The Body in the Cast ff-5
Page 15
“I must be going," she said over the Fairchilds' feeble protests.
At the door, having swirled her heavy cape around her shoulders, imperiling the light fixtures, she addressed Tom in the familiar tones of a woman not to be trifled with lightly or otherwise. "Tom, I expect you to deal with Penny. The deadline for letters to the editor of the Chronicle is Monday. That gives you two days.”
“I'll do my best," Tom promised. He knew it was pointless to object.
“Thank you for the coffee and that very rich cookie, Faith," Millicent remarked politely. Any increase in her cholesterol level would, of course, be laid at Mrs. Fairchild's door.
After Millicent left, Tom and Faith looked at each other.
“I don't know whether to laugh or cry," he said. "Maybe both? Laugh now and then cry later when Penny Bartlett doesn't budge an inch."
“I know." Tom sighed. "But what could I do? By theway, you didn't really hear Amy, did you?" He had folded his wife in his arms and they were talking noseto-nose.
“No, both cherubs are blessedly sound asleep. I had the intercom on. And from the look of you, it won't be long before you join them."
“But not immediately.”
Faith smiled. Suddenly, she wasn't tired at all.
The next morning, Faith wandered around the house, changing sheets, energetically attacking the dust bunnies, and in general trying to keep herself occupied.
“I feel fragmented:' she'd told Tom at breakfast. "Yesterday, I held a dying woman in my arms, who it now appears was a murder victim. Then Millicent assigned you the thirteenth labor of Hercules. I start to try to figure out who might have killed Sandra Wilson, then my mind jumps to what was going on with the Bartletts in 1971."
“Why not think of something altogether different? Like me," Tom had suggested.
“Don't tell me you're feeling neglected!" Faith had protested. After all, he was still smiling.
“No, no," he'd reassured her hastily. "Not at all. Think about some new recipes or the state of the union or anything you want:' And so she'd played with Amy, enthusiastically applauding her sluglike wriggles across the floor, which would become crawling one of these days too soon. Faith found that Amy's babyhood seemed to be whizzing by at an alarming rate, whereas Ben's had progressed at a more petty pace. Maybe it was because this was the last child—definitely.
When an exhausted baby had allowed herself to be sung to sleep, Faith had dragged out the vacuum cleaner. But without the baby, all her attempts to keep fragmentation at bay failed. She found herself longing for Amy to wake up and Ben to come home from his friend's house. Before either occurred, the phone rang. It was Charley MacIsaac.
“Before you say a word, I don't know a thing. Or not much. You were right about the cup. The propman went straight from the kitchen and put it on the mantel—where it sat, available to everyone and his cousin, the whole time. Dunne's still questioning some of them over at the hotel, and, if you can believe it, they're all having a conniption fit over how much money the movie is losing.”
Faith thought sadly of how short-tempered everyone had been with Sandra when she'd misplaced the fabric for the walls. In death, she was causing even greater inconvenience. Did anyone connected with the film actually remember the person who had been killed, or was the budget so almighty? From what Charley was saying, he seemed to be wondering the same thing.
“But Max can't really be thinking that they can just go on shooting as if nothing happened."
“According to John, he can and is. Wants to get everybody back on the set immediately."
“What about the poor girl? I assume her family has been notified." Faith hadn't wanted to know too much about Sandra, but the temptation to round out the picture was overwhelming.
“Didn't have much family. Mother dead and no father to speak of. Grew up in Southern California. Her roommate from Los Angeles is do her way and she's pretty broken up. I talked to her. Wants the studio to have a memorial service. According to the guy whosaw her take the drink, all the studio wants is to forget her"
“I'm sure they can't afford the bad publicity." Although, as she spoke, Faith remembered what an agent friend had told her once: "There is no such thing as bad publicity." People who might have avoided A as highbrow and boring would flock to the movie because of the murder.
“Dunne wants to talk to you some more. He has the idea you aren't telling us everything." Charley sounded both weary and wary. He knew Faith.
“That's ridiculous:' she said firmly, and after they hung up, she promptly dialed her sister. Even though it was Saturday, Faith knew where Hope would be.
Calling Hope at work was not something she did often. For one thing, it was hard to get her. For another, when she did, she had to contend with Hope's office voice and manner, which suggested that while she was delighted to hear from her sister, the interruption had just blown a $30 million deal.
But the situation was serious.
Miraculously, Hope's equally workaholic secretary, Bryan, put Faith through immediately, and while Hope did not sound chatty, she did inject more than usual warmth into her greeting. She'd seen the papers.
“Not again, Fay!" Happily or unhappily, Hope was the only one who called her this. "How on earth do you end up with all these stiffs? A is the movie you're catering, right?"
“Yes, and I don't exactly go looking for `stiffs: " Faith was about to chastise Hope for her insensitivity. This had been a person. Then she reminded herself that Hope had never even set eyes on Sandra. She tried to continue speaking and realized she was about to cry. A bright, beautiful young woman was dead and Faith hadn't been able to do a thing to save her. An expendable PA with dozens of others eager to take her place.
“Fay, Faith, are you okay? I'm sorry. That was really stupid and insensitive. Tell me what happened. I have loads of time.”
Faith was sure she didn't, but she told her everything, anyway.
“But I didn't call you about all this, or at least I don't think I did. The thing is, I haven't told the police about Corny—her temper. And she was terribly jealous of Sandra, especially at the birthday party. Yet I can't believe Corny would murder her. It would make more sense to murder Evelyn.”
As she said that, the penny dropped and she realized what it was that had been in the back of her mind since yesterday. It was Evelyn O'Clair's cry, "My cup!" They really hadn't explored the very distinct possibility that Evelyn and not Sandra was the intended victim. Which could make Cornelia a suspect.
“Oh, Hope, what am I going to do? I suppose I'll have to tell Detective Dunne about Corny, but this is not going to look good in our class notes"
“Don't worry. Corny wouldn't kill anybody, except maybe you. She likes to watch her victims sweat, and from what I understand, once you've killed someone, that is unlikely. Sorry, I'm being a jerk again."
“No, it's all right. I mean, I'm all right, but what you say is true. And I'm pretty sure our dear Cornelia was responsible for the missing bolt of fabric that turned up in the barn—a missing prop, for which Sandra Wilson, the dead woman, was blamed."
“Now that sounds more like our old chum. She likesto get other people into trouble. Lord forbid she should get into trouble herself.”
Faith felt a whole lot better. She decided it wasn't necessary to tell Dunne about Corny's rotten disposition. Difficult as she might be, Cornelia was a kind of friend.
“You should have seen her the night of the party. It was tragic. And what is Corny doing in the glitzy movie business in the first place? She should be living in New Canaan with three kids by now and twice as many horses."
“Agreed, but you know how stubborn she is. f she's decided to worship Maxwell Reed, it's till death do us Faithfelt a distinct chill. She thought of that odd saying, Someone must be walking over my grave.
Hope was asking after her niece and nephew. It was a relief to talk about teething and Ben's worship of a nice safe hero—Barney, a six-foot, cuddly, purple Tyrannosaurus rex.
“Well, we decided to let them start filming again on Monday. At least we'll know where they are, and that's about all we do know about the case. Unless you know something you, ahem, forgot to tell me?" Dunne's gravel-like Bronx accent softened with faint hope.
“Sorry, no, but something did occur to me."
“Yes?"
“That whatever was in the cup was intended for Evelyn and not Sandra"
“It occurred to me, too. Pretty much right away, which merely gives us twice as much to sort out. We did find out that the kid was in the hotel with her tutor at the time and the mother was in town shopping. At Filene's Basement, she says, and she has a bag to prove it, but no slip. She left that on the counter. We're trying to find someone who remembers her.”
Faith had never been to Filene's Basement. The idea of pushing and shoving for clothes did not appeal to her. Besides, she'd heard that most of the fabled bargains were last season's. But she knew enough about the venerable Washington Street institution to place Dunne's odds of finding a salesclerk who remembered Jacqueline Carroll at about forty to one.
But Caresse, at least, was eliminated. Faith was glad. The little girl might need to turn over several new leaves; still, at least she wasn't the bad seed. Murder was horrible, but a child murderer was particularly monstrous.
“By the way, what was in the cup?"
“Perrier and diet Coke, as you said, plus a lethal combination of rum and chloral hydrate."
“Chloral hydrate! Isn't that a sedative? How could that have killed her?"
“By itself, it wouldn't have. At least she'd have had her stomach pumped before it did, but with the rum chaser and her body weight, it did the job. The fact that she was an asthmatic and smoked helped. Somebody knows a lot about drugs, a lot about Sandra, or was just lucky."
“Plus, it would be easy to get. No doubt everybodyon the set is taking something to get to sleep—and to wake up."
“Exactly"
“John, could I have done anything?"
“No, not unless you had had a bottle of ipecac in your pocket and given it to her immediately, and even then it probably wouldn't have helped. Besides, you didn't know what was in the cup, and if it had been Drano and you'd made her throw up, you'd have killed her.”
Faith was relieved, but she knew she would never get over the remorse she felt—the if only.
“Stop thinking about it," Dunne said when she didn't respond. She was getting this advice from all quarters lately.
“You don't happen to know if I still have a job, do you?" she asked, determinedly changing the subject.
“Actually, I do." He paused for a tantalizing moment. "You do. We told them we would prefer to keep all personnel the same, including the caterer."
“John, that's wonderful! I can't thank you enough." Once again, Faith was relieved. Even though they'd have a late night tonight getting ready and she'd have to do her part at home, since Tom was out.
“It's not a totally disinterested act. Without getting involved—and I want to stress this ... God knows why I think it might help—you can keep your eyes and ears open.”
They were a team again.
At least Faith thought so.
Suddenly, she found she was feeling more energetic. It was still early. She could take the kids over to the kitchens. She called Pix and Niki, who agreed to meet her there. They could get virtually everything set for Monday. During the past week, Faith's crew had worked as efficiently as usual. She was sure they wouldn't have to do much now besides get organized and assign jobs. The freezer had been amply stocked and she'd go back the following day to bake.
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 wasas 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! f 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.
“f 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! f 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-yearold 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 w
indup 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 put- ting 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 Miguel, 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.