Biting her tongue at the obvious gender slur, Faith said, “That was how Ian came here?”
“He wasn’t sure he’d like the States—not a fan of Yanks—so we settled on a six-month trial, and he’s been here ever since. He’d never been to Manhattan and that was what convinced him, plus the salary and perks like first-class tickets home—he’s going off Sunday when the bash is all over. He gets a yen for real fish and chips. Apparently the ones here are ‘rubbish.’ Despite his manner, Ian has some plebian tastes. Likes his pint, too.”
The conversation seemed to be trailing off. Max was staring out the window. Faith thought about saying it was time for her to go, but she didn’t want to interrupt whatever train of thought was going on inside his head. Bang—she was startled when he kicked the wooden window seat with his heel.
“My grandmother used to lock me in here to punish me. One of the first things I did when I moved in was have the lock removed. Why they needed a lock in the first place is a good question—the silver was kept in the safe in the pantry. But I suppose it was for decorative effect. The mortise was engraved with lion’s heads.”
“How awful! You must have been terrified.” Faith pictured a Max Dane small enough to fit in the seat, confined in the dark. Whatever the length of time, even a few minutes, would have seemed like ages. It was child abuse.
“I was, but what became more terrifying was what would lead up to my incarceration. I could never figure out how to avoid putting the particular foot wrong that would send me here or up to my room. When I was old enough to realize that any trace of Brooklyn—that’s where I grew up, I think I told you—in accent or behavior would result in instant punishment I would avoid even the merest hint of the borough. The other things were unpredictable. Playing with the chauffer’s son, making a pet of a field mouse—that didn’t last long. The housekeeper followed her nose and found it. Literally cut off its head with a carving knife. And one memorable time I’d hoped to please her by bringing a bouquet of flowers I’d picked in the garden. How was I to know it was look, don’t touch?”
“But why were you here alone? Weren’t your parents here, too?”
Dane got up and walked over to a beautifully carved Morris-type panel next to a window, pressed on it, and took out another bottle of his scotch. There were hidden liquor cabinets in every room, it seemed, and Faith was realizing why. He returned and sat down, giving her what she believed was an apologetic smile. “Shouldn’t be drinking alone. Ian will be annoyed. Sure you won’t join me?”
Faith shook her head, hoping he would keep talking. He did.
“I was here because my grandparents, particularly Grandmamma, believed in doing the proper thing, which meant having her grandson for a week sometime during the year. I never knew when the ax would fall. What season. Summer was best, but often it was the dead of winter. My parents weren’t with me because my father, Henry Dane, was dead and my mother, Helen, wouldn’t darken the door.”
Faith settled back. Here was what Ursula had alluded to in describing her friend Helen. That there had been some sort of problem. And now she was looking at it, or its result.
Max took a small sip of his drink, seemed to relish the taste, and continued, “My mother grew up here. As a wedding present to her parents, her grandparents had turned the place over to them. It had just been completed. The Frosts didn’t suffer from the Crash as so many others, even in their rarefied layer, did. My grandfather believed in real estate, not stocks. He was very good at wringing every rent penny from his tenants, high and low, in Boston. My mother was the younger of two. Her brother died pretty young but managed to form a desirable marriage with a Lowell before he went off to the equivalent of the Somerset Club in the sky.”
Faith knew the Somerset Club in Boston, though she had never been inside the massive stone mansion at 42 Beacon Street that suggested a fortress more than the convivial social club, founded in 1851 or even earlier according to some accounts. Asking about membership was a guarantee of exclusion. It was the snootiest and perhaps the wealthiest of Boston’s formerly all-male social clubs. The story most often told about the Somerset was an accurate one: when a fire broke out in the 1940s, the firemen were made to use the servants’ entrance.
“The precious Frost name continued, and still does, but that branch did not have the business acumen shall we say of moi? I was able to purchase Rowan House—it had, of course, been ‘Frostcliffe’—and then move in roughly twenty years ago when my uncle’s widow died. It gave and gives me enormous delight to think of my grandparents, and other relatives, spinning rapidly in the family plot at Mount Auburn Cemetery.”
He started to stand up, but Faith wasn’t about to let him leave without the whole story. “It must have pleased your mother to have her childhood home back?”
“She died when I was in my early thirties and no, it wouldn’t have pleased her. She hated the place growing up and the feeling intensified as an adult. You see, she had been kept locked up in the equivalent of this window seat. Only allowed to associate with the right kind of people.”
Faith thought of Ursula. The right pedigree, although the family was not wealthy after the move to Aleford. “I have an older friend who was in school with your mother in Aleford. Before you got in touch with me, I had never heard of Havencrest and I asked her about it. She came here occasionally and remembered one of your mother’s birthday parties. A sixteenth, I think she said.”
His face softened. “After all this is all over I’d like to meet your friend. I don’t know many people who recall my mother, and I adored her. And she me, despite the fact that I wasn’t a good little boy, particularly after a trip here. I suppose I was doing what I wanted to do on those visits. I’d pick fights with other boys, get in trouble at school.”
“But she kept sending you.”
“I never told her what it was like—the tiny room in the attic, the food—I ate in the kitchen, and if the housekeeper wasn’t around, other servants would slip me some of the good things to eat. Otherwise it was plain soup and yesterday’s bread. I came to understand as an adult that she sent me so I would know what you give up for love. The importance of it.”
“Sounds like the theme of Heaven or Hell.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve never thought of that.” The look quickly vanished. “Anyway, my mother wanted to go to college, but that wasn’t going to happen. She did convince her parents to let her go to a kind of finishing school on Beacon Street near the Public Garden that later became a junior college. She loved it and if mater and pater had known that the girls were allowed to stroll in the park without chaperones—although they had to be in twos or more—they would have had her out of there in a heartbeat. Dad was living with relatives in the North End—the fact that he was ‘Eyetalian’ made things all the worse when it came out. He had shortened ‘Danetelli’ to ‘Dane’ when he was still a teenager. He came to Boston from Brooklyn to learn watch repair at the North Bennet Street School, a block away from where he was living. My mother said he figured it was a good trade. That no matter how poor people were they would need to have a watch. He’d laugh today to see that kids only use their phones. Dad wasn’t about to stay in just one part of Boston. In his free time he wandered all over the city. On one of those afternoons—cue lights—fate stepped in and he met the beautiful Helen Frost. One of her school friends was happy to act as beard, and it wasn’t long before Helen and Henry . . .”
“H and H—heaven and hell,” Faith murmured.
Max grimaced, and said, “. . . were madly in love. Helen knew her parents would never approve, but she gave it a try and brought Henry out here. The butler admitted them, assuming Henry, who was quite the looker—although a carrottop like me—was one of the Frosts’ kind. He wasn’t and after what I can only imagine was a rip-roaring scene, Helen left the house with him that very day. She never returned. They got married and at first lived in the North End. Helen worked in a bakery and I was born more than a ye
ar later. She sent her parents a note. There was no reply. Remember, they still had her older brother and his family. Mother wrote again to tell them where she was living when they moved to Brooklyn and again when Dad died. Still no replies until after her brother died—she hadn’t even known of his death. They asked her to come for a week, bringing me. She had to work, and I’m pretty sure wouldn’t have come anyway, but she took the train up with me, handed me over to the chauffer who met the train at South Station, took it back, and did the whole thing over again until I was old enough to go on my own. How I loved those return trips! It was like being let out of jail.”
Faith couldn’t help herself; she reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Then Charles Frost—Ian mentioned he had a small part, a walk-on—is a relative?”
Ian entered, looked pointedly at the empty glass in Max’s hand, but before he could say anything, Max answered Faith’s question.
“Yeah—and the only one left.”
Faith drove home, her thoughts somber. It seemed to her that the person with the greatest need for revenge was Max himself. By buying the Havencrest property he had struck a blow on behalf of his parents, especially his mother, and for the child he had been. But wasn’t there something deeply twisted about returning to a place of such misery? The return coincided with his one large career failure—punishing himself?
Heaven or Hell wasn’t just the title of the musical; it was Dane’s whole life.
She’d been able to get a fuller picture of some of the guests, but there were notable exceptions. Bella Martelli, the costume designer, for instance. She was listed as living in Brooklyn and “Martelli” was an Italian last name. Had she and Max known each other there or only through the show? She’d try to track down more information about Bella online. There weren’t going to be any more tête-à-têtes with Max. Early Friday morning she’d be out at Rowan House setting the stage. Wherein to catch the conscience of . . . ?
When Samantha emerged from the Porter Square station, Zach was waiting by the tall wind-driven revolving sculpture. She had always thought the bright red flat metal pieces looked like hearts, and in today’s breeze they were spinning rapidly. It may have been the long climb up the subway stairs, but her heart was beating a little faster, too. On the train, she’d realized how much she was looking forward to the lunch. In New York, she’d had an active social life, mostly with friends she and Caleb had made in their Park Slope neighborhood, but she had also had regular girls’ night outs with Wellesley and Wharton friends. She liked her coworkers at Starbucks, but everyone was on different schedules, and talk of meeting up never went far. Aside from asking Zach for his help, she was eager to have some of her kind of grown-up conversation. And from their increasingly frequent and increasingly longer phone calls plus texts, Zach filled the bill. They agreed on everything, from politics to food. Well, she was being put to the hamburger test, so that might change.
It seemed natural to give him a quick hug and slip her arm through his as she greeted him, “Oh, the pressure! Bartley’s versus Christopher’s! I may have to order something other than a hamburger.”
“No cheating. You’ll have a hamburger. Fair and square. You have to tell the truth.”
“I always tell the truth,” Samantha said.
They were waiting for the light to change so they could cross Mass. Ave. Zach looked at her with a slightly serious expression. “You know, I think you probably do.”
The walk sign blinked and Samantha started across, pulling him along. “A good thing, I hope. Now lead me to this mecca of ground beef. Am I allowed cheese, condiments?”
“What do you have on your burger at Bartley’s?”
“I’m pretty hard-core—medium rare leaning to rare, a dollop of catsup and always cheese. American cheese. The orange kind.”
“Okay, so you need to order exactly the same.”
“And fries. I always have fries. Sweet potato.”
“Hmmm. I don’t recall fries entering the competition, but heck, let’s go for it.”
When they entered the restaurant it smelled so good Samantha realized she was starving. She hadn’t taken time for breakfast. There was a table available and Zach got right to it, telling the server their burger choices, or “burgah” on Christopher’s menu, which put Samantha off a bit. But hey, when in Boston . . .
Zach wanted grilled onions on his—“I always do”—and ordered a basket of sweet potato fries, warning Samantha they were the waffle chip kind. “And two waters please. Plain tap, no lemon.” Once the server had headed off, he explained, “No other flavors intruding on the palate. And no fries until you’ve had two bites of your burger.”
“Yes, Dad,” Samantha said. “And may I stay up until nine tonight? There’s a Gilmore Girls marathon.”
“Definitely not. Now were it something like The IT Crowd I might consider it.”
“I love that show! My brother Dan, who may be even more nerdy than you, introduced me to it. ‘Have you tried turning it on and off?’ Sorry for my terrible British accent.”
“A good try—and hey, who are you calling a nerd?” Zach laughed.
The food arrived quickly. “Shut your eyes tight,” Zach instructed. “The food’s here. I considered bringing a bandanna of some sort to use as a blindfold, but it might give people, including you, the wrong idea. We eat first with our eyes, and I didn’t want you to be swayed one way or the other by the plate’s appearance.”
Obediently, Samantha closed her eyes. She heard a slight clunk as the dish was set on the table. She was about to feel for the burger with both hands when she felt Zach’s fingers guiding her. She’d noticed his long slender fingers, nails cut short for keyboarding, when they’d had coffee together. No tattoos on the knuckles. Nothing like that of any sort that she could see. Caleb had several studs in one ear and Samantha had always thought it was cool—artsy without going overboard. Now she thought it was slightly clichéd. Or something that he should have grown out of, like the taste for wine coolers and Slim Jims.
Zach was still holding her hands in his, raising the burger, which smelled heavenly, closer and closer to her waiting lips. She felt the bun brush them, opened her mouth wide, took a good-size bite, and chewed. “Oh my God, Zach, I can’t believe how good this is! It’s sinfully delicious.”
She started to open her eyes. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said. His hands were still holding hers, his fingers clasping them harder. “Take one more bite, then open. You need to be sure.”
She took another, and it was even better than the first. She opened her eyes wide. “I’m sure,” she said.
He dropped his hands and picked up his own burger. “You should try it with grilled onions sometime.”
They talked food some more, arguing about where to get the best dim sum in Chinatown. Zach was a regular at Hei La Moon—they brought him specials from off the menu. He was convinced it was because they thought he was part Asian because of his hair.
The sweet potato fries were a draw. “Think we have to try Bartley’s,” Samantha suggested. She looked at her watch, a present from the Fairchilds when she had graduated from Wellesley. It had the school’s seal and motto, “Non Ministrari sed Ministrare”—“Not to be ministered unto, but to minister.” She had to minister to a horde of thirsty Starbuckians all too soon and she hadn’t come close to asking Zach for his help.
“You know you said you thought I was an honest person?” she said.
“Yeah—now don’t tell me that you’re really spying for my competition or something else heinous.”
She laughed. She seemed to laugh a lot with Zach. “No, but besides wanting to do the taste test, I did have another reason for lunch today.”
He leaned back and braced his hands on the table. “Let me have it.”
“Nothing horrendous. I just wondered if I gave you someone’s name, you could find out more than I’ve been able to simply by Googling him. All I know is he recently moved here from California.”
Zach took out his phone. “What’s the name—and are you sure it’s real? Can still track him down, but it’s harder. Approximately how old is he? And do you mind telling me why you want to find out about this guy?”
She took a deep breath. “His name is Austin Stebbins and he’s in his eighties. Was in real estate, I think, but probably long retired. Widowed. Grew up here, a Beacon Hill Brahmin. He knew my grandmother when they were both young and that’s the name she said when she introduced him, so not an alias. She’s why I want to know more about him. They are spending a lot of time together. He’s staying with her right now at the house while he looks for his own place. And she’s bought all sorts of new clothes, different from her usual.” Samantha flushed. She was about to tell him more, but he leaned in, his face close to hers.
“Okaaay. Let me get this straight. You want me to investigate your grandmother?”
CHAPTER 7
The Planning Board meeting had been moved to the largest room in Town Hall. It seemed all of Aleford had turned out once the agenda topic was announced. “Strip Mall,” although not mentioned as such in the wording of the topic, was not merely a red flag, but also a call to battle—reminiscent of the one heeded by Aleford’s feisty 1775 forefathers and mothers.
Faith and Pix took seats at the back, Faith because she always sat in the back row at these things in case she wanted to discreetly slip out; Pix because she liked to see who was in attendance and constantly turning her head from the front upon each arrival was a bit rude, plus it caused a crick in her neck.
“Do you think Millicent has been camped out here since this afternoon? She’s grabbed a prime front-row spot,” Faith said.
“Definitely,” Pix answered. “And it’s no secret which side she’s on.”
The Body in the Casket Page 13