The Body in the Casket

by Katherine Hall Page

  He smiled. “I thought—and still think—it is better for you to meet and observe the guests without preconceived suspicions, especially mine. I can assure you each has very strong, and maybe even good, reasons to dislike me. Even to want me dead. I’m afraid I’m not a very nice person, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  Exactly what Chat had said, Faith thought. She hadn’t mentioned her connection to Charity Sibley’s PR firm and didn’t intend to, since Chat had mentioned Dane’s ill feelings toward her. But her insatiable curiosity kicked in. She wanted to see the weekend through, and Dane’s explanation was enough to reassure her after Ian’s dramatic moment with the gun. An impresario like Max Dane would have had an over-the-top reaction. There would surely be some awkward moments, but everyone, including Max, would be in one piece by the end of the party on Sunday. She pulled out her iPad and went to the guest list.

  “You listed James Nelson as ‘original director.’ Why that designation?”

  “I had to step in myself. It was a mistake to hire him in the first place. He’d never directed a major show, never directed a musical.” He paused a moment in thought. “There are basically three kinds of directors. A maestro, who keeps a finger on the entire pulse of the production, then what I call the ‘daddy’ director, who sees the cast as family, and finally the mediator, who is big on collaboration, asking for and offering input on every detail. You’ve heard enough about me to guess which category I fall into. James fell into both the second and third categories. A nurturer. Big on consensus. Like the Quakers. He may even have been one. Anyway, it was obvious very soon that we were in trouble and rather than work with me, he quit. Well, maybe I encouraged it. Oh, and why did I hire him in the beginning? The show was different from any other I’d ever done, and he was different from any director I’d worked with. You know the basic plot right?”

  Faith shook her head, not wanting to mention the synopsis Chat had given her. She also wanted to hear Dane’s version.

  He proceeded to tell her about the wager between God and Lucifer. “We were a little sketchy when it came to the prize, leaving it at bragging rights, fodder to win the faithful or enticement to the opposite. There were some pretty good production numbers. Tony Ames was a helluva choreographer—pardon the allusion. Especially the opening and the finale. And that was a great song. Betty and Phil made a few pennies from it. Anyway, the show focused on a small group of people from above and below. One of the angels had been a good girl all her life, gave up college, career, marriage, to take care of a sick parent, and just after she’s set free, like the day after the funeral, she’s hit by a car. The driver was drunk. He gets out and she dies in his arms.”

  “And that was Eve Anderson’s role?”

  “Yes. Looking back she may have been a little long in the tooth for it, but she was the money—along with Baker and Sinclair.”

  “The money?” Faith asked.

  “The carrot for the backers. I couldn’t expect investors to cough up even for one of my shows with total unknowns. So Eve Anderson got the lead and I had a team with a string of hit songs. Back in the day George Abbot could get backers with two bottles of booze and potato chips in a tiny apartment living room, but that changed, especially since the ‘widows law’—you have to have all your financing in place before you sew a single costume, build a set, etcetera. A safeguard against cheating little old ladies.”

  “Not like in The Producers.”

  “Sadly, not. I want a drink. You?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  He walked over to the largest of the built-in bookcases and touched the spine of an impressive leather-covered volume. A door swung open, revealing a well-appointed bar. Faith was impressed. The books had certainly looked real. Thinking of the pistol in the kitchen drawer, she wondered what else might be hidden away at Rowan House.

  Max poured himself a generous tumbler of scotch—Laphroaig, she noticed, Tom’s expensive favorite and doled out in much smaller amounts on special, or stressful, occasions. Max shut the cabinet and returned to his chair.

  “Long story short. It was boy meets girl, boy instantly falls in love—but not the best circumstances. He was the drunk driver, kills himself in remorse, and goes to hell. And then the girl is chosen to descend. As part of the bet. Aurora—that’s the young cutie whose life he cut short—comes upon him in her wanderings. She’s frightened, as well she might be. Great special effects and lots of deadly sinners. Harvey—always thought we should have changed the name, but too late now, audiences back then associated it with a giant rabbit—recognizes her right away and offers his protection. Travis Trent, who had just started to be a name, played him. Eve’s and his voices were well matched, but there wasn’t a lot of chemistry. I figured it would build. That happens. Anyway, Aurora is grateful and of course falls madly in love with him, too. And he’s been in love with her since he held her dying in his arms. Bunch of subplots with the other characters and a good, pretty raunchy song by Naomi Stein. She’s gone to one or the other herself now. Great character actor—started in Yiddish theater. She played an eighty-something who had never had any fun in life and is having the time of it now in Hades. Some more stuff and at last comes the choice for the two lovers. Will Aurora go back or will she stay?”

  “Certainly an unusual plot. But who would choose eternal damnation even for love?”

  He gave a broad grin. “Me for one. Not necessarily for love, but I’m with those who think if it exists, heaven would be pretty boring, not that I’ll have a chance to find out. Anyway, I picked up Adrian St. John’s script and pretty much all the others for the same reason I hired James Nelson. I wanted new, out-of-the-box stuff. Even Naomi hadn’t been in anything for years. And I got it,” he added ruefully. “So out of the box that the guys packing them were the only ones with jobs in a few weeks.”

  “What happened to everyone once the show closed? It closed pretty soon, right?”

  “It should have the next day after we’d seen the reviews. ‘The Dane Touch Goes to Hell’ and so forth. Reviews sell tickets no matter how good the production and actors. But technically we limped along for a couple more weeks. As for what happened to everyone, I haven’t been in touch. So far as I know Adrian never wrote another word. Went back to England. May be raising sheep in Yorkshire.”

  “Wasn’t it a London address?”

  “Yeah, but you know what I meant. Now James Nelson really could be raising sheep on some island in Maine. He was always kind of a nature boy. Walking ad for L.L.Bean. I have no idea what either of them have been doing all these years.”

  Reflecting that James could actually be raising sheep—a small herd or more likely goats—on Haute Mers, Faith said, “But they stopped doing what had been a career?” She was looking for grudges. “And others as well?”

  “Dammit, Faith—keep forgetting you’re married to a sky pilot, so forgive my language in advance for the whole weekend—I didn’t force them to upend what they were doing. I didn’t destroy their careers. Most of them didn’t really have any to start with, and if James or Adrian had any real passion for the stage they never would have left.”

  “But you had it—and you left, too.”

  “I retired! Completely different situation.”

  “Any others who left the theater?”

  “In a manner of speaking they all did except for Travis briefly, Jack Gold—and he never worked on a big show again—Tony Ames, too. Some have gone on to success in related work. Eve a few movies, TV. Alexis was the youngest and she got snapped up for a sitcom gig, made a lot of money. Changed her name to ‘Abbot,’ which may have helped break the jinx.”

  “The jinx?”

  Max waved his hand. “Forget I said that. We have more important things to think about now. I want to do a walk-through for Friday night in the summer parlor.” He freshened his drink—the glass was almost empty—and said, “Coming?”

  Faith had seen the invitation Dane sent out and she had the feeling she was being cast—a “walk-t
hrough”!—but she fully intended to come to the party as herself.

  Samantha had called Zach on Sunday after she got home. Somehow what had started as a brief call asking him if he would like to meet up for coffee again soon turned into a long one as they discussed everything from favorite films to whether alien life existed—on Mars or elsewhere. Samantha found herself comfortably chatting as if she and Zach were old friends while she stirred the bacon butternut squash risotto, tonight’s dinner. She was recalling more about the events that led to Zach’s meeting Faith when he was in high school and the way she had helped him out—more like saved his bacon. And then he had done her a similar turn some years later.

  “How about we continue this over hamburgers at Christopher’s—it’s near the Porter T stop?” Zach suggested. “I like them even better than Bartley’s.”

  “Wow, that’s blasphemy around my house. My parents even celebrate their wedding anniversary there!” The venerable and legendary Harvard Square burger place had been the Millers’—and thousands of other couples’—first date.

  “You seem up to a challenge. Are we on?”

  They agreed to meet for lunch the next day, before Samantha was due for a long shift. Zach seemed to have very flexible hours and when she commented on it he said he didn’t have to be physically present in the office much. “Which is a pain, because it means I’m always working, or thinking I should be anyway.”

  There was no way it was a date, Samantha told herself as she added hot broth to the rice mixture after she hung up. She needed his help. But still, it didn’t hurt that he was smart, good-looking, and as far as she could tell, not involved with anyone.

  “You look happy, honey,” Sam Miller said, coming into the kitchen. “And if what you’re making is as good as it smells, I’m happy, too. Easy to please. That’s what they say about me.”

  “I think that’s a song lyric,” Samantha said as her father kissed the top of her head. “And you seem pretty happy, too.”

  “Ah, that’s because there’s a Planning Board meeting tomorrow night. The developer is presenting his preliminary requests. He doesn’t know we have a secret weapon.”

  “Weapon, what weapon? What’s going on?” Pix came into the room. Samantha noticed the slightly guilty look on her mother’s face and suspected she’d been upstairs measuring Danny’s bedroom for a sewing room for herself. She’d said she wanted a place where she could quilt and not have to put everything back in boxes and into a closet each time. What her mom hadn’t said, but Samantha knew, was it also meant her brother wouldn’t be able to move back easily.

  “Come to the Planning Board meeting and all will be clear,” Sam said.

  “That sounds like a miracle. In any case, Faith and I will be there.” She gave her husband a hug. “Open a bottle of wine. We can drink to making improbables probable.”

  “You two,” Samantha said as she watched her father dance her mother around the room in an impromptu tango. She turned back to the stove. She didn’t want either parent to see the tears springing to her eyes. Caleb used to do things like this. Grab her and spin her around singing cheesy love songs until they would collapse in a heap on the couch, then collapse into another kind of dance. Damn him.

  The fact that it was gray outside, the bare trees ungainly sharp spokes, made the casket in the summer parlor look almost appropriate. Max turned on the ceiling lights, which did not bring a warm glow to the room but rather bathed everything in white light, creating shadows in the corners.

  “I’m thinking more welcoming light?” Faith suggested. “Use different bulbs and place a few table lamps around?”

  “Each to his own. I like this effect, but you’re right. Doesn’t have a party feel to it.”

  “I think we can count on the coffin to dampen any party feel,” Faith said dryly.

  “Oh, but you will have transformed it with linens and all that sumptuous food. My hope is that only the person who sent it will react visibly at first.”

  “That would make my sleuthing job easy,” Faith said, doubting anyone clever enough to arrange such a difficult delivery would be stupid enough to react to seeing it in situ. “I’ll try to transform it, but you are planning to let everyone know what it is?”

  “Of course. Otherwise, what’s the point of the whole weekend?”

  Maybe it was the scotch, or maybe Dane was getting excited about his birthday, but he was definitely in a good mood.

  “Now let’s talk about seating. Three round tables for six will be more than enough. The tablecloths are in the butler’s pantry. Big enough tables so people can change seats—a moveable feast—and also keep a distance from each other, as the need may arise with this troupe. Votive candles—tapers are too perilous—and more of them scattered in other parts of the room, but not too Transylvanian.”

  They were sitting on a curved window seat at the opposite end of the room from the fireplace. “And a fire in the fireplace or not?” Faith asked. The casket was well away from it, and the andirons had been moved out onto the floor.

  “Not, I think. The andirons are serving another use in any case. I don’t have another set this large, and since this is to be a one-time event, I don’t want to purchase others. I want prime rib for my birthday dinner. What else have you planned?”

  “It’s been fun tracking down celestial and not-so-celestial dishes in keeping with Heaven or Hell,” she said. “Instead of mashed or baked potatoes with the beef, how about Himmel und Erde—‘heaven’ represented by apples and ‘earth,’ below ground, by potatoes. I’ve been testing several versions and I think you’ll like it.”

  “Go for it, but better keep a bowl of good old garlic mashed for me in case I don’t.”

  “The first dish I thought of was some kind of pasta Fra Diavolo—with lobster, of course, as befits the elegant occasion. It’s so rich, though, I’d suggest it as a primo piatto, and sticking with the theme, use capelli d’angelo—angel hair pasta—instead of linguine.”

  “I’m loving this. What else?”

  “Well, your birthday cake is obvious: devil’s food, angel food, or both.”

  “Definitely both, and make the devil’s food as decadent as possible. Also think of something to go with the angel food so it’s not so namby-pamby.”

  Not the words Faith would use for her rich version, but she knew what he meant. “I could make a whipped frosting in soft peaks like clouds and sprinkle some edible confetti—Funfetti rainbow sprinkles have made a big comeback.”

  They discussed a few other side dishes—no salad, “rabbit food,” and Max also nixed an antipasto course served at the table.

  “We’ll gather on the second-floor landing by the fireplace I showed you the first time—it’s plenty big enough. You and Ian can pass hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be pouring the champagne. By the way, only Ian and I will be opening the wine and other liquor bottles, although guests can pour their own—and they will—once we’ve opened them.”

  This was a little too 007 for her taste, but Faith didn’t say anything. Should she be keeping her eyes out for a hypodermic plunged into a cork?

  “Oh, and you,” Max added. “Should the need arise, feel free to play sommelier.”

  “I sent a list to Ian that you may not have seen yet of things we’ll serve during the birthday aperitif: several versions of Deviled Eggs, cheeses like smoked gouda, puff pastry deviled ham squares, smoked nuts, and two kinds of Devils on Horseback—bacon around an oyster and bacon around a cheese-stuffed date. They’ll get the idea.”

  “Better make plenty. Some of this crew make locusts look like picky eaters. I’m impressed, Faith, you’ve done a splendid job. I’ve never heard of those horseback things. Who dreamed them up? You?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody knows for sure. There are many explanations, some pretty outlandish, such as the Normans using rashers of bacon as armor—sounds more like Monty Python—but the dish either originated in Britain or was popularized by it after the French made a trip across the chann
el.”

  He laughed. “There’s a Steinway baby grand in the foyer that I’m sure will see some use over the weekend. Maybe I’ll print up the words to Eric Idle’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.’ Do you know it? From their Life of Brian film.”

  Faith did know it. The song was terrific, but as it was sung by a chorus of men about to die, perhaps another choice. “Happy Birthday,” for example.

  “I know you plan to serve champagne before the banquet, but I also came across a cocktail called Fallen Angel that was invented at the Savoy Hotel bar in London at some point during the thirties. It’s gin with lime juice, a dash of bitters, and a larger dash of white crème de menthe. Offer it as an alternative or along with?” (See recipe.)

  “Definitely along with. And is one a fallen angel before or after imbibing?”

  “I think that’s one of those chicken-or-the-egg questions. It should make for some witty speculation.” In her mind Faith had dressed the guests in period costume, as if gathered at the Savoy bar next to Marlene Dietrich, Noël Coward, and Bogie.

  “Ian will whip them up. He had a stint as a bartender at the Savoy when he was resting.”

  Faith knew this was the term actors employed when unemployed, but she hadn’t known Ian was one. She wondered again how he had come to be in Max’s employ.

  “Ian was on the stage in Britain?”

  “Kind of. He was a dresser—the guy who makes sure you’re wearing the right clothes for a scene and that those clothes are in perfect shape. He’d been the dresser for an older actor friend of mine for many years. I was in London while Rowan House was being renovated and I mentioned to my friend that I was in the market for a kind of butler/housekeeper type. I didn’t want a woman. They talk too much.” Max appeared lost in thought for a moment. “Nice chap—and talented. Died while I was there. I’d met Ian once or twice, had even asked him if he knew someone who might want the job. Saw him at the funeral and well . . .”