“The laxative, the Chocolax. Evelyn takes it by the handful." Cornelia was almost whispering.
“What on earth for?" Faith asked, then quickly said, "You mean...?"
“Yes," Cornelia replied. "She throws up, too. It's one of the reasons she was at the clinic in Switzerland.”
At that moment, the food arrived. Faith stared at the burger with Boursin, salad to one side, she'd ordered. Cornelia hadn't picked up a fork, either. It all looked so robust, a trickle of fat and blood oozing from the rare meat. She was being ridiculous, Faith told herself apparently at the same time Corny told herself the same thing. They grabbed their utensils and took two large bites of lettuce.
“An eating disorder. The poor woman. Is this common knowledge—or is it only because you're close to Max that you know?" Faith went from sympathy back to the main point rapidly. She hoped her not-so-subtle flattery would produce results. It did.
“Of course I knew about it before other people," Cornelia preened, "although by now it's old news. But surely Evelyn wouldn't put it in her own soup?”
Exactly what Faith was thinking. Still, it may not have been in Evelyn's soup. She bent down to pick up the toy keys that Amy had thrown on the floor for the tenth time, ecstatic as always with the game of "Fetch, Mommy, Fetch." Evelyn might have taken the Chocolax before lunch. Then why had she gotten so sick? It couldn't have been suggestibility—everyone else getting sick. Her dramatic entry had preceded the onset of the others' symptoms. But if she had taken some and it was also in the soup, that might account for the severity of her attack. Faith bit into her hamburger ruminatively. One thing was sure: Everyone working on A knew where to go to get plenty of yummy Chocolax. Or did they? She swallowed hastily.
“Did she keep the laxative in her trailer or at the house?"
“In the trailer—at least that's where I've seen the stuff. She thinks Max doesn't know, so she wouldn't have it at the house, where he might find it." Cornelia's face crumbled into the kind of pout it had assumed in earlier years when her father had said she couldn't have a new pony. "They share the master bedroom suite."
“But Max does know?”
Cornelia nodded. Her mouth was full.
Faith continued to think out loud. "What do you think? Does someone have a grudge against Max—or the crew in general?" She was eager to get as much information from Cornelia as possible before her old classmate ran off to save the movie—or, more likely, to put in an order for more cases of Calistoga water—and before Amy tired of the stroller. The baby was beginning to eye her mother's lap with increasing determination.
Cornelia looked decidedly uneasy. In fact, Faith realized, she'd been uneasy and tense since Faith's arrival. Of course, this could be attributed to the events of the day before and a night Cornelia had complained about venomously to Faith, the caterer, on the phone. Yet it was also possible she was hiding something, or someone.
“Everyone loves Max, or even if they don't exactly love him, they're thrilled to be working with him. I can't imagine that this is directed against him." Cornelia paused. "Unless it was Caresse. Little Miss Wonderful is far from his greatest fan right now. Her agent should have told her Max often writes people in and out of his movies once he starts shooting. There's no need for her to carry on the way she is.”
Faith didn't care much for the child, but if Maxwell Reed was planning to cut her role, it would be a bitter blow and one that wouldn't do anything to enhance her career. Cornelia might be onto something. Putting a laxative into everyone's food was a very childish thing to do. And precocious Caresse probably knew about Evelyn's cache. 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.”