The Body in the Boudoir (25 page)

“But why would he do such terrible things?” Eleanor Lennox asked. “He didn't need money.”

“I think he might have—or at least thought he would someday and wanted to have full ownership of Tammy's fortune, which their prenup prevented,” Faith said. “The others as well. He was pretty high maintenance. But a bigger reason may be simply that he did it because he thought he could—invulnerable, above the law.”

Tom nodded. “Without boring you all with the details, I keep recalling a conversation the two of us had about the Cathari in France with their belief in two Gods—one evil, one good. He may have seen himself that way. It was certainly a concept that fascinated him.”

Hope spoke up. “Do you think he put something in your punch at the shower, Fay? Remember, he delivered a big package to Poppy's Garden Room?”

“But how—?” Faith didn't get to finish her sentence before Tom interrupted her.

“I'm extremely ashamed to have discovered from my guilt-stricken sister this week that she's the one who slipped you a mickey—or rather ipecac.”

Faith filed the information away. She had a feeling it might come in handy when dealing with dear Betsey in the future.

S
chuyler Walfort was buried where he wanted to be, next to Danny, in the cemetery he loved. The funeral was small and private. As for the wedding, the Sibleys had debated moving it to another locale, but after several family meetings had decided that since the invitations had gone out, it would be extremely awkward only two weeks before the event to explain why the nuptials wouldn't be at The Cliff. Excuses such as “Because the bride was almost murdered there” and “Bad karma” were bound to overshadow the couple's exchange of vows.

Tammy had been one of those most vocal about not changing any of the arrangements. She was doing a marvelous job of playing the distraught widow, telling one and all that “Sky would just be torn to pieces if he thought his untimely death had caused his dear niece to be married someplace other than the spot she'd dreamed of since she was a tiny child!” Faith noted Tammy's brutally apt choice of words—“torn to pieces.” The rocks at the foot of this part of the cliff were jagged. Her great-aunt was obviously going to be an extremely merry widow, hiding what still had to be terror-stricken anger behind black humor.

And Tammy had no intention of moving, although she was going to be making more frequent visits home now that she was free to do so. Sky had never been a fan of her part of the world, or even her family, which she did not discover until
after
they were married. “He was deep, that one,” was all she would say.

She was also planning on having her kin come on up north—if they wanted to. Meanwhile, she was occupied with the wedding and some remodeling—Sky's library and his bedroom would be no more, but she wasn't touching her boudoir. She liked it exactly the way it was. After all, she had planned it, hadn't she?

F
irst Jane Sibley came down the aisle, a long cream carpet extending from the front door across the deep green lawn to a rose-covered trellis erected as an altar, where her husband was waiting to perform the ceremony. She was escorted by Tom's brother Robert. Nana, on Craig Fairchild's arm, came next, followed by his parents. The sun had been shining throughout this perfect June day and the late-afternoon long light made The Cliff look like a dramatic stage set. Hope was resplendent in soft moss-green satin, her dark hair loose—a dryad—and after her, an indulgent chorus of aahs and oohs greeted the little girls in their pretty eyelet dresses, strewing flower petals from small baskets. Intent on this important job, they had serious expressions—until they recognized a parent, and then breaking out in a big smile for the camera.

And then came the bride. The music reached a crescendo. Her grandmother had sewn tiny seed pearls on Faith's lace Juliet cap and the gems sparkled, but not as much as the bride's face as she walked toward her beloved. Her beloved, who stepped away from the altar to meet her halfway down the aisle before turning to take the steps together that would soon make them husband and wife.

“H
appy?”

“Ecstatic,” Faith Fairchild replied. They were sitting side by side viewing the lively scene in front of them.

“I think everyone's been having a great time,” Tom said.

“Your family are definitely party animals. I don't think your parents have sat out a single number, even when Marley's band was playing.”

Tom had wanted to meet the young man who had saved the woman now his wife's life and it had been his suggestion that they listen to the band's demo and hire them to supplement the band already engaged for the reception.

Leaning in closer to his bride, Tom said softly, “Faith, my darling, since I met you, it's been quite a ride, a major understatement. But we, or I should say you, made it through safe and sound. Of course, nothing like this will ever occur again. Promise?”

“Oh, Tom, I do. I do,” Faith said as she crossed her fingers beneath the folds of her wedding gown.

You could never tell what might happen.

Epilogue

F
aith raised the window cover a few inches, peeked out at the new day streaking across the clouds, then lowered it. The flight had passed in a kind of half sleep as images from all those years ago filled her mind, starting with one wedding and ending with another—her own.

She could see the portrait of the wedding party posed in front of The Cliff and thought about what the passage of time had brought. Better hairstyles, more comfortable shoes, to start.

Hope was a married lady, too, with an active kindergartner, Quentin Lewis Jr. His father was in the same business as Hope, different firm. Synchronized BlackBerries and a nanny who had been with them since the blessed event governed their lives. Hope had gleefully related a recent rumor to Faith that Phelps Grant had been arrested for an online Ponzi scheme in Canada. Unfortunately, Jennifer, Hope's former assistant,
had
landed her big fish and was currently enjoying five different fabulous addresses spread over three continents, proving that sometimes good things happen to bad people.

Emma Morris had married a poet and promptly produced a set of twin girls, followed several years later by a boy whose birth coincided with the announcement of her husband's Pulitzer, hence his name—Joseph. Poppy was entranced with her son-in-law, having invited him to one of her dinners early on in his career, where he spied Emma. Poppy was taking total credit for the match and subsequent offspring, whom she worked very hard at spoiling. She was a widow now, but had declared that one husband, officially anyway, was sufficient for a lifetime. Faith and Emma thought it more likely that she enjoyed playing the field. Poppy had not gone overboard like her friend Joan Rivers, but Mrs. Morris had had work done and there were days when Faith thought Poppy looked younger than she did.

There were other empty places at the table. Nana and her sister, Great-aunt Frances, were in the family plot at Woodlawn. Faith missed her grandmother terribly and made the trip to the cemetery several times each year to put flowers on the grave—when possible Eleanor's favorite lilies of the valley, and for Frances, violets, the scent of the sachets that had perfumed her clothes.

Tammy was gone, too. Never specific as to age, she moved from thirty-five to forty-nine, where she stayed for some years until she decided to be a grand old lady and jumped to seventy-five. The housekeeper she'd hired, Shirley, stayed with her and was with the family at Tammy's bedside when she died. After her death, The Cliff was sold. No one had the heart—or the money—to keep it.

Happily, Tom's parents and her parents were in good health. Her father had given the church a deadline for his retirement, finally realizing if he didn't they would never look for a replacement.

Josie's in Richmond became a destination in and of itself, and Josie Wells joined the ranks of her beloved mentors with guest appearances on
Top Chef
and the Food Network. She'd actually met the man of her dreams the night Josie's opened—although she didn't know it immediately. He'd returned to the area to follow
his
dream—a self-sustaining farm on the land that had been in his family since after the Civil War. It had gone through several incarnations and was now totally devoted to vegetables—providing the restaurant with greens, beans, and everything in between.

So many changes. Faith was a mother herself. She thought of her son, Ben, very much a teenager filling their days alternately with intense joy and intense aggravation. Everything in his adolescent life was one extreme or the other—no in betweens. And their daughter, Amy, was standing on the threshold, still a little girl in so many ways. She refused to move her stuffed animals from her bed, but she'd added Justin Bieber to Harry Potter posters on her wall. The Millers' anniversary gift had been to move into the parsonage, only steps from their own house, to act
in loco parentis
while Faith and Tom were away.

Faith knew she would miss her kids, but she didn't yet. At the moment she was savoring the idea of no piles of laundry, homework supervision, endless errands, the demands of work, and meals to get on the table. Even though she didn't consider cooking a chore, there were days when she wished she could just give them cereal for dinner.

Their anniversary trip. Which brought her to Francesca. They had kept up all these years and the Fairchilds had gone to Italy, not Spain, for the end of their honeymoon, meeting a very happy, and very beautiful, Luisa Alberti Rossi and her “new” husband.

It was Francesca's invitation that they come and check out the cooking school she had just opened at the family vineyard in Tuscany that had prompted their destination for this trip. Time in Rome and then north. Married, three children, a husband from the same village, Francesca was not hiding anything these days. It would be wonderful, and a real vacation, to be with her. Faith smiled to think how young—and naive—they'd been. She'd been! So very, very young.

She closed her eyes and rested her head on Tom's shoulder. He'd been by her side all these years.

And he'd be there in the morning when she woke up.

Acknowledgments

M
any thanks to my HarperCollins publicist, Danielle Bartlett; Dr. Robert DeMartino for medical expertise; car-savvy Michael Epstein and Scott Schwimer; photographer Jean Fogelberg; my agent, Faith Hamlin; my editor, Wendy Lee; and HarperCollins director of library marketing, Virginia Stanley. And thank you dear Helen Scovel Grey, Faith Greeley Scovel, and Rebecca Scovel Harris for sharing your family wedding memories and cake recipes.

EXCERPTS FROM

Have Faith

in Your Kitchen

By Faith Sibley Fairchild

with Katherine Hall Page

Veggie Mac 'n' Cheese

6 ounces sharp cheddar cheese

2 red bell peppers

3 large garlic cloves

1/2 cup water

5 cups cauliflower florets

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

2 tablespoons milk

1/4 teaspoon paprika (preferably smoked)

1/2 teaspoon salt

6 ounces penne, ziti, or elbow macaroni

Preheat oven to 350°.

Shred the cheese and set aside. Reserve 1/4 cup to sprinkle on top.

Deseed and dice the peppers, mince the peeled garlic cloves, and place in a saucepan with the 1/2 cup of water. Bring to a boil and lower to simmer until the vegetables are very soft, about 15 minutes.

Start to boil water for the pasta.

Steam the cauliflower and when it is soft, transfer it to a bowl and mash roughly—you want some texture.

Cook the pasta according to the directions on the package and in the meantime place the contents of the saucepan, the butter, and the milk in a food processor or blender. Pulse until smooth. Add the mixture to the cauliflower along with the shredded cheese, paprika, and salt. Drain the pasta and mix into the sauce so all the pasta is coated. Pour it into a casserole and top with the reserved cheese. Bake in preheated oven until nicely browned and bubbling. The red peppers give the sauce a bright color and the smoked paprika, widely used in the Mediterranean cooking, adds a subtle flavor as well as more color.

Serves 6.

You may also serve this sauce over pasta without baking.

You can make a tasty, easy soup with any leftover florets, if the head is a large one, and the stems. Simply chop roughly and put in a saucepan. Add a small sliced yellow onion and cover with chicken broth, your own or store-bought. Bring to a boil and simmer until the vegetables are soft. Puree in a blender or food processor until smooth. Return to the saucepan, add 1 cup half-and-half or milk, and 3/4 cup grated white cheddar cheese. Add a pinch of salt if your broth was no salt. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the cheese is melted and serve or freeze. A curry spice blend is also nice in this. (Faith, and I, hate to waste food. You can use this recipe for broccoli stems and other vegetables as well.)

Poppy's Popovers

2 large eggs

1 cup milk

1 tablespoon melted unsalted butter

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 tablespoon additional melted unsalted butter

Preheat the oven to 450°.

Beat the eggs and add the following four ingredients. Stir, but do not overbeat.

Brush the cups of the popover tin or whatever you are using with the half tablespoon of melted butter.

Bake for 15 minutes. Do not open the oven door. Lower the temperature to 350° and bake for an additional 15 minutes. Ovens vary, so you may have to play around with the timing. James Beard's recipe calls for 30 minutes at 425° in a cold oven—no preheating—and this works nicely. I've found I get a slightly puffier popover with preheating, but the Beard recipe is quick!

Remove popovers and serve immediately with butter or jam. Try flavoring the butter with maple syrup. And an unadorned popover is also delectable.

Makes 6 popovers.

Popovers are impressive and easy. They also lend themselves to all sorts of variations. They can serve as containers for creamed chicken, shrimp, or veggies. Add a teaspoon of fresh herbs to the batter or 1/2 cup of grated cheese. For a nice breakfast treat, add 1/3 cup of finely chopped crisp bacon to the batter. For a sweet popover, add a teaspoon of sugar. Try other flours—buckwheat especially. If you do not have a popover pan, you may use a large muffin pan or individual custard cups. Faith and I recommend a slight splurge on a real popover pan, however. Otherwise you don't make them.

For some reason, popovers have long been associated with brides, appearing prominently in cookbooks for brides. I have two, both titled
The Bride's Cookbook,
one published in 1915, the other in 1954. I picture these brides turning their hands to popovers as a way to impress new in-laws or perhaps hubby's boss—this was another era, remember.

Nowadays two of the best places for popovers, other than a home kitchen, are in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at Popovers on the Square, and at Maine's Jordan Pond House, a restaurant with its beginnings in the nineteenth century. It is located in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor. At the Jordan Pond House, besides mouthwatering popovers, you can feast on the view of the Bubble Mountains reflected in the pond's shimmering water.

Southern Fried Chicken

One 3-pound fryer, cut into 8 pieces

Water

1 tablespoon white vinegar

2 teaspoons salt

2 1/2 teaspoons freshly ground pepper

2 large eggs (beaten)

1/2 cup evaporated milk

1/4 cup water

I teaspoon paprika

2 cups all-purpose flour

Vegetable oil

Place the chicken pieces in a deep bowl and cover with cold water plus a tablespoon of white vinegar. Put in the refrigerator and let soak for 1 hour. Drain and pat completely dry. Season with 1 teaspoon of the salt and 1 teaspoon of the pepper. Whip the eggs, milk, and 1/4 cup of water together in a new bowl. Add the dry chicken a piece at a time and coat thoroughly. As you coat the pieces in batter transfer them to a heavy paper bag containing the remaining salt and pepper, the paprika, and the flour. Shake vigorously and fry in vegetable oil. Faith uses canola oil and a large, deep, iron frying pan. Only put in enough oil to come halfway up the pan, as the level rises when you add the chicken. Also be sure the oil is hot enough by adding a pinch of flour. When it bubbles, it's hot enough.

Good fried chicken takes time. About 15 to 20 minutes, less for the wings. White meat cooks faster than dark meat, so consider this also. Turn the pieces 2 or 3 times with tongs for a crispy, golden brown skin. Serve immediately.

Feeds 4, more if there are children to grab a drumstick or wing.

As with all classic recipes, there are many variations. You can add cayenne pepper, garlic powder, dried spices like thyme to the flour coating. Some cooks add bacon fat to the oil. Others replace the evaporated milk and water in the batter with buttermilk. Buttermilk is also used to soak the chicken instead of the water/vinegar bath.

And don't forget that there is nothing as special as cold fried chicken on a picnic with a good eggy, pickle relish, old-fashioned potato salad and plenty of biscuits and corn sticks.

In addition to the legendary African American cooks, Edna Lewis and Sylvia Woods, mentioned in this book, I'd like to add Leah Chase, known as the “Queen of Creole Cuisine.” Now eighty-eight years old, Leah Chase started working at her musician husband's family's restaurant, Dooky Chase, in the Treme section of New Orleans during the 1950s and began to move the menu toward her Creole roots. Her gumbo is world famous, and the restaurant is known for the diversity of its clientele—civil rights activists, artists, musicians, U.S. presidents, and a loyal following among the Big Easy's residents and tourists. After Hurricane Katrina, Mrs. Chase and her husband lived in a trailer, determined to open again, which they did. Their superb collection of African American art, displayed on the restaurant's walls, was saved from the hurricane by their grandson, who was able to place it in storage in time. In her cookbook
The Dooky Chase Cookbook,
published first in 1990, Leah Chase reminisces about going to Mardi Gras as a child and buying fried chicken from one of the booths selling it fresh from the pan. There were also booths selling fried fish and red beans. She'd watch the parade and eat the chicken out on the street, a rare treat. My copy of her cookbook is inscribed by Leah Chase to my husband, my son, and me: “Life is for living. Enjoy together,” which pretty much says it all.

Champagne Punch

1 1/2 cups fresh lemon juice

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup orange liqueur (Grand Marnier or Cointreau)

1 cup fresh orange juice

 

2 bottles chilled champagne or other dry sparkling wine (You may also use a nonalcoholic wine or club soda.)

Orange and/or lemons, thinly sliced

Mint (optional)

Combine the lemon juice, sugar, orange liqueur, and orange juice, stirring until the sugar dissolves.

Add the champagne and refrigerate, well sealed, for at least 1 hour.

Pour into a glass pitcher and float the fruit slices and sprigs of mint to garnish. Serve in punch cups, champagne flutes, or white wine glasses. If strawberries are in season, these are also a pretty garnish.

This recipe may be doubled or tripled to fill a punch bowl.

Strawberries Romanoff

2 pints fresh strawberries

2 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons orange liqueur (Grand Marnier or Cointreau)

1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice

1 cup crème fraiche

Grated orange zest

Rinse the berries with the stems on and then hull and halve them.

Combine the berries with the sugar, liqueur, and orange juice. You may eliminate the liqueur and use all juice if you wish. Let the berries soak in the refrigerator for an hour. Bring to room temperature and layer the berries and crème fraiche in parfait glasses, clear dessert dishes, or as Faith's caterer did, martini glasses. End with a layer of the crème fraiche and grate orange zest over each portion, topping with a perfect strawberry half.

Serves 4.

This is a versatile, easy, and impressive dessert. You can use whipped cream or vanilla ice cream instead of crème fraiche. When strawberries are in season, another lovely dessert is also a simple one: toss the strawberry halves with a tablespoon of brown sugar and a dash of balsamic or a fruit vinegar. Serve as is or with a dollop of whipped cream or Greek yogurt.

Culinary history agrees that strawberries Romanoff was created by the legendary French pastry chef Marie Antoine Careme (1783–1833) for Russian tsar Nicholas I. In the United States, a version of the dessert was made famous by another legendary figure—Prince Michael Romanoff (not a prince, not Russian, but Lithuanian; his name was, in fact, Hershel Geguzin) at Romanoff's in Beverly Hills, California, his star-studded restaurant in business from 1941 until 1962.