THE WORLD TURNS upside down and doesn’t right itself completely. The movie has been temporarily shut down. Here’s the front-page headline from today’s Chronicle-Herald: MOVIE DIRECTOR DROWNS AT PORT MEDWAY.
Just after dawn this morning, Philip telephoned me. “There are police cars, and I mean right out back in the cove. Peter Istvakson drowned. What was he doing here in the first place?”
“I’m coming over.”
I telephoned Lily Svetgartot, and she said, “Michiko Zento will go on with the filming. Next Life will be completed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Later, you might consider that pretty cold, Mr. Lattimore. Well, there’s to be an investigation. An inquiry. And when that is over, they’ll send Mr. Istvakson home. By the way, there’s a private memorial service two days from now. Will you want to know the location? Probably a church.”
“I’ll grieve in private, thank you.”
“I can drive out and speak to you about all this. There are things I can tell you now that I couldn’t tell you before. I can drive out to see you in a few days.”
I hesitated a moment, then said, “See you then.”
Half an hour or so later, I walked over to Philip and Cynthia’s. There were two black sedans parked in front. Without knocking I stepped into the kitchen. Cynthia was setting out coffee and cake on a tray for the three detectives sent out from Halifax. One seemed to be in his late thirties, one in his late forties, the third at least sixty. They all wore suits and ties, and each held a small, flip-open notebook and pen. I was introduced and then went to the window, where I saw bright orange crime-scene tape stretched between stakes on the sand. The wind was fluttering the tape. About ten square meters of beach were cordoned off, apparently where Philip had discovered Istvakson’s body. Cynthia walked over and handed me a cup of coffee. “Come sit down,” she said. I sat on the sofa.
The men had been introduced as Detective Seshaw, Detective Paldimer, and Detective Van der Kloet. They were speaking in low tones among themselves and then to Philip and Cynthia, and I heard only one thing clearly: “No, we never met Mr. Istvakson,” Cynthia said. “Not in person, anyway. Like everyone, we saw his photograph in the newspaper. And his assistant, Lily Svetgartot, has become a friend. She’s stayed in our guest room. But no, we never met Peter Istvakson.”
Seshaw, the eldest detective, said, “Sir—Mr. Lattimore. For the record, I was one of the detectives assigned to the homicide at the Essex Hotel. Just for the record. My brother does some security on the movie set. Small world, eh? So you live out here now?”
“Just across the road,” I said.
“Our information has it that you and the deceased Mr. Istvakson were not on the best of terms.”
“Best of terms? No, probably not.”
“Newspaper articles about the deceased indicate this. Certain statements he made.”
“He wasn’t on good terms with me in private, by himself. I wasn’t on good terms with him in private, by myself. Before the movie started up, we met at Cyrano’s Last Night.”
“The bohemian café?”
“We spoke by telephone early on, a couple of times, too.”
“Was there communication after that?”
“Yes, through his assistant, Lily Svetgartot.”
“And you say you live across the road?” Seshaw was writing in his notebook.
“Yes, you can see my cottage from here.”
“In our experience—maybe ninety years between the three of us here—most likely this was a suicide. But in our experience, every so often a suicide turns out not to be one.”
“I heard about the drowning when Philip telephoned me. I’d say about six o’clock this morning.”
“I didn’t ask,” the detective said. He looked at Cynthia. “Can I trouble you for another cup of coffee, please?”