The Body in the Casket Read online

  DEDICATION

  FOR THE BRACKEN FAMILY:

  Jeanne, Ray, Mollie—and Lisa

  who left us much too soon but taught us Jeremiah

  the Bullfrog’s joyful wisdom by her example

  EPIGRAPH

  Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

  —CONFUCIUS (551–479 B.C.)

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen

  About the Author

  Also by Katherine Hall Page

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  MAX DANE PRESENTS

  A Birthday Party

  Mine

  Come As You Are—

  Or Be Cast

  ROWAN HOUSE

  HAVENCREST, MASSACHUSETTS

  January 29–31

  Max Dane. It sounded like a made-up name, Faith thought when she first heard it. A stage name or the name of a character in a play. The thought turned out to be appropriate. But Maxwell Dane was the name on his birth certificate.

  Faith learned his name was real over the course of that very long weekend. She learned other things, too. About him, his guests—and herself.

  Would she have taken the job if she’d foreseen it all?

  Probably not.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Have Faith in Your Kitchen,” Faith Fairchild said, answering the phone at her catering firm. She’d been busy piping choux pastry for éclairs onto a baking sheet.

  “Mrs. Fairchild?”

  “Yes? This is Faith Fairchild. How may I help you?”

  “Please hold for Max Dane.” The voice had a plummy, slightly British tone, reminiscent of Jeeves, or Downton Abbey’s Carson. The only Max Dane Faith had heard of had been a famous Broadway musical producer, but she was pretty sure he’d died years ago. This must be another Max Dane.

  She was put through quickly and a new voice said, “Hi. I know this is short notice, but I am very much hoping you are available to handle a house party I’m throwing for about a dozen guests at the end of the month. A Friday to Sunday. Not just dinner, but all the meals.”

  Faith had never catered anything like this. A Friday to Sunday sounded like something out of a British pre–World War II country house novel—kippers for breakfast, Fortnum & Mason–type hampers for the shoot, tea and scones, drinks and nibbles, then saddle of lamb or some other large haunch of meat for dinner with vintage clarets followed by port and Stilton—for the men only. She was intrigued.

  “The first thing I need to know is where you live, Mr. Dane. Also, is this a firm date? We’ve had a mild winter so far, but January may still deliver a wallop like last year.”

  A Manhattan native, Faith’s marriage more than twenty years ago to the Reverend Thomas Fairchild meant a radical change of address—from the Big Apple to the orchards of Aleford, a small suburb west of Boston. Faith had never become used to boiled dinners, First Parish’s rock hard pews, and most of all, New England weather. By the end of the previous February there had been seventy-five inches of snow on the ground, and you couldn’t see through the historic parsonage’s ground-floor windows or open the front door. Teenage son Ben struggled valiantly to keep the back door clear, daily hewing a path to the garage. The resulting tunnel resembled a clip from Nanook of the North.

  “I’m afraid the date is firm. The thirtieth is my birthday. A milestone one, my seventieth.” Unlike his butler or whoever had called Faith to the phone, Max Dane’s voice indicated he’d started life in one of the five boroughs. Faith was guessing the Bronx. He sounded a bit sheepish when he said “my birthday,” as if throwing a party for himself was out of character. “And I live in Havencrest. It’s not far from Aleford, but I’d want you to be available at the house the whole time. Live in.”

  Leaving her family for three days was not something Faith did often, especially since Sunday was a workday for Tom and all too occasionally Saturday was as well, as he “polished” his sermon. (His term, which she had noticed over the years, could mean writing the whole thing.)

  Ben and Amy, two years younger, seemed old enough to be on their own, but Faith had found that contrary to expectations, kids needed parents around more in adolescence than when they were toddlers. Every day brought the equivalent of scraped knees, and they weren’t the kind of hurts that could be soothed by Pat the Bunny and a chocolate chip cookie. She needed more time to think about taking the job. “I’m not sure I can leave my family—” was interrupted.

  “I quite understand that this would be difficult,” Dane said and then he named a figure so far above anything she had ever been offered that she actually covered her mouth to keep from gasping out loud.

  “Look,” he continued. “Why don’t you come by and we’ll talk in person? You can see the place and decide then. I don’t use it myself, but the kitchen is well equipped—the rest of the house, too. I’ll e-mail directions and you can shoot me some times that work. This week if possible. I want to send out the invites right away.”

  Well, it wouldn’t hurt to talk, Faith thought. And she did like seeing other people’s houses. She agreed, but before she hung up curiosity won out and she asked, “Are you related to the Max Dane who produced all those wonderful Broadway musicals?”

  “Very closely. As in one and the same. See you soon.”

  Faith put the phone down and turned to Pix Miller, her closest friend and part-time Have Faith employee.

  “That was someone wanting Have Faith to cater a weekend-long birthday celebration—for an astonishing amount of money.” She named the figure in a breathless whisper. “His name is Max Dane. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Even I know who Max Dane is. Sam took me to New York the December after we were married and we saw one of his shows. It was magical—the whole weekend was. No kids yet. We were kids ourselves. We skated at Rockefeller Center by the tree and . . .”

  Her friend didn’t go in for sentimental journeys, and tempted as she was to note Pix and Sam skated on Aleford Pond then and now, Faith didn’t want to stop the flow of memories. “Where did you stay? A suite at the Plaza?” Sam was a very successful lawyer.

  Pix came down to earth. “We barely had money for the show and pretheater dinner at 21. That was the big splurge. I honestly can’t remember where we stayed and I should, because that’s where—” She stopped abruptly and blushed, also unusual Pix behavior.

  “Say no more. Nine months later along came Mark?”

  “Something like that,” Pix mumbled and then in her usual more assertive voice added, “you have to do this. Not because of the money, although the man must be loaded! Think of who might be there. And the house must be amazing. We don’t have anything booked for then, and I can keep an eye on the kids.”

  The Millers lived next door to the parsonage, and their three children, now grown, had been the Fairchilds’ babysitters. Pix played a more essential role: Faith’s tutor in the unforeseen intricacies of child rearing as well as Aleford’s often arcane mores. Faith’s first social faux pas as a new bride—inviting guests for dinner at eight o’clock—had happily been avoided when her first invite, Pix, gently told Faith the town’s inhabitants would be thinking bed soon at that
hour, not a main course.

  Faith had started her catering business in the city that never slept before she was married and was busy all year long. Here January was always a slow month for business. The holidays were over and things didn’t start to pick up until Valentine’s Day—and even then scheduling events was risky. It all came down to the weather.

  Pix was at the computer. Years ago she’d agreed to work at Have Faith keeping the books, the calendar, inventory—anything that did not involve any actual food preparation.

  “We have a couple of receptions at the Ganley Museum and the MLK breakfast the standing clergy host.”

  The first time Faith heard the term “standing clergy,” which was the town’s men and women of any cloth, she pictured an upright, somberly garbed group in rows like ninepins. And she hadn’t been far off.

  “That’s pretty much it,” Pix added, “except for a few luncheons and Amelia’s baby shower—I think she babysat for you a couple of times when she was in high school.”

  “I remember she was very reliable,” Faith said.

  “Hard to believe she’s the same age as Samantha and having her second!” Pix sounded wistful. She was the type of woman born to wear a I SPOIL MY GRANDCHILDREN tee shirt. Faith wouldn’t be surprised if there were a drawer somewhere in the Millers’ house filled with tiny sweaters and booties knit by Pix, “just to be ready.” Mark Miller, the oldest, was married, but he and his wife did not seem to be in a rush to start a family.

  Samantha, the middle Miller, had a long-term beau, Caleb. They were living together in trendy Park Slope, Brooklyn, and Sam, an old-fashioned paterfamilias, had to be restrained from asking Caleb his intentions each time the young couple came to Aleford. Pix was leaning that way herself, she’d told Faith recently, noting that young couples these days were so intent on careers they didn’t hear the clock ticking.

  Faith had forgotten that Amelia—who apparently had paid attention to time—was Samantha’s age and quickly changed the subject to what was uppermost in her mind—the Dane job. “Where is Havencrest?” she asked. “I thought I knew all the neighboring towns.”

  “It’s not really a town so much as an enclave between Weston and Dover. I don’t think it even has a zip code. I’ve never been there, but Mother has. You can ask her about it. The houses all date to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I believe there’s a gatehouse at the entrance. It’s an early equivalent of the midcentury modern planned communities like Moon Hill in Lexington. Havencrest wasn’t a bunch of architects like that one though. Just very rich Boston Brahmin families who wanted privacy and plenty of space. I wonder how Max Dane ended up there? From what Mother has said, the houses don’t change hands, just generations.”

  “I think I’ll check my e-mail and see if there’s anything from him yet,” Faith said. “And maybe drop by to see Ursula on my way home.” Stopping to visit with Ursula Lyman Rowe, Pix’s mother, was no chore. The octogenarian was one of Faith’s favorite people. She turned back to the éclairs, which were part of a special order, and added a few more to bring to her friend.

  “I know you’ll take the job,” Pix said. “I’m predicting the weekend of a lifetime!”

  Driving over to Ursula’s house, Faith thought about Max Dane’s birthday party. She was approaching a milestone birthday herself, although many years away from seventy, and had been feeling blue. She liked to think of herself as a person to whom age didn’t matter. That with family, friends, good health, and the many advantages she’d had in life, she should simply count her lucky stars, not years. Yet time seemed to be passing more quickly lately and she found herself wincing as she scrolled the drop-down year-of-birth menu online when filling out forms. The only person she felt free to commiserate with was her sister, Hope, a year younger and virtually in the same boat. They had a pact to tell each other when it was time for a discreet vacation to do something about their suitcases—not the carry-on kind, but under the eyes—one of the Sibley women’s less welcome inherited gifts.

  It was more than appearance, though. Rather weltschmerz, mild depression, the “is this what the rest of my life will be?” -ness. Hope, a financial lawyer in New York City, as was her husband, Quentin, had even described herself as being in a “rut.” With a doorman prewar three-bedroom, two and a half baths, eat-in kitchen, view of the Park on the Upper East Side and a house in the Hamptons, it was a pretty comfy rut, but Faith knew what she meant. “I’m thinking of taking flying lessons, getting a pilot’s license,” Hope had said the last time they’d talked. Faith had suggested that Hope should reread Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying for fun instead. Maybe go for a less extreme hobby, although not the one in the book.

  She pulled up to Ursula’s house. There was a car in the driveway, which Faith assumed belonged to the student who was living there now, or maybe the home health aide who came several times a week. Concern about Ursula’s being on her own in the large Victorian house had been solved by moving her bedroom to the first-floor library and converting a small bath off the kitchen into one that was handicapped accessible. The student was around at night to give Ursula her dinner and argue about who would do the dishes. During vacations, Pix happily filled in. She’d wanted her mother to move into her house—“Plenty of room now that all the kids are gone”—but Ursula had refused, pointing out that they had avoided mother/daughter conflicts ever since a few rocky shoals when Pix was fourteen and she wasn’t about to chance it now.

  Faith rang the bell and was surprised when an elderly gentleman answered. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Faith Fairchild. Is Ursula home?”

  “Faith? Is that you? Come into the living room. We’re just having drinks,” Ursula said.

  “I’m Austin Stebbins,” the man said, putting out his hand.

  Faith shook it. He had a strong grip, and as he led the way from the hall, Faith noticed his straight spine, full head of thick silver hair, and well-cut navy chalk stripe suit. She knew the name of Ursula’s lawyer, so this wasn’t a visit from him, yet Mr. Stebbins had that sort of air about him. Family retainer air.

  “Don’t get up,” she said, going to kiss Ursula who was starting to stand. “I just wanted to drop off these éclairs. I’ll put them away in the kitchen.”

  “You spoil me. Thank goodness. Get yourself a glass and have some sherry with us.”

  Faith thought she would. It was only five o’clock and she’d cooked chili yesterday for tonight’s dinner. All that remained was to heat it up, grate some cheese, and make a salad.

  When she returned from the kitchen, Austin and Ursula were sitting next to each other on the pretty rosewood couch that had been Ursula’s grandmother’s. The two leapt apart like guilty teenagers, although so far as Faith could tell they had only had heads close together in conversation. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Austin is an old friend,” Ursula said.

  “Not all that old,” he said with a smile. “But we do go way back. I have been living away from Boston, my hometown, for most of my adult life and now happily find myself contemplating a permanent return. And considering the Stebbins plot is in Mount Auburn Cemetery, it may well be forever.” There was that smile again. He had a Kirk or Michael Douglas cleft in his chin that deepened each time.

  About to gently prod for more information, Faith felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. “Sorry,” she said, checking the caller. “It’s Tom.” She added for Austin’s benefit, “My husband.”

  Ursula waved permission. “Go ahead, take it.”

  “Hi, honey,” Faith said to Tom, “I’m at Ursula’s.”

  “Could you get home as soon as possible? There’s a Planning Board meeting at six and Ben’s having a meltdown.”

  Ben was not her meltdown child. Faith quickly said good-bye to Ursula and her guest. Questions about Mr. Stebbins would have to wait for another time. As would the ones regarding Havencrest.

  When Faith got home, Tom was at the door, his overcoat on. “Gotta run. Have no idea why the chairperson
called a special meeting. Ben’s in his room. Won’t talk, but raced in, looked like he was about to cry, and slammed his bedroom door shut. Told me to go away.” He gave his wife a quick kiss and was gone before Faith could ask if he’d eaten anything. He probably had, although it wasn’t the chili. That was still in the fridge, she saw, taking it out and setting it on the counter. The nature of the job meant that the men of the cloth she knew—husband, father, and grandfather—had all been able hunter/gatherers, grabbing sustenance on the fly. Interrupted meals were a way of life. The crumbs on the breadboard and a mustard-covered knife in the sink meant Tom had made a sandwich.

  Amy was at a play rehearsal—Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. She’d landed the part of Emily’s mother, Mrs. Webb, as much for her height as her skills as a thespian, Faith suspected. Both her children were going to be even taller than their parents before they were done growing. Faith grazed five foot eight, and Tom was six foot one.

  Something must have happened at school to set Ben off, but what? They’d had a few issues around his college choices, but that was over before Christmas, and now it was just a waiting game. He was a good student with decent scores, a better-than-average soccer player, state finals track star plus enough extracurricular activities including a regular volunteer commitment at the Boston Food Bank to make him an attractive candidate.

  She took out a wedge of Monterey Jack. Maybe she should grate the cheese now to give him time to calm down. She sighed. Who was she kidding? She was the one who wanted some time. Whatever it was, it was big. Amy was sunshine and tears. Ben steady as a rock.

  No more avoiding the problem. She went upstairs to try to find out what crowbar had been used on her beloved boulder.

  “Ben?” She tapped on his door. When there was no answer, she said, “Please let me in. Dad said you were upset about something.”

  Still no answer. She tried the knob. The door was locked. “Honey, come down and have something to eat while we talk.” Food, the panacea for most ills.