The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  Ursula, as was her custom, opened the door before they had crossed the wide porch. “Such a nice surprise. Come in. Pix, you haven’t met Austin Stebbins, who is staying with me until he decides where he wants to settle now that he’s back in the Boston area.”

  She motioned them into the living room. Every time Faith entered the space, she was reminded how much she loved it. On this cold January night, it radiated comfort from the jewel tones of the Oriental carpet that covered almost the entire floor to the heavy gold and Prussian blue damask drapes, which picked up the colors of the comfortable wing chairs and Federal-style couch. A mahogany gateleg table stood against the wall beneath a bull’s-eye mirror. Ursula, or someone else, had placed a large blue and white export china vase filled with dried yarrow and other flowers on the table. The mirror reflected the yellow blossoms, surrounded by flames from the fireplace, on the far wall.

  Austin stood up, came over to Pix, extended his hand, and said, “I’ve heard so much about you, Pix, and it’s past time we met. It was a pleasure to see your daughter when she came by here the other day, but I’ve been especially looking forward to meeting you.” He smiled as they shook hands and continued to smile as he turned toward Faith. “Lovely to see you again. I hope the call from your husband that interrupted us last time wasn’t anything major.”

  Ben’s Mandy Meltdown. Nothing major. More like catastrophic. “Oh no. Everything is fine,” Faith said.

  “Good,” Ursula broke in. “Now sit by the fire Austin made. I’m hopeless at this sort of thing. You’ll have some sherry? Or brandy? I seem to have acquired a very fine bottle of Remy Martin as a gift.” She was wearing another blue dress—cowl necked—and Faith thought she detected traces of makeup.

  Pix shot Faith a look. Ursula had an ancient merit badge for fire making and could get a roaring blaze going with a few twigs and a piece of flint. And the brandy was Ursula’s favorite; there was always a bottle tucked away for what she termed “a tipple.”

  Faith said, “I’d better be getting back” at the same time as Pix answered, “Love some brandy.”

  “Which is it?” Ursula asked, looking amused.

  Pix sat on the couch, leaned back, and folded her arms across her chest. “Brandy. Faith, you said Amy’s at a sleepover and you left supper for Ben and Tom. Sam is picking some up for himself, so we have all the time in the world.”

  “I’ll put the cupcakes—you’ll love the orange mocha, Ursula—in the fridge, and I can get the drinks,” Faith said. She’d noted that Ursula and Austin both had snifters.

  The Rowes’ home had been built when thick plaster walls and heavy wooden doors were the norm, so she couldn’t hear the conversation from the kitchen. Quickly she put the cupcakes away, poured herself a glass of water, and grabbed the brandy, which was on the counter, and another snifter. In a matter of moments, she was back in the living room.

  Pix had settled farther back against the cushioned couch and had the kind of determined look on her face that Faith knew spelled trouble. She hoped that Mrs. Miller wouldn’t embark on some version of twenty questions. Not that Pix would be rude, but if ever inquiring minds wanted to know, this was one of those times.

  She’d hoped in vain. Pix got right to it. “I’m curious. How are you acquainted with my mother, Mr. Stebbins? I don’t believe I have ever heard her mention you,” Pix asked, taking a generous swallow of brandy from the snifter Faith had handed her.

  Oh dear, Faith thought. Her friend’s question was phrased not just in a rude way, but a belligerently rude way. As if her mother had met the man, wearing a Brooks navy blue blazer, seated calmly by the fire, in a Kasbah drug den.

  Austin had been holding his snifter in both hands, warming the brandy. He carefully put it down on a coaster on the table by the side of the chair. Ursula was giving her daughter the look that in childhood would have meant sitting on the stairs for a while.

  “Please, call me ‘Austin.’ I think you probably haven’t heard my name, because your mother and I knew each other a very long time ago. When I called recently it was nice to discover she remembered me.” He gave Ursula a fond look, which was returned. “I’m afraid that when you get to be my age, the numbers of friends from one’s youth are sadly few.”

  Pix looked chagrined, but another gulp of alcohol spurred her on. “Then you grew up here in Aleford? You knew my father as well?”

  This was treading on shaky ground. Faith was familiar with the story of Ursula’s childhood and the tragedy that had led to the way she met Pix’s father, Arnold Rowe, but Pix seemed to be forgetting it—accidentally or on purpose. Arnold had not grown up in Aleford.

  Austin shook his head. “I knew your mother and her family when we all lived in Boston on Beacon Hill. I was at Browne and Nichols when Ursula was at Winsor. My older brother, who has since passed away, was at Harvard with Ursula’s.”

  Faith looked over at both women expecting to see—what? Faces stiffen, tears threaten? Theodore Lyman had died while still a student under heartbreaking circumstances.

  Pix’s face had, in fact, stiffened. She looked apprehensive. Ursula’s on the other hand was almost radiant. “It has meant so much to me to talk with someone who remembers Theo, even a little bit. We were much younger than our brothers.”

  “I lost touch with the whole Lyman family when they moved out here to Aleford,” Austin said to Pix. “I didn’t even know where they were, just that they moved suddenly. My late sister had gone to Winsor as well, and the old girls’ network makes the FBI look shabby. I had tried to no avail to find B and N friends when I planned to return here, then wondered whether any of my Winsor pals were still, well, alive. When I called the alumnae office, they were obliging, once I mentioned my sister’s name and looked up my list of names. Ursula’s was on the top and we’ve been corresponding until I came east a few weeks ago.”

  Pix’s snifter was empty, and although her tone had relaxed somewhat, she was back to question time. “What was your line of work in California, Mr., um, Austin? And why Boston? Surely not for the climate.”

  He laughed. It was a pleasant one. Not too hearty and not a giggle. “I was a property developer, but it’s a young person’s game these days. Too much risk. And as for coming east, I’ve wanted to for some time, but my late wife was from California, and indeed the weather was a deterrent for her.”

  Ursula had had enough of her daughter’s unsubtle interrogation. “I’m feeling a bit tired. Austin and I went to Symphony today. I’ll say ‘good night’ to you both and have an early night.”

  Faith leaped up, chiding herself for not realizing it really had gotten late. Past eight thirty. Pix did the same, although not with the same alacrity. “Shall I pick you up tomorrow for the garden club meeting?” she said. Ursula and Pix were faithful members of Aleford’s Evergreens.

  Giving her daughter a quick kiss on the cheek, Ursula said, “I think not, dear. I may have other plans, and if I change my mind, Austin can drop me off. But you go. I want to hear all about what that dear man from the Arnold Arboretum has to say about winter kill on lilacs.”

  Back in the van, Faith turned the key and headed for the parsonage and the Millers’ house. “Feel better now? He’s so pleasant and wonderful for your mother to have someone with whom she can talk about the past.”

  Getting no response, she glanced over, and then patted her friend’s hand.

  Pix burst into tears.

  Faith pulled the van into the driveway and stopped at the garage. There was nothing that needed to go to the catering kitchen tonight. Niki was baking cheesecakes in the morning and would drive her back later after Faith had washed the plates, glassware, and platters. The shower had been finger food, so almost no cutlery.

  Faith’s plan, upon arriving home, had been to compose an e-mail to Max Dane setting up a time to meet, ostensibly to finalize the menus that she’d sent. She wanted to pry some more information about his guests from him as they talked about what said guests would be served. But right now
she needed to make Pix—who kept saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine” as she wept—something to eat and a nice cup of peppermint tea, Pix’s remedy for ills of body and soul. Faith couldn’t stand the stuff herself, but it seemed to work wonders for Pix. Years ago Faith had started to dry her own, and now she kept a tin stocked in the pantry.

  The kitchen was empty, and seeing a light under the door of Tom’s study, she surmised he was working on his sermon. She hadn’t seen any lights on upstairs when she got out of the van, which meant Ben was off with friends.

  One hour, three cups of tea, and a toasted cheese sandwich later, Pix was ready to go home. She’d been silly, she confessed. It had been a shock. Yes, Ursula had been widowed for many years, but Pix had never thought of her mother as someone who might want for, or need, male companionship. Faith hastily assured her that Austin Stebbins was no doubt simply an old friend Ursula was helping out, not a replacement for Arnold Rowe, truly the love of Ursula’s life. By the time Pix left, both women were laughing about the notion—“I could be the flower girl,” Pix had said, “and the Evergreens can be attendants.”

  Faith closed the door, cleaned up, and went to see if Tom wanted anything. He was slumped over his desk, snoring softly. Assuming all he desired was sleep in his own bed, she shook him awake and they made their way upstairs, leaving the hall and outdoor lights on for Ben.

  The next morning, Faith got up early to take the van back to the catering kitchen. She’d have coffee with Niki and tell her about the shower and maybe about the Ursula/Austin impact on Pix.

  Ben had left the lights on, but she didn’t want to wake him up to nag at him. It could wait. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. Same with her nagging.

  Niki was in a rush. She’d left little Sofia with her mother, since her husband was out of town and her mother was going to Foxwoods with the women’s group from her church. “And, no, I don’t know how they square the whole gambling thing with the guy above, although the priest organizes the trips, so he may have some sort of special pull.”

  Faith poured herself a large mug of coffee and, as Niki worked, filled her in on yesterday’s events.

  “Ursula is still a beautiful woman and the notion that people her age are not interested in nookie—save for my parents, do not want to go there—is more than out-of-date. Wasn’t there something about a town in Italy where they’re all living to be a hundred because they have sex and eat a lot of rosemary?”

  Faith laughed. “I read about that, too. Apparently it’s some kind of highly potent variety of the herb, and you’re right. Men and women are never too old for a little roll in the hay.”

  “Listen to us with our euphemisms!” Niki laughed. “I’m sure Sofia will think her parents are as ancient as dinosaurs by the time she hits her teens and starts scoping out ice floes for us—if global warming has left any.”

  “Whenever Tom gives me a hug or kiss in front of the kids they look shocked. That we should be well past such shenanigans. How’s that for a euphemism.”

  “Good one, but my favorite is ‘Slap and Tickle,’ not that I’ve ever actually gotten to that page in the Kama Sutra!”

  Faith almost snorted coffee through her nose. “Enough! I have to compose myself and write a serious e-mail to Max Dane about the final menus.”

  “As I recall from reading British country house novels, there was a lot of this sort of thing on those weekends. You’ll need to keep an eye out to make sure the names on the guest room doors don’t get switched around.”

  “I don’t remember nameplates for cards on them, but you’re right. It does all suggest the Edwardians, especially the king himself, creeping under covers.”

  Faith sent the e-mail, briefly asking to meet, and Niki dropped her off at the parsonage.

  Tom was in the kitchen. “I was just about to call you. Amy needed to be picked up, and my car wouldn’t start. One of the other parents dropped her off—she’s upstairs—but I have to go out to Emerson Hospital to make a call. Give me your keys.” He looked out the window. “Did you leave it on the street?” He seemed puzzled.

  “It’s in the garage. I didn’t use it yesterday. And here are the keys.” Faith dug them out of her bag.

  “No, it isn’t. Only my car is. Didn’t you take the van this morning?”

  Faith nodded. “I parked it here last night in the driveway. Niki just dropped me off. But, Tom, who would steal my car? Don’t they go in for snazzier models?” Faith’s Subaru was five years old and had seen a few brushes with the Canadian hemlocks.

  Amy came running into the room. “Ben’s bed hasn’t been slept in!”

  The Fairchilds looked at one another. Car gone, untouched bed. Ben was missing.

  Faith grabbed her phone from her bag and called Ben. It went straight to voice mail. She closed her eyes and tried for a deep cleansing breath, that and being good at corpse pose, the two things she’d taken away from a brief foray into yoga. She opened her eyes. It hadn’t worked. Her heart was still pounding.

  Tom was on his own phone: “Hi. It’s Tom. Is Josh around? I wanted to run an idea by him.”

  Josh was Ben’s best friend and also the current First Parish youth group leader. How could her husband sound so calm? Faith wondered. More on-the-job practice?

  There was a pause while whichever parent had answered was speaking. “Great,” Tom said. “What an opportunity. Tell him to give me a call when he gets back. No rush. Yes, I will. Bye, Elaine.” He put the phone in his pocket. “Elaine says hello and Josh is in New York City with his uncle who scored tickets for Hamilton from a client.”

  For a millisecond Faith was jealous. Then all her fear, and an undercurrent of anger, rushed back.

  Amy was sitting at the kitchen table nimbly texting away on her phone. She looked up at her parents. “Ben drove to Bates to see Mandy. He just woke up. And he says he left a note on his bed. He’s going to get something to eat now.”

  She should have thought of texting, Faith chided herself as she headed for the door, now very angry. It was the best way to get in touch with both her children for reasons she did not understand. What was so terrible about actually answering the phone and speaking?

  All three Fairchilds ran upstairs. Ben had indeed left a note on his bed. Written on a sheet of white computer paper and folded flat against his white pillowcase. The intent was obvious.

  “I’m sorry!” Amy said. “I didn’t notice it. I should have, though, because he folded down his spread and he never does that.”

  Faith picked it up, skimmed it—it wasn’t exactly a novel—and read it aloud.

  “‘I’m really sorry I took the car without asking. I had to talk to Mandy in person. Love, Ben. P.S. Sorry about the car.’” She looked at Tom. From the expression on his face, he was as close to the boiling point as she was, now that they knew Ben was fine. Ben was a good driver and they let him use one of their cars when it wasn’t needed. Many of his friends had their own cars, and Ben hadn’t pushed for one. Faith suspected he’d been driving for longer than he’d had a license, up on the back roads of the island with his friends there. He’d never taken the car without permission before, though, and Bates was a good two and a half hours away. He must have left when he came home from school and he probably had stayed up late or all night talking if he’d just gotten up. But what to do? Drive there and drag him home?

  Amy was looking at her parents, her hands on her hips. “Look, he had to do this. I think he may have finally been able to see Mandy’s Facebook page when he was over helping Samantha install some stuff on her laptop. I’m pretty sure Mandy didn’t unfriend her. Maybe he saw that Mandy didn’t have a new boyfriend or something else. Anyway if I was his mom and dad I’d leave him alone and then ground him for about twenty years when he comes back.”

  When had her daughter morphed into a combination of Ann Landers and Dr. Joyce Brothers?

  Tom started laughing. “Honey, maybe you should be taking over for Mom and me. Sounds okay to me. Faith?”
/>   “I agree—to it all. Possibly the Aleford Journal should start a ‘Dear Amy F.’ column.”

  Amy shrugged and gave her parents a tolerant look, at which point Faith’s cell rang. She looked at who was calling. “It’s Mandy,” she said as she accepted the call.

  “Put it on speaker,” Tom said. Faith did.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fairchild. It’s Mandy. I just wanted to apologize. Ben should have asked for permission to come up, but it’s really my fault. I should have waited to tell him what I had to say face-to-face. It wasn’t fair after all we’ve been through together and how much your whole family has done for me.”

  “Well. He has been pretty upset,” Faith said in one of her more major understatements, “so I’m glad you’ve had a chance to talk together now.”

  “I’m not with anybody else, but I’ve been feeling kind of penned in. It’s taking every bit of my concentration to stay on top of the coursework here and I just don’t want any other complications.” The girl sounded a bit choked up.

  “That’s completely normal and I’m sure Ben understands now.” Faith saw the look on Amy’s face that mirrored her own thought. Ben would never understand.

  “Anyway, we’re going to get something to eat and he’d like to stay until tomorrow morning, if that’s all right. The Franco Center here is having a French film festival tonight and we both want to go.”

  After an exchange with a French family last year, Ben had decided that he would continue with French in college. He’d gotten Mandy to take it, too.

  “Why don’t I speak to Ben?” Faith said.

  He came on the line almost immediately. “Hi, Mom. Look, I’m sorry . . .”

  “We can talk about it when you get home. Enjoy your time and drive safely. We’ll expect you sometime in the early afternoon. Oh, and sweetheart, you’re grounded for roughly the next twenty years.”

  She heard a gulp and then a somewhat feeble good-bye.