Page 24 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Sheila scanned the festival's production logs spread across her desk, cross-referencing names with audition records. Her eyes kept catching on a single name that appeared in both "The Winter Palace" and "Southwestern Gothic" paperwork: Mitchell Blackwood, Executive Producer.

"Look at this," she said to Finn, who was reviewing security footage nearby. "Blackwood was part of both casting decisions—choosing Claire Montgomery over Jessica Gregory and Jessica Kent over Sarah Martinez."

"What about choosing Micah Weller over Thomas Rivera?" Finn asked.

Sheila shook her head. "There's no record of it here. That doesn't mean he couldn't have been involved in a smaller capacity, though."

Finn leaned over to study the documents. "Looks like he pushed back when directors wanted to cast our victims. There's a whole email chain here about 'marketable talent' versus 'raw potential.'"

"Someone who might have resented seeing talented actors passed over for commercial reasons." Sheila stood, gathering the papers. "Let's find him."

Finn was already on his phone. "Dispatch?

I need flight information for Mitchell Blackwood.

.. yeah, all departures to Los Angeles today.

" He listened for a moment. "Got it. Thanks.

" He looked up at Sheila. "His 9 AM flight got grounded for mechanical issues.

The next available seat isn't until tomorrow morning. "

"So he's still in town. Where?"

"My guess? The Mountain View Hotel is the most likely option. Not far from the airport, has a few penthouse suites for the rich and famous. Just the kind of place for an executive producer."

"Let's give them a call, then."

Finn was already looking up the number. He found it and dialed.

"Hi, this is Deputy Mercer with CCSD... yes, can you tell me if Mitchell Blackwood is staying at your hotel?" A pause. "Yes, very important, I assure you. No, I'm sure he'd have no problem with you sharing that information—we just need to speak with him."

Another pause, then Finn's voice brightened. "Oh, he is? Well, thank you so much. We'll be there shortly."

He hung up and turned to Sheila. "Looks like we're in luck."

***

They found Mitchell Blackwood at the Mountain View Hotel bar, nursing what looked like his third scotch of the morning. He was still wearing his festival lanyard.

Blackwood looked exactly like what Sheila expected of an independent film producer—expensive casual wear, carefully maintained salt-and-pepper hair, the kind of tan you got from meetings on rooftop patios. He studied them over his scotch.

"Mr. Blackwood," Sheila said, sliding onto the barstool next to him. Her body ached from lack of sleep, and the bar's attempt at mood lighting wasn't helping her growing headache. "I'm Sheriff Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We were hoping for a few minutes of your time."

"This is about the festival murders, isn't it?" he asked without looking at her.

"That's right," Finn said as he sat on the opposite side of Blackwood, effectively bracketing him. "We understand you were involved in casting both 'The Winter Palace' and 'Southwestern Gothic.'"

"Among others." Blackwood swirled his scotch. "Look, I've already heard about Sarah Martinez. Terrible thing. But I don't see how I can help."

"You were part of the decision to cast Claire Montgomery over Jessica Gregory in 'The Winter Palace,'" Sheila said. "And Jessica Kent over Sarah Martinez in 'Southwestern Gothic.'"

"That's what producers do. We make decisions." He took a sip of scotch. "Sometimes difficult ones."

"Tell us about those decisions," Finn prompted.

Blackwood sighed heavily. "What's to tell? Claire Montgomery had festival buzz, awards recognition. Jessica Kent had family connections in distribution. In this business, talent isn't everything. You need marketable names, people who can help get the film seen."

Sheila noticed how he avoided eye contact when discussing the casting choices. "And Jessica Gregory? Sarah Martinez? What did they have?"

"Raw talent." Blackwood's voice softened slightly.

"Gregory brought something special to that role—this vulnerability mixed with strength.

And Martinez... hell, she understood Elena better than the writers did.

" He knocked back the rest of his scotch.

"But potential doesn't pay the bills. This isn't about art, it's about investment returns. "

"Did anyone strongly disagree with these decisions?" Finn asked. "Anyone involved in production who argued for Gregory or Martinez?"

Blackwood's hand tightened on his empty glass. "There's always disagreement in creative decisions. That's the nature of—"

"Names," Sheila interrupted. Her patience, worn thin by exhaustion and guilt, was rapidly fraying. "We need specific names."

"Look," Blackwood said, "I can't just—"

"Three people are dead," Sheila cut in. Her voice was quiet but hard.

"Three people who shared one thing in common: they lost roles someone thought they should have had.

Roles they understood deeply. And now they'll never perform again.

" She leaned closer. "So I'll ask one more time: who argued for keeping them? "

Blackwood signaled the bartender for another scotch, though it wasn't yet noon. His hands weren't quite steady.

"Bradley Greenwald fought hard for Jessica Gregory," he said finally.

"Said she had a quality the role needed.

But he was just the director—he didn't have final say.

" He laughed bitterly. "That's the thing about independent film.

Directors think they're artists, but really, they're just another line item in the budget. "

"What about 'Southwestern Gothic'?" Finn asked.

"That was... messier." Blackwood accepted his fresh scotch but just stared into it. "Marcus Harlow pushed for Sarah. Said her take on Elena was revolutionary. Paul Wilson too—kept showing her audition tape to anyone who'd watch. But the money people wanted Kent."

"Paul Wilson advocated for her?" Sheila asked, exchanging looks with Finn. "The technical director?"

"Wilson's more than just a tech guy. He's been in theater his whole life, knows talent when he sees it. He and Marcus presented this whole argument about Sarah's interpretation, how she'd found layers in the character..." Blackwood took a shaky sip. "But the investors had already decided."

"Tell us more about Wilson's involvement," Sheila said, keeping her voice neutral despite her growing interest.

"He was... passionate about it. Said we were making a huge mistake. Started talking about the history of method acting, about authentic performance." Blackwood's face clouded with memory. "Actually got pretty intense about it. Said we were destroying pure talent in favor of commercial success."

"When was this?" Finn asked.

"About two months ago, right after final casting. He confronted me right here, at this bar." Blackwood gestured with his glass. "Said I was everything wrong with modern cinema. That true artists were being silenced by people like me."

Sheila felt her exhaustion lifting slightly as new possibilities emerged. "Did he have similar reactions to other casting decisions? Like Jessica Gregory losing her role?"

"Now that you mention it..." Blackwood set down his scotch. "He was involved in both productions. Always watching the auditions, saying he was adjusting sound levels or whatever. But thinking back, he paid unusual attention to the actors. Took notes. Made recordings beyond the official ones."

"His own private collection," Finn murmured.

"There was this one time," Blackwood continued, warming to the conversation, "when I found him in the editing bay late at night.

He was watching audition tapes—not just from our productions, but from years of festival submissions.

Said he was 'studying performance evolution' or something artsy like that. "

Sheila leaned forward. "Mr. Blackwood, this is important. Did Wilson have any personal connection to theater? Acting experience?"

"I heard he tried acting years ago. Never got any significant roles." Blackwood's eyes widened slightly. "Wait, you don't think... I mean, Paul's eccentric, sure, but he's been with the festival for years."

"Where would he keep his personal recordings?" Sheila asked. "Beyond what we found in the Revival Cinema?"

"He has a home studio. Used to invite people over to watch classic films, talk about performance theory.

" Blackwood shook his head. "Though now that I think about it, no one's been there in years.

He got... intense about it. Started talking about how modern actors were destroying the craft, how someone needed to preserve true performance art. "

Finn was already pulling out his phone, presumably to look up Wilson's address. But Sheila had one more question.

"The scenes where the victims were posed," she said carefully. "Would Wilson have had access to the films? Known the blocking, the costume details?"

"He worked on both productions. Knew every scene inside and out." Blackwood took another drink, his hand shaking more noticeably now. "Shit. Do you really think he... I mean, I knew he was passionate about performance, but..."

"One more thing," Sheila said. "Is there anyone else? Anyone whose audition particularly impressed Wilson, who didn't get the role they wanted?"

Blackwood thought for a moment. "There's a showcase screening tonight at the Art House—or was supposed to be, before everything got canceled.

Local talent, emerging artists. Wilson was especially interested in one performer, Anna Martin.

Said her monologue was 'transcendent.'" He checked his watch.

"She was supposed to open the showcase at eight. "

Sheila stood, her exhaustion forgotten. They had a possible suspect, a potential next victim, and a timeline. Now they just had to find Anna, make sure she was safe, and prove Wilson was their killer before he could stage his next performance.

"Do you happen to know where she's staying?" Sheila asked.

"Yeah, she's staying at a place over on Woodridge, right across from the laundromat. Can't miss it."

"Well, we appreciate your help. You should probably book a different flight out of town."

"Already done," he said quietly. "First flight tomorrow morning.

" He stared into his scotch. "You know what the worst part is?

Wilson was right about some things. Sarah Martinez, Jessica Gregory—they were special talents.

Real artists." He looked up at Sheila. "We just never thought someone would kill for art. "

But as Sheila and Finn hurried out of the bar, headed to Anna's apartment, she wondered if that was really what this was about. Or maybe, like everything else in this case, they were just seeing what the killer wanted them to see.

Another performance in a production they were only beginning to understand.