Millicent Revere McKinley—“Miss,” not “Ms.”—was an authenticated descendent of the famous silversmith and clarion. Her small white clapboard house was positioned nicely to afford her a clear view down Main Street and across the hallowed Green unchanged from that famous day and year. She was the custodian of all things Aleford, as well as a long list of things she considered her moral obligation to protect: manners, language usage, proper dress. She was not opposed to progress, she once told Faith, just change.
When the board entered, Faith was disappointed to see that the new town counsel was not among them. She knew everyone taking a seat—the only comfortable ones in the room—behind the long table. An AV kid from the high school was taping the meeting for the local access cable channel, perhaps the most watched one in town. Nobody wanted to miss, say, a vote on signage—no sandwich boards on town property or others hanging over the sidewalk. Tree removal petitions brought before the board garnered higher ratings than the Oscars.
Pix nudged her friend and nodded toward the door. “I believe that’s Ms. Sommersby,” she whispered.
Blake Sommersby, slender and tall, was indeed stunning. She was wearing the requisite navy attorney suit, but hers suggested designer, not Brooks, and her matching heels were Cole Haan. Faith had the same in black. Not over-the-top as Manolos would have been, but not generic. Under her jacket Ms. Sommersby wore a white silk blouse with a soft, not overly deep cowl. Her only jewelry were pearl studs and a watch that even from far away Faith spotted as a Cartier Tank. Understated and classy. The overall effect was surprisingly sexy. Like the old movies where Miss So-and-So removes her glasses, unbuttons her jacket, shakes her hair out, and Cary Grant falls in love, or lust. Blake Sommersby’s hair was rich auburn and grazed her chin in a blunt cut. Faith had always wanted red hair, particularly auburn, ever since reading Anne of Green Gables. It wasn’t too late, but even if Tom didn’t notice—a distinct possibility—Amy would point it out.
The developer arrived next, and this was a surprise. In her head, Faith had pictured a caricature: a short, slightly sweaty, paunchy middle-aged man with a bad comb-over and several wardrobe mistakes. Beady, shifty eyes and thin lips, too. Instead, this man looked to be in his early to midthirties and easily Blake’s counterpart in appearance, save for the watch, which was a Breitling. He was tall as well and accompanied by two men, virtually clones. One got busy setting up a laptop for the presentation. Faith had the sense there would be no mishaps with focus and file finding as regularly happened at Town Meeting when Alefordians tried to go high tech.
There was a palpable air of both anticipation and dread in the packed room. Everyone wanted to get the matter settled, but not if it meant what many were calling “the thin edge of a wedge,” development that would alter the town’s basic character. Condos might be next! Streets without the town’s treasured potholes to discourage traffic!
Marian Cho, Planning Board chair, was welcoming everyone. She introduced the board members and then said, “I am especially pleased to welcome our new town counsel, Ms. Blake Sommersby.” The lawyer flashed a warm smile around the room. Faith decided to hate her, but only because she appeared so perfect. No other reason.
“We have only one issue before the board tonight,” Marian said, “and I want to emphasize that this is just the beginning of the process. No votes will be taken. Bradley Peters of the Peters Development Group will present his proposal. The board will then direct questions and comments to Mr. Peters and his associates. Following that, we have scheduled forty-five minutes for questions and comments from the floor directed either to the board or Mr. Peters.”
Pix yawned. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“You said it,” Faith said, feeling her eyelids already getting heavy. And the room was warm, which made it worse. But she couldn’t leave. She had to see how this first foray went. Bradley and Blake. What was with these last names as firsts?
The two suits stood up with Bradley as he positioned himself where he could address both the board and the audience. The equivalent of the AV kid stationed himself at the laptop pointed toward the screen, and the third sat next to him, an iPad in hand. All three men exuded confidence and competence. Bradley’s presentation was clear, starting with several slides depicting the plans and a rendering of the finished building. Red brick with faux columns on either side of the entrance doors and topped by a white cornice along the flat roof, it suggested a cross between a bank and a 1940s elementary school. “As you can see, it will fit in with Aleford’s traditional architectural style well,” Peters said.
At that point, a loud “Ha!” from the front row echoed throughout the room “Miss McKinley, there will be time for comments later,” Marian Cho said sternly.
“I’m just sayin’,” Millicent retorted. Since Benjamin Fairchild had instructed her on the use of the Internet for genealogical research at the library, Millicent had acquired her own computer. Her recent vocabulary—and diction—indicated she was surfing more than Ancestry.com on the Web.
Peters went through additional architectural site-specific drawings, spoke of the contribution the building would make to the town with its combination of business and affordable housing rentals. “Affordable housing” caused several on the board to visibly perk up. Always a problem in Aleford. Faith watched as those board members glanced at Millicent—no question about her expression—and returned to their blank-canvas faces immediately. The same thing happened when Bradley Peters mentioned the increase the new businesses and apartments would produce for Aleford’s tax rolls, since the prior occupant had been a nonprofit.
Faith was having an extremely difficult time staying awake. When she’d returned from Rowan House—was that just today?—she’d retrieved Tom and the kids’ skiwear from the attic and packed it in large duffels. Besides the prep work and baking for Rowan House, she had to make up some casseroles, soups, and other food for her family to take for their weekend. Pix tapped her arm and Faith’s head snapped up. The board was addressing a series of questions to the developer, the boilerplate ones Faith had expected about parking, maximum occupancy, and safety codes. Then Ms. Sommersby firmly took over; firing a series of queries relating to state ordinances with so many House Bill numbers that Faith’s head was soon reeling. From the looks on the developers’ faces, theirs were, too. Clearly they had not expected this kind of expertise in what they surely thought was a backwater. Blake barely let them get a word in edgewise. Faith decided not to hate her after all. The woman was a force of nature.
Finally it was time for questions from the floor. Much to Faith’s surprise, Millicent was mum. Peters had shown photos of other sites he’d developed, and now Patsy Avery, the Fairchilds’ dear friend, read a list of Peters projects Bradley had not included in his presentation, most of them in Dorchester and Roxbury, citing the fact that the renters he’d turned out of the buildings he’d razed with the promise of affordable, better dwellings were unable to come close to meeting the increased prices once the new dwellings were completed. “What exactly is your idea of affordable?” Patsy asked. “We need to hear some numbers and percentages. How many of the units will meet the State’s definition?” Patsy and her husband, Will, were both lawyers; her law firm was known for civil rights cases, while his specialized in family law. Both were active in the Youth Advocacy Foundation.
Peters smiled at Patsy. “Great question. We will be detailing this in our final proposal, but I can promise you our commitment to the community in this regard is genuine. I believe at the moment Aleford just makes the percentage required by the Commonwealth. We intend to increase that considerably.” He was a cool one, Faith reflected.
Before Patsy could come back with a follow-up, Randall Foster, the town gadfly, who proudly admitted to being ninety, jumped up and as usual went off topic, grumbling about the police department’s newest patrol car—“Why are our tax dollars being used for such a fancy vehicle?” Marian patiently reminded him that Town Meeting had voted on the model
and make, also applauding that it was a hybrid. “Do you have a question or comment on the matter before us? The proposed demolition and change of use to what is known as the Grayson House?”
“Grayson House! Nobody can take that down! My grandfather designed it and lived there, too. Plus the First Parish burial ground and a Native American one are in the side yard. When I was a boy we used to dig up all kinds of things. I remember Ralph Lee, some of you remember Ralph and his birdcalls, well, he once found a bone. May have been a deer. Didn’t have this DNA stuff back then. Bits of pottery, too. Young man”—he shook his finger at Bradley—“you need to back off.”
Marian decided to adjourn after that.
“That was fun,” Pix said. “Think Tom and Sam will be pleased. Peters should back off. Randall was perfect as usual.”
Faith shook her head. “They’re just getting started, and now they pretty much know our objections, so can come back with modifications. He’ll bring in experts to refute the burial ground claim and remember, the heirs want to sell to him. Grayson House is an albatross for them and he’s offering a way out.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Pix said, “but I’m still betting on Ms. Sommersby. I have the car and Sam has that ‘Let’s get out of here look.’ Talk to you tomorrow.”
Faith and Tom had come separately. She told him she was leaving and he said he’d be home soon. On the way out she stopped at the restroom. Before the recent Town Hall renovation, it had been in the basement at the end of a musty corridor lined with teetering piles of boxes of what Faith assumed were town records but that looked more like hand-me-downs from the Collyer brothers. The facility itself dated from the early days of plumbing and it was a brave and/or desperate soul who used it. Now the new restroom was on the main floor, handicapped accessible with environmentally up-to-date fixtures. Faith made a point of stopping in when she was in the building as a reassurance that Aleford could move with the times.
Outside in the parking lot the environmentally friendly lights made the dark periphery look even darker. Take one step away and you’d effectively be lost. There were only three cars left, Tom’s not among them, and Faith was about to head for hers when she noticed a couple standing close to one another. She stepped back into the shadow cast by the building and stood still. As she watched, one of the figures leaned in still closer, suggesting even further intimacy. Despite the dark, Faith had no trouble recognizing them.
Bradley Peters and Blake Sommersby.
Working at Starbucks had proved to be exactly the kind of job Samantha wanted for now—and maybe always. The pay wasn’t anywhere near what she had been making, but she’d managed over the years to put away a hefty chunk working for her—financial advising had been part of her job, after all.
Starbucks had excellent benefits and she was a devout coffee drinker. She didn’t even mind when her father told her she smelled like a freshly ground bean after a long day. No worries about wardrobe—was loving the green apron look. Better still were her incredibly friendly, noncompetitive coworkers. One of them, a veteran of several years, had explained that Starbucks’ workplace ambiance all depended on the manager, and they had a jewel of one in Ken. Organized, affable, and supportive. Under him, the store was kept happily humming—Samantha found the only stress involved was keeping up with the morning and noon rush. And the customers were pleasant, too. Her coworkers told tales of demanding ones—“This isn’t the hot grande sugar-free triple shot caramel chai soy latte with a quarter inch of foam I ordered and waited forever for!” (All of forty-seven seconds; the barista had kept track)—but so far Samantha was happy to comply with the most complicated and weirdest requests. She enjoyed getting to know the regulars and what they ordered, teasing the cashier who came on his midmorning break from Deluca’s market next door when he occasionally went rogue and ordered a venti macchiato instead of grande.
She liked that her mind was free to wander as she prepared the drinks, kept the cases stocked, and helped clean up. Ken was a stickler for no spills on the counter where they kept the sugars and containers of milk. At the moment her thoughts were wandering back to Christopher’s and what had followed Zach’s accusation, or what had felt like one.
“Not investigate Granny! Investigate Stebbins!”
Zach had called for the check, which Samantha had insisted they split. She’d dug out some cash and said, “I know it sounds like I’m poking my nose into her personal life. But I have a reason. I wish I didn’t have to get to work, I need more time to tell you why I’m not feeling comfortable about his friendship or whatever it is with my grandmother.”
“Easy fix. I’ll ride with you. I have to go to Kendall Square anyway.”
They’d retraced their steps across Mass. Ave. and waited for the next train. The car had been almost empty and they took seats away from the few people on it. Not that what she was going to tell Zach was so hush-hush, but Samantha hated hearing other people’s conversations in public, especially the noisy cell phone ones—the “Like it was like really awesome” type.
“Okay, spill.” Zach had sat so close to her she’d become momentarily distracted by trying to figure out what shampoo he used. Definitely not AXE. Something subtle. Could it be Johnson’s No More Tears?
She took a deep breath. “I think he may be some kind of Lothario.”
Zach had burst out laughing. “I have never heard anyone say that word aloud. ‘Lothario’ or maybe you mean ‘gigolo’?”
“It’s not funny,” Samantha said, although it kind of was. She had meant “gigolo.” “I was at work, fortunately you can’t really see me behind the machines, and Stebbins walked in with a woman. About my grandmother’s age, maybe a little younger. Attractive, but I think she’s had work.”
“Meow,” Zach said.
“No, this is to give you an idea of what to think about when you dig stuff up. She looked like money. Her clothes, purse, jewelry. Overdressed for Starbucks, but it seemed they had just nipped in for hot chocolate. He had the peppermint. Neither had a pastry. So maybe they were off to dinner later and didn’t want to spoil their appetites.” She caught herself rambling and stopped.
“When was this?” Zach said.
“Saturday afternoon. I didn’t think anything much about it. He grew up on Beacon Hill. She was probably a childhood friend, like Granny. I even thought about going over to say hi, but then he reached across the table and took her hand. I could see both their faces, and they weren’t ‘how great I bumped into an old acquaintance.’ They were flirting! She finished her cocoa and put her other hand on top of his. And then, she made a kind of blowing a kiss with her mouth. A young couple at the table next to them were smiling, like ‘get a room’!”
Zach had frowned. “You don’t think your grandmother might know about this other woman? That Austin has a friend he’s serious about?”
“I wish. No. Granny hasn’t gone nuts, but she’s dressing up for him, wearing makeup! And they’ve been going out to fancy restaurants—his choices—plus someone saw them at Symphony and referred to him as ‘Ursula’s beau’ to my mom, which did not go over well, especially because she hadn’t known about him or that he was staying with Granny. He says it’s while he finds a place in town of his own, but I bet he has no plans to move out until he has another well-feathered nest.”
The train had pulled into the Kendall/MIT station and Zach stood up to leave.
“It does sound as if he’s using your grandmother as a place to live while double-timing her with the woman you saw. I’ll start seeing what I can find out about him right away. It could all be very innocent . . .” But his face belied his words.
The next memory made her face redden, and not from the steam from the latte she was preparing.
He’d leaned over and given her a kiss on the cheek that ended up close to her mouth before slipping out the door onto the platform. She was pretty sure he had winked at her as the train left.
Years ago Niki had given Faith a bumper sticker to put up i
n the catering kitchen: DATES IN THE MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR. It had never seemed more true than today, Faith thought. She’d awoken at dawn, wired to the point where she thought she might as well leave breakfast for everyone and go in to work. She’d told a sleepy Tom who muttered, “You’re crazy,” before drifting off again.
Things were well under control for the weekend. She’d ordered all the meat from Savenor’s Market. Jack Savenor had been Julia Child’s friend and butcher. His son, Ron, was continuing the family tradition of excellence. Out at Rowan House Ian would take delivery on Thursday. Savenor’s was also supplying some of the cheeses and charcuterie. Her other suppliers would deliver to the kitchen, and she’d bring everything out Friday morning. Niki was baking two devil’s food cakes, one with a traditional dark chocolate frosting and the other with something she’d found online and thought appropriate—angel frosting, fluffy white marshmallow. Faith would make the Angel Food Cake on Saturday. She’d also had a middle-of-the-night idea to make a few dozen mini cupcakes—red velvet, mocha, vanilla bean, and gold cake—frosted with tiny fondant halo and pitchfork decorations. Max Dane wanted an over-the-top weekend, and that was what he was going to get.
Besides the weekend, Have Faith had one small private dinner party Wednesday that the hostess wanted to serve herself. They were to drop off the meal with instructions on preparation, which mostly involved heating it up. Faith received this request often, and she was always curious to know whether the host or hostess in question smiled and nodded when complimented on the food or came clean.
Niki arrived at nine and they got to work. Adrenaline was a useful commodity, Faith thought around eleven, when she still felt full of energy despite her short night. She’d have to get more sleep before Friday, though. She had the feeling she wouldn’t be sleeping much out at Rowan House.
She’d been compulsively checking the weather since early last week. No blizzards, or any snow at all, in the forecast. It was going to be cold, but that wouldn’t be a problem. This didn’t sound like a crowd that would be up for wintry walks around the grounds. She was pretty sure that whatever their locales, their walks were ones that took them past or to shops and restaurants—maybe a museum and of course a theater.
The Body in the Casket Page 14