Katherine Page - The Body in the Cast

“Makes sense, but let's get him right away.”

Charley left and Dunne speculated: "It sounds to me like somebody wants to shut the production down. I wonder if Sandra's death wasn't an accident. Too much of whatever was put in the alcohol, or something she was allergic to. The idea was to have another poisoning where nobody actually got hurt, although from what Charley has said, everyone suffered." He looked pointedly at Faith.

“You could be right," she said. "I think what I'm trying to say is that there's been an unusual amount of tension on this set compared to others I worked on. I'vebeen chalking it up to Max's unorthodox methods—and his personality. We've all been waiting for a display of his famous temper. Evelyn isn't exactly laid-back, either." She told him about the forest scene shoot and subsequent drama enacted at the Marriott, then returned to her previous point. "In retrospect, I think the other night was Evelyn's ego run amok, no doubt an everyday event. Stars with their noses out of joint are pretty common on movie sets. People work around it, ignore it. But the strain in the air on A has been more than that."

“Any ideas who would want to stop the filming?" Dunne asked.

Faith thought for a moment. "No. In fact, it would be detrimental to everyone I can think of—the actors, Max, crew, producers."

“What about the studio? Isn't there some sort of insurance money they collect if the movie isn't finished? Could they be in trouble?"

“Maybe, but this is supposed to be a blockbuster with an all-star cast and the cachet of Maxwell Reed as director. It's slated for a wide release at Christmas. They stand to make a whole lot more money if the picture is finished. Besides, and maybe I'm being naïve, I can't imagine they'd go to such lengths to get the insurance money."

“Unless somebody was overextended, shall we say. Like one of the producers. The track, women, high living.”

Faith tried to fit Arnold Rose into the picture. Or Kit Murphy, lounging in someone's pink satin boudoir, her filmy negligee carelessly tossed to one side, next to the marabou feather-trimmed high-heeled mules she'd kicked off before lowering the lights and finishing the champagne. The champagne was right, but the rest .. .

“No, the producers—and they've been with Max for years, like almost everyone else—seem as anxious as anyone to get the picture made."

“A disgruntled crew member?"

“Possibly. And he or she could be responsible for the soup, too, but other than run-of-the-mill grousing about lack of sleep and cold weather, I haven't heard any complaints. Working on one of Max's pictures is a credential people in the business fight to get. Caresse has been the only outspoken malcontent."

“What about Caresse?"

“I suppose it's possible. She's hardly led a normal childhood—whatever one is." Faith tried not to get distracted. She spent a lot of time these days thinking about this topic in the hopes of saving Ben and Amy hours on the couch, not to mention fees that could be put to better use, such as sending aging parents to the Caribbean or the south of France in some far distant winters.

“Putting the laxative in the soup seems like something she would do out of spite—she was really furious at Max and could easily have grabbed a dozen or so boxes from Evelyn's stash, but she wasn't even on the set today. This scene involves infant Pearl, represented by very docile twin baby girls.”

Faith looked out the window. The dull gray sky framed by the ball fringe on the Pingrees' white Priscilla curtains threatened rain, or worse—snow. When had she stopped greeting the first flakes with the delight Ben did? Sometime in April her first year in Aleford? She was getting old and her bones felt creaky, or maybe it was just from sitting on the four-poster, which seemed to have a mattress stuffed with corncobs.

There was such a thing as too much authenticity, and people with period houses often veered dangerously close to the line.

“We'll start someone checking on what Miss Carroll and her mother were up to this morning. Anyone else missing from the set—that is, any of the principals?"

“No, I was surprised to see Marta, though. I didn't think she was involved in this scene, except you never know with Max. He's taken a pretty free hand with Hawthorne"

“Reed said Sandra Wilson was one of his production assistants. Did you see her other than at the party and on the set ... know her at all?"

“Not really. She'd come to request a tray for Max, Evelyn, or one of the other actors at lunch or a snack at other times, and I'd see her when she ate, usually with Max's stand-in, the guy who said she drank from the cup. We'd exchanged pleasantries. That's all. She struck me as somewhat shy, although her performances were anything but. She seemed totally devoted to Max—following him around with her clipboard and watching him starry-eyed when he was busy with someone else, that kind of thing." Faith was glad she hadn't known Sandra better. It was easier to deal with her death in a vacuum, without the knowledge of parents, sisters, brothers, happy years growing up in wherever.

“What about the male stand-in? Were they romantically involved?"

“I don't know. Though I hope so, because if she was in love with Max, it was pointless.”

Faith saw Sandra's glowing face again as she emerged from kissing Max after the strip. There was no if about the young woman's feelings for the director.

She sighed. Life was monumentally unfair.

Having reduced God's cosmic joke to a single sentence, she debated with herself what to tell Dunne about Cornelia. Cornelia had been on the set, of course. Glowering in the corner during the stand-in shooting and strangely quiet and immobile during its aftermath. Certainly she was jealous of Sandra, but she wouldn't do anything like this. Tamper with one of Max's sacred props! Never!

Dunne eyed her suspiciously. Faith found it almost difficult to meet his gaze.

“Are you sure you've told me everything? Do I have to give you the speech again?”

The speech, Faith knew from experience, consisted of stern reminders that this was a murder investigation, not a Sunday School picnic, etc., etc., etc. Certainly it was a murder investigation, and investigate was exactly what she intended to do.

She crossed her fingers behind her back, something of a reflex, and said, "Of course I have.”

Anyone peering in the lighted windows of the parsonage later that evening would have been rewarded by a picture as wholesome as apple pie, or, since it was Faith, tarte tatin. Mother was at the sink washing pots. Baby Amy was swaying contently in her wind-up swing and little Ben was drawing pictures across the table from Father, who was reading the newspaper—yesterday's, since it was Tom. He never seemed to have time to catch up and yet could not bring himself to take his wife's suggestion and skip a day. An acute observer might have noticed the slight frown on Mother's face as she attacked the broccoli and orecchiette pan with a scouring pad. And Father seemed to be reading the pa- per uncommonly fast—as if nothing could engage his attention for long. He flung the pages to one side and directed his attention to his son.

“What are you making? It looks like a very nice car. Good job, Ben?' Ben shook his head. "It's our house, Daddy. See all the bushes in front, and here's Superdog to save the day!" Ben finished his explanation in song. Grown-ups just didn't get it.

Superdog or man, woman, girl, or boy was what they needed about now, Faith reflected. Someone who would go directly to the heart of the matter and solve it in the name of truth and justice. She was so enmeshed in this fantasy that when the doorbell rang, she called out to Tom, "I'll get it," half-expecting to throw open the door and see someone of steel in blue tights and a cape.