The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  “No,” Ursula replied. “I’m on my own, and it would be delightful to have you.”

  Samantha didn’t think it was her imagination. When her grandmother had said she was on her own, her voice seemed to catch.

  Even though it would be well past Ursula’s dinnertime, Samantha decided to make some stroganoff using chicken instead of beef. It would do for Sunday dinner with noodles, and she’d bring some of the butternut squash soup she had in the freezer in case Ursula wanted more than popcorn late tonight. There was a loaf of Faith’s semolina bread, too. They could have toasted cheese.

  Satisfied with her plans, she turned off all the dripping faucets for now and went back to bed. She was tired and she’d been having such a nice dream . . .

  When she got up the second time, she decided to add an apple crumb cobbler to her menu. Afterward, the house smelled scrumptious. As she was packing up, her phone rang. It was her manager, Ken.

  “I don’t know what it’s doing out where you are, but it’s sleeting here in sheets and all we have are the usual suspects. My nephew is with me helping and I’ll put him up for the night.” Ken lived on the Hill. “There’s no need for anyone else to come in, especially from any distance.”

  Samantha knew what he meant by the usual suspects—and his tone was affectionate. They were the people who bought a tall regular most days and nursed it for hours to keep warm. Ken never turned them away.

  “Thank you, Ken. My grandmother is on her own and I’d planned to go there after my shift, so I can head over now.”

  She finished packing the food and added a change of clothes plus one of her mother’s flannel pj’s. Ursula’s house had a small generator, enough to keep food from spoiling and the furnace going if the power went out, but it was a big house, and its age made it impossible to fully insulate. Even without Nature’s interference the rooms without fireplaces were chilly.

  By the time she got to the car in the garage with her load, she was soaked, and she knew it would be worse parking in her grandmother’s—Ursula no longer kept a car—and walking into the house. Somehow, the storm hadn’t seemed bad from the inside. That was because it was a solid curtain of icy rain. The drive over was a slow one, and when she reached her destination, Samantha was glad she’d avoided getting hit by the numerous downed branches she saw.

  “My dear child, you look like a drowned rat! Get yourself into a hot shower or tub right away,” Ursula said, hugging her nevertheless. “I’ll take the food—and you’ve done too much! There’s a good fire in the living room. Come down when you’re ready.”

  The appeal of the fire and the warmed-up stroganoff speeded Samantha along. She’d just pulled the pj’s on when her phone rang. It was Zach. She’d decided it was sensible to give him his own ringtone: the theme from The Thomas Crown Affair, “The Windmills of Your Mind.”

  “I’m coming to get you and drive you home,” Zach said when she picked up. “The weather is getting really bad. I’m sure your boss will let you leave early.”

  Samantha laughed. “He already did or rather, told me not to come in at all. But thank you. I’m at my grandmother’s.”

  “Good. I’m going to head home now, but if you need anything, call?”

  “I will. Love you.”

  The way she automatically said good-bye to her family slipped out and she was about to make a joke or something—say something!—when after a pause, Zach said, “You know, Samantha, I’m pretty sure I love you, too.”

  Samantha ran down the stairs, feeling a burst of energy. Her grandmother was building up the fire in the living room. She looked up and said, “That’s better. You look very pink and rosy now.”

  “Would you like some of the stroganoff I made or some soup? Faith brought bread over the other day and I can do toasted cheese. And I have an apple cobbler.”

  “It all sounds very tempting. But let’s just sit and relax a moment. Always lovely to be indoors on nights like this—not fit for man nor beast. You could get me a little of my brandy and some for yourself, or whatever else you see.”

  Samantha went to get the drinks. As she poured the brandy for Ursula and a glass of wine for herself, she wondered how to introduce the subject of Mr. Stebbins’s departure. Or should she say nothing at all?

  She brought Ursula her drink and said, “Well, this is fun. Like the old days when I would come for the whole weekend. Except when you had your brandy, I drank ginger ale with a maraschino cherry, not wine.”

  “I believe there is probably a jar of them somewhere still,” Ursula said.

  They sipped in companionable silence for a moment and then Samantha’s curiosity could contain itself no longer. As casually as she could, she asked, “So, did Mr. Stebbins find an apartment on the Hill or somewhere else in town?”

  Ursula put her drink down and looked at her granddaughter steadily. “Not an apartment exactly. I’ll tell you what happened with Austin if you tell me what happened with Caleb and why you’re back in Aleford.”

  Reflecting that her grandmother had always been a savvy horse trader, Samantha took a deep breath and told her the sorry tale, ending with Caleb’s arrival at the house with the U-Haul and her mother’s reaction.

  “Oh, I wish I had been there, too,” Ursula said, smiling broadly. “I would have taken a switch to him! But I’m sorry, Samantha. A broken heart is not a cause for levity.”

  “Is that what has happened to you?” Samantha said gently.

  “Not broken, maybe nicked slightly. Let’s move to the kitchen, heat up the soup and some of that bread—it will be fine just toasted by itself with butter—and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Ursula started talking even before Samantha ladled out the soup. “Austin didn’t do anything terrible. In fact, I’m sure in his mind he was pursuing a sensible course of action.”

  “Why do I doubt I would agree?” Samantha said as she put all the food on the table. By tacit agreement Ursula and she sat on the side of the round table away from the windows and stormy scene outside.

  “Because you’re delightfully biased. This soup is delicious!”

  “Okay, keep going. I know the soup’s good, but what I don’t know is what this Austin person did.”

  “I’ve heard that men who have been happily married are at quite a loss when their spouse dies and waste little time looking for a replacement. Austin was lonely. He said so, and I believe him. He also wanted to come back east, the place he always considered home. Combining a return and a search for a bride made sense. Very efficient. I think you know he had been a successful businessman.”

  “Sounds pretty calculating to me.”

  Ursula shook her head. “No, it really wasn’t. He knew where he wanted to be and the kind of woman he wanted. The kind he had grown up with. Someone like me—or Mary Cabot. She’s Pritchett now and widowed as am I.”

  It was all Samantha could do to keep from reacting, both to the name and her grandmother’s tone.

  “Mary is a few years younger than I but was at Winsor, as was Austin’s sister. Austin got in touch with the school with a list of names he remembered and hit upon someone sympathetic.”

  “Or not up on rules about giving out private information,” Samantha said.

  “I’m glad he found me, sweetheart. You have no idea. He knew my late brother and all sorts of other people who have passed away. It was a joy to bring them back.”

  “I’m losing you here, Granny. Happy or sad?”

  “Oh, happy; but a bit embarrassed. Austin was shopping for a wife. He and Mary are affianced now. He’s living at his club until the nuptials. I’m afraid my head was turned by the attention he was paying me. When he told me he had proposed to Mary and she had accepted I felt like a fool. You probably didn’t notice, but I actually bought some new clothes!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with updating a wardrobe every now and then,” Samantha said. Her grandmother looked skeptical. In Maine she still wore outerwear that had been her mother’s.

  “I
wouldn’t have accepted his proposal and I’m sure he realized that very quickly, which is why he must have continued on down the list. But it was still a slightly unpleasant surprise to find I had been displaced.”

  “Oh dear,” Samantha said, moving over to hug her grandmother close.

  “It was nice to have some male companionship at Symphony, and the museums. And he does have extremely good taste when it comes to restaurants.”

  Samantha was trying to decide whether to believe her grandmother—that Austin moved on because he knew she was unattainable, or to believe he was after a higher priced model.

  Granny read her mind, or rather her expression. “Mary is considerably more comfortable than I am.” In New England parlance Samantha knew “comfortable” meant not ever having to watch your pennies. “But I am sure that is not why Austin is marrying her. He will now be living mere steps from his boyhood home. I’ve already given him my congratulations and said I will attend the wedding at the Boston Athenaeum. So that’s it.”

  They cleaned up the kitchen and popped some corn. As Samantha turned out the light before they went back to the fire, she said, “Men!”

  “Amen,” Ursula replied.

  As Faith walked up the stairs to the landing with a tray of Deviled Eggs, she thought back to the wording of Max’s invitation: “Come as you are—or be cast.” She felt as if she were walking onto a stage set. A Noël Coward drawing room comedy or Agatha Christie country house murder mystery. The men were all in formal wear of various vintages and the women in stunning gowns and jewels. Eve was in white again—her signature? This time the wow factor was revealed when she turned around and the demure high-necked Grecian drape dipped precipitously below her waist. Alexis was in black lace over silk that so closely matched her skin it appeared she was nude underneath. And Betty had abandoned what Faith was sure was her usual color choice—black—for a Fortuny-like pleated column of silver silk. But no one looked as exquisite as Angela, Faith was happy to note.

  The lighting was kind to all. Firelight and subtle dimmed lights in the ceiling. The wainscoting glowed and the flickering flames picked out the colors of the Persian carpet. Max was glowing too, and Faith saw Ian give him a tumbler of what looked like scotch. It was the first drink Faith had noted all weekend. Most of the others were drinking champagne, which added to the elegance of the scene. A few had Fallen Angel cocktails. The conversation was muted, a pleasant hum.

  The other hors d’oeuvres were on a table next to the bar cart Ian was using. The baked varieties that needed to stay hot were on warming platters. Faith passed the eggs and then went to make up a tray with all the selections. She slipped among the guests, the unobtrusive, invisible help, and as she did she pictured the various faces on cards—like a game of Clue. Tom’s family, as well as the Millers, were board game aficionados and there were versions of Clue in all their homes. Ursula even had the British original Cluedo.

  With the delivery of the casket, Max had been cast from the start as “Mr. Boddy,” the victim, by one of the people in front of her. Who? Phil Baker had the look of Colonel Mustard and Adrian, Professor Plum. Eve could be Mrs. White, and Betty Mrs. Peacock, leaving Miss Scarlett for Alexis. The Reverend Green? James Nelson? Candlesticks were everywhere in the house. The other weapons: a rope, dagger, lead pipe, and wrench not so obvious. Nor was the revolver, which was still, she assumed, tucked in the kitchen drawer. She continued to shuffle the cards mentally. The guests, i.e. suspects, were in the hall now and would soon proceed to the dining room. All the other rooms in the game were present in the house, some with slightly altered names.

  She was startled from her thoughts by the sound of someone tapping the side of a glass for attention. It was Max Dane. “I want to thank you for coming to help me start my next decade on what I hope will be a happier note than when we were last assembled.”

  “Hear, hear,” Chip Frost said. He had an empty Fallen Angel glass in one hand, and from his flushed cheeks had fallen for a few others.

  “Soon we will partake of what I am sure will be a heavenly and devilishly delicious dinner prepared by Mrs. Fairchild, during which I hope the conversation will be the same. I haven’t had a chance to talk with some of you and want to know what everyone has been up to these last years. James, for example, we had a devil of a time locating you—and please everyone pardon the puns. After all, the musical is why we are here, isn’t it? Adrian, you dropped off the radar as well.”

  James didn’t respond, but Adrian said, “I was going to tell you at the end of the meal, but might as well now.” He was the best-dressed man there—and not for the first time, Faith reflected on life’s unfairness that made even the most homely of men look great in a tux. Tonight, Adrian, not bad-looking to start, was in white tie. He could have been about to present credentials at the Court of St. James.

  “Do tell,” Max said. “Ian, fill the man’s glass up. Top up everyone’s glass while you’re at it.”

  As Ian poured drinks Faith passed the tray and then positioned herself by the Minton-tiled fireplace, where she could see all the guests.

  Adrian had a pleasant speaking voice. “After Heaven or Hell closed, a friend offered me a cottage in Cornwall where I was to write my next dramatic opus. I did not merely experience writer’s block, but the equivalent of writer’s Stonehenge. I spent my days walking the countryside and my nights listening to storytellers in the local pub. They didn’t think of themselves as storytellers, I’m sure, but that is what they were. The local woman who came in and did for me had been housekeeper to one of the ‘gentry’ and she had tales as well. Like Athena from the head of Zeus, an entire plot sprang up on one of my walks. I raced back and wrote a novel. A love story. Upon my return to London, my agent convinced me to adopt a nom de plume. For reasons of my own, I selected the name, Fiona Foster-Fordham.”

  Someone gasped and every face save Max’s and Ian’s registered extreme surprise—had they known? Faith wondered. Or simply stoic. Phil Baker said, “Jeezus, Adrian, you must be bringing it home in bushel baskets!”

  Adrian took a sip of his drink. “Yes, I have had gratifying success.”

  Betty laughed. “But all you care about are your devoted readers, right?” Her sarcasm was more than tinged with envy.

  “No, in fact, Betty, what I most care about is the money. I live in Eaton Square, have a manor house in the Cotswolds not unlike Morris’s Kelmscott and a villa in the south of France—that a bit too predictable for those in my income bracket, but pleasant. England is so very rainy. Much like tonight.” Clearly he was enjoying the put-down with its opulently detailed list.

  Max put down his drink and started clapping. “Good on you, as you Brits say. I could always spot talent. Now anyone else have something to reveal or shall we go down to dinner?”

  The room was quiet, and for a moment it seemed everyone was waiting for someone else to speak.

  “I’m for hitting the old feedbag,” Chip said, a bit too loudly. “No secret about what I’ve been doing, right, Max? A bit of this and that. Mostly that. It pretty much adds up to nothing. But I’m not complaining, cuz. Not complaining one little bit.”

  They’d arranged that Ian would see to cleaning up what was left on the landing while Faith plated the lobster Fra Diavolo pasta first course. On the way to the kitchen, she took one last look at the dining room to be sure everything was still perfect. Max wanted the Black Magic roses from the summer parlor moved to the sideboard here and placed in front of the large gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall behind it. In addition to the roses, the mirror also reflected the table. The florist had created a low centerpiece with a number of small orchids. No fragrance and easy to see across. Max had told Faith to select whatever setting she wanted and she’d picked a Spode cobalt and gold-rimmed service with Tiffany gold vermeil Audubon flatware. Judging from some of the furniture and many of the paintings, she was certain he had purchased the contents of Frostcliffe as well as the house itself. The china and cutlery both appeared v
intage. He’d approved of her choices and said he would do the seating placement himself. Ian had lettered place cards and Faith had found sterling holders, each a different bird that she was sure must have been selected to go with the Tiffany pattern.

  Max was at the head of the table, and he’d put Angela on his right, Betty on his left. Phil was next to Angela, then Alexis, James, and Chip. On the other side Tony was next to Betty, then Eve, Travis and Adrian. Max had not picked a hostess—or host—to sit opposite him.

  Besides the roses, Faith had placed the desserts on the sideboard: the two devil’s food cakes, Angel Food Cake, and the Heaven or Hell mini cupcakes. There was a mixed berry coulis for the Angel Food Cake and a fruit epergne waiting in the refrigerator. She’d taken the four elaborate Victorian candelabras that had been on the long table and moved them to the sideboard as well, the tall tapers waiting to be lit. Max had said he wasn’t sure he wanted them illuminated. Too over-the-top, or fear of fire? She would light the votives, which were etched with a delicate lace pattern and placed in abundance on the white damask tablecloth. There needed to be some candlelight as the chandelier, per Max and Ian’s instruction, was dimmed. Coffee and after-dinner drinks would be served back in the foyer by the piano with plates of friandises—sweetmeats—and chocolates.

  She heard the guests making their way down the hall and darted into the kitchen to serve the pasta. Outside she could see the storm was getting worse. The lights had flickered a few times on the landing. She’d reached Tom earlier and he told her Pix had been worried about Ursula, but Samantha was going to be with her. No mention of Ursula’s recent lodger, Faith noted. Had Austin Stebbins finally moved? The storm was to the south of Loon, Tom told her, and the skiing was incredible. He’d asked how things were going, and she’d answered all was well and that the house had some sort of behemoth generator, so they would be fine. “See you tomorrow night,” he’d said cheerfully and in haste. She knew the slopes were beckoning.