The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  Samantha glared at her mother. “I doubt he’ll have time,” she said just as Caleb answered, “Soup and a sandwich would be nice. Thank you, Mrs. Miller.”

  Pix went into the pantry to check her stock of Campbell’s and Caleb leaned close to Samantha. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. It was a big mistake. My mistake. I miss you and I want us to be together again.”

  Moving away from him and sitting at the kitchen table, Samantha said, “What happened? Did you get dumped, too?”

  He sat down, and she could tell from his expression that she had guessed right. “We decided to take some time apart and I realized how much I missed you. We were together for so long, Samantha! You’re my best friend besides being the woman I love.”

  Pix came out holding a can. “Cream of Mushroom okay? And a ham and cheese sandwich?”

  “Sure. Thank you. I didn’t want to take time to stop for lunch.”

  “Best friends don’t do what you did to me,” Samantha said. “And lovers don’t cheat on each other.”

  “It was just Julie. Never anyone else. I don’t know what I was thinking!”

  Samantha saw her mother looking over her shoulder at them. Her mother had always liked Caleb. “Okay, great of you to bring everything. Maybe we can stay in touch. I’ll think about it.”

  Caleb grabbed Samantha’s hand. She pulled it away, looking straight into his face. “Just tell me the truth. How long did it go on—when did it all start?”

  “Not long. Just after I hired her.” His face was the picture of relief.

  Samantha leaped to her feet. “You hired her almost two years ago! You’re telling me this has been going on since then?”

  “It wasn’t a thing the whole time,” Caleb mumbled.

  “‘A thing’? Is that what it’s called? Mom, turn the soup off. No soup for him!” She enjoyed using the Seinfeld expression. “Help me unload the truck so this rat can get out of here and my life as soon as possible!”

  Unloading went swiftly; Caleb seemed as eager to leave as they were to get rid of him. As the truck backed out, Pix urged, “See if you can get the time off and come ski with us.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really. This was exactly what I needed.” She decided to tell her mother exactly what had happened. “I saw them together near the apartment in a coffee shop—Caleb’s and my favorite—the same day right after I got axed from my job. They were totally into each other. They probably, well, you know, ‘hung out’ in the apartment, too. All Caleb’s workmates must have known. I felt like a fool. I don’t now. Well, maybe a little. How could I not have known, when it was going on so long?”

  Pix hugged her daughter. “I believe those very words have been said by many others.”

  “So suck it up, right?”

  “Right.”

  The curtain was rising. Faith, in her chef’s clothes, stood behind the sumptuous spread: the caviar, foie gras, cherrystones, and oysters requested. The aromas from the warm dishes were making her a bit hungry herself. Max had come to check it out and eaten one of the oven-baked potato wedges. He gave her a thumbs-up but declined a plate with the baby lamb chops, or salmon, creamed spinach, and other food. “I’ll wait.”

  The plan was that Ian would greet each new arrival, escort him or her to the appointed guestroom, and then after they had freshened up, he’d walk them into the summer parlor. He and Max had some sort of small pager devices with which they were communicating.

  She’d made a quick call earlier to check in with Tom, who had made good time and was already at the resort. They were all heading out for some night skiing. Faith was extremely happy to be where she was, especially after she’d put away the few things she’d brought. The housekeeper’s suite was even more luxurious than she had recalled. If Mrs. Danvers had had such digs she might not have preyed on the second Mrs. de Winter.

  Max was wearing a dark chestnut smoking jacket with an open-necked cream silk shirt, black trousers, and the kind of velvet slippers with gold embroidered crests favored by English aristocrats. He wasn’t drinking. At least not yet. Faith wondered whether this was Ian’s doing or Max’s own inclination to stay sharp. He grinned at her after glancing at his pager. “The first doth approach,” and went back to stand by the arch at the other end of the room.

  “Max, darling! Happy birthday!” The woman Faith recognized as Eve Anderson made an entrance worthy of a full house, her smile sweeping across the parlor, her eyes taking in everything. She was wearing a white strapless tightly fitted gown, her pale blond hair—champagne blond, Faith recalled the shade was called—pulled back into a sleek chignon. Her makeup was flawless, and the only jewelry she wore were long dangling Elsa Peretti gold mesh earrings.

  “You look as gorgeous as ever, Eve,” Max said, kissing her cheek as she leaned in to deliver two air pecks. “You could pass for fifty any day.”

  “Naughty, naughty as ever, I am fifty as you well know, and thirty is what I am passing for.” She paused briefly and said, “Surely I am not the only guest.” Her face looked jubilant, a cat with a full bowl of cream. If she thought she was the only guest, could that mean Eve had sent the casket? It would make her job easy—and as for being fifty, Faith knew the woman was over sixty, but she certainly was doing her best to keep the depredations of age at bay.

  “There will be a few other familiar faces. Now have a drink and something to eat.” Max gestured toward the end of the room. Eve teetered over to the buffet on her Louboutins, watched closely by her host and Faith herself. If Eve recognized the coffin as such, however, she gave no indication. Of course, she was an actor.

  “Give me a vodka tonic. Better make it a double,” she said. With Ian manning the front door, Faith was tending bar tonight. Dressed butler-like in a dark suit, he was ushering in two more arrivals.

  “Maxie, Maxie, Maxie,” the man said. “I ran into Betty in the airport and it seemed simpler to take one car.” He put one arm around her and the other around his host. “Just like old times, eh? Happy birthday!”

  If Max was annoyed that his plan to have each guest arrive alone was spoiled, he didn’t show it. “Good to see you, Phil—and Betty. Don’t tell me you two kids are back together.”

  Betty Sinclair shrugged off Phil’s arm. “Not a chance. Now that I’m here I intend to come as I am at this shindig of yours and not be cast, just in case you were thinking of a role for me.” Her voice was surprisingly deep for a woman, but not unpleasant. Very Bacall.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. ‘As you are’ has always been fine with me.” Faith noted the fondness in his tone, as Betty’s had been despite the words. Had there been something between the two?

  Max was gently pushing them in her direction. “Drink up, drink up! Nobody’s driving—or performing—tonight.”

  “Oh, I think everyone’s performing,” Betty said, “but I am thirsty, and that young woman looks like she knows how to make a Manhattan.”

  Faith did, of course, and the next arrival walked slowly into the room as she was straining the rye, sweet vermouth, and bitters into a cocktail glass.

  Neither Philip Baker nor Betty Sinclair had seemed to note what the serving table was. Phil, who sported a deep tan as well as a potbelly, was going for the food. He was dressed casually—V-necked melon-colored sweater, tan pants, and loafers without socks. The look a much younger man would have pulled off better, or a much older one living in Miami. Faith knew he was in his midfifties. He had kept his hair, or had plugs. Betty was a few years older. She was wearing a designer—Carolina Herrera?—black cocktail suit and major gold jewelry. Faith remembered her address was the Upper East Side in New York, and the uniform proved it. She had kept her figure, and her hair, though streaked with gray, was cut short and chic. Neither was wearing a wedding band.

  They had both greeted Eve Anderson without much enthusiasm, but when they turned to see who had arrived there was no mistaking the delight on their faces. He seemed to be of two minds about whether he wanted to enter, and Ian, behind him, was
firmly keeping him on track.

  “Adrian!” Betty called out. “I never dreamed you would be here. Oh, this is wonderful!” She moved swiftly back across the room, put her arms around him, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. Phil followed, his hand out. “Ditto from me, chum. Heard you’d gone back across the pond, but, well—it’s been too long.”

  Eve Anderson had come for a refill and Faith heard her mutter, “Not long enough.”

  She hadn’t heard him speak, but Faith could tell Adrian St. John was British from his Savile Row suit with a Turnbull & Asser shirt peeking out to his bespoke James Taylor & Son brogues. He was a small, slight man. The overall effect was that of a between-the-wars-pen-and-ink drawing of a gentleman from Punch. She couldn’t hear what the group was saying, but the subject was making them laugh, including Max. A real laugh. A kind of laugh she had never heard from him. She was tempted to eliminate these three because of it. There seemed to be genuine affection among them—and more to the point: for Max Dane.

  Ian had been in and out, barely pausing between guests, but now he walked into the center of the room. “Please don’t wait for the others but help yourselves to food and drink. If there is something you require that you don’t see, speak to Mrs. Fairchild or myself.”

  “What have we here? Jeeves?” Phil quipped.

  Max stopped laughing. “Ian’s right. Chow down. It could be a while before everybody gets here.”

  But the next to come followed rapidly one upon one another. Alexis Reed, or Alexis Abbot, as she was now known, also sported a California tan, but Faith was sure it had been acquired with much SPF protection, or not by lying in the sun at all. Alexis’s skin was flawless. All of her was. In Victorian times, she would have been known as a “pocket Venus.” Perfectly proportioned. Only her eyes—soft gray pools with dark lashes—were oversize. Her brunette hair, artfully tangled, brushed her shoulders, which were bare above a turquoise strapless ballerina-skirted dress. Unlike the other women, she was wearing flats, satin with silver filigree buckles. Alexis was greeted much less effusively than Ian, even somewhat offhand. Faith remembered that she was the ingénue, much younger than the rest of the cast and crew at the time Heaven or Hell was produced. She had no history with them prior to it and definitely not afterward.

  Alexis drifted toward the buffet and asked Faith for some tonic water, not too cold, with a twist of lime. She didn’t notice the casket, or if she did, showed no indication. Faith was beginning to think having everyone file in one by one to note reactions was going to be a flop. Kind of like Heaven or Hell.

  There was a pleasant buzz of conversation, although still no one was eating much, when Tony Ames, the choreographer, literally danced into the room. He swept Betty Sinclair up into his arms and waltzed her around a few steps. Next to Alexis, Tony was the youngest in the group and he looked it. He’d maintained his dancer’s figure and he had a boyish face—a shorter version of Tommy Tune.

  “Get some champagne, Tony—you too, Adrian. You both liked it in the old days,” Max said. “It’s a celebration.”

  “I know,” Tony said, “and I intend to do just that.”

  Max had ordered Taittinger, among some others—“Perrier-Jouët, the ladies like the bottles”—and Faith poured two flutes, holding them out toward the men as they came toward her. She’d found a few mentions of Tony Ames among shows since Heaven or Hell, but Adrian St. John seemed to have returned to London and disappeared. Not a single writing credit of any sort.

  Despite Max’s urgings, no one was eating yet. The guests remained clustered around him. Curious to see who would walk into the room next.

  It was more of a stagger than a walk. “Hi, cuz! Happy Birthday!” Faith hadn’t seen a photo of Charles Frost, but he was the only relative, so the man who appeared to have slept in his clothes, or had a particularly rough flight, must be he. She immediately poured a tall glass of water to have at the ready.

  “Chip, good to see you. Been a while,” Max said. He did not appear upset at his relative’s obvious inebriation.

  “You think? Well, water under the bridge. Say, I know you!” He waggled a finger at Eve Anderson. “You were the lead, but there was a hot little number that should have had it. Tried to get off with her, but . . .”

  Max took his cousin’s arm and firmly walked him down to the buffet. “You must meet Mrs. Fairchild, Chip, who will be cooking all sorts of delicious things for us this weekend.” He put the glass of water in Chip’s hand and told Faith in a low voice, “Try to get some food in him. He’s not that far gone and I don’t want him any further.”

  Since Chip was eyeing the chops and other dishes with obvious relish, Faith had no trouble convincing him to take a loaded plate to the small table set nearest the buffet. She wanted to keep an eye on him lest he fall facedown in his soup.

  Once he was settled she did a quick count: Eve Anderson, Phil Baker, Betty Sinclair, Alexis Reed, Adrian St. John, Tony Ames, and Chip—seven in all. Two to go: James Nelson and Travis Trent, the original director and the male lead. She didn’t think it was her imagination, but people seemed to be getting edgy. Several drifted down to the buffet and filled plates, but no one seemed in a party mood except Max himself, who was looking like a benevolent uncle in a roomful of favorite nieces and nephews.

  Travis Trent strode into the room well ahead of Ian, taking command of the boards. “The gang’s all here I see!” Faith thought he might break into song. He looked quite natty in a three-piece suit with a deep maroon bow tie. Not a clip-on.

  “Glad you could make it,” Max said, shaking his hand. The others greeted him as well, although Faith noticed that Eve lacked any warmth whatsoever, as had been true for all the arrivals. Was she disappointed not to be the sole guest? She’d made several trips to the buffet, but not for food, and Faith was giving her a weaker drink with each request, all as rude a command as the first had been.

  “Come on, everybody, this is a party! Mine! A little merriment, please. Who knows when James will show up, or if,” Max said.

  “James Nelson?” Betty Sinclair asked, adding, “I would like to see him. You should have let him continue as director, Max. He was doing a fine job.”

  “As my cousin here said, ‘water under the bridge’ or ‘over the dam,’ whatever. I did what I thought best, Betty dear.”

  “Yeah,” Eve said. “Max was right. Jimmy was a disaster. And what do you know about it all, anyway, Betty?”

  “More than you, sweetie,” Betty almost purred. “Jim wanted Alexis to take your place. We all knew it.”

  “Now, now, claws in,” Phil interrupted. “It’s Max’s birthday and time we really got this party started. Where’s the piano?”

  Would Max move the piano from the foyer in here? Faith wondered. It would certainly go far to help lift everyone’s spirits. Phil seemed ready to assume the role of emcee. And then all eyes turned toward the entrance to the room. Preceding Ian by several steps was one of the handsomest men Faith had ever seen. Surely James Nelson, the last guest. She hadn’t been able to find a photo of him, and this was a face, plus all the rest, you wouldn’t forget.

  “James!” Max called out gleefully. “You made it off that island!”

  “Happy birthday, Max. What’s with the coffin?” He pointed to it.

  “You tell me.”

  So much for scrutiny, Faith thought. From the babble of talk that erupted, everyone had noticed the unique serving station and no one had wanted to be the person to point to the emperor’s new clothes.

  “I thought it was one of your little jokes,” Travis said loudly. “Bad one, as usual.”

  “Well, it seemed to be part of the decor. Look at all the red and black,” Alexis said, gracefully flicking the cloth at the table where she had been sitting most of the night.

  Adrian began to recite—beautifully, Faith noted, as she recognized lines from Wordsworth’s “Ode: Intimations of Immortality.”

  “There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

&nb
sp; The earth, and every common sight,

  To me did seem

  Appareled in celestial light,

  The glory and the freshness of a dream.

  It is not now as it hath been of yore;—

  Turn wheresoe’er I may,

  By night or day,

  The things which I have seen I now can see no more.”

  “Very nice, Adrian, but even Max can’t believe he is immortal,” Betty said, her husky voice making the comment more of a joke than a slight.

  “Right, as you usually are, but Adrian has come closer than you think,” Max said abruptly. “Let’s let the play unfold, and if you all put your thinking caps on, you’ll figure it out before Sunday draws to a close and the curtain, as it were, comes down.”

  His words cast a pall over the room. Betty Sinclair stood up. “I don’t like this,” she said. “Phil, let’s get out of here. Max, have your butler person call us a cab. If we can’t get a plane out, we can take the train. You know I don’t like games.”

  Max came over to her. “Please forgive my penchant for drama. I got carried away by Adrian’s performance. You’re here for a simple weekend of fun and relaxation to mark a milestone birthday. After midnight tonight I will officially be an old coot and allowed any eccentricities. Stay. It won’t be the same without you. Or,” he added hastily, “Phil.”

  Betty Sinclair had gone quite pale, Faith observed. “We can leave tomorrow if you still want to, babe,” Phil said.

  “Don’t call me ‘babe,’” she snapped. Some of the color was returning to her face. “All right. I’ll decide tomorrow.”

  Max looked pleased. “Now, Travis had the right idea. It would be a bit difficult to move my piano in here. Let’s all head to the foyer. You may have noted there is plenty of room there. We can roll up the rugs and dance. Ian, will you show everyone the way? I want to have a word with Mrs. Fairchild, who will transport all her delectable food. And drink, my pretties—drink up!”

  Chip Frost was the first to follow Max’s instructions and the others soon followed. An odd sort of Pied Piper, but Faith was quite sure what impelled them was a desire to leave this particular room. As she watched she wondered whether Betty’s wish to leave now meant Faith could eliminate her. Max was still very much alive, and unless she stabbed him on her way out, she couldn’t be the would-be killer. But, of course, she was staying . . . a bluff?