Marshfield property, I didn’t find his humor particularly funny. “Let’s hope we don’t have to worry about that.”
“Don’t worry. I do extensive background checks before I hire my employees, and most of them have been with me for at least ten years.”
“Most?”
He surveyed the area, squinting. “I don’t see . . . Oh, there.” He gestured with his chin and I followed his gaze. Two men were unloading large silver boxes from the back of one of the vans. “Those guys—a couple of freelancers—they’re new to me with this job.”
“Freelancers?” I repeated, feeling a little queasy.
“Don’t worry. They’ve worked for other film companies like mine and came with excellent references. I interviewed them both personally. They’re good, hard workers. Trustworthy. You could stake your life on that.”
I hated when anyone said that. Sure it was just a cliché, but staking one’s life, or saying the equivalent of “to die for,” always bugged me. Now that I thought about it, that quirk of mine was fairly recent. It had started right after the first Marshfield murder.
I looked at the two men. Neither struck me as appearing overtly evil, nor angelic. Both were of average height, average weight, and without distinguishing features. I’d have to say they were both simply ordinary. “Did either of them work at the Kane Estate recently?”
Corbin didn’t recall. “Harry,” he called. “Donald Lee.”
The two glanced up as Corbin waved them over. They exchanged the briefest of looks, one I took to mean: “Why are you pulling us away from what we need to do?” But both dutifully put down their gear and hustled over.
As he introduced them, they extended their hands and nodded acknowledgment. Up close, Harry Hinton was in his early forties and moved in a loose-limbed way. He was thin, had hollowed eyes and a sallow complexion.
Donald Lee Runge was slightly older and slightly larger, with a receding hairline.
“Ms. Wheaton here was wondering if either of you worked on a film project at the Kane Estate recently.”
The two men exchanged another look. “No,” Harry said. “Any particular reason?”
“I hoped to borrow ideas from their project to enhance ours.” That was a fib, but an innocuous one.
After more small talk, the two men asked if there was anything else I needed. When I said there wasn’t, they returned to their duties.
“Harry and Donald seem very capable,” I said neutrally.
“He prefers Donald Lee,” Corbin said with a shrug.
Weren’t serial killers and assassins often identified with middle names? There was that unpleasant thought again. I needed to stop ruminating about murders here at Marshfield. That wasn’t what we were known for. Well, at least not until I started working here.
“Something wrong?” Corbin asked.
“No, nothing. Thanks.”
Corbin lifted his paper cup in a mock toast. “No time like the present,” he said. “It’s been nice chatting, but we’d better get started. Feel free to watch. Don’t worry about being quiet until we call for silence. Just try to stay off camera.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “The last thing I want to see is my face on the DVD.”
He shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, but Bennett specifically requested your presence.”
“What?”
Corbin grinned again. “He’ll be there with you, so no need to get stage fright.”
“Hardly stage fright,” I said. “I don’t belong. Bennett is the owner, not me.”
“He seems to think of you as family.”
Though cheered by Corbin’s words, I felt it wouldn’t be right for me to take a spot that was reserved for family, not unless it was ever proved that Bennett and I were, actually, related. And the chances of that happening were . . . well, weren’t.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
Corbin finished his coffee and tossed it into a waste bin they’d brought with them. “Good luck with that.”
Inside, Marshfield Manor was quiet as a
“Don’t worry. I do extensive background checks before I hire my employees, and most of them have been with me for at least ten years.”
“Most?”
He surveyed the area, squinting. “I don’t see . . . Oh, there.” He gestured with his chin and I followed his gaze. Two men were unloading large silver boxes from the back of one of the vans. “Those guys—a couple of freelancers—they’re new to me with this job.”
“Freelancers?” I repeated, feeling a little queasy.
“Don’t worry. They’ve worked for other film companies like mine and came with excellent references. I interviewed them both personally. They’re good, hard workers. Trustworthy. You could stake your life on that.”
I hated when anyone said that. Sure it was just a cliché, but staking one’s life, or saying the equivalent of “to die for,” always bugged me. Now that I thought about it, that quirk of mine was fairly recent. It had started right after the first Marshfield murder.
I looked at the two men. Neither struck me as appearing overtly evil, nor angelic. Both were of average height, average weight, and without distinguishing features. I’d have to say they were both simply ordinary. “Did either of them work at the Kane Estate recently?”
Corbin didn’t recall. “Harry,” he called. “Donald Lee.”
The two glanced up as Corbin waved them over. They exchanged the briefest of looks, one I took to mean: “Why are you pulling us away from what we need to do?” But both dutifully put down their gear and hustled over.
As he introduced them, they extended their hands and nodded acknowledgment. Up close, Harry Hinton was in his early forties and moved in a loose-limbed way. He was thin, had hollowed eyes and a sallow complexion.
Donald Lee Runge was slightly older and slightly larger, with a receding hairline.
“Ms. Wheaton here was wondering if either of you worked on a film project at the Kane Estate recently.”
The two men exchanged another look. “No,” Harry said. “Any particular reason?”
“I hoped to borrow ideas from their project to enhance ours.” That was a fib, but an innocuous one.
After more small talk, the two men asked if there was anything else I needed. When I said there wasn’t, they returned to their duties.
“Harry and Donald seem very capable,” I said neutrally.
“He prefers Donald Lee,” Corbin said with a shrug.
Weren’t serial killers and assassins often identified with middle names? There was that unpleasant thought again. I needed to stop ruminating about murders here at Marshfield. That wasn’t what we were known for. Well, at least not until I started working here.
“Something wrong?” Corbin asked.
“No, nothing. Thanks.”
Corbin lifted his paper cup in a mock toast. “No time like the present,” he said. “It’s been nice chatting, but we’d better get started. Feel free to watch. Don’t worry about being quiet until we call for silence. Just try to stay off camera.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I said. “The last thing I want to see is my face on the DVD.”
He shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, but Bennett specifically requested your presence.”
“What?”
Corbin grinned again. “He’ll be there with you, so no need to get stage fright.”
“Hardly stage fright,” I said. “I don’t belong. Bennett is the owner, not me.”
“He seems to think of you as family.”
Though cheered by Corbin’s words, I felt it wouldn’t be right for me to take a spot that was reserved for family, not unless it was ever proved that Bennett and I were, actually, related. And the chances of that happening were . . . well, weren’t.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
Corbin finished his coffee and tossed it into a waste bin they’d brought with them. “Good luck with that.”
Inside, Marshfield Manor was quiet as a
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