The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  She unscrewed the top from one of the jars on the dressing table—Chanel’s Sublimage—and gently stroked some over her face and neck. Not a drugstore brand by any means, not Clé de Peau Synactif either—a thousand dollars for under an ounce and a half. She smiled. Not broadly. Let the pores absorb the cream smoothly. But she smiled. She’d be able to buy any brand she wanted before long. Dead? Not by a long shot.

  “A guy who works for Max Dane called,” Niki said. “Sounded English. Ian something. Asked you to call back ‘at your convenience.’ You have to take me out there. Couldn’t you fit me in the housekeeper’s suite? I’d be like the scullery maid.”

  “I wish you could come, but it’s not that big a job, and Ian was pretty firm that he’d do everything. Serve, clean up. But I’ll get you there the day before when I bring some of the food out in the van,” Faith offered, but if Niki saw the casket, things could get dicey. Plus Faith knew the reason only her services were required was so she alone could concentrate on unmasking the merry, or deadly, prankster who had sent it. She could ask Dane if she could show a friend the house, particularly the kitchen, in the spring when the party was long over. Now she needed to return Ian’s call. She was pretty sure she knew why.

  “Rowan House.” Ian answered after three rings. Not too eager. Not too rude.

  “It’s Faith Fairchild returning your call.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, there has been a slight change to the guest list.”

  It was what Faith had expected.

  “Yes?”

  “Jack Gold will not be with us.”

  Ever, Faith said to herself.

  “In his stead, Mr. Dane has invited a Charles Frost. He lives in Boston and New York. I’ll send you an updated list.”

  “What was his role in Heaven or Hell?”

  “A small walk-on. His name appeared as an understudy. Also, there’s no immediate rush, but we would like to see the menus, especially for the birthday dinner.”

  “I can send some of our set menus for all the meals and you can choose what you like or I can propose several. The birthday dinner is almost done. I want to do more testing on a recipe that is new to me, a German dish called Himmel und Erde.”

  “Heaven and Earth,” Ian said immediately. “Appropriate.”

  “Also I will need to know if there are any food allergies. Or specific vegetarian or vegan requests.”

  “No need to concern yourself. Neither of us has any and we can modify a dish or substitute for one should the need arise.” His tone had become brusque. Faith might be catering, but neither Dane nor Ian would be accommodating the guests’ real or preferred food preferences.

  She was about to hang up when she realized she still hadn’t received information on James Nelson, save “original director” after his name. And it was a common one. She hadn’t had any luck finding him online and the Playbill bio only listed Heaven or Hell as a credit. “Have you found out where James Nelson is living?” she asked.

  There was a long pause and she was beginning to think he had hung up when at last he answered, “We’re on it. I’ll let you know.”

  “So I should assume he’s coming?”

  “You should definitely assume he will be there. Good-bye.”

  As Faith hung up she wondered whether the last name of the new guest, Charles Frost, was connected to the Helen Frost Ursula had mentioned. The classmate who had lived with her family at Havencrest. Who was it that said there were no coincidences?

  She hadn’t thought she had asked the question aloud, but Niki piped up, “That would be Turtle in Kung Fu Panda. What’s coincidental?”

  “Nothing really. Just a random thought. But are you sure it isn’t someone else? Like Einstein, Freud, or Mae West?”

  “How can you doubt me, unenlightened one? ‘There are no coincidences in this world.’ That’s the direct quote. I have more too from the Panda. How about ‘There are no accidents’?”

  “How about helping me test the recipe I mentioned? The heaven part are apples and the earth are potatoes.”

  “I hope there are more ingredients. Sounds a big stodgy, but sure, let’s give it a whirl.”

  Chip Frost edged his way out of bed. It wasn’t that he was afraid of disturbing the other occupant—and who was she?—but if he moved too fast he’d toss his cookies before he could get to the can.

  He just made it and embraced the cool porcelain throne with relief. It hadn’t been cookies, but shots—a lot of shots. And then the lady—Rochelle? Rachel? something like that—wanted champagne. A lot of champagne. “Chip, old boy,” he muttered aloud, “you know better than to mix drinks like that.” Maybe bourbon and scotch, but definitely not champagne with hard liquor. And had he eaten yesterday?

  He threw up again and passed out on the tile floor.

  “Hey, Romeo! Wake up! I need to pee and where’s my money?” She kicked him. It wasn’t a gentle kick.

  He sat up carefully. “No need to get rough. The place is all yours.” The room was spinning, but not too bad. He grabbed the rim of the toilet and pushed himself to a standing position.

  “It stinks in here! Jeez.” She flushed the toilet. “Now scram. A lady needs her privacy.”

  “But you’re no lady” was on the tip of his tongue. He recalled the kick and kept his mouth shut.

  When he heard the shower running, he got dressed quickly, making sure his wallet was in his pocket, and also retrieved the cash he kept hidden. This one seemed smarter than most and he wouldn’t put it past her to rip the place apart to find the dough. And he couldn’t take the chance.

  Unemployment was about to run out and he had pretty much run out of people to hit up. His immediate family had been happy to keep him afloat—and away—for years. But now Mother, Father—the people who cared about their God almighty name—were gone.

  Something would turn up though. It always had.

  The elevator was at his floor. A good sign. When he stepped out into the lobby, one of the doormen handed him his mail. Another offered him an umbrella. It was starting to rain. “Good morning, Mr. Frost. Have a good day.” They spoke so close to one another, it could have been a chorus.

  “You too, guys. You too.”

  He made sure to go to a coffee shop a good distance from the apartment, sat in a back booth just to make sure, and ordered a toasted plain bagel with lite cream cheese—he was over forty now, had to keep the waistline trim. They knew him here and the waitress handed him a cup of black coffee as soon as he sat down. He drained it quickly and she was at his side with a refill.

  The small pile of mail contained plenty of bills, as expected, fund appeals—which was ludicrous—and a square envelope addressed with great finesse, like the writing on wedding invitations. The paper was superior as well. He’d done a stint in the stationery department at Tiffany and could tell. He turned the envelope over. Engraved return address. “Rowan House Havencrest.” Well, well.

  His bagel arrived and he took a large bite. He didn’t have to open the envelope to know who sent it. Rowan House. Havencrest. “Chip, old boy,” he said to himself, “looks like the time has come.”

  He decided to treat himself to a Danish. “Warm it, will you? Piping hot.”

  Faith loved Friday nights, especially if Tom had finished his sermon. Not having to get the kids up and off to school the next morning and in her slow season few or no catering jobs meant it was possible for the Fairchilds to go out themselves. Ben and Amy were in that blissful sitter-free period. Plus they both usually had plans with friends, as tonight. Faith toyed with the idea of a dinner à deux—lighting candles and opening a good bottle of wine now that the kids were out the door. She had leftovers from today’s luncheon, a fancy plated one at the museum for potential donors. Smoked trout pâté with frisée salad followed by roasted duck breast on a bed of root vegetables with pommes Anna. Dessert had been mocha panna cottas. Or they could go to a movie—a rare treat when it came to both scheduling and finding something they wanted to see. She was le
aning toward staying home and went into the living room to make sure there was a fire laid. They could eat in front of it with a snifter of brandy afterward and then after that . . .

  Hearing the back door open, she went to greet Tom. Each Fairchild had a different step and different ways of opening the door, depending on mood. Tom’s footfall was softer than usual and the door didn’t bang shut. A good day?

  “Honey, I’m in here,” she called. “I need your fire-making skills. The kids are out, so I thought we could stay in.”

  Faith had not been a Girl Scout or Campfire Girl and any fires she tried to start burned brilliantly for about five minutes before dying. Tom, on the other hand, not only had been an Eagle Scout, but also had that particular male gene that endows an ability to take two twigs and create a bonfire in no time.

  Tom came through the door from the kitchen with a glass of wine in each hand. “Thought we could get a head start,” he said and came over to give Faith a very promising kiss.

  “Hmmm. Unless you’re very hungry, we could postpone dinner for a while.”

  “Oh, I’m hungry all right,” he said, heading for the stairs.

  Following her husband, Faith gave a passing thought to what might have put him in such a cheerful, and amorous, mood, letting it very much pass.

  Downstairs an hour or so later, Faith was starting to fill Tom in on the Samantha situation when she realized he wasn’t paying attention.

  “Aside from terrific quality time together, you seem very happy about something, sweetheart,” she said.

  “I am,” Tom said. “Late this afternoon I got a call from another member of the Planning Board. We finally have a town counsel and one he expects will be able to prevent the strip mall from coming in. Blake Sommersby, new to town—our good luck—specializes in the Commonwealth’s laws governing Historic Districts, as well as those that cover razing existing structures of possible value for a town’s legacy.”

  “That’s great! Wish someone like that had been in place when they tore down Penn Station.” For Faith local meant the Big Apple still, especially when it came to the destruction of landmarks.

  Since Aleford was a small town and the town’s lawyer, or counsel, was appointed not elected, the salary was pretty minimal. The position had always been filled by someone who essentially wanted to volunteer. The previous counsel had retired from both his firm in downtown Boston and the Aleford post, moving to Florida with his wife when she declared she wasn’t spending another winter up north. She’d been born and grew up in North Carolina. “I’ve done my time,” she said at the farewell dinner friends gave for the couple, catered by Have Faith with food anticipated rather than what she was leaving behind, as requested—“I don’t want to see a single baked bean on my plate.” The town counsel post had been empty for months and Faith didn’t envy the new appointee the backlog of issues, such as who pays for the removal of a tree that has fallen over the property line and the always controversial right-of-way feuds.

  “Another reason I’m smiling—besides the obvious—is that Sam called this morning. He’s been out of town. You probably know that, what with the tin cans and string telephone I believe you and Pix have. Anyway, he’s lending a hand. Not, as he pointed out, completely out of the goodness of his heart, but because the new building impacts them even more than the church and us. He thinks there may be an ordinance about excavating so close to the cemetery, or as it was called then, ‘the burial ground.’”

  “You mean there could be bodies underneath the Grayson House property?”

  “It’s possible. Before the early sixteen hundreds, the date on the earliest stones we have, Sam thinks it could have been a Native American site. In any case, there were always those—paupers, miscreants—who would have been buried outside the walls.”

  “Also not all the original walls remain,” Faith said, “so there could have been further ones extending the graveyard into the spot the developer wants to build on.”

  Tom nodded. “Now what’s going on with Samantha?”

  Selective hearing syndrome had been at work. Usually Tom was a terrific listener—went with the job—but Faith had already told him about this. That Samantha had lost her job and boyfriend possibly only a few hours apart. She told him again, adding that the young woman was now working at Starbucks.

  “Well, Pix must be glad she’s home. And knowing Samantha she’ll get bored making lattes and be back on the fast track soon.”

  Deciding not to go into the whole Pix unexcited about the return to the nest despite laundry and cooking help, Faith said, “It’s pretty puzzling. She hasn’t shared why she was pink slipped, although she did tell her mother that she was the one who broke up with Caleb.”

  Ben had come in almost noiselessly. Overhearing the last remark, he blurted out, “Samantha dumped Caleb? What is wrong with these women!!!”

  Tom and Faith exchanged glances. It was going to be a long haul.

  “Take a break, kids,” Tony Ames said. “Hydrate! And we’ll take it from the top again in a few.”

  They weren’t the best troupe of dancers he’d worked with; they weren’t the worst. And by opening night they’d bring that special pizzazz from being onstage, which always gives energy to the opening number—the number that makes or breaks a show. Granted, the audience the first night would be mostly friends and relatives, but he thought the show had legs. A decent book and even better director. Sure it was off-off-Broadway, but hadn’t A Chorus Line started off-off, too? Not that he thought this could be a megahit, another legend, but there was always a chance. And he was doing what he loved as opposed to the dry spells when he wasn’t choreographing. Making the rent teaching adult ed swing dance classes in Jersey and yet another community theater production of Grease in Connecticut.

  He’d stuffed the mail in his messenger bag and went to his seat to check what had come in. The bag’s leather had softened over the last twenty-five years—shit, a quarter of a century! It had been his first splurge when he’d been hired for Dream Girls, starting his career as a hoofer before moving into choreography. Luck, a fluke, whatever. He’d barely stepped off the train from Albany, still hearing his mother’s words of encouragement. She’d paid for the ticket and insisted it be one-way. “I’ll come see you!” And she had. Every one of the shows he’d been a part of except for the last big gig. Her death had hit him hard, but there was that silver lining. She hadn’t been at the opening—and closing—night. The night of the long knives in effect.

  He pulled out what had been in his mailbox—a couple of days’ worth—and rifled through it. Mostly circulars.

  At first he thought the envelope was one of those fund appeals made to look fancy so you’d be sure to open it, thinking it might be a real invitation. But he could tell the calligraphy had been done by hand. Then he saw the return address on the back flap. He took his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and used it as a paper knife. Tearing it open seemed inappropriate.

  He scanned the words quickly. So Max was giving himself a party. “Come as you are—or be cast.” He’d come, oh yes, he’d most certainly come—and as he was. No need to be cast. He knew what his part would be. And he could have torn the envelope open.

  Faith was loading the car with household trash and recyclables for a dump run. The official name was the “transfer station,” but Faith had never heard anyone use it. Normally this was Tom’s job and one he happily assumed. The Aleford dump was a convivial place, and he’d come home to report on whom he’d caught up with and, during an election, who was there campaigning with coffee and Munchkins. Besides the sightings, which Faith always enjoyed, he also, however, invariably brought home one or more finds from the Swap Table. These Faith did not enjoy. She’d have to wait awhile before boxing up the perfectly good mugs, baskets, utensils, and once a whole bag of candle stubs for Goodwill. If she took them back to the dump, they’d miraculously appear at the parsonage again.

  Today, though, the dump task was hers. The night before, Tom had
gotten a call from the chair of the Planning Board, hoping he was free this morning to meet the new town counsel. It was the only time they could all get together. Faith sent an assortment of muffins from the freezer. The town hall had an abundance of coffeemakers, but there wouldn’t be any food.

  It continued to be an unnatural winter. The forsythia was starting to bud out and the air had a curious quality. No nip in it, but not springlike either. It made wardrobe choices difficult. No L.L.Bean down coat that made her look like the Michelin Man, but her UNIQLO stuff jacket wasn’t warm enough.

  Faith turned to musing over the odd path her life had taken that required trips to dumps in both places she lived—Sanpere and Aleford—and was thinking nostalgically about the rumble of the large garbage trucks on Manhattan streets when she heard someone call her name.

  It was Samantha Miller. Faith hadn’t seen her since the young woman had moved back home and went over to the opening in the hedge to give her a hug.

  “Hi!” Samantha said. “I have a favor to ask. Could I borrow a bike? Mom seems to have given all ours to some sort of PTO fund-raiser.”

  Despite the fact that Pix’s kids were old enough to have kids of their own, Pix was still involved with things like the PTO and even the Girl Scout cookie drive. There had been a sale of gently used athletic equipment last fall, Faith recalled. Tom had picked up some perfectly good hockey skates for all of them, even his nonskater wife. Faith hoped some organization would have another sale next year. Maybe in nearby Concord out of sight.

  “Of course. Take your pick. It’s certainly warm enough for a nice long ride.”

  “It is, but I need one for transportation. Dad’s at some sort of meeting and Mom took the other car to go shopping in town with Granny. Apparently my grandmother wanted to go to Saks of all places.”