The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  “I haven’t heard anything about the weather, but don’t worry. I’ll make sure the pipes don’t freeze.” The Millers’ pipes had frozen during a very deep freeze years ago, and ever since Pix was religious about drips.

  “Why don’t you do it now while you’re thinking about it?”

  “I’m not home, but I will be in a few hours.”

  “It’s kind of late, isn’t it?” Pix said.

  “Not that late, Mom.” Samantha looked at Zach and rolled her eyes. Her mother wasn’t usually this protective. Something about being in another state? She didn’t say she was with Zach. Hadn’t said anything about their growing friendship except for a comment that she’d seen him on the T that first time. She kind of wanted to keep him to herself, she realized.

  “And I’ll call Granny in the morning. I know the student is away this weekend. If she’d wanted someone with her tonight she would have called me or Dora.”

  “Is Mr. Stebbins still staying there?”

  “I don’t know. Look, do you want me to go by now? I can be there in about half an hour.”

  There was a longish pause. “I’m sure everything is fine and I’ll call her in the morning as well. Maybe you can go by before work.”

  “I planned on it. Love you, Mom. Bye.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Samantha put her phone in her purse and said, “My mother tends to worry when she’s not close at hand for her mother.”

  “Or you,” Zach said and pulled her arm through his. “Who’s Dora? I thought I knew everybody in Aleford.”

  “You’d know her if you needed TLC. Dora McNeill is the first call made for private duty nursing in Aleford. Anyway, she nursed my grandmother through pneumonia a while back and considers herself a kind of niece now—always on call for Granny.”

  “I like that. Aleford really is a special community.”

  “I suppose it is,” Samantha said. For her it was simply home. “Now hurry up! I like to watch the previews.”

  “Me too. All those films I then don’t have to go see.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed, noticing again how well their strides matched as they set off for the theater.

  It had been one of those uneasy-sleep nights. Faith kept waking up yet didn’t hear any noises when she did. She’d turn the pillow—comfy down—to the cool side and slip back to sleep only to repeat the process in what seemed like a blink of the eye. At five thirty she gave in, took a shower, and prepared to greet the new day. Aside from the surprise guest, last night had gone smoothly. Max was still very much alive and there hadn’t been any overt tension. A gathering of old chums, he’d said, and it had been just that. Fingers crossed it stayed the same until all the chums departed.

  It was still dark out, but there was enough light for her to see the icicles hanging from the garage eaves and tree limbs bent brittle. Overnight the thin coating of ice had changed to Narnia under the White Witch. She hoped the sun would be strong enough to melt it all. And that the wind didn’t pick up, sending branches crashing down on power lines. Power outages as a way of life were another thing she’d had to get used to in New England. But, she reminded herself, Rowan House did have an ample generator. She’d be able to cook and they’d all stay warm. Feeling better, she dressed and went into the kitchen to bake, but coffee first. Much coffee.

  Adrian St. John was sitting at the counter drinking a cup of tea and reading what Faith could see was the London Times on an iPad.

  “Good morning. Still on GMT. And do forgive my dishabille.” He was wearing a dark maroon jacquard silk dressing gown, neatly tied with a tassel sash. An inch or so of navy silk pajamas peeked out below, brushing the tops of his matching velvet slippers. Nothing could have been less dishabille save top hat and tails.

  “Good morning. Let me make you a pot of tea and proper breakfast,” Faith said. “What would you like? Full English?”

  He laughed. “No, I indulge only once a year or so in the artery clogger. Normally it’s brown toast and a soft-boiled egg.”

  “I’m about to make some scones, so if you would like to wait for them with your egg, I could give you a nice fruit cup to start. And oatmeal. I’ve done Scottish oats overnight in the slow cooker.” Faith found herself transformed into Mrs. Bridges, Mrs. Hudson, and definitely Mrs. Beeton simply by proximity to Adrian.

  “Oatmeal and the fruit would be lovely and I’m sure if last night’s repast was anything to go by the scone will be delicious.”

  Faith quickly got the food together, offering brown sugar as well as raisins for the porridge. It didn’t take long to make real tea either. He’d taken a tea bag from the snacks and drinks she’d left out. That was all that was missing. Adrian was the only one who had been here—or wanted something from the tray. She’d asked Ian to mention its availability throughout the weekend when he welcomed the guests.

  While Adrian ate, Faith quickly put together two kinds of drop scones: lemon and mixed berry.

  “Are you local or did Max hire a New York caterer?” Adrian asked.

  “I’m local, but I started my business years ago in Manhattan where I grew up.”

  “It must have been quite a change to move here.”

  “An understatement,” Faith said, “but I fell in love with a New Englander and he already had a job here.” She decided not to be too specific, which always seemed to lead to clerical tangents. She wanted to seize this opportunity to chat Adrian up. Find out more about his fellow guests—and most especially him.

  “I understand everyone here was involved with one of Max Dane’s musicals.”

  “That’s right.” He eyed her speculatively. “His last as you may know. Heaven or Hell.”

  “And you wrote the book. I mean the script.”

  “Yes. You seem quite up on the production.”

  Faith checked her scones. Nearly done. “I became interested when he asked me to cater the weekend. I’ve always been a fan of musicals and wish I could have seen it. An interesting dilemma.”

  “And not unique. People have to make choices like that more frequently than you might think. Not to burn in hellfire for eternity, but to give up what one finds comfortable for something less so when it’s for love. Isn’t that what you did?”

  Somehow Adrian had turned the tables. He was now the interrogator. Faith thought back to her first months in Aleford and how much she longed for New York. She’d been quite horrible to Tom, complaining about not being able to get a proper haircut and missing what she then called the Three Bs—Balducci’s, Barneys, and Bloomingdales, all nonexistent in the Boston area at the time.

  “Well, it wasn’t quite hell, but at times I suppose it was hellish,” she admitted, putting a plate of scones with Irish butter and several kinds of jam in front of him. “What about you? After Heaven or Hell, what did you choose? A career as a writer or did you remain connected to the theater?”

  “You know perfectly well that I didn’t, dear lady. I’m sure you have looked all of us up on the Internet.”

  Faith knew she was blushing. “I was . . .”

  “Interested,” he finished for her. “I might as well tell you, since I plan to let the others know for purely self-centered reasons. Perhaps you have heard of Fiona Foster-Fordham?”

  “Of course,” she said. “She’s one of my favorite writers and the BBC series based on her books has been fantastic.”

  “Well, I am Fiona. And it’s been heaven, not hell at all.”

  Reading Fiona Foster-Fordham was a not-so-guilty pleasure along the lines of Sophie Kinsella and Helen Fielding. The books were marketed as such but emphasized the literary quality of the writing, and more than one critic had objected that the Booker Prize overlooked Ms. Foster-Fordham due to her commercial success.

  Part of the marketing was also the mystique. Like the Italian writer Elena Ferrante, Fiona F-F as she was known, insisted on anonymity.

  “Obviously I would not have been much of a success if I had written the books under my own name. The rev
erse of what Mary Anne Evans and Charlotte Brontë had to do.” He reached for another scone. “These are the best I’ve ever had and I’m not going to think calories this weekend.”

  Faith was stunned by his revelation. “When do you plan to reveal your identity?” There was no question that Adrian topped the list this weekend in terms of success. Richer even than Max. How the writer must have been laughing up his sleeve last night!

  “Tonight at dinner. After pudding, I think. After Max has blown out his candles. Now I’ve told you the truth. Mrs. Fairchild, don’t you think you should come clean with me? What are you actually doing here?”

  “Good morning. Those look good. May I?” James Nelson glanced toward Faith as his hand hovered over the scones. Almost breathless with relief at being able to avoid Adrian’s question, she said, “Please help yourself and tell me what you’d like for breakfast. The idea was to place things buffet style in the dining room, but I’m beginning to think I should take orders and then people may sit here or go there.”

  “Sitting here is fine by me. Gives me a chance to catch up with you, Adrian. What’s on offer, Mrs. Fairchild? Breakfast is my favorite meal. I’m a morning person.”

  Faith had suspected as much. It was past dawn, but it was still very early. “First of all, coffee or tea? Then there’s oatmeal, fruit, any kind of eggs—I could do an omelet and I have several kinds of quiche. French toast, waffles? The scones are warm and there are Morning Glory muffins in the oven now.”

  “Wow, I’m overwhelmed. I usually crack a few eggs and throw some bacon into a skillet. I’d love an omelet with whatever you want to put in. And coffee to start would be great.”

  The bacon meant he wasn’t a vegetarian, so Faith decided to make a three-egg omelet with Niman Ranch ham, sharp cheddar, cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, and scallions.

  “So, what have you been doing since last we met?” Adrian asked. “You left the show before I did and I haven’t heard any show biz buzz about you, so I’m assuming you opted out of Broadway—or went for smaller productions.”

  “No, you got it right. Heaven or Hell was my first and last show. In a way, I’m glad it was hell, or I might have stumbled on for years more.”

  Adrian put his cup down. He was shaking his head. “You were great. If you had stayed I know the show would have been a success—and you’d have gone on to more.”

  “But I didn’t have that choice, did I? About staying, I mean. Max saw to that. I’ve had a lot of years to think about it all and I’m pretty sure he hired me with dumping me in mind. He needed a placeholder for a while. He was winding up another show, remember.”

  “Yes—and went on to another.”

  It was hard to pay attention to what she was doing while eavesdropping and Faith didn’t want to burn James’s omelet. She tried to recall what Aunt Chat had said about Max doing another show. A revival?

  “Less said . . .” Faith caught Adrian nodding toward her and James Nelson’s quizzical look back at him as she deftly slid his omelet onto a warm plate.

  “Here’s a basket of toast and croissants. Some muffins will be ready soon,” she said. “What else can I get you?”

  “Nothing. This is perfect. Thank you,” James said.

  The two then began to talk about travel. Apparently Nelson did leave the island in Maine on occasion. Soon they were deep into comparing trips they’d taken to what Adrian referred to as “Indochina” with trips made to South American spots. Faith knew Adrian could afford to go wherever he wanted in whatever style, but how did James? His address suggested a pared-back lifestyle and maybe that was how he traveled too. Bare bones.

  Travis Trent and Betty Sinclair both came into the room. “I smell coffee. Black and a lot of it. I don’t normally drink much—and seldom champagne,” Travis said. “I’ll be okay in a bit once my head clears. Say, this is some kitchen! The whole house is pretty unbelievable. Old Max always did well for himself.” The sardonic note in his voice was unmistakable and Faith hurriedly put a large mug of coffee in front of him on the counter.

  “Poor Trav,” Betty said. “You never did have a good head for booze. And neither does Chip. I ran into him staggering around the hall. He wants water and, to quote, ‘a truckload of Tylenol.’”

  “I’ll bring it up,” Faith said, “but first what can I get you?”

  “Two poached eggs, runny in the middle, whatever bacon you have, and I’ll demolish some of these divine-looking baked goods the boys are eating, too.”

  Faith had Betty Sinclair pegged as a light or no breakfast eater and envied her metabolism. “Home fries with the eggs?”

  “Of course! Now what’s the plan for the day? It’s like a skating rink outside, so unless it melts fast no rambles in the woods. Max never got up before noon and Phil is a lazy bastard, too. I imagine Eve and Alexis are not going to be up soon either—or they may be, but need time for their toilette. Especially Eve. There’s four of us, so we could play bridge, or poker. You used to be quite good at both, Jimmy. I’m sure Mrs. Whatever here can scare up a deck of cards. We can catch up on the last twenty years. That should take us to lunch anyway.” She delivered her suggestion as if reciting lines with special emphasis on certain phrases—“catch up on” for one.

  “Fairchild,” said James. “Her name is Mrs. Fairchild. Faith Fairchild to be exact.”

  “How sweet. Such an old-fashioned name. ‘Faith’ I mean.”

  Faith put Ms. Sinclair’s food down on the counter in front of her, adding cutlery. “There’s a room with a card table down the hall on the left, and Mr. Dane has left an assortment of games, magazines, and decks of cards as well as beverages there for your enjoyment.” She felt a bit like a flight attendant and even more, a servant. Mrs. Whatever. Betty Sinclair knew Faith’s name, Faith was sure. It was intended as a put-down.

  Betty had omitted Tony Ames and Angela from her list. Tony and she had seemed close, but Betty might not be familiar with his morning routine. Although he could come soon in search of sustenance, Faith thought she’d check on Angela when she brought Chip Frost the hangover cure she was assembling. She’d added a glass of a sports drink with plenty of crushed ice and some dry toast to his list and replaced the Tylenol with ibuprofen. Over the years one thing a caterer learned was how to help with a hangover’s symptoms. Besides, Tylenol plus alcohol was an actual deadly combination causing liver damage—a fact few people knew. She wondered how bad Chip’s was and whether she should look for some sort of bucket as well.

  As she was leaving the kitchen, the back door opened and Ian entered. Faith had thought he’d be up earlier, although his apartment had a kitchen and he’d told her he’d get his own breakfasts over the weekend.

  Rubbing his hands together, he unzipped his jacket. “Could be a nasty bit of weather moving in, but no snow. Just dropping temperatures. I called to have the drive treated and they said they’d be here soon. And I checked the generator. It’s working fine, not that we’ll necessarily lose power. Just a little taste of winter here for you Californians.”

  James Nelson stood up. “Mind if I have a look at your generator? I have some experience with them.”

  “Not at all. I’ll show you where it is. You’ll find it more than adequate—a monster. It’s in one of the outbuildings past the garage.”

  Leaving Ian to see to the guests’ needs, Faith went upstairs and knocked on Chip Frost’s door.

  “Come in,” he groaned.

  Apparently his idea of unpacking was to spread his garments over the floor and furniture. He was in bed and the drapes were drawn.

  “How do you feel? I’ve brought what you asked for and some other remedies.”

  “You’re an angel. Mrs. Fairchild, right? I feel like crap, but been there done that many times before and I’ll be better in a few.” He sounded better already.

  “Do you want me to open the drapes?”

  “Not yet.” He was sitting up and regarding the bed tray. “I’ll deal with this, then maybe you could come back in,
say, an hour?”

  Max had said no indulging any breakfast-in-bed requests, but Faith viewed this as more in the nature of first aid. “I’ll check in an hour. Do you have what you need for now?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fairchild. Nice Mrs. Fairchild. Pretty Mrs. Fairchild. Too bad I’m so hungover. Besides making them, you’re a tasty dish yourself.”

  “And a very happily married one,” she said as she left.

  There was no answer when she knocked on Angela’s door, so she opened it a crack. The young woman might still be asleep or in the bathroom.

  The room was filled with sunlight. The drapes were open. The covers on the bed had been pulled up neatly. There was no sign of Angela. She must have gone downstairs while Faith was in Chip’s room.

  Yet, entering the kitchen she didn’t see her there either. “Has Miss Martelli come down for breakfast?” she asked Ian, the room’s sole occupant.

  “Not yet.”

  Not in her room, not here. Faith made a quick tour of the downstairs. Angela Martelli wasn’t in any part of the house that Faith could see.

  Where was she?

  By one almost everyone had had some form of breakfast. Tony Ames had braved the ice and cold for an approximation of his morning run and then had had to “take a ninety-degree ninety-minute shower to thaw myself out.” He ate at the counter, brightening at the mention of French toast, so Faith had done a stuffed version with strawberries. He’d cleaned his plate but refused seconds, saying, “You are a temptress, Mrs. Fairchild!” She told him where the four card players were, but he said that having a chance to spend time in the library Max had shown him was a rare treat and he’d be there. “He has a wonderful collection of books on the theater, as you might expect—history, memoirs. I may be there the rest of the weekend. Except for the birthday dinner bash.”

  This left Eve, Alexis, Phil Baker, Angela, and Max himself yet to make an appearance. Eve was the first. It appeared that Betty was correct about taking time to dress and apply maquillage. Eve looked stunning, especially if you didn’t look too closely. No chicken neck. Faith was tempted to ask her secret hoping for a routine that didn’t involve a scalpel.