The Body in the Cast

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