The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  Max came over to her. “You may have noticed the casket is on wheels. I’ll send Ian back for it and you can set up under the big window next to the front door.”

  “They haven’t been eating much, but I’ll replenish things and it will all look the way it did at the start of the party,” Faith said.

  Max nodded. “Good. How do you think it’s going?”

  “You mean, did I notice anyone specifically looking daggers at you, aside from everyone just now?”

  “I like your sense of humor,” Max said. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “Not at you, but a few at each other. I don’t think Eve Anderson likes anyone here, for example.”

  “Easy one. Now I must attend to my guests. Keep up the good work.”

  Faith quickly reset the buffet, and by the time Ian returned it was ready to roll, literally. He’d brought a bar cart for the drinks.

  “The food has been perfect. My compliments to the chef.” Ian was in a jollier mood than Faith had ever previously noted. She hadn’t poured a drink for Max all night. Had Ian been nipping at the scotch instead during his trips to and from the front door?

  In the foyer, which was glowing like a stage set for a PBS drama—the golden oak paneling and the large floral arrangements illuminated—Phil Baker had indeed taken command and was tickling the ivories with classic show tunes. Tony Ames grabbed Betty Sinclair and the two started to dance expertly. Not to be outdone, Eve went over to James Nelson, but he shook his head and walked toward the buffet.

  “Hi,” he said. “What do you have for beers?”

  “You might like a Peak IPA, the brewery is in Portland, Maine.” Was this why Max or Ian had included it in the selection? “I also have pretty much everything from Heineken to Guinness, Budweiser, too.”

  “The Peak will be fine, thank you.” He smiled and moved away toward the others.

  The music definitely lightened the mood. People began to sing along and toes were tapping. As Phil ended a Cole Porter medley and was about to start something else, Travis sat down next to him. “Shove over and let a pro do this. I’m a lounge lizard now, you know. Don’t mind singing for my supper tonight.”

  Faith heard Max say, “Trav, you don’t have to. Sit back and enjoy.”

  Trent flashed a smile. “I want to, boss.” As soon as he started playing the first notes, Faith recognized the famous song from the musical, as everyone else must. He began to sing the lyrics in a rich tenor that had not diminished with age. Alexis stood behind him and added her soprano. It was a magical moment that wasn’t spoiled even when Eve pushed in, saying, “Hey, that’s our song, Travis,” and started to sing. She toned down her Ethel Merman range and complemented their performance. There wasn’t another sound in the room until loud applause broke out after all the verses had been sung.

  “Thank you,” Betty called out. She had tears in her eyes. “It has always been my favorite.”

  Ian was whispering in Max’s ear. They were close enough to Faith for her to hear him say, “There’s a car at the gate.”

  “No one else is expected,” Max said, “but we’d better see what’s going on. Nothing on the camera?”

  “Doesn’t work well in the cold,” Ian said.

  “Do you want me to walk down the drive and see who it is?” Faith offered. Max was looking anxious. Some sort of delivery, she figured. One of the guests had sent something to arrive after he or she did? Flowers? A funeral wreath?

  “No. Too cold, too dark, too far anyway. Let them in, Ian, and stay by the door.”

  Travis was playing other tunes from Heaven or Hell and the party had moved into high hilarity. Pairs were dancing and Faith noticed Adrian St. John singing along. What were they all thinking? And aside from Travis, who had made it clear what he had been doing, at least lately, what had they all been up to since the show closed? She knew about Eve, Alexis, and Tony in part; but she was sure each wasn’t the whole story.

  A loud banging noise put a sudden stop to the music. Rowan House’s front door had a heavy brass lion’s head knocker and someone was using it.

  “Who else is coming?” Adrian asked.

  “I guess we’ll just have to see,” Max answered, opening the door wide. A young woman dressed for the bitter temperature stepped in, pulled her wool hat off, shook out her long dark hair, and addressed him.

  “Hello, Daddy.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Max said gently. “I’m not your father. You must be Angela. I heard about your mother. My condolences.”

  “But your name has been on the checks. I don’t understand why . . .” The girl sounded bewildered and at a loss for words. “When Mom got worse, she gave me power of attorney. I saw your signature on the checks.”

  The room was quiet. Max glanced at his guests. Tony Ames broke the silence. “Well, guys and gals, I for one am for beddy bye.” Travis Trent played a bar of “Goodnight, Ladies,” and in what seemed like seconds the room had emptied, save for Max, Angela, Ian, and Faith.

  Faith put it together right away. Angela was the late Bella Martelli’s daughter and had received her mother, the show’s costume designer’s invitation, but for some reason decided to come unannounced. She believed Max was her father and wanted to confront him—reason enough.

  Max rested his hand on the girl’s arm, as if to keep her from taking off. “Ian,” he said, “you’ve had a long day, so you should hit the hay, too.” It wasn’t a request. “Mrs. Fairchild, I’m sure Angela must be hungry. We’ll be in the library.” This was one.

  Faith had hoped they would stay in the foyer. There was a large comfortable couch in front of the fire. That would have given her the opportunity to hear what they said as she finished cleaning up, but it was clear Max wanted privacy.

  She addressed Angela, who was still wearing her coat and carrying a backpack. “Why don’t I take your things? I’ll make sure the guest room upstairs is ready and will put them there.”

  “Well . . .” Angela said.

  “You’re not going anywhere tonight,” Max said. “Give Mrs. Fairchild your stuff and we can talk for as long or short as you want while you have something to eat.”

  “All right.” She smiled. It lit up her whole face, a beautiful one. Beautiful, yes, but she did not resemble Max Dane. Not a redhead, and her face was more Mediterranean than New England. But then Dane’s father had been Italian, like Angela’s mother. Max had been quite definite though. He and Angela were not related.

  Although Ian and Max had made a point of not catering to the guests’ food preferences or allergies, Faith had decided to ignore it, mentioning ingredients to people at the buffet. She would do so now, too. So many young people were vegetarian or vegan. “Are there any foods you might have a problem with or just don’t care for? We had a buffet dinner tonight, so there’s quite a variety of dishes. I can make up a plate and warm some of the soup as well.”

  “I eat everything. Oh, except veal—no baby calves—or foie gras.”

  “That’s fine, then,” Max said. “Nix the foie gras, Faith, and give her some of the salmon and I’m sure she likes creamed spinach. Plenty of those potatoes, too. What do you want to drink?” Before she could answer for herself, he did. “She looks cold, Faith. Make both of us hot toddies, if you will.”

  Angela didn’t say anything, so Faith assumed it was fine with her, but she’d offer some other choices when she brought the food. The girl might want hot cocoa, not hot whiskey.

  First Faith took Angela’s coat and surprisingly heavy backpack up to the room. Passing the other guest room doors, she didn’t hear anything. The doors were thick, however. As she reached the end of the hall, one of them opened and Eve Anderson slipped out—her back to Faith—hurried down the hall past several rooms and entered another. Her own Faith remembered. She remembered who was in the one she’d left, too. Phil Baker.

  Somehow Faith did not envision them having a pillow fight or exchanging midnight confidences. In fact, she’d notic
ed earlier that they had not interacted at all beyond a halfhearted initial greeting.

  In the unused guest room, Faith was tempted to peek in the girl’s pack but instead took a quick look around to make sure the bath was stocked with towels and sundries and that the closet had extra blankets and pillows. This would have been the room allotted to Angela’s mother—or Jack Gold. There weren’t any flowers, items like the carafe of water next to the bed or a stack of suggested reading. There also wasn’t a copy of the musical’s Playbill prominently displayed. Faith would bring the water and some flowers later.

  From the weight of the backpack, Angela must be carrying her own books. And there was no need for the sad reminder the Playbill would be. How old was she? Faith wondered. The show closed twenty years ago. Angela looked about that age. She’d mentioned power of attorney. Didn’t you have to be twenty-one for that?

  However old she was, Angela had discovered that her mother was receiving checks signed by Max. If he wasn’t her father and the checks weren’t child support, what were they?

  It didn’t take long to assemble a tray with the food and drinks. Faith tapped on the library door, Max opened it and held it wide as Faith walked into the room. He didn’t seem upset about anything—just the opposite—nor did Angela.

  Under her coat, the young woman was wearing jeans and a deep turquoise wool pullover. Her earrings were oversize turquoise studs. A gold wedding band hung from a simple gold chain around her neck. She was clutching it like a talisman, dropping her hand when she saw Faith place the tray on a small table that Max had obviously just cleared. “Thank you so much. This looks delicious. I haven’t had much to eat today.”

  If anything, Faith thought, and probably not much other days as well. Angela was model thin. Not a healthy look. Grief? Or was something else going on?

  “Would you like anything else to drink besides the toddy?” Faith asked. Angela answered, “I’d love a Coke if you have one.”

  Max interjected, “There’s some here in the bar, so we’re all set. I’ll leave the tray in the kitchen later.”

  Faith got the message, but said, “I’ll be there for a while if you do need something.”

  He nodded and Angela thanked her again. She was already spooning up the chowder. A good sign.

  Faith closed the door. They were resuming their conversation, but the only word she caught was “grandmother.” Whose?

  She headed to the foyer where there were still glasses, dishes, and other detritus to clear up. The first thing she noticed was that the casket cum serving table was gone. Ian? It wasn’t in the kitchen or hallway she’d come from after leaving the library, and it certainly wasn’t in that room. She walked back to the summer parlor, which was in darkness. When she turned on the lights she noted that the tables and chairs were all in place, but the casket was not. A quick search of the other rooms on the first floor didn’t turn it up either. Having served its shock—and practical—value, had Max instructed Ian to roll it out of sight, placing it in the basement or one of the outside buildings?

  Back in the kitchen she made herself a toddy too with plenty of lemon and honey but just a splash of rum. She needed to stay alert.

  The house was quiet aside from the hum of the appliances, including the dishwasher with its last load. She sat down at the counter to wait, sipping her drink appreciatively. For a moment she allowed her thoughts to drift to her family, sound asleep she was sure after a night of skiing.

  She got up and looked out the window. There was a light on in Ian’s quarters. The yard was covered with a scant few inches of snow. Enough for a New England calendar look for the guests, but not too much to be a problem. She could tell it was very cold. The snow was a sheet of shining ice where the beam of light hit.

  The dishwasher cycle ended and she unloaded it. She imagined the morning would mean a steady stream of breakfasters, none she suspected early risers. She’d be getting up well before the guests to bake the muffins and scones. Now, before she went to bed she crept quietly up the back stairs to the second floor and stood in the middle of the hallway. No more musical room switches so far as she could tell. It was as quiet as a tomb.

  On a frigid night like this, Samantha thought she should either move closer to her job or apply at a Starbucks nearer to Aleford. The town did not have one—or a Dunkin’ Donuts, no chain whatsoever except the Shop’n Save, which was one of three locations owned by a family, not a corporation. The lack of fast food and recognizable logos was a point of pride for the town, and once the Minuteman Café started serving exotic beverages like lattes to go, the few complaints about having to drive to Lexington or Waltham for such brews disappeared.

  Despite the onset of the cold weather, Samantha was enjoying her commute—the feeling the distance gave her. Freedom to leave her comfy, albeit cloistered, nest and head out into the wider world. It was freezing tonight, though. She’d have to search through the Miller closets for warmer boots. It must be even worse up at Loon, but she knew both her parents would be warming up with night skiing. The condo was right by the slopes. Maybe she could get up there for a day or two. She certainly hadn’t done much skiing when she lived in Brooklyn.

  Was Zach a skier? She could ask him herself in a few minutes. Harvard Square was the next stop and they were meeting at Bartley’s. Zach had texted earlier to see when she was free for the sweet potato fries challenge, suggesting a late dinner. Bartley’s was open until nine. The official name was Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage, but Samantha had never heard anyone use it. It was simply “Bartley’s.”

  He was waiting just inside the door and came out to greet her. “I’ve been watching for you and I swear I saw a guy totally encased in ice. Man, it is ridiculously cold!”

  It seemed only natural to give him a hug and once again Samantha wondered what shampoo he used. Good old-fashioned Ivory Soap?

  The aromas inside the tiny restaurant were lovely, too. More than that—intoxicating. The burgers, of course, but also onions, peppers, and other grill items. She was starving within seconds. It was packed as usual. Zach spied a table by the back wall and they grabbed it.

  “Too cold for frappes, want some coffee? Or working where you do are you off it? I have a friend who had a summer job at Baskin-Robbins and has never been able to eat ice cream since.”

  “No! Coffee is my life now and I love it even more than before. No sugar, and milk, not cream, please,” she said.

  A server arrived, and besides the coffees, they also ordered the same burgers and fries as they had at Christopher’s. “I feel like a traitor,” Samantha said. “I’ve always been a Bartley’s fan. Maybe when I taste my burger tonight I’ll realize I was wrong about which was better.”

  “Not a chance, but you can assuage your conscience by preferring the fries.”

  It was nice to be out but not on a date, Samantha thought. No jumping from the frying pan into the fire for her. How could she have been so wrong about Caleb? She was off men. Excluding Zach. He was a guy, yes, but just a friend. Nothing complicated. She realized he was telling her something.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  He looked amused. “Where were you? From your face, it was a planet far, far away. Anyway, you don’t need to tell me. I was filling you in on what I’d found out about Austin Stebbins’s ‘date.’ I’ll start over. Her name is Mary Cabot Pritchett and she’s lived at the Mount Vernon Street address for seventy-nine years, which is also her age. It’s safe to assume the house is a family one. Mrs. Cabot Pritchett is widowed, childless, and has no siblings—nor occupation. She’s in a bunch of clubs—I have a list if you want to see them—and there’s a summer address: Seal Cove on Mount Desert Island. The late Mr. Pritchett had been a partner in the law firm of Pritchett and Howell, founded in 1884.”

  “I’m impressed,” Samantha said. “How about Stebbins. Anything more on him? Any dirt? A secret past?”

  “Sorry, sweetheart, he seems to be exactly who he says he is. Boston bred, widower, California pro
perty developer with a more than adequate income. That doesn’t mean he isn’t a fortune hunter. Rich people always like to get richer. And the lady he’s playing footsy, or handsy, with is definitely rich.”

  “But Granny isn’t. She’s not poor, but nothing like this Mary person. Why is he playing up to her?” Samantha said.

  “Maybe the guy simply likes being with Ursula. I do.” Seeing the disappointed look on her face, Zach added, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep digging. You could get lucky and he’ll turn out to be an embezzler.”

  After this, the tone of their conversation shifted. They bantered back and forth, drank some more coffee, and when the food was in view, Zach insisted she shut her eyes again and fed her a fry.

  I could get used to this kind of fun, Samantha thought as she concentrated on the sweet crisp morsel—and the feel of Zach’s fingers when he fed her another “just to be sure.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Phew! They really are better.”

  “Well, that’s good news. Now eat your burger, and if you don’t have to be up early, we can go catch a movie in Davis Square.”

  “I’d love to,” Samantha said. The burger—very close to perfection—and fries were soon gone. “Dessert later? After the movie? I’m pretty full now.”

  “Great,” Zach said, motioning for the check. He was smiling. He really does have a nice smile, Samantha thought. And good taste in food. She realized she was smiling, too, and even the thought of stepping out into the cold to walk down Mass. Ave. to the T didn’t wipe it from her face.

  Samantha’s phone rang as they were walking toward the movie theater. From the ringtone, she knew it was her mother and picked up. “Hi, Mom, having fun?”

  “I’ve been checking the weather,” Pix said, “and it’s going down to the single digits in Aleford tonight. You need to crank up the heat and let the faucets drip.”