The Body in the Cast ff-5

by Katherine Hall Page

  “The pâte de maison is so good, too, though. But you're right, the soup is perfect for tonight. Are you in the mood for meat or fish?"

  “Definitely meat. I want to discuss something with you. It seems crazy, only I can't put it out of my mind, and I need hearty, chewable food."

  “Ah, Mistress Fairchild. I thought something ailed thee." Tom had been rereading Hawthorne, too.

  The kir and the glowing copper colors of the pleasant country French decor in the room were making Faith feel quite mellow.

  “Not as bad as all that. Just an idea. How about going all out and splitting the Chateaubriand?"

  “But then we'll miss the duck à l'orange."

  “Tom. We live in Aleford. We can come back.”

  “Béarnaise sauce it is and a bottle of Côtes du Rhône.”

  I should be thinking quite creatively before the night is out, Faith said to herself.

  The steaming soup arrived and as Tom stuck his spoon in eagerly, he said, "All right, let's have it. It was partly to give you a chance to talk that I engineered this whole thing. What's been going on lately has been strictly pas devant les enfants.”

  An undergraduate year in France had left him permanently in love with the country and prone to French phrases and Franglais—all of which had increased due to their recent sojourn in Lyon. A sojourn that did have its rocky moments, but by concentrating on memories of certain meals, certain people, and the light on the hills in Provence, those other moments had taken on pebblelike proportions—most of the time.

  “And partly by a lust for Claude's cooking," Faith added.

  “Certainement, mon petit chou. So, what's up?"

  “I can't stop thinking about Sandra Wilson. I know it's irrational, but I feel responsible. I owe it to her to find out who did it."

  “It's not irrational to wish you could have saved her, but it is to think you have to track down her killer. Be sensible, Faith."

  “But none of this has been sensible. Since I started this job, I've felt as if I've been watching a movie of a movie. Even before Sandra was killed. It's been a very strange, sort of disassociated sensation. Today, especially, I began thinking how blurred the boundaries between life and art are. I know I'm beginning to sound like a sophomore who's just discovered Joyce, but where it's led me is to wonder if the answer lies in the fact that some of the people in the film are forgetting to put aside their characters when they wipe off their makeup”

  Tom reached for Faith's hand. His bowl was empty. He was contemplative. "Many actors and actresses find themselves living their parts after the camera stops—particularly in roles that require great intensity. It's got to be confusing, and maybe after a while it is hard to remember which face is the mask. Do you have anyone special in mind?”

  Faith's answer was vinous stream of consciousness.

  “There are, or were, two Hesters, and at first I thought it was Hester/Evelyn he was obsessed by. There was the way he looked at her—at them—at the dinner party, and there's no question that he's enormously protective of her. It's Max—or rather Roger Chillingworth. Sometimes I can't tell where one leaves off and the other begins."

  “What do you think this means?"

  “It's all confused, because now I'm beginning to think the cup was meant for Evelyn. Max didn't ask her to the screening the other night. He seemed entranced by Hester/Sandra. Except he still seems very jealous of Cappy. When he saw him with Evelyn at the dinner table, Max made her move. Then when they walked in together after Sandra had passed out, he looked unbelievably angry. Of course, he was upset at the situation and at me for suggesting the call to the police. Evelyn went over to him immediately, almost as if she was afraid. She immediately assumed the poison was meant for her."

  “So you think Max or Roger, whatever, put the chloral hydrate in the cup?"

  “He stopped the shooting just before Sandra took a drink. That way he could have been sure Evelyn would drink it. Or thought he was.”

  Trudy Miguel appeared and showed them the succulent piece of meat, beaming as she presented the platter for their approval. It was done to a turn, a very short turn. They oohed and aahed appropriately. After she left, they resumed their conversation.

  “What you're suggesting is that Max wanted to replace Evelyn with Sandra, both because he was jealous of Cappy and because he was besotted with Sandra."

  “I know it sounds farfetched. But I think the two women are merged into one Hester in his director's mind—and he's in love with both. Two aspects of one character. And he's split, too. The director wants the best for the role, which might be Sandra. The actorChillingworth, the jealous husband—wants to get even with his wife for her adultery. The result is the same. A potion—remember it wasn't normally a lethal dose."

  “It's not impossible. Jealousy and ambition are powerful motives, yet why would he sabotage his own movie?"

  “Maybe he merely intended to scare Evelyn. Give her a warning. Or make her just ill enough so Sandra would have to take her place. Or maybe he can't help himself. And there's another thing”

  The food arrived, postponing further speculation. The moment the waitress left, Faith took a sip of wine and said, "What if Cordelia isn't Max's child? What if she's Cappy's and Max has just found out? It really would be like The Scarlet Letter." She waited for her husband to stop chewing and put a dollop of the béarnaise sauce, redolent with tarragon, on her plate.

  “Do you know that Cappy and Evelyn even knew. each other before? Other than as box-office draws?" Clearly Tom thought the whole thing was extremely speculative.

  “No, but Cappy spent a lot of time at the party playing with the baby, and the baby doesn't resemble Max in the slightest. Then there was that time I saw them together at The Dandy Lion, right after Evelyn got out of the hospital. And she held hands with both Cappy and Max at the screening." As she listed her evidence, she had to admit it was far from an airtight case.

  Tom was shaking his head. "One lunch does not an affair make—usually. Nor does holding hands qualify as foreplay, especially in the presence of a room full of people." He poured himself some more wine. "It would make a good novel—Max could film it instead and poor Nathaniel could stop spinning in his grave. Sometimes life does imitate art—how's that for sophomoric?—but I can't believe that Maxwell Reed is this crazy. He stands to lose too much: his movie, the love of his life, and the clincher—possibly many, many years in prison."

  “I suppose you're right, although think of the contrasts between the two men. Cappy is closer to Evelyn's age and certainly more conventionally good-looking. Much more."

  “Maybe Evelyn is interested in other than a pretty face."

  “Other than hers?"

  “Maybe not," Tom conceded. "And it is an extraordinarily pretty face. I didn't see the footage, but I can't imagine that Sandra Wilson could hold a candle to Evelyn O'Clair. Both ladies, I might add, completely outclassed by my own wife. My own overly inquisitive wife.”

  It might be time to move on to another subject, although Faith knew this one would continue to claim front row center. But for the moment, Tom's last remark had been happily diverting. She sighed and soaked up the last bit of sauce from her plate with a piece of bread.

  “Now, what shall we have for dessert?”

  Cappy Camson had opened the drapes in his Marriott room, but what moonlight there was did not penetrate the night fog and his windows were well above the lights on Cambridge Street. Unable to sleep, he'd rolled out of bed and deliberately hadn't turned on the lamp by his side. He slumped in the room's one armchair, the darkness suiting his mood.

  He stretched his feet out on the small table in front of him and wondered how he had ever gotten into this mess.

  Stardom was something that had happened to him. He hadn't pursued it and, he told himself, he wouldn't miss it. But she was attracted by all the phonycharisma. He didn't kid himself She would never have been interested in Caleb Camson from Oklahoma City. And was she even that interested in
Caleb Camson from Laurel Canyon?

  He stood up, walked across the room, and opened the small refrigerator the hotel kept stocked with whatever he might want day or night. The light shone weakly and he stared at his bare feet with sudden repugnance. His tan was almost gone. He took a can of V8 juice and went back to the window He was obsessed. And this had never happened before. All these years. All those women. He'd always been able to erase his current favorite from his mind and concentrate on his work. Until now. Now all he could think of was how her incredibly smooth flesh would feel pressed close to his. He was haunted by the smell she exuded, the perfume of her hair and something else, something that didn't come in a bottle. How was he going to finish the film without exploding? He rested the half-empty can on his thigh and noted without surprise that he had a hard-on.

  At times, he wished he had turned Max's offer down. He had been flattered and excited by the idea of playing against type. But he knew he'd do the same thing all over again. Cappy was nothing but honest—with himself

  Seven

  I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature!

  In church Sunday morning, Alden Spaulding appeared decked out in a campaign button the size of a turkey platter, which Faith thought was in very poor taste. If Alden wanted a bully pulpit, let him get one of his own. She was sure the Lord agreed with her.

  After the service, Alden worked the crowd at coffee hour: pressing the flesh, mixing and mingling. In contrast, Penny left after a scant cup. Alden appeared to find her departure telling and was quick to point it out to several of those around him.

  “I'm afraid my dear sister doesn't seem to have much time to talk about the burning issues that confront Aleford. Perhaps," he said sarcastically, "she has another engagement.”

  Faith pulled Tom away from an earnest discussion of who really wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. "You've got to do something about Alden! Or at least make him pay for airtime."

  “Darling, I can't ask a man to leave his own church, whatever I may feel about his uncharitable behavior."

  “At least go over there. Maybe your ministerial presence will shame him into going, or at least behaving better."

  “I doubt it, but I guess it's worth a try.”

  Faith watched Tom's black-gowned figure move through the crowd. "f he can't do it .. ." ran through her mind and she seriously contemplated a cartwheel or two in front of the astonished congregation. She was ready for a sabbatical. f the clergy could take them, surely spouses qualified, as well.

  After half an hour, she went downstairs and collected Ben and Amy from Sunday school day care. It was freezing out again and she had no trouble convincing Ben to race. Encumbered by Amy, she lost, much to her son's delight. He crowed, "I won! I won!" over and over in a typical almost-four-year-old manner as she struggled with her keys and finally opened the door to the warm kitchen. She stripped off their snowsuits quickly and turned her attention to the stove.

  In a moment of brotherly love, Ben was teaching Amy to bang on pots, and when the phone rang, Faith had to divert them with raisins and Cheerios, respectively, so she could hear.

  “Hello, Faith. It's John. Did you pray for me?"

  “Yes, I think you were covered in the collect for grace. But surely this is not the sole reason for your call?"

  “No, and I may be sorry—a phrase I seem to say a lot around you—but I'd like you to look at the footage of the scene they shot just before Sandra drank from the cup."

  “I'd love to! When do you want me to come?" Faith had been thinking about the scene. She knew the cameras had been rolling when they were checking the lighting. It was unlikely that they had recorded a mysterious hand pouring something into the cup, yet they might have caught something in the room that would trigger an idea.

  “We've got the film, of course, so it can be anytime. I don't want to take you away from Tom and the kids today, so how about tomorrow morning?”

  Oh, take me away, Faith wanted to beg. She was dying to see the shots, but with Tom plus three parishioners due for Sunday dinner any moment and the rest of tomorrow's food for the shoot to prepare, she had to agree. They arranged to meet around 7:30 A.M. at state police headquarters, which would still give Faith time to get to the set before lunch. She quickly called Pix and Niki, then turned her attention to the "chicken every Sunday" type of meal she was preparing, this version a nicely browning roaster with slices of garlic tucked under the skin and stuffed with chopped red peppers, onions, golden raisins, and bulgur moistened with butter and a little vermouth.

  The following morning, Faith was ushered into a darkened room by a stalwart young state police officer who bore a vague resemblance to Dudley Do-Right about the chin. John Dunne and Charley MacIsaac were both waiting for her. No popcorn, but Charley had a bag of Munchkins that he offered around. John took four and Faith politely declined.

  Dunne got up and stood by the projector. "There isn't any sound. They weren't recording."

  “It was to test for lighting," Faith said, "but they did say their lines."

  “Yeah, you can see that." He flicked a switch and first there was a long black leader, then the Pingree dining room sprang onto the screen, only it wasn't the dining room at all. It was a room out of a dream, totally a creation of the imagination. There was no suggestion that the white fabric floating about the walls was held on by pins or that about twenty people were just out of the frame. A soft light suffused the interior, leaving the periphery in shadows. After lingering on the room as a whole, the camera moved in for a close-up of Hester/Sandra. She looked absolutely terrified. Her eyes were abnormally large and fixed straight ahead on Roger Chillingworth, whose back was to the camera. Slowly he turned, revealing a small table that held his bag and the cup into which he had poured his healing draft. Either Greg was no actor or the role specified that Chillingworth's face be devoid of expression. As Faith gazed transfixed once more by the film, she suspected the latter. The doctor's lack of expression as he encouraged Hester to drink was particularly menacing. Hester/Sandra seemed to shrink inside herself and, trembling, took the cup. Her husband reached out and traced the scarlet letter on her bosom. She flinched, then stood up with an almost defiant look, raising the cup to her lips. The scene ended abruptly and once more they were looking at a dark screen.

  It had been horrible watching Sandra Wilson's last moments in what it now appeared was almost a snuff film. Faith felt ill.

  “Anything?" Dunne's voice asked quietly. He must have seen the film before, probably many times, but there was sadness and shock in his tone.

  There was no question. Without the distraction of sound, it was her face, her presence that dominated. As Faith had realized at the Marriott screening, the camera was enamored of Sandra. She was destined for stardom, and the same subjective camera had almost recorded her death.

  Faith closed her eyes and thought. Nothing came. Nothing she could put in words. She had to see it again.

  They ended up watching it three more times—and repetition did not lessen the impact—before Faith said, "Enough."

  “Let's go to my office," Dunne suggested, and the three left the room.

  “You got any coffee?" Charley asked. It was the first time he'd spoken since offering the doughnuts.

  “Sure—not so good as Mrs. Fairchild's, but it does the job.”

  They settled into Dunne's cramped office, which was filled with file cabinets; a few chairs, not of the same period; and a battered wooden desk, conspicuous for the absence of any pictures, memorabilia, or personal items save a Gary Larson calendar. The coffee did indeed do the job, if the job was to unclog a drainpipe. Faith hastily put hers down after one exploratory swallow. Charley was made of sterner stuff and determinedly made his way through the cup.

  “What did you see?"

  “Something I didn't pick up on when I was actually in the room. There were so many people and so much going on that I didn't really focus on Sandra's face, just on the overall effect of the scene, which is b
oth terrifying and very sensual.”

  Charley and Dunne both nodded.

  “When I saw it today, it seemed that she looked more frightened than I remembered. Her pupils were enormous—and when I was holding her, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, they were like pinpoints. Which must have been from the chloral. Also, in the film, you can see she was shaking all over. When the camera moved in for that tight close-up, I even thought I could see goose bumps on her arm. It seemed more than the part called for and I wonder if she was afraid for real—or it could have been something else"

  “Like what?"

  “Like drugs?"

  “Same thing struck us. Nothing turned up in the autopsy, but she may have been experiencing some kind of withdrawal. Or, as you say, she could have been afraid of something."

  “Or someone," Charley contributed, crumpling up his cup and making a shot into the wastebasket that Larry Bird would have admired.

  “I'm wondering why she drank from the cup. From the look on her face, the most natural thing would have been to get the hell out of there. Unless it wasn't someone on the set upsetting her, but an incident that had happened before the scene."

  “Did you see her come in?" John said.

  “No, I was there earlier, watching from the butler's pantry, and she was already in the room with Evelyn and Max. I remember thinking that she seemed to be trying to stay out of their way. She was in costume and stood by one of the front windows. It was a contrast to her usual spot—at Max's elbow, ready, willing, and able. The rest of the crew was bustling about putting up the fabric and doing whatever. Then Cappy Camson came in and asked Max if he had time to stretch his legs. Max told him to check back in an hour and Evelyn said in that case, she'd go for a walk, too." As she recounted this, Faith debated whether to tell them her Maxwell Reed/Roger Chillingworth theory, but she decided now was not the time. She needed to work on it some more.