Even the Reverend Maxen “Max” Tudor, also reading the paper over his own morning coffee, recognized many of the names mentioned in the story. There were only one or two unfamiliar ones: Maurice Brandon, identified as a stylist, whatever that was. Something to do with interior design, was it? And a passenger named Belinda Bower, who was identified only as a crew member. It was implied she was some sort of witness to the drowning or accident.
But of course he recognized the name of his friend and sometime colleague DCI Cotton of the local constabulary, who was heading up the investigation.
The others mentioned in the story Max knew or knew of vaguely because he was a great fan of the cinema. There was a screenwriter named Addison Phelps whose name Max thought he recognized from the credits of a recent spy thriller, for example. And an actress named Tina Calvert. Although she was clearly a minor character in this particular real-life drama, photos of her must have been readily available, as most of the papers featured her or, more precisely, her plunging neckline, which some enterprising photographer or other had managed to capture at a high angle from above. Her face, while beautiful, seemed incidental. Then there was an actor named Jake Larsson—no photo or further information or credits provided. For an actor, how that omission must have stung. And there had been a “yoga instructress” on board the luxury yacht, but she went unnamed.
Also there had been a Baron and Baroness Sieben-Kuchen-Bäcker—there could only be one couple of that name in all the world, although it was not a baronetcy with which Max was familiar. So many of these little baronetcies came and went, and so many were extinct, dormant, or forfeit.
The death of Margot Browne, while immensely sad, was of no immediate concern to Max, nor were the bold-faced names of those who had accompanied her on her final voyage. Her death seemed merely an occasion for the tabloids to unearth their files on the woman they had deemed a bombshell not long ago, and to tsk-tsk over her fate. Comparisons were made to other “celebrity drownings.” The whole was illustrated with an unflattering photo of Margot taken in recent years. She was shown leaving a Los Angeles nightspot, caught in the glare of the camera’s flash, looking pale and haggard, one bony, veined hand raised as if to shield her eyes or fend off the photographer.
Max vowed to remember Margot in his prayers that morning, to thank her for the many hours of vicarious pleasure she had given her viewing public. (She had been, truth be told, a frightful actress with a tendency to overplay every part, but still she’d possessed great beauty and a sort of presence, and she had excelled at offering the innocent escapism that to Max was the entire reason for the existence of film.) And then he folded the paper, kissed his wife Awena and baby son Owen good-bye, and walked to St. Edwold’s Church to conduct the morning service in Nether Monkslip.
He stopped into the vicarage that evening to find on his desk a hastily scribbled note from Mrs. Hooser, the housekeeper. It was then Max began to understand there would be no escape from this particular production.