The Body in the Cast ff-5

by Katherine Hall Page

  “I told her that could be a long time and she wentnuts. This is not someone who generally hears the word no.”

  Faith could well imagine.

  “Then she gets all high-and-mighty. Did we know who she was? What she had accomplished? She even brings up the Oscar. I point out that she may be facing additional charges of assault with said prize and she acts as if she hasn't heard me. Wants to know if anyone in the car has one.”

  The entire table cracked up.

  “It wasn't the kind of question that expects an answer."

  “Rhetorical," Faith supplied.

  “Thank you, and to think I once took freshman English. Anyway, after this, we couldn't shut her up if we'd wanted to. I started taking notes. I reminded her about her lawyer, but now she wasn't interested in waiting for him and used some extremely coarse language to describe what she thought of the breed. Sorry, Sam.”

  Sam Miller was an attorney. "Don't worry about it, at least she didn't take Shakespeare literally."

  “Oh yeah, `kill all the lawyers.' That was freshman year, too.”

  Faith was getting impatient with these digressions. "Did she think Max was going to replace her with Sandra?"

  “She didn't say so directly, but she certainly hated the girl. Kept saying that Sandra wanted to be her, Evelyn, but that there was only one Evelyn O'Clair. It was actually kind of pitiful. She kept asking us to agree. `I warned her, but she wouldn't listen,' she said over and over. Like it was the girl's own fault she died.”

  Faith found herself adjusting her image of Evelyn O'Clair. Once again, someone was not whom she or he seemed to be—a perception repeating with alarming frequency of late.

  “Do you think Max knew Evelyn killed Sandra?”

  Greg Bradley answered this one. He had been following the conversation with an anguished look. "I think Max didn't want to know," he said bitterly. "Doesn't want to think about it now, either. Yeah, he liked Sandra, and maybe he even thought she had a brilliant future ahead. But essentially, she was just another PA and there would be a new one to take her place the next day. He knew Evelyn wanted Sandra off the picture, but Maxwell Reed doesn't like people telling him what to do, even, or maybe especially, his wife. He didn't stop to think what might happen to Sandra—oh, I don't mean that anyone would have suspected Evelyn of being capable of murder. It's still a shock, but she could make things very unpleasant for people, and Max knew it.”

  If Max Reed had fired Sandra Wilson, she would be alive today. It was a horrible conclusion.

  “Evelyn may simply have meant to frighten Sandra," Greg continued. "I saw her talking to Sandra that morning before the filming. Evelyn was clearly telling her to quit and Evelyn may have been threatening her."

  “Which explains why Sandra looked terrified on the footage. It was real fear," Faith said to Dunne, then asked Greg, "Did Sandra ever mention Evelyn's threats to you?"

  “Yes, she said Evelyn had told her to quit or Max would fire her. Sandra didn't believe her, and sadly, I agreed with her. Anyway, Sandra would have done anything to stay on the production with Max. I sensed that she was uneasy; there may have been threats she didn't mention. It's weird. I never suspected Evelyn, thoughit's all obvious now. She didn't act any differently after Sandra died. A normal person would have been eaten up with guilt, but with Evelyn, Sandra was gone and that was what she, Evelyn, had wanted. On with the show." He choked a bit on the words and Niki patted his shoulder companionably.

  “The operative word here is act," Faith pointed out. "Ms. O'Clair may well be one of the world's great actresses. Think about that night at the Town Hall. She delivered a performance, whipped downstairs for the slide show, which must have been prearranged, killed Alden, and was back in time for her next cue."

  “That's pretty much what seems to have happened from what we've been able to piece together," John said. "She left the auditorium when Reed was doing retakes of the scene between himself and Camson. She was alone in the back. Alden had his slide show all set up in the basement. He must have phoned her to tell her what he had—and what he had heard. She hasn't said what he wanted in exchange, but it may not have been money. I think he wanted what Cappy was getting on the slides. She must have strung him along and maybe agreed to meet him the next day or something. Then as they were leaving the room, she let him have it. The first blow must have stunned him, then she finished off the job when he was lying on the floor. She had to have brought some other kind of weapon along, but the lumber was handy and easier to get rid of.”

  Dunne spoke. He sounded a bit stunned. "Do you mean Alden Spaulding was blackmailing her for sexual favors?"

  “I think we can tell everyone what Alden was like without getting too specific," Tom suggested. Faith and Pix agreed. They summarized Audrey's and Penny's stories. Dunne was even more astounded—and upset. "I wish the victims had come to the police. We wouldn't have let him get away with it."

  “What else did Evelyn say? Why did you say the piece of lumber was easy to get rid of?" Many questions remained unanswered, and to her annoyance, Faith was getting sleepy. She was also getting a headache from the MSG.

  “The woman was incredibly lucky. You know there are many murders that only get solved because the murderer tells someone about it. Can't keep it to himself or herself. Evelyn didn't blab. f Faith hadn't found the slides in the trailer, we'd still be wondering who killed Wilson and Spaulding. There was no evidence to link the two crimes and we've been kicking around the two killers theory all week. But getting back to the weapon. After O'Clair killed him, she put the piece of wood in her car, which was parked just outside. Later, when she got home, she burned it in the fire that she knew would be conveniently set for her arrival."

  “I'm sure Alden never thought he was in any danger from Evelyn, a mere woman. She definitely had the element of surprise working for her," Faith commented.

  “But she must have had a nasty moment when Faith arrived," Niki said. "Thank God you didn't see her!”

  “She was wearing a long, dark hooded cloak—used it to open the door and switch the lights on and off, by the way—and it made her virtually invisible in the dark. Her only worry would have been that Faith might hang around too long and the people upstairs would start to wonder where their star was. When we went over the footage, we never noticed she was missing, because the camera at that time was either op the stage or the audience. We knew Alden was gone and Reed and Camson were there. That's all."

  “It almost was the perfect crime," Faith said.

  “Is anybody going to pass those cookies around?" Charley complained.

  “How about me?" said a cheerful voice at the door. "I knew you'd all be here.”

  It was Millicent. There was going to be little rest for the weary tonight, Faith concluded, then perked up as she realized that Penny Bartlett was at Miss McKinley's heels. There had no longer been any need for secrecy, so Faith had told Detective Sullivan right away where Penny was, then promptly forgot about her in the rush of other events. Faith was very glad to see her.

  Everyone jumped up and embraced Penny, even Niki, who had never been actually formally introduced to the woman before. Settled next to Charley MacIsaac, who was trying to adopt a stern manner toward the runaway, Penny declared happily, "You have no idea what it means to be home! Not that the people at the Y weren't absolute angels, but I've been missing Piggy—and the plants, too." Piggy was the totally unsuitable name of Penny's darling Irish terrier.

  “Would you like something to eat?" Faith asked automatically, surveying the wreckage spread out on her table—a few sad bamboo shoots floating in a pool of congealed sauce, half a container of rice, one egg roll. It was not very appetizing, but Niki had put the pear crisp in the oven to warm.

  “No, thank you. We went out to dinner to celebrate. That's why we're so late."

  “It was like something out of the movies. I was in my room working on some patchwork I'd fortunately remembered to pack, when Millicent called from the lobby and said, `
The murderer has been unmasked. Pack your things and make yourself tidy; we're going to the Ritz for dinner.' I don't suppose they hear many messages like this at the desk.”

  Faith had to hand it to Millicent. She possessed an ineffable sense of style. The Ritz-Carlton was the perfect choice. Two old friends tucking into their baked scrod or whatever in that elegant dining room overlooking the Public Garden. Two proper New England ladies: one a former fugitive from the law; the other, her accomplice.

  “Now"—Millicent had determinedly wedged a chair between Pix and John Dunne—"what have I missed?”

  Tom dished up the pear crisp while Niki added a generous amount of whipped cream to each serving. Those at the table took turns relating the story so far.

  “How did you know it was all right to get Penny?" Faith asked, digging into the portion of what she knew to be a scrumptious dessert. She had assumed that after the police were informed of Penny's whereabouts, they would have picked her up.

  “Well, we heard the woods near the Pingrees' were on fire and Ed Hayes, who's one of the volunteers, called his wife from some sort of phone in his car he seems to think he needs in order to be a good plumber. He told her you'd been locked in the RV and had set the fire to get somebody to let you out, which was extremely foolhardy, I must say, Faith. You know that's conservation land." Millicent actually shook a finger at Faith.

  Faith had known it would come up sometime. She hadn't thought it would be so soon.

  “You were tampering with a protected area. Thank goodness merely a few alders and some brush were destroyed." The way Millicent was talking, one might have assumed this particular area was the last remaining stand of virgin timber in New England. In fact, it was a reclaimed swamp.

  “So, we all knew something was going on and I went down to the police station. Dale told me this actress had been arrested, and I went straight to Penny.”

  Pix, God bless her, hastened to direct the subject away from another tirade regarding protected areas that seemed to be swelling from Millicent's direction. "It's wonderful to see you, Penny. Have you heard? James has withdrawn from the race, so we should be toasting you as Aleford's newest selectwoman.”

  Penny looked very surprised. "Why on earth did he do that?”

  Faith did not have the heart—or the strength—to go into the subject at the moment. "I'll tell you tomorrow," she promised.

  Millicent beamed. This was a victory party. Her victory party.

  The actual election victory party Faith attended was a quiet, extremely select one, held at the Town Hall after the ballots had been counted.

  The police chief had ceremoniously unlocked the old wooden box and the town clerk started the count promptly at eight o'clock. Aleford, typically, was one of the Massachusetts communities that still clung to its paper ballots. Who would be so madcap as to put all one's trust in a machine? Even though there was no race, the electorate had turned out in full force to cast their votes. It didn't matter how many candidates there were. Voting was a sacred civic responsibility. The predictable result was a landslide for Penelope Bartlett with three write-ins, obviously the work of some of the younger members of the voting population: two for Jason Priestley and one for Mr. Ed.

  Penny had asked the Fairchilds to come watch the count, then return to her house for coffee. Having exhausted all available baby-sitting options, they were forced to refuse. Tom convinced Faith to go for a little while, however. "I know you want to, honey. See the thing through" She'd kissed him gratefully and walked over just for a minute.

  An hour later, she was sitting in the Town Hall's kitchen with Charley MacIsaac. He'd brought a bottle of champagne to celebrate Penny's victory and perhaps to make amends for the dressing-down he had given her in private on Sunday for running off and not calling on him. Penny had taken a sip, given him a hug, then dashed off with Millicent to put out the coffee cups for the supporters she expected at her house. Charley had motioned to Faith, "I've got to lock up here, but let's kill this bottle first. Phone Tom and tell him I'll see you home.”

  Tom was amused, and grateful for the call. He was pretty jittery about his wife's whereabouts these days. "Don't you and Charley start stealing street signs or whatever. Remember the old saying, `Burgundy makes you think of silly things; Bordeaux makes you talk about them; and Champagne makes you do them.' "

  “Remember it! I told it to you," Faith said. It was one of the gastronomist Brillat-Savarin's oft-quoted remarks.

  The champagne wasn't prompting them to particularly outrageous behavior, although it certainly hadloosened their tongues. There were no proper champagne flutes in the Town Hall's cupboards, but Faith had unearthed some dusty coupes, washed them, and put aside the jelly glasses Charley had set out.

  She held her glass to the light and regarded the pale golden sparkling liquid intently. "These were supposed to be made from a mold of either Helen of Troy's breast or Marie Antoinette's. I've always favored the latter legend." Faith pronounced the last two words very distinctly. "Helen was more of a mead drinker, I'd say. Marie probably had champagne coming out of the taps of her bath.”

  Charley thought the whole thing was very funny. "I never thought I'd be sitting in the Town Hall's basement listening to a slightly tiddley minister's wife tell stories about historic bosoms."

  “Life is like that," Faith said solemnly. "I never thought I'd be locked up in a burning trailer by a crazed, Oscar-wielding murderess. I've been saying to Tom ever since this thing started that it was getting pretty hard to draw the line between art and reality. f you filmed all this, Siskel and Ebert would definitely turn their thumbs down." Faith demonstrated with hers after carefully placing her glass on the counter. "Two thumbs down. Totally implausible."

  “I agree" Charley was infinitely more sober than Faith but was having just as good a time. "Still, it is an amazing coincidence that Reed was filming a movie all about jealousy and meanwhile another story with the same theme was going on right in front of all our noses.”

  Faith had been right all along with her theory, she thought to herself. She'd simply miscast.

  “You are so insightful, Charley." Faith was im- pressed. "Professional jealousy and sexual jealousy—a real double whammy."

  “I'm going to escort you home now, Mrs. Fairchild, before you start seeing double. The night air will do us both good"

  “Good. That reminds me. I was good, wasn't I? Admit it. You and John were stumped."

  “You were not good. You held out on us—but yes, we were stumped."

  “Thought so." Faith smiled. She knew her feeling of well-being was not due to the moderate amount of champers she'd imbibed. It was because Penny had won, Evelyn been caught, Have Faith's black bean soup forever vindicated, and her current job over. Max was going to shoot the rest of the movie in California, making even further alterations in the story line to account for Hester's abrupt disappearance. Faith would be able to become reacquainted with her family. She had a great deal of quality time to make up.

  But what was really making her want to crow out loud into the quiet of the night as she and Charley walked past the sleeping houses along Aleford's green was the realization she was getting better and better at this detection business. Not that she was going to go around searching for bodies, yet if another one happened to come her way .. .

  “What are you looking so darned pleased about?" Charley asked. "No, wait, I don't want to know, do I?"

  “Probably not," Faith Sibley Fairchild concurred. "Probably not.”

  It wasn't foggy. It wasn't an airport. It wasn't Casablanca. But she took Charley' arm, anyway.

  Twelve

  If sages were ever wise in their own behoof, I might have foreseen all this.

  Alan Morris had been to more Academy Award ceremonies than he cared to remember, and mostly they were a bore. The real action was at the parties afterward. He'd start at Swifty Lazar's and go on from there, depending on his mood—and who had won. A lot of business took place at those parties once i
t had been established on worldwide television who was in, who was out; who was hot, who was not.

  He hated the whole idea of getting all dressed up so early in the day before the sun went down. It felt unnatural. He'd decided to get his own limo for the drive to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. He hadn't felt like riding in Max's or the producers,' and now he was sorry. First, he had to listen to the driver tell him that he'd never driven a loser, the same thing the guy said to every occupant every year. Then he had to face the prospect of stepping out alone in front of a huge throng expecting Richard Gere—or Cappy Camson.

  It was taking forever. They had only moved an inch or two in the last fifteen minutes. L.A. was one vast acreage of stretch chrome.

  He might not be famous, but at least his tux was perfect. Made to measure last time he was in London. It fit him like a glove. When he finally arrived, the thought cheered him enough to see him through the shrieking crowds. Shrieking crowds for the stars to the front and rear of him. "Who's that?" he heard one woman ask her friend as he walked past. "Nobody," was the firm answer. Army Archerd, the outdoor master of ceremonies, was introducing gorgeous Geena Davis, who had on a pretty crazy dress. Neither of them noticed him, either.

  He found his seat. Max and the rest of them weren't here yet. "Nobody." He was getting just a little bit tired of being "Nobody." Of being ever so slightly in the shadow. One that was never angry. Never tired. Never without a solution. Never without the right word.

  Last spring had pushed him to his limit. He'd watched Evelyn spinning further and further out of control. Max was always out of control when he was filming a movie. Living each film twenty-four hours a day. It was clear from the first moment in that hick town—what was it called? Aleford. Yeah, from the first moment on the set, he'd known that a whole lot of things were not going to work. Sandra, Evelyn, Caresse Carroll. But Max hadn't wanted to hear about it. Not then. Not later. He had had his plans. Nothing else had mattered. Not even life or death. The film came first.