The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  Faith hung up and Amy brought them back to earth: “I’m pretty late, I was supposed to be at Cindy’s a half hour ago. We’re going to the mall and then maybe the movies. Her mom is driving.”

  “Okay, enough drama for now,” Tom said. “Maybe I can work some of it into my sermon. What have we learned here?”

  “That I will not be happy if you don’t drive me right now?” Amy said.

  “Sounds about right,” Faith replied. The curtain was down on this production, but it was only a matter of time until the next. That reminded her of Max Dane and the Rowan House weekend rapidly looming. She needed to check to see if he’d replied to her e-mail and get out there.

  What to do, what to do? Samantha Miller wondered. She’d finished her shift and was taking the MBTA to Porter Square, where she could get the commuter rail to Aleford. As if she didn’t have enough on her mind. She wished she wasn’t so sure about what she saw. Wished there was the shadow of a doubt, but there wasn’t.

  The doors closed and the car crossed the river, soon plunging underground. She was in one of the older trains—she’d heard some dated back to 1965, and this was definitely an ancient one. Shuddering and squealing along the tracks, it came to sudden halts in the dark—no explanation from the conductor. Then with a mighty grinding sound started up again. Maybe she should get a job with the transit authority. Do something good for Boston.

  What she had just seen at Starbucks had sent her straight back to that horrendous day two weeks ago. The time seemed both longer and shorter. But she was feeling the same sort of disbelief that had started at work with the call from HR to come to its office. “Cost-cutting measures. Others as well. Not just you. Fine work.” The words had merged into a kind of Tower of Babel with no single distinct phrase. She was accompanied to her small office, took only the BEST SISTER EVAH mug Dan had given her one long-ago Christmas and a photo from last summer of the whole family on the porch of The Pines in Sanpere. Then there was the endless wait while IT wiped her laptop, leaving only her personal e-mails.

  Somehow she’d made it back to Brooklyn, thinking only of Caleb. Seeing him, feeling his arms around her, comforting her as he had done in the past when life was overwhelming. There were other jobs, she told herself. HR had been reassuring, and while she dismissed the platitude, maybe it was true. She got off the subway and decided to get Caleb a chai almond milk latte from their favorite coffee shop, one for herself, too, and some scones. Comfort food.

  Stepping into the fragrant warmth, she looked around the coffee shop. Caleb was there with his assistant, Julie. His “indispensable right-hand gal,” as he put it. Hand now being the operative word. He was holding hers across the small table, and from the way they were looking at each other, Samantha knew he wasn’t congratulating her on a job well done. She also knew that all the recent late nights and weekends meant something vastly different from what she had thought.

  Hands across the table today, too. And the smell of coffee. That had been what caused the flashback.

  Back two weeks ago, she’d walked over to their table, startling them, said only, “Good-bye, Caleb. It’s been—something,” adding as she left, “I’ll figure out a way to get the things from the apartment I’m not taking now.” His “Wait, this isn’t . . .” and the pain and embarrassment fighting for room on his face had stopped her for a moment, but only a moment. Julie had interrupted coolly—“I’ll do it. Send your things. Aleford, right?” She’d managed to make the one-word town sound like an imprecation. And she had a smug look on her face, assuming Samantha would head for home. The way a little girl would. The fact that it was exactly what Samantha had intended made it more horrible.

  The T car was stopping at Central Square. Samantha didn’t think it was her imagination that the people who got off looked relieved to have made it without any further delays.

  In the midst of her thoughts she’d vaguely noticed a guy who looked about her age staring at her from across the aisle since she’d got on at Charles Street. Samantha was attractive—tall like both parents and with her mother’s thick brown hair.

  This guy was smiling at her. He wasn’t bad-looking. Maybe his face was a little thin, but his hair was a glossy black cap like some kind of bird feathers. A raven? It reminded her of her young cousin Dana’s. There was something kid-like about the guy, too, and suddenly imagining him younger made her jump up and sit down in the empty seat next to him.

  “I know you! Zach, right? The friend of the Fairchilds? The computer genius?”

  “Zach Cummings, and I don’t know about ‘genius,’ but the computer part is true. I was beginning to worry you might think I was some kind of perv staring at you. We haven’t seen each other since their holiday party two years ago, but I recognized you right away. And your grandmother filled me in on what you were up to when I went out to help her with her iMac a few weeks ago. Home for a visit? She said you were in New York.”

  Samantha tossed her hair back in slight annoyance. No secrets in her family—at least when it came to her. “I moved back here recently for good. Let’s just say the company wasn’t a good fit.”

  “And the engagement? He’s moved here, too? Congratulations by the way.”

  “Caleb and I were never engaged.” Samantha felt her face flush. “Turned out that wasn’t a good fit either. It’s, well, complicated. Oh, here’s my stop!” The subway was lurching into the Porter Square station.

  “Mine too. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? Porter Square Books has a great café.”

  There was really no rush to get home, Samantha reflected. She could easily take a later train and be back early enough to make dinner, the job she’d taken on. “Sure,” she said.

  As they walked across the large parking lot she was aware that their strides matched, and soon she became aware of their reflections in the store windows, too. They made a nice couple. Not that she was in the market. She didn’t want to have anything to do with men for a very long time. If ever. But she recalled Faith talking about Zach’s IT skills—a wizard she’d said. Who was it who said there was no such thing as coincidences?

  He held the door open and they walked into the café. The fragrance of brewing coffee was no longer producing a bad memory but was energizing—a caffeine contact high. And Samantha had always loved the bookstore, with tantalizing volumes piled on tables and filling the shelves. All a person needed right there.

  At the counter she ordered a latte—good for a comparison—and Zach asked for a large flat white. “My treat,” Samantha said. “And how about a chocolate croissant or something else?”

  “I’m good, but you go ahead. And thank you. I’ll accept if you agree it will be my turn next time.”

  When Zach smiled, his whole face joined in. Even his eyes.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  Monday morning Faith had no trouble locating the button on the gryphon’s eye that activated the intercom. Pressing it firmly, she heard Ian’s voice with the same instructions. Perhaps it was recorded.

  Ben had arrived back from Maine around two o’clock yesterday, penitent but looking happier than she had seen him in weeks. His “I don’t want to talk about it” was uttered with much less anger—almost a pleasantry. Tom was back at the hospital, keeping a last watch with a parishioner’s family. Faith merely said, “Fine. No one’s asking. Now, go to your room and do the homework you didn’t do this weekend.” At the kitchen door she called him back. “Take a snack. I made a sandwich for you. It’s in the fridge.” His “Thanks, Mom” sounded particularly heartfelt—or he could just have been starving as usual.

  Apologizing for the short notice, last week friends of the Millers and Fairchilds had called to offer their condo near the Loon Mountain ski resort in New Hampshire to the two families for next weekend. It was happily accepted and the details worked out. Faith would be at Rowan House, but the others were all free. Tom was even taking an unaccustomed Sunday off. The assistant minister would preach. Faith skied but was just as ha
ppy to read by the fire in the lodge. Yesterday Tom and she had talked about leaving Ben, an avid boarder, home. Samantha would be next door. But it seemed too mean. Besides, he was grounded otherwise for the foreseeable future.

  No sunshine today. A cold gray day much more typical of the time of year. The grasses in the fields looked sere and when the house came into view it reminded her more of a dark mansion from a Gothic novel than the Richardson architectural masterpiece that had shone so spectacularly in the morning light on her last visit. There were no cars in the drive. She parked, walked up the stone stairs and across the veranda. She was about to ring the bell when the door opened.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fairchild, please come in. I’m afraid Mr. Dane has been delayed, but perhaps we could use the time to completely finalize the menus and go over a few other details?”

  Ian had phrased the request as a question, but it wasn’t. Faith realized that whatever she was to Max Dane, she was the help to Ian Morrison. She followed him to the kitchen, wondering whether his polite tone would always have this edge. But Faith had been Morrison’s choice for a caterer. Maybe he was regretting it?

  He offered tea, but she declined. It didn’t feel like a particularly cozy occasion. He sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island and indicated a stool across from him for her, opening a large notebook in front of him. He leafed through printouts of her e-mail suggestions and set them to one side. The page he was on seemed to be a list—good, she was a list maker herself—and she took her iPad from her purse to take notes.

  “We like all your suggestions. Max wants to talk about the birthday banquet, so we’ll wait on that. Your idea of a buffet for Friday will work well.”

  Ian had e-mailed that all the invited guests had accepted but offered no further information about them.

  “I’d assumed that arrival times might differ,” Faith said, “so a buffet where we could keep the food warm seemed the best choice. They are arriving at different times, yes? Or possibly some might be coming out here together, especially those coming from New York?” Ian had mentioned on the phone when she’d asked about Friday night that a car service would be picking everyone up at Logan. All would be traveling by air.

  “Each guest will arrive here separately. Max most particularly wanted them to greet each other for the first time in front of him. He also wants the drinks and meal served in the summer parlor. There’s a small butler’s pantry there, as you may recall, and I will set up several tables.”

  Faith nodded. She planned to be as close as possible to Dane’s side, watching each guest’s entry herself. Ian would be answering the door. Besides the convenience of keeping food hot, she’d selected a buffet for this very purpose. It meant she could stand behind the table under her cloak of invisibility.

  She picked up the Friday night thread again. “I thought we could wait for the Heaven or Hell–themed food until the banquet and go with one of the menus I sent, or selections from them. Since it’s New England, clam chowder as one of the soups with wild mushroom bisque for the other.” The men had said they weren’t catering to food preferences or allergies, but Faith planned to have plenty of alternatives for any possible vegetarians, vegans as well. The mushroom bisque was one of her favorites—not too much cream overwhelming the earthy mushroom flavor.

  She began going down the rest of the list. “People always like the Dijon mustard–encrusted baby lamb chops.”

  “Max wants the poached salmon.”

  Okay . . . “Great. How about both of those as entrées and one of the pastas I suggested as a third?”

  “A tortellini. Easier to eat than linguine or fettuccine. We don’t want the guests messing up their clothes.” He grinned. Faith had never seen Ian smile so broadly. Maybe he was getting excited. Maybe this would turn out simply to be a fun birthday weekend with fine food, drink, and good cheer. And maybe Tinkerbell was real.

  “Any of the sides will work with these choices,” Ian said. “The roasted vegetables—oh, and Max likes creamed spinach. And no leafy salads. Iceberg wedges with bacon and blue cheese.”

  Faith got it. “Steak house menu food. Should I do steak fries or oven-baked potato wedges?”

  “Oven-baked wedges will be fine.” Ian wrote something in his notebook.

  “I thought we’d offer an assortment of desserts, fruit as well,” Faith said. “There is a small fridge right? I’ll do some individual mousses—chocolate, lemon, and other flavors. You’re taking care of the alcoholic beverages, but I’ll bring soft drinks, flavored and unflavored sparkling water, plus the breakfast juices. And a variety of coffee and teas.”

  Ian gave her a somewhat sardonic look. “This crowd will be hitting the hard stuff, but yes, bring them.”

  “I think that’s it for Friday night. No hors d’oeuvres, although I could put some out on the buffet.”

  “Didn’t we tell you?” Ian looked surprised and perhaps disappointed. “I am sure it was mentioned last time you were here. Max wants an ample raw bar, mounds of caviar, foie gras, and the embellishments for each set out on top of the casket.”

  “Of course.” Faith had remembered but hadn’t thought they were serious. But they had been—deadly serious. She didn’t want to say this, however, and merely made a note and then looked back up at him.

  “Max wants to talk about how to arrange the room, so once he’s back you can have another look at the casket.”

  Can’t wait, Faith thought and then pulled up her breakfast suggestions to fill the time. They all met with Ian’s approval. She mentioned she’d have snacks available in the kitchen throughout the weekend. Someone in the hard-drinking crowd might want a cup of coffee or tea—and she’d better bring an analgesic and some Pepto-Bismol. Large sizes.

  “I think we’re all set,” Faith said at last. “You are using your own florist, and the linens, china, and cutlery you showed me should be more than enough for all the meals. And lovely.”

  Ian cocked his head. “I hear Max’s car. Just one more thing and we’ll go meet him in the foyer.”

  He got up and Faith did the same, following him to a rustic-looking hutch at the far end of the room. It looked as if it would have been at home in a Yorkshire farmhouse but still went well with the modern kitchen. The shelves were filled with toby jugs of all sizes, many of them political figures and literary ones. Faith spotted both Churchill and Dickens. Ian must want to show her some kind of serving dish from the cabinet below, she thought. Instead he opened one of the top drawers.

  “I want this on your person the whole time you are here.”

  It was a gun.

  CHAPTER 6

  “The Sig Sauer P two-three-eight is perfect for concealed carry. Lightweight—only a little over fifteen ounces. And the recoil is mild. Here.” Ian took the gun from the drawer and held it out to her. “About an inch wide. Good for small hands. A woman’s gun.”

  Faith’s recoil wasn’t mild. She took several steps back.

  “Not this woman. Forget about it being completely illegal for me to carry a weapon for which I don’t have a license. Let’s talk about what you think may be happening this weekend that would require it.”

  Suddenly she was siding with Tom, Niki, and a whole lot of others if they knew—that this qualified as a must-miss job. “I am being hired to determine who might be a threat to Mr. Dane—and cook—but am definitely not on board with the possibility of putting myself or the others in lethal danger. A bodyguard-type scenario that you seem to envision in which I carry a gun—incidentally I have never fired one and intend to keep it that way—is completely off the table.”

  Ian sighed. “I thought you might feel this way.” He was holding what looked like a revolver in his hand, with what could only be described as affection. “Max doesn’t know about this. I was simply thinking you might want a little insurance. Like having a spare tire in the trunk. You are not a target—and no one else on the guest list is, either. There is no danger whatsoever. Whoever sent the casket is after Max and Max al
one.”

  The spare tire was ludicrous, and Faith was about to expand on just how absurd it was when Max Dane walked into the kitchen. “I thought we were meeting in the foyer. Something wrong? You both look a little down in the mouth. No Beluga available?”

  Faith had to admire how fast Ian slipped the gun away and shut the drawer. “Sorry,” he said. “We got to chatting about your collection of toby jugs. Faith was particularly admiring the Red Queen and other Alice in Wonderland ones.”

  “Well, she can’t have them. Now I imagine you’ve finalized the menus, so why don’t Mrs. Fairchild and I talk over the rest of the weekend? I won’t be needing you for the moment, Ian.”

  “Yes, master,” he said with a click of the heels. The two men laughed. It was obviously a well-worn routine. He appeared to have been working at Rowan House for a while—the way Max had described Ian’s quarters suggested as much—but what was Ian’s background? The theater? Some other performing arts? A stint on Upstairs, Downstairs? He had all the right moves. His name hadn’t been in the Heaven or Hell Playbill. She’d ask Max at some point.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Do you need anything?” Ian asked.

  “Nope. Now let’s get going, Mrs. Fairchild. Friday is fast approaching,” Max said.

  Don’t I know it, Faith thought. And, should I or shouldn’t I?

  It was almost as if Max Dane knew of her misgivings. He led her into the beautiful library where they had met the first time, and once they were seated, he immediately began to talk about his possibly having overreacted to the bizarre gift.

  “When one has the kind of theatrical background I have, one tends to see all life as a stage, a play in production. Maybe I was impulsively leaping to the conclusion that a coffin at center stage meant a murderer in the wings, but I did—and Ian thought so, too.”

  “I’ve read the bios of your guests in the Playbill and done Internet searches, but it would be helpful if you could provide more input. Why invite these ten, or eleven, counting Jack Gold? Plenty of other people were involved in the musical. I know you think I am some kind of latter-day Miss Marple, but even she had village gossip to help her out.”