“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.