Before leaving the house, she looked around one last time, sure she had forgotten something. But just as her family wasn’t going to Siberia, neither was she. If need be, she could always run home or to the catering kitchen.
Outside her breath hung suspended in a cloud. She half expected it to form icicles. It took a while for the car to warm up. When she pulled into the small parking lot, she was surprised to see another car. Niki was home today, and in any case, she had a Mommy SUV, not a cute bright red Mini Cooper. Faith’s surprise increased when she saw Blake Sommersby get out, looking even taller in contrast to the car, or maybe it was her high-heeled boots.
Faith got out as well and walked over to the woman. Before she could say anything, Blake did.
“Mrs. Fairchild, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER 8
Could the timing have been any worse? Faith said to herself as she walked across the icy parking lot covered with sand. No salt or commercial products for Aleford.
“This really isn’t a good time,” she said as she got closer. “I’m due at a job. Why don’t we pick a day next week? My schedule is pretty open.”
Blake shook her head. “I have to go out of town and I’ll be gone a week, maybe more. And this shouldn’t wait. Could we go inside? I’ll be as quick as I can.”
While Faith was a little annoyed at being overruled, she was also very, very curious. She flashed on the image of the two figures in the shadows Monday night. Was Blake going to confess to a mad passionate affair with the developer and give Faith a letter of resignation for the board? No, she’d give that to Marian Cho. But whatever it was it had to have something to do with the proposed scheme. Faith couldn’t think of anything else Blake and she might have in common save taste in clothes—and Tom, of course. The two had been seated next to each other Monday night, and even from the back Faith could see they were scribbling notes to each other. Next thing he’d be carrying her books home from school.
Yesterday she had loaded everything into the van but perishables and the baked goods—they would possibly have frozen. She didn’t have all that much left to do. She’d planned to have a cup of coffee while she worked and leave. “Come in then, but I have to be out of here soon, so I’ll be packing things while you tell me whatever is so important it can’t wait a week or so. I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like a cup?” Offering coffee to Blake might encourage her to stay longer. But Faith wanted one.
Blake followed Faith into the kitchen. “Thank you, no. If you have some herbal tea that would be great. Mint?” She sat down at the counter, making herself at home. Ms. Sommersby didn’t seem like the mint tea type, but Faith had it and soon put a steaming mug down in front of her unwanted guest.
“Okay, here it is,” Blake said. “I want your help, but I don’t want anyone to know what we’ve talked about.”
“Since I don’t know what we’ve talked about that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Blake smiled. “I know you’re in a rush. I’m sorry. I’ll get to it.”
And I’ll stop acting bitchy, Faith decided, sitting down with her coffee.
“This whole strip mall thing could drag out for years,” Blake said. “It won’t cost the town anything, but Peters is going to have to pay his lawyers. Even now I have enough to tie up their plans.”
“And this isn’t a good thing, because . . . ?”
“I obviously haven’t lived here long, but the Averys are longtime friends of mine. It’s why I chose to move to Aleford. I have a pretty good idea of what makes the town tick. Dragging this out means endless wrangling, meetings, and ultimately divisions among the town’s population. Quite a few people want to see the Grayson property put money in the coffers, and Bradley Peters’s plan makes sense to them.”
She was right. Faith thought back to some of the school and other proposals that had acrimoniously split the town, even households. “So how are you going to get Peters to back out? The threat of a lengthy process would probably be viewed as just that by him—a threat, possibly not a viable one.”
Was Blake proposing that Faith somehow catch the lawyer and the developer in a compromising position? Had she been setting it up last night, starting to come on to him? The camera on Faith’s iPhone was pretty good. But Blake would be relieved of her position, so to speak, not Peters. She added, “I still don’t get it.”
“Sorry,” Blake said. “I haven’t been clear. My mind is a bit preoccupied these days. As soon as I saw Grayson House, which included touring the inside, I thought that it would make a great assisted living facility if modernized. Aleford has an aging population that wants to stay in town, not go to one of the nearby facilities. But I want Peters to think of it himself. He’d have to partner with a health care facility, but half or more of the residences could be apartments—some affordable, some high end. The place is in bad shape, but I’ve gone over the building inspection the heirs had done to put it on the market, and most of the work would be cosmetic plus expansion. There’s enough room to add another story on the wings next to the main building where there’s already an elevator. It would need updating, but the space is there.”
“It’s a wonderful solution,” Faith said, “but I don’t see how it’s going to happen.”
“That’s why I need your help. I can’t mention it to Peters, conflict of interest big-time. But a board member could. As in ‘have you considered this way out?’ Say over lunch?”
“And I happen to be married to one.”
Blake beamed. “I knew you’d get it. Again, I have to emphasize I can’t intervene. As counsel I’m there to listen, advise, but not propose, especially in such a major way. A board member can arrange a casual meeting to go over the presentation. I checked—there’s nothing that prohibits it. However, Tom needs to come up with this idea himself. I thought of Sam Miller, but he’d immediately think I had a hand in it all.”
“Whereas my husband wouldn’t. Being as he is great at one-on-ones with God, but often a bit naive with interactions down here on earth,” Faith said. Ms. Sommersby had certainly figured her husband out quickly. Must be from picking jurors.
“Exactly! He’s such a good man and I know you can talk to him about the idea in such a way that he will believe it was his own—or the man upstairs.”
Faith had to laugh. “Why do you think I would be able to do this?”
“Patsy Avery has told me a great deal about you, particularly when all that business at Mansfield Academy was going on.”
The mention reminded Faith of Zach Cummings and his IT skills. “At Monday night’s meeting, Patsy had a list of dubious projects Bradley Peters was involved with. Couldn’t we dig up some more online and go that route?”
“I thought of that, too, and I’ve already done that. Bradley never broke any laws. Again, it would drag things out even longer. No, this is the best solution for the town. A win-win. The facility is needed and the strip mall is not.” She drained her mug and stood up. Mission accomplished. “Now, I need to let you go.”
Much as Faith wanted to say “Not so fast, lawyer lady,” she found herself agreeing. “I admit it would be good for the town.”
Blake stood up and buttoned her coat. A nice shearling. Looked like Searle, Faith thought. She had opted for her Michelin Man one this weekend.
“All right. I’ll talk to Tom. Not manipulate him. We don’t do that”—well, maybe sometimes she did, but she wasn’t about to share this with the woman she still had doubts about. She kept thinking of the scene Monday night. What if Blake and Bradley were partners of some sort, business or otherwise? Could this new scheme be the one the developer, and Ms. Sommersby, wanted all along? Dangling the prospect of the mall so the real one could go through easily?
Faith opened the door for Blake and said good-bye but didn’t wait to see her jazzy little car zip off before shutting it. She had a weekend to cater—and a possible murderer to uncover.
The gates swung open after Ian’s instructions, which Faith was now sure was a
recording. She pulled the van around the back of the house. Ian came out to help her unload.
“Best pull your vehicle into the garage when we finish. You won’t be using it until Sunday, but I’ll give you a remote just in case you do have to run out for something.”
He was eyeing the mound of things in the van and Faith had to say, “Thank you, but I can’t imagine needing anything.” He smiled. This was good. They were bonding, Faith thought.
“Remember that besides the refrigerator here, there are small ones in the butler’s pantry and the service area off the summer parlor plus another full-size in the basement. Max doesn’t care for defrosted foods, so there is no large chest freezer anywhere. You’ll have to take any leftover food away and deal with it as you wish.”
“I hope there won’t be too much,” she said, but the amount of supplies as they emptied the van, added to what was already spread out in the kitchen, suggested otherwise.
“Now I have a few last-minute errands to run, including picking up Max’s birthday present. An antiques dealer in Lexington has found an Alfred Hitchcock toby jug in mint condition finally. Max has been trying to locate one for a long time. I also need to fetch a few things for my vacation. Did Max tell you I was leaving for a well-earned reward on Sunday once the party’s over?”
Faith had forgotten, but she nodded. She was struck by the obvious pleasure Ian was taking in the gift. She sensed that over the years employer and employee had become the closest of friends, each other’s sole company, and confidant? Ian was zipping up a Canada Goose parka. Even a simple one could run close to a thousand dollars. Max seemed to be paying his friend, albeit employee, a very decent salary.
“It shouldn’t take long. I’m assuming you’ll want to put everything away yourself where you’ll have it to hand.”
The subtext was: not my job. Faith got it and said, “Yes, exactly. Thank you.” Or not.
He left and she got to work as fast as possible. He’d be gone at least an hour. Max Dane slept until noon or even later. For now she was virtually alone. As soon as she finished, she wanted to look at the whole house. All the guest rooms, everything. She needed to have the lay of the land fixed firmly in her mind.
She also wanted to make a quick call to Tom to check in and remind him that her cell wouldn’t work here and he’d need to use the landline number. Ian had told her this the first time she’d been at the house but said that occasionally one could get a signal outside on the hill behind the house. Faith had successfully tried it, but besides not being convenient, she’d discovered it was treacherously slippery. Tom wasn’t picking up, but she left a message on his cell, knowing full well she’d told him all this several times before.
Afterward she went up the servants’ back staircase to the third floor, envisioning a very young Max doing the same. Not being permitted the main parts of the house, fetched down for his meals in the kitchen with the help. The kind ones slipping him some of the food his grandparents and whoever else was visiting were having in the dining room. The outdoors must have been a blessed release for him, although she was sure he had to keep out of sight from Grandmamma. It wasn’t just Dickensian; it was unimaginable cruelty.
Clearly the rooms on this side of the house were being used for storage. All save the one where Max had stayed as a child had an air of disuse—not musty, but still. The tiny room barely large enough for the bed did not. There was even a slight indentation on the bed itself that indicated someone had been sitting there. Did Max come here to remind himself of the past? To nourish a justifiable hatred? To think of his parents and what might have been?
The quiet here was so profound it was disconcerting. Not a single squeaky board or rustle of any sort. When she had first moved to Aleford from Manhattan after her marriage, she had found it hard to get used to the lack of noise, or rather different noise—the bullfrogs and crickets changing with the seasons and constants, like the Fitchburg line train whistle. Cars passed by the front of the parsonage, but any after eight o’clock were an aberration.
She went down a floor. The florist had been hard at work. Each guestroom had a Winston’s signature arrangement: tight, perfect blooms in simple crystal vases, some lined with glossy banana leaves. The colors of each room were echoed in those of the roses, orchids, parrot tulips, hydrangea, and more. Every door had been labeled with the occupant’s name—more calligraphy that she suspected was Ian’s handiwork. The cards were suspended on white ribbons attached to those very handy removable 3M hooks. Next to each bed was a carafe of water and a glass, a silver biscuit box, selection of books, and small flashlight. She opened one closet to find extra pillows, blankets, and a cashmere throw, padded and wooden hangers. A luggage rack. She assumed all would be the same. Each bathroom contained a spa tub and separate rain forest shower. A thick terry cloth robe with ROWAN HOUSE in gold script on the breast pocket hung on the back of the door. A basket mounded with high-end Molton Brown products—Ian again?—was placed on each double sink counter.
There was one other notable detail in each room. All had the Heaven or Hell Playbill carefully placed in the center of the bed. And the message was . . . ?
She took the small pad she had tucked in her apron pocket and made a quick sketch, indicating who was staying in each room before heading for the landing at the top of the grand staircase. Here Winston’s had outdone themselves with the kind of arrangement she associated with the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Boston MFA—a green bronzed urn with white cherry blossoms, the branches a backdrop for masses of white amaryllis and large white tulips edged with pale green. About to head down to the ground floor—she didn’t dare cross over to Max’s quarters—Faith took a second look at the arrangement and paused. She’d learned enough from Pix to recognize the small white flowers encircling the rim of the urn. Black hellebore—the color referred to the roots. Toxic and often the cause of accidental death when used as a purgative. She looked at the arrangement more closely. There were sprays of white foxglove with black flecks. Foxglove—digitalis—another toxin. As she took some shots with her phone, she wondered what instructions Rowan House had given the florist. Were all the arrangements not in the rooms going to be the same? Beautiful but deadly?
She moved through the downstairs rooms rapidly to check out the summer parlor and noted as she went that all the flowers continued the subtle theme.
Switching on the lights as she entered the room, she was glad to see they had taken her advice and amped up the wattage. It was cloudy out and the room looked warm and inviting. It would glow even more at night. Dozens of votives had been placed on the tables, which were covered with black damask cloths shot with silver threads.
The casket, no longer on the andirons, had been raised up to serving height and Faith went over to see what had been done. The same black cloth was covering the kind of support on wheels used to transport a casket into a service. The wheels were locked in place, but looking at it gave her a chill. She dropped the cloth. The casket had a runner of similar fabric just covering its surface. From a distance it looked like a sideboard, although the handles were noticeable from the front. They were brass and could be mistaken for drawer pulls.
In this room all the flowers were shades of red—roses, carnations, ilex, amaryllis, tulips. She went to look at the large silver vase in a niche next to the window seat. It was filled with the most perfect roses she had ever seen. Nothing else. She stepped back and was startled by a voice almost at her side.
“The variety is called Black Magic. We’ve been having fun with the flora and hope to with the fauna as well. What do you think?” Max Dane looked well rested, his rust-colored hair brushed back. The word that sprang to Faith’s mind was vulpine—as if he were on a hunt. Which he was.
She wasn’t sure what she thought about the decorations or Max Dane. Was he the victim—or the perpetrator? She let her breath out. She’d barely realized she was holding it. “I think . . . I think you’ve done an amazing job.”
“I thought
you would. Now let’s have a party.”
“Mom! First of all I’m not a twelve-year-old—or sixteen and going to give a wild party, not that I did,” Samantha added hastily. “And second you’re only going to Loon, not the Alps.”
“I know, I know. Habit, I guess. Good-bye, darling. We’ll see you Sunday night. Probably not late. I’m picking Dad up at work now and we’re going early to get everything ready for Tom and the kids.”
“You mean you are. Dad will hit the slopes the moment the car stops.” Samantha gave her mother a hug and gently pushed her toward the door. Pix had been leaving for more than twenty minutes.
“Now why is that U-Haul pulling into our driveway?” Pix said. “They must have the wrong address.”
Samantha went over to look out the window with her mother. “Oh shit,” she said.
“Language,” Pix said automatically. But when the person got closer, she added her own version. “Oh dear.”
It was Caleb.
He came to the back door and knocked. Samantha looked at her mother. Pix said, “Answer it. I’ll wait to leave if you want.”
“I want,” said Samantha grimly, opening the door just enough to speak to her ex. “What are you doing here, Caleb?”
“The couch was yours, also the coffee table, plus there were a lot of boxes once other stuff was packed. I thought I’d bring it up instead of hiring someone.”
Samantha felt her mother poke her in the back. “Well, you’d better come in and then I’ll unload it with you. I have to be at work soon.” She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to tell him about her job. But he just nodded and didn’t ask her where.
“Would you like something warm to drink?” Pix offered. “It must have been a long drive. Coffee? Or soup, and I can make you a sandwich?”
The Body in the Casket Page 16