A Knife to Remember

that was Lynette!”
    Shelley looked where Jane pointed. Jennifer Fortin was in conversation with Roberto Cavagnari. She was dressed in the same costume Lynette had worn the day before and had her hair fixed in the same style. She looked astonishingly like the dead actress.
    “How creepy!“ Shelley exclaimed. She left Jane gaping and went to chat for a minute with some extras standing around the coffee urn. When she came back, she said, “They had some long shots to do of Lynette and George. Jennifer is filling in. Didn’t they do that in Jean Harlow’s last movie?“
    “Oh, yes. I remember seeing the scenes that were supposed to be Harlow at a racetrack or something. All three-quarter shots of the back of her head. But it was somebody else because Harlow had died. I see how it’s necessary, but it’s still nasty.”
    Jane learned a little more about it when she went to fix herself a cup of coffee. The producers’ representative was using the phone as she stood a few feet away. He punched in a long set of numbers. So it’s long-distance, Jane thought to herself.
    “Yes, hello. Is V. J. there?“ he asked. “Yes, Claude here. Just checking in. It’s a zoo, as you could guess. No, Roberto says he can finish by four as long as the security people keep the press out of his hair. They’re getting ready for the long shots of scene nineteen.”
    He paused, listening. “No, Roberto must have called Fortin. She’s doing them. Didn’t even ask for credits. Just scale. My guess is she’s sucking up to Cavagnari. Oh, sure I did. I don’t let anybody near here without a signed contract. Not to worry.”
    Jane got very busy picking over the donuts as if which one to choose were a life-and-death decision. Not that she needed a donut, but she wanted a reason to stay in place.
    “Listen, Veronica, everything’s really all right, given the mess,“ the young man was going on. “We didn’t need Harwell today except for the long shots. And the kid doing the props is fine. Don’t worry about the press. I’m just sorry we’re getting all this attention now instead of closer to the release date. Now, I’ve got a problem with George’s home ticket. It’s for the wrong day. Could you get it straightened out at your end? Uh-oh, a reporter’s got hold of Olive. Gotta go!”
    In fact, several reporters had gotten through the security cordon and had hold of Olive. Or perhaps she had latched onto them. Jane’s heart ached for the older woman, who looked pale and ill. Her eyes were red and her face blotched and she was hanging onto an assortment of canvas bags and dresses on hangers, which made her look like a refugee fleeing a disaster with all her worldly goods.
    But she seemed to have a grip on herself in spite of it all. At least for the moment. “I will not comment on Miss Harwell’s death,“ she was saying to a gathering crowd. The producers’ nerd was trying to shoo them away, but to no avail. “But I will talk about her life and her work. She was the finest actress of the century and when the world sees the work she did on this, her last film, she will take her rightful place in the history of the film industry.“
    “How did she die?“
    “Who are you?“
    “Where’s she being buried?”
    The questions came fast, overlapping each other.
    “This film represents the finest achievement of her career,“ Olive went on, as if giving a rehearsed speech. Maybe it was, Jane thought. “This role and her remarkable performance will be a tribute, an eternal tribute, to a fine actress.“
    “That’s enough, boys!“ George Abington had appeared, grabbed Olive’s arm, and pushed her through the crowd, flinging reporters aside like bowling pins. “Olive,“ he said firmly. “Drop all that stuff. There are people to carry it for you. Just come over here and have some tea. Those people won’t bother you again.“
    “Let me fix you some tea, Miss Longabach,“ Jane said. “Do you take sugar?“
    “Lemon and sugar. Yes, please,“ Olive said, her voice starting to crack. Jane wondered for a second if she and George were the only people in the world who’d ever offered to do anything for Olive. George had scattered the last of the reporters by the time Jane got to the old woman with a hot cup of tea and a paper plate with a donut.
    “I’m very sorry about your—about Miss Harwell, Miss Longabach,“ Jane said.
    “Thank you, dear. It’s terrible... just terrible. I feel so awful that I wasn’t with