A Knife to Remember jj-5

by Jill Churchill

  A Knife to Remember

  ( Jane Jeffry - 5 )

  Jill Churchill

  Suburban single mom Jane Jeffry is thrilled when an on-location movie sets up in her own backyard. But in no time she's regretting the intrusion with all its clamorous ego-clashing. There's trouble brewing with the film's fading sex goddess star, her shady leading man and her pseudo-continental director — both of whom have shared more than billing with the demanding diva in the past. But when a blackmailing prop man turns up dead, it appears that someone has miscast Jane as the killer — a scenario she's determined to rewrite by conducting her own private auditions to recast the culprit in the role of real-life murderer.

  Jill Churchill

  A Knife to Remember

  1

  Jane Jeffry threaded through all the parked cars on her street and pulled into her driveway, going very slowly and carefully to avoid falling into the pothole that was threatening to eat the whole driveway. She'd investigated the costs of a new driveway and decided the pothole would have to eat the whole block before she could afford such an extravagance.

  “Wow!" she said to herself, staring at the sight of a large truck easing its way between her house and her neighbor Shelley's.

  Shelley herself was standing on the little deck outside her kitchen door, likewise observing the strange phenomenon and looking ready and capable of stringing up the driver if he scraped her house. Jane pulled her ailing and ancient station wagon into her garage and went to join Shelley.

  “Who'd have thought they'd start so early in the day?" Jane said.

  “And be so efficient!" Shelley said. "Jane, you should have seen them take out the fence between our yards. They popped the posts out like a line of clothespins. And they've already got the dog runs set up."

  “Which Willard will probably be terrified of. What's that particular truck for?"

  “I don't know.”

  Jane shivered. It was only the first Tuesday in October, but there was a chill in the air and the station wagon's heater had refused to work while she was driving her car pool. One more thing to start budgeting for! "Let's go inside and watch from my back windows. Uh-oh," she added as the big battleship gray Lincoln wallowed into her driveway behind them.

  There was a nasty, scraping sound as the Lincoln fell into the pothole.

  Cringing, Jane called out, "Hi, Thelma," as her mother-in-law, frowning furiously, emerged from the car.

  “Jane! What's happened here?"

  “I'm outta here," Shelley murmured.

  Jane grabbed her friend's sleeve. "Don't you dare desert me," she hissed. Then, dragging Shelley along, she headed for her own house. "Thelma, come in out of the cold!”

  Thelma was still sputtering with vicarious indignation when they got into the kitchen. "They're tearing up your whole yard! What happened to your fence? Have you called city hall?"

  “Thelma, it's all right," Jane assured the older woman, pouring each of them a cup of coffee. "They're making a movie.”

  Thelma scoffed. "In your backyard? Come now, Jane!”

  Jane set the cups, along with cream and sugar on a tray and led the way to the living room, where the large back windows overlooked the scene of chaos behind the house. "Not in our yards, in the field behind us. They're using our backyards for the equipment."

  “That terrible field!" Thelma sniffed. "I've always said that was dangerous, all that open land."

  “I know you've said that," Jane responded. Almost every time you come here, she added mentally. "But we like the field, don't we, Shelley? I'm glad the land developer went bankrupt before the division was finished and left that vacant land.”

  Thelma had seated herself with her back to the window, but curiosity overcame her and she set her coffee aside to get up and look outside. "But a movie. . why would somebody make a movie here, of all places?"

  “It isn't a whole movie," Shelley said. "Just a few scenes. They'll only be here a few days. And they're paying the homeowners very generously and instal- ling brand-new fences for us when they're done.”

  She caught herself and gave Jane a quick, chagrined look as if to say, Why am I apologizing?

  “Well, I think it's outrageous, disturbing your lives this way, just to make another film. Probably more of that Hollywood trash, anyway. There aren't enough good movies being made anymore.”

  While Thelma Jeffry finished her coffee, she continued to rumble about how the world had gone to the dogs, and things weren't like that in her day, and how she feared for the next generation. She finished up her tirade with a bit about Madonna's sex book, on which she seemed curiously well informed. Eventually she got to the point of the visit.

  “I just dropped by to bring you your check, Jane. I'd best be on my way. I'm giving a talk at my club luncheon today and I need to refresh myself on my notes." She shrugged into her suit jacket and fished a large green check out of her purse to hand to Jane.

  Jane's late (and progressively less lamented) husband Steve had been a partner in the Jeffry family's small chain of drugstores — along with his widowed mother and his brother Ted. In the early years of Jane and Steve's marriage, the business had hit a rough financial spot at about the same time as Jane received a tidy little inheritance from a great-aunt. She had put her money into the pharmacy. Because of her investment at a crucial time and her role as a partner's widow, Jane received a third share of the chain's monthly profits and always would.

  Jane was entitled to the money, but Thelma always presented the check in person, and always managed to make it seem like charity on her part instead of Jane's due. And when possible, like today, she made the "gift" in view of witnesses.

  Jane folded the check, ostentatiously not looking at the amount, and put it in her jeans pocket. "Thanks, Thelma," she said through nearly gritted teeth.

  “Why do you let her do that?" Shelley asked when Thelma had finally gone.

  “Because I'm a wimp!" Jane said. "I keep trying to see it from her viewpoint. Steve's been dead for almost two years now and is going to keep on being dead, if you know what I mean. He's not working for the pharmacies anymore and never will again. She probably resents having to give me a third, just as if he were still contributing to making the profits.”

  Jane let her big shambling dog Willard out of the basement, where he'd been hiding from Thelma, and the women went back to the living room and dragged a pair of armchairs nearer the window to watch what was going on outside. The big truck they'd watched pull in was now unloading its cargo. A huge sturdy yellow tent was being set up in Jane's yard and a similar tent in light green was going up in Shelley's yard. Another enormous flatbed truck had pulled into the field and big flat building components were being unloaded. Sham buildings were springing up before their very eyes and workers swarmed everywhere.

  “I take it you haven't yet told Thelma about your trip with Mel this weekend," Shelley said, without looking away from the astonishing sight.

  “God, no! I know I'm going to have to, but I just can't face it. I thought maybe Thursday."

  “Uh-huh. You figure she won't have time to call out the National Guard to throw up a cordon around your house before Friday morning?"

  “Something like that."

  “So, when you do tell her, what are you going to say?”

  Jane cleared her throat and gave it a practice run. " 'Thelma, you remember Detective Van Dyne, don't you? Well, I wanted to let you know he and I are going to New York for the weekend. I'm leaving Mike in charge of Katie and Todd and he'll have a number where I can be reached if there's any emergency. Good-bye.' Then I hang up real fast before she can say anything."

  “And she'll call you back a millisecond later to read you the riot act."
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  “I'm ready for it. I'll just explain that I'm nearly forty years old, a competent adult widow, entitled to make these decisions myself. My oldest son is a senior in high school, a responsible boy who will look after his brother and sister. And then when she calls me a slut, I'll hang up on her again.”

  Shelley nodded. "Sounds good to me. You think she really is going to hit the roof?"

  “Oh, I'm sure of it. I think she's always resented the fact that I didn't throw myself into Steve's grave. The idea that I might have a sex life will make her head spin." Jane paused. "Actually, it makes my head spin. Want a cookie? I made some to leave with the kids."

  “Sure. . they're not those tooth-breakers again, are they?"

  “Shelley, you know that was just a mistake I made by not following the recipe closely enough.”

  Jane returned a minute later with some sugar cookies tinted pink and cut in the shape of hearts. Willard was so hard on her heels that he was nearly treading on her shoes.

  “Too cute," Shelley said, taking a cookie and holding it well out of Willard's range. Willard sat down by Jane and looked at her adoringly.

  “Have you told the kids your plans yet?" Shelley asked.

  “Only Mike. He took it very well. I knew he would. Shelley, I don't know what I'll do without him when he goes to college next year. I think Todd will be okay about it, too. It probably won't occur to him that this is anything more than an adult sleepover. But Katie—”

  Shelley was still gazing out the window as Jane spoke. She interrupted Jane's tale of maternal woe. "I think you're about to have company.”

  Jane gave Willard the last of her cookie and went to look. A woman in jeans and a padded, hooded jacket was in the yard where the large tent was almost set up. She was gesturing to a young man as she headed for Jane's back door.

  Jane had the door open before the woman reached it. "Can I help you?" she asked.

  The woman shoved back her hood with one hand and extended the other to Jane. "Hi. I'm Maisie Valkenberg. May I come in? I need to murder somebody!”

  2

  “Who's that?" Shelley asked as Jane came back into the living room.

  “Somebody who needed to use the phone," Jane said, then fell silent as the two of them shamelessly eavesdropped on the half of the conversation going on in the kitchen.

  “Listen, Anita," Maisie Valkenberg was saying firmly, "somebody's really fallen down on the job. The phone line isn't installed and I'm having to impose on the neighbors. My medical kit did not come out on Harry's truck like you promised me it would and I've already had a grip with a bad splinter. I had to borrow tweezers and peroxide from makeup. This is not the way to run things and I'm going to be talking to the producers in a few minutes. You don't want me unhappy, Anita. I can raise a really big stink if I need to. Safety regulations scare the money people half to death, you know.”

  There was a moment's silence, presumably while the downtrodden Anita tried to defend herself. Maisie briskly fired another barrage of threats at her before hanging up.

  “Take notes, Jane," Shelley said in an undertone. "You might try that technique on Thelma."

  “I'm really sorry to have bothered you this way," the visitor said, peeking her head in the living room door.

  “It's no bother at all," Jane said. "Do you have a minute to sit down? You look like you could use something hot to drink. Coffee? Tea?"

  “Oh, what a good, good woman you are!" Maisie exclaimed. "Coffee, please. As hot as you can make it. Craft services aren't set up yet either.”

  Jane and Shelley exchanged bewildered looks. "What does that mean?" Jane asked.

  Maisie had come into the living room and was methodically stripping off layers of clothing: her padded jacket, mittens, a muffler, stocking cap, cable-knit sweater. A trim, pretty woman of about forty-five, with springy dark hair, flashing eyes, and a red turtleneck over jeans emerged from the extra clothes.

  “I'm sorry. Craft services is the snack area in movie-ese. That's what's going into your backyard here. I really do apologize for bursting in here so rudely. I didn't even ask your name."

  “I'm Jane Jeffry and this is my neighbor Shelley Nowack."

  “I'm Maisie Valkenberg. I'm the set nurse for this misbegotten production. Neighbor which way?”

  Shelley pointed.

  “Then you'll be the honey wagons. And wardrobe goes on the other side."

  “Honey wagons?" Shelley asked.

  “Dressing rooms for the principal actors. Rest ooms for the rest of the cast and crew. The truck coming between your houses a few minutes ago was one of them.”

  Jane poured Maisie a fresh cup of coffee and took it to the microwave to nuke it to the boiling point. When she came back, Maisie was nibbling a cookie and saying, "Have you ever watched a movie being made before?"

  “Only when my parents took us on the obligatory trip to California when I was a child," Shelley said. "We toured a studio, but I don't remember it looking anything like this."

  “No, the studios are sanitized. Especially the ones that allow tourists. Location work is a whole different game. You'll probably enjoy it a lot. It's a weird, inbred little world and probably very different from what you'd imagine. My base will be by craft services. Bring your lawn chairs out tomorrow when they start filming and I'll try to explain anything I can."

  “Won't we be in the way?"

  “Not if you stick with me. They're putting up a fake building to shield the 'innards' of the production from the camera's sight. We'll be able to peek through. Just don't invite everybody you know."

  “What about the kids?" Jane asked. "My son's school is having an in-service day tomorrow. He's dying to watch."

  “How old is he?"

  “Eighteen.”

  Maisie nodded. "Let me see if I can't find him something to do. Some kind of gofer job. He'd have fun."

  “That would be great! Tell us about the movie," Jane said, handing around the cookie plate again just above Willard's reach. "The people who contracted with us for our backyards didn't tell us anything. What's the story?"

  “As it happens, I sort of know. I don't usually even see a script because I don't need to, but this one's based on a book I read and really liked a couple years ago. The working title is The Chicago Fire, but the marketing dweebs will rename it. Probably Secret Flames or something. We're moving fast. Only five days on this location, including setup. The rest of the film was done in studios and these scenes will wrap it up. If they're following the book, there should be two parts that happen here. The big scene with the refugees from the fire setting up a sort of camp and then another segment many years after the fire when the heroine comes back, having inherited the land where she was once a penniless, singed widow. It was really a great story. The first part, of course, involves mobs of extras — all doing their best to hurt themselves and come whining to me," she added with a martyred look.

  “Who's going to be in it?" Shelley asked. "Lynette Harwell is the lead."

  “Lynette Harwell? I thought she was dead!" Jane exclaimed. "She won that Best Actress award for Day of Love and then dropped out of sight."

  “Not entirely," Maisie said. "You just haven't been watching grade-B movies since then. She's starred in such memorable films as Killer Women of the Andes, Horror Nite, and something I swear was called Wasted Efforts, which was truly a wasted effort. There must have been another ten or twelve, but I'm glad to say I've forgotten the names. Real doggy films. But I don't believe she's made any movies for the last five years or so."

  “Why? What happened to her?" Jane asked. "I saw Day of Love a half dozen times — I just rented it from the video store a month ago, in fact — and she was fantastic. Was that great performance just a fluke, or what?"

  “No, she's good. She just made real poor choices because she was greedy. I think she figured she could overcome the roles, like Michael Caine does. Nobody holds it against him that he makes terrible movies. He still gets chances to make good ones, too.
But karma must have been against Lynette. She probably did a couple dreadful movies and nobody gave her the opportunity to do another good one. Then, too, there's the bad luck thing—"

  “Bad luck? What do you mean?" Shelley asked.

  “Well, she's been on troubled sets where there were accidents, thefts, illnesses, financial problems. I was on one of those films. None of the bad things had anything to do with her, as far as I know, but people in this business are fanatically superstitious. If somebody gets the reputation for bringing bad luck to a set, it's damn hard for them to get work."

  “Is that why she hasn't worked lately?"

  “I don't know. I heard a rumor that she was carted off to a loony bin for some kind of intensive therapy. Probably drugs. But it might not be true atall. Maybe her manager just decided it was trendier to be in rehab than simply unemployed and put the rumor out himself."

  “Then how did she get this job?" Jane asked.

  “I have no idea. There's a lot of speculation about it. Most of it pretty rude. But this one may well be the role that revives her career. I've watched some of the dailies and she's doing a fantastic job. One day last week she did a scene that even had the grips wiping their eyes. It's astonishing.”

  Jane was reveling in the conversation. All this inside poop on the famous was like having "Entertainment Tonight" broadcast live from her living room.

  But Shelley had the perplexed look of a woman who was trying to drag something out of deep storage at the furthermost recesses of her brain. "Wasn't she from around here?" she asked. "It seems to me that I knew somebody who knew somebody who knew. . no, it was her brother. He used to live in the next suburb over. I think he was deaf and went to work for a school district down south."

  “Why, yes. I know who you mean," Maisie exclaimed. "I remember her brother. He used to do her makeup, but got out of the business to teach the deaf. So they lived around here?"

  “I'm pretty sure they did. I'm remembering an article in the Sunday supplement years ago when she won the Oscar. It said she was a 'home town girl' who started out here doing commercials and fashion shows."