The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  Or something more?

  Faith didn’t get a chance to call her aunt until Friday afternoon. Tom had enlisted her help in going over the zoning regulations and coming up with plausible objections. Objections other than NIMBY.

  “Hi, Aunt Chat, it’s Faith.”

  “Remarkable!”

  Faith knew she was one of her aunt’s favorites, but this was a new high.

  “Those ESP people could be right. It’s remarkable timing. I was looking up your number to call you.”

  Her aunt sounded happy, so it wasn’t to call with bad news. But despite her name Chat never called to pass the time of day. She always had a reason. Faith could get to hers once she found out what Chat wanted.

  Her aunt came straight to the point. “I’m coming to Cambridge on the nineteenth for two days. Some sort of pioneering women entrepreneurs conference at the B school—Harvard’s nod toward political correctness, and reality I must say. I’m speaking and they’re putting me up at the Charles Hotel plus an appropriate fat fee, so I can take you and Tom someplace special. You choose. And I’d love to come out and see the children.”

  Dinner with Chat would be a treat, but Faith wasn’t so sure about an Aleford visit given that one of the “children,” when seen at all, was looking more like Banquo’s ghost than a hale and hearty teen and was about as verbal.

  They talked about possible restaurants and times—“the first night is a dreary banquet, so the twentieth”—and then Faith mentioned why she had called.

  “Max Dane! Living in a Boston suburb! Hard to believe. Yes, I knew him well; but perhaps best not to mention my name. We had the account for his last show, and I do mean last. I think he blames me for the flop heard round the world. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Take the job, of course, but my darling niece, do be careful. He’s, well, he’s not a very nice man.”

  Armed with extremely detailed instructions, Faith felt a sense of relief as she drove toward her meeting with Max Dane at Rowan House. It had been one of those weekends. Just as she was beginning to think Ben was coming to terms with Mandy’s decision, he came tearing into the living room Saturday night shrieking, “She’s unfriended me!” Amy was at his heels. “Me too! And Daisy. Probably all the Maine friends we have in common.” While her decibels were lower, her emotions were running as high as her brother’s.

  “You know what this means, right?” Ben had said, slumping down on the couch. Faith did know what it meant. Mandy was with someone new and posting things that she didn’t want Ben to see or hear about from mutual friends. On the one hand it was in the girl’s favor that she was protecting him from feeling hurt; on the other, Mandy should have realized that what he would imagine was probably far worse.

  “Guess she’ll marry him. He’s probably a senior. We’ll read about it in The Island Crier,” Ben had said bitterly. Faith tried a few platitudes and then went to make cocoa for the kids, pouring herself a large glass of Merlot.

  Sunday wasn’t much better. Ben spent most of the day checking out application deadlines for places like the University of Alaska in the hope he could still apply for the fall.

  Now, after pulling over twice to check Max Dane’s instructions—he’d mentioned not to bother with her GPS, it wouldn’t show Havencrest—Faith began to think the location had more in common with the Bermuda Triangle than MetroWest Boston.

  At last she saw the turn he’d described, marked by a huge granite boulder with HAVENCREST incised in Gothic letters. Several labyrinthine turns later she came to the “gatehouse”: turreted stone, a high wall extending on either side as far as the eye could see, interrupted by an elaborate and very secure looking iron gate across the drive. Dane had written that it was electronically operated. She got out of the car and found the intercom button where he’d said it would be, cleverly disguised as one of the ornamental gryphon’s eyes. She pressed it firmly. Instantly a voice—the one who had told her to hold for Max Dane—issued instructions: “Get back in your car, please, and when the gate is completely open, proceed. Do not try to enter before then.” There was a click as he hung up, or took his finger from a button in the house somewhere ahead.

  It was all very Lewis Carroll or Ian Fleming or a car wash. Faith kept at a standstill until the entrance gaped wide and came to a stop.

  Out of curiosity she looked at her odometer once through and then checked again as she parked under the porte cochere at the front of the house. The drive was a mile and a half long and passed a natural-looking landscape that could only be the result of a great deal of time and money. Banks of rhododendrons that must be spectacular in the spring; dense birch groves; towering oaks and pines. A landscape that had to have been in place for many, many years. She remembered what Pix had said, that the houses were handed down from generation to generation. Somehow she doubted this was the case with Max Dane, and it wasn’t just his New York accent. Brahmin families were known to disown members who went into show business or married someone in it. Fine to kick up one’s heels as a Harvard undergraduate back in the days of Ann Corio at the Old Howard in Scollay Square, but one turned to Boston’s Blue Book for a blue-blooded mate.

  As it came into view Faith immediately guessed the house was the work of the architect H. H. Richardson or one of his students. The facade combined Romanesque-type stonework archways with Morris-like Arts and Crafts dark shingles. It all blended into the hills behind it as if sprung from them by some kind of medieval—or Tolkien—magic.

  An attractive man who appeared to be in his fifties opened the car door and ushered her up the front steps and across a wide veranda and into a vast foyer. He was wearing a pale yellow V-neck sweater that looked like cashmere; the shirt underneath was cornflower blue. His tan chinos had knife creases. Not formal butler attire, but he seemed to be playing that role.

  “My name is Ian Morrison. We spoke on the phone. Please come in. Mr. Dane is waiting in the library.”

  He ushered her into a foyer as large as a ballroom. The floor glowed with a number of Persian carpets that picked up the warm golden oak woodwork and rose-colored walls. There was no clutter, just a few pieces of Asian blue-and-white porcelain. A fireplace ample enough to roast a large pig or small ox took up most of one wall. Several landscapes hung on the others, including an enormous piece that occupied pride of place across from the entrance that Faith was sure was by Frederic Church. Not one of his Hudson River scenes, but one of the Andes series. The only other painting of equal size was to the left of the fireplace. It was a portrait, by John Singer Sargent or a close adherent, of a young woman wearing an elaborate white gown. Possibly the artist had hoped his detailed rendition of her jeweled choker and smooth white shoulders would distract the viewer from her rather homely face and its sober expression.

  Ian Morrison crossed the room and opened a door, gesturing Faith to follow him through. “May I bring you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

  “Or champagne?” Max Dane strode into their path, his hand outstretched. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  “And I you,” Faith said, smiling and shaking his hand. She turned to Ian. “I’d love a cup of tea, any kind but Earl Grey if you have it. No sugar or milk.”

  “Same for me, but add my usual, ” Max said. Ian nodded and quietly disappeared through the door.

  The library was what Faith would have expected from what she had seen so far. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, another fireplace—this one surrounded by Roycroft tiles—and an expanse of arched windows looking out toward a bluestone-covered veranda, accessed by French doors. The naturalistic landscape Faith had noted driving in continued beyond the veranda: ledges and boulders had been left in place and no formal flowerbeds interrupted the fields’ now-pale stubble, but come spring they would be covered with a variety of grasses and other plantings as well. Dane was following her gaze. “All we do is mow on this side and let nature take its course. Daisies come first then things like goldenrod. Back in the day gardeners planted hundreds of daffo
dil bulbs, but they have mostly fallen prey to the squirrels, voles, and other creatures. I like it this way better.”

  There was a moment of silence. Faith found herself looking at Dane, sizing him up. The impresario was tall, but not heavy. Like Ian Morrison, he was dressed casually, a tan suede vest over a subtle tartan shirt and gray wool pants. He was a redhead, although age had sprinkled salt with a liberal hand. He kept his hair short, whether because there wasn’t enough now to lend itself to a longer style or because like the field, he just liked it that way better.

  She sensed he was sizing her up, too.

  “Please take a seat. Ian won’t be long and afterward I’ll give you the tour.”

  Faith smiled. “I’m looking forward to it. Your house is beautiful.”

  He nodded. Something other than where he lived seemed to be on his mind. Something else was on Faith’s, too, and she decided to come out with it.

  “I’ve been wondering how you heard about me. I started out with the same name in Manhattan over twenty years ago. Maybe you were at an event I catered there?”

  “Possibly. But, Mrs. Fairchild, while I am sure you are superb as a caterer, I am hiring you for what I understand is your other expertise. Your, shall we say, sleuthing ability?”

  Startled, Faith said, “My sleuthing? But why?”

  “One of my guests wants to kill me.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “How do you know?” Faith asked, her mind rapidly running over a number of possible indications. Anonymous poison pen letter, blocked ALL CAPS text; equivalent of horse head in his bed; gift package of chocolates redolent of bitter almonds?

  “I think I’ll save the answer to that for the end of the house tour.” Max Dane did not seem at all perturbed, although the way he’d spoken made it clear he was very sure of the threat. “Oh, and it was Ian who found you. He keeps an ear close to the ground around here.”

  As if on cue, the man, who was beginning to seem much more than a factotum in the Dane household, arrived with the tea and left. It was not an elaborate service. Two cups and the absence of any comestibles made it clear the intent was not to linger. Faith sipped quickly. Whatever Dane had in his cup was either not as hot as Faith’s tea or he had an asbestos mouth. A few gulps and he set the cup on the tray.

  “If you are finished with your tea, shall we start?”

  Faith stood up. Much as she wanted to see the whole house and take time looking at what she was sure were many exquisite details and furnishings, she wanted to get to the revelation at the end fast.

  Max stood up as well and went to a tapestry bellpull hanging next to the fireplace. He tugged on it and Ian appeared almost at once. He couldn’t have gone too far. The tray had barely been delivered.

  “I’m going to be busy with Mrs. Fairchild for a while. Would you mind picking up the mail? I’m eager to see if we’ve had any replies.” He turned to Faith. “I have a post office box in Weston. Rowan House—I disliked the original name and chose this one—isn’t on any delivery route.”

  Rowan House? Rowan was a tree she knew, although horticulture was not Faith’s forte. Thanks to Harry Potter she did know that the Rowan tree was good for wands and recalled something about people planting them in earlier times as a protection against witches. Pix, an avid gardener, would fill in the blanks.

  Max led the way back through the foyer and into a large room with almost floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sloping front lawn. It was comfortably furnished with Arts and Crafts–style furniture, some of which Faith recognized as the work of Thomas Moser, a nationally known Maine furniture maker.

  “I don’t know how familiar you are with late-nineteenth-century American architecture, but the house was designed by Henry Hobson Richardson, or I should say he added onto and remodeled what was a smaller Federal-style summer home. Sadly, he did not live to see his work completed, but his firm finished it and continued to update it for many years. Frederick Law Olmsted . . .”

  “Central Park.” Faith beamed, happy to recall what had been her favorite childhood haunt.

  “Yes.” Max Dane smiled as well. “Anyway, Olmsted designed the landscape, working with Richardson. This room, called the winter parlor, is in the addition, which more than tripled the size of the original house. The summer parlor is smaller and at the far end of the rooms on the other side of the foyer. Besides the size, the difference between the two is that the summer parlor opens onto a veranda, a cool place to sit in the afternoon. It has a small pantry space with a sink, originally for the preparation of afternoon tea. I added a microwave and generally use it for the cocktail hour.”

  He gestured toward a door to the left of the fireplace. “The main dining room is through here.” Faith followed him into an almost baronial dining room. The table could easily sit twelve and she was sure there were additional leaves. She followed Dane again down the hall into a smaller, more intimate dining area suitable for breakfasts and lunch. Passing it, they reached the kitchen, which stretched across the back of the house.

  “The house is not on any historic register, so I was able to completely demolish the old kitchen and put this larger one in. I used some of the original cabinetry and trim to match the feel of the rest of the house, but as you can see, you won’t have trouble preparing meals while trying to cope with outdated appliances.”

  It was Faith’s dream kitchen and one she knew she would never have unless a major reversal of fortune, and lifestyle, placed her in a similar setting. A Wolf stove—double gas burners with grill and griddle, double electric convection ovens below. She knew the model well—going to the company Web site, and other kitchen-related ones, was what she called “culinary porn.”

  “I don’t entertain much,” Dane was saying, “but planned for any eventuality, hence the two dishwashers. There is an industrial freezer and another refrigerator off the butler’s pantry. Go ahead, open the cabinets so you’ll know what you have.”

  It was a kid-in-a-candy-shop moment. All Faith would need to bring were her knives and chef’s clothing. The glass-fronted original cabinets revealed several china services, both for everyday and more elaborate sets she suspected were original to the house. The butler’s pantry contained enough glassware for a small hotel and shelves of serving dishes. She wanted to play with the decorative reproduction taps at the marble sink, but this was not the time.

  “It’s perfect. Truly one of the most beautiful and functional kitchens I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  He smiled, a broad smile. It was the most emotion he had shown so far—all his remarks had been delivered with a cool, almost detached expression.

  Max gestured to the row of windows on the back wall of the kitchen. Looking out, Faith could see a very large patio, devoid of summer furniture at the moment, that was enclosed by a low stone wall. Several structures, some closer to the house than others, were just visible beyond it.

  “There are several outbuildings besides the barn, which you can’t see from this angle. I converted it into a garage and the apartment where Ian lives. What you are looking at beyond is the original stone icehouse and formerly the head gardener’s quarters. Storage use.”

  She’d been watching his face and now concentrated on his voice. That, and some of his vocabulary, were the only clues so far as to Max Dane’s theatrical past. No framed posters or Tony awards on display. He could well have been an actor himself. There was a studied quality to his conversation, as if he were reciting lines. There was also something in the way he moved. Men his age and height were usually stooped in varying degrees. Max was as straight as a ramrod and walked in a rather precise manner. Again theatrical, as if hitting his mark on a stage.

  “There is room for you in one of the other buildings, but if you are agreeable I’d like you here in the main house. There is a rather nice housekeeper’s suite.”

  He opened a door to the left of the one to the pantry and Faith followed him through to the suite. If this was for the help, Faith thought, what could the other bed
rooms be like?

  The suite was filled with sun this morning. Both the bedroom and sitting room were beautifully furnished in the same Arts and Crafts style as the other rooms she’d seen so far. The artwork was not period artwork, as she’d noted in the rest of the house, but they weren’t grandmother’s botanical prints either, ubiquitous in guest rooms of the day. Faith recognized an original of one of Wayne Thiebaud’s oil paintings of cakes—appropriate for the suite’s occupant—and some bright abstract monoprints suggestive of the landscape outside.

  The bathroom was, as the cliché so accurately put it, “to die for.” Faith was starting to hope this would be the first of many gigs at Rowan House. She hurried after Max to a back staircase, the servants’ access, up to the second floor. “There are ten bedrooms plus the master, all en suite. I’ve invited ten guests, so we should be fine. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get any refusals. Two of them used to be married to each other and may still be legally, but word has it that they like to sleep alone—or not with each other, anyway.”

  The hall ended at the top of the wide staircase that Faith had admired when she walked in the front door. In the sun, the oak treads and ornately carved banister gleamed gold.

  “As you see, the landing is large enough for drinks. I thought we’d gather in front of the fireplace”—he pointed to a small one in the corner surrounded by Minton tiles—“when people arrive Friday. Then dinner in the summer parlor. Buffet breakfast in the dining room. There are plenty of warming dishes for the sideboard and you can pop in to see if there are any special requests. Knowing this group, there will be. Possibly even breakfast in bed, but I will discourage that.”

  From his tone, Faith certainly would not want to be the individual demanding a tray. Her expression must have revealed her thoughts, because Max added in a more genial voice, “The point is for all of us chums to be together again.”