The Body in the Cast (30 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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“Whoa there. I never thought I'd be saying these words to my spouse, but I'm going to give you twenty-four hours, then we go to the police and you and Pix tell all. I'm assuming there's a very, very, very good reason you're not saying where Penny is, because I'm afraid all this more than qualifies as impeding the course of an investigation.”
Privately, Faith thought Tom was being a little high-handed with his time limit and three verys, but she agreed.
“All right, except give us until Saturday. I have the funeral tomorrow, then work. We may need a bit more time.”
“For what?”
“I'm not sure,” she admitted, “but it's not only time for us to try to figure out what's been going on. It's also to allow the police to track down the killer.”
“Very gracious of you.”
The eulogy must be going extremely slowly. Tom was almost never sarcastic. She gave him a big kiss. “Why don't you run the letter over to the chief while I get the kids up? I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said ruefully.
 
One of the occupational hazards of being married to a minister was that one ended up attending a great many funerals. Over time, Faith expected to become inured to the solemn ritual and
finality of the service, which always prompted fervent prayers of her own for the well-being of everyone she knew, but at the moment she was far from it. Alden Spaulding's obsequies were no exception, and she sat in church the next morning reciting a litany, starting with Tom and the children and extending to Mr. Reilly, who brought fresh eggs from his chickens to the parsonage, along with pumpkins in the fall and pansies in the spring.
The church was filled to capacity, despite the bad weather. It was cold and a light rain was falling. Faith recognized many Alefordians, but there were also strangers, and she doubted if all were loyal workers from COPYCOPY come to pay their last respects. More likely, they were those odd individuals drawn to the spectacle by their own lurid imaginations, fed by the media. It was ghoulish, like those drivers that slowed down to get a
really
good look at an accident.
The organist was playing. Brahms, Faith thought. She was fairly good at classical music after years of listening to it at church and at home—Tom Petty and other heartbreakers of her adolescence had been relegated strictly to her Walkman.
The slow, sad strains sent her mind wandering pensively to an odd conversation she'd had the night before with Maxwell Reed during one of the breaks in the shooting. She'd been alone in the kitchen, preparing a new tray of sandwiches to take upstairs. He'd come to get a bottle of his Calistoga water. After learning of his penchant from Cornelia, she had stocked plenty for him and anyone else who wanted it. When he'd walked in with his request, Faith had wondered why the PA or someone else wasn't doing the fetching and carrying. He'd answered her unspoken thought.
“Wanted to get away for a minute and it's too damn cold to go outside.”
He'd sat down in one of the chairs at the table and Faith had gone about her business as silently as possible. But it was not solitude he'd sought. It was an audience, a small audience. He was in his ubiquitous corduroy pants and a crew-necked
sweater over a turtleneck. The sweater had a hole in the sleeve. He hadn't shaved in a while and Faith could see there was a lot of white coming in. It didn't show so much in his blond hair, standing on end now as if he'd been running his hand through it all night. He looked rumpled but full of energy.
He took off his thick-lensed glasses and polished them on his sleeve. His eyes were fantastic—deep pools of blue in which a girl might seriously consider drowning.
“When I'm making a picture, nothing else matters to me. I don't think about anything else. If I could, I'd have everyone live on the set and shoot around the clock. I suppose this seems pretty callous in light of all that has happened.”
Faith made an appropriate noncommittal murmur.
“It will hit me later. When it's in the can. I don't want to think about Sandra now. Or that old guy, whoever he was.”
He'd gone to the fridge and taken another bottle of water, then returned to the table.
“Maybe I'm a hypocrite. Pretending what I'm doing is so God Almighty important that I don't have to think about other things. My wife. My kid.”
The man had clearly been on the couch, and Faith was certain she was a stand-in. She nodded and asked a question. The role called for it.
“Your wife?”
“Yeah, Evelyn. We've been married for years. Going public is not good for her image or maybe for mine, either. But everybody knows.”
Everybody did not know. Cornelia didn't and Faith was sure Sandra Wilson hadn't known, either.
“Hypocrisy.” Max was continuing to associate freely. “The Scarlet Letter is a story about hypocrisy—maybe that's what drew me to it in the first place. I never read it when I was a kid. I picked it up a couple of years ago and it blew me away. All the phoniness. All those people pretending to be something or someone they weren't. The townspeople. Chillingworth. Even Hester. She put the letter on, but she didn't feel guilty. She'd
have done the same thing all over again, even though she was married. And Cappy, I mean Dimmesdale, he didn't get caught, but he was guilty—not so much for the adultery as for the cover-up. He didn't deserve her. Hawthorne knew that. That's why he killed him off. The governor's sister, the witch, is the only truth-teller. I see A as the perfect metaphor for the hypocrisy of our time—the Watergates, the Irangates, the fucking of a whole country.”
It would be the rain forest soon, Faith was sure.
“And the environment. Yeah.” He'd closed his eyes. “When we move up from Hester and Dimmesdale in the forest, we'll go high enough to show a dump or some nuclear power plant. Something toxic.” He'd opened his eyes and focused his gaze on Faith for the first time. “Anything like that around here?” He hadn't waited for an answer, but bolted out the door. “Thanks for making me think of the idea—oh, and the food is great.”
After he'd left, Faith considered once and for all abandoning her Reed/Chillingworth theory. This was a man who would never have done anything that would get in the way of making his picture—unless, of course, he had an ingenue PA who could replace the star. Maybe Faith wouldn't totally give up on it yet. There was still the strong possibility Evelyn was the intended victim. If there was ever an example of an obsessive personality, it was Maxwell Reed. If he thought Evelyn was having an affair with Cappy, that might have goaded him into thinking the picture would be even more of a masterpiece with Sandra. He might not actually have planned to kill the one he loved, just make her very, very sick.
Alden's last rites were moving right along. Tom had managed to get Dan Garrison to participate, asking him to read a psalm, Psalm 90. Dan read well and did justice to the beautiful words: “For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.” He continued on, soon reaching “Thou hast set our iniquities before thee; our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.”
On the other side of the aisle, two rows ahead of Faith, Audrey Heuneman stood up when Dan said “‘secret sins.'” She was a petite woman with short light brown hair, always well dressed. She was standing very straight and very still. She looked taller. Dan stopped, momentarily startled, then went on with the reading. Audrey seemed about to speak. Sitting at her side, James's face was an enigma—was it pain, sadness, embarrassment? Perhaps all three. His wife reached for her coat and left the pew, walking rapidly down the aisle. James followed immediately. The front door closed with a bang behind them.
The thrill-seekers had gotten their thrill.
It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself.
Every bone in Faith's body wanted to follow the Heunemans down the aisle, even as her mind was sensibly alerting her to the further scandal that would cause. The funeral was already destined to join such other historic notables as Peter Smyth‘s—the casket lid fell off when the pallbearers tilted slightly to the left—and Susannah Prebble's—her daughter wore a crimson beaded cocktail dress.
Faith had a pretty good idea of what Alden Spaulding's “secret sins” might have been in regard to Audrey Heuneman. The Bartletts hadn't been watching as closely as they thought.
Instead of dashing off to test her theory, Faith had to remain where she was through Tom's eloquently circumspect eulogy, which segued from involvement in civic activities immediately to ah, sweet mystery of life—and death. By the time they all rose for the last hymn, “I Cannot Think of Them as Dead,” she was ready to scream, not sing.
And there was still the burial service to endure before she could talk to Audrey. At least Faith didn't have to work today.
The filming the night before had ended much earlier than Tuesday's, but Max had decided not to go on location until the afternoon. Apparently, he was going to spend the morning with Nils, going over the dailies and figuring out where they were. Despite recent events, the picture was on schedule. The producers would be pleased.
This meant no lunch, only snacks and the craft services table, which Pix and Niki were handling. Faith figured she could pick up Amy at the sitter's and then pay a call on the Heunemans. She'd already arranged for Ben to play at a friend's in case the funeral went past his schooltime.
The Spaulding family plot was at Mt. Auburn cemetery in Cambridge, thirty minutes from Aleford. The time to be in Mt. Auburn—for the living, that is—was in the spring, when its beautifully landscaped 164 acres were in full bloom. The venerable garden cemetery was the final resting place of many famous people, serving as a pleasant and—of course—educational outing for Cantabrigians and their neighbors. One of Faith's favorite spots was Mary Baker Eddy's grave, complete with an apocryphal story of a telephone to God on the site. Such a device would certainly make life easier, but even with call waiting, it would, no doubt, be impossible to get through. She drove past the impressive monument, following several cars behind the hearse and attendant limousine carrying Daniel Garrison, his wife, and poor Tom. A minister's lot was often not a happy one. Faith had insisted on her own transport and desperately hoped she could get out of going back to the Garrisons' for the baked meats after the service.
She parked and went over to the new grave. The press had been barred from both services, contenting themselves with exterior shots. And the interest of the ghouls at the church service had apparently not been sufficient for the drive to Cambridge. There were very few people to say the final farewell to Alden. Which made Charley MacIsaac and John Dunne stand out all the more. Faith was not surprised to see them and assumed they must have been sitting in the church balcony
earlier, keeping an eye on things. Dunne had told her once that it was amazing how many murderers were unable to resist the temptation to attend their victims' funerals. Whether it was from a fear that they might not have done a thorough enough job, remorse, or simply to gloat, they came. Remembering this, Faith looked at the faces gathered around the elaborate coffin, heaped with mounds of gladioli, presumably by direction of the deceased, as was everything else—save Audrey's performance—at the services. As Faith waited for Tom to find his place, she wondered whether she would like these flowers better if they were not so indelibly associated with headstones. It was one of life's many unanswerable questions—along with who among those gathered here this morning, heads bowed, hands clasped, might have picked up the two-by-four that irretrievably knocked Alden out of the running for selectman.
Faith eliminated herself, Tom, Charley, and John to start, then slowly examined the others. Most were known to her—parishioners—and it was hard to imagine what possible reasons they could have had for killing Alden. Disliking him, yes, but actually committing a mortal sin, no. Dan Garrison was not a member of First Parish, but again, why would he want to get rid of Alden just when the man might be at the point of attaining a position of power in the town? A position in which he might even be able to throw a little work in the path of his friend's contracting business.
The person emerging as a distinct possibility was not with them. She'd tried to sit through Alden's funeral rites and couldn't. Still, she hadn't been able to stay home. Faith wished Tom weren't doing such a good job and would speed things up a bit. She wanted to talk to Audrey. Audrey, who just happened to bump a table, sending an urn of hot coffee Alden's way. Audrey, who had publicly declared that if Alden thought he was going to win the election, he was dead wrong.
And he was.
 
In the end, Faith knew better than to skip the Garrisons' post-funeral gathering. The congregation might think she was neglecting
her husband's duties. Once again, John Dunne and Charley MacIsaac were in attendance. They must be seeing a great deal of each other lately, she thought. Their friendship, dating back to Faith's own maiden voyage on the waters of detection, seemed to have increased markedly during subsequent investigations. They were sitting side by side in two chairs by the picture window in the Garrisons' 1950s split-level, which was not the one remodeled on “This Old House.” Dunne's head was slightly inclined toward Charley, who seemed to be regaling him with the life histories of everyone in the room. Charley had a tumblerful of something other than fruit juice and Dunne was drinking coffee. A plate stacked high with spongy white-bread finger sandwiches sat on a table between them. The mound was steadily diminishing as each man systematically reached for another as soon as one passed his lips. They reminded Faith of Ben's book
Frog and Toad Are Friends.
The moment they saw her, they both rose. To save them the trouble—and because they looked so quaint, if that was indeed the right word—she went over and pulled up a chair.
She figured she could circle the room, thank the Garrisons, whisper something in Tom's ear, and be out in fifteen minutes. She'd kept her coat on, the black one, but unbuttoned it, revealing a dark gray Nipon suit. However, first she knew what was coming.
“We understand you've been getting some interesting mail lately,” John said between mouthfuls.
Charley gave her a baleful look. “Come on, Faith, the stamp wasn't even canceled. How did you get that letter?”
“I suppose it must have been delivered by hand. We were certainly relieved to learn Penny was all right.” She crossed her legs, considered a sandwich, and then came to her senses.
“I don't think the lady is telling us everything, Charley. Remind me of this the next time she wants to know something like whose fingerprints we found on the light switch in the Town Hall's basement.”
He was so unfair. Maybe she could get Dale Warren to
unwittingly spill the beans, because she wasn't going to—no matter what incentives they posed to reveal Penny's whereabouts.
“Why is it so important that you find Penny? She didn't murder Alden.”
Charley and John exchanged glances. She was beginning to think they'd rehearsed the routine.
“How do we know when we can't talk to her?” Charley pointed out reasonably.
“Because you know Penny, even if John doesn't!” Faith retorted.
“Why did she run off?”
Dunne almost got her. She stood up. It was time to go.
“Mrs. Bartlett probably thought you'd arrest her and the real killer would remain at large.”
So there.
They watched her work her way through the crowd.
“I'll have Sully put a tail on her.”
“Good idea. Want some more sandwiches?”
 
It was an hour before Faith pulled into the Heunemans' sloping driveway in the Crescent Hill section of town. Amy needed changing and Faith had decided to also. The suit was a little severe. She stocked the diaper bag with toys, and the Snugli, in case Amy could be convinced to nestle quietly against her mother. She buckled her daughter securely into her car seat and received a cheerful smile for her troubles. “Amy,” “beloved” —the name had been a good choice.
Faith was feeling cheerful. Much to her delight, she'd managed to get Dale to give her the information John and Charley had dangled tantalizingly in front of her. She'd called the station immediately upon her return and, as she hoped, he was the only one around. Charley was still savoring the feast at the Garrisons'. “Oh dear,” Faith had said, “I think he wanted to get my fingerprints again—to eliminate them from the ones on the basement light switch.”
“I don't think so, Mrs. Fairchild,” Dale had reassured her. “We didn't find any prints on the switch. In fact, we haven't found any prints anywhere they should be. It was all wiped clean. Don't worry about it.” Faith had thanked him profusely. Such a nice boy.
Crescent Hill had been the brainchild of a group of Cambridge architects about thirty years earlier. They'd purchased the large tract of land collectively and created a small community of unique houses, complete with a shared pool and park. Over the years, the group had gone on to greater fame and fortune. The houses were highly prized—not by people of Millicent's ilk but by everyone else. Most sold through word of mouth before they even reached the market. They were set far apart and now that the landscaping had matured, it was hard to see them from the road.
Faith located the Heunemans' by the name on the mailbox, turned up the drive, and parked in the carport. The house had a dramatic glassed-in entryway on one side, next to a small pond stocked with goldfish in the summer. The sun had burst through the clouds shortly after the funeral, and passing from the cold of March into the warmth of this solarium made Faith regret the lack of such an amenity at the parsonage. She rang the bell.
If Audrey was surprised to see Faith at her door, she did not show it. She asked her in, duly admiring the baby. James was nowhere in sight and had apparently returned to work.
Faith refused an offer of coffee. She sometimes felt she was swimming in it in Aleford, and it was never espresso. Somewhat awkwardly, she sat down on part of the large sectional sofa in the second-floor living room, which overlooked the yard, and unzipped Amy's snowsuit.
“I think I know why you left the service so suddenly this morning,” she began.
Two bright red spots appeared on both of Audrey's cheeks. “It's really not something I care to discuss.”
Faith felt she had to continue. She knew Penny would agree.
“I don't mean to push you into talking about anything you don't wish to, but I think in this case, it might make you feel better.”
Audrey started to interrupt.
“No, please, let me tell you what I came to say and then you can do whatever you want. I have learned a great deal about Alden Spaulding since his death, and there is no question that he was a very disturbed individual, especially sexually.”
Audrey breathed in sharply. She looked alarmed.
“He tried to molest his own half sister, Penny, when she was a child. She didn't tell anyone until she got married and her husband confronted Alden, who denied it. The Bartletts thought their warning, and surveillance, would prevent any other attacks. But I don't think they were right.”
“No,” Audrey said softly, “they weren't.”
Holding Amy on her lap, Faith moved closer to Audrey. The woman started to sob uncontrollably and Faith put an arm around her. The tears were streaming down Faith's cheeks, as well. It was only when the bewildered baby began to add her own cries that the two women pulled apart and Audrey, taking a tissue from her pocket, said, “You may not want any, but I have to have some coffee—or something else.”
In the kitchen, with Amy comfortably ensconced in her mother's lap, daintily devouring the Cheerios Audrey had spread in front of her, Faith felt enormously angry—angry that she had attended this man's funeral; angry that she had been correct.

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