The Body in the Cast

Caresse. It all added up, except for one thing. When did the merry prankster do it?

Another thought occurred to Faith. 'Has there ever been trouble of this kind on Max Reed's other films?'

“No,' Cornelia answered fiercely, 'certainly not. Oh, well, the usual tricks, especially at the end of a shoot when everyone's nerves have been getting a little frayed. One of the PAs found a lot of plastic maggots in her coffee during Maggot Morning, thought they were real, got hysterical, and quit. Then, of course, there were plastic maggots everywhere. And sometimes people prepare joke versions of certain scenes. However'—she squared her shoulders, shoulders that needed no pads—'the individuals who work on his films are professionals.

“Now, I'd love to stay and chat with you all day'—Cornelia was up and flinging some money on the table—'but I've stayed too long already. Take care of the bill, will you?”

Another kiss kiss, a vague good-bye to little whatever, and she was gone.

“You know she didn't leave enough,' Faith told her daughter, who obligingly blew a few spit bubbles in agreement.

She paid the bill and once again prepared herself and her child to meet the elements. It would be simpler, she'd told Tom her first winter in Aleford, to get sewn into a kind of quilted all-weather cocoon in October and emerge as a rank butterfly in May than constantly getting in and out of layers of clothing day and night.

She wheeled the stroller toward the door, then, attracted by the warm smell of the burning logs in the other room, turned the corner to look at the fire. The logs were crackling in the fieldstone fireplace and the occupants of the tables lingering over coffee seemed to appreciate the ambience created. Two patrons at the table farthest from the door were not looking at the fire—or Faith. They were gazing into each other's matchless eyes, gems of sparkling sapphire blue meeting deep puddles of liquid brown velvet.

It was Evelyn O'Clair and Cappy Camson.

No reason why two cast members shouldn't get to-gether for lunch, even if one of them has just gotten out of the hospital. No reason at all. Faith filed the picture the two made for future reference. Her system was every bit as efficient as her husband's, and, like Tom, she really did know exactly where everything was—usually.

This time when Faith returned home after picking Ben up at school, there was a message from one of what she and the rest of the town customarily referred to as the 'movie people.' It was Alan Morris and he asked her to call him back at her earliest convenience. That could be a few weeks, she thought as she tried to listen to Ben's tale of some playground inequity, gave both children something to eat, and finally settled them—Amy playpen-bound—in front of a tape of 'Thomas the Tank Engine.' The British had managed to make the series so didactic, a mother could almost feel she was advancing her children's moral development instead of parking them in front of the TV.

Alan Morris was in and, from the sound of his voice, happy to hear from her.

“The police chief said he had spoken with you, so you know what caused the uh ... problem yesterday:' Alan said delicately.

Faith wasn't sure what she was supposed to say. Beg for her job back, asserting Have Faith's noninvolvement? Commiserate with the assistant director, who, she recalled, had come back for seconds? But would saying she was sorry suggest blame?

“Yes, he told me,' was the best she could come up with at short notice.

“Max is, as you might expect, quite furious about the whole affair,' Alan continued.

Furious at Faith in some way? Furious at fate? She stuck with the tried and true. 'Yes, I can imagine,' she replied.

“Of course, he's not angry at you. He adores your cooking. Obviously, you and your staff had nothing to do with it.”

Did his voice rise slightly at the end of the sentence? Was it a question? Was he fishing for reassurance? Faith knew what to say now.

“Obviously. And I'm so glad you recognize this. I would hate to think you believed we were in any way responsible. And I'm sure you know the Department of Health has come to the same conclusion.”

There was relief in his voice. 'Max is convinced it was a practical joke gone wrong and that whoever did it is too embarrassed to come forward. The fact that all this came at once—someone smoking in the barn and the, uh, food incident—is simply a bad coincidence. These things happen when you put a lot of people together under pressure. But any delay like yesterday's means money down the tube, and the producers are already nickel and diming us to death. Max has instructed us to put the whole thing out of our minds. We are continuing to film as if nothing happened.”

That's going to be quite a trick, Faith thought.

“Now,' he continued, his calm, ever so slightly theatrical voice even calmer, 'the reason I called was that we'd like Have Faith to continue to work with us.”

Faith felt an enormous load lift from her mind. Until it was gone, she hadn't realized how heavy it had been. Even though she'd sensed from 4lan's tone during the call that this was where they were heading, it wasn't until he actually said the words that she could allow herself to take a deep breath.

“So, see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Max wants to shoot the dawn scene—the one that I spoke to you about last week—on the village green. He's been waiting for the right weather, and tomorrow the sky should be perfect.'

“We'll be there,' Faith promised happily.

“And remember, none of this ever happened.”

So you say, she thought as she hung up the phone. You may have decided to believe it was a joke, but I'm still not laughing.

The whole town was learning more than it thought it would ever care to know about the way movies are made, and if it all didn't make sense at first, it was beginning to make even less by now. Millicent, who Faith suspected had taken out a subscription to Variety, was expounding on the craft as the caterers arrived in the pitch-dark before dawn the following morning.

Miss McKinley was responding acidly to a fellow Alefordian's comment that he couldn't see why they didn't just start at the beginning and go to the end instead of jumping around in the script, this being the way he would do it—in a logical manner.

“The director has to shoot out of sequence to take advantage of the weather and lighting conditions when they go on location. And not all the actors can be on the set all the time. Now today, Max has worked everything out with the director of photography, the gaffers, and the best boy.' She continued with the air of one who expected to be sitting next to her new best friend in one of the front rows at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion some day soon.

“The gaffers, of course, carry out the cameraman's lighting plan—they're those people setting up all those lights and reflectors.' She gestured grandly toward the crew. They were attaching various forms of lighting to the trees and on poles surrounding the large wooden scaffold that had been erected in the middle of the green, with the flagpole to the left and First Parish directly behind. Huge mobile generators were parked nearby and the greenskeeper and crew were busy burying the last of the wires and replacing the grass with new sod.

“The best boy is the chief gaffer's assistant,' Millicent determinedly continued. She was not about to waste all the time she'd spent looking this stuff up in the reference room. Her audience had diminished, however, basely abandoning her for the hot coffee, fresh raised doughnuts, and fruit muffins that Faith had brought.

About fifty extras were dressed in their own dark-colored overcoats, hats, and gloves, as instructed. A was being filmed in modem dress, but looking at her neighbors, Faith thought not a few of the outfits failed to qualify. Millicent's serviceable black coat was definitely prewar—and which war was open to debate.

Alan Morris walked over to them. The stars and the director were presumably in their behemoth RVs lined up at the curb, getting into their roles or catching a few more winks. Several of Aleford's finest were on duty and, by their frequent yawns, perhaps not convinced the extra pay was worth having to get up so early.

“Good, good. Everyone looks fine. And remember, all you have to do is mumble. Something like `apples and oranges' usually works to produce the illusion of conversation. You won't be miked directly. Then the women, where are they?”