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.
Chez Claude was a short drive away in Acton. Claude Miguel, the chef, who owned the restaurant with his wife, Trudy, had been one of Faith's discoveries soon after moving to Aleford. The Parisian had come to Acton by way of Chez Pauline on the rue Villedo and Maison Robert in Boston. Now, in a cozy restored farmhouse, he did a superlative job cooking the traditional dishes he knew best.
Over a glass of kir in one of the smaller dining rooms, the Fairchilds were having their usual discussion of which favorite to order.
“We know we want the onion soup, the gratinee, first,' Faith declared, her mouth watering. It was the perfect choice for a cheerless winter night. She had never tasted a better one, even in France. Claude topped his rich onion-laden stock with several kinds of cheese melted over a thick slice from one of his crusty baguettes.
“The pate de maison is so good, too, though. But you're right, the soup is perfect for tonight. Are you in the mood for meat or fish?'
“Definitely meat. I want to discuss something with you. It seems crazy, only I can't put it out of my mind, and I need hearty, chewable food.'
“Ah, Mistress Fairchild. I thought something ailed thee.' Tom had been rereading Hawthorne, too.
The kir and the glowing copper colors of the pleasant country French decor in the room were making Faith feel quite mellow.
“Not as bad as all that. Just an idea. How about going all out and splitting the Chateaubriand?'
“But then we'll miss the duck a l'orange.'
“Tom. We live in Aleford. We can come back.”
“Bearnaise sauce it is and a bottle of Cotes du Rhone.”
I should be thinking quite creatively before the night is out, Faith said to herself.
The steaming soup arrived and as Tom stuck his spoon in eagerly, he said, 'All right, let's have it. It was partly to give you a chance to talk that I engineered this whole thing. What's been going on lately has been strictly pas devant les enfants.”
An undergraduate year in France had left him permanently in love with the country and prone to French phrases and Franglais—all of which had increased due to their recent sojourn in Lyon. A sojourn that did have its rocky moments, but by concentrating on memories of certain meals, certain people, and the light on the hills in Provence, those other moments had taken on pebblelike proportions—most of the time.
“And partly by a lust for Claude's cooking,' Faith added.
“Certainement, mon petit chou. So, what's up?'
“I can't stop thinking about Sandra Wilson. I know it's irrational, but I feel responsible. I owe it to her to find out who did it.'
“It's not irrational to wish you could have saved her, but it is to think you have to track down her killer. Be sensible, Faith.'
“But none of this has been sensible. Since I started this job, I've felt as if I've been watching a movie of a movie. Even before Sandra was killed. It's been a very strange, sort of disassociated sensation. Today, especially, I began thinking how blurred the boundaries between life and art are. I know I'm beginning to sound like a sophomore who's just discovered Joyce, but where it's led me is to wonder if the answer lies in the fact that some of the people in the film are forgetting to put aside their characters when they wipe off their makeup”
Tom reached for Faith's hand. His bowl was empty. He was contemplative. 'Many actors and actresses find themselves living their parts after the camera stops—particularly in roles that require great intensity. It's got to be confusing, and maybe after a while it is hard to remember which face is the mask. Do you have anyone special in mind?”
Faith's answer was vinous stream of consciousness.
“There are, or were, two Hesters, and at first I thought it was Hester/Evelyn he was obsessed by. There was the way he looked at her—at them—at the dinner party, and there's no question that he's enormously protective of her. It's Max—or rather Roger Chillingworth. Sometimes I can't tell where one leaves off and the other begins.'
“What do you think this means?'
“It's all confused, because now I'm beginning to think the cup was meant for Evelyn. Max didn't ask her to the screening the other night. He seemed entranced by Hester/Sandra. Except he still seems very jealous of Cappy. When he saw him with Evelyn at the dinner table, Max made her move. Then when they walked in together after Sandra had passed out, he looked unbelievably angry. Of course, he was upset at the situation and at me for suggesting the call to the police. Evelyn went over to him immediately, almost as if she was afraid. She immediately assumed the poison was meant for her.'
“So you think Max or Roger, whatever, put the chloral hydrate in the cup?'
“He stopped the shooting just before Sandra took a drink. That way he could have been sure Evelyn would drink it. Or thought he was.”
Trudy Miguel appeared and showed them the succulent piece of meat, beaming as she presented the platter for their approval. It was done to a turn, a very short turn. They oohed and aahed appropriately. After she left, they resumed their conversation.
“What you're suggesting is that Max wanted to replace Evelyn with Sandra, both because he was jealous of Cappy and because he was besotted with Sandra.'
“I know it sounds farfetched. But I think the two women are merged into one Hester in his director's mind— and he's in love with both. Two aspects of one character. And he's split, too. The director wants the best for the role, which might be Sandra. The actorChillingworth, the jealous husband—wants to get even with his wife for her adultery. The result is the same. A potion—remember it wasn't normally a lethal dose.'
“It's not impossible. Jealousy and ambition are powerful motives, yet why would he sabotage his own movie?'
