The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  At noon the phone rang and Niki picked it up. Faith intended to keep the work landline with its answering machine for a long time to come. She’d probably have to get a business cell eventually, but for now she was able to keep hers personal, calling into the machine to check messages.

  “Just a moment, please.” Niki covered the mouthpiece and said softly, “The Brit from Rowan House.”

  “Hello,” Faith said, taking the phone from her.

  There was a pause while she listened. “Thank you for letting me know so I’ll be able to set the tables correctly.”

  Another pause. “I think Mr. Dane—and you—will be pleased. See you Friday.”

  A last pause, then, “Good-bye.”

  Niki hadn’t moved. “For a moment I thought they were canceling. Your face looked so serious.”

  “No, and if they do, we still get paid. He was calling to say that there would be only nine guests, not ten.”

  “Well, there will certainly be enough food!”

  Faith smiled, but it was only on the outside. Inside she was trembling. Bella Martelli, the costume designer, wasn’t going to be able to make it because Bella Martelli was dead.

  Wasn’t a “good death” an oxymoron? In any case there had been nothing remotely good about it. For months they’d waged a battle to stay ahead of the excruciating pain, a battle more often lost than won. Watching the beloved face of the woman who had given up everything for her became harder and harder to bear as each day went by. “You can go. I’ll be fine. You know that,” she had implored her—wishing the end would come and provide blessed relief, even though she knew she would always want one more chance to look into those eyes, still so beautiful. Liquid brown flecked with gold, clear until the final moment when at last there was no breath, no pulse, and the lids closed forever.

  She wanted to die herself, but first she had something to do, somewhere to go. She made the arrangements, was the sole mourner, and went back to the tiny apartment they’d shared to pack a bag. She hadn’t shed a tear. They had dried up long ago, forming a hard shell that felt like a second skin. Armor. It was her constant companion.

  Samantha hadn’t expected Zach to come up with information on Stebbins immediately and she didn’t want to be a nudge, but when she dropped in to see her grandmother late Tuesday afternoon and the man came downstairs into the living room to whisk Ursula away for a special event at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, it was all Samantha could do to keep her fingers from texting Zach “Help!” Granny had looked beautiful. Another new dress—a deep burgundy satin shirtwaist that showed off the tiny waist she’d never lost. And she’d had her hair done. Nothing outrageous, just a trim, but the change was still obvious. Ursula’s short, shiny white curls were more platinum than anything else, and she could easily have passed for a very well-preserved Jean Harlow.

  “I’m so sorry we don’t have time for a real visit, but always lovely to see you,” Ursula apologized.

  Seeing that Stebbins already had his topcoat on, Samantha quickly said, “I’ll be back soon. And I’ll call first.”

  Ursula looked bemused. “No need, sweetheart. Just drop by whenever you have some free time.” They were getting in Stebbins’s car as Samantha pulled away.

  Nobody was home when she got there. She’d expected her father to be at work but had no idea where her mother was. Given that Pix’s fingers were in not just town pies, but pretty much all of MetroWest’s, Samantha wasn’t surprised. She didn’t intend to say anything about Ursula to her mother, but she wished Zach would get in touch so she could vent to him. Austin was too charming. If he broke her grandmother’s heart she’d kill him. It would be justifiable homicide.

  Faith had given her a recipe for what she called Pantry Soup, which involved sautéing onions, garlic, and any other veggies kicking around before adding chicken broth, canned chickpeas, rosemary, a can of diced tomatoes, and slices of chicken sausage. Samantha had learned to keep packages of the sausages in the freezer in all different flavors. She defrosted Italian ones in the microwave and added them to the mixture she had on simmer. Before she served it she’d bring the soup to a boil and add a cup of ditalini pasta. Maybe she could train as some sort of chef. She was enjoying the part of her job that involved interacting with people and food, even though it was mostly coffee. Something to bring up with Faith.

  Dinner just about done, she poured herself a glass of the box wine her parents kept in the fridge and sat down to look at the paper. A print version still arrived in the Millers’ driveway before six every morning. Samantha smiled to herself and said aloud, “How quaint,” thinking also of the stack of road maps in both cars’ glove compartments, which her mother insisted were more reliable than “that lady” on the GPS.

  Her phone rang. Seeing Zach’s name, she answered immediately.

  “Sorry it’s taken me so long, but the project at the Kendall Square firm is eating up all my time.”

  “It’s fine, “Samantha fibbed. “No rush.”

  “If you say so.” She knew he didn’t believe her.

  “Okay, so I am a little anxious.”

  “A little? I won’t keep you in suspense. Austin Stebbins is a retired property developer who has lived most of his adult life in various parts of California. He was born and grew up in Boston, attended Harvard University and the Harvard Business School. I have more details—final club at Harvard was Porcellian and so forth, but for now that’s not important. His wife passed away a year ago and from the obit’s suggestion that memorial tributes go to the American Heart Association, it’s safe to assume she died of some sort of heart failure. No kids. No relatives mentioned at all.”

  “How about money?”

  “Judging from the news articles I turned up he was successful. Lots of business-type awards and still the owner on record of a number of office buildings in and around Orange County.”

  “What else? Anything?” Samantha was beginning to feel extremely disappointed. “Arrest records? DUIs? Income tax evasion?”

  “Sorry, honey, he’s clean. But I’ve only scratched the surface here. Sit tight. We may be able to uncover something juicy like bigamy.”

  “Hmmm. This reminds me of a newspaper article I read a couple of years ago. A guy had two families living several states apart. He traveled a lot for his job so he could pull it off. He was so meticulous he had one set of keys, the locks the same at both houses, and even two duplicate wardrobes exactly the same so his wives wouldn’t ask where a new tie had come from or a new sweater. Maybe Austin was doing that?”

  “For the last twenty years he’s been living at the same address with a Mrs. Olivia Stebbins and he wasn’t a traveling salesman. He had an office in Montclair, California, before retiring and others before that.”

  “Well, something about him just doesn’t seem right. He’s too nice, for one thing.”

  “And that would be bad because . . . ?”

  “You know what I mean. False nice, not nice nice.”

  “I think this merits further discussion. Why don’t you text me times you’re free and we’ll repeat the burger challenge at Bartley’s, adding the fries?”

  “I’d like that.” A lot, Samantha said to herself. “And there are other worlds to conquer. Like the best Pho.”

  “What’s that?” Zach said, clearly to someone else. “Sorry, Samantha, but I’ve gotta run. Text me when you know your schedule.”

  He hung up before Samantha could thank him. She took a sip of wine. The sun was setting and the low winter horizon was ablaze with streaks of deep purple and fuchsia. Her soup was filling the house with a tantalizing aroma. I’m happy, she thought, very happy.

  Samantha recognized the fur coat before completely registering the face above it and the man following close behind. You didn’t see that many full-length dark mink coats in Boston, especially during the day. She darted over to her boss, who was taking bags of beans from a cupboard beneath the counter. “Ken, sorry, I know it’s not time for my break, but I need t
o make a quick call. It’s very important.”

  “Sure, Samantha, no problem. I can cover.”

  “You’re the best!” Samantha said and ran into the back, taking her phone from her locker. Please, please, please pick up, she said to herself after hitting Zach’s number. She’d put it on her favorites list for convenience. At least that’s what she told herself.

  Luckily he did. “Hi, what’s up?”

  “I’m at work. Stebbins just came in with the same woman as before. They’re in line to order and it’s a long one. Is there any way you could get here and follow them when they leave? I know it’s a lot to ask, but we may be able to find out where she lives and then her name.” Samantha was breathless.

  “No worries. Always fancied myself a sleuth. Fortunately I’m at Kendall, so it won’t take long to get to you. I’m leaving now. And stay cool, okay?”

  “I have a break in half an hour, so I’ll check my phone. And then I’m off after another hour. Go!”

  “I’m gone.”

  Samantha went back, thanked her manager profusely, and was relieved to see that the couple had only just reached the front of the line. She heard them order cocoa again. This time Austin went for the Chile Mocha. Maybe he thought he was in for a hot time soon, Samantha thought bitterly. His lady friend stuck with the traditional, no whipped cream.

  Soon the two were seated at one of the tables near the big window looking out over the Common. It seemed Samantha had just hung up with Zach when she saw him strolling by. It was a short ride on the T from Kendall to Charles and he must have sprinted down the street. He came in, ordered a cascara latte, and she leaned over when she handed it to him, whispering, “By the window.” He nodded and tapped the side of his nose with his finger. Samantha could tell he was getting a kick out of this.

  After more holding hands and kissy faces on her part, the couple left. Once the door closed after them, she went to clear their table—so inconsiderate to leave the cups—and was relieved to see Zach trailing behind them as they crossed the intersection toward Robert McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings bronzes in the Public Garden.

  No swan boats. No reason to linger this time of year. They must be headed for the Back Bay. Samantha went back to cope with the line, which had suddenly gotten long again. When it was time for her break, she checked her phone. Zach had sent a text: “Slow walkers. Went past the Taj and down Newbury Street. Have been in Burberry’s for a while now. Am across the street in the Garden. Getting chilly.”

  She called him right away. “I’m so sorry. Why don’t you go into the store to keep warm and pretend to be a customer?”

  “Really? Sam, I’m not exactly dressed like their target clientele.”

  “Oh, that’s silly. You could be a famous rock star who goes for the slightly scruffy look.”

  “Who are you calling ‘scruffy’! I didn’t have time to shave this morning. But no, I’m not chancing it. It’s the shoes. You can always tell by shoes, and mine say New Balance outlet store all over. Oh, hallelujah! They’re leaving. Austin is carrying a rather large store bag. Wish I had her coat, even for a few minutes.”

  “Which way are they turning?”

  “Down Newbury away from me. I’m off. The game’s afoot!”

  Reluctantly she put her phone back in her bag. The rest of her shift was a madhouse and so busy she almost didn’t think about what was going on outside, except to note worriedly that it was getting darker and colder, judging from the way people were clutching their coats and scarves.

  At last her shift was over. Shrugging her parka on, Samantha hit Zach’s number. “Where are you now?” she said before he said anything. “Are you freezing?”

  “Yes, and I’m headed back toward you. They’re waiting for the walk light just opposite. Are you free now?”

  “I’ll stand just outside. I have a hat and I’ll pull my hood up so they won’t recognize me.”

  She spotted all three immediately. When Zach saw her he made a beeline, quickly crossing the street and calling, “Hi, darling! Sorry I’m late.” He gave her a bear hug when he reached her and whispered, “Thought I would divert any possible suspicion. And, darling, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra hat or gloves on you by chance?”

  Hugging him back, she said, “Take this one. I’ll tie the hood tight. Oh, they’re turning up Mount Vernon Street! Hurry!”

  “Believe me, there is no need. They do not sprint.”

  “Where have they been all this time?”

  “Serious shopping. Armani and Chanel. I crouched in the vestibule of that church across the street. Made a new friend. He wanted to share what was in his brown bag, but I needed a clear head. Gave him a fiver when I left. Oh thank God, they’ve stopped and she’s got her purse open.”

  The couple stood on the brick sidewalk in front of a town house, then started up the front stairs. “She’s got keys out!” Samantha said. “Let’s wait a little longer and see how long he stays,” she added after the door closed behind them. “I wish you could have seen who paid for the purchases. Stebbins was loaded down with shopping bags.”

  “Did you know that the original Thomas Crown Affair, the real one with Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway, was filmed in that big house up the street?”

  “You mean the Harrison Gray Otis House designed by Bullfinch? The chess scene? Yes, in fact, I did.”

  Zach grinned. “You don’t happen to play do you? I’m getting a very sexy image here or maybe I’m hallucinating.”

  Samantha ignored the remark. “The lights went on in what must be the front living room. These town houses had double parlors. Darn it! She has those half shutters, so we can’t see in. Go over and make sure there aren’t any names next to what looks like an intercom. I doubt the house has been carved into apartments.”

  Zach sighed audibly. “And then can we go to some sort of interior space, preferably one serving alcohol?”

  “Yes! Go quickly!”

  “You can be a tad bossy, you know,” he said over his shoulder as he crossed the cobbled street.

  Samantha started walking slowly down the hill toward Charles Street and he soon caught up with her. “Single-family dwelling. Quintessential Beacon Hill Federal by the look of it. Have the house number, nothing so crass as a nameplate. I can look the name up in a reverse directory as soon as we go someplace warm. The closer the better. Like Toscano. I’m thinking osso buco. Not too early to eat, is it?”

  “Not too early at all,” Samantha said, tucking her arm through his. To warm him up a bit. That was all. It was her fault he was freezing. It was the least a girl could do.

  It was a crisp, very cold morning, and once again Faith had been awake for hours. When the alarm went off she made sure the kids were up and went down to make brioche French toast for her family, which they devoured happily, chattering away about Loon Mountain’s black diamond trails. Ben was particularly happy because Dan Miller was joining his parents. As she watched them she felt a pang. She’d been away from them longer in the past, but today she had the feeling they were all embarking on a much lengthier journey.

  The ski resort was not close. She wished this wasn’t the weekend that would put them hours away from home. She would have preferred imagining them all safe and sound in their wee little beds while, much closer, she dealt with—what exactly?

  “Mom, we’re going to miss the bus,” Ben complained as she gave him an extra tight hug.

  “She’s just nervous,” Amy said. “Don’t worry, we’ll all come back in one piece.”

  Faith hadn’t really been thinking of the dangers posed by the slopes. “Don’t forget to wear your helmets,” she shouted after them. The bus door was open and Faith could hear hoots of laughter from inside. Moms!

  Tom was laughing, too, and his tight hug was welcome. “We’re not going to Siberia. They have stores. Restaurants, even. And we’re not leaving until after school, so you have plenty of time to call me and tell me what not to forget.”

  “I know. Besides, Pi
x will be with you.” Nothing bad would happen. No broken legs, hungry kids. Pix would be in charge. Oh, and Sam too. And of course Tom.

  The landline rang. It was Pix. “I know you’re crazy busy and about to head over to Rowan House, but I wanted to say have a ball and take notes, photos if you can sneak them. Can’t wait to hear all about it and I know you’re going to get rave reviews!”

  Suddenly Faith felt better than she had for days. The news that Bella Martelli had died had been unsettling. She had no idea how old Bella had been. There was no publicity photo in the Playbill next to her name. She’d checked obituaries in New York and then nationwide to be sure and hadn’t come up with one, but local papers or even big city ones often didn’t link up to Google. There was no reason to think the death was anything but natural. Hearing Pix’s excitement was contagious. She knew Dane had hired Winston’s, Boston’s premier florist, to decorate the house, and she was now itching to get out there.

  “And,” Pix continued, “I know you’re making Tom check his list twice or more, but don’t worry about a thing. The condo is fully equipped, very comfy, and near everything.”

  “It sounds ideal and my gang can’t wait to hit the slopes. Thank you for this.”

  “See you Sunday night!”

  Faith hung up and said good-bye once again to her husband as he took off for his day as a chaplain at the local VA hospital. He assured her he would be checking texts even when his phone was on silent.

  She would be leaving her car at the catering kitchen and taking the van. It was surprising how much space the food for the weekend took up. She had decided that well appointed as Rowan House’s kitchen was, she wanted some of her own batterie de cuisine. Her small suitcase was ready—she’d be wearing her chef’s clothes for the most part but had packed slacks and turtleneck sweaters as well as nightwear. Dane’s house was large, but it had been toasty warm both times she’d been there. Ian had mentioned that they had a substantial generator, so even if by some chance there were a power failure, everything would still work.