A Knife to Remember (8 page)

“Like Lynette Harwell?" Shelley suggested.

“That crossed my mind," Jane admitted. "But I know that's because I want to think badly of her. I mean, I already do, but I'd like to pile on the sins, so to speak. I don't honestly believe it could have been her voice, however."

“Just who was at this lunch?"

“Jake, Lynette Harwell, that weirdo director, George Abington, Mike, and me. Angela and somebody else I didn't recognize were at the far end of the table, but they didn't have much of anything to say."

“How did everybody act toward each other?" Shelley asked.

“Absolutely bland for the most part. As if they'd never met or had a cross word. Well, except for George Abington and Lynette Harwell. They sniped at each other, but it had a quality of old stuff that neither of them really had their heart in. Cavagnari was unaware of anybody except as an audience to listen to a confusing story about a set that blew up or blew down or something. I think it was in Prague, which is very possibly the most boring place on earth to hear about."

“What about Jake? How did he act?"

“No particular way. He didn't say much. He pretended to politely listen to Cavagnari. Ate all his lunch as if he had nothing especially important on his mind."

“You didn't sense that he felt he was in danger?"

“No. Not at all. But then, I didn't know the man. I wouldn't have any idea what's normal behavior for him.”

They watched as Mel crossed the backyard toward the house. He came into the living room a minute later with the police secretary in tow. "Mrs. Jeffry, would you please repeat for the record what you heard earlier today? The conversation you overheard?”

Very formal, aren't we?
Jane thought, and responded in kind. "Of course, Detective Van Dyne.
I'm
sorry, but I don't remember the exact words, only the gist. Two people were speaking—"

“Are you sure of that?”

Jane thought for a minute. "I think so. At least the context of the conversation suggested that there were only two. The first one said something about one of the actresses getting sick and that the other one knew what he wanted done. There was something about talking to the director and the second one said he and the director didn't get along and he wouldn't help. Then the first one said something about remembering some porn flicks and how they didn't give prestigious awards to people who had been in them."

“And…?" Mel prodded.

“And nothing. That was it."

“Nothing more specific than that?"

“The blackmailer mentioned the names of some movies, but I don't remember exactly what they were. One was Something Bambi or Bambi Something. The other one had something to do with college. Classroom Capers or something like that.”

Mel thought for a moment and the secretary sat with her pencil poised like an automaton with her batteries turned off.

“You keep saying 'he,' " Mel said. "Were the speakers both men?"

“I'm not sure. I thought they were, but I couldn't be positive. They were whispering."

“And you could hear them?"

“Whispering loudly," Jane said, feeling foolish. It
was
his job to pick holes in her story, but he didn't have to be so good at it. She was sure he was picturing her in the undignified position of having her ear glued to the back of the set, which was true.

“Okay. What about the way they spoke. I mean the grammar. Were they both educated sounding? Could you discern any accent? Any speech impediment?”

Jane considered carefully. "No, there was nothing remarkable in any way. Normal language. No glaring errors. No lisp or anything like that.”

He asked a few more questions about the time of day she heard them, the duration of the conversation, and her proximity to the speakers, then dismissed the secretary. He walked over and stared out the back window for a minute. "These are the oddest people. Look at them. Everybody looks busy, but you can't tell exactly what any of them are doing. And they just keep doing it. Murder doesn't seem to faze them. I like for people to be taken aback by death. At least for a little while.”

Mel seldom spoke seriously about his job and Jane was surprised. She and Shelley waited for him to go on, but instead he turned back to them and smiled. "You got your kitchen cleaned up, didn't you?"

“Not really," Jane admitted. "I just shoved most of the mess out of sight. I'll sort it out later and get things back to their proper places. Anybody who tries to use the guest bathroom is in for a horrible shock."

“Anything missing?" Mel asked.

“Who could tell? I doubt it. Mel, you haven't told us… how was Jake killed?"

“Stabbed. And the knife was jammed out of sight under the metal railing to the trailer. Blade outward. That's how the Kowalski kid cut his hand — if he's telling the truth."

“Mel, you don't suspect him!" Jane exclaimed. "He's a bone-deep nice kid."

“You know him? Well?"

“Well enough. I only met him once, but he was nice to my cats. Stop giving me that look! I know it sounds stupid, but a person who is gentle and considerate to animals can't be a murderer."

“No? I was on a case once where the mass murderer fed his victims to his dogs."

“Oh, please—" Shelley said, turning away.

“Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'll take note of your evaluation of Butch Kowalski, Jane. Now, I have an important question for you.”

He picked up the big manila envelope he'd put on the coffee table when he came in. He opened the end of it and very carefully pulled out a plastic bag. Inside was a blood-encrusted knife. "I'm sorry, Jane, but you must look carefully at this. Have you ever seen this knife before?”

Jane didn't answer for a long moment. Not because she didn't know the answer, but because she hated having to say it. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, "Yes, it's mine.”

10

“How can you be so sure?" Mel asked. He sounded as if he was giving her every opportunity to change her mind.

Jane would have loved to take the admission back, but couldn't. "The kids gave me the set last Christmas. There are four and they go into a sort of chopping block thing. I accidentally set this one on a hot burner and part of the handle melted a little. See those two burner marks? And then Mike took it to his room to open a box and it hung around up there and got some green model airplane paint right where the blade fits into the handle. You can see a little of it."

“Are you okay, Jane?" Shelley asked.

“Yes. Just a little woozy feeling. Mel, please put it away."

“Sure. I'm sorry. You hadn't missed it when you cleaned up the mess in your kitchen?"

“No, why should I? I wasn't taking inventory and haven't even finished cleaning up. And even if I had noticed it wasn't in the block with the others, I'd have just assumed it was in the dishwasher or with the stuff I shoved into the guest bath."

“Do you remember where you last had it?" Mel asked.

“Mel, I don't pay that kind of attention to every kitchen utensil. Now, if you wanted to know the last time I hauled out the pasta maker or the cookie press or the electric meat slicer, I could probably tell you. But an everyday kitchen knife—? No. It's like an extension to my hand. I use it without even thinking.”

She heard the sound of her own voice rising toward hysteria and took a deep breath, turning away to study the view out the window while Mel rattled around putting the gory knife back into the envelope. It was starting to get dark, but the movie production showed no signs of slowing down.

“This Kowalski person you mentioned is Jake's assistant, right?" Shelley asked Mel. "Why do you think he's lying about cutting his hand by accident?"

“I don't necessarily think he's lying," Mel said, putting the envelope next to the sofa out of sight. "I'm just saying it's possible. If he stabbed Jake Elder and in the process cut his own hand, he might have shoved the knife into the railing in order to make another explanation for his injury.”

Jane had pulled herself together. "Even so, and putting aside my own impression of Butch, why would he kill Jake? Jake was his mentor, his employer."

“Protégés have knocked off mentors before, Jane," Mel said. "Sometimes that's how they get to be mentors in their turn. Or, suppose this: Butch had made some screw-up that Jake was not only going to fire him for, but bad-mouth him throughout the business. I get the impression from talking to people that Jake Elder knew everybody who was anybody and was well thought of — professionally, at least. I haven't met anybody yet who makes any pretense of having liked him."

“But what kind of mistake could Butch have made that would be that important? He was an apprentice, just a glorified gofer, it seemed to me. Learning the ropes from the bottom up by fetching and carrying.”

Mel gestured toward the window and the scene beyond. "What kind of mistake? I'd think there'd be about a hundred you could make out there. Just look at all those electrical wires, for one thing. Those look like a disaster waiting to happen."

“But Jake and Butch had nothing to do with that part of it, did they?" Jane asked. "What could you do wrong with a prop that would matter?"

“I'm just speculating, Jane. It's my job," Mel said tightly.

“I know. I'm sorry. But Mel, you saw Butch at my kitchen table. Poor kid was about to faint at the sight of his own blood. Can you really imagine him doing something awful like that to somebody else?”

Mel shrugged. "Maybe that's what he was really faint about. Nobody saw his 'accident' with the handrail. We only have his word.”

Shelley had been listening silently. Now she spoke. "Mel, tell us more about Jake's death. Where did he die? Was there a struggle? Did it take a lot of strength?"

“It doesn't look like it took strength as much as luck to slip the knife right between the ribs," Mel said. "He was apparently inside the props trailer, bent over slightly, looking into a crate. The blow was probably delivered downward, almost certainly by a right-handed assailant. The blade almost certainly pierced the back of his heart. At least that's what it all looked like at the scene. The lab work may show something else, but I doubt it."

“So anybody could have done it," Shelley said.

“Anybody at all," Mel agreed. "It was easy and clean. No blood spatters to speak of. No struggle. There was a cleaning rag with blood on it on the ground near the handrail, suggesting that the assailant probably wiped the fingerprints off the knife handle and maybe held it with the rag to jam it into the underside of the railing."

“I can't picture what you're talking about. . this railing," Jane said.

Mel grabbed a newspaper off the end table and sketched. "The stair rail itself is just a thin piece of metal running along the top of the uprights. There's an upside-down U-shaped piece that fits over it to make a smooth handhold. But the underneath part of the U is open. And about the width of the knife handle."

“But who would notice that?" Jane asked.

“Somebody who was familiar with the trailer," Mel said. "Like Butch. But to be fair, anybody might have noticed. If you were going up the steps, holding the knife in your right hand and also steadying yourself with the rail, you might be aware that your fingers were curling into a place about the size of the knife."

“Why did the knife have to be hidden?" Shelley mused. "I suppose just because the murderer didn't want to be seen carrying it around. But why not just drop it in the truck?”

Mel shrugged. "I have no idea."

“Have you interviewed Butch?" Jane asked, wondering why she was feeling so protective of the boy. She supposed it was because she'd seen an intrinsic gentleness and vulnerability in him. Or perhaps after Mike's bad experience earlier in the day, her maternal instincts were just working overtime.

“Not yet. He's really pretty much of a mess. Scared to death of the responsibility that's fallen on him, he says."

“What responsibility?" Shelley asked.

“Apparently they only have a few days' filming left and the producers sent word that they don't want to bring in a new property master at such a late date. They want Butch to take over and see it through."

“—thereby making or breaking his reputation as a skilled expert in his own right," Jane finished for him. "Which might have been a motive. I see it in theory, but I don't believe it for a minute. If you'd seen how nice he was to—"

“—your cats. Yes, I know. Speaking of which, isn't that one of them?”

Mel pointed out the window where several people were trying to catch Meow and remove her from the craft service table, where she was browsing through the food.

"That explains the mess in your kitchen," Shelley said when Jane came back inside with a cat under each arm. She'd carried them through the kitchen where Mel was using the phone and the other long-suffering police officer was still interviewing cast and crew members.

“What does?" Jane dropped the cats and they sat looking up at her expectantly. "As if I've ever fed them in the living room," Jane groused.

“The knife," Shelley said. "Somebody needed a weapon that wouldn't be missed immediately, so they trashed your kitchen in the hopes that you wouldn't notice it was gone. Which is exactly what happened."

“Whoever it was obviously has no idea of my housekeeping," Jane said. "Even if I had missed the knife, I wouldn't question it. I lose things all the time. And the kids take them for projects." She paused, thinking out just how to express a thought that was troubling her. "Shelley, it makes me furious that somebody 'invaded' my house at all, but absolutely livid that they did it in order to get a weapon to kill somebody with. I'm outraged at being made a part of this, even a small part."

“But you aren't a part of it. The knife was just an object that happened to be in your house."