Chapter 5

  

Jennifer stood in uncomfortable silence in front of the stone fireplace in the inn’s great room, her face pale and her expression flat after relaying the news of Jordan’s death to the film crew. The only sounds were the metallic clicks from the antique cuckoo clock over the bar, a muffled cough, and the pop of a burning log. Penelope watched the different reactions from her place in front of the bar, her eyes skipping from face to face in the crowded space.

Edie stood in the doorway to the hall, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket, her gaze roving among the faces in the room, lighting on one or two longer than others.

The film’s young costume designer, Skylar, hugged herself and shivered despite the warmth from the fire. “What does this mean for us?” she asked nervously, her hands tucked tightly under her armpits.

Penelope caught Arlena’s eye and watched her shake her head sadly.

Jennifer sighed. “We’re taking today off and picking back up tomorrow, same schedule. Call time is nine in the morning. In the meantime, the police are requesting everyone stay on the grounds. Try and enjoy your unexpected day off.” She glanced at Penelope.

“We’ve got coffee and some fruit here,” Penelope announced. Francis, her sous chef, and the rest of her team had set out a few things for breakfast, mostly leftovers from the kitchen truck since the inn was off-limits.

“No hot breakfast today, huh?” Skylar mumbled sulkily.

“Sorry. Everything’s in the kitchen and we were asked on short notice—” Penelope began.

“Listen,” Jennifer interrupted, raising her voice for the room to hear as Skylar’s cheeks reddened. “Jordan’s my dear friend, and he was good to us. We will be respectful for his sake and for his family’s sake.”

Jennifer turned to go, brushing past Edie in the doorway and stomping up front staircase.

“Keep an eye on everything—we’ll run out quick,” Penelope murmured to Francis. His shoulders were stiff under his jacket and he appeared dazed. “Hey, you okay?” Francis looked away and she put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“I’m sorry, Boss,” Francis said. “I’m having a hard time with it.”

“You need a break?” Penelope said, stepping in front of him. His eyes were a darker green than usual and glassy like he was on the verge of tears.

“I’m all right,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s just a shock, you know. Jordan was a good guy.”

Penelope squeezed his shoulder. “Francis, how long have we worked together now? We’re a team, through good and bad times. Anything you want to tell me, it’s okay.”

“I’m not over losing my dad, you know? I know it’s been six months, and I shouldn’t still be so...I’m not sure why, but the news about Jordan, it hit me harder than I expected,” Francis said. He rubbed his short-cropped black hair with one hand, shiny healed scars from kitchen burns reflecting in the light.

“Listen, go out to the trucks and do a complete check of everything. We’re going to need them up and running and a complete inventory done. We have to replace the items that we can’t use from this kitchen too. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Francis said gratefully.

“Go on, get some air,” Penelope said, giving him a smile.

Francis nodded and hurried away, grabbing his coat from a hook near the doorway before rattling through the front door.

Several of the crew stepped up to the bar, talking amongst themselves as they filled their coffee mugs. Penelope hovered nearby, picking up a few snippets of conversation as they passed by.

“This movie is a mess. I told you it would be. I was trying to get to the hardware store today too,” one of the set carpenters mumbled to his coworker, throwing a glance toward Edie.

“You guys were planning on heading into town today?” Penelope asked.

“Town?” the taller one scoffed. “I wouldn’t call a couple of old shops and a rundown diner a town. More like a wide spot in the road, am I right?” He thumped his buddy on the arm, causing a small wave of coffee to slosh onto his hand. “Sorry, man.”

“Yeah,” his companion said, annoyed. “They got one stoplight on Main Street, and half the time it’s blinking.”

“Have you been to Indianapolis yet?” Penelope asked, handing him a small pile of napkins.

“Yeah, but that’s a three-hour drive.” He dabbed at his sleeve. “It’s not always worth the trip, especially if it starts snowing and you get stuck out on the highway coming back. It feels like it’s always snowing here.”

“There’re the forest trails, if you want to get out for some air,” Penelope said. “It’s beautiful out there.”

“That’s an idea, even though I’m not very outdoorsy.” He flicked his eyes at the frosted-over windows behind the bar. “It’s tempting though, what with this cabin fever.” He wadded up the damp napkins and handed them back to Penelope. “Maybe we’ll luck out and it will get above freezing today.”

Penelope watched him walk away and join his clumsy partner at a table. The coffee rush was over, so she took a seat at a nearby table and pulled out her phone, searching for the negative restaurant review Ava had mentioned earlier. Finding an article that looked promising, she clicked on the headline: Festa Fails to Impress Despite the Hype. Penelope’s eyes skimmed down the piece, frowning as she read the review, apparently written by a secret diner on assignment from the local newspaper.

Forrestville’s newest restaurant, Festa, is richly decorated but falls flat when it comes to flavor. Chef Jordan Foster, who attended culinary school in San Francisco and subsequently worked in high-end restaurants in Napa Valley, eventually returned to his hometown with a design on “elevating” simple dishes from the mundane dining experience we’re all used to in Forrestville. Chef Jordan’s food is fussy, overwrought, and unappealing. If I wanted to eat a piece of artwork, I’d head to the local museum and chow down on a painting. I’m sure that experience would be exactly the same, if not better. Festa? More like Fester. Make sure you stop for a burger on the way, as the portions are so small (and so expensive) you’ll have to load up on several to feel full. I left feeling empty, both in my stomach and in my wallet.

  

“Ouch,” Penelope said under her breath.

She scrolled back up to read the byline. Jacob Pears, senior editor. She tried to do the math in her head and figure out when Jordan would have been in California. They’d never talked about their culinary-school experiences, but she guessed he must have been there in his twenties, since his oldest twin children, Karen and Kyle, were now in their early twenties themselves. She wondered what he had done before opening Festa. She squinted at the date on the review piece and saw it was posted five years earlier. It was one of the first articles to appear in the search, so it probably still impacted the business, or Jordan’s feelings at the very least. A bad review online trailed you around for eternity these days instead of being recycled with the next day’s trash like in the pre-internet days.

It appeared not everyone was thrilled by Jordan’s triumphant return to his hometown. Penelope felt a fresh wave of sadness as she reread the review. From all accounts Festa was successful, so surely Jordan had garnered some positive attention and fans since it was posted. Deciding there was no accounting for taste, Penelope closed the article and slipped the phone back in her pocket.

Arlena made her way to the bar, searching through the tea basket for her favorite brand of organic green. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Penelope said, standing up to join her. “Finding Chef Jordan like that was...I feel terrible for his family. And his staff.” She reached into the basket and plucked out a tea bag and handed it to Arlena.

“Thanks,” Arlena said. “What is she still doing here?” she asked, tilting her head in Edie’s direction as she made her tea.

“Keeping the kitchen off limits,” Penelope whispered. “There’s a possibility it wasn’t a suicide.”

“What?” Arlena said loudly.

“Shh,” Penelope said, glancing around, thankful they hadn’t caught anyone’s attention. “It’s standard procedure, they say. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

Arlena sighed, calming down. “Look at them,” she said, throwing a glance at the table where her fellow actors were huddled together. “When Jennifer called this morning, she said she’d been in touch with the executive producer. According to her, we’re staying put. Jennifer already has too many reels shot to have to redo all the scenes. If we move now, the exteriors and sets won’t match up. The EP told Jennifer she either had to stay and finish filming or they’d pull the plug.”

“Really?” Penelope said. “They’d rather waste the whole project than reshoot some of the scenes?”

Arlena set her mouth in a line. “Yep. I don’t know how to feel. Is it right to carry on, business as usual, on a man’s property twenty-four hours after his death?” She pulled her thick sweater tighter over her lean shoulders and watched her tea steep on the bar. “I bet if we had a male director they’d be more flexible, more willing to fund the picture if we moved somewhere else.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. You really think that’s the issue?” Penelope asked.

“Don’t kid yourself. It was an uphill battle to get the studio to green light this movie. This is Jennifer’s first major project.”

“I had no idea,” Penelope said. She swiped a few sugar crystals from the bar into her palm. “I thought the movie had been in development a long time. I remember reading about it in one of your trade magazines back home.”

“Yes, the movie was planned. This reboot of The Turn of the Screw has been making the rounds for a couple of years now, always attached to male directors. It’s a perfect classic gothic ghostly horror story, all the rage right now. But it kept falling through, didn’t get on any schedule, and then the interested directors had moved on to other projects. Jennifer had to fight for the job, even though most of her smaller films have performed. She’s got a cult following, but you better believe if this movie doesn’t do well, her chances of working at a major studio again will be diminished.”

Penelope looked at her doubtfully.

“Pen, Jennifer has to work twice as hard to get half as much respect as any male director. It’s despicable the way women are treated in this business.” Arlena picked up the tab of her tea bag and began dunking it quickly. “I’m going to do something about it. I’ll set up a production company for women writers and directors.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Penelope said, picturing Arlena behind a big desk, fielding offers and reading scripts. “How did your young costars take the news about Jordan?” Penelope glanced at the children sitting at the actors’ table, a young girl and boy, aged eight and ten. Their mother sat between them, fussing with the collar on the little girl’s shirt.

“Dakota and Jackson are okay,” Arlena said. “Jennifer didn’t go into details with them. She let their mother tell them.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the hovering woman.

Penelope hid a small smile behind her hand. “Still getting tripped up by the famous stage mom?”

“Don’t get me started,” Arlena said. “‘Dakota can’t play off you unless you look her in the eyes.’ ‘Jackson is following your cues—be sure you don’t ad lib any lines at the end of dialogue.’” Arlena mimicked the woman’s voice, pulling her face into an exaggerated frown.

“Stop,” Penelope whispered, biting her cheek to keep from laughing.

“They say never work with children or animals. The kids are fine scene partners, but Sybil…I don’t know, it feels like she’s living through them, like they’re supposed to pick up where her career left off.”

Penelope had vaguely recognized Sybil Wilde, Dakota and Jackson’s mother, when they all arrived on set, but she couldn’t place where she knew her from. She’d asked Arlena, who reminded her Sybil had starred in a popular daytime soap, one that Penelope had never watched. After a contract dispute with the show, she’d left and had two children on her own via surrogate with eggs she had frozen many years before and an anonymous sperm donor at one of the most expensive fertility clinics in New York. Sybil had one short-lived marriage well in her past and had become a mother for the first time in her mid-forties. Now she was her children’s agent and manager, not to mention their on-set tutor, and in some ways their personal assistant.

“She’s too close to them all the time,” Arlena said, cutting her eyes at Sybil. “I’m supposed to be playing their governess, their main caretaker. I don’t how they’re going to give convincing performances as orphaned and abandoned children with their mom fetching them pomegranate smoothies every five minutes.”

Penelope stifled another laugh, then felt guilty about the smoothies, since it was her team making them to order for the kids, following Sybil’s strict dietary instructions. “They seem like they’re doing a good job on the set though.”

Arlena relented as she looked at Jackson and Dakota. “They’re sweet kids, really. Which is surprising. They ought to be spoiled rotten. I’m just waiting for Jackson to pull a diva move, flip out on everyone.” Arlena allowed a small smile, then cleared her throat and became serious again.

Jackson and Dakota both had white blonde hair and slender faces. They looked very ghostlike, perfect for the roles of two haunted children. “I hope they’re not too upset. I can make them something special for lunch if you think that would take their mind off things.”

Arlena shrugged. “That sounds like a good idea to me, but run it by their mom-ager first.”

“Of course,” Penelope said.

Arlena picked up her mug. “I’m going upstairs to call Sam. Stop by later if you have time.” Arlena had been dating Sam Cavanaugh, the A-list action-movie star, for over a year. She was making her way up the acting ranks herself, and together they were quite the power couple in Hollywood.

Penelope took a few minutes to refresh the coffee station, glancing at the different tables around the room to judge how much longer the crew might be lingering. She heard the front door open with a whoosh and watched Marla approach the bar, her body rigid under her oversized wool sweater. She ducked away quickly, heading toward the basement stairs off the main hallway.

“Marla, are you okay?” Penelope asked, noting the dazed look on the older woman’s face.

“No,” she managed, darting glances at the crew lingering around the tables. She appeared disoriented, like the room was unfamiliar, as opposed to the inn she’d cared for on a daily basis for many years.

“Why don’t you sit for a minute,” Penelope said, pointing to a nearby chair.

Marla shook her head quickly, looking a bit unsure on her feet. “I have things to tend to.” She wandered through to the hall and disappeared behind the staircase.

Penelope watched her go, concerned for the older woman’s health. The other morning she’d watched Marla through the kitchen windows stacking firewood on her shoulder and trekking up the icy backyard. Penelope had been impressed with her strength and stamina, but there were also times she appeared frail, her cheeks sunken.

Skylar stalked up to the bar a few minutes later, hungrily grabbing at the fruit bowl’s serving spoon.

“Are you cold?” Penelope asked, eyeing her jacket and then the lit fireplace.

“Forrestville, Indiana is the coldest place on earth,” Skylar declared through clenched teeth.

“There might be a few places on earth colder than here,” Penelope said, teasing.

“None I’ve ever been to,” Skylar said flatly.

“Well, being from southern California I guess it feels colder to you than some of us,” Penelope said.

The girl snorted a quick laugh. Red spiral curls escaped the knit hat she had pulled down over her ears. “I was so happy to get my first job on a real movie. Little did I know I’d be sewing period costumes in Boring-ville, which by the way is also frozen.”

“It’s Forrestville. And a job’s a job, right?” Penelope said, keeping her tone light. “You’ll get a screen credit on a major motion picture, and different projects will open up to you.”

“That’s the plan,” Skylar said. “I guess I’m paying my dues.” She chewed on a piece of pale cantaloupe and Penelope winced at the weak-colored fruit. She was having a hard time working up sympathy for Skylar, who had a job and a strong career path many people would kill for. Penelope didn’t think staying in a quaint rustic inn for a few months with everything being taken care of for you qualified as paying dues. But then again, everyone had different ideas about working hard.

Their fellow crew members sat at the tables, loosely broken into their respective departments. The sound technicians sat together, the hair and makeup team huddled in the corner near the fireplace. She thought about what her team would do for the immediate future, deciding they’d go back to cooking on the catering trucks, which were parked in the lot behind the inn. She assumed the inn’s kitchen would be closed for a while. She wasn’t looking forward to going back inside the walk-in anytime soon anyway.

The great room and bar slowly emptied out, some of the crew heading back upstairs, some venturing outside into the cold.

“How much longer are we going to be here? Have you heard any updates?” Skylar asked after a few minutes. Penelope had forgotten she was standing there, having gotten lost in her own thoughts.

“I don’t think we’re halfway finished yet, from what I’ve heard in the department meetings. I’d say we’re here at least another six weeks.”

Skylar rolled her eyes so dramatically Penelope worried they wouldn’t come back down from her eyelids. “Ugh.” She stalked off, almost tripping on the area rug in the center of the room when her thick-soled snow boots caught the edge of it.

Penelope sighed and watched her go.