The Body in the Cast (3 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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Faith had waited up for Tom and he
was
late. She'd been reading M. F. K. Fisher's
The Gastronomical Me
in bed and got
up to get him something to eat when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She'd been stunned when she first learned that they had to sit all those hours without any form of nourishment. “An awful lot of people chew gum,” Tom had told her. “Sometimes I look around and feel like I've been put out to pasture with a herd of malcontented cows.”
“I'm almost, but not quite, too tired to eat,” he said, collapsing at the kitchen table in anticipation.
Faith was mixing beaten eggs, chopped green onion, crisp, smoky bacon, and Parmesan cheese into some spaghetti she'd cooked earlier and set aside. She poured the mixture into a frying pan with some hot olive oil and spread it out to form a large, flat mass. “Did Alden's amendment win?”
“Praise the Lord, no, but he got more votes than I would have expected. I think I'll pay a call on Penelope tomorrow and add my voice to the swelling chorus urging her to run. She looked slightly confused and blushed a couple of times when people passing her to go to the john or whatever leaned down to whisper in her ear. I'd say the campaign to get our Penny to throw her bonnet into the ring is on with a vengeance.”
“Nice to know you're not getting too involved in all this, darling.” Faith smiled at him as she deftly slid the golden brown frittata onto a plate and flipped it back into the pan to cook on the other side.
 
Two days later, Penelope Bartlett entered the race, which came as no surprise. The surprise was James Heuneman's appearance at the town clerk's office and his demand for nomination papers the same afternoon.
This time, it was Millicent who carried the news. Faith was beginning to think she should put some tables and chairs in her catering kitchen, since so many people seemed to regard it as an outpost of the Minuteman Café. Millicent was ostensibly there to get Faith to sign up to work on Penny Bartlett's campaign.
“A spoiler, plain and simple. James Heuneman knew that Penny intended to run!” Millicent bit down viciously on the
large oatmeal raisin cookie Faith had the good manners to offer her with a cup of coffee.
“Won't he take votes away from Alden rather than Penny? He's a businessman of some sort, too, isn't he? I would have thought he represented the same constituency.”
“He's a lawyer, not that it matters. What he'll do is take votes away from both of them and in all likelihood win. People who think Alden is a little beyond the pale but has some good ideas regarding fiscal matters will vote for James, and people who think Penny is nice but a bit too liberal—not to mention being a woman—will vote for Heuneman, too. That's why we've got to do everything we can to help her get elected. I'm putting you down for leafleting and telephone calls. I don't expect you to hold up a sign with all the children you have.” Millicent made it sound as if Faith was the old woman in the shoe or some other wanton.
“But surely, being a woman—and the sole woman to have won the Bronze Musket Award twice in one lifetime—should help her in this day and age.” The Bronze Musket Award was given annually to an Aleford citizen who had contributed above and beyond the call of mere duty to the well-being of the town. Recipients were held in special regard, and any citizen given the choice between the tasteful embossed Bronze Musket plaques and the shiny Oscars of the impending Hollywood invasion would not hesitate for a moment to snatch the former.
“This day and age is not so different from that day and age as you may think, Faith. Remember, nobody knows what you're marking on your ballot in the voting booth, and you can say anything you want afterward. It's my opinion the vast majority of the electorate, even in Aleford, still isn't sure about women in office.”
Millicent was a constant source of amazement. Faith had never suspected this feminist streak, but upon reflection, it made sense. No one believed more ardently in the power of women, especially as personified by Millicent McKinley, than the lady herself.
“What about Bea Hoffman?” Faith asked. “She got elected.”
“She ran unopposed, remember? And the men in town probably figured one female on the board wouldn't make much difference—but two! Why now we're getting dangerously close to a majority!”
“Do you think that's why James is running?”
“Absolutely not. That's about the one thing I am sure about in this election. His wife is an active member of NOW and the Heunemans are the ones who got the recreation department to start the girls' soccer program. James is one of the coaches. No, I can't figure out why he wants to run. It's a complete mystery. He's such a Milquetoast—which could be another reason some people would vote for him. He won't open his mouth, just vote with Bea and keep the board balanced.”
Faith had a sudden irrational image of the board as a giant seesaw with slight James Heuneman, pale-faced, his dun-colored hair receding ever backward from his often-furrowed brow, high in the air on one end and Beatrice Hoffman, large, pigeon-breasted, and given to brightly colored poplin shirtwaists, stuck on the ground at the other.
“Well,” Faith told her visitor as she fetched the dough that had been rising, gave it a firm punch, and started to knead it—hoping her actions might suggest work to do and a “mustn't keep you” exit line from Millicent—“Tom and I are happy to do whatever we can to help Penny get elected. She has done so much for the town, particularly the children. I still find it hard to believe there would be anyone who wouldn't vote for her.”
“Fortunately, she lives in North Aleford, too,” Millicent remarked, taking another cookie and, as Faith told her husband later, showing absolutely no inclination to get on her broomstick.
“Why is that fortunate?” Faith gave the dough a resounding smack.
“You know what they're like up there. Then again, how could you? Not being from here, I mean. I don't like to sound catty, especially about my neighbors.”
The “especially about my neighbors” part was right, anyway, Faith thought.
“But there is a tendency for the residents of North Aleford to feel they're a teensy bit better than the rest of the town. It's one of the oldest sections—not as old as mine, of course, but old—and the houses are impressive, covering the hill the way they do. Then, of course, they have their own residents' association, which we
have
to make sure endorses Penny. Remind them how she got them their playground on Whipple Road. Alden lives up there, too—in his father's house. When Penny got married, she moved several streets away and has stayed in that house, even after her husband died. To be sure, no one thought for a moment she'd move back in with Alden. Poor Penny. She has been widowed for a long time. It was a real love match. She's always said she could never find anyone like Francis.”
Faith had been to Penny Bartlett's house on several occasions. It was a large Victorian that contradicted Faith's prior association of Victorian houses with crowded, dark rooms, memories of antimacassars and aspidistras still haunting the corners. Penny's house was filled with light. There was stained glass, plenty of odd-shaped windows, and gingerbread trim, but the Bartletts had cleared away the huge trees and monstrous shrubs shadowing the house and let in the sun. The house was painted a warm buttercup yellow, with deep green, almost black, shutters and white trim.
She wanted to ask Millicent why it was a foregone conclusion that Penny wouldn't move back in with her brother. It obviously had something to do with why they didn't speak to each other. Millicent rarely responded to questions, though, preferring to be the recipient of information and choosing what she would share. But the woman had wolfed down two of Faith's cookies and a large mug of coffee. It was worth a try.
“Did Penny and Alden have some sort of quarrel? I've heard they don't speak to one another.”
“Yes, I believe I have heard something like that. To be more
precise, Faith dear—and it is so important to be precise, don't you agree?—Penny doesn't speak to Alden. He's constantly making outrageous remarks in her presence. Howsomever, these things are all ancient history, and we must concentrate on our present goal.”
Effectively shut out, as well as reprimanded, Faith could only think to comment, “It's a shame Penny never had any children. She's so wonderful with them.”
Millicent looked down at the counter. “Francis Bartlett had some sort of plumbing problem,” she said vaguely. Doling out this information as a sop for witholding the rest?
Now how on earth did she find that out? Faith almost found herself asking Miss McKinley, maidenly reticence not withstanding, but to her relief, Millicent stood up abruptly, brushed the crumbs off her plaid Pendleton suit, put on her gloves, and said, “I can't sit here all day chitchatting, my dear.” And she left with one last parting glance of annoyance in Faith's direction for having wasted her time, diverting her from her mission.
Faith put the loaves she'd formed to rise again. All in a row, the rounded mounds looked like a series of low foothills. That reminded her of North Aleford. She was well acquainted with the way certain residents of this area of town regarded themselves. Maybe it was living on a hill, like Beacon Hill. Did people who looked down on the rest of the town eventually come to look down on them in other ways? Something about being top dog, top of the heap, king of the hill?
She thought wearily of working on Penny's campaign with Millicent, apparently the self-anointed campaign manager. The election was to be held March 26. If, as she hoped, she got the contract to cater the movie shoot, she'd be in the midst of the job and Tom would have to bear the brunt of the campaign responsibilities. She felt more cheerful. It was true that politics made strange bedfellows, but seldom ones who kicked half the night and hogged the blankets as much as Millicent did.
 
 
Faith had catered for shoots in New York, and she was quick to get her name in to Alan Morris. He arranged to come by the kitchens for a tasting later that week on one of his flying visits through town. Faith was ready for him.
“Great,” he said, referring perhaps both to the attractive lady in front of him and the mouthful of warm pizzette with pears, brie, and caramelized onions (see recipe on page 273) he'd just swallowed. Faith had let her shining blond hair grow longer over the winter and now it grazed her chin in a simple blunt cut. She'd diligently lost the weight she'd put on in pregnancy, and at thirty-two, she caused as many heads to turn as she had at twenty-two, a fact that, while diminishing somewhat in importance over the years, still didn't bother her in the slightest. After the initial shock of that milestone birthday, her thirtieth, she was enjoying being thirtysomething and firmly believed the best ten years of a woman's life were between thirty-nine and forty, which gave her something to anticipate.
Alan was now speedily devouring a plateful of spinach lasagna with a three-cheese béchamel sauce, while keeping a close eye on the medley of Have Faith desserts beckoning from the counter next to him: flourless chocolate cake with raspberry coulis, a steaming fruit gratiné, and crisp dark molasses spice cookies (see recipe on page 274). He smiled. “Max is really going to be happy.” From the relief in his voice, it was no secret that keeping Max happy was Alan Morris's most important job.
 
Max was Maxwell Reed, the director of the film. At fifty-two, he was both a legend and an enigma in Tinseltown. Known as the “New Jersey Fellini,” owing to his origins as the son of a wealthy shoe manufacturer from Montclair, Reed made obscure but critically acclaimed films, often in black and white. While he was the subject of a shelfful of biographies and critical studies in Europe, he'd received little recognition in his native land. He took great pains to make it clear this bothered him not at all, but the word on the street was that he needed a big
commercial success to keep attracting backers. And the movie about to be shot in Aleford had to be it. No matter how much Vincent Canby and
The New York Times
loved it, if it didn't do at least $9 million in wide release the first weekend, Reed would be yesterday's news for the foreseeable future and could watch his films move from “New and Recommended” to “Cult” in the video stores.
Mercurial, with mood swings so rapid that a sentence could start on an up note and plunge two words later to despair, Max Reed had attracted a group of actors, actresses, and crew who slavishly followed him from film to film, deeming it an honor to work with the master. He rewarded their loyalty with his, making film after film with the same individuals, often playing roles himself, yet never duplicating an effect. His most famous film,
Maggot Morning,
cast his constant companion, the beautiful Evelyn O'Clair, as an elderly homeless woman. She won an Academy Award for best actress and went on to other roles, keeping herself available, however, for Max's films. Speculation was that fresh from her sizzling triumph for another director in
Body Parts,
Max wouldn't be hiding Evelyn's attributes under any bushel baskets or behind shopping bags the way he had quite literally in
Maggot,
as it was called in the trades.

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