Faith sat down at her desk. Her weekend’s work had convinced her that it was somewhat pointless to Google and Facebook Max’s list. She’d be able to judge the guests herself soon enough, using her eyes and especially her ears. As the help, she would be invisible. The pas devant les domestiques, the “not in front of the servants,” of past eras had disappeared with ubiquitous aspidistras. One of the first things she’d noticed when she’d started catering was that people said anything and everything as if she were a potted plant herself.
It was time to go back out to Rowan House. After all, Max Dane had created the list. He’d had a reason, or more than one, to suspect each person. It was time for him to share them with Faith. The party itself was only a little over a week away.
She shut down her computer. There was one significant thing she’d learned over the weekend during her searches. Max Dane hadn’t produced or directed anything since Heaven or Hell. He’d been only fifty with a string of successes the envy of the Great White Way. What had happened to make him stop so abruptly? She was sure that particular part of his past was a prologue.
“Did you get one?”
“Get what? So far the Academy hasn’t called with my nomination.”
“Don’t be coy, it doesn’t suit you.”
“But cute does. You always said I was cute.”
“I said you were a lot of things.”
“And ‘bitch’ never suited you, Betty. So, yes, I got the invite for Max’s bash. Plane ticket, the works.”
“Then you’re going?”
“Of course I’m going. Have you ever known me to turn down a freebie? And this one is a first-class cross-country plane ticket. Might hang out with you afterward in the city for a while even if the weather is lousy. Nobody ever wrote ‘Winter in New York,’ even ‘Autumn’ was stretching it.”
“What makes you think I have room—and want you?”
“You’ll make room—and you always wanted me.”
“I think it was vice versa,” Betty Sinclair said dryly. When she’d started out as half of the Baker and Sinclair duo that became famous for a string of hit musicals—she was the words, Phil was the music—she had thought he was cute. Cute enough to marry.
“The question is: Do we come as we are or be cast?” Phil asked.
“Hmmm. Better be cast, since Lord knows what we are.”
“Hey, how about loving husband and wife?”
“Buddy boy, I haven’t laid eyes on you in over ten years. And that was after a quick drink in L.A. when we ran into each other in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. For all I know you’re wearing a rug and using Depends now.”
“Please, you were the cradle snatcher when we met.”
“Three years younger! And you were no kid; you knew your way around.” Her voice took on a harsh tone. “Before and after if memory serves.”
“She meant nothing. I told you then and I’m telling you now.”
“Think she’ll be there? And the others?”
“Oh yes. In Bette’s immortal words, ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night’—or weekend in this case.”
For someone in particular, he thought to himself as he said good-bye and ended the call. He was sick to death of being known as a has-been, composing jingles at fifty-five. He was in the prime of life—or would be even more soon.
On the other side of the country, Betty Sinclair shut her phone, too. She turned to the young man stretched out on her couch. “You may have to find another place to stay soon, sweetheart. Mother has things to do.”
“You’re not old enough to be my mother,” he said.
“But you’re old enough to be my son. Now, when I say scoot, you scoot.”
“But not yet?”
“No, not yet.”
She was feeling happier than she had in ages. There was nothing like a good plan—or lyric. She started to hum one of her hits as she moved over to the couch.
When Tom announced that he wouldn’t be able to make dinner on Wednesday night with Chat because there was a special Planning Board meeting with the new town counsel, Faith had mixed emotions. Her husband was no stoopnagle—a useful quirky word introduced to her by the Millers and unknown in the Manhattan neighborhood of her youth. Tom would most certainly be suspicious when Faith started pumping her aunt for information about Max Dane at dinner. The leap to the fact that Dane was not just another client would take seconds. Seconds more to his adamant request that she bow out of the job, envisioning not a curtain call, but curtains for his wife.
On the other hand, Faith wasn’t happy that it was this particular meeting causing the cancellation. There seemed to be an increasing number of them. She’d have to attend the next one—much as she disliked sitting on the hard chairs in town hall for things like this, unable to do anything to pass the time except make up menus in her head. She wanted to have a look at Ms. Blake Sommersby. Tom might be a man of the cloth, but he was also a man. While Faith had no doubt that Tom had stuck to his vows—forsaking all others—and would continue to do so, she wanted to get a sense of what Blake was like.
Blake wasn’t married and didn’t have kids. Sam had supplied a few details before going home on Saturday. She had moved from Cambridge, the westward direction another unusual choice for a singleton. Suburban Aleford was a married or partnered town.
While expressing regret that he was missing a visit with Charity Sibley—she and Tom were in a mutual admiration club—Tom had seemed a tad too eager about the upcoming meeting. Let it go, Faith told herself, adding, for now, as she called the Harvest, one of her favorite Cambridge restaurants, and near Chat’s hotel, to change the reservation from three to two. Besides the food, most locally sourced, it was one of sadly few restaurants where you could actually have a conversation at the table without competing with music or the noise of fellow diners wedged in to create more covers.
As she waited for her aunt, who had texted to say she would be a few minutes late, Faith was happy with her choice. The Harvest’s winter menu was a tempting one. She decided to indulge herself with a glass of prosecco. Miles away her family was ably fending for itself. She’d left a hearty beef stew with carrots, parsnips, and caramelized onions simmering, a package of egg noodles on the counter. Both her kids knew their way around the kitchen.
She loved being with her family, but it was a treat to be anonymous. To not have to look at Ben’s still woebegone face, listen to Amy’s school chatter, or enthuse with Tom about a certain lawyer.
Her drink arrived and she took a sip, leaning against the banquette. The restaurant was filled with the usual People’s Republic of Cambridge crowd. Some elderly, aging gracefully, and possibly customers for the whole forty years the restaurant had been in existence. She spotted several vintage Marimekkos. Then groups of academics, a visiting speaker taken out after a colloquium. You could always tell who it had been; palpable on those faces was relief that the talk was over and he or she hadn’t muffed it. And yes, several Harris Tweed sports jackets with suede patches. A few tables of younger people, perhaps celebrating a special occasion. The Harvest wasn’t cheap. Hip groups in black. Looking at them, she could have been in Manhattan.
She saw Chat come in and rose to greet her. Faith was always startled to see Chat in old family photographs, since her aunt always looked the same to her, which of course wasn’t possible. But the young Charity Sibley had carried much the same weight—an armful—and was tall like all the Sibleys. Her hair was still mostly dark brown and pulled back in an approximation of a French twist. A few strands had escaped, as usual. She was wearing a pants suit, adopted years before Hillary created the trend, and when she enveloped her niece in a tight hug, smelled of her favorite scent, Arpége. The old slogan “Promise her anything, but give her Arpége” didn’t apply to Chat, although she might have come up with it. Chat got more than promises—firm results, which was, Faith thought, why she had been honored by Harvard.
“Darling, so sorry. They would keep asking q
uestions and the students are such dears. So young they look as if they’re dressing up for Halloween as adults. But not to be fooled—they will morph into very successful sharks. Now what are we drinking? Prosecco?” She motioned to the server, who came immediately. “Let’s have a bottle. It goes with everything. Especially oysters. Do you have them tonight?”
Hearing that they did, Chat ordered a dozen for them to start on right away. While they waited, the two talked about family, the B School event, books they were reading, politics, and whether Chat should cut her hair—a constant topic and one that always ended with her decision to leave it as it was. After the oysters, they ordered their main courses. Faith loved venison, and this version, juniper roasted served with red wine braised cabbage, very Nordic, sounded perfect. Chat ordered butter-poached halibut with hen of the woods mushrooms.
When the main courses arrived, there was a brief silence as they savored the truly excellent preparations and then Chat said, “Okay, Max Dane. I assume you took the job. What do you want to know—and why?”
Faith gave her the expurgated version, emphasizing the spectacular house and admitting to being excited about creating a Heaven or Hell banquet for those involved in the production. “You said the firm did the PR for it. Why wasn’t it a success?”
Chat seemed to be weighing her words carefully, taking her time. “I brought copies of some of our promo materials, also the synopsis, and whatever else I could lay my hands on. Max blamed the agency for what was such a big flop; even Joe Allen’s didn’t put the poster on the wall.”
Joe Allen was a legendary restaurant on West Forty-sixth Street, an easy stroll from Broadway theaters, known for the theatrical posters of major flops that lined its walls and good, old-fashioned comfort food—especially their hamburgers, steaks, and banana cream pie.
“Max also blamed pretty much everyone involved with the show—let me see the guest list. I’m betting it includes the major actors, the composer and lyricist, set designer, and so forth. Everybody except Max himself. You have to remember that before Heaven or Hell, he’d had nothing but successes. His previous show immediately prior to it had had a three-year run. He closed it to make way for the new one. I can’t remember the exact number of years, but there was a Max Dane show on Broadway each year pretty much since Hector was a pup.”
Faith nodded. She’d read similar phrases—perhaps a bit less colorful—online when she Googled him. “He must have really believed in Heaven or Hell.”
“It should have been a hit,” Chat continued. “Maybe not a smash, but a decent run, then a few years on the road. The tryout in Boston was encouraging, and if Max had agreed to make some changes and not rushed it to Broadway—started it off-Broadway—I’m pretty sure things would have been different. His director quit, or I should say Max made it impossible for him to continue, at that point.”
“James Nelson?”
“Yes. I wonder what happened to him? It was his first show and I’d heard he had a gift for getting good performances from the actors—especially since a few were surprising casts. Notably the female star, Eve Anderson, who at forty-something was playing a woman in her twenties. Her understudy was an ingénue, Alexis Reed, who really should have had the lead. Alexis changed her name to Alexis Abbot and ended up in L.A. on a sitcom you can still catch on TV Land.”
Chat had an amazing memory, so Faith wasn’t surprised at the details. It went with the business and partially explained her success.
“I’ll read the synopsis, but tell me a little about it. The title is pretty unusual.”
“The whole musical was, but that was a time when Broadway was taking risks with musicals. Like Hamilton now. Rent continued to be the hot ticket from the previous year and the revival of Chicago was a runaway. That opened just before Heaven or Hell. I know when he read the book Max was thinking Rent and even Chorus Line—a spare set, offbeat music, and a special kind of intimate connection between actors and audience.”
“Oh, then it wasn’t an original musical, but adapted?”
Chat smiled. “Sorry. ‘The Book’ refers to the script, the story, and it was original. Like the director, the writer Adrian St. John was a newbie. He’d never had one of his plays produced before, let alone on Broadway. He disappeared back to Britain when the show closed. Enchanting accent and looked like a young Olivier. I don’t know how Max found him, but he had a nose for talent.” She gave a sigh. “The play could have worked with minor tweaking and maybe the change in cast. Eve Anderson didn’t nail her star turn. Her eleven o’clock number. That’s the song that comes late in the show and the star is almost always alone onstage reflecting, to him- or herself. It gives the audience a moment to sit back before the last pull-out-all-the-stops ending number. I can’t remember the tune or the lyrics, but it was very poignant. Or would have been if a younger actor played it. She’s fallen in love and has to decide where to go for eternity.”
“Phew—not one of your everyday dilemmas,” Faith said. “Did Max have some kind of relationship with Eve Anderson? Haven’t directors been known to cast significant others even when wrong for the part?”
“All the time. But not Max. He never let a little thing like love, or lust, get in the way of his success. He did have significant others, as you so quaintly put it, was married three or four times, each briefer than the last. In any case, he wasn’t interested in Eve. If anyone, it was Alexis. No, unless Eve was blackmailing him—and Max isn’t the type to give into something like that either—I have no idea how she ended up with the role. James Nelson may have been responsible. I can’t remember who the casting director was, but no matter who was involved, Max would have had the last word.”
Faith filed the notion of blackmail away, along with possible dynamics between Max and the two women.
Chat had speared a few mushrooms to get the last little bit of brown butter sauce from her plate and put her fork down. “The set was amazing, split in half and alternating between re-creations of Dante’s flaming pit and biblical visions from the Book of Revelations. There was much reliance on fog and wind machines, colored silk scrims in both pastels and brilliant colors. The stationary set was a series of staircases running up to balconies on each side. Sounds hokey, but it worked. All the reviews praised the set designer. And the show had a terrific opening number. That’s what makes or breaks a musical. If you don’t grab the audience then, you never will. It almost made up for the weak star turn, since it was reprised at the end.” She hummed a few bars and then sang softly:
“Heaven or Hell
Who can tell?
Below or above
What the devil is love?”
“I’ve heard that lyric,” Faith said.
“It was a hit for a while. And even later. A bunch of people recorded it. Made money for Phil Baker and Betty Sinclair, who wrote it. And some for Max, too. There was probably a clause in the copyright giving him a percentage.”
“So the musical revolves around choosing the pearly gates over red hot pitchforks?”
Chat grinned. “Nice summation. The premise was that God and Satan, or Lucifer as he’s called in the show, have a bet. Lucifer’s idea, of course. Each will select a handful from those dwelling above or below and switch them for an agreed-upon time. When it’s over, the chosen get to decide: Heaven or hell? Stay or leave? It doesn’t sound like a musical. You know the old chestnut about the movie mogul’s prediction for Oklahoma!—‘No girls, no jokes, no chance’—but like I said, Heaven or Hell worked. Sure it was about a moral dilemma, but mainly it was about love.”
“Tom would be so interested in this! God and Lucifer laying odds,” Faith said. “But a sucker bet, no? Who would agree to hell?”
“Never underestimate the power of heart’s desire, sweetie. Max described the show to me as Carousel meets The Crucible. A good description. Remember I saw it in rehearsal to develop the PR campaign. We did a great poster, very Gustave Doré with a touch of Maxfield Parrish. I was also there opening night. Had not a clue t
hat Max would pull the plug.”
“Anything else you can remember about the cast and crew?”
“I’ve—happily—been away from that world since I sold up and retired, but I do know there were rumors of a jinx on anyone who had been involved with the show. Theater folk are very superstitious, and the taint of such a colossal flop doesn’t go away easily.”
“So you think maybe someone said ‘Good luck’ instead of ‘Break a leg’ or referred to Macbeth?”
Chat laughed. “Doubt it. They were all pros. But there could have been someone with a grudge against Max—and there were plenty back then, jealous of his success and for other reasons.”
“But other than being jealous, what kinds of grudges?” Faith asked.
“I told you he wasn’t a nice man and he was ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted. That included women, as well as the backing for his shows. When it came to it, Max always believed the end justified the means.” Chat looked a bit worried. “Sure you want to do this job? One of the guests may well slip arsenic in Max’s portion of something you prepare.”
Faith tried not to react. “I’ll keep an eye out for skull-and-crossbones bottles marked ‘poison,’” she said with an attempt at levity. “Now I want a poisonous dessert, as in devilishly bad for me, and I hope you do, too, so I can taste it.” Chat was good at sharing, just like everyone else Faith knew and loved. Nonsharers belonged in Dante’s inferno.
Chat ordered the Taza chocolate hazelnut torte, and Faith decided she had to try the Harvest’s birch beer float—described as house-made birch beer with black pepper ice cream, quince, and cinnamon anise tuiles. She was always on the lookout for unusual preparations to offer her clients, and this sounded like a good possibility. The first taste convinced her—the sweetness of the beer was offset by the pepper and anise.
After dessert, in no hurry to get home, Faith ordered espresso; Chat had a brandy. Both women were loath to end the evening. “I wish we lived closer,” Faith said. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. Come see me soon. You know I have plenty of room and the kids love the horses.”
The Body in the Casket Page 8