Jill Churchill - A Knife to Remember

Shelley sat down looking troubled and waited until Katie was well out of hearing range. "I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but have you looked out your back window lately?" she asked quietly. "There are police all over the place again. And an ambulance just pulled away. Without the lights flashing. You know what that means.”

Jane just stared at her friend for a long moment, then got up and went to the living room window. As she parted the curtains and looked out, she saw Mel coming across the backyard. She and Shelley met him at her kitchen door.

“Mel! What is it?"

“Lynette Harwell is dead. Suicide," he said. "No!" Shelley exclaimed. "No! Absolutely not.

She might be dead, but it wasn't suicide."

"I know it's hard to believe, but—"

“Not hard to believe. Impossible."

“Except that there was no note, it was a classic suicide," Mel explained patiently. "She'd put on her best clothes, done her hair and makeup, took a huge dose of tranquilizers or something, and laid herself out on the couch in her dressing room. She looked like a queen lying in state.”

Shelley kept shaking her head. "Not suicide, I tell you. She wouldn't do that. She was the center of the universe. She wouldn't even consider it."

“What happened?" Jane asked. "How did she get away from her keeper long enough for anything to happen to her?"

“It was the keep er, Miss Longabach, who sent us here. There was some kind of mix-up about the transportation. You see, the stars and the directors have their own limos and drivers to take them back to the hotel downtown where everybody stays. The rest of the out-of-town cast and crew go in vans. Apparently Miss Longabach wasn't allowed to ride with Miss Harwell in the limo—"

“Doesn't that just figure!" Shelley said.

Mel went on, "She went back to wait at the hotel for her. When she didn't come, Miss Longabach assumed she had a dinner engagement and just hadn't mentioned it. After a while, though, she got worried and called Miss Harwell's driver to ask where he'd taken her and with whom. He said he hadn't taken her anyplace, he'd found a note on the front seat of the limo saying she didn't need a ride tonight. That's when Longabach got panicked. She called me. She'd kept my card when I interviewed her earlier. She was embarrassed, said she knew it was just confusion of plans, but to be sure, could I check the set?"

“Why didn't she send somebody from the crew?" Jane asked.

“They don't have cars of their own here, and she said the man in charge of local transportation had gone out for the evening."

“And you found her?" Jane asked.

“In her dressing room in that fancy trailer." "What about the security people on the set? Don't they leave somebody there all the time?"

“Two men, yes. But they just patrol, looking for intruders or anything out of the ordinary."

“Was her dressing room locked with her inside?" Jane asked.

“No. Unlocked. One of the security men had tested the door and noticed that it was unlocked, but he said it usually was. She either didn't keep any valuables in it or she was too dim to remember to lock up."

“What about the note the driver found in the limo? Did he keep it?"

“He had no reason to. He threw it out in a gas station trash can when he stopped to put some oil in the car and empty the ashtray. He can't remember which station it was, but he's trying to find the receipt. The trash is probably long gone by now.”

Shelley had been silent during this exchange. Now she spoke firmly. "Look, Mel. I know you think I'm crazy, but I'd stake my life on the fact that she did not commit suicide. The woman was pure ego. But besides that, Jane and I were on the set this afternoon and everybody — even thepeople who hated her the most — said she'd given the performance of her life today. Nobody could say enough good things about it."

“That's true," Jane said.

Shelley went on, "After years and years of wallowing in mediocrity, she'd finally shined again. Today was, well… a springboard to glory. She'd reestablished her talent and celebrity. She had everything to live for and believe me, she'd have wanted to revel in every gratifying second of it. She positively wouldn't have given it up.”

Mel looked thoughtful, but said nothing for a long moment. Then, "Jane, do you agree?”

Jane didn't hesitate. "I didn't talk to her much, but if Shelley feels this strongly, I have to agree.”

He walked across the kitchen and looked longingly at the coffeemaker. Jane handed him a cup, which he filled and sipped at for a minute. It was the dregs of the pot and must have tasted foul, but he made no sign of distaste, not even a slight flinch, which was a measure of his preoccupation.

Finally he said, "So do I. Agree with Shelley, that is. There's no proof in the world — yet — but my instinct tells me somebody killed her.”

19

“They have to be connected," Shelley said when Mel had gone back outside to oversee the police examination of the dressing room trailer. "Two people in the same production don't get killed for entirely different reasons by different people."

“How do we know that? I mean it, Shelley. There are more than a hundred people out there every day. Any six of them could be potential mass murderers."

“You're suggesting that six out of a hundred is some kind of national average? You know perfectly well you don't believe that."

“I didn't say I believed it. But it is possible."

“But it's more probable that it's one person."

“As far as I'm concerned, they can all kill each other off, so long as they go away. Sorry. I don't mean it. But I do wish they'd go away.".

“Jane, you're not thinking very clearly here. They're supposed to be finished tomorrow afternoon and have a wrap party tomorrow night—"

“Surely they'll call that off."

“Want to bet?"

“No, I don't think so. But what difference does it make?"

“Jane, Mel could be tied up investigating this thing for months! He can't keep the whole production in town. They're going to scatter like milkweed fluff by Saturday morning."

“Oh. I see what you mean. My weekend with him might be sometime next year."

“Right. And what you said about understanding their motives is dead-on, if you'll excuse the phrase. He looks on all those people as 'foreigners.' Almost 'aliens.' You and I don't understand them a whole lot better, but we're not thrown for quite such a loop as he is."

“I don't know, Shelley. I'd really rather stay out of it, I think. The police can't keep Mel chained to his desk forever."

“Jane…" Shelley began in a strained voice. "You can't stay out of this."

“I certainly can. I'm not terminally nosy, you know."

“That's not what I meant, exactly.”

Jane picked up the now empty coffee carafe and started rinsing it out. "What do you mean?" She put a hearty scoop of coffee into the basket.

Shelley didn't answer right away. "Well — I don't quite know how to say this, but there's something you're overlooking."

“Probably dozens of things, but what did you have in mind?" Jane poured cold water in the coffeemaker and pushed the button to start it brewing before she sat back down across from Shelley at the kitchen table.

“Jane, sooner or later — God, I hate to say this! Sooner or later Mel is going to question everyone about every conversation they heard Lynette Harwell have on this set.”

A faint alarm bell went off in the dim recesses of Jane's mind. "Yes?" she said warily.

“And one of her more 'public' conversations was with you and your son about her having had an affair with your husband. Lots of people might have overheard it. You and Mike both went off obviously upset, I assume. All of that is going to be in the record, from interviews with other people.”