The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Ian made sure it was treated and the gate can be operated manually if the power goes off.”

  “Take my van, James,” Faith said. “It has four-wheel drive, and I’ll write out directions to the Weston police in case the GPS doesn’t work. They’re the closest. Or maybe Ian should go. He must know where the station is.”

  No,” Max said abruptly. “I need him here. There are flashlights in the pantry, Faith. Bring them in and I’ll tell everyone that Chip has met with an accident. No need for details now. If they don’t want to go to their rooms, I’ll light the fire in the winter parlor and people can sit there.”

  As Faith handed James her keys, he said grimly, “I’m ninety-nine point one percent sure that someone tampered with the generator. I’ve been trying to think who was in the room when Ian told me where it was and it’s almost everyone.”

  Before the police arrived, Max told Faith and Ian he had changed his mind. “They’re not stupid. They’ll know something’s up.” He ushered everyone into the parlor and told them that a rare snake Chip intended to give Max as a birthday present had tragically bitten the giver—“Chip knew of my plans to add a heptarium in the conservatory.” He forestalled any speculation by advising everyone to get some sleep. When it was apparent no one wanted to be alone in the dark guestrooms, Ian lit a fire in the fireplace and Faith offered coffee or other drinks. The two of them left the room and Ian said, “I’ll clear the dining room table.”

  “The police will want everything left as is,” Faith said.

  “As you would best know,” he said, and the admiring note in his voice surprised her.

  The local police arrived, soon followed by the state police. Faith’s friend and sometime partner Detective Lieutenant John Dunne had retired, but Faith recognized one of his colleagues. Although it was supposed an accidental death, the library was treated as a crime scene. The coroner had been held up by the storm, but the police brought bright lights, and Faith showed them the small breakfast room where they could take statements. Ian took one of them out to the generator in the hope they could get it working. Power was out in all the neighboring towns.

  By four in the morning, having ruled the death accidental, the police had packed up and left, expressing condolences to Max on the death of his cousin. All were free to leave, and since they were still unable to phone, Ian asked one of the local police to get in touch with the car service and have them send a van, not individual cars, as soon as they were able. He advised the guests to change, pack, and grab some sleep.

  “I’ll do that on the plane,” Eve said. “I don’t want to close my eyes for a minute in this place.”

  Faith had been keeping an eye on Angela all night. The girl was obviously both mentally and physically exhausted. She took her into the housekeeper’s room and then went to get her books from the office and bag from the upstairs guestroom. Angela changed and lay down on the bed. She was asleep instantly.

  The guests, Max, and Ian had spent the night in the parlor by the fire, but Faith had put her down coat on and stayed in the kitchen. Restless, she tried to tidy things up but decided to leave everything after a few attempts. Seized with a sense of foreboding, she did accomplish one task . . .

  Power was restored at seven. As soon as Faith heard the hum of the refrigerator, she got up from the chair where she had been drowsing and got to work on breakfast for those who might want some. The van arrived at ten and drove off in the brilliant sunshine. The storm had passed and the only noise was a steady drip from the melting ice on the trees and roof of the house.

  Max entered the kitchen, having seen his guests off, and Faith quelled her impulse to hug him. Chat’s words came back—“Max Dane is not a nice man.” And what he had done with Heaven or Hell was not nice. Still the weekend, and days leading up to it, had revealed another side. The side shown in his shattered face. “Angela is moving into the apartment I keep in the city and will start Columbia Law in the fall. She got a scholarship and at first didn’t want me to pay—just like Bella—but I pointed out she’d be depriving another student, and she gave in. I’m hoping she’ll want to stay in touch with me.”

  “I think she will,” Faith said. “How about some coffee? Breakfast?”

  “Just coffee, thank you.” He sat at the counter, staring out the windows at the beautiful winter scene unfolding, snow sparkling.

  She set a full cup down in front of him and went back to putting things away. She’d used some toby jugs for cream and the coulis. Ian came in, dressed in a handsome topcoat and pulling a large Louis Vuitton travel bag.

  “I had hoped, no assumed, you’d put your trip off for a while,” Max said.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I won’t be putting anything off now, Max.” His hand went into his pocket and he pulled out a gun, aiming it at Max. “Poor Chip. He thought the snake was harmless and a joke. I slipped him some cash when I gave it to him with my instructions. I was sure the fool was so trashed he’d muff it and get bitten. If not, I made sure the generator wouldn’t work and I’d have been able to get the pet to do its work.”

  Max stood up. “Ian! What—”

  “No, enough talking. I’ve been listening to you for too many years.” Ian had put his other hand up, gesturing that Max stop. “And now, your casket is in the icehouse ready and waiting. Unfortunately, Mrs. Fairchild will have to join you. As they say in detective novels, she knows too much. Did you tell her I was your principal beneficiary? Maybe not. You’re so very private. I certainly didn’t know that the man you referred to as ‘cuz’ was such a close blood relative until the other day in the summer parlor. Bit of a shock. Meant he had to go—could have been a problem if he contested.”

  “Ian,” Max screamed. “I can’t believe this!”

  It was as if Max hadn’t said a word. Ian showed no emotion whatsoever. “They built those icehouses well back in the day; your screams will be unheard.” His eyes continued to be fixed on Max even as he addressed Faith. “Mrs. Fairchild, I’m afraid in the course of the job you became enamored of your boss. The guilt at cheating on your husband, a man of the cloth, was so great that murder-suicide was the result. Max, thought by many to be an insane recluse, took you to where he had placed the coffin. The one, incidentally, it will be found, Max, you ordered yourself. The receipt is on your desk upstairs now with instructions for delivery.”

  Ian was grinning. “The casket. So brilliant. I knew you would fall for it, Max. And my suggestion that Mrs. Fairchild, because of her reputation as a sleuth, do the catering. I knew she would not pose a problem for me, and I was right. You fell for that, too. You were in control. Calling the shots as always. It was always about you.”

  Happy that Ian was so loquacious, Faith backed up against the cupboard where she’d been putting the toby jugs. She slipped her arm behind her back. Ian was still focused on Max, who looked as if he was about to faint. After his last exclamation he hadn’t opened his mouth, set in a tight line.

  Faith opened the drawer and took out the gun. The one fit for a woman.

  She aimed it at Ian who, noticing her at last, began to laugh uproariously. “Oh, good try, but of course I removed the bullets!”

  “And I put them back.” An impulse last night in the dark. She’d easily found them in one of the jugs. She pulled the trigger and the first shot went wild. The second hit him squarely on target—his kneecap. He fell to the floor screaming, and Faith grabbed a decorative but heavy copper saucepan, striking him firmly on the head.

  It hadn’t been any of the invited guests after all. It was Mrs. Fairchild in the kitchen with a revolver. And Ian was Mr. Boddy.

  CHAPTER 11

  Aleford might be sentimental about Valentine’s Day in private, but when a public meeting was scheduled on the date, people were expected to leave their wine and roses and show up. Since this was a Planning Board meeting, there was no hesitation. Rumors about the change in the developer’s proposal had been rife, and when Bradley Peters presented his completely altered plan for
an assisted living and affordable housing facility the room actually broke into applause. Faith looked at her husband. It had been his idea—he thought. Blake Sommersby was whispering something in Tom’s ear. Congratulations, no doubt.

  Patsy Avery had told Faith why Blake had moved out to Aleford. Ms. Sommersby decided the clock was ticking too fast and was pregnant. Knowing Patsy and Will, she decided Aleford would be a fine place to raise a child. The pregnancy explained why she had refused coffee and opted for mint tea, Faith realized. Tonight Patsy revealed that Blake’s significant other had recently proposed. He’d decided he very much wanted to be a dad and raise a family after all. Patsy was giving Blake a combined wedding/baby shower soon. And no, Patsy, a fine cook, was doing it all herself. Faith was not to take one step into the Averys’ kitchen, but be a guest.

  After the scene in Rowan House’s kitchen, the police arrived swiftly for the second time in twenty-four hours. When Tom got back from Loon that night, Faith had had to give him an account of the weekend—word had already spread. She left a number of things out—the casket for instance—but enough was revealed that Tom once again begged his wife to avoid the kinds of perilous situations she seemed all too eager to seek out. “What would I do without you?” he repeated over and over again. While the three days had shaken her from the kind of doldrums she’d been experiencing, Faith found herself promising no more such gigs. And meant it. This one had been murderous on too many levels.

  Pix and Faith were in the back of the room as usual and had been talking softly. “Samantha got a cute valentine from Zach. Like the ones kids put in the valentine box at school,” Pix said. Faith remembered how much fun it had been to open the little cards. “I’m a Sucker for You” and “You Auto Be My Valentine.”

  “They seem good together,” Faith said.

  “I think so. And she loves the new job.” Samantha had been headhunted at the recommendation of her former firm, accepting a position with a Boston-based philanthropic foundation. “She says giving away money instead of making it for people is what she should have been doing from the start.”

  Marian Cho was taking comments and questions. Even Millicent could find nothing to object to and said so. Faith let her mind drift.

  Since that Sunday, Max hadn’t wasted any time putting a number of things in motion besides law school for Angela. Rowan House was on the market under its former name, Frostcliffe—the contents, except for his books and theatrical memorabilia, were to be sold at auction for the benefit of the North Benet Street School, where Max’s father had trained.

  Max Dane was living in Manhattan and had gone back to work on none other than a revival of Heaven or Hell. One that would be significantly different as an off-Broadway production with a revised script by the famous British author Fiona Foster-Fordham, several new songs—lyrics by Betty Sinclair, the music introducing a new young composer she had discovered. Tony Ames was choreographing a few new numbers but keeping the opening and finale. Max had offered Alexis and Eve parts, but both had refused. Kristin Chenoweth had gotten wind of the project and it had always been her dream to be in a Max Dane production. Fiona—Adrian—was tailoring the script for her. Her involvement might mean Broadway after all. Max wanted James Nelson to direct, but was firmly told no. James liked his life just the way it was, but would be happy to look at early run-throughs and offer an opinion. Max had the drawings for Jack Gold’s set and wanted to duplicate them—as well as Bella’s costume designs.

  When he heard that a performer at Manhattan’s famed Café Carlyle had to cancel because of illness, Max pulled strings to get Travis the job. It turned out that fans had not forgotten Travis Trent, especially those of a certain age, well-heeled regulars at the café. Travis was already fielding offers from the Algonquin and other cabaret locations after the Carlyle job had ended. No more Atlantic City boardinghouse. At the moment, until he found an apartment, Max was putting him up in the hotel itself.

  Travis was feeling mellow and very happy. He’d been playing a variety of love songs for Valentine’s Day and taking requests. The venue was an intimate one, and the audience seemed in love with each other—and him.

  A woman entered and walked straight to a front table.

  “Play our song, Trav. Play it for me.” It was Eve. He got up and led her to the piano. Sitting close they sang it together.

  “Heaven or Hell

  Who can tell?

  Below or above

  What the devil is love?”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’m sitting at my desk with a stack of Playbills next to me. Although Max Dane’s musicals are offstage in this book, Broadway has been in my mind throughout. Living in northern New Jersey, not far from Manhattan, meant growing up with theater in my family. My parents had friends who were professionals and went to Broadway and off-Broadway performances often. When we were old enough, we did too.

  I wish I had the Playbill from the very first production I saw: Gertrude Lawrence, the famous British actress, in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The King and I, a matinee in 1952. The musical, which opened in 1951, had taken Broadway by storm. Rex Harrison turned down the role of the king, and Yul Brynner, who would forever be associated with it, was cast. I was quite a little girl but remember the two of them whirling about the stage to “Shall We Dance,” Lawrence’s hoop-skirted silk gown shimmering brightly in the spotlight. The other memory that is still so clear all these years later is of the vibrant colors—the costumes and the sets. The songs must have made an impression as well, but so many were hits that I can’t be sure whether I am recalling the original experience or the repetitions. Sadly, Gertrude Lawrence died of cancer unexpectedly in September 1952 and Deborah Kerr played Anna in the film. As a first stage memory, nothing could ever equal Lawrence’s elegant, vibrant figure in Brynner’s arms.

  My mother, Alice, and her sister Ruth loved musicals. We used to tease my aunt because she wore out the record of Carousel, playing it so much she had to buy a new one. We grew up knowing the lyrics to all the classic musicals. Looking over at my Playbills there’s Robert Preston and Barbara Cook in The Music Man, Joel Grey in Stop the World—I Want to Get Off (directed by Anthony Newley), Nancy Kwan in Flower Drum Song, and many more. We would take our chances on a Saturday morning, going from Broadway box office to box office—we couldn’t go wrong!

  Starting when my cousin John and I were twelve, our mothers allowed us to go into the city on our own. While musicals were all well and good, we thought of ourselves as “serious” theatergoers. Richard Burton’s Hamlet—I still get shivers. Albee’s Tiny Alice with John Gielgud and Irene Worth, The Deputy with Emlyn Williams and a very young Jeremy Brett! Colleen Dewhurst as Miss Amelia Evans in Carson McCullers’s The Ballad of the Sad Café. Just now looking at that Playbill, I notice that the artist Leonard Baskin did the cover. And inside those covers, besides reading about the play and the cast, it is and was almost as much fun to look at the ads—“Does She or Doesn’t She?,” “Give her L’Aimant . . . before someone else does,” and listings for restaurants long gone. We always ate at one of the Automats—the best macaroni and cheese ever created or the baked beans in the little green pot.

  One of our family’s closest friends was the director, actor, and playwright Jack Sydow. When he was the assistant director for Once Upon a Mattress in 1959, he not only gave my younger sister, Anne, and me front-row matinee seats but also took us backstage afterward to meet Carol Burnett, then at the start of her illustrious career. At one point during the show, when the ladies quite literally in waiting appeared onstage, Anne had whispered to me, “How can those ladies be pregnant without husbands?” We were so close that Burnett heard. Ushered into her dressing room later by Jack, she was laughing about it, the distinctive laugh that would become so famous. “Oh, I know who you are!” she said. It has remained a family joke for years.

  Jack provided me with the amazing opportunity to be a part of a Broadway show when he directed Arthur Miller’s The Crucible with Denholm
Elliott and Farley Granger in 1964. Jack wanted to use the actual hymns as they would have been sung for certain scenes and asked me to do the research. I used the Rose Memorial Library at Drew University in Madison, New Jersey, which has an extensive collection of theological volumes and manuscripts, including an original Bay Psalm Book. I’m looking at the Playbill now: page eleven, “Musical Research by Katherine Page.” I was there for opening night—meeting the actors afterward—and saw it several more times in New York, and then once when it went to Philadelphia. I thought Farley Granger was the handsomest man I’d ever met and wept for him as John Proctor again and again. When the run was over, Jack gave me his director’s copy of the play marked with his notes.

  Jack is also the one who told my parents, after trekking out to Livingston, New Jersey, to see me as Emily in my high school junior class’s production of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town: “She was marvelous—and she should never play anything else!” I haven’t.

  Broadway has had its ups and downs, especially when television arrived in every household; but there’s always been something like a Wicked or Hamilton to tighten any flickering lights. So many of the names I’ve mentioned here in this Author’s Note—what I always refer to as stepping from behind the curtain—won’t be familiar to many readers, but the productions will be, enduring as they are. There is nothing like live theater. Community productions, summer playhouses, a play reading group in a living room.

  Go see a show!

  P.S. Those of you who are film buffs may recognize several that informed the writing of this book: The Wrong Box (1966), Sleuth (1972 version), Deathtrap (1982), Clue (1985), and especially Murder by Death (1976). These also explain why Max Dane and Michael Caine became one in my imagination.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to the following: Dr. Robert DeMartino, Peter Filichia (theater critic, author, and host of the annual Theatre World Awards); at Greenburger: Faith Hamlin, Stefanie Diaz, and Ed Maxwell; at HarperCollins: Katherine Nintzel, Danielle Bartlett, Gena Lanzi, Shelly Perron, and Virginia Stanley.