Page 20 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

"What do you mean, he's not here?" Sheila asked Carl Rider, who stood amid boxes of festival materials being packed away. "I thought you said Paul Wilson's been your technical director for the past eight years."

"Nine," Rider corrected, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

"And yes, it's strange. He's usually incredibly reliable—first one in, last one out.

But he missed the morning staff meeting and hasn't answered his phone.

" He gestured at the half-dismantled festival office.

"With everything happening so fast, I just assumed he was helping with the shutdown. "

"When's the last time anyone saw him?" Finn asked.

Rider considered this. "Yesterday afternoon, I think. He was checking sound levels in Theater Three." He paused. "Though Marcus Harlow mentioned seeing him later, around eight PM. Said Paul was carrying some equipment to his car."

"We'll need Paul's home address. And a list of any other places he might go—storage units, workshops, anywhere he keeps equipment."

"Of course." Rider moved to his desk, rifling through employee files. "Though I should mention—Paul lives in that old converted theater on Cedar Street. The Revival Cinema? He bought it years ago, said he was going to restore it, but..." He shrugged. "It's mostly storage now, I think."

Sheila and Finn exchanged looks. An old theater would be the perfect place to hide—or to stage something.

"Got it," Rider said, handing over a personnel file. "Home address, emergency contacts, everything we have. Should I call around to the other venues? See if anyone's heard from him?"

"No," Sheila said quickly. "If he's involved in this, we don't want to tip him off that we're looking."

"Involved?" Rider looked troubled. "You don't really think…?"

"We're not making any assumptions. But right now, considering what's at stake, we can't overlook any possibilities."

Rider nodded, but Sheila thought he looked uneasy. It wasn't every day the festival you worked so hard to organize was associated with two homicides.

As they headed for their car, Sheila found herself scanning the windows of the nearby buildings, searching for a pair of eyes looking back—like the eyes of the man in the charcoal suit.

Had he really been watching her? Or was her paranoia getting to her?

It was a short drive to the Revival Cinema, and before long the building's marquee loomed before them, dark and weathered. Plywood covered most of the windows, and faded posters advertised movies that had played there decades ago. A side door stood partially open.

"Someone's here," Finn said, nodding toward a blue Subaru parked in the alley.

They approached cautiously, weapons ready. The door creaked as Sheila pushed it wider, revealing a dim corridor that smelled of dust and old popcorn. Somewhere ahead, they could hear movement—the scrape of something being dragged across the floor.

They found Paul Wilson in what had once been the main theater, surrounded by stacks of equipment. Cables snaked across the floor, connecting various pieces of sound and lighting gear. Wilson himself was on his knees, carefully wrapping gaffer's wire around a bundle of cables.

At the sight of the gaffer's wire, Sheila's hand instinctively moved toward her weapon.

"Paul Wilson?" she called out.

He startled, dropping the wire. "Shit!" He scrambled to his feet, revealing himself to be a thin man in his fifties with wire-rimmed glasses and prematurely gray hair. "You scared me. I didn't—I mean, the theater's closed."

"Sheriff Stone, Coldwater County. This is Deputy Mercer." Sheila studied the space, noting the careful organization of the equipment. "We've been trying to reach you."

"Oh. Right. My phone..." He gestured vaguely toward a pile of gear. "Battery died. I've been trying to get all this packed up now that the festival's canceled." His hands wouldn't stay still, fidgeting with a coil of wire. "Terrible business, those murders. Just terrible."

"You knew Jessica Gregory?" Finn asked.

"Sure, everyone did. Sweet girl. Always helping out, learning about the technical side of things." He swallowed hard. "She used to ask about lighting setups, sound equipment. Wanted to understand how everything worked."

Sheila watched him carefully. "Including the equipment in Theater Seven?"

Wilson's hands stilled for just a moment. "I suppose. She had keys to most places—Carl gave the concession staff access for cleaning and maintenance."

"Mind telling us where you were last night between nine and nine-thirty?"

"Here." Wilson adjusted his glasses nervously. "Moving equipment. The festival ending early means I have to get everything into storage faster than planned. Some of this gear is rented, has to be back by tomorrow."

"Anyone who can verify that?"

He shook his head. "I work better alone. Less chance of expensive equipment getting damaged."

Sheila noted how precisely everything was arranged—like a stage being set. She thought about the gaffer's wire he'd been handling so expertly, about his access to the theaters, about his knowledge of camera blind spots and security systems.

"The audition tapes," she said carefully. "From 'The Winter Palace' and 'Ghost Light'—would you have copies?"

"We record everything during the festival. For insurance purposes, you know?" He started gathering up loose cables, his movements quick and jerky. "But those particular tapes would be in the festival archives. I just handle the technical side."

Something about his tone made Sheila uneasy. Was he being helpful, or just telling them what they wanted to hear? And why was he here alone, handling the same type of wire used to kill two people?

"That's a lot of wire you're working with," she said, keeping her voice casual.

Wilson glanced down at the coils. "Standard gaffer's wire. We use it to secure everything—lights, cables, sound equipment." He pushed his glasses up. "Though I suppose you know that, given how the victims were..."

"Strangled?" Sheila finished.

Wilson flinched. "Yes. Terrible way to die."

Finn moved closer to one of the equipment cases. "You said Jessica was interested in the technical side. Did she ever come here? To learn about the equipment?"

"Here?" Wilson's hands started moving again, compulsively organizing cables. "No, no. This is private storage. I don't... I mean, I've never brought anyone here."

"Mind if we look around?" Sheila asked.

Wilson hesitated. "I'd rather... there's expensive equipment, you see. Insurance requirements..."

"We'll be careful," Sheila said, already moving toward a door marked 'Projection Booth.' "Just doing our due diligence."

The booth was cramped but meticulously organized. Old film reels lined one wall, while digital equipment occupied the other. But what caught Sheila's attention was a small TV setup in the corner, complete with a DVD player and stacks of recorded media.

"You review a lot of footage up here?" she asked.

Wilson hovered in the doorway. "Sometimes. For quality control."

Sheila picked up one of the DVD cases. "These aren't festival materials."

"Personal collection," Wilson said quickly, taking the case and returning it to the shelf. "I'm something of a film buff. Been collecting since I was a kid."

"Mind if we take a look?"

"I'd really rather—" Wilson started, then seemed to catch himself. "I mean, they're not organized. Just old movies, nothing important."

Finn appeared behind Wilson. "We could get a warrant."

Wilson's face tightened. "Listen, I don't appreciate being treated like a suspect. I've worked at this festival for nine years. Ask anyone—I'm professional and reliable. I would never..." He took a shaky breath. "Jessica was sweet. Thomas was kind. Why would I hurt them?"

"Nobody's accusing you of anything, Mr. Wilson."

"It doesn't feel that way."

"If you have nothing to hide," Finn said, then you won't mind if we take a closer look at your collection. Just to rule you out."

Wilson's hands clenched and unclenched. "Fine. Take them. Take whatever you want. But I want my lawyer present for any questioning." He backed out of the doorway. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have equipment to pack."

They watched him hurry back to the main theater floor, his movements more agitated than before.

"He's hiding something," Finn said quietly.

"Yeah." Sheila studied the DVD collection. "But is it murder? Or something else?"

"Want me to call for backup? Have someone watch him?"

Sheila nodded. "And get CSU down here. I want this whole place gone over with a fine-tooth comb."

"What about us?"

"We should do some interviews," she said.

"Talk to anyone connected to Paul Wilson, anyone who might be able to give us a clearer idea about whether he's our guy.

" She picked up another DVD case. "And I want these recordings carefully studied.

Something tells me Paul Wilson's 'personal collection' might hold the key to everything. "

If they could just figure out what they were really looking at.