The Body in the Cast ff-5

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Well, it can't be helped. I must go back upstairs. Such a lot of fuss over standing up and sitting down. You would think we were imbeciles."

  “I'm sorry." Faith found herself apologizing. Millicent had that effect. "Perhaps Penny is right and the town will simply have to trust her. In any case, we'll find out in less than a week from tonight. Right here again."

  “He's up there, of course." Faith was a beat behind and realized Millicent meant Alden, not the Almighty, when she added, "Couldn't wear the foolish buttons on his suit, but it's written all over his face, and there are some stupid enough to listen to him. Pushing one another out of the way to be near him. Like a boy with a new toy they want. Fair-weather friends. I don't know what they're doing living here.”

  For Millicent, Aleford was the land of the brave, the true, milk and honey all in one.

  “I'll see you at supper. Break a leg.”

  Either Miss McKinley had never heard the old stage adage or she chose to take it literally. Scowling, she went out the swinging door marked IN.

  “Phew," said Niki. "You'd better call Tom and tell him to sleep with a pistol near his pillow."

  “He usually does," Faith said sweetly.

  It was a very long night. Max wasn't happy with anything and they did the whole scene and then parts of the scene over and over and over again. He tried having them all point with their lefts, then their rights, then every other person left and right, then randomly. After that, he was upset with Cappy's reaction to Dimmesdale's offer and had the young actor do take after take. Marta Haree was on the set, although not in the scene, and Max spent time between takes talking to her and to Nils. Marta was draped in her trademark scarves and wearing several large crystals on a chain around her neck.

  During one of the breaks, Faith saw Penny in the milling crowd in the entryway and asked her how things were going. The candidate looked startled. "Oh, you mean the film?" She laughed at herself. "It's rather nice just to have to sit down, stand up, and point."

  “I see what you mean," Faith commented. "You don't have to think about much"

  “Exactly—and these days, that's a relief.”

  Faith seized the opening. "Penny, I know Tom talked to you, and probably the whole town has by now, but I'm very worried Alden might win. Don't you think you would improve your chance's if you could at least give a hint about his allegations?"

  “I'm sure it would improve my chances, and I know how important this election is, especially to young people like yourselves with children in, or almost in, the school system. But I would be betraying a trust, and there's no way I can ask the individual for permission. He's dead. In any case, I didn't mention it when he was alive and I certainly won't now. I'm sorry, my dear, we'll just have to take whatever comes. Perhaps James will win."

  “What's that?" The candidate, accompanied by his wife, wandered over. "Talking about the election?" James did not seem overly interested and took several sandwiches from the stack of smoked turkey, chutney, and thinly sliced sharp cheddar they'd prepared. From the crumbs on his plate, Faith guessed he'd also been sampling the lox and scallion cheese spread on dark rye. With a glance at Penny, Faith hastily replied, "Not really.”

  Penny's words had convinced her. Apparently, whatever this involved concerned the late Francis Bartlett, and it was certainly wrong to try to persuade a widow to violate her late husband's trust—however curious one might be. As she moved a bowl of curried coleslaw within James's reach—it went particularly well with the turkey—Faith puzzled briefly over Penny's reference to not saying anything while he was alive. This sounded as if she knew something that Francis hadn't known she knew. Faith was a bit in awe of women like Penny. They seemed mostly to be in books. She herself was hopeless at keeping big things from Tom. Little things were another matter, of course, but something major—and this had all the earmarks—was another issue entirely.

  Nobody had said anything for several minutes, although Audrey Heuneman looked as though she might.

  Faith, uncomfortable with lengthy silences, however short, filled the gap, "We were merely talking about the voters deciding what they will—and in less than one week.”

  That unleashed Audrey's thought. "He thinks he's going to win, you know." From her venomous tone, it was clear she did not mean her husband, James. "But he's wrong. Dead wrong.”

  They heard the buzzer to return to the set. Faith was left to clear away the crusts and empty the dregs. The crowd had already consumed the vats of creamy New England clam chowder she'd prepared—though a fiercely loyal daughter of Manhattan, she drew the line at chowder: no tomatoes. But there was plenty of everything else. It was two o'clock in the morning.

  At 3:00 A.M., the legs on one of the tables decided to give way. While Pix, Niki, Scott and Tricia Phelan, and the rest mopped up the debris, Faith went in search of another table. When she had been in the basement previously to check out the facilities, the custodian had told her there was a supply room filled with folding chairs and tables if they needed them, behind Aster-brook Hall.

  She opened the door of the first room leading from Asterbrook Hall and found it filled with old scenery and props. Another door proved to be a large walk-in closet, the repository of everything from Bicentennial souvenir mugs, "Aleford Then, Now, and Always," to what appeared to be some sort of truss. It was time for a town hall tag sale. Probably make a fortune. Mulling over what at this late hour seemed like a phenomenal idea, Faith turned a corner and 'entered a hallway that led back toward the new addition and a stairway to the main floor. It was dark, and groping for a light switchwas proving fruitless. She could, however, see a dim glow around another corner. f she remembered correctly, it was the location of a bathroom—something that at the moment assumed priority over finding a new table, as she realized it had been many hours since the last pit stop. She walked rapidly toward the light, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. There was a door just before the corner. f her memory served her, it was the door to the bathroom.

  It didn't. It was the fabled storage room, and as she entered for a better look, she tripped on a rolled-up carpet next to a pile of scrap lumber, probably left when the addition was built, and almost landed flat on her face. Her hands broke her fall, but her shoe went flying. She stood up. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

  She turned back to retrieve her shoe, flicking on the lights, and realized that what she had stumbled over wasn't a carpet at all.

  It was a body. The body of Alden Spaulding, with the back of his head caved in.

  The cast on his left wrist was a dead giveaway.

  Eight

  By thy first step awry thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since that moment, it has all been a dark necessity.

  Faith's first impulse was to run as fast and as far away as she could, but after several deep breaths, she knelt down to check for Alden's pulse. Her heart was beating so loudly and rapidly that it took a moment to confirm her initial impression. Anyone suffering a blow to the head like this would most certainly be dead.

  Alden Spaulding was no exception.

  She stood up and took a couple of shaky steps farther into the room. What to do? The moment word got out upstairs, the entire town would stream down, hopelessly obliterating any clues for the police. Clues. She looked around.

  There were the tables, plenty of them, and stacks of folding chairs. Two of them were opened in the middleof the room, next to a table with a slide projector that faced a blank wall. Faith held her hand above the projector, careful not to touch it. It was still giving off some heat. Alden and company had apparently been watching slides. It was an odd time for such entertainment. She was willing to bet the show hadn't been "My Trip to Parrot Jungle," but she hadn't a clue as to what it could have been. The only thing on the table was the projector. Unless the box of slides was in one of Alden's pockets, it had been taken by his assailant.

  Nothing else in the room seemed out of place and there was no sign of a blunt instrument or other weap
on lying by Spaulding's side—she assiduously kept her eyes off the region at the back of the head. His hands were not clutching a torn garment or strands of hair. No crumpled slips of paper. No sign of any struggle at all.

  She turned off the lights—her prints were already on the switch—and closed the door. It was unlikely that anyone else would happen by until she could get to the police, but then, three people had already been in this out-of-the-way spot in the last half hour.

  As she walked toward the stairs, she noted that the door to the parking lot, a bit farther down the hall, was shut. But the button in the middle of the knob was out. It was unlocked, which could mean that someone had exited very recently. Unfortunately, this being Aleford, it could also mean that it hadn't been locked in the first place.

  It was while Faith was contemplating the door that the lights went out. Just one sound: click.

  The basement was totally dark—and totally silent. The only noise was the pounding of her own blood in her ears. There wasn't even a slight rustle to indicate that another human being stood a few feet away.

  She stiffened in terror and cautiously backed toward the wall as quietly as she could. Her flattened palms pushed hard against the rough concrete. f someone was going to rush out in attack, at least her position would be changed. She forced herself to think coherently, to think rapidly. She had three choices: she could run back the way she'd come and chance getting waylaid in the labyrinthine corridors; she could bolt for the door and race outside to the front of the building; or she could make a try for the stairs, possibly encountering the murderer. The only light switch she knew of for sure was around the corner by the stairwell. She cursed herself for not having gotten away at once. The whole thing had seemed so improbable, she hadn't felt in any danger, just sickened at the sight of the corpse.

  There was the barest suggestion of movement. Faith was not sure she'd even heard anything. Alternative number four—staying where she was and being killed—moved prominently to the top of the list. It was madness to hesitate for even a moment more when someone was stalking her, armed with whatever had killed Alden and ready to repeat the act—this time in darkness.

  The lights in the parking lot decided her. Whoever it was must have seen her, but she had seen nothing—so far.

  She sprinted across the hall and threw open the door. The bitter cold night air was as welcome as a day in June, and she did not stop to look over her shoulder, running as fast as she could to the front of the building and tearing up the stairs.

  Inside the front entryway, she stopped, panting slightly. She was safe. She'd made it.

  The mess from the collapsed table had been cleanedup and her staff was presumably downstairs preparing replacements. It still didn't make sense to alert everyone. Instead, Faith went into the corridor circling the auditorium and soundlessly opened a door. She had to get in touch with the police.

  Patrolman Dale Warren was having the time of his life despite the late hour. Normally, he had trouble staying awake for the ten o'clock news, let alone "The Tonight Show." They'd needed an officer of the law on the set in order to use the town hall, and to Dale's surprise, the chief hadn't wanted the plum assignment for himself. All night, the young policeman had watched in fascination as Maxwell Reed shot take after take after take. And they were going to shoot again tomorrow night. He'd never been so close to even one movie star, and to top it all off, he'd been addressed by Cappy Camson, who'd asked him if the time on the large Roman numeral clock facing the stage was correct. The patrolman was able to answer in the affIrmative without hesitation. His own second cousin, Norman Warren, was responsible for winding it and seeing to its inner workings. He couldn't wait to tell Norm that none other than Caleb Camson had been asking about what Norm thought of as "his" clock.

  It was this dream of glory that Faith abruptly dispelled, tiptoeing over to his post and grabbing him by the arm. "You've got to come with me right away!" she whispered urgently in his ear. "Do you have your gun with you?”

  Dale Warren was one of Faith Fairchild's devoted partisans, yet as he looked into her agitated face, he had but one thought: The woman was nuts. Out in the corridor, when she breathlessly told him that Alden Spaulding's dead body was lying in the basement below and they had to hurry before the murderer got away, the patrolman was actually a bit afraid of her. So it took a moment to readjust his never swiftly running thoughts when they went down the stairs into the hallway, lighted once again, opened the storeroom door, and were presented with the fact.

  “It's Mr. Spaulding. He's dead!”

  Faith nodded. She'd known Dale since she moved to Aleford. "Yes," she said patiently, with only a slight impulse to scream, "that's what I've been telling you." She continued to spell it out for him. "The lights were off when I left. I mean, someone turned them off after I found the body, so whoever it is must have escaped when I did and is long gone. You'd better stay here while I call Charley. He'll probably call the state police, too.”

  Dale straightened his uniform and swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed like a Macintosh in a washtub on Halloween. What a night! The movie—and now this!

  Faith had to borrow change from Dale and went back upstairs to the front of the building to the phone booth. As she dialed Maclsaac's number, she marveled at the detachment she felt. It was as if some other Faith was doing all these things and the real Faith was watching, too shocked to react. The real Faith's hair was still standing up on end with fright, and if she started to shake, she'd never stop.

  Charley answered on the ninth ring.

  “Charley, it's Faith. You have to get down here! I'm at the Town Hall and I'm afraid Alden Spaulding has been murdered. His body is in the basement in the new addition, near the door to the parking lot."

  “f this is a joke, I'm not laughing. Do you know what time it is?"

  “Charley! It's no joke. The back of his head is all bashed in and the man is dead! Dale is standing guard"

  “Don't let anyone near the body. In fact, don't say anything to anyone until I get there." Chief MacIsaac spoke quickly, and from the way his voice changed volume, Faith imagined he was already struggling into his clothes while cradling the phone beneath his chin.

  “Okay. And, Charley, hurry up!”

  Convincing the chief had convinced her. The two Faiths slid back together and the situation smacked her full in the face. There was a corpse downstairs, still warm. She had been minutes, maybe seconds, away from witnessing the crime. Fear elbowed its way back center stage and she had to force herself to go back down the corridor, descending the rear stairs to wait for Charley.

  It wasn't long before the chief appeared and took charge.

  “Poor Alden," he said sadly as he surveyed the remains. "Not too many people liked him, but I didn't think even his worst enemy would have done something like this.”

  But his worst enemy apparently had, Faith thought. The question now was, Who out of the many contenders qualified for this dubious distinction?

  “I called John," Charley added. "He's on his way with the CPAC crew from the DA's office" The Crime Prevention and Control unit, the first sifting and recording. "Are you going to announce it upstairs?" Faith both wanted to watch the crowd's reactions and to be on the scene when Detective Lieutenant Dunne arrived. If Charley got moving, she might be able to manage it.

  “Better do that now. Don't want them going home to bed.”

  Faith followed Charley into the auditorium. The interruption brought a stream of angry shouts and a few obscenities from Max, Nils Svenquist, and the crew until they saw it was the police chief. The audience looked puzzled. Charley walked onto the stage and stood next to the director and Cappy Camson.

  “I want everybody to stay calm and stay put. There's been an accident, a very bad accident, and Alden Spaulding is dead.”

  A buzz went through the crowd and they weren't mumbling "apples and oranges." Several people half-rose in their seats. One woman yanked at her husband's coattails and he hit the ba
ck of the chair with a loud crack.

  “We're waiting for the state police, then we'll figure out what we need from you. Believe me, I'm just as eager to go home as you are.”

  Millicent stood up. Not for her the mere rules of mortal men.

  “Chief MacIsaac, do you suspect foul play?" Charley looked resigned, "Yes, Millie, we do.”

  She nodded, making clear her unspoken, "I thought as much."

  “Then I think you will find your task made easier by the fact that the time is recorded when each take is shot. You will also be able to eliminate some of us as suspects." Here Millicent paused and raked her fellow citizens with a glance, making even the innocent feel guilty as charged. "When you view the rushes, it should be possible to determine who was here and who was not at any given moment." She sat down.

  Despite the cinematic jargon, Charley got the idea. Millicent was right—of course. Faith was standing near the director of photography and heard him murmur toan obviously upset Alan Morris, "Once again the camera records a tragedy. I think we are shooting the wrong film, my friend.”

  Once again. But what possible connection could the deaths of Sandra Wilson and Alden Spaulding have? It was apples and oranges.

  She left Charley to deal with more questions and reactions, including a plea from Max that they be allowed to continue shooting, since they had to stay there anyway, and went back down to what was becoming an increasingly familiar spot. She'd check in with her staff after talking to Dunne.

  The detective was already there and it was hard to read his expression. It wasn't surprise, since Charley must have told him she'd called. It was more like resignation. He turned to Ted Sullivan, who, like his boss, appeared to be able to leap from his bed into his clothes without a wrinkle or a yawn. Whereas Faith was pretty sure Chief MacIsaac still had his pajamas on underneath his rumpled tan corduroys and well-worn parka—not for him the kind of blade-sharp creases in Dunne's navy pinstriped suit trousers.