A Knife to Remember by Jill Churchill Read Free Book Online

get Miss Harwell’s luncheon tray!“ Olive Longabach said. She’d just caught up with them and was breathless and disconcerted by having lost sight of her charge, however briefly. “I know what she likes.“
    “Olive, dear, there’s no need. Mike can do it,“ Lynette said, positively twinkling at Mike. But Olive looked as if she’d been stabbed in the heart and Lynette relented. “Oh, very well, Olive. Mike will stay here with me, won’t you, dear?“ She gestured for him to sit beside her.
    Jane snatched up her lawn chair and plunked it and herself down at the table before anyone could stop her. “How do you do, Miss Harwell. I’m Jane Jeffry. Mike’s mother.”
    Lynette glanced at Jane for a fraction of a second, but didn’t acknowledge her except with a slight compression of her lips. It was an unfortunate expression.
    It showed up the “drawstring“ wrinkles just starting around her mouth. Then she turned away. “Roberto, darling! Sit here with me! And George! Here!”
    It was said in that soft, sexy voice, but it was an order just the same.
    “May I join you, too?“ Jake had approached just behind the director and the male lead. He was “technical“ rather than “talent“ but was apparently highly enough placed to horn in without violating the rules.
    “Of course, Jake.“ A monarch granting a favor. “Why don’t you go get your lunch, Mom?“ Mike asked in a tone that verged on hostility.
    Sensing that her place would disappear if she did, Jane said, “Thanks, Mike. But I’m not hungry. I’ll just sit here.”
    Mike stared at her as if to make her feel guilty for spoiling his lunch with Lynette. But, since that was exactly what she meant to do, Jane held her ground.
     

7
     
    Jane listened carefully as they all chatted while luncheon trays were being delivered to them. She thought sure she’d recognize the voices of the blackmailer and the victim, but she could not. They were all speaking in their normal voices and the ominous discussion she’d heard earlier had been in abrasive whispers.
    Going over it in her mind, Jane decided the victim must have been an actor or actress. Obviously somebody who made their living in front of a camera, not behind it. Lynette Harwell? Possibly. Or maybe George Abington. But if George or Lynette were holding any grudges against anyone at this table, they weren’t evident at luncheon. The chat was general, professional: discussion of the weather as it related to filming, talk of the schedule. Very mundane stuff.
    Jane studied George, suddenly recognizing him as the hero in a movie the children had loved when they were little. George was in his fifties, trying desperately to look thirty-five. He held himself rigidly upright, even seated, making Jane suspect he was wearing some kind of corset-type underpinnings. His hair was longish and unrealistically black and when a breeze lifted a lock of it off his ear, Jane could see the faint whitish line of a face-lift. His eyes, likewise, were too blue to be natural and the lashes looked tinted.
    But for all the fraudulence of his appearance, he was still handsome. His manner, perhaps natural, or perhaps taken on for the duration of the filming, was Old-World, flowery and courteous, at least to Jane. He was the only one at the table who acknowledged her existence. “What a nuisance it must be for you, having your neighborhood invaded this way,“ he said.
    “On the contrary. It’s fascinating,“ Jane said. “I had no idea how hard—and early—all of you have to work. I couldn’t even be myself, much less another character, so early in the morning.“
    “Ah, but you’re seeing only a part of it,“ George answered, looking critically at a tray of food that a gofer had put in front of him. He turned over a lettuce leaf as if expecting something slimy to be on the other side of it. “Between jobs we lie about eating bonbons—or having wild affairs, if you were to believe the media.“
    “That may be how