The Body in the Cast (12 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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“Public office is not sought lightly. Representing one's fellow citizens is a sacred duty. Therefore, I find it extremely unsettling that Penelope Bartlett has refused to level with all of us tonight. She was given the opportunity to answer a specific question regarding her participation as a taxpayer and she avoided the issue. I don't know about you, my fellow Alefordians, but her response has made
me
nervous. Can we have someone in our highest office who presents a mere part of the
picture? Is this the type of leadership we need in these difficult times? I leave it to you.”
Alden pushed the microphone past James and toward the moderator, but it didn't quite make it. As Penny passed it on, it was impossible not to notice that her hand was shaking.
“What in heaven's name is he talking about?” Faith asked Tom fiercely. Peg had thanked them all for coming and everyone was assuming the burden of their winter overcoats. There was no longer any need to whisper, but Faith's seemed the only voice raised, and several people turned to look at her.
“I have no idea, honey. I can't imagine Penny or Francis Bartlett being involved in income tax fraud. But the scary part is, I also can't imagine Alden making an accusation without something to go on.”
“I know. Insinuation is one thing, yet this is a direct challenge, and if he didn't have at least some sort of evidence, it would mean the end of his own bid for the seat.”
Millicent was steaming up the aisle, scattering people, jackets, mufflers, and gloves to the left and right of her.
“Obviously, we'll have to issue a statement. The man is abominable! To even suggest such a thing! Poor Penny. She'll want to set the record straight as soon as possible, no doubt.”
However, Penny most emphatically did not. Joining them in the lobby for coffee and cookies, she looked more than a little tired, but she was completely resolute.
“It's no one's business. I told that Daniel Garrison that people in Aleford should certainly trust me after all these years, and that's all I'm going to say. I will not start digging through Francis's and my old papers to please Alden and his crowd. No, Millicent, I know what you're going to say, but this is my decision.”
Faith had never heard anyone say no to Millicent, and when it became apparent that lightning would not strike nor the earth open, she decided to follow suit.
“I think you are taking the right course, Penny. It's the desperate tactic of a desperate man. We should be encouraged,
actually. If they have to resort to things like this, it means they must certainly think they'll lose.”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” Millicent snapped. Penny might be off limits, but the minister's wife wasn't—especially since it wasn't Miss McKinley's church. “Of course I'll abide by whatever Penny wants to do. She's the one running, after all, but people are going to talk.”
“People have always talked. Now let's get some food before it's all gone.” Penny took Millicent's arm and marched her over to the refreshments, prepared to mingle and drink yet another cup of coffee.
 
In bed that night, Tom agreed with Millicent.
“It would be much better if Penny cleared up whatever this is and issued some sort of statement to the
Aleford Chronicle.
Alden planted a seed, and in the kind of political soil we have around here, we are talking kudzu.”
Faith nestled close to her husband and debated whether their marriage would withstand putting her cold feet against his warm legs.
She had decided both Tom and Millicent were right, but she wasn't about to admit it. “I think people will admire Penny's stand. There's entirely too much invasion of privacy when people run for office. She'll be admired for choosing a loftier path.”
“You mean a lonelier path.”
“And this from a man in your business,” Faith chided as she slid her feet from the polar regions they were occupying to her husband's side of the bed.
“Faith!”
 
“So when can I see them all on ‘Larry King Live'?” Niki asked late the following afternoon after Faith and Pix had thoroughly discussed the debate and its possible repercussions. “Your campaign makes the national stuff seem as dull as dishwater.”
Pix, Faith, and Niki were packing everything up to take to
Maxwell Reed's rented house in preparation for the evening's birthday party. According to Cornelia, Max would be completely surprised, particularly as the cast and crew had already presented him with a large cake in the shape of the letter A at lunch.
The dinner party was a select one—the principals, including Caresse and her mother; Alan Morris; Max's two production assistants, Cornelia and Sandra; the cinematographer, Max's close friend and longtime associate, Nils Svenquist; and the two producers, Kit Murphy and Arnold Rose, hitherto holed up in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston, biting their nails to the quick. Max allowed no one, but no one, on the set while he was working.
Faith had asked Alan what Max's favorite dish was.
“His mother's meat loaf, but don't try to copy it. Only she can make it, I understand.”
Although Faith didn't, she had nodded, anyway. Meat loaf? What kind of favorite dish was that?
“So what you're saying is, he's more of a meat and potatoes man than say sushi and angel hair pasta?”
“You got it.”
Accordingly, Niki was now covering two impressive crown roasts of lamb from Savenor's new market on Charles Street with a coating of mustard, garlic, bread crumbs, and crushed juniper berries. No one had answered her Larry King question. Faith was busy peeling Yukon Gold potatoes, which would be boiled with whole cloves of garlic, the cloves removed, and mashed with basil, butter, and a mixture of warm cream and milk. Pix was making lists.
“Come on, you guys. Lighten up and talk to me. We have plenty of time. What's with this Alden Spaulding—and did any of you check to find out if that's his real name? Alden Spaulding. Give me a break.”
Faith laughed. “Sorry, Niki, my mind was wandering.”
Wandering to the sorbets they'd prepared to go along with the cake Alan Morris had insisted he would provide. He also
said he'd take care of the wine, and Faith hoped it wouldn't be California Cooler.
“Alden Spaulding is his real name. Probably with something old and familial in the middle. And it's true, last night did make history in Aleford. The first out-and-out negative campaigning.”
Pix finished her lists with a last definitive stroke of her pen. “You know what politics are like around here, Niki. It's not that there haven't been innuendos—and even dirty tricks—in the past. But no one has ever made such public accusations before.”
“Have you ever heard any rumors about Penny and her husband's finances?” Faith asked Pix. Pix was twenty years younger than Penny, but both their families had lived in town “forever.”
“Never. The only gossip about Penny has been her feud with Alden, if that's the right word. They don't speak to each other.”
“Millicent says Penny doesn't speak to Alden, not the other way around.”
“She's splitting hairs. I don't know who's not talking. I just know they don't—and haven't ever since I can remember. And to answer your next question: I don't know why.”
“Too bad it wasn't a real debate,” commented Niki. “Would they have addressed all their remarks to the moderator?”
Faith was busy thinking again, and this time the sorbets had figuratively melted away. Tom had told her that Penny's husband had died around 1971—the time of the tax returns in question. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to connect the two events. Even Watson would have tumbled to it.
Pix seemed to be reading her mind. “Penny has been a widow for so many years. She was about the age I am now when her husband died.”
“And what would you do, Mrs. Miller?” Niki asked mischievously. “Carry your sainted husband's memory to the grave?”
“First of all, my husband is no saint, thank goodness, and no, I would not. I'd rather remarry than spend so many years alone. That is, if I could find someone halfway decent who wasn't interested in a nubile woman your age, Niki. You know—men get distinguished-looking and women get old.”
“I told you not to read that Germaine Greer book,” Niki chided. “Besides, I don't believe it's true. Look at you. Look at Faith.”
They looked at each other, both in what they thought of as their prime, Pix from ten years further down the road than Faith.
“Ah, youth.” Faith sighed. Had she ever held such opinions?
“Chill, Faith. I don't mean to suggest you two are antiques—maybe collectibles.” They laughed. “Anyway,” Niki continued, “how about you? What would you do if the Rev were suddenly called to his Maker?”
“We're going at the same moment, sweetie, so the point is moot.”
 
A few hours later, Faith stood surveying the table in front of her, set for twelve. She'd selected a dark red and gold paisley cloth and brought her own gleaming silver. The china the caterers used for formal dinners was off-white, with a thin gold band. Food looked good on it and it matched all decors. She'd also filled the room with candlelight and flowers—alstroemeria, lilies, and boxwood in large bouquets tied with sheer gold ribbon on the sideboard and Sheraton card table against one wall; small single flowers in bud vases scattered on the table. Nothing with any scent, though. Nothing to interfere with the food. She took one last look and turned the dimmer switch on the brass chandelier lower. The glow was reflected in the large mirror that hung between two long windows and made the room seem larger than it was. The heavy damask drapes softened the dark landscape outside. The room was ready for these players, who, in fact, needed little help in transforming wherever they were into a stage set.
The house that Alan Morris had rented for Maxwell Reed
and Evelyn O'Clair was a beautiful central-entrance Colonial. It was a faithful reproduction, which gave it the advantage of a state-of-the-art kitchen, luxurious bathrooms—Faith had peeked at the master bedroom suite when she'd been in the house alone in the morning—and a dependable heating system. Faith checked the living room. The fire in the fireplace was burning nicely and the rest of the room was toasty warm, too, thanks to said system. She'd been to too many Aleford gatherings where the guests huddled together in front of the fire, avoiding figurative snowdrifts a few feet away. In this room, she'd placed masses of spring bulbs—pots of red tulips, purple hyacinth, and white freesia. Their fragrance, mixed with that of the burning logs, was not overwhelming—a whiff of spring in the midst of winter.
The fire reminded her of the fireplace at The Dandy Lion and of Cappy and Evelyn. It should be an interesting night. She hadn't seen too much of either of them. They usually ate in their trailers, but her glimpses of Evelyn and remarks the crew had dropped reinforced Faith's initial judgment that this was a prima donna for whom the line “All the world's a stage” could well have been written. She was always on—and always aware of her audience.
Faith walked back through the dining room. She wouldn't be waiting on the table herself, but there was a very convenient pass-through, which she lifted a few inches as she went into the kitchen: better air circulation.
In contrast, the kitchen was a whirl of activity. Niki had started to mash the potatoes. Tricia, an Aleford friend who had helped Faith unmask a murderer several years earlier, was now providing occasional aid of another sort. Tonight she would serve and clean up. At the moment, she was busy arranging chocolates from Lenôtre in Paris, Max's favorite, on several plates. They'd been flown in that morning, Cornelia the faithful factotum informed Faith when she dropped them off, handing the boxes over like so many bars of gold bullion—which was not far from the cost.
Tricia's husband, Scott, also an old acquaintance of Faith's
and one who could give Cappy Camson or Tom Cruise a run for his money in a Better Than Average Looks competition, was on hand as bartender. Tricia and Scott had been married last spring and their reception at the Byford VFW hall was one Faith would never forget—for the great band and the trays of American cheese and bologna roll-ups.
“No wonder it costs so much to go to the movies,” Scott commented. “Did you get a load of this stuff?” He pointed to the cases of wine, whiskey, and liqueurs that had been delivered during the afternoon.
“And that's not all.” Faith waved him over to a second refrigerator in the pantry and opened the door. Magnums of Dom Pérignon nestled on the racks, waiting to be popped. “Max likes champagne. Good champagne.”
Scott grinned, “So don't I.”
Faith was used to the local colloquialisms and knew what the negative meant. She gave him what was supposed to be a stern look.
“I just meant that maybe an opened one will happen to be left over after they've rolled on out of here.” He liked helping Faith occasionally. It made a change from his day job in an auto-body shop. “On second thought, I don't want Tricia getting used to it. She'll never go back to Bud.”

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