“You've been a help, Faith." Dunne leaned back in his chair, taxing the frame to its limits with his own. "I don't see how," she replied.
“You confirmed my own initial impression. That the gIrl was afraid. This means that someone may have been threatening her, subtly or not so subtly. She may have stumbled onto something that someone wanted kept secret."
“And from her reaction, the threat occurred close to the time she died. When I'd seen her before—when she was standing by the window, there wasn't much of any expression on her face. Maybe she was wiping the slate clean to prepare for her role."
“Great. We're beginning to narrow things down. We've been able to piece together most of her last morning and we'll concentrate even more now on anyone she was seen in conversation with during the time immediately before the camera started rolling. Starting with the other stand-in. He would have been there the whole time and she might have mentioned something to him."
“Let me know what you find out."
“Maybe." Dunne smiled. It always reminded Faith of a child's drawing, lopsided and raggedy. Not a pretty sight.
She was only slightly miffed. "Well, I have to get to work, if you two gentlemen will excuse me." She'd learnmore about Sandra Wilson's death on the set than by sticking around police headquarters not drinking their coffee and not consuming the cardboard sandwiches from the machines in the hall that would comprise lunch.
“Thank you" Dunne stood up and both he and Charley followed her out into the corridor. "I mean it. And, Faith, keep in touch.”
Maybe he'd give her a badge someday, Faith thought as she started up the Honda and drove toward Aleford. A tin one.
While Faith did not assume a deerstalker and magnifying glass, she nevertheless felt vetted by Dunne and arrived at the set shortly before the morning break, ready to detect whatever might come her way. It didn't take long. Cornelia was one of the first to seek sustenance from the canteen truck, and during the few moments they were alone, she uncharacteristically told Faith how afraid she was.
“You've been pretty chummy with the police. What do they think? Is it some crazed serial killer going after PAs?" Her voice shook and, from the bags under her eyes, it was clear she hadn't been sleeping soundly.
“That seems very unlikely," Faith reassured her, although the whole thing was extremely unlikely--a thought she kept to herself. "I can't imagine you are in any danger." Trying to make light of the situation and alleviate Corny's fears, she added, "Just stay away from pewter cups.”
Cornelia stiffened. "I've been watching what I eat and drink for quite a while," she said pointedly, and Faith flushed. The black bean soup incident had been eclipsed by recent events to the point where Faith had almost forgotten it.
“Or it could have been that someone was after Evelyn. At least this is what Evelyn thinks. She's been in constant hysterics since Friday. Max had to call her shrink in L.A. to see if he could calm her down. Of course she won't drink any Perrier and diet Coke.”
This didn't surprise Faith. Evelyn would probably avoid the mixture for the rest of her life, for much the same reason that Janet Leigh didn't take showers after Psycho.
Cornelia continued to whine on. "But why anyone would want to kill her, especially before the movie is finished, I can't imagine.”
Practicality—and loyalty to the project—were firmly intact and Cornelia's words reassured Faith that Ms. Stuyvesant might hate Ms. O'Clair passionately but was not a murderer. Hope had been correct in her assessment of Cornelia's personality. She wouldn't even jaywalk when they had been kids, let alone commit a major felony.
“What does Max think?" Faith asked quickly as she saw some of the rest of the crew approaching. She suspected Corny's tell-all mood wouldn't carry over to another occasion.
“It's been devastating for him, of course. He is so sensitive, and for Sandra to do something like this ..." It was clear that despite any fears Cornelia may have expressed, deep down she was sure it was all the dead woman's own fault. "He called a meeting at the Marriott when we got back and announced he would do everything in his power to keep the movie on schedule—and you see he has. Other than that, he simply won't talk about it. Too, too traumatic.”
Faith wondered whether Max had said anything at the meeting about the person who had been killed.
Watching the laughing crew reach for muffins and put in coffee orders, it was beginning to seem as if the earth had swallowed up Sandra without a trace. Faith also tucked away a thought that something other than trauma might be responsible for Max's reluctance to discuss Sandra's death—something like guilt.
Faith had felt distinctly superfluous when she'd first arrived from police headquarters. Niki, Pix, and the others had preparations well in hand. Now with lunch in full swing, it was clear how capable those hands had been. Everything was going beautifully. Normally on shoots, the talent ate first, but on A, everyone ate together. Maybe because it was a relatively small company, many of whom had worked together before. Whatever it was, they were amiably consuming large bowls of Italian vegetable soup with several varieties of crusty focaccia. The meat entrée was Swedish meatballs (see recipe on page 325) served over egg noodles, a prized recipe from a friend's Norwegian mother. When Faith called them Norwegian meatballs, no one knew what she meant, so with a silent apology for ignoring what she understood were time-honored national differences, she bowed to custom. Whatever they were called, they were fantastic.
The crowd was thinning out and she noticed Greg Bradley sitting by himself at a table, nursing a cup of coffee. She quickly poured one for herself and went over.
“Do you mind if I join you?" she asked disingenuously. "I have to get off my feet for a moment."
“Sure. It must be quite a job, feeding all of us. I can't even boil an egg—and I don't want to learn. I'm happy to let people like you do the work, and you certainly do a great job." His plate was conspicuously empty.
“Thank you." Faith was touched by his appreciation. She tried to figure out how to direct the conversation toward Sandra Wilson in a tactful manner.
Greg Bradley was roughly the same shape as Max, even down to the paunch, and his coloring was similar. But his face did not display the quixotic changes of temper that were Max's stock-in-trade. The grip/standin had been invariably easygoing every time Faith had seen him, except during the frantic moments before the ambulance had arrived to take Sandra away.
Before he could leave, Faith plunged in. The direct approach was often best, she found. "It's hard not to think about Friday. I felt so helpless."
“Me, too." His voice dropped.
“Was Sandra a close friend?"
“Almost" A shadow crossed his face. "This was the first time she'd worked with Max, and I've been around for several pictures. She was totally star-struck on our great director. Don't get me wrong. I think the man's a genius myself, but let's say I was waiting for the effect to wear off a little. Waiting in the wings."
“It must be hard for you to go about your business now."
“A little. Although work keeps me from thinking too much. The whole thing just doesn't make any sense. Who would have wanted to harm Sandra? I was going to take her into town next week. It would have been her twenty-first birthday.”
Faith hadn't realized the girl had been so young.
“She came from here. Born in Boston—bred in the USA, she'd say. Her mom moved around a lot and I don't know what the story was with her dad."
“Did she want to act?"
“Not in the beginning. She'd talk to me for hoursabout all the technical aspects of filming. She wanted to go to school and make her own movies. Like a lot of us. Then after Max asked her to be Evelyn's stand-in, she began to talk about acting. You saw the footage. She was a natural, something that doesn't come along too often in this business.”
Faith had another question she had to ask. "Do you think Max returned her affection?" She couldn't think of the right way to express her thought, but he understood.
<
br /> “Was he sleeping with her, you mean? Maybe. You have to understand that during a shoot, a lot of everyday rules get turned upside down. Maybe it's true all the time in this business. Anyway, if he did, it didn't mean anything to him, but a hell of a lot to her. Now, I have to get back or Max will have my hide. Let's talk some more another time. I miss her very much.”
It had been more than she expected. Much more. It was difficult to turn her attention to work when she kept hearing Greg's words, "I miss her ...”
Faith had nothing to report to Dunne, except her brief conversation with Greg. The police no doubt knew how old Sandra was and where she was born, and probably that Greg had been interested in her. Still, it was something. No one else had even mentioned Sandra's name. She could tell him about Cornelia's fears, only Faith wasn't entirely sure she wanted to introduce the subject—although she was sure Corny had had nothing to do with it. if Faith wanted to maintain credibility with Dunne and be the recipient of whatever tidbits of information he might fling her way, she couldn't very well say she'd had certain suspicions of her old classmate but now didn't. It was to maintain this tenuous position that she decided to call him after she got back to the kitchens. He told her they had known Sandra's age and birthplace but not that Greg hoped for a relationship with her. Dunne then said Faith needn't bother to call again unless she had something to tell him, quashing her hopes of code names and check-in times but leaving her free to chart her own course.
The phone rang as Faith was leaving to pick up Amy and Ben. It was Alan Moms. No chance for any discussion of Friday's tragedy, however. It seemed it was business as usual.
“Max wants to shoot the town hall scene tomorrow night—and it could go all night. We'll start as soon as it's dark, so we'll need supper and then stuff to eat for the duration.”
Faith said, "No problem." Aleford would be elated. This was the last scene for the extras and it was a cast of thousands, not to be confused with Mark Antony's welcome party for the queen in Cleopatra.
The Aleford Town Hall was what had sold Alan Morris on Aleford as a location, even before he'd seen the Pingree house. It didn't remotely resemble the architecture of Hester Prynne's day. It didn't remotely resemble the architecture of any day. It was a conglomerate, or, as some liked to put it, a "bastardization," if only to have the chance to say the word out loud, Faith suspected. The central portion was a basic Federalist domed red brick building with columns rising from several flights of treacherous stairs, now happily supplemented by a ramp. Another generation had added neo-Gothic wings to either side, complete with turrets and stained glass. The coup de grace was a Bauhaus addition, or "Bow wowhaus"—same people as "bastardization"—extend- ing out the rear toward the parking lot. It took the form of a long, low building with plate-glass windows that was supposed to function as the police station, only neither Charley nor his predecessor would budge from their present quarters. They shared space with the town clerk, who had also refused to move, and if it was cramped, it was preferred for the privacy it availed. The "new addition," as it was still called, served as space for various town activities, most recently the Gentle Gymnastics class for senior citizens led by Poppy Wagner, a remarkably limber septuagenarian.
It was Dada. It was Nouveau. It was retro and, above all, Alan Morris had known immediately, it was Maxwell Reed. The large hall with its 1920s Maxfield Parrish-like murals of important events in United States history, site of Town Meeting for well over a century, would be perfect for the tribunal scene Max had extrapolated from the original book.
When the stagestruck extras took their seats the following night, no one was thinking how hard and uncomfortable they were or that they might get hungry. They were too intent on Alan's words as he described the scene for them against a backdrop of cast and crew finishing preparations. Cornelia was very much in evidence, standing by with her script and, for some reason, a stopwatch around her neck. She was Morris's Greek chorus, nodding vigorously as he spoke, an occasional "Yes, exactly" escaping from her lips.
Once again, Alan explained, Reed planned to mix past and present events, dissolving from one to the other until time itself became completely obscured.
“All of you are gathered to hear a proposal for a new youth center, spearheaded by Reverend Dimmesdale, Cappy Camson. Evelyn O'Clair—that is, Hester—un- able to resist seeing him, creeps into a seat in the rear of the hall. She's wearing a long black hooded cloak as a disguise. On no account is anyone to turn around or pay any attention to her, even those next to her. It's as if she wasn't here, remember. But Dimmesdale sees her immediately, knows who it is, of course, and memories of their shared passion befuddle his presentation. He is meeting her for the first time. They are making love.”
Alan was going off into some private screening room of his own.
“Finally, he imagines that she is coming toward him as he pulls down a flowchart. She will actually be walking down the aisle at this point, but again only Dimmesdale can see her. He blinks and she vanishes. Roger Chillingworth gets up on the stage. He announces he will donate ten thousand dollars to the fund in honor of `men like Arthur Dimmesdale.' Now you react. Clap, whistle, stomp, whatever, until you see this light go out"—he pointed off camera—"then stop immediately. We're going to run through all of it a couple of times before we shoot, so don't worry. After the applause, Dimmesdale tries to refuse the honor, then Hester reappears and walks back to her seat. This time, she is visible to everyone. As she goes by the stage, Chillingworth looks from the minister to his wife and realizes with full force what he has suspected all along—that Dimmesdale is Hester's lover. When Hester passes each row, you will stand up in turn and silently point at her—like this, with your right arms.”
He stretched his arm out full length and pointed his finger. "As she passes, you turn slightly to keep pointing at her, still without saying a word. When she reaches the door, Pearl—Caresse Carroll—rises from one of the chairs and stands behind her mother. Hesterkneels and Pearl silently puts her hands over her mother's eyes, then you'll hear the director say `Cut.' That's it. Any questions?”
Millicent raised her hand, her right arm stretched out full length.
“Yes?"
“Are you sure you don't mean that those of us seated on the left side of the aisle should point with our right hands and those on the right side with our lefts? f you're striving for symmetry, as I understand Mr. Reed often does.”
Alan Morris looked terribly flustered.
“I'll have to ask the director." He left hastily, pointing in the air first with one hand, then with the other.
Millicent sat down to general, unspoken acclaim. The pride of Aleford. Gave those movie people something to think about, bet your boots.
Alan returned after a few minutes.
“Mr. Reed likes the concept and we'll go with it. Does everyone understand the change?”
Of course they did. They all knew their rights from their lefts and especially which side they were on.
“All right, let's break for ten minutes, then come back and try it out.”
Millicent Revere McKinley made for the rear of the hall swiftly, decisively slicing through the crowd shuffling to its feet like McCormick's reaper through a field of ripe wheat. Seconds later, she was in the basement of the building, swinging open the kitchen door.
The town hall's basement was legendary, even for Aleford. Some swore that there were tunnels from Civil War days, used as part of the Underground Railroad. Others said the tunnels were a legacy from a Prohibition-era board of unsavory selectmen, but this was thought to be sour grapes on the part of the descendants of those not elected to said board. There was always some desultory talk at Town Meeting time about hiring someone to break through the backs of a few closets and rooms to find these tunnels, but nothing had ever come of it. Others doubted the existence of these tunnels, period, and thought both uses apocryphal, yet they did not deny the Byzantine nature of the existing hallways and rooms, many without any electric
ity. There was also a smaller hall, Asterbrook Hall, with a stage that was often used for the less ambitious productions of the Aleford Thespians; several bathrooms of varying vintages; and a large kitchen. Have Faith had received permission to use this facility, and the entire staff was busy preparing the buffet to be served in the cavernous marble-tiled first-floor entry, the scene of other soirees, Faith surmised after discovering an ancient, and nonfunctional, dumbwaiter.
It was into a frenzy of steaming pots and piles of freshly cut sandwiches that Millicent sailed, blithely disregarding all agenda save one.
“Faith, where's your husband?" she demanded, implying both that Faith was amazingly lucky to have a husband and that said husband was dangerously close to being stricken from Millicent's Christmas card list.
“Why, he's home. With his children, our children." One had to be precise with Millicent. "Is anything wrong?"
“I thought he was going to talk to Penny, and just now upstairs I asked her if she'd seen Tom Fairchild lately and she said she had in church, which sounds to me as if Tom is forgetting our Agreement!”
Your agreement, Faith amended to herself, saying out loud, "Tom has tried to talk to Penny. He called her on Saturday, but she put him off. She told him she couldn't discuss anything relating to Alden's charges with him or anyone else because they involved things that happened a long time ago and were private. She didn't accept our invitation to Sunday dinner, either—not that we wanted her to say anything more. We just wanted to show our support." This should satisfy Millicent, although Faith was sure it wouldn't. It didn't.
“I expected more from Tom," she said sadly. "He has such a good reputation around town.”
For what? Faith wondered. Wringing confessions out of unwilling parishioners? Getting people to do things they didn't want to do? Maybe this last was partly true. When the church needed volunteers, people tended to cross the street if they saw him approaching with that disarming smile of his.
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