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.”
A shared look of concern passed between them.
“We need to talk to Gillian Sinclair again,” Riley decided. “As Veronica’s close friend, she might know more about the HUAC testimony and who might have a grudge related to it.”
“Agreed,” Ann Marie said, already reaching for her bag.
Riley checked her phone again—still no updates from Bill. She sent a quick text: “Any news on Leo?”
As they gathered their things to leave, Riley’s phone vibrated with Bill’s reply: “Following a lead on the Dillard family. Will update soon. April is safe.”
The message provided minimal reassurance, but it was something. Riley tucked her phone away and followed Ann Marie out of the café, stepping back into the warm Atlanta afternoon.
The drive to Magnolia Gateway Films passed in relative silence, each woman absorbed in her own thoughts.
Riley watched the city slide past her window—gleaming skyscrapers giving way to the more industrial landscape surrounding the film studio complex.
Atlanta had transformed itself from a regional hub to an international film production center over the past decade, and Magnolia Gateway had been at the forefront of that evolution.
As they approached the studio entrance, Riley noted that the media presence had diminished somewhat since their earlier visit.
Only two news vans remained parked across the street, their crews likely waiting for any developments in the high-profile case.
Riley and Ann Marie drove past them unnoticed.
They checked in with the security guard at the gate, who then informed them, “Ms. Sinclair is on Soundstage 7, just follow the numbers.”
Riley drove past the familiar Soundstage 4, then 5 and 6.
Soon 7 loomed before them, its massive doors currently slid halfway open.
Unlike the meticulously recreated Midnight Lounge on Soundstage 4, this space buzzed with activity.
Crew members moved purposefully around what appeared to be a partially constructed interior set—the skeleton of a Victorian-era drawing room taking shape amid scaffolding and piles of lumber.
As they entered, Riley felt the distinct temperature drop that characterized these massive, climate-controlled spaces. The cavernous interior echoed with the sounds of construction—drills whirring, hammers striking nails, voices calling measurements and instructions across the concrete floor.
Near the center of the activity stood Gillian Sinclair, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.
She was deep in conversation with a younger woman who gestured animatedly at a set of blueprints spread across a folding table.
Both women looked up as Riley and Ann Marie approached.
“Agents,” Gillian said, straightening. The lines of fatigue around her eyes had deepened since their last meeting, but her posture remained commanding. “Is there anything new?” Then she indicated the woman beside her, “This is Sarah Brooks, our director of production design."
Sarah—a woman in her thirties with short-cropped hair and paint-spattered jeans—extended her hand. “Agents. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
“So do we,” Riley replied, noting the genuine emotion that flickered across the designer’s face at the thought of Veronica’s death.
“I still can’t believe it,” Sarah continued, her voice dropping slightly.
“Veronica was a legend, of course, but she was also just... kind. Down to earth. She’d stop by the set during her visits, talk to everyone—not just the executives and directors.
She remembered names, asked about people’s families.
” She shook her head, blinking rapidly. “Sorry. It’s just.. . hard to process.”
“No need to apologize,” Ann Marie said gently. “Your perspective is valuable. You knew her professionally but also personally.”
“We weren’t really close, but I liked her. And if there’s anything I can do to help your investigation, anything at all—” Sarah began.
“We appreciate that,” Riley interjected. “We may take you up on it.”
Gillian placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Would you mind overseeing the rest of today’s construction? I need to speak with the agents privately.”
Sarah nodded. “Of course. The crew knows what they’re doing anyway.” She turned to Riley and Ann Marie. “My design studio is just off the main production office. I have all the archives from past Magnolia productions, including the original sketches from Roberta Rimes’ films shot here.”
As Sarah moved away, calling instructions to the construction crew, Gillian gestured toward the exit. “Let’s go to my office. It’s quieter there.”
They walked in silence across the studio lot, the afternoon sun beating down on them after the artificial coolness of the soundstage. Crew members nodded respectfully to Gillian as they passed, their expressions somber—the entire studio still operating under the shadow of Veronica’s death.
Back in her third-floor office again, Gillian directed the agents to the same two leather chairs.
However, instead of taking her place behind her big desk, this time she chose a third chair, positioning herself as a participant in the conversation rather than its authority.
“Do you have some new information about the case?”
Riley noted the change in seating arrangement—a subtle shift that suggested Gillian wanted a more collaborative dynamic. “We do. Malcolm Hartley is currently being held as a suspect.”
“I guess I’m not surprised,” Gillian said. “Veronica was so disturbed when she saw him that night of … of her death. And those photographs in his office …”
Her voice faded and she shuddered.
“We’ve learned more about his grudge against Veronica,” Riley continued, watching Gillian’s reactions carefully.
“According to Malcolm, he was once a film historian working on a biography of Roberta Rimes. When he approached Veronica about including information on her mother’s testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee, Veronica not only refused to cooperate but actively worked to destroy his academic career. ”
Gillian sat back, her expression shifting from shock to something more complex—discomfort mingled with resignation. “I... had no idea about any of that. Veronica never mentioned it.”
“You find that surprising?” Riley asked. “Given your close friendship?”
A flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or defensiveness—crossed Gillian’s features. “We were close, yes. But Veronica was... protective of her mother’s legacy. There were aspects of Roberta’s life that Veronica preferred not to discuss, even with friends.”
“But you knew about the HUAC testimony?” Riley pressed.
Gillian nodded slowly. “Yes. Not in detail, but I knew it existed. Veronica mentioned it once, years ago, after too many glasses of wine. She said it was the one part of her mother’s life that caused her any shame.”
“Did she mention who Roberta named in her testimony?” Ann Marie asked.
“No,” Gillian replied, shaking her head.
“Only that it happened, and that Roberta had named ‘colleagues.’ Veronica was determined that it never become public knowledge. She said her mother had lived with enough guilt over it; she didn’t want Roberta’s reputation posthumously destroyed by something she’d done out of fear during a terrible time in American history. ”
She squinted thoughtfully and said, “But you’ve got Malcolm in custody. Does that mean you’ve caught Veronica’s killer.”
“We’re not sure of that yet,” Ann Marie said.
“Ms. Sinclair,” Riley began, leaning slightly forward, “we have reason to believe that Veronica’s murder might be connected to her mother’s HUAC testimony.
The specific method—poisoning her during a re-creation of her mother’s famous death scene—suggests a symbolic connection between mother and daughter. ”
Gillian’s expression darkened. “You think someone killed Veronica as revenge for something her mother did seventy years ago?”
“It’s a theory we’re exploring,” Riley confirmed. “Is there anyone still living who might have direct knowledge of Roberta’s testimony? Someone who knew her personally during that period?”
Gillian was silent for a moment, her gaze distant as she sorted through memories.
“Most of Roberta’s contemporaries are gone now.
But there is one person in Atlanta who knew her well—Diane Kingsley.
She was an actress too, though never a star like Roberta.
They were close friends during the Hollywood years. ”
“Where can we find her?” Ann Marie asked.
“She owns Timeless Threads Boutique, a vintage costume shop in Midtown. Lives in an apartment above the store.” Gillian hesitated, a frown creasing her brow.
“But I should warn you—Diane is... fragile. She had a breakdown about forty years ago and left acting entirely. She’s somewhat reclusive now, and occasionally. .. unstable.”
“Unstable how?” Riley asked.
Gillian searched for the right words. “She lives very much in the past. Sometimes the line between memory and present reality blurs for her. She’s not dangerous, just... eccentric. Veronica was one of the few people who stayed in contact with her, despite the fact that they lived so far apart.”
Riley nodded, making a mental note. “We’d like to speak with her. Do you think you could call ahead, make an introduction? It might be easier for her to talk to us if she knows we’re connected to you.”
“Of course,” Gillian agreed, reaching for her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, then pressed the screen. After a moment, her expression softened. “Diane? It’s Gillian Sinclair... Yes, I know, it’s terrible... I miss her too.”
Riley and Ann Marie waited as Gillian explained their request. They could hear the tinny sound of an enthusiastic voice responding on the other end.
“That’s very kind of you, Diane,” Gillian said into the phone. “They’ll be there soon... Yes, I’ll tell them... Goodbye now.” She ended the call and looked up. “She’s eager to meet you. She says she’ll be glad to help.”
“That sounds promising,” Ann Marie said.
Gillian’s expression remained concerned. “Just... be gentle with her. Diane’s grip on reality can be tenuous sometimes. But she knew Roberta better than almost anyone still living.”
“We’ll be respectful,” Riley assured her. “Can you give us the address?”
Gillian wrote it down on a notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to Riley. “Timeless Threads is on Peachtree Street, in a renovated Victorian house. You can’t miss it—there’s a mannequin dressed in a replica of Judy Garland’s Wizard of Oz costume in the front window.”
Riley pocketed the address. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Sinclair. We’ll keep you updated on any developments.”
As they rose to leave, Gillian remained seated, her expression troubled. “Agents? If Veronica was killed because of something her mother did... does that mean other people might be in danger?”
Riley considered her response carefully. “We don’t know yet. But if you think of anyone else connected to Roberta who might be at risk, please let us know immediately.”
Gillian nodded, her shoulders tense. “I will. And please... find whoever did this. Veronica deserved better.”
Outside, as they walked back to their car, Ann Marie broke the silence. “So, our next stop is a reclusive former actress who might be mentally unstable but knows secrets about Roberta Rimes that ‘the world needs to know.’“
“Should be interesting,” Riley replied as they approached the car.
It could be more than that, she thought.
She knew that she and Ann Marie were silently wondering the same thing. Were they about to meet the real killer?