Art smiled. "Yes, but I hate to waste it on riffraff."
"Ah, so I've been suddenly elevated from riffraff to something else. What might that be? Scum?"
Art chuckled warmly. "I've had my eye on you the whole time, Miss Yoder. I immediately noticed a certain presence."
"It's all right to say tall. Five ten, as a matter of fact. And if you're asking, the weather up here is just fine. Maybe even a degree or two cooler than down there, where you are."
"And fire too," said Art.
"You can't fire me - I quit!" If Freni could say that - which she did with some regularity - then so could I.
Art laughed openly. "Simmer down, Miss Yoder. I have no intention of firing you. To the contrary, I'm more interested in hiring you."
It was my turn to stare. "But I'm already hired. I work for you. I mean, I have a part in this movie."
Art lowered his voice just a smidgen. Not that he was becoming a recluse again. I think he just didn't want the others to hear. "This isn't a movie, Miss Yoder, this is a grade-B fiasco. I mean, I want you in a real. movie."
Staring too long, especially in a barn, can make your eyes water. "Then why are you here, filming this, if it's nothing but a fiasco."
Art spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "It's a matter of a contract. You see, Miss Yoder, I'm under obligation to do one more picture with Reels and Runs Productions. Unfortunately for both parties concerned, the executive producer has abominable taste, and strong nepotistic tendencies."
I put my hands over my ears. "I don't listen to dirty talk, Mr. Lapata."
Art gently pulled my hands away. "Nepotism is when people give preferential treatment to their relatives. In this case, the executive producer, who is also our main financier, had his nephew write the script. The original script, at any rate. The one with all the bathtub scenes."
"That was pure trash."
"Exactly. And although I couldn't absent myself completely from the project, I tried to distance myself as much as I could."
"You did a good job. I was beginning to think you were a mute."
"If only I'd been deaf and blind as well. You see, not only did this nephew write the script, he was hired as my assistant director."
I stared again. I'm convinced that I suffer from a genetic tendency to have the eyes remain fixedly open when shocked. "You mean that Don Manley is, or was, the executive producer's nephew?"
Art nodded sorrowfully. "I should have fought it more. Even sued to get out of my contract if necessary. I guess I thought I was taking the easy way out."
"The straight-and-narrow path is often the hardest, but it is the right one," I said, quoting Mama. I don't think you can undo grave spins, but it can't hurt to try.
"Of course, I made a huge mistake. I see that now. And even after it was too late to back out, I should have stayed in charge. If I hadn't let Don take over so much, he might not have been killed."
"Maybe not here," I said without much pity, "but sooner or later."
"He was totally obnoxious," Art agreed.
We talked more at supper, much to Freni's dismay. She glowered at me every chance she got, and if she'd been one of those hexy Dutch instead of a God-fearing Amishwoman, I'm sure she'd have put a spell on me. Of course she need not have worried. I wasn't about to adopt Art Lapata, even though he was maybe a year or two younger, and I definitely wasn't in search of a boyfriend. After all, Saturday was only two days away, and Jumbo Jim had first dibs on my heart.
"Who wrote the revised script, then?" I asked. I was careful not to talk with fried potatoes or pork chop in my mouth.
"I did. What do you think? Honestly."
"Honestly?"
Art nodded.
"I like Green Acres better."
"I don't blame you. My Mother the Car had a better premise."
"Why don't you just tell the real story of the PennDutch murders?"
Art sighed. "Truth is, we couldn't get all the necessary releases. The congressman who was involved threatened to sue - "
"You mean ex-congressman, by now."
"Yeah, anyway, you get the drift."
Then something occurred to me. "Look, Art, I know you put a lot of work into the new script, but it isn't too late to change it, is it?"
"What's on your mind?"
"Well, you could tell a more realistic story. Instead of a mad Amishman and his out-of-touch mother, why don't you do a story about an Amishwoman whose son marries a girl she doesn't like, and all the problems that stem from that?" I glanced furtively at Freni. Her broad back was turned in my direction, which undoubtedly meant she had tuned me out. Her hearing would kick in only at the sound of her beloved Arthur's voice.
Art's eyes seemed to bore right through me. At first I thought I'd said something dreadfully wrong. Perhaps he had married a girl his mother didn't approve of. Oh, Lord, I thought, when will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut?
Then Art pounded the table so hard that even Shnookums, safe within Susannah's bra, felt the tremor. I assume that DarIa's mutt was similarly affected, because both dogs yipped. "That's it!" shouted Arthur. "That's a wonderful idea!" Then, conscious that everyone was staring at us, he lowered his voice considerably. "You will, of course, help me with the script? I mean, as a technical adviser."
Needless to say, I was immensely flattered. But something else was nagging at my mind, and with enough persistence to give me the needed dose of perspective. "I'd love to help out," I said honestly, "but I don't have a lot of time right now."
Art smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry about having to memorize all your dialogue. I prefer my actors to ad-lib. Up until this fiasco, it's always been my trademark."
"I'm not worried about that. What I'm worried about is finding Don Manley's killer. That's what I need the time for."
He looked surprised. "Why you? Why can't the police handle it?"
I said a quick prayer that God would guard my tongue. "Because our police department here in Hernia is not exactly on the ball," I said with relative charity. "And because at the moment I am their number one suspect."
Art blinked a couple of times, but didn't faint or anything. "I see. Well, I meant what I said, Miss Yoder - "
"You may call me Magdalena."
"Magdalena, then. I still want you to help me out on the script. As much as you can."
"Thanks," I said softly. Then I turned and pretended to look at a quilt hanging on the dining room wall. Nobody, but nobody, gets to see me cry.
-10-
GRANDMA YODER'S SECRET CORN CHOWDER
Makes 8 servings
1 pound bacon
1 large onion, chopped
1 can cream of chicken soup 1 pint half-and-half
2 cans creamed corn
Salt and pepper to taste
Start by cooking up the bacon. Grandma fried her bacon in a cast iron skillet, as does Freni, but when it's my turn to cook, I zap it in a microwave. Crumble the cooked bacon and set it aside, saving two or three tablespoons of the grease.
In a large pot, saut‚ the onion in the bacon grease until it softens and begins to brown. Stir in the cream of chicken soup and the half-and-half. Dump in the creamed corn and season to taste with salt and pepper.
Serve with the crumbled bacon sprinkled on top. This soup tastes even better when made the day before and allowed to sit in the refrigerator overnight. Just remember to heat it up very slowly the next day so it doesn't scorch, as it is rather thick.
-11-
Art and I stayed up until the wee hours rewriting the script, but by the time we knocked off work, we had enough pages to resume shooting the next day. While it certainly wasn't Academy Award-winning material, it was pretty dam good if I say so myself.
Since none of that morning's scenes involved me, I decided to follow up on some people who seemed, at least to me, to have a motive for doing Don in. The first person I picked, only because she lived on my way into town, was Norah Hall.
The Halls live in one of those split-level ranch houses that combine pastel-colored aluminum siding and fake brick on the exterior. Incongruously, there are a couple of fiberglass pillars stuck here and there - a sort of Tara designed by Picasso. Their home is fairly new, and the maple trees planted in the front yard are hardly more than bushes. Their neighbors on both sides and across the road live in houses that are variations on the same theme. In Hernia, at least, homes like these scream out that their owners have bought into the upper-middle-class clich‚. Heavy debts, multiple marriages, a penchant for electronic gadgets, status cars, and an obsession with health and exercise are all common denominators. And, of course, large eat-in kitchens with islands set adrift here and there. It is a dictum among these folks that there are few things in life more important than the exact shade of avocado for one's refrigerator, unless it's the size of one's CD collection. Life for these people, or so I imagine, is one long nightmare. Living in abject fear of a power failure has got to take its toll.
There was one late-model car in the Halls' driveway and naturally, given that I too think in clich‚s, I just assumed it was Norah's. Ed Hall worked at a bank in Bedford, and as far as I knew, it was not a banking holiday. I made my way somewhat timorously up the impeccably clean walk, which was lined with precisely edged grass of a disgustingly uniform length. It wasn't until I was right at the front door that I noticed the wooden painted goose with the bow around its neck half-hidden in the shrubbery. I rang the doorbell, hoping that someone would answer it before I puked.
Norah took forever to answer, and when she did, she was wearing a sort of orange kimono thing. Perhaps she thought of it as a bathrobe, but whatever it was, Susannah would have loved it. "Yes?"
"Norah, it's me, Magdalena. May I come in?"
"I know who you are, Magdalena. Frankly, I'm a bit busy right now. Can you come back later?"
How busy can you be in a bathrobe, I wanted to ask. "When later?" I asked pleasantly.
"People with manners always ring first, before they call on you," said Norah coolly, not answering my question.
"I'll remember that next time they shoot a movie out at my place and you and Sherri pop up."
Norah's mouth began to twitch, but before she could sputter out any words, a man's shape loomed up behind her. He too was wearing a kimono, a blue one, but he most certainly was not Ed Hall.
"Hi there," I said in my friendliest voice.
He grunted a greeting.
"Magdalena, this really isn't what you think it is," said Norah predictably.
I didn't stifle my laugh. Susannah has used that phrase on me a million times, and invariably she's right. Whatever is going on isn't what I initially think it is, it's much worse. "I'm not here to pass judgment, Norah. I simply need to ask you a few questions."
"He's not married, if that's what you think, and no, Sherri isn't here, she spent the night at a friend's."
"Uh-huh. But that's not what I wanted to know. It has to do with the movie they're making out at my place."
Norah's face had the look of a little girl being forced to choose between her favorite ice cream and her favorite candy. "All right, Magdalena, come in, but just for a second. You don't mind excusing us, do you, Garth?"
Garth? But of course, what other name would an adulterer have? I followed Norah into the perfectly decorated living room, perfect in that its furnishings were identical to the ones in the surrounding houses, with, perhaps, slight variations in color schemes. Garth, after having grunted a few more words, retreated docilely into another room.
"Please, have a seat," said Norah. I sat down on a puffy, cream-colored sofa, and Nora settled her kimono in a puffy, cream-colored chair.
"Arthur Lapata sends his greetings," I lied. It is all right to lie, you know, if your life is at stake.
Norah beamed. "Such a dear, talented man. I've seen everyone of his movies and loved them all. Have you seen Seven Little Nerds and How They Grew?"
I waved a hand noncommittally. "Oh, yes, Art is very special. Not like Don Manley was."
Norah frowned. "Manley was a rude, arrogant boor.
He couldn't see talent if it bit him. Whoever did him in was doing the world a favor."
"Do tell."
"Of course, I knew there would be other opportunities. I just didn't think they'd come so soon."
"God works in mysterious ways. I suppose you went straight home that morning? I mean, after Manley so cruelly and wrongly dismissed your daughter."
Norah's brow puckered even more. "Of course I didn't go straight home. What kind of a mother do you think I am? My daughter was destroyed by that man, Magdalena, absolutely destroyed."
