The Body in the Cast ff-5

by Katherine Hall Page

  For a moment, she recaptured the calm she'd felt before the baby started screaming. It was quiet. Then the noise started up again. She stood up in annoyance and got out. The water splashed onto the carpet and she reached for her robe, ready to tell the nanny off Where the hell was Max? It was late. He'd said he'd be home hours ago. He would have taken care of it. Would have picked up the baby himself. He adored her. Had named her. Such a funny name, Cordelia. Evelyn had wanted something more modern like Tiffany. But she didn'tcare. One name was as good as another.

  The crying stopped suddenly, like an alarm turned off She debated getting back in the tub, but it required too much effort. Night shooting was a strain. She had to get some sleep or it would begin to show on her face.

  She wished Max had never started the film or that she had been committed to another project. Except he would have just waited for her. She hated her part. Hester Prynne. It didn't do too much for her image. Hester Prynne, an adulteress.

  She hated being in this house, in this town. She hated the whole thing.

  Naked, she walked over to the wall of mirrors lighted softly from above, dragging her robe behind her and unpinning her hair from the top of her head. Not bad. She'd exercised constantly and all through the pregnancy had rubbed cocoa butter on her disgusting belly. The doctor was amazed at how little weight she'd gained, she remembered proudly. She looked at herself closely. Unless you were as familiar with her body as she was, you'd never have noticed the difference. But there was one tiny wrinkle that would not go away and a slight slackness around her navel. When Max had discovered she was pregnant, she'd agreed to have it. Only no more. And there wouldn't be any more. She'd see to that. She couldn't plead exhaustion forever, but she could be careful—very, very careful.

  She slipped on the thick, very soft terry-cloth robe and let it slide down over one shoulder, revealing one perfectly formed breast. She struck a pose, tossing her head, moistening her lips. Not bad for her age.

  And what that was, not even Max knew for sure.

  Nine

  But the past was not dead.

  The Fairchilds were midway through their daily breakfast ritual. The baby was covered with cereal, its consistency suggesting Faith should quickly cut a strip of wallpaper and decorate her daughter. Ben was complaining that there were pictures of basketball players on the box but no cards inside. "No basketball players, either," his mother told him. "Now, please finish eating." He hadn't liked the answer and was staring off into space. Tom was doing whatever grown men did in the morning to get ready for work, which took roughly twice as long as most women. Faith had already poured and discarded two cups of hot coffee for him. When the phone rang, she reached for it as eagerly as a teenager.

  “Good morning, Faith. Have 'you got a pencil and paper?”

  It seemed an odd reason for Millicent to call, but it was always better to humor the woman.

  “Why, yes. Right here." She reached for the pad and pencil from last night.

  “Good, because I don't want you to forget to check any of these places."

  “What places?" Faith was willing to play along. Anything beat chipping encrusted food from Amy, and she needed changing, too.

  Millicent ignored the question. An agenda was an agenda.

  “The problem is, I can't go into town myself, because—and this is quite shocking—the police are watching my house.”

  It was quite shocking and also quite unbelievable. Why would the police be staking out Millicent's Colonial? Surely they had come up with more likely suspects. Then it dawned on Faith. Of course. Dunne shot up a notch in her estimation. Follow Millicent to find Penny. He couldn't know that Millicent really didn't know where Penny was. And "places" meant places Penny might be. The game was getting better and better.

  “So, you want me to go into Boston to look for Penny"

  “Not you," Millicent corrected, "Pix and you. You need someone local to help you get around.”

  Faith didn't mind having Pix along at any time. And in this instance, she could be helpful negotiating the one-way streets all in the same direction that made up Boston proper, but it hurt not to he trusted to go it alone. She wondered why Millicent was bothering with her services at all and was about to ask when Millicent handily supplied the answer.

  “You seem to be so much closer to the police force than dear Pix." It was not a compliment.

  Still, Faith was more than happy to take on the task. f she could find Penny, she might be able to find out more about Alden, and then there was the whole issue of why Penny had run away. Faith did not believe it was grief. Penelope Bartlett must know something.

  She had one more question, mostly because she was curious.

  “Why are you so sure Penny is in Boston?"

  “Besides the fact that I immediately saw the dog was in his run outside and had food for a day or two, just her overnight case is gone. She wasn't planning to go far. I took the liberty of noting what was gone when Charley and I were going over the house—her toothbrush, night cream.... Obviously, she planned to stay somewhere. But from what I could tell, only her blue suit is missing from her closet. Remember, she was wearing a brown wool dress and a navy quilted down coat from Bean's?”

  Faith had not remembered; had not even noticed, which tended to be the case with Penny's wardrobe. Millicent was a marvel. However, you wouldn't hear that from Faith's lips.

  “She was carrying her brown purse, too. I hope you're getting this all down. When we're finished, I'll call Pix while you're getting ready. Perhaps it would be best to wear something, shall we say, discreet—to blend in”

  Was Millicent suggesting that Faith's normal attire set her apart from the madding crowd? She certainly hoped so. Yet it was a good idea and she'd leave her modish large-checked blanket coat at home and wear the preppy little black Lauren she saved for funerals instead.

  “Here are the places Penny would be apt to go. Start at her club, the Chilton Club. Pix knows where it is. Her mother's a member. Penny might be having lunch there. But she isn't staying at the club, because I already checked.”

  Faith interrupted her. "But Millicent, would she go someplace so familiar? Someplace where she would be recognized?”

  Millicent was indignant. "You don't think a member of our club would call the police about another member!”

  Enough said.

  “Shall we continue? f she's not eating there, she might be at the Museum of Fine Arts. In the restaurant, not in that little café with those spindly chairs outside the gift shop and certainly not in the cafeteria. You should also check the members' room. f it was Friday, our job would be simple, because Penny would never miss symphony. The only other thing I can think of is the flower show—in Horticultural Hall on Mass. Avenue. She never misses it and bought her ticket a month ago."

  “Where do you think she might be staying? Does she have a favorite hotel—or friends in town?"

  “Of course she has friends in town and I've already called them. And she assuredly would never have had an occasion to stay in a Boston hotel" Millicent's inflection made the two words sound decidedly seamy. "She has taken tea at the Copley, though. Add it to the list. Now you had best get yourself organized. That sounds like your child in the background, so I'll say good-bye." Millicent hung up and Faith was left to cope with her child, the crying one, as opposed to Tom's, who clearly never did.

  As she took Amy upstairs to clean her, Faith made another list in her head. A "How Am I Going to Cater Tonight's Shoot and Take Care of My Children?" list. She started with Tom, who, surprisingly, thought going to look for Penny was an excellent idea. It would take his wife out of Aleford, away from further phone threats. Although Faith was pretty sure he wouldn't have been so keen if she was going by herself, but she'd take what she could get. She had been thinking about the call off and on since receiving it and had almost convinced herself it was Marta. The actress would have no trouble disguising her voice, and she might have decided her cryptic remarks at the Town Hal
l were not direct enough. Tom's voice broke into her thoughts.

  “If Arlene can watch Amy this morning and give both kids lunch, I can work at home this afternoon. And today young Benjamin will take a nap. I'm working on the eulogy for Alden and it doesn't matter where I write—it's a mighty task.”

  Faith was sympathetic. "You couldn't get someone else to do it? Like Dan Garrison? He was a friend of Alden's."

  “Alden specifically mentioned me in the funeral arrangements he outlined in his will, the lawyer said. Perhaps I was supposed to feel honored."

  “You never know, he may rise from his grave and correct your grammar. That may have been the intent.”

  She moved on to other things. "Could you call Arlene while I change my clothes?" She didn't have any round-collared blouses, but she'd assemble something demure. It was a challenge.

  “Sure, give me the baby.”

  A squeaky-clean Amy gave her father a toothless grin. Daddy's little girl. It started early.

  Before Tom could call Arlene, the phone rang. It was Pix. She told him to tell Faith to meet her in the driveway in fifteen minutes and to wear a hat and gloves. There was nothing like Pix for marshaling forces.

  Faith threw on some clothes, enough makeup to maintain the natural look she cultivated, and searched for a hat. Since she was not a member of the Royal Family, the choices were meager: a broad-brimmed straw, a vintage fawn-colored man's fedora, or a large black velvet beret. She also had a light beige stocking cap, purchased when "grunge" meant grunge, and she wasn't wearing it until the fad passed and the word reverted to what it, and these fashions, were. She doubted any of the hats would meet with Pix's approval, but she chose the beret as the best bet. It matched her coat. Gloves were no problem. Now all she had to do was get ahold of Niki. The time had come to delegate with a vengeance.

  “No problem," Niki said with obvious enthusiasm. What she had been waiting for day after day, maybe the lead would twist an ankle.

  “Are you sure? We'll be back in plenty of time to set up tonight and you know what's in the freezer ..."

  “Boss, just go. Tricia doesn't have classes today. I'll get her to come in to help. We'll be fine."

  “All right. And thank you!"

  “You do pay me, remember. But I am also glad in my own tiny way to help further the cause of justice, or whatever it is you two are doing. Happy hunting.”

  Faith hung up. She would call them later.

  Pix's Range Rover stopped at the end of the Fairchild driveway exactly on time. Faith climbed in. A spirit of adventure pervaded. Sitting high up in the car, she had the feeling they might be on the road to the Serengeti instead of Route 2 into Boston.

  “Chilton, MFA, Horticultural Hall, and the Copley," Pix chanted, "and I've added another one—the YWCA."

  “The Y? That doesn't strike me as Penny's style at all."

  “After my father died, if my mother went to the theater or a concert and the club was full, she always stayed at the Pioneer rather than drive back to Aleford in the dark. Now, of course, she's not driving anywhere, thank goodness." Pix's mother was an indomitable eighty-year-old who had reluctantly turned in her goggles and duster the year before after backing over a favorite lilac bush.

  “The Pioneer Y has been converted into apartments, but the Berkeley Street branch has rooms. Mother always says it made her feel safe to have so many women around, and I imagine Penny would think the same way. I know I would."

  “But wouldn't someone be apt to recognize her? Millicent was adamant her fellow club women would never turn her in, but these loyalties don't apply to the other places we're looking—or the streets."

  “I'm sure that's why Penny went to Boston, if that's where she is. No one is going to notice her. Think about it. Sad but true, women of Penny's age are not studied with great care, and besides, she looks like a generic New England lady—somebody's mother, somebody's aunt. Around here, she'd stick out because everybody knows her. In the city, she's anonymous.”

  Pix was right. It was what Faith had recalled during her conversation with Millicent. Penny did not exactly stand out in a crowd.

  The entrance to the Chilton Club was on Common- wealth Avenue, and since they didn't have a prayer of finding a parking space nearby at lunchtime, they went straight to the garage at the Prudential Center and walked over. For once in her life, Faith did not have a plan. Fortunately, Pix did.

  “I'm not a member, but Mother is, so I'll say we're meeting her for lunch. You can be searching for a bathroom if anyone asks, which no one will, especially since you left that hat in the car. I'll stay at the reception desk and make a show of peering out the door and so forth, asking for a message and wondering where can mater be. This should give you enough time to look into the dining room. I can show you where it is from outside. It's got beautiful long windows.”

  Faith was impressed. Maybe she should give up catering and start a detective agency with Pix. John Dunne's worst nightmare come true.

  The Chilton Club exuded a quiet elegance suggestive of monogrammed china and silver bowls of cut flowers atop a Chippendale chest. It was unmistakably a women's club. The large living room just off the hall from the reception desk had butter yellow walls that picked up the background of the long chintz drapes. Comfortable sofas and chairs with needlepoint seats were arranged with a view toward both conversation and silent escape. The room was empty save for one lone lady deeply immersed in the Wall Street Journal.

  In another direction, the buzz of conversation drifting from the dining room was definitely higher-pitched than that occurring some blocks away at the Somerset. Faith looked into the room hoping for first time luck. The windows were beautiful and there was a nice Welsh rabbit sort of smell in the air, although she did not actually spot the dish. She did not spot Penny, ei- the. There were several Penny look-alikes, and Faith realized this would be happening all day in the venues they'd be casing. No one came over to ask her what she was doing there—too well-bred—so she double-checked the room.

  She rejoined Pix, who was embellishing the story considerably and had obviously whipped her audience of the two desk attendants into a state of advanced concern for the elderly Mrs. Rowe.

  When Pix saw Faith shake her head in a silent no, she suddenly looked at her watch—a watch so fully equipped as to tell the time and rate of exchange in Istanbul, among other things—and exclaimed, "Goodness, something must be wrong with my watch. It says it's the twenty-second today." She tapped it speculatively.

  “Pix," said Faith, catching on immediately, "It is the twenty-second."

  “Oh, you're all going to hate me. I thought it was the twenty-third. That's when Mother's asked us for lunch!”

  f anyone hated her, they were too polite to say so, or perhaps it was relief that Mrs. Rowe was not prone nearby in one of those Boston oxymorons, a pedestrian crossing.

  They got out quickly and hastened down the stairs to the sidewalk. "You were brilliant," Faith congratulated her friend.

  “Thank you. We can cross the Chilton off our list. After you left, I steered the conversation around to Penny. How Mother was so worried about her good friend and so on. They'd all heard about Mrs. Bartlett's disappearance and said no one had seen her."

  “Car or MBTA to the Fine Arts?"

  “Let's leave the car where it is and take the subway. If we don't find her at the museum, Horticultural Hallis two stops away. I have tickets for the show, by the way. Mine and the one I got for my sister-in-law, but this is more important. Besides, she's always saying she kills every plant she touches, and the sight of all those blooming successes might be too much for her.”

  A thorough search of not only the upstairs restaurant but the café and cafeteria at the Museum of Fine Arts—despite Millicent's imprecations, they had checked to be sure—yielded nothing. It had been the old "having lunch with Mother" routine again for the restaurant. This time, Faith went solo while Pix checked the members' room. Back at the entrance, they agreed their search had d
one nothing except make them incredibly hungry. Just as they were about to leave, Pix said, "We never checked outside! You know how nuts Penny is about fresh air. She might have taken a sandwich into the Garden Court to eat”

  It was a sunny and surprisingly warm day for March. Not what Faith would call warm, but what all her neighbors, coats open, hats off, called warm.

  “I suppose you may be right," she agreed, the idea of a picnic on a par with eating chilled vichyssoise in an igloo.

  They retraced their steps across the museum's marble floors and down the stairs to the cafeteria. The door to the courtyard was shut but unlocked, and, sure enough, there were people eating lunch at the wrought-iron tables surrounded by leafless branches and brittle ivy. A woman in a navy down coat similar to Penny's sent them racing across the garden. Halfway there, they realized she had a toddler in tow, and even if Penny thought the ploy would help her avoid detection, it was hard to think where she could obtain a child at such short notice. There were days when Faith could have helped her out, but this was not one of them.

  Out on Huntington Avenue at the trolley stop, Pix wondered aloud whether the whole thing wasn't a waste of time.

  “I'm beginning to think Penny hopped a plane for parts unknown. Disappearing from Aleford was such a strange thing to do that looking in her familiar haunts doesn't match up. At the least, we should be canvassing X-rated movie theaters or Frederick's of Hollywood."

  “You may have a point," said Faith, moving from foot to foot, regarding her frosty breath and wondering where the train was. It was a peculiarity of Boston to take you from underground, above ground, and back down all in a matter of a few stops. "However, I am not going to be the one to tell Millicent we skipped some of the places on her list."

  “Oh, I'm not suggesting we give up. I just don't think we're going to find her.”

  The train arrived, plunged underground, and deposited them at their spot.

  They emerged from beneath the streets to face the turn-of-the-century facade of Horticultural Hall. It was a stately grandame of a building, brick, with a great deal of exterior decoration in the form of elaborate ornamental iron balconies and stonework. Over the entrances, three fruit-garlanded roundels in the style of Della Robbia welcomed those in search of flora. The middle one sported a nymph clad in trailing diaphanous garments, hands clutching bouquets, who floated high above the top of the globe, peeking through a blanket of clouds. Faith had never really looked at the building before and was impressed.