Katherine Page - The Body in the Cast

The detective was already there and it was hard to read his expression. It wasn't surprise, since Charley must have told him she'd called. It was more like resignation. He turned to Ted Sullivan, who, like his boss, appeared to be able to leap from his bed into his clothes without a wrinkle or a yawn. Whereas Faith was pretty sure Chief MacIsaac still had his pajamas on underneath his rumpled tan corduroys and well-worn parka—not for him the kind of blade-sharp creases in Dunne's navy pinstriped suit trousers.

“We don't need to take Mrs. Fairchild's prints. They're on file from the last time, and the time before that."

“They'll be on the doorknob of the storeroom, on the floor where I fell, and on the light switch in the room. Oh, and on the knob of the outside door. I had to get out quickly," Faith offered. "I didn't touch anything else except his right wrist—I was trying to find a pulse.”

Sully had been bending over the body and was now watching while the pile of lumber was photographed.

“Not too difficult to grab one of these as you follow the guy to the door and bean him.”

The detective lieutenant agreed. "We'll know for sure when we get the lab report. Now, Mrs. Fairchild, why don't we sit down and you can tell me all about it?" A flash went off and Dunne winced. Maybe he was more tired than he looked.

Faith's own adrenaline was beginning to ebb. "There's coffee in the kitchen and I'd like to check in. My staff may not know what's going on, since they're in the basement at the other end."

“Sounds good. Lead the way.”

Again, Faith went back upstairs to the passageway skirting the auditorium. Dunne stopped and looked in the open door from the rear. It was controlled bedlam: lots of noise but little movement. Charley was engaged in a heated discussion with the director and his assistant. People in the audience were shouting to neighbors across the room. A stringer for the Aleford Chronicle was desperately begging Patrolman Warren to let him use a phone. The scoop of the century and he couldn't report in.

“Jesus." Dunne looked amazed. "The whole town's here!"

“Didn't Charley tell you?"

“He said they'd been shooting a scene, but no, he did not say that every man, woman, and child in Aleford was in it. I've got to call and get more help.”

On the way, Faith told him about Millicent's suggestion. It would have been safe to pass it off as Faith's own idea—and it would have been eventually—except this was the kind of lie she didn't tell.

The kitchen with its warmth and deep-seated associations welcomed her like a mother with a glass of milk and plate of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies after school. Not her mother, but some mother.

From their lack of concern, it was clear that word had not filtered down to the Have Faith staff. She filled them in while Dunne helped himself to coffee and several dozen sandwiches.

“I don't believe it," Pix stated firmly. "I just don't believe it! How could he!”

This was a new slant on the matter and redefined the whole concept of blaming the victim. Pix was treating the murder as Alden's ultimate campaign tactic—"He would do anything to get elected," her unspoken conviction.

The detective brushed the crumbs from his hands. He had come in wearing soft gray suede gloves, carefully removing them when he ate. Faith always thought he looked like a wedding guest who had taken a wrong turn when he appeared at an investigation.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask all of you except Faith to come with me upstairs. We're going to need everybody in one place. She'll be joining you as soon as I finish talking to her.”

Oh, so no special treatment, Faith surmised while he was gone. She was to provide her information, then meekly join the rest of the herd. He was back soon.

“Now, Faith, for the love of God—and I know you do—will you please explain to me how it is you have managed to turn up with another body?" John perched on one of the high kitchen stools, creating an impossible balance that threatened at any moment to spill its top-heavy load onto the linoleum.

“One of our tables broke and I remembered the janitor had told me there were some others in a supply room behind Asterbrook Hall, so I went to look. I didn't find the right closet and so I kept going down toward the new addition. Then"—no maidenly blushes for Faith—"I had to go to the bathroom, and I remembered there was one there near the stairs. I opened a door, but it wasn't the bathroom; it was the storage room. I didn't notice Alden until I tripped over him. I thought he was a carpet.”

Dunne was writing it all down in his Filofax. It was a new one, Faith noticed—brown instead of black calf.

“Did you hear anything while you were looking for this room?"

“No" Faith thought hard. "The old part of the building makes a lot of noises—creaks and groans—but nothing out of the ordinary. No cars pulling up or raised voices."

“And obviously you didn't see anything."

“No, not until I found Alden. But somebody was there. The lights in the hall went out shortly after I found the body.”

Dunne looked up, startled. "Jesus, Faith! You might have been killed.”

The thought had crossed her mind.

“Whoever it was was more intent on avoiding recognition. Lucky for me."

“Lucky!" John seemed about to say more, then picked up his gold Cross pen again and said evenly, "Charley tells me Spaulding was running for the Board of Selectmen. You're not crying, so he wasn't a friend, but you must have known who he was”

Dunne lived in a much larger town. Despite his years in the area—far away from his beloved Bronx—he still had not caught on to the nuances of places like Aleford. Of course she would know Alden Spaulding.

“He was a parishioner—which reminds me, I haven't called Tom—and even though this was the only time Alden had run for selectman, he was involved in allsorts of Aleford institutions: Town Meeting, Chamber of Commerce."

“What did he do?"

“He owns ... owned COPYCOPY.”

Dunne let out a soft whistle, just like the cops on TV. "So he was worth a pretty penny."

“Nothing was pretty about Alden, at least so far as I'm concerned, but yes, he was extremely wealthy.”

“We'll get back to your biases in a minute. First, who do you think will get the money? Wife? Kids?”

Faith hadn't thought about who would benefit. She did so now, aloud.

“He never married, and if he had any kids, someone, probably Millicent, would have spread the word. The only relative I know of is his half sister, Penelope Bartlett. His father remarried after his mother died and they had Penny. She's about seven years younger. But the two didn't get along, so Alden may have left his estate to charity.”

She stopped short at visions of a new roof for First Parish. She had been forcing herself not to think how relieved she was that Spaulding was very definitely out of the race for selectman. This happy new prospect was testing all her powers of restraint. One didn't jump up and shout for joy when someone died, particularly in such a manner. No matter how one might feel deep down inside. Faith's conscience shook its finger sternly. She was glad it was on the job.

“Penny is upstairs, if you want to question her. She is one of the extras. It's possible she may know the provisions of his will. Some of the property may have been in trust from her father and goes to the next of kin"

“I'll speak with her," he said, then moved on to another subject. "What do you make of the slide projec- tor? Was the guy some kind of photography buff? The slides are missing, by the way, so unless this Spaulding was demonstrating the art of hand shadows, we can assume the murderer took them."

“I've never seen him with a camera or heard him talk about an interest in photography.”