“Cut! Cut!"
“Cool 'em.”
Sandra put the cup on the wooden mantelpiece and blinked. She was back and she didn't even have a glass slipper as a souvenir.
“It's fabulous." Nils executed a little jig. "Following the montage, the scene will continue to seem like adream sequence, even in the present. Pure genius, Max.”
Max was smiling like the Cheshire cat. "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out, "I think it's going to fly:' Alan rushed over. "I'll get Evelyn. I assume you want to shoot now."
“You assume right." They bent their heads together in further conversation for some minutes; then Max walked over to Sandra, who was sitting down in the chair, and said, "That was beautiful, honey. Evelyn couldn't have done it any better herself.”
Faith looked uneasily over her shoulder to be sure the lady in question wasn't about to walk in on this, but she was nowhere in sight. It had been a powerful scene, and for a few seconds, Faith had completely forgotten where she was, where they all were. It was Hester's jail cell hundreds of years ago. She began to fully appreciate what this movie could be—Max's masterpiece.
The director left the room to hasten things along. Faith, still caught up in the moment, stayed where she was. Five minutes later, Max was back, but without Cappy and Evelyn. He went over to Sandra, who had remained seated, and bent down to speak to her. He straightened immediately and beckoned to the other PA. "Cornelia, Sandra isn't feeling very well. I think we'd better call a doctor.”
Faith moved to the center of the room. Max had shifted to one side and Sandra was completely visible. Her face had assumed a bluish cast and her eyes were terrified. She appeared to be having trouble getting her breath, taking rapid, shallow gulps of air. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She began to cough, then that stopped abruptly and she brought her hand to her throat, as if trying to force the words out and air in.
Faith ran over to her and felt for her pulse. It was hard to find.
“Don't call a doctor," she shouted to Cornelia. "Call the fire department; they'll bring an ambulance.”
Sandra's face felt as cold as the weather outside, despite the warmth the lights and people had created in the room. Her eyes closed and she would have toppled from the chair had Faith not caught the young woman. Faith sat on the floor, Sandra cradled on her lap. She seemed to weigh less than Ben. One hand clutched the pewter cup she had placed on the mantel a few moments ago. It was empty.
Faith shouted one final instruction. "And call the police. The state police, too.”
Had the town of Aleford replaced its ancient cruiser, Charley MacIsaac would not have lost precious time changing a tire on his way to the Pingree house and would have been there to warn Detective Lieutenant John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police that it was likely he would encounter his old friend Mrs. Fairchild once again. As it was, Dunne walked onto the movie set and confronted Faith center stage, not merely with a finger in the pie but up to her elbows—with her arms around the victim.
Sandra Wilson was not dead, yet Faith had known immediately something other than fatigue had to be responsible for the woman's pronounced symptoms. One of the crew had brought a blanket and reached for the empty cup that had fallen from Sandra's hand as he was covering her.
“Don't touch it—please!" Faith 'said. The man had looked mildly surprised and drawn back his hand. Time had stopped, but Faith's mind was racing. fthere had been something in the cup, it might be best to try to get Sandra to vomit. But with some poisons, this was the worst course of action, doubling their effect. Poison—she was using the word.
Sandra's breathing was shallow and slow. Her chest, incongruously clad in Hester's flimsy costume, barely moved. The scarlet letter that had looked so sensual a few minutes ago was now a mere piece of brightly colored cloth.
Faith kept her fingers on the woman's pulse. Her wrist felt limp and flaccid; her body draped across Faith like one of Amy's soft dolls.
At first, the room had been as still as the figure drawing every eye, then Max cried out, "Shouldn't we be doing something? CPR, for God's sake!”
Faith had decided they better try it, even if it did cause the girl to throw up. Then they heard the ambulance siren.
“Let's wait," she said. "The EMTs will know what to do”
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.