The Body in the Cast ff-5

by Katherine Hall Page

  And maybe it would today. Come first. Best Picture,Best Director, Best Screenplay, Cappy and Max both nominated for Best Actor. They'd be competing against each other. Evelyn had not been nominated for Best Actress. There had been no hushing up what had happened in—Aleford. Why did he keep blocking on the name? He knew why. So, no more Oscars for Evelyn. No more anything for Evelyn—save a nice padded cell or whatever the equivalent was these days. Caresse was nominated for Best Supporting Actress, though. People were calling her the next Brooke Shields. Marta should have been nominated. And they said these weren't a popularity contest. But maybe Caresse deserved it. She'd given a hell of a performance after Max rewrote the thing and had her acting as Hester in all those flashbacks to England. Chillingworth watching the child blossom, biding his time. The lust on Max's face was both pathetic and obscene. Maybe he deserved the award.

  A had been a huge box-office success. The publicity surrounding the murders, as well as the big names, had attracted record-breaking audiences. The film had legs like a centipede and the producers were dancing all the way to the bank.

  Here they were. Act normal, Alan old boy. You've been doing this for years. Nobody has to know how much you hate them. Hate all of them. What was it Max was always quoting from Hawthorne—something about in the end love and hate being the same thing? Love and hate. Then there was that other quotation. Max worked it into the script: "No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.”

  Alan put on a face. He couldn't slip tonight, of all nights. He'd been doing it so long, so well. He was sure he could keep it up. For one more night. He put out his hand to Max, who shook it vigorously and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Great to see you, Alan. Have a good vacation?" Max was clearly uncomfortable in his tuxedo and even more clearly nervous about the awards. His forehead was already sweating slightly. "Why do they always keep this place so damned hot?”

  Marta was next to him. She took a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to him. She looked terrific in a beautifully cut tuxedo with a skirt slit up the side instead of pants. Her hair was piled up on top of her head. Caresse and her mother were on the other side of Marta.

  “When are they going to get started?" Caresse whined. She was not happy at Max's insistence she wear a duplicate of the film's dumb red velvet dress he'd had made for her. She thought it made her look like a baby.

  Her mother smiled nervously. The rows behind and in front of them were filling up. People could hear—the ones who didn't have their cellular phones glued to their ears, that is.

  “Any moment, darling. And your category will be early!"

  “I told you not to mention it!" Caresse wanted the award so badly, she had barely been able to concentrate on anything else since the nominations had been announced. She'd told her mother not to talk about it to her. She didn't want anything to jinx her chances.

  Jacqueline flushed. Max had been urging her to take a firmer hand with her daughter. She'd agreed. She'd agree to anything the man said, slit realized. When he'd taken off those ridiculously thick glasses the first timethey'd made love and looked at her with his persuasive blue eyes, she just said, "Yes"—and "Yes" again.

  There was an empty seat beside Max. Alan had left it for Cappy. He knew the game. The star arrived next. The producers, Kit Murphy and Arnold Rose, after that, and then they were all there.

  All except Evelyn.

  Billy Crystal strolled onstage to wild applause. These things had improved since he'd started hosting them, Alan thought to himsef. Crystal told a few jokes he wouldn't tell on-camera and then they were off and rolling.

  Caresse didn't win. The Oscar went to a legend, who had unaccountably never won the award before, for an admittedly lackluster cameo in a disaster film. The Academy was nothing if not sentimental.

  “That old hag," Caresse fumed.

  “Shut up," her mother whispered in her ear. "You're on-camera!”

  Caresse shut up and smiled. A gallant little trouper, the press would say.

  Next time. Next time. Next time, she chanted to herself.

  It was late and they were getting to the good stuff. Alan didn't know whether he wanted the picture to win or not.

  It was time to announce Best Actor and a clip from each film was being shown. There was Cappy, much bigger than life, in his final scene. Max had constructed a platform just like the scaffold on the village green and set it in the middle of a busy downtown L.A. intersection. He had Cappy make Dimmesdale's final confession to a crowd of commuters—Everyman and Everywoman, Max had called them. At the climax, Cappy rips open his shirt, showing his gorgeous chest, which the director had agreed to oil a little, with a hideous, scab-encrusted letter A carved over his heart. It was always one of those "O000h" moments in theaters across the country. The audience at Dorothy Chandler didn't "ooh." Most of them had seen it before, but they clapped loudly. Cappy didn't have too many enemies.

  I wonder if he was in Evelyn's pants? Alan thought as the two presenters played cutesy games with the envelope. Max thought so; he could barely tolerate working with the guy. Evelyn must have told Max. She liked doing things like that.

  “And the winner is: Caleb Camson!”

  Max and Cappy hugged like blood brothers. Up on the stage, Cappy captured a few more million hearts with his self-deprecating ways. He thanked his parents, Max, the producers, on and on, even Alan. Then he paused. "And I'd like to take a moment to remember someone who is not with us tonight ..

  “Evelyn, of course. I wish he'd said something about Sandra Wilson. I'm sure the studio never had a service for her, either. Then there's poor Corny. I'll bet Max has completely forgotten about her. She told me she'd invited him to the wedding and didn't hear from him. Alan Morris called to say Max couldn't make it. I wonder what he sent for a present?”

  Cornelia Stuyvesant's family had taken a dim view of an industry in which employees were rendered unconscious by trophy-armed lunatics, and they'd whisked young Cornelia straight from the hospital to Bermuda. Not at all coincidentally, the eminently eligible son of dear friends happened to be sailing there. It was love at first tack, and if Cornelia was watching tonight'shoopla, it was on a wide screen TV in Connecticut.

  “Oh, come on, after the commercial, it's going to be Best Picture. You can't not watch!" Tom was reading Larry Bird's Drive: The Story of My Life.

  “Yes, I can or can't. Whichever means I'd rather read my book." Tom had been ready to go to sleep an hour ago and had trouble understanding why Faith was so insistent on watching the rest of the tedious show. "You can find out tomorrow," he'd said.

  “It's not the same. Besides, I like to see what people are wearing," she'd replied. And here they were, still up in front of the tube.

  “All right, if it means so much to you." He put the book away and slung his arm around his wife's shoulders. "At least can we neck?"

  “After, I promise."

  “That's what all the girls say."

  “Sssh, here it is.”

  A few minutes earlier, the screen had been split to show the reactions of the nominees for Best Director. Along with the viewers all over the globe, the Fairchilds were able to catch Max's joy at winning. Now the screen was divided again. Max was holding Marta's hand.

  “I'm sure it's going to get Best Picture, since Max got Best Director," Faith told her uninterested husband.

  “Millicent never had any doubts. You could have trusted her and we'd be in bed by now.”

  Much of Aleford had been quietly taking credit for the picture's success during the last months. It had been tacitly assumed that of course their movie would win. And Aleford was right.

  Max's acceptance speech was brief. He opened by saying, "There is someone who should be on this stage with me, and if I didn't think Billy would kill me for getting us off schedule, I'd have him up here."

  “Him?" Faith said. "I thought it was
going to be Evelyn again. Oh, I know, he's going to thank Nathaniel Hawthorne."

  “I'm sure Nate would have appreciated that," Tom said sardonically. "And, by the way, would you mind telling me how Hawthorne would join Max onstage?"

  “Sssh! I can't hear what he's saying!"

  “He's my right hand." Max flung his whole arm out dramatically. "Maybe even the right side of my brain. All I know is, this picture could never have been made without him. Alan Morris, my assistant director.”

  Alan was floored. Cappy jabbed him to stand up and he did, bowing slightly as the audience applauded wildly. For him. Maybe just one more picture with Max. Love and hate.

  Clutching this best of all Oscars, Maxwell Reed closed by acknowledging the town—as was only fair.

  “Some of those watching know that we went through a few tough times on this film and the good folks of Aleford, Massachusetts, were there for us. I'd like to thank them for their generous help and for providing the perfect landscapes." He chuckled and waited for the slight laughter to die down. "The individual people are too numerous to mention.”

  The camera was panning along the faces of A's cast as Max spoke these last words. Alan Morris had tears in his eyes. Cappy looked relieved. Caresse smiled her famous smile. Jacqueline had moistened her lips. It lingered on Marta, who looked directly into the lens—directly at Faith.

  “But," continued the director, "you know who you are.”

  And Marta winked.

  EXCERPTS FROM

  HAVE FAITH IN YOUR KITCHEN

  BY Faith Sibley Fairchild

  A WORK IN PROGRESS

  It was marvelous to observe how the ghosts of bygone meals were continually rising up before him; not in anger or retribution, but as if grateful for his former appreciation and seeking to reduplicate an endless series of enjoyment, at once shadowy and sensual.

  UNADULTERATED BLACK BEAN SOUP

  1 pound dried black beans

  1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

  2 ham hocks or 1 ham bone

  2 medium onions, 1 red and 1 yellow

  1 tablespoon dry sherry or Madeira (optional)

  7-8 cups water

  sour cream

  / teaspoon salt

  chives

  Pick over the beans, rinse, cover with cold water, and bring to a boil for 2 minutes. Remove from heat and let stand at least 1 hour. (Or soak the beans overnight.) Rinse the ham hocks. Peel and quarter the onions. Bury hocks and onions in the beans. Add 7-8 cups cold water and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down and simmer 11/2 to 2 hours. Be sure the beans are soft.

  Remove the hocks or bone and strip any meat from them. Add the meat to the soup and puree the mixture in batches in a blender. (Note: a food processor sometimes leaks with this much liquid.) Put the pureed soup in a clean pot; warm, adding the seasonings and wine, if used. Serve with a dollop of sour cream and finely minced chives. For a special party, put the sour cream in a pastry tube and pipe two concentric circles on top of the soup. Take a sharp knife and pull it through the circles, first toward the center, then away, for a nice spiderweb effect.

  This soup tastes better if made a day ahead. Serves 8 to 10—more if served as a first course.

  NORWEGIAN MEATBALLS

  1/2 pound ground veal

  3 slices of salt pork (or slab 1/2 pound lean ground beef bacon), rendered

  3 inches square,

  / cup bread crumbs 1 egg, slightly beaten 1/2 teaspoon salt

  / teaspoon ground nutmeg

  / teaspoon freshly ground pepper

  Sauce

  2 tablespoons butter

  2 tablespoons flour

  1/ cups beef stock

  Combine the meats, crumbs, egg, and seasonings into balls 1/ inches in diameter, using as little pressure as possible. Cover and let stand for 1 hour.

  Brown the meatballs in the pork fat.

  In a separate pot, melt the butter and add the flour, whisking together to make a roux. Slowly add the stock, stirring constantly. Bring to a boil and add the browned meatballs. Simmer very low for 1/ hours. Serve over egg noodles and garnish with finely chopped parsley. Serves 4 to 6.

  PEAR BRIE PIZZETTE

  Dough

  1 1/2 teaspoons salt I cup warm water

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 package granular yeast

  2 1/2-3 cups all-purpose flour (not rapid-rising)

  cornmeal

  1 teaspoon sugar

  Pour the water in a bowl and sprinkle the yeast on top. Add the sugar, salt, olive oil, and mix until the yeast is dissolved. Add 1/ cups of flour, stir, and add 1 more cup. Combine thoroughly and turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, adding the rest of the flour if the dough is too sticky. Knead for 5 minutes.

  Put the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and let rise in a warm place until double in bulk—about 1 hour. Punch down and divide into two pieces for pizzettes. Let the dough rest for about 15 minutes. Using a rolling pin or your hands, shape into two rounds.

  Topping

  2 large ripe pears (comice 3 large yellow onions are especially good)

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1/2-3/4 pound ripe, but not runny, Brie

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter

  1 1/2 tablespoons sugar

  Preheat the oven to 450°.

  Slice the onions into thin rings and sauté in the melted butter and oil until limp. Cover the pan, stirring occasionally. Cook slowly for about 15 minutes. Uncover the pan, sprinkle the onions with the sugar, turn up the heat, and cook until well browned. Stir constantly. The sugar caramelizes the onions. This will take 15 to 20 minutes. Set the onions aside.

  Peel and slice the pears.

  Brush the tops of the pizzettes with some olive oil and spread the caramelized onions over each. Arrange the pear slices on top and dot with slices of the Brie.

  Bake for 15 minutes on a lightly greased pizza pan on which you've sprinkled cornmeal. The dough may also be baked on a cookie sheet and cut into squares. Serves 4—more if served as a first course.

  DENOUEMEN APPLE/PEAR. CRISP

  This recipe can be made with pears or apples. It is especially delicious with a mixture of apples, such as Empire or Delicious (sweet) and Macoun or Macintosh (slightly tart).

  14-2 pounds apples or pears

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  3 tablespoons brown sugar

  juice of lemon

  6 tablespoons unsalted butter -

  2 tablespoons maple syrup

  3/4 cup flour

  Preheat the oven to 375°.

  Peel, core, and slice the fruit. Toss it in a bowl with the lemon juice to prevent browning.

  Place the slices in a lightly buttered baking dish. Drizzle with the maple syrup.

  Put the flour, salt, sugar, and butter in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade and process briefly. Or you may cut the butter in with a pastry cutter or two knives. The mixture should be crumbly.

  Cover the fruit evenly with the flour mixture and bake for 45 minutes or until the juices are bubbling.

  Let sit for five minutes and serve with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, or crème fraîche.

  LIZZIE'S SUGAR ANDSPICE COOKIES

  3/4 cup unsalted butter

  1 teaspoon cinnamon 1 cup sugar

  3/4 teaspoon cloves

  1 egg, slightly beaten

  3/4 teaspoon ginger

  1/4 cup molasses

  1/4 teaspoon salt 2 cups flour

  sugar

  2 teaspoons baking soda

  Preheat the oven to 375°.

  Cream the butter, sugar, egg, and molasses together thoroughly. Sift the flour, baking soda, spices, and salt together. Add to the butter mixture and stir.

  Roll the dough into balls, 1 inch in diameter, and roll the balls in sugar. Set approximately 2 inches apart on a lightly greased cookie sheet and bake for 12 minutes. Let cool on brown paper or racks. Makes approximately 4 dozen.

  For an elegant tea c
ookie, make 1/2-inch-diameter balls and reduce the cooking time to 9 minutes. Makes approximately 8 dozen.

  pizzette. You can also make the cookies ahead and freeze the balls, baking a batch when you need—or want—them. The point is to end up with something tasty to sit down to with the latest Faith Fairchild mystery propped up next to your plate. Santé!

  Author's Note

  I apologize to all of you who have been asking for recipes. I should have done them sooner, but when I wrote my first book, The Body in the Belfry, I thought it might seem I was borrowing more than a cup of sugar from the late VIrginia Rich, one of my favorite authors. I was also afraid recipes might distract readers from the plot. You would be so busy deciding whether to put Spanish or VIdalia onions in your soup that you'd miss a red herring. However, here they are at last. I hope they will give you as much pleasure as they do my family.

  Faith is a purist. I am not. People in fiction seem to have a great deal more time than the people I know in real life, with nine to five jobs, gardens to weed, and wash to do (plus that stack of books next to the bed). These recipes will all taste fine with modifications such as a good canned beef stock, instead of homemade, for the meatballs (although not canned bread crumbs) and already-prepared pizza dough, like Boboli, for the

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: f3c8ad4f-9763-475f-b4da-a6f9658b3b77

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 7.6.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.54, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Katherine Hall Page