The Body in the Cast

Penny took the mike easily, like the true club woman she was. Faith was surprised she wasn't wearing a hat and gloves, but she had put on one of her good flowered silk dresses and her handbag was sitting squarely between her feet, sensibly Cobbies-clad. She took the full seven minutes to touch on several subjects. A brief, and modest, description of her own qualifications—Wellesley '49, her volunteer work, years in Town Meeting—then proceeded to a description of the problems Aleford was facing with diminished resources and a population that was growing most rapidly in the over-sixty-five and school-age categories. "Two wonderfully entertaining groups," she declared, "but one like as not on a fixed income and the other with none. Which means we have to find ways to be fair to both. We'll need to reopen one of the schools we closed when enrollments were down, yet we can't let our older friends turn the heat too low or start eating one meal a day less as a result.”

Faith couldn't imagine life being sustained with the heat turned any lower than it was in the majority of Aleford households, whatever the age of the occupants. In fact, it seemed the older they were, the more insistent they were on flinging windows open in December to let in some fresh air, or firmly shutting off the furnace in April because it was spring, come what may. Economizing by cutting down on food was another matter, and she knew from Pix and her Meals-onWheels work that malnutrition due to a lack of money was a big problem among the elderly.

Penny had barely finished—leaving, Tom whispered to Faith, a warm, fuzzy feeling, like one of the kids' blanket sleepers—when Alden seized the mike with his good hand and, without waiting for Peg's introduction, launched into his speech—or rather, attack.

“My good friends, here you see exactly what iswrong with us and why, if you'll pardon the expression, Aleford is going to hell in a hand basket.”

Alden was opting for slightly less than the full treatment. Profanity, yes, but genteel, even folksy profanity.

“Now let's start with Mrs. Barlett's ill-advised, and I do not use these words lightly, notion of reopening schools left and right." He took a sheaf of papers from his suit pocket and rustled them importantly in front of the microphone, startling James Heuneman, before quoting to the penny how much it would cost to reopen even one school and how much the town would lose in revenue from the current tenants, a computer-software development firm.

“If you elect me your selectman, I will not spend one cent to reopen these schools. We have no idea whether this trend will continue." He eyed the audience, as if to say, And it better not.

Faith poked Tom in the ribs. "If we have another baby, we'll have to answer to Alden.”

“A pretty good reason," he mouthed back, and she was sorry she'd made the comment. Tom came from a long line of large families—to Faith more than two children fit the category—and was eager to maintain the tradition.

“The whole thing can be solved with a little ingenuity. That's what this town is lacking these days. Yes, a little ingenuity and belt tightening. Mobile classrooms can fill the bill nicely for a few years and then we can sell them to some other school system."

“Trailers!" Faith gasped to her husband, who nodded grimly.

“Four walls are four walls, and what happens inside them depends on the teacher, anyway. That's what all the research the fellows at Harvard—oh, pardon me—the fellows and gals, say." Alden really was wicked. He'd probably picked up one issue of The Harvard Educational Review and now would cut its findings to suit his cloth. Faith was suddenly nervous. "We'd better give some more money to Penny's campaign," she murmured. "You bet your sweet ass we will," he muttered.

Tom, from the evidence, was even more nervous.

Alden finished with a flourish. "Everywhere I go, I see the quality of small-town life deteriorating, and this was not why I put on our great country's uniform and laid my life on the line. We've got to go to war again and fight against the spendthrift mentality represented by my opponents here. I know you will help me in the struggle. Together we will succeed!" He smiled ingratiatingly and passed the microphone to an obviously annoyed Peg Howard.

“What war was he in?" Faith asked Tom. "Korean?”

“No war. National Guard. But to be fair, he stayed in a long time."

“Who wants to be fair?" Faith remarked, then decided to curtail her remarks. Millicent, in the next row, had turned around, and Faith didn't want to see a finger on those pursed lips.

Round one was over and Alden had definitely won, on shock value alone. He was at one end of the table. James sat between him and his half sister, which most of the audience knew was no accident.

Firmly in control of the microphone and protocol once more, Peg asked the questions prepared by the League. The candidates' replies contained few surprises, and the heat in the auditorium supplemented by all the warm bodies in the audience combined to make Faith very drowsy. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open and had resorted to pinching herself to stayawake. Even putting the finishing touches on the menu Alan Morris had requested for a surprise birthday party for Max Reed the next night failed to capture her attention, but the first question from the floor catapulted her into a state of total alertness.

It was asked by Daniel Garrison, sporting a gigantic Spaulding button, befitting his dual role of best—and some said only—friend and campaign manager.

“My question is for Mrs. Bartlett," he began suavely. "Would you not agree that it is absolutely necessary to have the trust and confidence of the entire community in order to serve on the board?"

“Yes, of course." Penny seemed puzzled about where the question was going, as was a sizable portion of the audience.

“You would agree that a member of this board, the most important single unit in governing the town, must be like Caesar's wife, let us say, and thus above reproach?”

Penny's face grew stern and her no-nonsense reply made it clear she thought the question just so much hollow campaign rhetoric, paving the way for a paean to Alden's own lofty qualifications.

“Mr. Garrison, could you get to the main point and leave Caesar's wife to Caesar? If you want to discuss accountability, I am more than happy to address the issue."

“I'm delighted to hear that, Mrs. Bartlett." He pronounced her name as if it was an alias. "Then you will not mind disclosing certain financial transactions made by you and your late husband, particularly regarding those reported on your state and federal income tax statements in 1971?”

There was an immediate buzz in the audience, fol- lowed by absolute silence. Faith reached for Tom's hand and whispered in his ear, "What is this? Alefordgate?”

Penny did not retreat. Faith's admiration for the woman doubled, if that was possible. Had she been attacked in such a manner, Faith's inclination would have been to hoist her loaded pocketbook and bean both Alden and his slimeball friend.

“Mr. Garrison." Penny smiled gently. She shook her head slightly in sorrow for someone led astray by bad companions. "I think this town knows me well enough after all these years to trust me. I have always been forthcoming, and my late husband was the same. I find your question inappropriate.”

A real lady. Right down to her mother's wedding pearls and the slim gold band from Shreve's on her left ring finger, worn thin from years of constant wear.

It was this last article of jewelry that Faith noticed Penny began to twist after handing the microphone back to Peg. It was the sole outward sign the question may have disturbed her.

Dan Garrison tried to ask a follow-up question, but Peg was quick to cut him off. "Thank you, Mr. Garrison, we'll get back to you if there is time. However, I see many other hands”

After this beginning, the rest of the questions seemed tame, even the heated exchange between Alden and one of the PTA presidents over the use of mobile classrooms, which ended with the good lady red with frustration, exclaiming, "Why am I wasting my breath? You just don't get it and never will!”

The order for the closing statements had also been predetermined and Alden was last. After expressing his thanks in a similar manner to his opponents, he choseto use the rest of his time to discourse on the importance of trust.

“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 Ale-ford 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. "Sony, 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 collbquialisms 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:' Faith laughed. If Tricia wanted champagne, she'd get it. She wasn't a bossy person—Scott wouldn't care for that—but things she wanted had a way of happening—like a real wedding, not a justice of the peace, and the latest, house hunting.

The staff looked attractive and professional in black trousers, white tuxedo-front shirts, a black tie for Scott, a black rosette for the rest. Faith made a bow in the direction of her profession and wore traditional checked chef's pants, altered to fit by a clever little seamstress in nearby Arlington. At the moment, everyone also wore long white aprons with Have Faith emblazoned in small red script on the bibs.

The kitchen door swung open. It was Alan Morris. Faith was surprised. She hadn't heard a car pull up.

“The producers are due any minute," he announced excitedly. "Nils is stalling Max over at the Marriott, pretending not to like the camera angle on the dailies they're watching. Evelyn's upstairs getting changed. We came together in her car and I think all four wheels were off the ground most of the time." It was obvious his breathless state was not entirely due to anticipation, but fear. Faith had heard about Evelyn's penchant for fast sports cars; a red Mercedes convertible had been rented for the Aleford shoot. "You can plan on serving dinner in an hour and a half.”

This was what Faith had been waiting for—a timetable.

“Fine. Tricia and Scott will be in the hall to take coats and drink orders. We'll start serving the hors d'oeuvres as soon as the first guests arrive."

“It's going to be great. Max doesn't have a clue." Alan was as excited as a schoolboy. Apparently, it wasn't often that Max was in such a position, and Alan, for one, was enjoying it.

Thirty minutes later, Max walked through the front door, still arguing with Nils, who had made some excuse to come along. Nobody jumped out from behind the furniture, but the effect was the same. He was well and truly surprised—and touched. The nanny had brought Cordelia downstairs to show off, and Tricia reported in the kitchen, with a trace of possible wishful thinking, that the baby was absolutely beautiful. They all had a chance to confirm this when the nanny bustled in soon after to demand her dinner tray and to warm a bottle. Cordelia was beautiful. She seemed to be Evelyn's sole creation—a soft down of golden hair covered her head and drifted over her brow, where it met a pinkand-white porcelain complexion, and deep blue eyes. Pure O'Clair. Faith felt a sudden pang of longing for her own sweet baby girl, bundled in Carter's, not Baby Diors, as this exquisite creature was, but with her own inimitable Amy face. Maybe they'd decide not to shoot on Saturday and she'd have a chance to play with her kids.

Tricia was taking another tray of hot phyllo triangles and mushrooms stuffed with chorizo sausage out to the living room. "Scott says he's going to need some more champagne and another bottle of scotch soon." Faith headed for the pantry, saying, "Tell him to meet me in the dining room." Tricia nodded, carefully pushing open the swinging door. She was terrified of smackinginto someone. Normally unflappable, she was unhinged a little by the evening's proximity to so many celebrities.

Faith stood in the dining room, listening to the happy buzz of conversation and the crackling fire. Someone, probably Alan, was keeping it going. Scott walked in, took the bottles, smiled ingenuously and said, "You should see the outfit on Evelyn O'Clair. I wish I could spray-paint that good! I thought they used all sorts of trick photography to make them look like this on the screen, but she's even sexier in person. I wouldn't throw her out of—"

“Be quiet, you lecherous old married man, or I'll tell on you." Faith hustled him back to his post.

She'd get a look at the dress later from the pass-through. The men were all in black tie, Tricia had told them immediately, awestruck—"and nobody's even getting married!" she'd exclaimed. Max, of course, had arrived in his perennial work attire, corduroy pants, a denim work shirt, and a baggy Irish fisherman's sweater. He'd raced upstairs and replaced the sweater with an incongruously elegant burgundy velvet smoking jacket—Evelyn's birthday gift.

Faith hoped they wouldn't linger too long over their drinks. She'd allowed an hour. Alan had stressed it was to be an early evening. Work would start again promptly the next morning at 7:30. But Tricia reported that no one showed any signs of moving toward the dining room. The catering staff was used to changes in schedule. The only problem would be the lamb. It would be a crime to serve it overdone.

At last, Tricia appeared to say that Alan had an-

nounced dinner, and described what had been going on.

"They insisted on keeping the baby downstairs and the nanny didn't seem too happy about it. Cappy Cam-son tried to get her to have a glass of champagne, but she said, `Not while on duty, sir,' just like a cop. He must be nuts about kids. He's been playing with the baby all this time, making funny faces, and Evelyn O'-Clair is laughing her head off. In a very ladylike way, of course." Scott followed behind her with the drinks tray and as many of the dirty glasses as he had been able to squeeze on. Faith told him to return discreetly for the rest, since they'd be having coffee and liqueurs in the living room after dinner, then to come back and pour the champagne.

Everyone was seated and Faith opened the pass-through to hand Tricia the plates of steaming butternut squash soup that Niki was ladling out and garnishing with toasted pine nuts. A basket of warm, crusty spiced corn sticks sat at either end of the table.

It was a festive and attractive-looking group. Evelyn was sitting down, and if her bodice was any indication, the red satin of her dress might have been applied with a spray gun. Her hair was piled on top of her head, all the better to show off a necklace and earrings with diamonds in the Gibraltar range compared to most rocks. Cornelia was in red, too, but a deep maroon velvet. She was wearing her grandmother's garnets, Faith noted, and looked, well, like Cornelia. Marta had diverged from the scarlet theme and glistened softly in layers of silver gray silk. Caresse wore the party dress she'd worn as Pearl and was the only person who appeared bored. Her mother, sitting across from her, looked anxious and immediately drank some of her champagne when Scott poured it. Caresse was more than a full-time job, Faith imagined. Jacqueline Carroll looked very elegant in an emerald cashmere knit. Her dark hairwas lustrous, loosed from its usual French twist. Faith saw Max regard her appraisingly in the candlelight. She half-expected him to pull out a lens from his pocket to see how the frame looked.

Candlelight—kind to both men and women; but more than candlelight had to be responsible for Sandra Wilson's transformation. She'd squeezed in a visit to Makeup and Wardrobe. If Faith hadn't known who it was, she never would have recognized her. Her fine blond hair seemed to have doubled in volume and deepened in color to a rich, shimmering honey tone. It was artfully disarrayed, brushing her naked shoulders. Her dress, what there was of it, was a strapless gold sequined sheath. Her carmine lips were almost too red—suggestive of a Transylvanian repast. But the whole effect was stunning, and Cappy, sitting next to her, was in danger of ignoring his hostess at the head of the table to his other side. A danger Evelyn quickly and firmly averted by engaging him in conversation.

Arnold Rose stood up, glass in hand, "A toast—to Max, the most brilliant director in the business. Happy birthday!”

Everyone stood up and repeated, "Happy birthday," the sentiment unmarred by what Faith was sure was Caresse's deliberate overturning of her chair as she rose. Then Cappy called out, "Speech! Speech!”

Max debated with himself for a moment, then looked at the expectant faces around the table, groaned dramatically, and grinned. "If I must."

“You don't fool us for a minute, Maxie, you old windbag," Arnold said affectionately.

“A phrase has been running through my mind since we started shooting. It's something Napoleon was supposed to have said: `What a novel my life is.' " Max paused dramatically, then continued, the cadence of his words measured, even stately. "I look at myself—at us—and think, What a movie my life is. I can't remember not looking at the world through a lens, so to speak, then running the rushes all back in my mind. Everything I see, everything I do is part of the script, and you, my friends, are forever in the cast. On-screen and off.”

He held his glass high above his head, "To all of you, I am profoundly grateful " He drained his glass but did not sit down. Scott quickly filled it again, and in the brief interim, Max seemed to take on some of his Chillingworth character. He raised his glass, not high but outstretched toward Evelyn at the opposite end of the table, then quoted his muse in a voice that was low and pregnant with meaning, like the doctor's, "Hawthorne wrote, `In most hearts, there is an empty chamber waiting for a guest.' In my heart, that chamber is full. To you, my love. Now let's eat.”

Everyone laughed. The solemnity was over. It was a typical Max moment—pathos to bathos in sixty seconds. They sat down, started to eat the soup, and the dinner was launched.

Faith closed the pass-through, but not completely. Niki raised her eyebrows, commenting, "Tricks of the trade?" She was sautéing walnuts for the brussels sprouts. It wasn't a vegetable known to cause dinner guests to stand up and cheer, but with the walnuts and the French huile de noix—walnut oil—dressing, the aroma alone made instant converts.

After ceremoniously showing Max one of the succulent crown roasts, Tricia and Scott served the table. It was all going beautifully.

Too beautifully. Alan had either turned out to be an oenophile after Faith's own heart or had received remarkably good advice. They were drinking a 1970 Léoville Las Cases, a Médoc, with the lamb—a lot of it, Scott remarked after returning to the kitchen for yet another bottle.

In vino veritas, and the producers were the first to start, tongues loosened.

“Maxie, Maxie," Kit Murphy began in a slightly wheedling tone, "what would it hurt for Arnold and me to come out just for one day to see some dailies, maybe visit the set, schmooze with the crew?”

Max's face clouded slightly.

Arnold jumped in. "We're not talking interference. We're not talking reporting back to the studio. We're only talking interest, Max. We're interested.”

Before Max could answer, Caresse, fortified by sev- eral tumblers of Coca-Cola, announced, "If you're so interested, you might be interested to know I'm off the picture."

“Caresse!" her mother admonished. "You know this isn't true.”

There was a pause as everyone waited for Max's response. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to say anything, preferring to help himself to the large bowl of mashed potatoes left on the table and taking a generous swig of wine, Kit spoke up.

“She's right, isn't she, Max? You know the publicity has already gone out. And we agreed—these guys, Caresse, Evelyn, Cappy, they're `the money' remember..."

“Look, whose picture is this? And so long as we're reminiscing, let's not forget about the artistic-license clause."

“We haven't forgotten about it, but what's going on?" Arnold Rose's voice was a whole lot more threat- ening than Kit's had been. A fascinated kitchen staff gathered close to the pass-through. They could hear every word and, by bending down low, could peer in. Arnold and Kit reminded Faith of good cop/bad cop. She wondered whether it was their standard modus operandi.

“Nothing's going on." Max's voice was studiously casual. "I've changed a few scenes, used the baby more, but Miss Carroll is not out of the picture. And, as her charming mother said, she knows it," he added.

“But I'm out of here. Come on, Mom." Having stirred up her hornet's nest, Caresse was bored again. MTV was a whole lot better than this.

“Sweetheart. It's not polite to leave before dessert." Jacqueline sounded wistful. Maybe she didn't want to miss the cake.

Caresse was at the dining room door. "Oh, Mom, for God's sake, we'll stop at Friendly's if you want. The food is a whole lot better, anyway.”

In the kitchen, Scott grabbed at his chest and pretended to pass out. Faith thought of Pix's words. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" had never seemed more apt.

“Let her leave if she wants to." Evelyn's dismissive tone gave way to parody. "I'm sure the poor child is merely overtired and overexcited.”

Jacqueline did not fail to recognize the allusion, and flushed.

Alan reassured her, "Don't worry about it, Jackie. We'll see you on the set tomorrow morning. I'll get your driver.”

He then strode into the kitchen so quickly that the caterers had to scramble madly td get away from the pass-through to other locations. As the door swung completely in, they presented an impassive, uninterested front. "Mrs. Carroll and Caresse are leaving now," he said to one of the chauffeurs who was sitting in the breakfast nook with the others, playing cards. The man jumped up immediately and went out the back door. Alan spoke to Faith: "Could someone help them with their wraps? And several glasses could use touching up."

“Certainly," Faith replied, reaching for a decanter of the Bordeaux she'd prepared and handing it to Scott. Tricia went to fetch their coats. Alan's presence in the kitchen reminded Faith that he had neglected to tell her where the cake was. They had searched high and low but hadn't turned up a crumb.

“I haven't been able to find the birthday cake."

“Don't worry"—he smiled secretively—"it's all set. You just put out the plates with the sorbet and leave room for the cake. We'll be bringing it in from the den."

“This must be some cake," Niki commented after he'd returned to the table. `Little Caresse' is going to be sorry she missed it.”

Scott had returned and was eating a piece of lamb with his fingers. "I don't think `Little Caresse' is ever sorry, but I'd love the chance to try to make her be”

Faith was looking through the pass-through again. It was time to clear the plates from the main course. The unpleasantness had apparently been swept under the thick Oriental rug and everyone was talking to his or her neighbor. Cornelia's unmistakable voice rose above the others. She was expounding on the influence of Hegel on Sergei Eisenstein to Cappy Camson across the table. "The triadic process is so obvious in Ivan the Terrible," she said. "Thesis, antithesis, synthesis—it's positively riveting." Cappy nodded amiably. He had moved his chair closer to Evelyn's. Sandra WIlson had left the table—the powder room? Faith felt as if she was watching a play or a movie. The next act was about to begin. Marta stood up and took Caresse's empty seat beside Max, placing herself between him and the two producers. Faith was sure she was not misinterpreting either the ironic glance Marta gave Cornelia in passing or the intent of Ms. Haree to act as a buffer between her director and producers.

The Parisian chocolates had been placed on the table and Max thanked Cornelia. "I know the Stuyvesant touch." She colored almost prettily and looked about to note her rival's reaction, but Sandra had still not returned. Faith was waiting for a signal from Alan to serve the sorbets—a trio of apricot, Granny Smith, and black currant. She opened the hatch a little farther. Cappy and Evelyn were deep in conversation. Max, protected from the demands of his producers by Marta's bulk, cast his eye absently around the room. His gaze came to rest on Evelyn at the opposite end of the table. He watched her for a moment, then spoke to Nils, next to him.

“Nils, I haven't seen Evelyn all evening. Trade places, won't you? I want to hold her gorgeous hand, and you can tell Cappy about the town hall scene for the hundredth time, so maybe he'll get it right.”

Faith couldn't see Evelyn's face, but Cappy did not seem overly thrilled with the change in seating or the director's caustic remark. The actress got up and moved next to Max. He greeted her with a kiss and whispered something in her ear. Then he threw one arm around her shoulders and left it there.

Alan Morris had also been absent from the room, and upon entering, he came directly to the kitchen. "It's time!" he announced. "I'll need this young manhere to help me with the cake, and perhaps you'd like to cut it, Faith. The meal has been superb and I know Max will want to thank you.”

Faith was a little puzzled. Niki was right, this really must be some cake. She went to get a knife, then followed Alan and Scott out of the kitchen. Tricia started the sorbet. The glasses for red wine were removed and replaced with flutes filled with more champagne. A moment later, the table was startled into silence at the sound of music. Solemn music. Religious music. Chants from the Bay Psalm Book. Then Alan and Scott wheeled a dolly in with an enormous cardboard cake on it. Slowly, the top lifted off and Sandra Wilson dressed as Hester Prynne in period clothes emerged, her head bowed and her hands clasped together at her waist. A huge scarlet letter was pinned to her breast. She stood demurely as the music continued. Everyone smiled politely. Suddenly, with one swift motion, she knocked the sides of the cake down, tore the letter from her dress, flung it at Max, and proceeded to execute a very professional striptease as the taped music changed to one of the sexiest renditions of "Happy Birthday" anyone had ever heard since Marilyn Monroe sang it to JFK. The room exploded in applause and laughter.

Then as it became apparent that Miss WIlson intended to go for broke, the reactions changed. Faith found herself spellbound. The contrast of Hester's chaste undergarments and Sandra's explicit performance was both funny and a turn-on. Scott was grinning from ear to ear, as were the other men. Kit Murphy was chanting, "Go, Hester, go." Max himself shouted, "Yeah, baby!" every once in a while. Marta sat with a neutral smile; Cornelia openly scowled and reached for a chocolate. It was difficult to read Evelyn's expres- sion. She seemed to have drawn the curtains. Annoyance? Pity? Sandra was getting close to the end. It was hard not to be impressed by the woman's great body, and Faith resolved to increase her own work-outs once the shoot was over. Alan moved out of the shadows and handed Sandra two lighted sparklers. She was down to a red G-string and two red pasties in the shape of A's.

Definitely not your ordinary Aleford dinner party.

Sandra wriggled over to Max, said a final happy birthday, and planted one on him—a long one. He emerged breathless and laughing again. Her red lipstick was smeared all over his mouth. He grabbed her for a repeat. Alan placed a conventional cake with candles before the director, gloating over the success of his surprise.

“Alan, you old son of a bitch, you!" Max remonstrated jokingly.

“Make a wish, Max." It was Marta.

He blew out the candles and Faith served the cake. The sorbet had melted into pools of purple, orange, and pale green.

The next day on the set, Faith felt as though the night before had been a dream.

Alan had obviously been waiting for the truck and as soon as she got out, he asked her to set up a table with plenty of coffee and snacks at the bottom of the meadow near the woods.

“We're shooting a test of the forest scene today," he said, literally rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "With Sandra standing in for 'Evelyn." He didn't say anything about the party.

Cornelia followed at his heels. In this case, Faith did not expect accolades, or even a comment. She assumed Cornelia would prefer to forget the whole night. What Sandra had placed on Max's plate made Faith's fellow alum's chocolates look like last year's Halloween candy.

“Max wants a couple of cans of Jolt cola. I assume you've got some," she demanded.

Faith always stocked plenty of this supercaffeinated drink on shoots.

“Is that all he wants—nothing to eat?"

“Yes, he's ..

Faith finished for her. "A little hung over?"

“Absolutely not," Cornelia retorted. "He's just not very hungry after all that heavy food you prepared. I wasn't hungry myself this morning."

“Does anyone else want anything? Cappy, Evelyn?"

“Lady Evelyn has just fired her hairdresser—again. When I saw her, she was yelling for someone to give her a shampoo, so I doubt she needs food, and I haven't seen Cappy. Just get me the soda. Please”

Cornelia adjusted her coat and shook her hair back, like a dog that's come in out of the rain. She obviously felt much better.

“Must be going. So much to do to stay on track. We're shooting the forest scene today. The weather is perfect, Max says:' She was gone abruptly before Faith could say, "Have a nice day.”

Not that the day was nice. Max's idea of perfect weather seemed to run to overcast gray skies. But in this instance, he was staying close to Hawthorne. Faith remembered the forest scene well. She'd gone over it again after Cornelia's description of Hester and Dimmesdale's roll in the moss. The day was "chill and somber." What sunshine was around retreated before Hester's steps, and her precocious child, Pearl, remarked that the sunshine must not love her mother. It was a sensual scene in the book, but they had kept their clothes on. Faith wondered how all this was going to be handled.

She went back to the tent to help with the unloading and asked Pix if she would take charge of getting the table set up near the woods. She told Pix and Niki about Cornelia's request for Jolt cola.

“We'd better have a lot of the stuff handy," Niki said. "You should have seen how much booze they put away, Pix. And I wouldn't be surprised if the esteemed director is tired, besides being hung over. From the way he was looking at Evelyn, he definitely had plans for after the company left.”

It was also the way Cappy had been looking at Evelyn, Faith remembered. The dress had been sensational and when she'd stood up to move to Max's side, Cappy, who could have just about anybody he wanted in Hollywood—or anywhere else, for that matter—had been positively drooling. Who says clothes don't make the woman? Faith repeated one of her favorite adages to herself with the vaguely uncomfortable feeling she'd be editing an almanac soon.

Pix was back almost immediately for another urn of coffee. "Everyone is freezing despite the lights and portable heaters. Especially Cappy and Sandra! This is going to be some movie! They're writhing around on some sort of astromoss next to the brook, stark naked. I saw them when I went to tell Alan the table was set up. They must have body makeup on, because they look perfect. Or maybe they are perfect." Pix had come to terms with her cellulite years before, yet she still found it hard when someone else appeared not to have any."And they're shiny. The sweat of passion. Faith, you have to sneak up and see this.”

So Max was going for nudity. A was going to be an X.

For a moment, Faith held back. It was without question prurient interest, but then she couldn't resist. It wasn't so much to see the scene as to see the scene—how everyone else was reacting and what they were doing. If she got caught, she could say she had to discuss something with Alan. What a convenient person he was, always around when anyone needed him. Always around. It occurred to her that she had no sense of what he was like, except as the fixer. Was he content to play second banana to Max on into the sunset, or did he aspire to a directorship himself? Cornelia seemed to hold him in some contempt. A location scout. Faith was sure there was a whole lot more to the man.

She started up the path and circled around back of the lights to a grove of trees overlooking the brook. Sandra, wearing a ratty old fake fur coat, was sitting in a chair, waiting for the next shot. Cappy was in a Ralph Lauren duffel, talking on a cellular phone. Max was standing still, looking at them. Evelyn was nowhere in sight. Caresse was arguing with her mother. "I'm not in the scene again until later. Why do I have to stand around watching this gross stuff?" Max tuned in to their conversation.

“By all means, go back to your trailer and we'll call you. We may not even get to it today, so there's no need for you to stay out here in the cold.”

Caresse had the surprising decency to thank him, and her mother beamed as they left.

They got ready to start up again and when the clap board came down, the action really did start. The minister in his jeans and Hester in her filmy white dress sat motionless on the green carpet. Hester spoke: "We have done nothing wrong. Before God or anyone else." It was obviously Reed's deathless prose, not Hawthorne's.

Dimmesdale took her hand. "But I must leave. You know that”

Hester nodded and stood up. "You will not go alone. I will make you very happy." At the word happy, she reached to her shoulders, undid some fastenings, and her dress dropped to the ground, taking the scarlet letter with it. Faith was so transfixed by the moment that she almost forgot to stay hidden behind the trees. Sandra in her body makeup looked like a goddess—Aphrodite. The whole crew seemed to be holding a collective breath. The forest was completely silent. Not even a breeze swayed in the trees whose bare branches were beginning to swell slightly with buds.

Faith looked at Max. He was in his Chillingworth makeup and costume. There was a smile on his face and he was nodding; then as Dimmesdale removed his clothes and drew Hester down to the ground, Max looked irritated. He seemed about to stop the scene, but didn't. It could be that it wasn't going the way he wanted. Or it could be that he was staying in character.

For some reason known to the director, Marta Haree as Mistress Hibbins was positioned on the other side of the brook in her bright gypsylike clothes. She was beckoning to them, slowly waving her arms. As the two began to make love, she called out triumphantly, "I will see you in the forest tonight!”

The rest of the players looked merely interested, or, in the case of Alan Morris, entranced.

“Cut!" Max screamed.

Five

Yet, if death be in this cup, I bid thee think again, ere thou beholdest me quaff it.

It is not easy for an individual to creep about the forest on little cat—or more aptly, squirrel—feet when hitting two hundred pounds on the scale represents some weight loss. Therefore, it was only a matter of moments before Faith identified the creeper as Alden Spaulding. His efforts to escape detection by hiding in a grove of slender birches was ludicrous. She walked rapidly to his side, greeting him heartily, not from any desire for his company, but rather to find out what he was up to.

“Alden! Out for a stroll? You didn't pick the best day for it.”

He seemed flustered and was hastily trying to fit something into the pocket of his overcoat at her approach. He closed the flap and kept his pudgy hand over the object from the outside. It made a bulge that was difficult to identify. What on earth was the man doing?

"Harumph"—Faith had never actually heard anyone say this and was delighted—"Mrs. Fairchild. Yes, I am out to get some air. Often walk this way. It's conservation land, you know. Open to everyone." He glared at her.

Faith was enjoying herself. It was nice to watch him squirm for a change. She knew, of course, why he was there, and she tried to push aside the thought that it was also why she was there. Somehow Alden had found out about the nude shots, or he'd gotten lucky. Whichever, this particular conservation tract was far from Alden's house. He would have had to drive. Getting some air, indeed.

"I would have thought you'd favor Simond's Woods. Isn't the entrance at the end of your road?"

"Sometimes people like a change." He had regained his composure, and nastiness. "Take the election, for example. Come March twenty-sixth, you'll see some big changes in town. Now, good day. My regards to the Reverend." He stomped off in the direction of the main road, where he must have left his car.

"Good-bye," Faith called after him. "Interesting running into you." Nothing would induce her to say nice. And it had been interesting.

Alden Spaulding creeping about the woods. Alden Spaulding, the creep! He had made certain feeble, off-color suggestions to her when she'd first arrived in Ale-ford, before he knew she was married to his minister. And he was one of those men who always stand too close to women. Faith invariably took a step backward when he came near her.

She retraced her steps back through the woods. No, Alden was no latter-day Thoreau. The mysterious object was probably a pair of high-powered binoculars. All the better to see you with .. .

Pix and Niki were both waiting at the table. No one else was around and apparently Max hadn't called a break yet.

“So?" they asked in unison.

“As the lady with the golden retrievers said, `This is going to be some movie,' " Faith concurred.

“Maybe I can get a peek," Niki said. "There isn't much of Cappy unknown to his adoring public after those ads, but the real thing is something else again." She rolled her eyes. "Mama wants to see those buns!”

Faith burst out laughing. Niki was always falling in and out of love. Her latest was getting an MBA at the Harvard Business School, but Niki had cheerfully assured them he was the type you didn't bring home—much, much too eligible. "In my family," she'd said, "what you do is invite the guys with tattoos who had five o'clock shadows in third grade; then when you finally have someone you want, they're so relieved, they'll welcome anyone who's even related to someone with a job”

Niki continued to enthuse about the film. "One of the crew just told us that this afternoon they're going to shoot from a helicopter. The idea is to go slowly from a closeup of the lovers to a panorama of the whole countryside.”

Faith didn't recall a shot like it from Max Reed's other films and it could be very effective—the camera virtually rising into the sky over Hester and Dimmesdale until they disappeared in an extra-long shot of the bleak New England landscape. The helicopter was already big news in Aleford.

“This must be why they're shooting with Evelyn's stand-in this morning. Checking the lighting, positions.”

Pix and Niki started to giggle. "Can't practice those positions too much:' Niki gasped.

“You two are impossible! Pix, what would Sam say?"

“Which one Husband would be thrilled; daughter would say—no, make that would go—`Oh, Mother.' This seems to be the extent of her conversational repertoire lately—at least with me”

Faith wasn't looking forward to either of her children's adolescence, although the Miller teens appeared fine, even fun, to a nonfamilial eye. She changed the subject. She had almost let Alden the nature lover slip from her thoughts.

“I wish we could use this somehow in the campaign," Pix said after Faith described her chance encounter, "but I can't think how." The campaign was constantly in mind.

“What a lech! It's disgusting. The man must be sixty at least!" Niki exclaimed.

“His age is not the disgusting part, you ignorant child," Faith was quick to retort. So forward-thinking in everything else, Niki and her cohort aped all their predecessors and ran headlong into the "anyone over thirty" roadblock.

“I know, I know," Niki conceded, "but would you want to go to bed with him? Probably has drawers stuffed with inflatable party pals."

“To borrow an expression of Ben's, Yuck" Faith recoiled.

She and Niki left Pix to return to the final lunch preparations.

“Why are they shooting with Evelyn's stand-in and not Cappy's?" Faith wondered aloud. "He must have one."

“You've got me," Niki said.

“Unless Cappy wanted to do it." Sandra's striptease the night before might have been too tantalizing to resist. Or maybe Cappy just wanted to rehearse—a rehearsal falling into the category of "It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.”

The crew seemed even more wired than usual. The medallions of pork with winter vegetables and pans of spanakopeta, a Greek spinach and feta cheese phyllo dough pie, disappeared in record time. No one lingered over coffee and dessert. It was obvious that today's shoot was proving more energizing than any amount of Jolt cola. The principals all ate in their trailers and their trays, too, came back early. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to get back to work.

Alan Morris motioned to Faith. He had come to lunch later and was one of the last ones in the tent. She sat down across from him. He was scraping the last bit of the spinach pie from his plate.

“There's plenty more. Would you like me to get you another piece?" Faith asked.

“No, thank you. I've had two already. You are really a fabulous cook and I wondered if you could help us out tonight. Max is going to be looking at some of the rushes from the last few days in private at the hotel. Do you think you could bring over some desserts, coffee, whatever, for a nosh around seven o'clock? He'll have had dinner at home. I hate to ask you after all your work last night, but we won't be late."

“Certainly," Faith replied. "He 'liked that cookie assortment the other day at lunch, didn't he? I can addsome pastries, fruit, and a crème brûlée if you want."

“Sounds perfect. And, by the way, Max doesn't want too many people to know about the screening. He isn't asking everyone, so ..."

“I won't say a word," Faith promised.

Tom wasn't thrilled at the idea of Faith's overtime, but he sensibly held his tongue. The shoot wouldn't last much longer and he planned that his marriage would. Faith could have asked Niki or someone else to go, but she was intrigued by all the secrecy. Besides, she'd never seen dailies screened. Maybe they would let her stay.

When she arrived at the Marriott, Alan Morris was waiting for her and swiftly ushered her into the room they were using. The hotel had set up a table and there was someone to help her unload the car. Unless they planned on serving themselves, she would be seeing the footage.

It was a select group—only Max; Nils Svenquist; Marta; Cappy Camson; Max's stand-in, Greg Bradley; some of the lighting crew; and Alan. Everyone settled into comfortable chairs, their plates heaped high with goodies. What a civilized way to watch a movie, Faith thought. Whenever Tom and she went lately, it seemed that either the seats were left over from the days when theaters had stars on the ceilings and organ music or the entire population of Aleford High noisily surrounded them.

The lights went out and the film rolled. Faith wasn't surprised to realize it was today's takes. Max must have paid a premium to get the lab in Cambridge to process them so fast. Was it to check out the expensive helicopter shots, or for some other reason? Faith had her answer almost immediately.

Sandra's face filled the screen, and before long, her body. The takes were repetitive, but it didn't matter. Each one was totally captivating. No one said a word.

The camera was in love with the young PA. It was difficult to believe this was the same person scuttling about anonymously, clipboard in hand, behind the scenes.

On-screen, she became the embodiment of desire. The final effect was in no way pornographic, but erotic—and more. Her expression conveyed a sadness, an awareness that the lovers were destined to remain forever apart. There was no sound, only the images. It was so powerful that Faith wondered whether Max might dispense with the dialogue in the final version, as well. Sandra's performance seemed to inspire Cappy. The minister's face continued to register nuances of his guilt and torment, even in the midst of passionate joy. At the end of one of the takes, the camera moved away from the couple and shot a close-up of the letter pinned to Hester's discarded dress.

“I was playing here, Max. You can think about it. Maybe too obvious, I don't know. But the girl—she's brilliant," Nils remarked. The footage continued. "She's—”

Whatever else he had intended to say was cut off as the lights were flipped on and a figure who had slipped unnoticed into the dark room ran toward the director, shrieking, "You bastard! You goddamned bastard! You thought I wouldn't find out! Just going over to the hotel to talk to Nils!”

It was Evelyn O'Clair. She was dressed in tight black jeans and a red suede jacket with Joan Crawford shoulder pads. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. For an instant, her outstretched hands and long fingernails threatened Max's face. There seemed no way he would avoid carrying the marks of her wrath.

She dropped her arms to her sides. "No, I'm not going to hurt you. Not now. Chillingworth with scratch marks." Her voice had changed completely. She was the tragic queen. Injured dignity. "Some of us are professionals. Some of us play by the rules. What do you want, Maxie? You want to make porno flicks. Go ahead. Use her. But finish this picture first. You're filming me now.”

Max put his arms around her and spoke softly, but his words were audible. Everyone in the room remained motionless.

“Sweetheart, you're leaping to conclusions ... the wrong conclusions. You came in at the beginning, the morning takes. I only used her to get things set up for the afternoon, your takes. We're going to see those now. The real thing.”

True or not, his words seemed to have the intended effect on Evelyn, at least partially—or maybe she wanted to see her footage.

“Let's have something to eat and then see the rest," Alan suggested. Everyone stood up gratefully and refilled their plates. Cappy Camson joined Max and Evelyn. He seemed to be adding to Max's reassurances. Faith heard someone say, "She's just a PA.”

The lights went off again. Evelyn's chair was between Max's and Cappy's. When the rushes started, from her position directly behind them, Faith could see Evelyn was holding hands with both of them.

Faith was curious to see the contrast between the two actresses, but before the nude scenes, Alan came back to the table and whispered to her that she could go home.

“I promised not to keep you late, and this could go on for quite a while. I'll make sure the hotel locks the room.”

Faith was disappointed, yet it was clearly a dismissal. "Thank you. We'll pick up our equipment in the morning."

“Thank you. Everything was delicious, as usual. Good night."

“Good night.”

On film, Evelyn was standing up, about to drop her dress. This footage included sound, and her rich inflections added to the sensuality of the scene. Sandra Wilson might have the body, but she didn't have the voice.

When Faith got into her car, her disappointment soon turned to relief. She hadn't realized how tired she was. She drove down Mall Road and turned onto Middlesex Turnpike toward Aleford. She'd be home in ten minutes, and in bed in twenty. With that comforting thought, she let her mind wander. Was there some reason Alan hadn't wanted her to stay? He'd been sitting on the other side of Max and the director had leaned over to say something to him just before Alan had come back to Faith. Was it Max's idea that Faith leave? Maybe he didn't want anyone to see the "real" scenes until the movie was released. Or maybe he didn't want her to witness another kind of scene. Or maybe he, or Alan, simply thought it was getting late and that since they really didn't need her, she could go home.

Evelyn had certainly been ripping—or delivering a fine performance. f you were good—and she was—you could create a role to suit the occasion, then play it to the hilt. Which was it tonight, Evelyn the woman or Evelyn the actress? Holding hands with both men added an element of intrigue—and humor—to the part.

One thing was certain: Evelyn O'Clair wasn't doing Hester Prynne.

Faith pulled into her driveway, found the strength to hoist the garage door, and ten minutes later was sinking into slumber beside her almost-oblivious mate.

The next day, Thursday, whether because of the associations or because the sun was trying to break through the clouds, Max abandoned the forest scene and decided to do an interior shot. Sandra was in her jeans again, running around trying to locate a bolt of sheer drapery material that Max wanted pinned on the walls of the Pingrees' dining room, now Hester's prison cell.

Cornelia was stalking around in high dudgeon. She seemed to invite inquiry and Faith was happy to comply. The movie production was intriguing beyond all expectations.

“Sandra"—Cornelia's voice dripped with scorn—"has managed to lose an essential prop and we can't shoot, can't even arrange the lighting until she finds it.”

Faith felt sorry for the PA—from the Follies to folly, sic transit gloria mundi.

The fabric was still missing at lunchtime. Faith was back in the catering kitchens with Ben and Amy when Pix returned from her post at the craft services table.

“They finally found the fabric. It was in the barn, which seems like a strange place to put such easily soiled material. And Sandra swears she didn't, but people are pretty annoyed with her, anyway. Max decided by the time they got the room the way he wanted it, it would be too late to shoot, so he sent everybody except a few people home."

“Did anyone say anything about Saturday?" Faith was thrilled to have the job, but she'd love a real day off. They didn't shoot on Sundays; only that was not a day of rest in the Fairchild household.

“No, not yet, but why don't you take the day, anyway? Niki and I can handle lunch with the rest of the staff.”

Faith was tempted, except too much was at stake. The Chocolax crisis was still fresh in her mind, though the birthday party's success and subsequent repasts had virtually erased it from everyone else's. She was beginning to agree it had to have been Caresse. Nothing else made sense. She'd love to have some time alone with the child to find out how she did it, but that wasn't going to happen.

“It's sweet of you, but they're not going to be filming here much longer and I think I'd better stick around.”

The following day, Faith was around even more than she had been before. They were all set up to shoot inside the house, which turned out to be providential. It was Max's favorite weather, cold and gray, but the cold was freezing cold. Shooting outside would have been cruel and unusual punishment, although unusual was not out of keeping with A. Cornelia crisply delivered a message from the assistant director asking the caterers to set up plenty of coffee, tea, and things to eat in the kitchen so people wouldn't have to go down to the barn.

The crew had redefined the Pingrees' small dining room into a surreal landscape, swathing the walls and furniture with the gauzy off-white fabric. A straw pallet had been arranged in one corner next to the cold fireplace. A period chair and cradle stood by the prisoner's resting place. Lights had been placed outside the diamond-paned windows and now they were working onthe inside, covering some of the exposed beams with what looked like aluminum foil to create the effect Max wanted. Nils was everywhere, as was Max. Cornelia, as was her habit, scurried around looking busy. Cappy had checked in—and Evelyn—then they left to take a walk.

Faith felt once again as though she was watching a play from her position in the butler's pantry, which separated the dining room from the kitchen. And in a way, she was. Setting the stage. It was fascinating. She never failed to be impressed by the magic that transformed a room with piles of equipment, drapes held in place with safety pins, and groups of people at the perimeter into an intimate, isolated, realistic moment on the screen. She knew what would follow to create the illusion—the editing, which Max had frequently declared in print was as important a process as the filming itself. "The footage is his clay and Maxwell Reed is a master potter," Faith had heard a film critic say on the radio.

Sandra was talking to Max now. She had a clipboard and, as usual, her entire attention was focused on the director. To be near a genius was to be a bit of a genius yourself, Faith supposed. Certainly that was what Cornelia conveyed. PAs—and the rest of Max's devoted crew—ate, drank, and lived the movie.

Faith moved back into the kitchen to check on her supplies. Everyone else was at the tent getting lunch ready.

Alan came into the room and asked for some coffee. "Black, and I hope it's strong. Not that I need it to keep me awake. Nobody could fall asleep during this take." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, apparently a habit. Faith could well understand why Max kept him as his assistant on picture after picture. Alan never seemed down. His constant phrase to Max after the innumerable glitches that arose during a typical day was, "Don't worry. Be happy. We'll handle it." It never failed to provoke some kind of smile from the director.

“Max sees it as a pivotal scene, Hester and Roger's first meeting alone after many years. The doctor has been called in to attend to the baby, who is having convulsions, mimicking Hester's own frenzied state." Alan put his cup down and put his thumbs together to frame the picture he was seeing in his mind. "Man and wife. They stare at each other for a moment. Later, we'll superimpose a shot of them in the same positions back in England—a younger Hester reluctantly wedding Chillingworth. Then the whole thing will turn like a kaleidoscope and we're back in the present, the baby screaming."

“I remember the scene," Faith said. "Chillingworth gives Hester some medicine to give to the baby, then hands her a dose of noxious herbs for herself."

“And she has to decide if she trusts him enough to drink it." Alan took a large swallow of coffee. "It's a great moment. We're going to shoot first to check the lighting, using the stand-ins, so you can come in and watch if you like."

“I'd love to," answered Faith. Then she added, "It's been fascinating watching the progress of the film." Maybe if she showed an active interest, he'd let her stick around even more.

“You'd better be careful. This business can get in your blood. Look at me. I was headed for medicine when I met Max, had finished my first year of medical school. Of course, I'd always been addicted to films and the theater—from both sides 6f the footlights. I picked up some rave reviews for college performances.

You never know where life may lead you. Anyway, enough profundities. It'll be about ten minutes. I'll call you." Alan finished his coffee and left.

Faith made another pot and decided she didn't have time to check on lunch preparations. Tom kept telling her she was going to have to learn to delegate more, and maybe he was right. She had in New York, but her staff had been with her a long time. Still, Niki knew what she was doing and they had steered away from anything remotely resembling black bean soup. Today there was pasta—penne with a choice of two kinds of sauce—a spicy linguica sausage with tomatoes and yellow peppers or a broccoli pesto. They'd also made a variety of tortas, the usual salad bar, breads, and rare roast beef for the meat eaters. She rapped the wooden table and said a silent prayer to Escoffier in defiance of both reason and her spouse's oft-repeated ridicule of such shibboleths. But such practices had worked so far—everyone on this shoot liked the food, as they had on every other one she'd catered. She'd known excellent companies that had been fired merely because one of the stars didn't like the choices one day or a fanatic had detected white sugar in the granola. Maybe she should run over to the tent just for a second.

Alan Morris stuck his head in the door. "We're ready to start," he said, then disappeared.

Faith took off her apron, went into the dining room, and found a place in the corner, well out of the way.

Nils and Max were silently pacing on opposite sides of the set, then at some unspoken signal, both men met and gave a nod to start.

Sandra was in full makeup, wearing a duplicate of Evelyn's gauzy costume, but the Totally Hair Barbie look of the other night was back to lank locks. She looked tired and not a little pathetic. Max's stand-in took his place by her side.

“Let's try it, people," Alan called. "Stand by.”

Faith had assumed there wouldn't be any dialogue, since they were interested only in the lighting; however, she supposed Max wanted to see how the whole thing played—like the forest scene. The filming started and Chillingworth handed a pewter cup to Hester Prynne.

“Drink it! It may be less soothing than a sinless conscience. That I cannot give thee. But it will calm the swell and heaving of thy passion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea.”

Sandra took the beaker reluctantly. Faith didn't blame her. Her husband's words might seem reassuring on the surface, yet his tone was that of one bent on revenge.

The lighting was extraordinary. A few seconds ago, Sandra had looked pale and wan. Now she appeared bathed in a sensuous, rosy luminescence, bosom heaving with conflicting emotions. Chillingworth reached over and slowly traced the letter at her breast, circling close to her nipple, clearly visible through the fabric. She flinched at his touch, then stood up, took a step toward him, raised the cup to quaff the draft in one swallow, and .. .

“Cut! Cut!"

“Cool 'em.”

Sandra put the cup on the wooden mantelpiece and blinked. She was back and she didn't even have a glass slipper as a souvenir.

“It's fabulous." Nils executed a little jig. "Following the montage, the scene will continue to seem like adream sequence, even in the present. Pure genius, Max.”

Max was smiling like the Cheshire cat. "Yeah," he said, drawing the word out, "I think it's going to fly:' Alan rushed over. "I'll get Evelyn. I assume you want to shoot now."

“You assume right." They bent their heads together in further conversation for some minutes; then Max walked over to Sandra, who was sitting down in the chair, and said, "That was beautiful, honey. Evelyn couldn't have done it any better herself.”

Faith looked uneasily over her shoulder to be sure the lady in question wasn't about to walk in on this, but she was nowhere in sight. It had been a powerful scene, and for a few seconds, Faith had completely forgotten where she was, where they all were. It was Hester's jail cell hundreds of years ago. She began to fully appreciate what this movie could be—Max's masterpiece.

The director left the room to hasten things along. Faith, still caught up in the moment, stayed where she was. Five minutes later, Max was back, but without Cappy and Evelyn. He went over to Sandra, who had remained seated, and bent down to speak to her. He straightened immediately and beckoned to the other PA. "Cornelia, Sandra isn't feeling very well. I think we'd better call a doctor.”

Faith moved to the center of the room. Max had shifted to one side and Sandra was completely visible. Her face had assumed a bluish cast and her eyes were terrified. She appeared to be having trouble getting her breath, taking rapid, shallow gulps of air. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She began to cough, then that stopped abruptly and she brought her hand to her throat, as if trying to force the words out and air in.

Faith ran over to her and felt for her pulse. It was hard to find.

“Don't call a doctor," she shouted to Cornelia. "Call the fire department; they'll bring an ambulance.”

Sandra's face felt as cold as the weather outside, despite the warmth the lights and people had created in the room. Her eyes closed and she would have toppled from the chair had Faith not caught the young woman. Faith sat on the floor, Sandra cradled on her lap. She seemed to weigh less than Ben. One hand clutched the pewter cup she had placed on the mantel a few moments ago. It was empty.

Faith shouted one final instruction. "And call the police. The state police, too.”

Had the town of Aleford replaced its ancient cruiser, Charley MacIsaac would not have lost precious time changing a tire on his way to the Pingree house and would have been there to warn Detective Lieutenant John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police that it was likely he would encounter his old friend Mrs. Fairchild once again. As it was, Dunne walked onto the movie set and confronted Faith center stage, not merely with a finger in the pie but up to her elbows—with her arms around the victim.

Sandra Wilson was not dead, yet Faith had known immediately something other than fatigue had to be responsible for the woman's pronounced symptoms. One of the crew had brought a blanket and reached for the empty cup that had fallen from Sandra's hand as he was covering her.

“Don't touch it—please!" Faith 'said. The man had looked mildly surprised and drawn back his hand. Time had stopped, but Faith's mind was racing. fthere had been something in the cup, it might be best to try to get Sandra to vomit. But with some poisons, this was the worst course of action, doubling their effect. Poison—she was using the word.

Sandra's breathing was shallow and slow. Her chest, incongruously clad in Hester's flimsy costume, barely moved. The scarlet letter that had looked so sensual a few minutes ago was now a mere piece of brightly colored cloth.

Faith kept her fingers on the woman's pulse. Her wrist felt limp and flaccid; her body draped across Faith like one of Amy's soft dolls.

At first, the room had been as still as the figure drawing every eye, then Max cried out, "Shouldn't we be doing something? CPR, for God's sake!”

Faith had decided they better try it, even if it did cause the girl to throw up. Then they heard the ambulance siren.

“Let's wait," she said. "The EMTs will know what to do”

Dunne had followed on their heels and immediately took up all the available space in the cramped room in much the way that Alice had in the White Rabbit's house after nibbling a cookie. It was always a shock to see Detective Dunne the first time after an interval. Faith remembered he was large, but not so large—and with a face that could only be cast, to put it politely, in "character" roles. His curly hair, cut close to his head, was grayer than the last time she'd seen him. His wardrobe as bespoke as ever. Today he wore a heavy camel's hair topcoat against the cold. He took charge immediately. Sizing up the situation with one rapid glance, he motioned the EMTs forward and instructed Detective Sullivan, at his side as usual, to rush the cup to the lab. As he left the room, Sully whispered something in his boss's ear.

Relieved of her burden, Faith stood up. Detective Dunne said, "I probably know the answer to this one, but it was your idea to phone us, right?”

Faith nodded. "It seemed like too much of a coincidence for someone to be saying lines about poison in a cup, then immediately keel over. And what with the business with the black bean soup—”

Dunne interrupted her with an explosive, "More soup! After that guy turned up headfirst in your bouillon, I'd have thought you'd stay away from the stuff!"

“You know perfectly well there was nothing wrong with my bouillon and the same—”

This time it was Maxwell Reed who broke in.

“Would somebody in charge like to tell me what the hell is going on here besides a discussion of Mrs. Fairchild's menus? And what is this about her soups?”

The detective lieutenant answered icily. It was his show now and he'd decide what was going on and when.

“I am Detective Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police. We were called by the Aleford police. Mrs. Fairchild worked with us on an investigation last year, and in the initial stages, there was an incident with some soup. The coincidence struck me. Now why don't you tell me who you are and I'll try to figure out what's going on here.”

Faith was flattered. John Dunne had actually said she had worked on an investigation. This could mean he was beginning to regard her as other than a nuisance and a pest. It could also mean he wasn't. After all, he hadn't said helped, although without her, corpses would still be piling up in the neighboring town of Byford.

“I'm Maxwell Reed." The director appeared to think his name was sufficient introduction, and he was right.

“And who was the young woman we've just carted off to Emerson Hospital?"

“That is one of my production assistants, Sandra Wilson. She has been working extremely hard and I'm sure they will discover she simply needs some time to rest.”

Dunne didn't respond. He walked around the set, threatening cameras, lights, and even the fabric pinned to the walls.

“The Scarlet Letter. I've heard that's what you're filming, so the cup means this was the scene in Hester Prynne's prison cell where Roger Chillingworth gives her something to calm her down.”

Faith was impressed. She knew that John's upbringing in the Bronx, across the river from her own in Manhattan, had been unusually literary. His mother was devoted to English poetry—witness the name. Apparently, Mom had revered the Concord Renascence crowd, as well.

“Yes," replied Reed. "We were using the stand-ins to test the lighting before shooting with the principals. But Miss WIlson didn't drink from the cup. We cut before that point.”

Reed's stand-in, Greg Bradley, who also worked as one of the grips, spoke up. "She did after you stopped shooting. Said she was very thirsty"

“What was in the cup?" Dunne asked. It was a simple question, but Reed seemed to draw a blank. Faith knew the answer.

“Diet Coke and Perrier. That's what Evelyn O'Clair likes to drink," she added after noting Dunne's arched eyebrow, a habitual gesture that emphatically did not make him look like Cary Grant.

“Hmmm," he said, "Detective Sullivan told me it smelled like booze.”

Someone gasped and everyone looked surprised. Sandra a secret drinker? Or Evelyn?

Dunne was about to speak again when Chief MacIsaac, Evelyn O'Clair, Cappy Camson, and Marta Haree all showed up at once.

Evelyn, wrapped in her sable coat, was almost hysterical. "What were all those sirens? We heard them in the woods—and what are the police doing here? Max! What's happened?”

The room was ready to burst.

Dunne answered, "I was just about to say that we don't know whether anything has happened here. San- dra Wilson passed out and is now being treated. Until we hear from the hospital, we only have Mrs. Fairchild's intuition to go on." He managed to make her hunch sound extremely dubious and Faith began to think she might have been over-optimistic about his attitude.

“Yesterday was the Ides of March, you know," Marta commented in a voice filled with foreboding.

“Yes, but Sandra wasn't stabbed and we're not doing Shakespeare, Marta!" Max was annoyed. He looked angrily at Faith. "What is she doing on the set?”

Alan stepped forward and said something sotto voce to Max, who struggled with himself for a moment, then calmed down—the whole process vividly enacted on his face.

“Detective Dunne, I am sure you will understand that we need to get on with what we're doing here. I can't have a whole crew just sitting around on their hands. It gets to be very expensive. Producers don't like it, especially my producers."

“Of course I understand. As soon as we get word from the hospital, you can all get back to work." Dunne's tone suggested he liked movies as much as the next guy.

“But this could take hours!"

“I'm sorry. However, since there is the possibility that there was something in the cup that shouldn't have been, until we hear otherwise, we can't disturb the room." He waved his hand vaguely in Faith's direction.

He might just as well have said it out loud, Faith thought bitterly: f you want to blame anyone for all this, blame little Mrs. Fairchild, your soon-to-be-ex caterer.

“The cup!" Evelyn's voice rose to a wail. "My cup! What was in my cup!" She'd taken off her coat and was wearing her Hester costume. Faith had had to look twice to be sure it wasn't Sandra miraculously risen from her hospital bed.

Max put his arm around Evelyn. She'd detached herself from Cappy, to whom she'd been clinging like a limpet, and crossed over to Max's side as soon as she entered.

“Nothing! Nothing was in the cup. Maybe some liquor. Somebody did it as a joke. Hester with bourbon on her breath—something like that. Everything's going to be fine. Why don't you go back to your trailer and lie down for a while until this is all sorted out?"

“I'm not going back there alone! Something's going on here! I want a bodyguard, Max. I told you I should have one!" She began to sob. She looked absolutely terrified.

He put his other arm around her. "Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing has happened. Just some mix-up. I wouldn't let anything or anyone hurt you.

You know that, darling! How about if Marta goes back with you? Just until I can come?" He looked over Evelyn's head, now buried in his shoulder, at Marta, who nodded and moved toward them.

Max addressed Dunne pointedly. "I assume we're free to leave the room."

“Certainly, but, for the time being, not the property.”

After Marta led the distraught actress away, others left in search of a breath of air, perhaps, and also to get away from the eidetic images hanging about of Sandra prone on Faith's lap—and the cup.

Max looked glumly after the retreating figures and said to Alan, "Oh well, we were going to have to break for lunch soon, anyway." The remark reminded him of Faith, and he seemed about to say something to her she'd rather not hear. She was hastily following the crowd out into the frigid March morning when Dunne called after her, "Don't go too far, Mrs. Fairchild. I want to talk to you”

Faith ran to the tent to tell Niki and Pix what was going on—or rather, what had happened. The news had preceded her and they were waiting anxiously by the entrance.

“Faith! One of the crew said Sandra drank from a cup that was a prop and passed out! Do you think someone has been playing tricks again?" Pix asked.

“I don't know. But whatever was in the cup acted extremely quickly and she seemed in very bad shape." Faith suddenly realized she had to sit down or she'd fall down. Her knees had buckled out from under her at the memory of how rapidly Sandra's skin had cooled and her heartbeat slowed. Someone was talking.

“Put your head between your knees.” It was Pix with typically useful advice, although Faith had long ago decided she'd have to be in extremis to assume such an ungainly position.

“I'm okay. And I'll be a whole lot better when we hear that Sandra is.”

But they didn't.

As they were serving the first of the crew, Dunne strode in, took Faith aside, and said, "She's dead. Now come with me and tell me everything.”

Six

Death was too definite an object to be wished for or avoided.

Faith was stunned. The thought that she should have started CPR or done something else nagged at her. Her nose got stuffy and she felt the tears come. She stuck her hand in her jacket pocket and found a blue crayon but no tissue. It made her cry harder. Dunne reached into his pocket and pulled out a fine Irish linen handkerchief with his initials discreetly embroidered at the border. She took it silently. It smelled faintly of bay rum.

She wondered where they would be able to talk and followed him into the house—an hour ago crawling with movie people, now crawling with police. She noted the familiar yellow plastic crime-scene ribbons and the plethora of cameras as they passed the diningroom. She followed Dunne up the narrow, twisting stairs to the second floor and into the front bedroom. It was being used to store equipment and the only place left to sit was on the floor or on the large four-poster. Charley MacIsaac, who was behind Faith, immediately claimed the end near the pillows. Dunne sat next to him and Faith perched at the foot of the bed. The lyrics to one of Ben's favorite songs, "Ten Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed," immediately leapt to mind and she could hardly keep herself from chanting, "And the little one said, `Move over, move over.' " She restrained herself by focusing again on the tragedy. It wasn't difficult to push nonsense aside in the face of incomprehensibility.

“What made you think Sandra Wilson had been poisoned?" John got straight to the point.

“I'm not really sure." Faith tried to explain the feeling she had as soon as Max had said Sandra needed a doctor. "Maybe it's left over from the other night. The whole thing was pretty strange." She described Max's birthday party in detail. Charley's eyes opened wide and the detective lieutenant allowed himself one of his thin-lipped little smiles. "A Hester Prynne striptease. Wait until they hear about this down in the Zone. It could replace `All Nude College Girls: “

Faith continued. f she thought out loud, maybe things would get clearer.

“It's very hard to tell what's normal on a movie set. I mean, there's obviously a lot of tension about time and not going over budget. Then the actors all have a lot of anxiety about their roles. In some cases, whether they're doing it right; in others, whether they've got enough to do. And you have all these egos that need caressing, which reminds me. Caresse Carroll." She told them about the child's tantrum and fears about being off the picture. She and Charley filled Dunne in on the black bean soup incident.

“I don't see how the two events can be connected, yet they have to be. And the fire. I'm sure it was set to get us out of the tent while the Chocolax was put into the soup, although it still leaves the question of Evelyn's soup. That was served before the fire. But tampering with food—twice in less than a week. Even if the first incident gave someone an idea, there has to be a link.”

Dunne shook his head in agreement. "Do you know who was responsible for filling the cup?”

Faith had been dreading the question. "Yes. Me. That is, the prop man came into the kitchen before they started shooting and asked me to fill the cup with diet Coke and Perrier. I did and he took it back to the dining room."

“Charley, you want to go down and find the guy? Ask him what he did with it after he left the kitchen."

“It probably sat on the mantel the whole time. That's where it was when I came in later," Faith told them.

“Makes sense, but let's get him right away.”

Charley left and Dunne speculated: "It sounds to me like somebody wants to shut the production down. I wonder if Sandra's death wasn't an accident. Too much of whatever was put in the alcohol, or something she was allergic to. The idea was to have another poisoning where nobody actually got hurt, although from what Charley has said, everyone suffered." He looked pointedly at Faith.

“You could be right," she said. "I think what I'm trying to say is that there's been an unusual amount of tension on this set compared to others I worked on. I'vebeen chalking it up to Max's unorthodox methods—and his personality. We've all been waiting for a display of his famous temper. Evelyn isn't exactly laid-back, either." She told him about the forest scene shoot and subsequent drama enacted at the Marriott, then returned to her previous point. "In retrospect, I think the other night was Evelyn's ego run amok, no doubt an everyday event. Stars with their noses out of joint are pretty common on movie sets. People work around it, ignore it. But the strain in the air on A has been more than that."

“Any ideas who would want to stop the filming?" Dunne asked.

Faith thought for a moment. "No. In fact, it would be detrimental to everyone I can think of—the actors, Max, crew, producers."

“What about the studio? Isn't there some sort of insurance money they collect if the movie isn't finished? Could they be in trouble?"

“Maybe, but this is supposed to be a blockbuster with an all-star cast and the cachet of Maxwell Reed as director. It's slated for a wide release at Christmas. They stand to make a whole lot more money if the picture is finished. Besides, and maybe I'm being naïve, I can't imagine they'd go to such lengths to get the insurance money."

“Unless somebody was overextended, shall we say. Like one of the producers. The track, women, high living.”

Faith tried to fit Arnold Rose into the picture. Or Kit Murphy, lounging in someone's pink satin boudoir, her filmy negligee carelessly tossed to one side, next to the marabou feather-trimmed high-heeled mules she'd kicked off before lowering the lights and finishing the champagne. The champagne was right, but the rest .. .

“No, the producers—and they've been with Max for years, like almost everyone else—seem as anxious as anyone to get the picture made."

“A disgruntled crew member?"

“Possibly. And he or she could be responsible for the soup, too, but other than run-of-the-mill grousing about lack of sleep and cold weather, I haven't heard any complaints. Working on one of Max's pictures is a credential people in the business fight to get. Caresse has been the only outspoken malcontent."

“What about Caresse?"

“I suppose it's possible. She's hardly led a normal childhood—whatever one is." Faith tried not to get distracted. She spent a lot of time these days thinking about this topic in the hopes of saving Ben and Amy hours on the couch, not to mention fees that could be put to better use, such as sending aging parents to the Caribbean or the south of France in some far distant winters.

“Putting the laxative in the soup seems like something she would do out of spite—she was really furious at Max and could easily have grabbed a dozen or so boxes from Evelyn's stash, but she wasn't even on the set today. This scene involves infant Pearl, represented by very docile twin baby girls.”

Faith looked out the window. The dull gray sky framed by the ball fringe on the Pingrees' white Priscilla curtains threatened rain, or worse—snow. When had she stopped greeting the first flakes with the delight Ben did? Sometime in April her first year in Aleford? She was getting old and her bones felt creaky, or maybe it was just from sitting on the four-poster, which seemed to have a mattress stuffed with corncobs.

There was such a thing as too much authenticity, and people with period houses often veered dangerously close to the line.

“We'll start someone checking on what Miss Carroll and her mother were up to this morning. Anyone else missing from the set—that is, any of the principals?"

“No, I was surprised to see Marta, though. I didn't think she was involved in this scene, except you never know with Max. He's taken a pretty free hand with Hawthorne"

“Reed said Sandra Wilson was one of his production assistants. Did you see her other than at the party and on the set ... know her at all?"

“Not really. She'd come to request a tray for Max, Evelyn, or one of the other actors at lunch or a snack at other times, and I'd see her when she ate, usually with Max's stand-in, the guy who said she drank from the cup. We'd exchanged pleasantries. That's all. She struck me as somewhat shy, although her performances were anything but. She seemed totally devoted to Max—following him around with her clipboard and watching him starry-eyed when he was busy with someone else, that kind of thing." Faith was glad she hadn't known Sandra better. It was easier to deal with her death in a vacuum, without the knowledge of parents, sisters, brothers, happy years growing up in wherever.

“What about the male stand-in? Were they romantically involved?"

“I don't know. Though I hope so, because if she was in love with Max, it was pointless.”

Faith saw Sandra's glowing face again as she emerged from kissing Max after the strip. There was no if about the young woman's feelings for the director.

She sighed. Life was monumentally unfair.

Having reduced God's cosmic joke to a single sentence, she debated with herself what to tell Dunne about Cornelia. Cornelia had been on the set, of course. Glowering in the corner during the stand-in shooting and strangely quiet and immobile during its aftermath. Certainly she was jealous of Sandra, but she wouldn't do anything like this. Tamper with one of Max's sacred props! Never!

Dunne eyed her suspiciously. Faith found it almost difficult to meet his gaze.

“Are you sure you've told me everything? Do I have to give you the speech again?”

The speech, Faith knew from experience, consisted of stern reminders that this was a murder investigation, not a Sunday School picnic, etc., etc., etc. Certainly it was a murder investigation, and investigate was exactly what she intended to do.

She crossed her fingers behind her back, something of a reflex, and said, "Of course I have.”

Anyone peering in the lighted windows of the parsonage later that evening would have been rewarded by a picture as wholesome as apple pie, or, since it was Faith, tarte tatin. Mother was at the sink washing pots. Baby Amy was swaying contently in her wind-up swing and little Ben was drawing pictures across the table from Father, who was reading the newspaper—yesterday's, since it was Tom. He never seemed to have time to catch up and yet could not bring himself to take his wife's suggestion and skip a day. An acute observer might have noticed the slight frown on Mother's face as she attacked the broccoli and orecchiette pan with a scouring pad. And Father seemed to be reading the pa- per uncommonly fast—as if nothing could engage his attention for long. He flung the pages to one side and directed his attention to his son.

“What are you making? It looks like a very nice car. Good job, Ben?' Ben shook his head. "It's our house, Daddy. See all the bushes in front, and here's Superdog to save the day!" Ben finished his explanation in song. Grown-ups just didn't get it.

Superdog or man, woman, girl, or boy was what they needed about now, Faith reflected. Someone who would go directly to the heart of the matter and solve it in the name of truth and justice. She was so enmeshed in this fantasy that when the doorbell rang, she called out to Tom, "I'll get it," half-expecting to throw open the door and see someone of steel in blue tights and a cape.

The cape part was right—and the steel—but the person before her was wearing hose of an indeterminate brown, presumably to blend with the putty tweed suit and olive green Alpine cape she wore against the cold night air. It was Millicent. f not Superwoman, possibly a cousin. Faith felt oddly relieved to see her and wondered why.

“Millicent! Come in. We're all in the kitchen. Have you eaten?”

This last was automatic with Faith, and as she took Millicent's cape, she mentally surveyed the contents of the larder. They'd finished the pasta, but there was some good smoked trout pâté and .. .

“Of course." The idea that, number one, she might arrive unannounced at someone's house for dinner was as preposterous as, number two, that at well past six o'clock she would not already have dined. "I've come to talk to Tom," she said, promptly quelling any misconceptions Faith might have had about Millicent's intent.

Faith was puzzled. She had assumed Millicent was there to pump her about the events on the set. Sandra Wilson's death had been old news in Aleford an hour after the fact. The phone had been ringing all afternoon and Faith was keeping an ear cocked for it now. Once again, she didn't know whether she had a job or not. She assumed the filming would be suspended for a while, but what after that? And here was Millicent. If she didn't want to talk about the murder, then what?

Millicent followed Faith into the kitchen and graciously accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Tom cleared some space at the big round table and pulled out a chair for her next to Ben.

“That's a very nice house, Benjamin," she said with her "children's smile" firmly pasted into place, "But why is the dog in the sky?"

“It's Superdog!" Ben chortled. He liked Millicent for some odd reason known only to himself.

“Oh," she commented, then turned her attention to the Reverend. "I'd like to pick your brain, Tom." She looked about the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time and not happy then. "Perhaps your study?”

Remembering the profusion of papers that had sprouted like mushrooms after a rainy spell, Tom hesitated. Good wife that she was—and she intended to store away the points—Faith immediately said, "Oh, it's so comfy in here. Stay where you are. I have to put the children to bed now, anyway."

“So soon?" Millicent's voice rang with insincerity. "Good night, then, dears." Amy beamed over Faith's shoulder and Ben gave her a big kiss. Millicent absently waved in their direction. As Faith left, she caughtthe first words: "... a desperate situation and getting worse. We .. ." before the door swung shut.

Upstairs, the Fairchild children were washed, brushed, drained or diapered, and in their sleepers so fast, they barely had time to protest. Faith grabbed Goodnight Moon, which she knew by heart, and got to "Goodnight noises everywhere" before Ben could put up any token resistance to a "baby" book. It was short and it was good. She kissed him and sternly asked him what would happen if he didn't go to sleep immediately.

“A bad day tomorrow," he said promptly.

“You got it. Now go to sleep so you'll have lots of energy for playing." Sometimes it worked.

Amy was another matter entirely. She needed milk and a few verses of "Dream a Little Dream of Me," the Mama Cass version, not the Louis Armstrong one. Tom usually took care of that. Faith tucked the baby into her crib and was not fooled for a moment by the heavy-lidded drowsy smile her daughter gave her. She knew she would be back, but maybe she'd at least have enough time to find out why Millicent was downstairs monopolizing Faith's husband.

As she entered the kitchen, it suddenly occurred to Faith that perhaps Millicent had wanted a confidential chat with Tom as the Reverend Tom. This had not entered her thoughts before, because Millicent was a Congregationalist, as were her mother and father before her and theirs before them and so on and so on—like the catsup bottle's label of a picture of a lady holding a catsup bottle with a label of a picture .. .

Faith shook her head. It had been a long day.

Could it be possible that Millicent had come seeking advice for a personal problem, one she didn't dare con- fess to her own spiritual adviser? A secret sin? A burdened conscience?

Not. The spry elderly woman with the Mamie Eisenhower bangs who smelled discreetly of Dierkiss talc purchased by the boxcar load in 1958 may have had secrets—mainly other people's—but the only sin she would ever admit to was the original one, and that was the serpent's fault.

Millicent paused in what had evidently been a long harangue. Tom looked tired and did not hide the relief from his eyes when he saw Faith.

“Come join us, honey. This concerns you, too."

“It concerns every man, woman, and child in Ale-ford," Millicent clarified.

Faith poured hersef a cup of coffee. She wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, anyway. She grabbed the cookie jar and put it in the middle of the table, noticed Millicent's cup was empty, and went back for the pot. She also got Tom a tall glass of milk, although at this point, she was sure he would have preferred something stronger. But scotch didn't go with chocolate macadamia nut cookies, and even if it did, the prospect that Millicent would have him figuratively, if not literally, enrolled in AA by morning thoroughly discouraged the idea. Faith could hear her telling one and all, "His hands positively shook, my dear. He needed the drink."

“Are you talking about the murder?" Faith asked now that they all had something to consume, always the top priority.

“The murder? Oh, you mean that movie person? Sad." Millicent's tone suggested murders and movie people went together like a horse and carriage and that if one would insist on pursuing such a career, one got what one deserved.

Faith was momentarily taken aback by Millicent's callousness—and also lack of interest. This was the woman who a few short days ago was ready to give Angela Lansbury, Jessica Tandy, Kate Hepburn, and any other actress over a certain age a run for her money. Yet, having moved from behind the footlights for the nonce herself, Millicent the extra had obviously passed on to other things—more important things. And she hadn't known Sandra Wilson. None of them had.

“No, we're talking about the election." You silly goose, Faith finished for her.

“Has something new developed?”

Tom summed things up. "The Spaulding forces have started an old-fashioned whisper campaign against Penny. The kickoff was Daniel Garrison's leading question at the debate Monday night. Since then, it's been what I predicted. Penny—and Millicent—have had the unpleasant experience of walking into public places and immediately stopping all conversation:' Faith knew the experience well.

“People are saying, `Where there's smoke, there's fire,' and that Alden wouldn't have brought the whole thing up if he didn't have something very specific in mind.”

Faith sincerely doubted anyone, even in Aleford, had said, "Where there's smoke, there's fire," but she didn't question the intensity, or the potential viciousness, of the whispers.

“What does Penny have to say about all this?" she asked. "Is she still refusing to issue a statement?”

“Yes, and that's why I'm here. She won't say any- thing, and Tom has got to make her.”

No wonder her husband looked weary.

“But Millicent .. " Faith thought she'd give it a try.

She was married to the poor man. "How can Tom possibly do this? f Penny doesn't want to talk about it, that's her business."

“It is not," Millicent shot back in no uncertain terms. "Penelope Bartlett is running for office in our town and she has a responsibility to respond. Besides, she's going to lose the election if she doesn't.”

This put a different light on the matter. Faith saw Ben and Amy tripping gaily off to school in what would amount to a trailer park, with forty children in a class and no books. No art or music. These were "frills." She found herself wishing, as Pix had, that they could use the encounter in the woods against Spaulding somehow, but it might backfire. Alden would claim he was exercising his constitutional right to walk freely in the town-owned wild, and his supporters would agree, making sure one and all heard that the minister's wife had a very dirty mind.

But they had to do something. They couldn't let Alden win!

“Tom ..."

“I know, I know. It's a heck of a dilemma, Millie." Tom and Charley MacIsaac were the only ones privileged to use the treasured childhood nickname. Faith envisioned her with iron gray pigtails on the playground, turning the double dutch jump rope faster and faster as her little playmates skipped to her tune, "Too fast, Millie! Too fast!”

Tom took another cookie. "f you can't convince Penny to clear the air, I don't know who can. I agree it would be better if she did write a letter to the paper or put out a flier, and I'll tell her, but ..”

A thought struck Faith. "Maybe there is nothing. Maybe this is just campaign dirty tricks." Aside fromwhat made sense in terms of an Alden Spaulding campaign, Faith was sure Millicent, of all people, would have known everything about Penny's blameless past.

“I wish it was." Millicent sounded almost pathetic. "Lord knows, I've tried to think what it can be and it is something. I've known Penny since we were children, and she couldn't tell a lie to save her life. I asked her straight out if there was any truth to what they were saying, and all she would say was, `Don't ask me that.' Oh, there's something all right."

“Could you figure it out from what they said the other night? What was the year they claim the taxes were fraudulent?"

“The Bartlett's taxes were never fraudulent!" Millicent spoke as if Faith had started the rumor.

Faith protested. "I'm not agreeing with them! I'm simply trying to remember what they said!" She looked to Tom for support. No wonder he was tired. She began to toy with the idea of leaving to check on the baby, but there was still the possibility she might miss something. Tom was notoriously bad at remembering conversations.

Millicent was somewhat mollified. "The Spaulding campaign is alleging that Penny and Francis did not report `certain financial transactions'—I believe those are Mr. Garrison's words—on their state and federal tax forms for the fiscal year 1971.”

Miss McKinley, on the other hand, could repeat conversations from thirty years back word for word.

“Nineteen seventy-one, about twenty years ago. Do you remember anything that might have happened to the Bartletts then? Did they seem to be in any financial difficulty?" Faith was fishing, but if Penny wouldn't tell them what was going on, they'd have to figure it out themselves.

“Francis was dying. It was a terrible strain on Penny. He had cancer of the liver and was in a great deal of pain. I used to go and sit with him to relieve her. She didn't have a nurse until the very end. That was in the fall of 1972”

Tom wondered aloud, "Do you think something could have been overlooked during his illness? They could have forgotten to report some income, but how would Alden have found out?"

“It's possible. Barry Lacey always did their taxes. He did mine, too, until he passed away. Playing tennis." Millicent raised an eyebrow as if the CPA had been en flagrante. "f they had missed something that year, he would have straightened it out for Penny the next. It's also extremely unlikely that Alden would ever have had access to the Bartletts' tax records."

“Unless he saw something on somebody's desk or went into somebody's file. Did this Mr. Lacey do his taxes, too?" Faith had visions of Alden, a stocking pulled over his pudgy face, with a flashlight.

“Barry did everyone's taxes," Millicent said smugly, not needing to add the "anyone who was anybody," since it was in her voice.

“Then Alden might have picked up on something and tucked it away for future reference, say to blackmail his sister. Was this when they stopped talking, too?" Faith thought she had the whole thing neatly tied up.

“No, that was earlier. I think when their father died, but they were never close even before then."

“Could they have quarreled over his will?"

“I doubt it—and that we would have heard aboutsince everybody knew Jared Spaulding divided the bulk of his estate equally between the two of them. Penny's mother died when Penny was in college. Jared seemed to have a penchant for fragile women." Millicent was slightly disapproving. To be once a widower was bad enough; twice was close to profligacy. She continued. "In any case, Penny would never have bickered over money.”

Faith knew what Millicent meant. It would have been beneath a lady like Penny, but then Francis Bartlett made a good living, and having money made it a whole lot easier to be noble about said commodity.

Millicent was positively loquacious on the subject of Penny and her half brother, especially in light of her closed lips the other day when Faith had been asking the very same questions.

“I never thought of Penny and Alden as brother and sister. They weren't really raised together. Alden is seven years older than Penny and he was mostly at boarding school and the university (this meant Harvard, Faith guessed) when she was growing up. Then when he came home to live, she was at school. She married Francis shortly after she graduated from college. It was such a lovely wedding—in the Wellesley chapel. Sue Hammond caught the bouquet ... and how we laughed. Poor Susan. Not the most winsome girl, but would you believe she was engaged before the year was out!”

Faith knew once Millicent got going, it would be impossible to change the course of the speeding locomotive that passed for conversation back to the matter at hand. She interrupted quickly and firmly.

“So, what we know is whatever the Spaulding campaign has on Penny happened when her husband was very ill and that's about all, except, as brother and sister, Alden and Penny were pretty distant." Faith had already connected Alden's accusation with Penny's husband's death, but the rest was new.

Millicent nodded. Tom followed suit, nodding several times and seeming about to put his head down on the table. It was time to hear the baby, bless her little heart. Faith jumped up. "I think that's Amy. I'll just run up to make sure she hasn't kicked her covers off." Tom took the hint. "No, you stay here, sweetheart. I'll go." Now, would Millicent take it, too? It was their lucky day—or, more probably, she didn't feel like sitting in the kitchen with Faith while waiting for Tom to come back.

“I must be going," she said over the Fairchilds' feeble protests.

At the door, having swirled her heavy cape around her shoulders, imperiling the light fixtures, she addressed Tom in the familiar tones of a woman not to be trifled with lightly or otherwise. "Tom, I expect you to deal with Penny. The deadline for letters to the editor of the Chronicle is Monday. That gives you two days.”

“I'll do my best," Tom promised. He knew it was pointless to object.

“Thank you for the coffee and that very rich cookie, Faith," Millicent remarked politely. Any increase in her cholesterol level would, of course, be laid at Mrs. Fairchild's door.

After Millicent left, Tom and Faith looked at each other.

“I don't know whether to laugh or cry," he said. "Maybe both? Laugh now and then cry later when Penny Bartlett doesn't budge an inch."

“I know." Tom sighed. "But what could I do? By theway, you didn't really hear Amy, did you?" He had folded his wife in his arms and they were talking noseto-nose.

“No, both cherubs are blessedly sound asleep. I had the intercom on. And from the look of you, it won't be long before you join them."

“But not immediately.”

Faith smiled. Suddenly, she wasn't tired at all.

The next morning, Faith wandered around the house, changing sheets, energetically attacking the dust bunnies, and in general trying to keep herself occupied.

“I feel fragmented:' she'd told Tom at breakfast. "Yesterday, I held a dying woman in my arms, who it now appears was a murder victim. Then Millicent assigned you the thirteenth labor of Hercules. I start to try to figure out who might have killed Sandra Wilson, then my mind jumps to what was going on with the Bartletts in 1971."

“Why not think of something altogether different? Like me," Tom had suggested.

“Don't tell me you're feeling neglected!" Faith had protested. After all, he was still smiling.

“No, no," he'd reassured her hastily. "Not at all. Think about some new recipes or the state of the union or anything you want:' And so she'd played with Amy, enthusiastically applauding her sluglike wriggles across the floor, which would become crawling one of these days too soon. Faith found that Amy's babyhood seemed to be whizzing by at an alarming rate, whereas Ben's had progressed at a more petty pace. Maybe it was because this was the last child—definitely.

When an exhausted baby had allowed herself to be sung to sleep, Faith had dragged out the vacuum cleaner. But without the baby, all her attempts to keep fragmentation at bay failed. She found herself longing for Amy to wake up and Ben to come home from his friend's house. Before either occurred, the phone rang. It was Charley MacIsaac.

“Before you say a word, I don't know a thing. Or not much. You were right about the cup. The propman went straight from the kitchen and put it on the mantel—where it sat, available to everyone and his cousin, the whole time. Dunne's still questioning some of them over at the hotel, and, if you can believe it, they're all having a conniption fit over how much money the movie is losing.”

Faith thought sadly of how short-tempered everyone had been with Sandra when she'd misplaced the fabric for the walls. In death, she was causing even greater inconvenience. Did anyone connected with the film actually remember the person who had been killed, or was the budget so almighty? From what Charley was saying, he seemed to be wondering the same thing.

“But Max can't really be thinking that they can just go on shooting as if nothing happened."

“According to John, he can and is. Wants to get everybody back on the set immediately."

“What about the poor girl? I assume her family has been notified." Faith hadn't wanted to know too much about Sandra, but the temptation to round out the picture was overwhelming.

“Didn't have much family. Mother dead and no father to speak of. Grew up in Southern California. Her roommate from Los Angeles is do her way and she's pretty broken up. I talked to her. Wants the studio to have a memorial service. According to the guy whosaw her take the drink, all the studio wants is to forget her"

“I'm sure they can't afford the bad publicity." Although, as she spoke, Faith remembered what an agent friend had told her once: "There is no such thing as bad publicity." People who might have avoided A as highbrow and boring would flock to the movie because of the murder.

“Dunne wants to talk to you some more. He has the idea you aren't telling us everything." Charley sounded both weary and wary. He knew Faith.

“That's ridiculous:' she said firmly, and after they hung up, she promptly dialed her sister. Even though it was Saturday, Faith knew where Hope would be.

Calling Hope at work was not something she did often. For one thing, it was hard to get her. For another, when she did, she had to contend with Hope's office voice and manner, which suggested that while she was delighted to hear from her sister, the interruption had just blown a $30 million deal.

But the situation was serious.

Miraculously, Hope's equally workaholic secretary, Bryan, put Faith through immediately, and while Hope did not sound chatty, she did inject more than usual warmth into her greeting. She'd seen the papers.

“Not again, Fay!" Happily or unhappily, Hope was the only one who called her this. "How on earth do you end up with all these stiffs? A is the movie you're catering, right?"

“Yes, and I don't exactly go looking for `stiffs: " Faith was about to chastise Hope for her insensitivity. This had been a person. Then she reminded herself that Hope had never even set eyes on Sandra. She tried to continue speaking and realized she was about to cry. A bright, beautiful young woman was dead and Faith hadn't been able to do a thing to save her. An expendable PA with dozens of others eager to take her place.

“Fay, Faith, are you okay? I'm sorry. That was really stupid and insensitive. Tell me what happened. I have loads of time.”

Faith was sure she didn't, but she told her everything, anyway.

“But I didn't call you about all this, or at least I don't think I did. The thing is, I haven't told the police about Corny—her temper. And she was terribly jealous of Sandra, especially at the birthday party. Yet I can't believe Corny would murder her. It would make more sense to murder Evelyn.”

As she said that, the penny dropped and she realized what it was that had been in the back of her mind since yesterday. It was Evelyn O'Clair's cry, "My cup!" They really hadn't explored the very distinct possibility that Evelyn and not Sandra was the intended victim. Which could make Cornelia a suspect.

“Oh, Hope, what am I going to do? I suppose I'll have to tell Detective Dunne about Corny, but this is not going to look good in our class notes"

“Don't worry. Corny wouldn't kill anybody, except maybe you. She likes to watch her victims sweat, and from what I understand, once you've killed someone, that is unlikely. Sorry, I'm being a jerk again."

“No, it's all right. I mean, I'm all right, but what you say is true. And I'm pretty sure our dear Cornelia was responsible for the missing bolt of fabric that turned up in the barn—a missing prop, for which Sandra Wilson, the dead woman, was blamed."

“Now that sounds more like our old chum. She likesto get other people into trouble. Lord forbid she should get into trouble herself.”

Faith felt a whole lot better. She decided it wasn't necessary to tell Dunne about Corny's rotten disposition. Difficult as she might be, Cornelia was a kind of friend.

“You should have seen her the night of the party. It was tragic. And what is Corny doing in the glitzy movie business in the first place? She should be living in New Canaan with three kids by now and twice as many horses."

“Agreed, but you know how stubborn she is. f she's decided to worship Maxwell Reed, it's till death do us Faithfelt a distinct chill. She thought of that odd saying, Someone must be walking over my grave.

Hope was asking after her niece and nephew. It was a relief to talk about teething and Ben's worship of a nice safe hero—Barney, a six-foot, cuddly, purple Tyrannosaurus rex.

Dunne didn't call until late in the afternoon. Faith hadn't left the house all day and was feeling not simply restless but cross. Tom wouldn't be home for dinner, and for a fleetingly insane moment, she wished she had a cardboard package of macaroni and cheese to whip up for Ben when he returned from the Macleans'. It was over in an instant, yet she was still shaken when the phone rang.

“Well, we decided to let them start filming again on Monday. At least we'll know where they are, and that's about all we do know about the case. Unless you know something you, ahem, forgot to tell me?" Dunne's gravel-like Bronx accent softened with faint hope.

“Sorry, no, but something did occur to me."

“Yes?"

“That whatever was in the cup was intended for Evelyn and not Sandra"

“It occurred to me, too. Pretty much right away, which merely gives us twice as much to sort out. We did find out that the kid was in the hotel with her tutor at the time and the mother was in town shopping. At Filene's Basement, she says, and she has a bag to prove it, but no slip. She left that on the counter. We're trying to find someone who remembers her.”

Faith had never been to Filene's Basement. The idea of pushing and shoving for clothes did not appeal to her. Besides, she'd heard that most of the fabled bargains were last season's. But she knew enough about the venerable Washington Street institution to place Dunne's odds of finding a salesclerk who remembered Jacqueline Carroll at about forty to one.

But Caresse, at least, was eliminated. Faith was glad. The little girl might need to turn over several new leaves; still, at least she wasn't the bad seed. Murder was horrible, but a child murderer was particularly monstrous.

“By the way, what was in the cup?"

“Perrier and diet Coke, as you said, plus a lethal combination of rum and chloral hydrate."

“Chloral hydrate! Isn't that a sedative? How could that have killed her?"

“By itself, it wouldn't have. At least she'd have had her stomach pumped before it did, but with the rum chaser and her body weight, it did the job. The fact that she was an asthmatic and smoked helped. Somebody knows a lot about drugs, a lot about Sandra, or was just lucky."

“Plus, it would be easy to get. No doubt everybodyon the set is taking something to get to sleep—and to wake up."

“Exactly"

“John, could I have done anything?"

“No, not unless you had had a bottle of ipecac in your pocket and given it to her immediately, and even then it probably wouldn't have helped. Besides, you didn't know what was in the cup, and if it had been Drano and you'd made her throw up, you'd have killed her.”

Faith was relieved, but she knew she would never get over the remorse she felt—the if only.

“Stop thinking about it," Dunne said when she didn't respond. She was getting this advice from all quarters lately.

“You don't happen to know if I still have a job, do you?" she asked, determinedly changing the subject.

“Actually, I do." He paused for a tantalizing moment. "You do. We told them we would prefer to keep all personnel the same, including the caterer."

“John, that's wonderful! I can't thank you enough." Once again, Faith was relieved. Even though they'd have a late night tonight getting ready and she'd have to do her part at home, since Tom was out.

“It's not a totally disinterested act. Without getting involved—and I want to stress this ... God knows why I think it might help—you can keep your eyes and ears open.”

They were a team again.

At least Faith thought so.

Suddenly, she found she was feeling more energetic. It was still early. She could take the kids over to the kitchens. She called Pix and Niki, who agreed to meet her there. They could get virtually everything set for Monday. During the past week, Faith's crew had worked as efficiently as usual. She was sure they wouldn't have to do much now besides get organized and assign jobs. The freezer had been amply stocked and she'd go back the following day to bake.

Pix had been a godsend. Her organizational abilities were phenomenal. Besides taking over the books, she'd worked out schedules for everyone. Have Faith was beginning to resemble the proverbial well-oiled machine, perhaps olive-oiled in this case—the good kind, extravirgin, first cold-pressed from Lucca.

Faith's initial stop was the Macleans'. As the books put it, Ben had trouble with "transitions" and so raised holy hell when he saw his mother arrive to take him away. Faith characterized it rather as an understandable unwillingness to leave a good party for plain old home. Whatever it was, it was a nuisance. She managed to get him away with a contradictory combination of threats and promises. He was somewhat quieted by the prospect of playing at the kitchens for a while. Amy beamed quietly throughout. It wasn't her turn yet.

Pix and Niki had already arrived by the time the Fairchilds walked in. It took a few minutes to get the kids settled, then Faith joined the other two women, who were looking through sample menus for ideas.

After a while, their talk drifted away from ratatouille and chicken pot pie—Faith made a delectable one with a puff pastry crust, lots of chicken, and a creamy sauce with a touch of sage. But the conversation did not turn to the subject uppermost in Faith's mind. Pix was much more interested in talking about the town elections than the murder. She wasn't sure she even knew who Sandra Wilson was, she'd told Faith when Faith had originally brought the news. It wasn't that Pix didn't care; it wasas with everybody else, Sandra had not made much of a lasting impression—at least so far as Faith could tell.

“March twenty-sixth is only nine days away! f we can't clear the air, Alden is certain to win. I'm getting so mad about all this. Every time I see him in the center, I want to break his other wrist—if the left one really is. Sam and I have our doubts."

“Me, too. But I'm not so certain Alden's a shoo-in. What about James Heuneman?" Faith tended to overlook him, as did most of the Aleford electorate.

“He's not mounting much of a campaign and will probably take votes away from Penny, not Alden."

“Won't people see him as a compromise candidate?"

“People don't want a compromise candidate. They want one who stands for something definite.”

Faith told them about Millicent's visit the night before. Pix was elated.

“f Tom can't convince Penny, then nobody can." Faith half-expected her friend to break out into one of her old high school cheers: "Tom, Tom, he's our man! f he can't do it, nobody can." She'd be willing to bet that Pix could still turn a mean cartwheel, too.

“Millicent is sure Penny is hiding something, because she's not good at deception. Millicent referred to their girlhood days and said Penny never could tell a lie."

“Their `girlhood days' !" Niki rolled her eyes expressively. "Millicent Revere McKinley has got to be at least three days older than water. She wishes they shared their girlhood days." Niki was not a big fan of Ms. McKinley's, finding the lady's habit of dropping by to nibble more than a tad annoying. "Let her hire us if she wants to eat up all our food," she'd told Faith.

When Pix and Faith finished laughing, Pix said,

“Millicent has, let us say, an air of permanency about her, but I'm sure she and Penny are contemporaries—give or take a few years."

“Say ten or twenty," Niki retorted.

Faith sent everyone home—after all, it was Saturday night—and soon was locking the place up, bound for home and hearth herself.

Both children dined unfashionably early and by 6:30 Faith was harboring hopes of a hot bath and early bed—for herself. She was startled by a knock on the back door and even more surprised when sixteen-yearold Samantha Miller, carrying a pizza box—a rare sight in the Fairchild household—walked into the kitchen.

“Hi, Mrs. Fairchild. Reverend Fairchild called and said for me to tell you that you're to go straight upstairs and change your clothes. Leave the kids to me. You're going out to dinner." She plunked the pizza box, presumably her own repast, on the table and eagerly lifted Amy from the windup swing. Sam was one of those teenage girls who doted on small children. Pix vacillated from thinking it was a lovely trait to worrying that it would provoke ideas of early motherhood. Sam's oft-stated intent was to be a marine biologist, marry at twenty-five, and have her kids by thirty, but in her mother's worrying mode, Pix made frequent references to the best-laid plans, and so forth. Faith's money was on Sam.

Intrigued, and impressed that her husband had been able to find a sitter on a Saturday night, truly an act of God, Faith ran upstairs to get ready. Tom walked into the bathroom as, still damp from a shower, she was put- ting on her makeup.

“What's going on?" she asked as he grabbed her from behind. She turned to meet his embrace. A moment later, he answered, "What's going on is, I am taking my beautiful wife to dinner. You—make that we—need a night out."

“What a terrific idea! Where are we going?”

“Claude's. So put on a nice frock and get a move on. You know Sam will take care of everything."

“This feels like a fairy tale," Faith said as she rummaged hastily through her closet, pulling out a fawn-colored soft suede tunic by Michael Kors. It was her favorite dress this season and she always felt very sexy in it, sliding it ever so slightly off one shoulder.

“And the nice part is, you don't have to kiss a frog to get the prince”

As she finished her makeup, Faith thought what a relief it was to talk nonsense.