CHAPTER FOUR — SIX CANS
The following morning, Emily met a city preservation officer named Anika Rao outside the Beacon Theater.
Its marquee still held the weathered outline of its last feature title, although most of the bulbs had been removed.
A plywood fence cut across the sidewalk, and orange tape marked a doorway beside the former ticket window.
Anika carried a clipboard and a ring of keys.
“I understand you want access to the contents,” she said.
“I want to see whether a film can listed on the inventory is still upstairs.”
“The theater is not safe for public entry.”
“Can a trained worker retrieve it?”
Anika studied Emily.
“That depends on whether the object is part of the city’s inventory or someone’s private property.”
Emily showed her the photograph and explained that the can might contain donated community footage.
Anika looked at the blue arrow and frowned.
“That container isn’t listed separately.”
“What is listed?”
“Three projectors, two shelves, a sound cabinet, and assorted film stock.”
“Assorted film stock could mean anything.”
“It could.”
Emily asked whether Victor Madsen had supervised the inventory.
Anika confirmed that his committee had supplied a preliminary list before city workers inspected the space.
“Then I want someone independent to count the cans before Saturday,” Emily said.
Anika reminded her that a preservation officer could not rewrite ownership agreements based on suspicion.
“I’m not asking you to,” Emily replied.
“I’m asking you not to let somebody sell objects before anyone identifies them.”
Anika promised to request a supervised retrieval.
She did not promise when it would happen.
Emily left frustrated but determined not to repeat the mistake of treating an official conversation as an official decision.
She took photographs of the notice board and requested the public inventory under the city’s open-records process.
Then she went to see one of the volunteer editors Thomas had named.
Helen Ortiz ran a shoe-repair shop in a neighborhood that had changed almost beyond recognition.
Her back room smelled of leather polish, glue, and steam.
She remembered Nora Carter immediately.
“Your mother could make thirty people cooperate without making any of them feel ordered around,” Helen said.
Emily placed the yellow envelope on the counter.
Helen picked up the program and turned it over.
“We made these on my father’s old printing press.”
“Do you remember the film?”
“Every frame I cut.”
“Then why did it disappear?”
Helen tightened her jaw.
“Victor said the camera crews didn’t have release forms.”
“Was that true?”
“Some did, some didn’t.”
“Did anyone ask the people who appeared in it?”
“No.”
Helen opened a drawer beneath the counter and removed a battered folder of her own.
Inside were paper contact sheets and a hand-drawn screening order.
“We interviewed eighteen residents,” she said.
“Six had worked in the theater, eight had organized neighborhood clubs, and four had attended city planning meetings.”
“What did they say?”
Helen tapped a photograph of a young man standing beside the Beacon’s entrance.
“They said the preservation fund was going to pay for accessibility repairs, but Victor redirected some of the work to a contractor he used on other buildings.”
Emily frowned.
“Did anyone have proof?”
“We had footage of the contractor moving equipment out through the rear loading door.”
“That isn’t proof of stealing money.”
“No, but the contractor was supposed to be installing new seating that week.”
Helen unfolded the screening order.
The final reel was labeled THE ROOM WE BUILT.
The previous reel was labeled A PLACE TO STAY.
“Those are the reels Thomas says Victor removed,” Emily said.
Helen nodded.
“He stopped the show before the witnesses started naming names.”
Emily felt the temptation to rush back to city hall and announce everything.
Helen stopped her with a raised hand.
“Listen carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“I believed the rumor about your mother for a week.”
Emily said nothing.
“Then I saw Victor pay a contractor from the theater’s emergency account after he said there was no money left.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Helen looked ashamed.
“I told myself I needed better proof.”
“And then?”
“The theater closed, my father got sick, and the next year became the next decade.”
Emily closed the folder.
“I don’t need another person telling me how badly they regret waiting.”
“Then don’t let me wait again,” Helen replied.
She lifted the screening order.
“I’ll come with you.”
