The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  As she trailed after him up the stairs to the third floor, Faith couldn’t help but think, Chums together? One a possible killer?

  “This was the servants’ quarters and I don’t use it much. I don’t have live-in help. Ian has been wearing many essential hats for many years and sees to my needs more than adequately. He is, as I said, in his own digs. The grounds are maintained by a crew from Waltham starting in the early spring. I also call them if I need snow removal.”

  Faith continued to follow, reflecting that the bond between the two men now seemed to be much closer than employer and employee. She wondered whether Ian had been in the theater as well.

  Max opened a door at the end of the narrow hall, no polished golden oak or period details up here. “This was my room.”

  Faith peered into a windowless, airless space barely large enough for the narrow iron bedstead with a thin mattress covered in blue and white ticking. A small table with a lamp was squeezed next to it. The roof sloped so sharply it would be a challenge for an adult to stand up.

  “Your room?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said, closing the door firmly. “I used to be permitted a week every year when I was a child to visit my grandparents.”

  His accent, melodious as it was, did not indicate a New England upbringing, or roots. Once again, Faith placed him in one of the boroughs—the Bronx or Brooklyn. He was quick to pick up on her quizzical look.

  “It’s a long story. Perhaps another time. Now we cross over to the other side of the house, the original Federal wing, where my quarters are.”

  Descending the staircase, he didn’t stop at the second floor where his rooms presumably were, but continued on down, turning left when they reached the grand entrance foyer.

  “No need to explore any farther except to show you the summer parlor.”

  He picked up his pace and Faith quickened hers to keep up. On this side of the foyer, the house was a rabbit warren. Rooms opened to more rooms in succession, some large, some small, a few lined with bookcases and window seats. The bookcases were filled—not with books by the yard from a decorator, but with an assortment of sizes, hard/soft covers, and subjects. A telescope on a tripod stood in front of a bay window. A profusion of Oriental carpets covered most of the floors.

  They arrived at a room that did not lead to another door but to a large arch carved with acanthus leaves. Max waved Faith through and with a flourish of his hand directed her attention to the fireplace at the far end of the room. “Ta-da!”

  The substantial andirons had been pulled forward. At the moment they were not holding logs.

  They held a coffin.

  As a finale, it was definitely final.

  “At least they cared enough to send the very best,” Max said as he and Faith walked toward the ornate mahogany casket. The lid was open and the interior was lined with tufted white velvet. “It is a recent arrival,” he added.

  Faith had seen a great many similar final resting places—it went with ecclesiastical territory—so was able to agree that what was in front of them was top of the line, adding, “As a message, not very subtle. How was it delivered?”

  “When Ian went out for his morning run last Tuesday there was an enormous packing case at the front door, the content before you. I’m a night owl—usually awake until one at least—and he’s an early bird. He discovered it around six, so it must have been placed there in the wee hours. I’m a sound sleeper and heard nothing in the night, nor did Ian back where he is.”

  “How would the delivery have gotten through the gate?” Faith asked.

  “Ian and I have puzzled over that. It couldn’t. We have a surveillance camera and there’s nothing on it for that time except the usual passing wildlife. But someone could have brought it through the woods and over the field. Perhaps using some sort of cart. The coffin is empty, or almost, so not as heavy as one in normal use.”

  “No identifying marks on the crate?”

  “Unfortunately, the donor did not include a return address for my thanks. We did some cyber sleuthing—you can buy this model online from any number of vendors. Also it’s a model that has been available for years, which may suggest forethought.”

  “A nasty thing to do, but why assume the giver has murderous intent?” Faith found herself speaking lines, too. She doubted she had ever said anything like “murderous intent” before.

  “Ah, you see, it was not completely empty. Here’s your first real clue.” Max reached into the casket and pulled out a Playbill with its familiar black logo on bright yellow. Just the sight of it gave Faith the feeling of excitement she got when an usher handed her one of the theatrical programs. Followed, once seated, by reading about the performance and looking at ads for restaurants and luxury items she couldn’t afford—always fun.

  She took the Playbill from Max’s outstretched hand. The front pictured actors dressed as angels and devils, although the costumes were unconventional—a suggestion of wings, halos, pointed tails fashioned from coat hanger-type wire. The title confirmed the roles: “Max Dane Presents” Heaven or Hell: The Musical.

  “All the guests I’ve invited after I received this, shall we say, ‘calling card,’ had a role in the production. Ian has made a list of names for you with the roles each played.” He paused. “It was my last musical production and I’m afraid it was not a success. The individuals on the list quite possibly blame me. No, make that they definitely do.”

  Faith looked at the date on the Playbill. “But this was twenty years ago!”

  Dane shook a finger at her. “I hope I have not been deceived in your abilities. As the bard put it, ‘If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’ Twenty years is but a blink of the eye, my dear. Now perhaps we could talk a bit about my birthday dinner. I thought we could close the lid and use this for a raw bar and mounds of caviar. Foie gras, too. Everything in excess.” The smile he gave her was more Lucifer than Peter at the Pearly Gates, and Faith was reminded of her Aunt Chat’s warning—“he’s not a very nice man.”

  Adrian St. John reached for his paper knife. He’d picked it up in Morocco years ago and was fond of the intricate metalwork on the hilt. It looked like a dagger, and he imagined ones like it had been put to uses other than slitting an envelope.

  He had found the letter on his desk with a small pile of not so interesting post his secretary had left for him. Rare to get what was called “snail mail” these days. The stamp indicated it was from someone in the States. His name and address had been written by a calligrapher or someone elderly enough to have been taught penmanship rather than how to keyboard.

  A swift motion with the sharp knife put paid to the frisson of suspense he’d been enjoying and he pulled out a stiff card. It was an invitation. A slow smile spread across his face and he walked over to one of the large bay windows. The gardens were not as lush as they would be come spring and summer, but he found the varying shades of green displayed by the nondeciduous trees and bushes quite beautiful. That he was a resident in Eaton Square in the heart of Mayfair tickled him immensely. Not bad for a boy from Blackpool. He looked down at the invitation again. He would be sure to name-drop—Vivian Leigh, Rex Harrison, and Sean Connery had all lived in one of Eaton Square’s houses, as well as many non-theatrical luminaries. It was London’s most elite address, save for Buckingham and Kensington palaces—and some would dispute that, placing it higher.

  There were three other enclosures besides the invitation. He pulled them out, pausing to admire his slender hands—no signs of liver spots and the only ring a signet one with his nom de plume initials. A very inside joke.

  He sat back down at his desk, purchased at one of Christie’s auctions—it had belonged to Graham Greene—and spread the sheets of paper out. There was a first-class round-trip ticket from London Heathrow to Boston, a note with information regarding a livery service that would fetch him when supplied with his flight information, and finally another stiff card. A pithy RSVP card: ___Will Attend or ___Will Not Attend. There
was a return envelope with British postage.

  Oh yes, Adrian St. John, pronounced “Sinjin,” would attend. He’d been waiting for a very long time.

  As Faith drove away from Rowan House, she looked out at the meadow, the tall grasses slightly bent in the morning sun. When she’d driven in, the sharp points had still been covered with light frost, stiff like sabers. She glanced back at the house in the rearview mirror. Now that she knew how many rooms it contained—and what they contained—it loomed even larger than when she had first approached.

  After his dramatic finish, Max had led Faith back to the kitchen, where Ian was waiting. “Ian will take it from here. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  “Please, call me Faith,” she’d said.

  “And please call me ‘Mr. Dane,’” he’d replied, his smile not quite taking the sting from his words as he left the room.

  Ian had partially made up for it. “Now, Faith, may I? And you must call me Ian; we have a few things to go over. I don’t want to keep you, as I am sure you are a very busy lady. First off, we thought it would be fun to feature some food at the birthday dinner referencing heaven or hell.”

  “Deviled Eggs, Lobster Pasta Fra Diavolo, Angel Food Cake? I think I can come up with some ideas.” (See dinner party recipes.)

  “Exactly, but we’ll need to have other offerings as well. If you could send us a few possible menus with suggestions for the rest of the meals, we can get the food part squared away. Here is the contract. If you will be so kind as to sign and date it, we’re all set for now.”

  Faith had been taken aback and said, “I’m afraid this is not the way I normally do business. I supply the contract with cost estimates and Mr. Dane or you sign it.”

  He’d given her the kind of smile she reserved for parishioners and others who required polite refusals, as in “No, I cannot cater your daughter’s wedding for cost.”

  “I think you’ll find this straightforward. It merely indicates that you will cater the meals designated, arriving Friday morning and leaving Sunday evening. I will act to serve at meals and lend a hand cleaning up. Since there will be at most ten guests plus Max and myself, it shouldn’t be too difficult. You will not be expected to do any other household tasks. The cleaners will have done their work ahead, setting up all the guest rooms, and I will act to supply the guests’ needs for more towels etcetera should they arise. And here is the deposit. As you place your food orders, we will issue further checks, but this one is, well, a nonrefundable one on our part. If for some reason the job is canceled, you keep the full amount.”

  The check had been attached to the contract. He removed the paper clip and handed it to her. Faith looked at the amount—and signed. Nothing so far had been normal about the job; so in for a penny, in for a pound. Many pounds.

  She was at the bottom of the long drive. The gates swung open slowly and she waited until the way was clear before driving through. Although she felt as if she had been at Rowan House for a very long time, it had only been a little over an hour. She’d go see Ursula and find out more about Havencrest—maybe Max Dane, too. The gates closed noiselessly behind her.

  Austin Stebbins’s car was not in Ursula’s driveway. Earlier Faith had pulled over and called Ursula to make sure it was a convenient time for a visit. She might have required a change in her living arrangements, but Ursula was by no means housebound. Besides volunteering at the library and going to Aleford’s recreation center for yoga several times a week, she also regularly strolled to meet friends for lunch at the venerable Minuteman Café with an unchanging menu that featured sandwiches like “The Gobbler,” their own roast turkey with cranberry sauce, stuffing, and mayo on plain old homemade white bread—no chichi focaccia or the like.

  She must have been watching for her out the window because she opened the front door before Faith could ring the bell. “What a delightful surprise,” Ursula said. “Come and sit down.”

  Faith immediately noticed that Ursula was wearing a soft royal blue wool dress not from Orvis or Talbots, but someplace with a bit more pizzazz. Both Ursula and Pix were unvarying in their devotion to the two purveyors’ tried-and-true offerings, although Faith had occasionally been able to get Pix into Eileen Fisher when the outlet store had opened in Burlington. Ursula was also wearing her best jewelry—the double strand of pearls Faith knew had been a gift from her late husband, Arnold, on a significant anniversary. The outfit and the fact that Ursula did not offer coffee indicated she was on her way out somewhere special—or waiting for someone special?

  There was no need to speculate. Ursula, like Pix, was genetically programmed to be straightforward. Faith herself had marveled at the trait, while not totally adopting it. There were times when needs must . . .

  “Austin, whom you met the other day, is picking me up in half an hour for lunch.”

  “How nice. Where are you going?” Ursula was too dressed up for the Café, so it was probably the Colonial Inn over in Concord. Mother and daughter were devoted to its chicken potpie.

  “We’re going to a place called L’Espalier in town. Austin thinks I’ll enjoy it.”

  “Town” meant Boston, Faith had learned early on. “Town” as in the only possible one. As for L’Espalier, it was one of Boston’s most expensive restaurants with a fabulous nontraditional French menu. It would make quite a change for Ursula, who normally ate at one of her clubs—Chilton or St. Botolph—when she wasn’t going to a museum and eating there.

  “Afterward he has an appointment with a Realtor and would like me to come along. He’s lived away for so long that he’s not familiar with the area the way he once was. He’s planning to rent until he knows where he wants to be. For now he’s staying here. Even with the student, this house is much too big and there’s room for any number of guests. Silly to pay for a hotel.”

  Was there a flash of something like rebellion in the look Ursula gave her? As if daring Faith to say something? What Faith wanted to say—but didn’t—was “Does Pix know all this?”

  Much as Faith wanted to pursue this line of conversation—how and when did Ursula meet Austin?—she was aware she didn’t have much time before the possible swain arrived to carry Mrs. Rowe off. She needed to ask Ursula about Havencrest.

  “I’ve accepted a weekend catering job the end of the month at a house in Havencrest. I’d never even heard the name. Pix said you would know more about it than she did.”

  “Goodness, I haven’t thought about Havencrest in ages,” Ursula said. “It’s the kind of place that only seems real if you are actually there and I haven’t been for many, many years. What is the name of the house? They all have names.”

  “It’s called ‘Rowan House,’ but the current owner changed it. I don’t know what it was called before.”

  “Changed it! I’m sure that wasn’t popular. It’s a funny sort of enclave—the opposite end of the spectrum from a holler I suppose. From what I remember a group of Boston businessmen decided the city wasn’t a good place to raise a family, so they joined together and purchased the acreage in the late nineteenth and on into the early twentieth centuries. One of them named the community Havencrest, since it was going to be a haven. Not the two-acre zoning some towns adopted in the nineteen fifties that we all thought was large. More like forty and fifty acres, each a kind of private park.”

  “But it’s part of Weston?”

  “Yes. They pay taxes to the town—hefty ones. Used to have private contractors for services and probably still do. They consider themselves a separate entity. Arnold had a client who insisted on meeting at his house. Wouldn’t come into the office. Too demeaning. Arnold said he always felt relieved when he made it onto route one seventeen without being turned into a toad. The place gave him the creeps! Still he was always very happy to indulge the man—a large account.”

  “The man I’m working for is Max Dane. He was the director and producer of some famous Broadway musicals. Is the name familiar? Pix said the houses don’t change hands, just genera
tions.”

  Ursula shook her head. “She’s right. It was always said that the only way a person leaves Havencrest is in a casket.”

  Faith gave a start, but Ursula didn’t notice and was continuing to speak. “The name ‘Max Dane’ is familiar, but that must be because of his career. Although I’m afraid we never got to New York City much.” Ursula gave the three words the same intonation that Tom did—as if speaking of somewhere faraway and exotic—Ulan Bator or Kilimanjaro. “I’ve never heard of a Max Dane, or any Danes, at Havencrest.”

  “But you have been there? To one of the houses?”

  “Yes, quite often growing up and once in a blue moon for some function with Arnold when I was older. But mostly when I was a girl. It was close enough to Aleford, so many Havencrest daughters went to the Cabot School here as day students, the way I did when we moved from Town. I was good friends with one of them, Helen Frost, and I’d occasionally be invited to spend a Saturday afternoon at her house. I thought it was great fun, since their chauffeur would pick me up and bring me back.”

  Faith recalled the tale Ursula had told her some years earlier about how her family came to Aleford from Beacon Hill after Ursula’s father lost almost everything in the aftermath of the Crash. The Aleford house had been left to Ursula’s mother by an aunt and was a refuge for the family.

  “The Frosts gave a big party for Helen’s sixteenth birthday. Japanese lanterns strung in the trees, lobster, and all sorts of good things to eat that most of us had never had. Helen always wore such beautiful clothes. Her mother went to Paris for hers and would bring back sketches of appropriate frocks for their dressmaker to make for Helen. I’m afraid I was terribly envious.”

  Faith gave her a smile. “Well, you are wearing a beautiful dress today and it looks couture to me.” Ursula acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

  “Helen desperately wanted to go to college. Wellesley—where dear Samantha went. Helen’s father didn’t believe in education beyond high school for women. She was being groomed for a suitable marriage. Not to a titled Englishman like so many American heiresses—Havencrest people thought that would be a step down—but a Harvard boy, not too wild, with good bloodlines, a house in town, and a cottage in Newport or Bar Harbor.”