us something from inside,” Ann Marie offered, setting her bag on the chair.“The usual?”
Riley nodded, grateful for the moment alone to organize her thoughts.Her mind kept toggling between two separate threads of concern—the Atlanta murder investigation and April’s situation back at Jefferson Bell.She pulled out her phone, checking for messages from Bill.
Nothing new.The lack of updates left her feeling suspended between relief and anxiety.
Ann Marie returned with two steaming mugs and a small plate of pastries.“Thought we could use the sugar,” she said, placing a blueberry scone in front of Riley.“The barista says they’re baked in-house.”
“Thanks,” Riley replied, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic.She stared into her coffee, watching the light play across its dark surface.“I think this murder must have something to do with Roberta Rimes’ HUAC testimony.Malcolm just told us Roberta named names during the McCarthy era—betrayed colleagues to save herself.Veronica was desperate enough to destroy Malcolm’s career to keep that information hidden.”
“But that testimony happened in the 1950s,” Ann Marie pointed out.“Most of the people involved would be dead by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Riley countered.“Roberta testified when she was in her thirties.Anyone who was young in the industry then—in their twenties—could still be alive, in their nineties now.Or their children or grandchildren might be looking for justice.”
Ann Marie tapped her finger thoughtfully against her mug.“So you think someone connected to one of the people Roberta named might have killed Veronica as revenge?After all these years?”
“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” Riley said.“The theatrical nature of the murder explicitly connects Veronica to her mother’s legacy.‘Like mother, like daughter’—that’s what was written on Malcolm’s bulletin board.But he’s probably not alone in feeling that sort of anger toward her.”
“If that’s true,” Ann Marie mused, “then Malcolm might be innocent—of the murder, at least, if not of his disturbing photo collection.”
Riley nodded.“And if we’re right, there could be other targets.Anyone else connected to Roberta or perceived as benefiting from her betrayal.”
