The 7th Month Read Free

business locale. Movie people had clearly arrived and were getting to work.
    D.D. followed the beams of light to the front of the cemetery, where the massive gates had already been pushed opened and numerous groups of people were milling about, most dressed casually in jeans, turtlenecks, and bulky sweatshirts. Nobody paid her any attention, each individual with a job, each job demanding total focus.
    She wandered about until she spotted a small brown shape lurking next to the tombstones.
    “Donnie,” she called out.
    He turned, saw her, and immediately froze. He looked surprised, she thought. Then he looked guilty, which she thought was interesting, since she was here at his request.
    “Detective Warren,” he managed, quickly making some attempt to rearrange his features into a more neutral expression. “You came.”
    “You ask, the police commissioner delivers. I’m yours till morning.”
    The producer’s gaze dropped to her protruding belly. “Do you . . . need anything?” he asked delicately.
    “No, thank you. Big operation you got here tonight. How many people?”
    “Hundred and four.”
    “Seriously? How many scenes are you shooting?” D.D. turned, so she had Don to one side, the organized chaos to the other.
    “Call sheet lists six scenes for this evening. The line schedule is based on location, of course, and given the nature of the movie’s serial killer, many scenes take place in the cemetery. Some, however, have been moved to the indoor set, as we’ll need special effects.”
    D.D. arched a brow. She understood about half of what Don was saying, but figured that was enough. “So, these hundred and four people running around. Are they cast, crew, extras, whatever?”
    “Most are crew. Lighting and electrical department alone involves more than a dozen guys. Then we have camera men, production assistants, sound department, props department, art department, costume and wardrobe, hair and makeup, the cast, the stand-ins, the director, the director of photography, the assistant director, the producer, the line producer . . .” Don’s voice trailed off. He seemed to be thinking. “Oh, and craft services, of course, mustn’t forget them.”
    She eyed him blankly.
    “Food, Detective. Crafty feeds us. I believe tonight’s menu includes nachos at eight to be followed by a Chinese buffet around one. Of course, Maggie and Margie will be happy to make you anything you’d like in between. Or you can simply grab snacks from their truck. Sugar, salt, no sugar, no salt, craft services has it all.”
    Unlimited food, available in person or from a truck. Moviemaking finally made some sense. “Where’s the truck?” D.D. asked, looking around.
    “The cemetery caretakers asked us not to bring our larger vehicles inside the perimeters,” Don said, his tone apologetic. “Crafty is parked around the corner. Everyone else is at base camp, which has been established across the street at the new school.”
    D.D. almost laughed, just caught herself. The new school. Built above one serial killer’s favorite burial chamber. She wondered if Donnie had any idea his base camp was probably sitting on the former home of more dead bodies than his film set.
    She caught a faintly chemical smell, traced it to her left, where fog machines had been put to work. Thick, white smoke poured out, sliding gracefully along the hard November ground before weaving among the closest headstones, pale granite markers appearing and disappearing into the billows.
    Was it her imagination, or beside her, did Don shudder?
    “Um, contract,” he muttered. “Must get you one. Come along, we’ll head to my office.”
    “Where’s your office?”
    “Base camp. Have my own trailer. Film leads should be in theirs by now, having reported for hair and makeup. I’ll introduce you, and you can get right to work.”
    Donnie walked pretty fast for a small guy, D.D. thought. He ventured out wide, seeming to want to give the fast-rolling fake