The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  While Faith was searching for some sort of comment—Saks was definitely not Ursula’s usual clothier and her granddaughter did not seem to know about why Granny might want a new kind of wardrobe—Samantha began walking toward the garage. Instead Faith said, “Transportation? I’m on my way to the dump and could drop you where you need to go.”

  “Thank you, but I’m headed the opposite direction—the Shop’n Save.” Samantha held up a backpack. “There’s no real food in the house and I’m making Dad’s favorite lasagna for dinner. The way you taught me—with béchamel sauce as well as tomato. I want to make a big salad, too, with sliced fennel if they have it.”

  Faith saw an opportunity. She could help Samantha out, good deed number one, and try to find out what had happened both with the job and boyfriend for Pix, good deed number two. Plus she was dying to know what had happened herself.

  “I’m going to the market after the dump, so if you don’t mind stopping there first, we could do our shopping together. And maybe go out to Verrill Farm. I need squash, plus they have the best selection of local cheeses.”

  Samantha beamed. “Great! I can do a big marketing. Would you believe Mom doesn’t have olive oil?”

  Faith would. She opened the passenger-side door for the girl, the words “Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly” springing unbidden to mind.

  “And one more for the road,” Travis Trent sang, hitting the keys with a flourish and flashing a smile at the customer who had requested it. Of course he had requested it. He’d had many more than one for the road. Travis just hoped the shots the guy had been doing while Travis was performing hadn’t pushed him past his ability to stumble back to the tip jar and leave more than the measly two bucks he had stuck in earlier.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, any more requests? You know you are a lovely audience . . .” Travis segued into the Beatles number, and as usual it worked; first one Boomer, then two more came up asking for the golden oldies of their youth. The 1960s. Good times. He played that one as well.

  It was almost two when he called it quits and headed for his apartment. The dueling piano act in the bar near the Boardwalk was still going strong, but Travis knew that he wouldn’t make much more, if anything, for what was left of the night. Before he left, he’d sat at the bar for his one-drink limit. Joe always had a whiskey sour waiting for him. Sipping the sweet liquid with its kick brought blessed silence, a kind of bubble after the evening’s unvarying requests. Christ, didn’t anybody know any other tunes? It was an age thing, he supposed. Time had stopped at the prom for most of the bar’s customers.

  Well, Bernie, he said to himself—he hadn’t been “Bernard” for over forty years, “Travis Trent” a better stage name—no point in moving on. With Social Security not far down the line so long as the stupid politicians in Washington didn’t totally screw it up. He should have invested. There was a time when he was making pretty decent money. But so long as his voice held out—hell, look at Tony Bennett—with this gig or one like it and the Social Security he could maybe even afford an apartment and not just a room. Not come in at the start of happy hour and make a dinner out of the greasy chicken wings and mozzarella sticks they put out. He’d been to the buffets at the casinos where they had prime rib, real food, too often lately. You’d think there would be more staff turnover, and why did they even care? So he wasn’t hitting the tables. Never had. Bernie didn’t believe in luck.

  The glass was drained. He ate the cherry and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He patted his hair. Still had it. You were a good-looking bastard back in the day, Bernie, he told himself. Still not too bad if you didn’t look close.

  He put on his jacket. Weather was so warm he almost didn’t need one, although the wind off the ocean could surprise you. He’d been in Atlantic City for Sandy, now that was wind.

  The boardinghouse was a short walk away. He’d picked it for that reason. An old guy was an easy mark for the kind of scum out on the streets this time of night. He left his tips with the boss, too. Totaled it up and made sure it was added to his paycheck. Kept just enough for essentials. And on payday, the check went into the bank.

  His landlady had left the light on in the downstairs hall and he was expected to turn it off when he came in. Put the chain up on the front door, too. The mail was in neatly labeled boxes on a table. His was almost always empty and he’d stopped checking early on. Who was going to write to him? Not because nobody used snail mail. He didn’t get mail on a computer either. Didn’t have a computer. Had to have a phone though. Had a TracFone, pay as you go. Could be his motto.

  When he reached for the light switch, he saw an envelope in his box.

  It was addressed to him all right. He turned it over. “Rowan House Havencrest.” Hmmm. He flicked the switch. Clutching the envelope, he climbed the stairs in the dim light from the upstairs hall, put his key in the lock, and went into his room. He sat on the bed, switched on the lamp next to it, and ripped the flap open, revealing what was inside. Besides the invitation there was a first-class round-trip airline ticket to Boston from Newark and instructions about a car service. There was also a money order for five hundred dollars and a note clipped onto it: “Treat yourself to a new outfit.” It wasn’t Max’s handwriting. Wasn’t his on the address either. It might have been twenty years, but Bernie would still recognize it.

  Max Dane’s birthday. Something to celebrate? Bernie would go and find something else to celebrate.

  Faith was getting nowhere with Samantha. They went to Verrill Farm before the market and Faith treated her to coffee and a scone, one Faith had to admit was up there with hers and Niki’s. Samantha was eager to chat about her Starbucks job. How fun the training was and how they’d said she was a natural. Her regular hours would start Monday and wasn’t it neat that she could commute by train, a five-minute walk from the house? “I’m doing my best to keep my carbon footprints clean,” she said. “And no worries about what to wear. Good-bye power suits!”

  “Won’t you miss the city?” Faith finally asked point-blank.

  “Not a bit. I’m a Beantown babe,” Samantha said jauntily. “Won’t miss a single thing or a single person.”

  Well, Faith thought, that partly answered the Caleb question. She’d thought the couple had been good together. He’d even passed the all-important Sanpere test, the one where he was invited to the island and didn’t ask “What do you find to do here?”

  At the Shop’n Save, they each grabbed a cart and entered the market. Samantha stopped at aisle one and said, “I’ll meet you at the checkout. Fifteen minutes enough time? Or do you need more?”

  Since Faith only needed milk and was going to have to invent a list, she agreed.

  “Oh, and Faith,” Samantha said. “I know what you have been trying to do, but please tell my mother I’m not talking about the former job or former boyfriend, even to you. Not now or ever. I’m fine. Just fine and very happy.” She gave Faith a quick hug to take away any sting her words might have had. Faith hugged her back, and feeling slightly shamefaced, decided to get the ingredients for the Heaven and Earth, Himmel und Erde, dish. (See recipe.) She thought how much she would have resented someone prying the way Faith had been attempting and resolved to steer clear of Samantha’s work, love, and anything-else life unless Ms. Miller spoke first.

  Faith had prepared the German dish with Niki, and it had been good but needed fine-tuning. She ran down the list: potatoes, some tart apples, onions, garlic, a lemon, and the spices—thyme and maybe nutmeg. Essentially it was mashed potatoes and cooked apples mixed together. She’d get her family’s opinion. It would make a Saturday night comfort food addition to some good sausages, or she might cook the pork loin she had in the freezer if everyone was going to be home for dinner.

  Driving back to the parsonage and the Millers’ house, Faith kept the conversation on the weather veering only to the personal in regard to her own family.

  “Has anyone mentioned that Mandy has told Ben s
he needs some space for a while? Texted him and has also unfriended both him and Amy.”

  “Oh no! I haven’t heard. Poor Ben. He must be crazed. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so in love, and devoted. I’ll drop by later if he’s home. He might want to talk to someone other than a parent.”

  Remembering Ben’s bitter comment upon hearing that Samantha had dumped Caleb, Faith said, “Since he’s not talking about it to either parent, you would be correct, but maybe hold off a bit.”

  Samantha nodded. “Men are not exactly the best communicators. Let me know if you think I should try though.”

  They pulled into the Millers’ drive. Samantha had many more bags than Faith, and Pix came out to help them unload the car.

  “What is going on with my mother? She bought what she called ‘le cocktail,’ plus two more outfits that she called ‘everyday’ and I’d call dressy. And shoes.”

  The Miller women, at least two of them, were doing very well in the secret-keeping department, Faith reflected. She couldn’t think of an appropriate way to mention Ursula’s friend Austin—obviously the reason for a wardrobe update.

  “Thanks for the ride, Faith. Going to start my lasagna,” Samantha said as she carried the last bag into the house.

  Pix turned eagerly to Faith, but before she could say anything, Faith said, “Nada.” The shrug both women gave simultaneously would have been comical if it hadn’t also been accompanied by heavy sighs.

  Entering the parsonage kitchen, Faith wasn’t surprised to see Sam Miller at her kitchen table with Tom.

  “Need some help, honey?” Tom asked.

  “It’s just this one bag, thanks.” Both men had grinders from Country Pizza. Harry made good pies, but Tom often opted, as now, for the steak and cheese loaded with grilled onions and peppers. Sam appeared to have the same, and they each had a bottle of Heineken. From all appearances, the meeting had gone well.

  “So, what’s the town counsel like? Are our worries over?”

  “Don’t want to jinx anything,” Sam, ever the judicious lawyer, said, “but we were very impressed. Blake presented a number of strategies and definitely knows the Commonwealth’s arcane laws governing Historic Districts. I knew a lot was town by town, but there’s plenty that are statewide, too. And since it all goes back a long way, there are many precedents.”

  Tom took a swig of his beer. “I don’t believe in jinxes, so I can say that I think we’re going to win this. It’s not going to be a walk in the park, but Blake knows how to walk the walk for sure.”

  Faith laughed to herself. Tom was a cheap date, always had been. Half a bottle of beer and his voice had softened plus his metaphors increased in number and absurdity.

  “Well, great. If this Blake is so conversant with these laws, it means the other side has to pay its lawyer or lawyers to match. And because ours is virtually pro bono, we can drag this out.”

  Sam nodded his approval. “Exactly. It’s all about money as far as the developer is concerned.”

  “Yup,” Tom said, and took a large bite of his grinder. “What do they call these in New York?” he asked Faith. “Something weird. Hoagies?”

  “That’s Philly, and ‘grinder’ isn’t weird? Anyway, the correct term as far as I’m concerned is a ‘hero.’”

  Sam finished his beer, pushing back his chair. “And that’s exactly what Blake is going to be. Our hero—Wonder Woman, I hope.”

  “Wait a minute,” Faith said. “Blake’s not a man?”

  “Nope,” her husband said. Both men were smiling, and Faith had the feeling it wasn’t because the sandwiches had been unusually tasty.

  Sam confirmed her thought. “And she’s a knockout.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Letter for you, Jimmy.” If Wendell Haskell was surprised he didn’t show it. The man in front of him had never to his knowledge as postmaster on the island received a personal letter—especially not one with such fancy lettering on the front. “Figured it must be you, being as there are no other men named ‘James’ out here.”

  James Nelson smiled. “You’d make a good detective, although maybe this wasn’t a hard one to figure out.”

  Wendell handed the letter over the counter. “What else can I get you? Weather’s been so warm, some of the fishermen have been scalloping. And the wife baked this morning. Bread and blueberry muffins from berries she had in the freezer.”

  It made life easy that all his needs could be met by this one tiny general store, James thought. Even when the island was cut off from the mainland by bad weather, Wendell and his wife, Judy, kept everybody supplied. Each summer she put up more vegetables than the Jolly Green Giant and baked every day.

  “A couple of muffins would go down a treat. Did my beans come in? I’m almost out.” He indulged himself by grinding a strong dark roast that he ordered from a place on Sanpere Island that roasted the beans themselves and put them on the mail boat fresh.

  “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.” Wendell put the muffins in a bag.

  James paid him, told him to thank Judy, and strode out into the weak January sunshine. He looked at the return address on the envelope and crumbled the letter into a ball. But he didn’t toss it. He stuck it in his pocket and walked to his small cabin five miles across the island on the wilder side that directly faced the open ocean. He ate one of the muffins as the dirt road gave way to the path through the woods he’d worn over the years. The smell of the pines went well with the taste of the blueberries and he felt content.

  After he got home and stoked the woodstove, he opened the envelope. Max had tracked him down. He was sure others had tried, but of course it would be Max who found him. He stared at the plane ticket, Bangor to Boston, and read that a car service would meet him. Attention to detail, that was Max. Every last detail. Well, James was pretty good at every last detail, too. Time would tell.

  He grabbed a garment bag with the PAUL STUART logo from the small closet that sufficed for his needs and unzipped it. He checked the contents, smiling. Camouflage.

  The MLK breakfast had gone well. Besides marking the day and honoring Dr. King, Faith knew that Dr. Charles V. Willie, the speaker from nearby Concord, had been a big draw. Dr. Willie was retired from a long, prestigious career in academia. He had been a classmate of King’s at Morehouse and a close friend. It had been electrifying hearing the man, now almost ninety, talk about his friend and the struggle for civil rights—one that was still far from over.

  Faith spent all her free moments over the weekend looking up Max’s guests on the Internet. Late Saturday, she’d had an e-mail from Ian informing her that James Nelson lived on a small island in Penobscot Bay, Maine. Knowing the area well from her time at Sanpere, Faith immediately recognized the name of Nelson’s island—Haute Mers Isle. The name was another legacy of Champlain’s voyaging—a corruption of the French for “high seas.” One side of the island had waters so treacherous even the fishermen avoided it. Only a handful of rusticators had discovered the small island in the late nineteenth century. It wasn’t a Mount Desert with Bar Harbor, now overrun by mammoth cruise ships. As on Sanpere, the descendants of the original rusticators still arrived each summer to do what the families had always done—sail, swim in the frigid water, collect and press ferns, pick blueberries. The last Faith heard the year-round population was seventy-three and declining. James Nelson was off the grid.

  She’d call her friends Rosalie and Steve Robbins, who caretaked out there, to see what they knew about him. With a community that small, there would be few secrets. Except for those in the past?

  Despite the Internet’s reputation for providing revelations of all natures, Faith hadn’t discovered much more about the guests than what had been in the Playbill bios. Almost all of the head shots she’d been able to find looked out of date. There were a few brief references to what several had gone on to do—notably the choreographer Tony Ames, actress Eve Anderson, and Jack Gold, the set designer. Except Jack wasn’t on the list anymore . . .

  The
last breakfast attendees had departed. Packing up with her staff, Faith was gratified to see that there was some food left over, but not too much. Nothing left meant they hadn’t prepared enough, and the opposite that they had calculated wrong. After the van was loaded, she sent everyone home and set off for the kitchen with Niki to finish the cleanup.

  “Isn’t this the week your aunt Chat has that conference?” Niki said. “Will she be able to come out here?”

  Faith shook her head. The two women had met on a number of occasions over the years and liked each other. Cut from the same cloth—a bright and very durable one. “I’m afraid not. It is the week though. She’s taking the train up today and her conference goes until Wednesday afternoon. But she has to go straight back early Thursday. Tom and I are meeting her for dinner Wednesday night. She’s attending a banquet tomorrow night where she’s getting an award—female business trailblazer, from what I’ve been able to tell—she’s vague on any details. You know she would never brag. I’d like to be in the audience and afterward at the banquet, but she said she’d rather have a visit without rubber chicken.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s at the B School, so that means Harvard food services, which can be okay.”

  “Aren’t they on strike?”

  “Settled, which is a good thing. Chat would have had to nibble granola bars or something. She wouldn’t have eaten strikebreaker food.”

  They arrived at the kitchen and it didn’t take long before they had loaded the dishwashers and finished the rest of the cleanup.

  “I’ve got to make a few cheesecakes,” Niki said. “I swear my mother strong-arms people in Watertown Square into ordering them.” In addition to making cheesecakes for Have Faith, she had, with Faith’s approval, set up a small business making them to order.

  “Go ahead. Amelia’s shower isn’t until Friday night, so we have plenty of time. There are only some sandwich platter orders and a few other things before that plus the Ganley café.”