Murder Is the Main Course

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  It appeared not everyone was thrilled by Jordan’s triumphant return to his hometown. Penelope felt a fresh wave of sadness as she reread the review. From all accounts Festa was successful, so surely Jordan had garnered some positive attention and fans since it was posted. Deciding there was no accounting for taste, Penelope closed the article and slipped the phone back in her pocket.

  Arlena made her way to the bar, searching through the tea basket for her favorite brand of organic green. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Penelope said, standing up to join her. “Finding Chef Jordan like that was...I feel terrible for his family. And his staff.” She reached into the basket and plucked out a tea bag and handed it to Arlena.

  “Thanks,” Arlena said. “What is she still doing here?” she asked, tilting her head in Edie’s direction as she made her tea.

  “Keeping the kitchen off limits,” Penelope whispered. “There’s a possibility it wasn’t a suicide.”

  “What?” Arlena said loudly.

  “Shh,” Penelope said, glancing around, thankful they hadn’t caught anyone’s attention. “It’s standard procedure, they say. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  Arlena sighed, calming down. “Look at them,” she said, throwing a glance at the table where her fellow actors were huddled together. “When Jennifer called this morning, she said she’d been in touch with the executive producer. According to her, we’re staying put. Jennifer already has too many reels shot to have to redo all the scenes. If we move now, the exteriors and sets won’t match up. The EP told Jennifer she either had to stay and finish filming or they’d pull the plug.”

  “Really?” Penelope said. “They’d rather waste the whole project than reshoot some of the scenes?”

  Arlena set her mouth in a line. “Yep. I don’t know how to feel. Is it right to carry on, business as usual, on a man’s property twenty-four hours after his death?” She pulled her thick sweater tighter over her lean shoulders and watched her tea steep on the bar. “I bet if we had a male director they’d be more flexible, more willing to fund the picture if we moved somewhere else.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. You really think that’s the issue?” Penelope asked.

  “Don’t kid yourself. It was an uphill battle to get the studio to green light this movie. This is Jennifer’s first major project.”

  “I had no idea,” Penelope said. She swiped a few sugar crystals from the bar into her palm. “I thought the movie had been in development a long time. I remember reading about it in one of your trade magazines back home.”

  “Yes, the movie was planned. This reboot of The Turn of the Screw has been making the rounds for a couple of years now, always attached to male directors. It’s a perfect classic gothic ghostly horror story, all the rage right now. But it kept falling through, didn’t get on any schedule, and then the interested directors had moved on to other projects. Jennifer had to fight for the job, even though most of her smaller films have performed. She’s got a cult following, but you better believe if this movie doesn’t do well, her chances of working at a major studio again will be diminished.”

  Penelope looked at her doubtfully.

  “Pen, Jennifer has to work twice as hard to get half as much respect as any male director. It’s despicable the way women are treated in this business.” Arlena picked up the tab of her tea bag and began dunking it quickly. “I’m going to do something about it. I’ll set up a production company for women writers and directors.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Penelope said, picturing Arlena behind a big desk, fielding offers and reading scripts. “How did your young costars take the news about Jordan?” Penelope glanced at the children sitting at the actors’ table, a young girl and boy, aged eight and ten. Their mother sat between them, fussing with the collar on the little girl’s shirt.

  “Dakota and Jackson are okay,” Arlena said. “Jennifer didn’t go into details with them. She let their mother tell them.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the hovering woman.

  Penelope hid a small smile behind her hand. “Still getting tripped up by the famous stage mom?”

  “Don’t get me started,” Arlena said. “‘Dakota can’t play off you unless you look her in the eyes.’ ‘Jackson is following your cues—be sure you don’t ad lib any lines at the end of dialogue.’” Arlena mimicked the woman’s voice, pulling her face into an exaggerated frown.

  “Stop,” Penelope whispered, biting her cheek to keep from laughing.

  “They say never work with children or animals. The kids are fine scene partners, but Sybil…I don’t know, it feels like she’s living through them, like they’re supposed to pick up where her career left off.”

  Penelope had vaguely recognized Sybil Wilde, Dakota and Jackson’s mother, when they all arrived on set, but she couldn’t place where she knew her from. She’d asked Arlena, who reminded her Sybil had starred in a popular daytime soap, one that Penelope had never watched. After a contract dispute with the show, she’d left and had two children on her own via surrogate with eggs she had frozen many years before and an anonymous sperm donor at one of the most expensive fertility clinics in New York. Sybil had one short-lived marriage well in her past and had become a mother for the first time in her mid-forties. Now she was her children’s agent and manager, not to mention their on-set tutor, and in some ways their personal assistant.

  “She’s too close to them all the time,” Arlena said, cutting her eyes at Sybil. “I’m supposed to be playing their governess, their main caretaker. I don’t how they’re going to give convincing performances as orphaned and abandoned children with their mom fetching them pomegranate smoothies every five minutes.”

  Penelope stifled another laugh, then felt guilty about the smoothies, since it was her team making them to order for the kids, following Sybil’s strict dietary instructions. “They seem like they’re doing a good job on the set though.”

  Arlena relented as she looked at Jackson and Dakota. “They’re sweet kids, really. Which is surprising. They ought to be spoiled rotten. I’m just waiting for Jackson to pull a diva move, flip out on everyone.” Arlena allowed a small smile, then cleared her throat and became serious again.

  Jackson and Dakota both had white blonde hair and slender faces. They looked very ghostlike, perfect for the roles of two haunted children. “I hope they’re not too upset. I can make them something special for lunch if you think that would take their mind off things.”

  Arlena shrugged. “That sounds like a good idea to me, but run it by their mom-ager first.”

  “Of course,” Penelope said.

  Arlena picked up her mug. “I’m going upstairs to call Sam. Stop by later if you have time.” Arlena had been dating Sam Cavanaugh, the A-list action-movie star, for over a year. She was making her way up the acting ranks herself, and together they were quite the power couple in Hollywood.

  Penelope took a few minutes to refresh the coffee station, glancing at the different tables around the room to judge how much longer the crew might be lingering. She heard the front door open with a whoosh and watched Marla approach the bar, her body rigid under her oversized wool sweater. She ducked away quickly, heading toward the basement stairs off the main hallway.

  “Marla, are you okay?” Penelope asked, noting the dazed look on the older woman’s face.

  “No,” she managed, darting glances at the crew lingering around the tables. She appeared disoriented, like the room was unfamiliar, as opposed to the inn she’d cared for on a daily basis for many years.

  “Why don’t you sit for a minute,” Penelope said, pointing to a nearby chair.

  Marla shook her head quickly, looking a bit unsure on her feet. “I have things to tend to.” She wandered through to the hall and disappeared behind the staircase.

  Penelope watched her go, concerned for the older woman’s health. The other mo
rning she’d watched Marla through the kitchen windows stacking firewood on her shoulder and trekking up the icy backyard. Penelope had been impressed with her strength and stamina, but there were also times she appeared frail, her cheeks sunken.

  Skylar stalked up to the bar a few minutes later, hungrily grabbing at the fruit bowl’s serving spoon.

  “Are you cold?” Penelope asked, eyeing her jacket and then the lit fireplace.

  “Forrestville, Indiana is the coldest place on earth,” Skylar declared through clenched teeth.

  “There might be a few places on earth colder than here,” Penelope said, teasing.

  “None I’ve ever been to,” Skylar said flatly.

  “Well, being from southern California I guess it feels colder to you than some of us,” Penelope said.

  The girl snorted a quick laugh. Red spiral curls escaped the knit hat she had pulled down over her ears. “I was so happy to get my first job on a real movie. Little did I know I’d be sewing period costumes in Boring-ville, which by the way is also frozen.”

  “It’s Forrestville. And a job’s a job, right?” Penelope said, keeping her tone light. “You’ll get a screen credit on a major motion picture, and different projects will open up to you.”

  “That’s the plan,” Skylar said. “I guess I’m paying my dues.” She chewed on a piece of pale cantaloupe and Penelope winced at the weak-colored fruit. She was having a hard time working up sympathy for Skylar, who had a job and a strong career path many people would kill for. Penelope didn’t think staying in a quaint rustic inn for a few months with everything being taken care of for you qualified as paying dues. But then again, everyone had different ideas about working hard.

  Their fellow crew members sat at the tables, loosely broken into their respective departments. The sound technicians sat together, the hair and makeup team huddled in the corner near the fireplace. She thought about what her team would do for the immediate future, deciding they’d go back to cooking on the catering trucks, which were parked in the lot behind the inn. She assumed the inn’s kitchen would be closed for a while. She wasn’t looking forward to going back inside the walk-in anytime soon anyway.

  The great room and bar slowly emptied out, some of the crew heading back upstairs, some venturing outside into the cold.

  “How much longer are we going to be here? Have you heard any updates?” Skylar asked after a few minutes. Penelope had forgotten she was standing there, having gotten lost in her own thoughts.

  “I don’t think we’re halfway finished yet, from what I’ve heard in the department meetings. I’d say we’re here at least another six weeks.”

  Skylar rolled her eyes so dramatically Penelope worried they wouldn’t come back down from her eyelids. “Ugh.” She stalked off, almost tripping on the area rug in the center of the room when her thick-soled snow boots caught the edge of it.

  Penelope sighed and watched her go.

  Chapter 6

  After the meeting broke up and she and her team cleared up from breakfast, Penelope retrieved her messenger bag from her room upstairs and went across the courtyard to check on Ava. When she entered Festa’s kitchen, unlocking the rear door of the restaurant with her key, she could hear Ava’s muffled voice through the office door.

  Penelope took in all the gleaming silver prep tables and appliances. It was much larger than the inn’s kitchen, where they only offered light fare and continental breakfasts during the day. Guests of the inn dined across the courtyard at Festa, and all of the events were catered from this big state-of-the-art kitchen. A couple of times Penelope and her team had used the kitchen to cater for the film crew when they had a group of extras on the set and more mouths to feed than usual.

  Knives and a variety of utensils lined the wall, suspended against the tiles by a magnetic strip, making them easy to grab from the prep stations. The crisp, acrid smell of lemon cleaner clashed with the earthier aroma of food, the memory of the previous night’s dishes still lingering in the air.

  Penelope pulled her iPad from her messenger bag and scrolled through a few emails. She was forwarding an invoice to accounts payable in the production office just as the back door to the kitchen swung open.

  Denis Billings walked in, his arms hugging a cardboard box with a swan logo on the side, its wings arching up to enclose an ornate W. Muffled clinks came from inside the box as wine bottles shifted together. He said a quick hello and set the box on the table against the back wall, rubbing his hands together and pulling the kitchen door closed.

  “Hi, Denis,” Penelope said. “This isn’t your usual day, is it?”

  Denis’s round face broke into a crooked grin. “You’re right, it’s not. I’m going to be a few towns over all day and wanted to drop these samples off for Chef Jordan. Ava said he’s looking to switch up the wine list, and I’m hoping he likes a couple of these.” His light blue eyes were hooded by thick orange eyebrows that made him appear constantly concerned, which didn’t fit with his lighthearted personality at all.

  “Yeah, she’s here, but…Denis, something’s happened,” Penelope said gently. She watched his face morph from its usual jovial expression to sadness as she broke the news about Jordan’s death.

  He steadied himself against the counter, looking as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “How can this have happened?”

  “I’m sorry, Denis. I know you liked working with Chef Jordan,” Penelope said. “And he always spoke highly of you. I think you were his favorite wine rep.”

  Denis nodded absently. “I just saw him.”

  “I know. I was here when you brought over that nice cabernet I tried on Tuesday,” Penelope said, nodding.

  “No. Last night. I stopped in for a drink on my way home,” Denis said.

  “You saw him in the dining room?” Penelope asked.

  Denis shook his head. “No, I met a friend of mine at the bar. I needed a smoke, so I stepped around back. Chef Jordan was too nice to say anything, but I know he didn’t like people smoking right outside the front door. I always come around behind the kitchen, at all my customer’s places. I saw him back there.” Denis nodded at the kitchen door. “Talking with someone. At first I thought they were joking around, but after a minute I could tell they were arguing about something.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Not sure. Little guy, bald, glasses. Old.”

  Penelope eyed Denis, who was in his early twenties.

  “Old?” Penelope asked. “Like elderly?”

  “No, like older than Chef Jordan. Not grandpa old. Well, maybe.”

  Penelope put aside the discussion of age for a moment. “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

  “Kind of. Something the man had for dinner, I guess. Honestly, I’d told Chef Jordan that I quit smoking, so I didn’t want him to see me sneaking one. I took off before he noticed me.” Denis’s expression was one of defeat as he hitched up his belt, tight across his soft middle. “He was always on me to clean up my diet, start running.”

  “He was very fond of you,” Penelope said.

  “Yeah, once in a while he’d take me out hunting, or we’d run across each other up in the woods during deer season.”

  “I didn’t know you hunted.”

  “I don’t really,” Denis said. “I just go out a few times a season with the guys. It’s a tradition, me and the buddies I grew up with. We used to get the first day of hunting season off school, and our dads would take us out.”

  “I’ve never been myself,” Penelope said. “I’ve never shot anything, matter of fact.”

  “Some girls do around here,” Denis said absently. “Sorry, women,” he amended, his cheeks reddening. He pressed a meaty fist to his mouth, suppressing a cough.

  The office door opened and Ava appeared, her eyes wet and freshly rimmed with red. “So you’ve heard,” she said when she saw Denis.

/>   Denis nodded, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Denis, we’re all family here,” Ava said. “We’ve all lost him.”

  Denis mumbled a string of condolences and headed for the door, pausing at the last minute and turning back to them. “What does this mean? For the rest of us?”

  “Don’t worry, Denis. I’ll be in touch. We’ll get everything sorted out,” Ava said.

  He nodded goodbye and clumsily pushed his way through the door without another word.

  “That’s how it’s been all morning,” Ava said. “The whole town will be in shock by lunch.” The phone in the office rang and Ava strode back, closing the door behind her.

  Penelope glanced at the cardboard box on the back counter and went to the door, hoping to catch Denis before he drove away, but she was too late. The lot was empty except for Ava’s SUV. Thinking she might want the wine samples after all, Penelope carried the box into the dining room and set it on the floor behind the bar, nudging it with her toe next to a case of fruit juices. She took the marker from next to the register and wrote Samples, Not Inventory in big letters on the flap.

  When she went to tuck the flap back down, an unsealed envelope that was tucked down between the bottles caught her eye. Assuming it was an invoice, she pulled it out and opened the flap. The only thing inside was a personal check, signed by Denis, made out to “Herring – Steele” in the amount of $425. She looked once more to confirm there was no accompanying paperwork.