Dunne had followed on their heels and immediately took up all the available space in the cramped room in much the way that Alice had in the White Rabbit's house after nibbling a cookie. It was always a shock to see Detective Dunne the first time after an interval. Faith remembered he was large, but not so large—and with a face that could only be cast, to put it politely, in 'character' roles. His curly hair, cut close to his head, was grayer than the last time she'd seen him. His wardrobe as bespoke as ever. Today he wore a heavy camel's hair topcoat against the cold. He took charge immediately. Sizing up the situation with one rapid glance, he motioned the EMTs forward and instructed Detective Sullivan, at his side as usual, to rush the cup to the lab. As he left the room, Sully whispered something in his boss's ear.
Relieved of her burden, Faith stood up. Detective Dunne said, 'I probably know the answer to this one, but it was your idea to phone us, right?”
Faith nodded. 'It seemed like too much of a coincidence for someone to be saying lines about poison in a cup, then immediately keel over. And what with the business with the black bean soup—”
Dunne interrupted her with an explosive, 'More soup! After that guy turned up headfirst in your bouillon, I'd have thought you'd stay away from the stuff!'
“You know perfectly well there was nothing wrong with my bouillon and the same—”
This time it was Maxwell Reed who broke in.
“Would somebody in charge like to tell me what the hell is going on here besides a discussion of Mrs. Fairchild's menus? And what is this about her soups?”
The detective lieutenant answered icily. It was his show now and he'd decide what was going on and when.
“I am Detective Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police. We were called by the Aleford police. Mrs. Fairchild worked with us on an investigation last year, and in the initial stages, there was an incident with some soup. The coincidence struck me. Now why don't you tell me who you are and I'll try to figure out what's going on here.”
Faith was flattered. John Dunne had actually said she had worked on an investigation. This could mean he was beginning to regard her as other than a nuisance and a pest. It could also mean he wasn't. After all, he hadn't said helped, although without her, corpses would still be piling up in the neighboring town of Byford.
“I'm Maxwell Reed.' The director appeared to think his name was sufficient introduction, and he was right.
“And who was the young woman we've just carted off to Emerson Hospital?'
“That is one of my production assistants, Sandra Wilson. She has been working extremely hard and I'm sure they will discover she simply needs some time to rest.”
Dunne didn't respond. He walked around the set, threatening cameras, lights, and even the fabric pinned to the walls.
“The Scarlet Letter. I've heard that's what you're filming, so the cup means this was the scene in Hester Prynne's prison cell where Roger Chillingworth gives her something to calm her down.”
Faith was impressed. She knew that John's upbringing in the Bronx, across the river from her own in Manhattan, had been unusually literary. His mother was devoted to English poetry—witness the name. Apparently, Mom had revered the Concord Renascence crowd, as well.
“Yes,' replied Reed. 'We were using the stand-ins to test the lighting before shooting with the principals. But Miss WIlson didn't drink from the cup. We cut before that point.”
Reed's stand-in, Greg Bradley, who also worked as one of the grips, spoke up. 'She did after you stopped shooting. Said she was very thirsty'
“What was in the cup?' Dunne asked. It was a simple question, but Reed seemed to draw a blank. Faith knew the answer.
“Diet Coke and Perrier. That's what Evelyn O'Clair likes to drink,' she added after noting Dunne's arched eyebrow, a habitual gesture that emphatically did not make him look like Cary Grant.
“Hmmm,' he said, 'Detective Sullivan told me it smelled like booze.”
Someone gasped and everyone looked surprised. Sandra a secret drinker? Or Evelyn?
Dunne was about to speak again when Chief MacIsaac, Evelyn O'Clair, Cappy Camson, and Marta Haree all showed up at once.
Evelyn, wrapped in her sable coat, was almost hysterical. 'What were all those sirens? We heard them in the woods—and what are the police doing here? Max! What's happened?”
The room was ready to burst.
Dunne answered, 'I was just about to say that we don't know whether anything has happened here. San- dra Wilson passed out and is now being treated. Until we hear from the hospital, we only have Mrs. Fairchild's intuition to go on.' He managed to make her hunch sound extremely dubious and Faith began to think she might have been over-optimistic about his attitude.
“Yesterday was the Ides of March, you know,' Marta commented in a voice filled with foreboding.
“Yes, but Sandra wasn't stabbed and we're not doing Shakespeare, Marta!' Max was annoyed. He looked angrily at Faith. 'What is she doing on the set?”
Alan stepped forward and said something sotto voce to Max, who struggled with himself for a moment, then calmed down—the whole process vividly enacted on his face.
“Detective Dunne, I am sure you will understand that we need to get on with what we're doing here. I can't have a whole crew just sitting around on their hands. It gets to be very expensive. Producers don't like it, especially my producers.'
“Of course I understand. As soon as we get word from the hospital, you can all get back to work.' Dunne's tone suggested he liked movies as much as the next guy.
“But this could take hours!'
“I'm sorry. However, since there is the possibility that there was something in the cup that shouldn't have been, until we hear otherwise, we can't disturb the room.' He waved his hand vaguely in Faith's direction.
He might just as well have said it out loud, Faith thought bitterly: f you want to blame anyone for all this, blame little Mrs. Fairchild, your soon-to-be-ex caterer.
“The cup!' Evelyn's voice rose to a wail. 'My cup! What was in my cup!' She'd taken off her coat and was wearing her Hester costume. Faith had had to look twice to be sure it wasn't Sandra miraculously risen from her hospital bed.
Max put his arm around Evelyn. She'd detached herself from Cappy, to whom she'd been clinging like a limpet, and crossed over to Max's side as soon as she entered.
“Nothing! Nothing was in the cup. Maybe some liquor. Somebody did it as a joke. Hester with bourbon on her breath—something like that. Everything's going to be fine. Why don't you go back to your trailer and lie down for a while until this is all sorted out?'
“I'm not going back there alone! Something's going on here! I want a bodyguard, Max. I told you I should have one!' She began to sob. She looked absolutely terrified.
He put his other arm around her. 'Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing has happened. Just some mix- up. I wouldn't let anything or anyone hurt you.
You know that, darling! How about if Marta goes back with you? Just until I can come?' He looked over Evelyn's head, now buried in his shoulder, at Marta, who nodded and moved toward them.
Max addressed Dunne pointedly. 'I assume we're free to leave the room.'
“Certainly, but, for the time being, not the property.”
After Marta led the distraught actress away, others left in search of a breath of air, perhaps, and also to get away from the eidetic images hanging about of Sandra prone on Faith's lap—and the cup.
Max looked glumly after the retreating figures and said to Alan, 'Oh well, we were going to have to break for lunch soon, anyway.' The remark reminded him of Faith, and he seemed about to say something to her she'd rather not hear. She was hastily following the crowd out into the frigid March morning when Dunne called after her, 'Don't go too far, Mrs. Fairchild. I want to talk to you”
Faith ran to the tent to tell Niki and Pix what was going on—or rather, what had happened. The news had preceded her and they were waiting anxiously by the entrance.
“Faith! One of the crew said Sandra drank from a cup that was a prop and passed out! Do you think someone has been playing tricks again?' Pix asked.
