The Body in the Cast (20 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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Pix had been a godsend. Her organizational abilities were phenomenal. Besides taking over the books, she'd worked out schedules for everyone. Have Faith was beginning to resemble the proverbial well-oiled machine, perhaps olive-oiled in this case—the good kind, extravirgin, first cold-pressed from Lucca.
Faith's initial stop was the Macleans'. As the books put it, Ben had trouble with “transitions” and so raised holy hell when he saw his mother arrive to take him away. Faith characterized it rather as an understandable unwillingness to leave a good party for plain old home. Whatever it was, it was a nuisance. She managed to get him away with a contradictory combination of threats and promises. He was somewhat quieted by the prospect of playing at the kitchens for a while. Amy beamed quietly throughout. It wasn't her turn yet.
Pix and Niki had already arrived by the time the Fairchilds walked in. It took a few minutes to get the kids settled, then Faith joined the other two women, who were looking through sample menus for ideas.
After a while, their talk drifted away from ratatouille and chicken pot pie—Faith made a delectable one with a puff pastry crust, lots of chicken, and a creamy sauce with a touch of sage. But the conversation did not turn to the subject uppermost in Faith's mind. Pix was much more interested in talking about the town elections than the murder. She wasn't sure she even knew who Sandra Wilson was, she'd told Faith when Faith had originally brought the news. It wasn't that Pix didn't care; it was as with everybody else, Sandra had not made much of a lasting impression—at least so far as Faith could tell.
“March twenty-sixth is only nine days away! If we can't clear the air, Alden is certain to win. I'm getting so mad about all this. Every time I see him in the center, I want to break his other wrist—if the left one really is. Sam and I have our doubts.”
“Me, too. But I'm not so certain Alden's a shoo-in. What about James Heuneman?” Faith tended to overlook him, as did most of the Aleford electorate.
“He's not mounting much of a campaign and will probably take votes away from Penny, not Alden.”
“Won't people see him as a compromise candidate?”
“People don't want a compromise candidate. They want one who stands for something definite.”
Faith told them about Millicent's visit the night before. Pix was elated.
“If Tom can't convince Penny, then nobody can.” Faith half-expected her friend to break out into one of her old high school cheers: “Tom, Tom, he's our man! If he can't do it,
nobody
can.” She'd be willing to bet that Pix could still turn a mean cartwheel, too.
“Millicent is sure Penny is hiding something, because she's not good at deception. Millicent referred to their girlhood days and said Penny never could tell a lie.”
“Their
‘girlhood days'!” Niki rolled her eyes expressively. “Millicent Revere McKinley has got to be at least three days older than water. She
wishes
they shared their girlhood days.” Niki was not a big fan of Ms. McKinley's, finding the lady's habit of dropping by to nibble more than a tad annoying. “Let her hire us if she wants to eat up all our food,” she'd told Faith.
When Pix and Faith finished laughing, Pix said, “Millicent has, let us say, an air of permanency about her, but I'm sure she and Penny are contemporaries—give or take a few years.”
“Say ten or twenty,” Niki retorted.
Faith sent everyone home—after all, it was Saturday night—and soon was locking the place up, bound for home and hearth herself.
Both children dined unfashionably early and by 6:30 Faith was harboring hopes of a hot bath and early bed—for herself. She was startled by a knock on the back door and even more surprised when sixteen-year-old Samantha Miller, carrying a pizza box—a rare sight in the Fairchild household—walked into the kitchen.
“Hi, Mrs. Fairchild. Reverend Fairchild called and said for me to tell you that you're to go straight upstairs and change your clothes. Leave the kids to me. You're going out to dinner.” She plunked the pizza box, presumably her own repast, on the table and eagerly lifted Amy from the windup swing. Sam was one of those teenage girls who doted on small children. Pix vacillated from thinking it was a lovely trait to worrying that it would provoke ideas of early motherhood. Sam's oft-stated intent was to be a marine biologist, marry at twenty-five, and have her kids by thirty, but in her mother's worrying mode, Pix made frequent references to the best-laid plans, and so forth. Faith's money was on Sam.
Intrigued, and impressed that her husband had been able to find a sitter on a Saturday night, truly an act of God, Faith ran upstairs to get ready. Tom walked into the bathroom as, still damp from a shower, she was putting on her makeup.
“What's going on?” she asked as he grabbed her from behind. She turned to meet his embrace. A moment later, he answered, “What's going on is, I am taking my beautiful wife to dinner. You—make that we—need a night out.”
“What a terrific idea! Where are we going?”
“Claude's. So put on a nice frock and get a move on. You know Sam will take care of everything.”
“This feels like a fairy tale,” Faith said as she rummaged hastily through her closet, pulling out a fawn-colored soft suede tunic by Michael Kors. It was her favorite dress this season and she always felt very sexy in it, sliding it ever so slightly off one shoulder.
“And the nice part is, you don't have to kiss a frog to get the prince.”
As she finished her makeup, Faith thought what a relief it was to talk nonsense.
 
Chez Claude was a short drive away in Acton. Claude Miquel, the chef, who owned the restaurant with his wife, Trudy, had been one of Faith's discoveries soon after moving to Aleford.
The Parisian had come to Acton by way of Chez Pauline on the rue Villedo and Maison Robert in Boston. Now, in a cozy restored farmhouse, he did a superlative job cooking the traditional dishes he knew best.
Over a glass of kir in one of the smaller dining rooms, the Fairchilds were having their usual discussion of which favorite to order.
“We know we want the onion soup, the gratinée, first,” Faith declared, her mouth watering. It was the perfect choice for a cheerless winter night. She had never tasted a better one, even in France. Claude topped his rich onion-laden stock with several kinds of cheese melted over a thick slice from one of his crusty baguettes.
“The pâté de maison
is so good, too, though. But you're right, the soup is perfect for tonight. Are you in the mood for meat or fish?”
“Definitely meat. I want to discuss something with you. It seems crazy, only I can't put it out of my mind, and I need hearty, chewable food.”
“Ah, Mistress Fairchild. I thought something ailed thee.” Tom had been rereading Hawthorne, too.
The kir and the glowing copper colors of the pleasant country French decor in the room were making Faith feel quite mellow.
“Not as bad as all that. Just an idea. How about going all out and splitting the Chateaubriand?”
“But then we'll miss the duck à l'orange.”
“Tom. We live in Aleford. We can come back.”
“Béarnaise sauce it is and a bottle of Cotes du Rhône.”
I should be thinking quite creatively before the night is out, Faith said to herself.
The steaming soup arrived and as Tom stuck his spoon in eagerly, he said, “All right, let's have it. It was partly to give you a chance to talk that I engineered this whole thing. What's been going on lately has been strictly
pas devant les enfants.”
An undergraduate year in France had left him permanently
in love with the country and prone to French phrases and Franglais—all of which had increased due to their recent sojourn in Lyon. A sojourn that did have its rocky moments, but by concentrating on memories of certain meals, certain people, and the light on the hills in Provence, those other moments had taken on pebblelike proportions—most of the time.
“And partly by a lust for Claude's cooking,” Faith added.
“Certainement, mon petit chou
. So, what's up?”
“I can't stop thinking about Sandra Wilson. I know it's irrational, but I feel responsible. I owe it to her to find out who did it.”
“It's not irrational to wish you could have saved her, but it is to think you have to track down her killer. Be sensible, Faith.”
“But none of this has been sensible. Since I started this job, I've felt as if I've been watching a movie of a movie. Even before Sandra was killed. It's been a very strange, sort of disassociated sensation. Today, especially, I began thinking how blurred the boundaries between life and art are. I know I'm beginning to sound like a sophomore who's just discovered Joyce, but where it's led me is to wonder if the answer lies in the fact that some of the people in the film are forgetting to put aside their characters when they wipe off their makeup.”
Tom reached for Faith's hand. His bowl was empty. He was contemplative. “Many actors and actresses find themselves living their parts after the camera stops—particularly in roles that require great intensity. It's got to be confusing, and maybe after a while it is hard to remember which face is the mask. Do you have anyone special in mind?”
Faith's answer was vinous stream of consciousness.
“There are, or were, two Hesters, and at first I thought it was Hester/Evelyn he was obsessed by. There was the way he looked at her—at them—at the dinner party, and there's no question that he's enormously protective of her. It's Max—or rather Roger Chillingworth. Sometimes I can't tell where one leaves off and the other begins.”
“What do you think this means?”
“It's all confused, because now I'm beginning to think the cup was meant for Evelyn. Max didn't ask her to the screening the other night. He seemed entranced by Hester/Sandra. Except he still seems very jealous of Cappy. When he saw him with Evelyn at the dinner table, Max made her move. Then when they walked in together after Sandra had passed out, he looked unbelievably angry. Of course, he was upset at the situation and at me for suggesting the call to the police. Evelyn went over to him immediately, almost as if she was afraid. She immediately assumed the poison was meant for her.”
“So you think Max or Roger, whatever, put the chloral hydrate in the cup?”
“He stopped the shooting just before Sandra took a drink. That way he could have been sure Evelyn would drink it. Or thought he was.”
Trudy Miquel appeared and showed them the succulent piece of meat, beaming as she presented the platter for their approval. It was done to a turn, a very short turn. They oohed and aahed appropriately. After she left, they resumed their conversation.
“What you're suggesting is that Max wanted to replace Evelyn with Sandra, both because he was jealous of Cappy and because he was besotted with Sandra.”
“I know it sounds farfetched. But I think the two women are merged into one Hester in his director's mind—and he's in love with both. Two aspects of one character. And he's split, too. The director wants the best for the role, which might be Sandra. The actor—Chillingworth, the jealous husband—wants to get even with his wife for her adultery. The result is the same. A potion—remember it wasn't normally a lethal dose.”
“It's not impossible. Jealousy and ambition are powerful motives, yet why would he sabotage his own movie?”
“Maybe he merely intended to scare Evelyn. Give her a warning. Or make her just ill enough so Sandra would have to take her place. Or maybe he can't help himself. And there's another thing.”
The food arrived, postponing further speculation. The moment
the waitress left, Faith took a sip of wine and said, “What if Cordelia isn't Max's child? What if she's Cappy's and Max has just found out? It really would be like
The Scarlet Letter.”
She waited for her husband to stop chewing and put a dollop of the béarnaise sauce, redolent with tarragon, on her plate.
“Do you know that Cappy and Evelyn even knew each other before? Other than as box-office draws?” Clearly Tom thought the whole thing was extremely speculative.
“No, but Cappy spent a lot of time at the party playing with the baby, and the baby doesn't resemble Max in the slightest. Then there was that time I saw them together at The Dandy Lion, right after Evelyn got out of the hospital. And she held hands with both Cappy and Max at the screening.” As she listed her evidence, she had to admit it was far from an airtight case.
Tom was shaking his head. “One lunch does not an affair make—usually. Nor does holding hands qualify as foreplay, especially in the presence of a room full of people.” He poured himself some more wine. “It would make a good novel—Max could film it instead and poor Nathaniel could stop spinning in his grave. Sometimes life does imitate art—how's that for sophomoric?—but I can't believe that Maxwell Reed is this crazy. He stands to lose too much: his movie, the love of his life, and the clincher—possibly many, many years in prison.”

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