The Body in the Gazebo (12 page)

Tom told her to stay as long as she wanted, and soon they were settled back with not only the tea and jelly but also some cucumber and cress sandwiches. Dora was well-known for her British-style cooking, particularly nursery comfort foods like jam roly-poly and rice pudding.

Ursula picked up where she had left off.

“Theo’s guests were beginning to arrive as we left for the campground. Most of the women were quite dressed up for the Vineyard. Violet, who was acting as hostess, was wearing one of those long white satin backless dresses that movie stars like Carole Lombard and Jean Harlow had made so popular. She had a long rope of pearls, not real I’m sure, that she’d tied at her neck so they hung down her back. Her skin was almost as white as the necklace and as smooth. Babs was wearing a long gown, too. It struck me because I’d never seen her dressed up before and hadn’t realized that she was quite lovely, too. It was sapphire blue and cut quite decorously compared to Violet’s dress. The men who were staying at the house were all in dinner jackets, which must have been terribly uncomfortable. The heat hadn’t broken.”

Ursula slipped out from her hiding place beneath the piano and went into the dining room. Theo had had food delivered from some restaurant and the table was covered with platters of all sorts of delicious-looking things. She took a plate and started to reach for some lobster salad, stuffed back in the red shell, but realized that she was too excited to eat anything except some toast that had been placed next to a mound of caviar. She was momentarily tempted by the shiny black roe—she’d had it once and it tasted like the sea—but she decided to stick to the toast.

She heard the Professor’s voice calling her name and then he was at her side.

“Time to get going?”

“Oh yes, please.”

They left the crowded room and slipped into the kitchen, leaving through the back door into the still night. The last noise from the house that Ursula heard was a champagne cork popping and a woman starting to sing ‘Yes Sir, That’s My Baby.’

She had put on her best frock. Rose-colored silk. A dropped waist with a pleated skirt. Her mother would not have approved. Ursula had felt a twinge of guilt when she’d slipped it over her head—but only a twinge, and that soon disappeared.

If Mother wasn’t back tomorrow, perhaps the Professor would take her to the carousel—the Flying Horses—in Oak Bluffs. Mother had heard that they were originally at Coney Island, a place Mother called ‘a vulgar amusement park,’ but she hadn’t expressly forbidden Ursula from going.

She darted a glance at her companion. He was a grown-up, but not terribly old. Only twenty.

“Have you been enjoying your summer? I understand it’s quite different from the place you normally go in Maine.”

Ursula started talking and soon she felt as if she had never before talked to anyone so understanding. He wasn’t at all condescending and she moved from a description of Sanpere Island to her desire to explore Boston, and the whole world—her eagerness to grow up.

Blessedly, he didn’t tell her not to be in a rush, but spoke of his own hope to travel once he had finished law school.

“Perhaps I’ll be able to find a job that won’t start until the fall, allowing me a summer to roam. I’ve a yen to go to the Lake District, Wordsworth country.”

And Beatrix Potter’s, Ursula almost said, before deciding mentioning Peter Rabbit’s creator might seem childish.

A few minutes later she realized she could have mentioned Peter, or anything else. The Professor was interested in everything she was interested in—his bird list was twice as long as hers!

He found seats for them near the front. The Tabernacle did not disappoint. They sang lustily, joining the others raising their voices, the notes reverberating into the twilight as the sun’s last rays struck the stained-glass panels below the wooden tented ceiling. Through the open sides, Ursula could just make out the unlit lanterns strung on every porch, swaying slightly, waiting for the signal. She thought the Tabernacle was indeed a holy place, and very far removed from King’s Chapel.

The music was over too soon, but outside there were the lanterns, illuminated now—hundreds of them. They ate peppermint ice cream—“The color of your pretty dress,” he said—and wandered about looking at the glowing orbs.

“I’m afraid we should be getting back,” he said.

Ursula looked at her watch. Theo had given her a Gruen wristwatch for Christmas. Mother had told her not to take it to the Vineyard because she might get sand in it, but she’d packed it anyway, loath to leave one of her most precious possessions behind. Tonight she’d happily tightened the black grosgrain ribbon strap and thought she’d much rather have it than the pearls and other jewelry the women were wearing.

She’d only stayed up this late—it was just after ten o’clock—on New Year’s Eve. The Professor was right, regrettably. It was time to go.

As they neared the house Ursula could see there were cars all over the drive and even some on the lawn. Father would be terribly upset, she thought. They had been hearing the music from quite far away and now, close to the house, it was very loud.

“Let’s slip in the kitchen way again and I think you’d better go straight to bed. I’ll be in the library if you should need me.” He looked a bit anxious and Ursula knew he was concerned that the party showed no signs of winding down. Then he smiled at her. “It’s been a lovely evening. Good night.”

“Thank you for taking me. It was perfect.”

Mary was helping the people who’d brought the food, but Ursula didn’t see Mrs. Miles. Mary signed that she would be leaving soon for the Illumination and wasn’t it wonderful? Ursula signed back that it was better than anything she had ever seen and, feeling a sudden shyness, raced up the back stairs, realizing when she got to the top that she hadn’t said “good night” back to the Professor. She started to turn around, but he’d be gone. It didn’t matter. She’d say “good night” to him twice tomorrow night to make up for it. Perhaps she’d tell him why.

As Ursula went into her room, she felt as if she were floating, like one of the lanterns. She changed, said her prayers, and got into bed. It was impossible to sleep. Her room in the turret was stifling even with the windows open. And the noise. Not just the music, but people were in the pool, directly below, splashing and shrieking. There seemed to be a constant stream of cars coming and going. Finally she decided to retreat to her place in the woods.

Her place by the gazebo.

She took a blanket with her and made a cozy nest beneath the rhododendrons. There wasn’t anyone in the gazebo. She’d been afraid there might be some couples there, but it was empty, although someone had strung up some Japanese lanterns like the ones in the campground and lighted them. The noise from the house was muted.

She felt quite drowsy, but fought sleep to enjoy the novelty of sleeping outdoors. She could see the sky through the branches. It was a clear night and the stars were bright. For a time, Ursula amused herself by picking out the various constellations. Theodore Artemus Lyman was an avid amateur astronomer and had taught his children all the names.

I wonder whether the Professor is a stargazer, too . . . she thought fuzzily. The night air was cool at last. She slept.

Ursula hadn’t been asleep long when she was awakened by the sound of loud voices nearby. Two men were arguing in the gazebo. She couldn’t see them through the thick foliage, but she could hear them clearly. One was Theo; she wasn’t sure who the other was. Theo was slurring his words. She’d let him into the house in Boston one night very late and he’d sounded the same. She’d had to help him up the stairs to his room. He was very unsteady. The next day he’d told her he’d never mix champagne and whiskey again, but it sounded as if he had tonight. The other voice was similar. How silly these men were to get drunk and quarrel, Ursula thought.

“I’ve got to have the money now. I told you they won’t wait. They want the money tomorrow first thing! You said you’d have it tonight! I’m done for if my father finds out!”

“Can’t do it, old chum. Jus’ tell ’em.”

“Snap out of it, Theo! I’m telling you I’m in a jam. They won’t give me any more time. They’ve threatened to hurt me—and they will.”

“No money here. Not on this little old island.”

“Get it from somebody. What about your tutor?”

“Poor as a church mouse. Hey, that’s funny.”

Theo started to laugh and stopped abruptly.

“Whadya have to smack me for? Thought we were friends. Let’s go back to the house. Need another drink. Want to see Violet. Violet with the violet eyes.”

“Look here, I’ll smack you again if it will bring you to your senses. You owe me the money fair and square. You knew we were playing for high stakes. Had to impress Violet, didn’t you. Well, she wasn’t. She thinks you’re a sap.”

“Watch what you’re saying! I’m no sap. I’m gonna go ask her. Ask her what she thinks of you, too!”

Ursula ducked farther back into the bushes. She was starting to get frightened. Maybe she should run to the house and get the Professor. Theo, oh Theo, why did you have to get yourself in such messes! She had ten dollars left from her summer spending money. He was welcome to it and then this person would leave him alone.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?”

“Me, that’s who!”

“Come on, les go have a drink, buddy. Stop fighting. Make up. Friends. You’re my friend, right?”

Theo’s voice had lost its belligerent tone and Ursula was relieved. She heard a few thumping noises—they were crossing the wooden floor of the gazebo—followed by the sounds of running feet.

It was all right, then. They’d gone back to the house. She decided to stay where she was. It was so quiet and peaceful. A beautiful night.

It seemed as if she had barely fallen asleep again when she heard a woman’s screams. She got up and ran out from under the bushes into the clearing. There were two people standing up in the gazebo. The lanterns were still lighted and the woman who was screaming was Violet. The other person was a man. His back was to Ursula and she assumed it was Theo. People were streaming out from the house—the path was visible from where she stood—and there was a great deal of commotion. She could hear cars starting up. A great many cars. Violet kept screaming and screaming. Ursula wanted her to stop. Why couldn’t someone make her stop?

The gazebo looked bigger than it did in the daytime. She walked over toward the door. It was wide open. Someone tried to pull her away, but she kept going. The ground felt cold and hard beneath her bare feet and she started to shiver.

The other man wasn’t Theo. Theo was lying on the floor. He was on his back and his eyes were closed. He’s fallen asleep here, Ursula thought. Why is Violet screaming? And why hasn’t he woken up with all the noise?

She went in and walked over to him, kneeling down to shake his shoulder. It was then that she saw the blood on his starched white shirtfront. It was so red. There wasn’t much, but it was very red. Once he’d cut himself shaving and come to breakfast with a bit of tissue on his face; blood was still seeping through. Father made him leave. It was so very red, Theo’s blood. Running through his body. So very alive that morning.

But she knew he wasn’t alive now. He was dead. Knew the moment she’d knelt down. That’s why Violet was screaming. But why was the Professor standing over him with the stiletto from the library in his hand? The blade was glistening red. The same color as Theo’s blood. Nothing made sense.

The Professor’s face looked very different from the way it had looked earlier that night. She put her hand on Theo’s face, his lovely face. It was still warm. She took one of his hands in her other hand and held tight. And then Ursula laid her head down on his chest; she couldn’t hear his heart beating at all. Violet had finally stopped screaming. Ursula had heard a slap, like in the movies. She didn’t want to leave her brother surrounded by all these people, all these strangers, and she told the Professor to make everyone else leave. To leave the two of them alone with Theo. After she spoke, no one moved for a moment, or said anything, and then Charles Winthrop, Scooter Jessup, and some other men grabbed the Professor.

“Everyone heard your argument tonight,” Charles said. “And now you’ve killed him, Arnold Rowe. Someone call the police.”

Chapter 6

A
rnold Rowe?

The Arnold Rowe that Ursula Lyman married?

The Arnold Rowe who was the father of Pix Rowe Miller?

As Faith walked home, she took little note of the soft spring dusk with its swelling branches silhouetted against the diminishing daylight. She arrived at her own door without remembering the steps that had taken her there. It seemed as though one minute she’d been sitting in shock next to Ursula and a minute later here she was taking her keys from her jacket pocket.

She did recall a scene in between. Dora had come into the room—almost as if Ursula’s startling revelation had been a cue. She’d seemed to take in the situation with one swift glance and said in a firm nanny’s-here-to-take-charge tone, “Now, we’ve had a lovely long visit with Mrs. Fairchild, but it’s time for a bit of a rest.”

Then she’d walked closer and seen the tears that had filled Ursula’s eyes as she was describing the tragic scene she’d witnessed. She spoke even more sternly. “I’m sure it’s all been very nice, but I think we’ll take it easy tomorrow. I’m sure Mrs. Fairchild could come back Friday or Saturday.”

Faith had felt chastened, although at the same time she thought
she
hadn’t done anything. But who had? What had happened in the short time that young Ursula had been asleep? And an even more pressing question: What had happened in the days, months, and years following? It was absurd to think that somehow Ursula had met another man with the same name and married him.

She’d leaned over and kissed Ursula’s soft cheek before leaving.

“I’m fine,” Ursula had murmured. “Dora’s a benevolent despot, thank goodness, and if you could come back later this week, I’ll continue.”

“I’m afraid this is too upsetting for you.” Faith had been and still was concerned. Surely the tale had reached its climax and, hence, the end.

Ursula had shaken her head emphatically. “No, please. We have to finish. I need your help. . . .”

At that point Dora’s efficient manner propelled Faith out of the room, down the stairs, and onto the sidewalk before Ursula could say another word.

There it was again. The mention of needing help. But for what? Faith was mystified. The crime had occurred some eighty-odd years ago when Ursula was in her early teens. Still considered a child in that era, even more so because of her privileged and protected upbringing. Things were so different now. The other day when Faith had picked Ben up at school, there had been a group of girls—total fashionistas—waiting in front for rides. Some had adopted the Japanese schoolgirl look, complete with eyeliner to make their eyes appear as large as the waifs in manga. Others were going for Miley Cyrus as Hannah Montana with skimpy tees and plenty of pink glitter. Their cell phones seemed welded to their hands like some sort of new life-form appendages, and their pocketbooks were the size of steamer trunks. They didn’t carry knapsacks. What they did carry in common was an air of supreme self-confidence and independence. Faith wanted to believe that below the surface there was at least a little angst, but she wouldn’t bet on it. No one would ever describe these girls as children, and the fact that their counterparts were gracing the pages of
Vogue
and other fashion magazines at this tender age reinforced the image. An image she hoped she could help Amy avoid while guiding her through the rocky shoals known as adolescence. Even the geek girls—in their own tight group as far away from the others as possible—had their iPhones attached and requisite suburban goth garb. Faith thought of Ursula curled up asleep next to the gazebo as the horrific events of that night progressed. Today’s girl—wearing an oversized T-shirt instead of a long white cotton nightdress—would have called 911, tweeted, and posted on Facebook in a matter of seconds.

She looked at her watch. It was six-thirty, and stepping into the parsonage she was greeted with the scent of oregano. It signaled Tom’s standby meal and one he was always happy to have an excuse to order: a large pizza with extra sauce, roasted peppers, Italian sausage, heavy on the oregano, from his friend Harry at Country Pizza, Aleford’s one and only concession to fast food, and vastly superior.

“We’re in the kitchen, Mom,” Amy called out.

It was a happy scene. Faith got a plate and cutlery, and sat down, pleased to note that Tom, or one of the kids, had also made a big salad. What she wasn’t pleased to note was the line on Tom’s forehead that always surfaced when he was troubled.

“How’s Ursula?” he asked.

“When I got there she was sitting up in that big chair by the window and dressed.” Faith had been delighted to see Ursula in her habitual Liberty-print blouse and poplin skirt from Orvis. “Steady improvement these last days—by the time Pix comes home, she may even be out dividing her hostas or delving into some other planting chore.” Faith was a little sketchy about gardening schedules. Tom was the one who got his hands dirty, and when he was pressed for time, Pix pitched in, saying there wasn’t enough to do in her backyard, which was an out-and-out lie, since at the height of the season it resembled an outpost of White Flower Farm or Wayside Gardens. Faith’s knowledge of seasonal blooms was strictly governed by what appeared in the beds in Central Park or on the wide median strip down Park Avenue.

“It’s a busy week for me with the library fund-raiser tomorrow night and the Tillies on Friday,” she said. “I’m not sure when I’m going to be able to visit her again. We’ll see what Saturday looks like.”

This was one of those times when Faith wished early on she’d adopted the European custom of feeding the children first and whisking them off to bed, or homework at this stage. The weight of what Ursula had just told her was palpable and she needed to share it with Tom. She also needed to know what was causing his telltale furrow. The phone rang and he jumped up. “I’ll take it in my study.” Not a good sign.

It could be one of Tom’s groupies asking him to arbitrate on the crucial debate over the kind of flowers the Sunday school children should receive on Easter—pots of pansies or bulb plants?—or a parishioner complaining about last Sunday’s choice of hymns. Faith was hoping it was this type of call, ordinarily ones that caused her to wish Tom had opted for a different line of work, used-car salesman, insurance agent, tap dancer, anything but the clergy. Tonight she’d take the interruptions as a sign that all was still right with the world at First Parish. They wouldn’t be calling him if they thought he’d had his hand in the till, or rather collection plate. What she feared, however, was that it was one of the vestry, notably Sherman, with more bad news.

The kids were finished eating. “Put your dishes in the sink. I’ll clean up, so you can get a start on your homework. And Amy, please put out what you plan to wear tomorrow—it’s going to be a sunny day. No more missing the bus because you’re busy trying on outfits.”

“That’s not fair, Mom. I don’t do that. Much,” Amy protested, and left the room in a huff, unusual for her. Faith feared it was a portent of things to come.

Ben was lingering at the sink. “She really doesn’t do that. Did you ever think she might be missing the bus on purpose?”

Faith whirled around and looked her son straight in the eye.

“Benjamin Fairchild, what do you know about this? What’s going on with Amy and the bus?”

Ben shrugged. “I think you should ask her. Much better for parents and kids to have direct communication.”

Faith resisted the impulse to shake him. When had her son morphed into Dr. Phil?

“I intend to do that right away.” She dried her hands and went upstairs. Tom was still on the phone.

She knocked on her daughter’s door before going in.

Amy was sitting at her desk reading.

“What’s up, Mom?”

Her little face looked calm and happy. Maybe Ben was wrong.

“Sweetheart, is there some reason you don’t
want
to take the bus? Something going on during the ride?”

One look at her daughter’s face told Faith there was. It crumpled and Amy didn’t even try to stifle the sobs that erupted with the suddenness of a summer’s afternoon thunderstorm.

“Is it those girls? The ones on the playground? Are they on your bus? Let’s sit down over here.” Faith awkwardly edged over to the bed, holding her daughter, feeling like a hermit crab. As they sat down, Amy buried her head in her mother’s shoulder.

The sobs subsided; she hiccupped, raised her head, and nodded. Faith realized Ben was standing in the doorway.

“Josh’s brother is on the same bus and he told Josh and Josh told me, but Amy didn’t want you to know. I guess she thought you could just keep driving her in the morning, and you usually pick her up after school for dumb ballet or something.”

“I told you not to tell, Ben!” Amy shouted at this convenient surrogate target.

“I didn’t; she guessed. Kind of,” he said, and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute,” Faith said. “What else did Josh say?” She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get very coherent answers from Amy for a while.

“Just that they’re these girls who think they’re very hot. Like they date and stuff already.”

“In third grade!” Faith was truly shocked.

“Well, not date date, but you know, go hang around where older guys are—sixth graders—and text stuff.”

Faith had heard all too much about the craze for “sexting” among teens—sending suggestive photos, some pretty innocent, of girls at a slumber party egging each other on; others not innocent at all.

“Stuff like what?”

Ben gave her a look that told her he knew exactly what she was talking about. After the incidents last fall involving cyberbullying, her son’s expertise in and knowledge of all things microchip was a given.

“Not that stuff. Stupid stuff like pictures of their dogs and cats wearing sunglasses and underwear. Supposed to be cool, but really lame.”

Having dealt with the side issue—upsetting and weird as the image of pets in panties or what-have-you was—Faith got back to the matter at hand.

“Okay, so these girls who think they’re so great, what are they doing to Amy?”

“Mom, I really have to do my homework. Amy will tell you. Just give her a moment.” And he was gone. That avatar who had replaced her son—whom she’d previously thought was clueless about social interactions—was a guy after all. She was going to have to rearrange these thoughts from now on. Ben had quite suddenly become very savvy. Faith gave Amy a moment.

“These girls are teasing you. Only you?”

Amy nodded.

“Do you know why?”

Amy took a deep breath. “None of my friends are on my bus. It’s just me. On the playground, there are more of us.”

Simple math.

“And what are they saying?”

“I don’t know. Well, like I smell bad and lately something else.” Amy’s voice dropped.

Faith waited.

“They keep saying that they watched me salute the flag in assembly and that I need a bra.”

“Mean girls” didn’t even begin to come close. Amy was as flat as a board, concave in fact, and here they were suggesting she was feeling herself up! Faith was ready to get names and get even. She tried to remember the yoga-breathing thing for calming down that her friend Patsy had taught her.

“A lot of girls in my class have bras, Mom.”

“If you want, we can go to Macy’s tomorrow after school.”

Amy brightened considerably.

“But,” Faith continued, “I’m not sure this will solve the bus problem.”

“I could let them see a strap,” Amy suggested.

Faith knew these girls even if her sweet daughter didn’t. “They’ll find something else, I’m afraid. How about tomorrow morning sit in the front seat right behind the driver?”

“I can try, but usually Stacy Schwartz is there and I don’t really know her. She’s in fourth grade.”

“Sit with her,” Faith said. Stacy was probably seeking protection, too. “And I’ll think about this some more.” Plus she’d call the school again.

“But we can still go to Macy’s?”

“We can still go to Macy’s.”

L
eaving her children to their labors and thankful, as always, that she had left this sort of thing far behind, Faith went downstairs to finish cleaning up in the kitchen. The door to the study was closed. She put her ear to it and Tom was still on the phone. She hadn’t heard the phone ring, so it was the same call. While she hoped it was not a serious matter—death, disease—she also hoped for a minor crisis, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the Minister’s Discretionary Fund.

As she wiped the counter, she heard the study door open. Tom came into the kitchen.

“That was Sam. I left a message for him earlier to give me a call, asking him to call as soon he got back to Aleford.”

Faith was relieved. Sam must have had to come back early for some reason and now he could help deal with all this. The Hilton Head group had been due to split up tomorrow morning, with the ladies heading to Charleston for the bridal shower; the rest returning to jobs and school.

Faith’s respite from worry was short-lived.

“Sam isn’t going to be back in Aleford until the middle of next week at the earliest,” Tom said. “He has to go to California to depose a number of people involved in the class action suit the firm has been working on since last fall. He’s the only one not in court right now.”

“So this means . . . ?”

“This means I told him everything that’s been going on, and as soon as he’s back—unless by one of God’s miracles it’s all been cleared up—he’ll go over everything. I’ve retained him as my lawyer, Faith. He advised I do so and I thought it was a good idea.”

Ever since Tom had broken the news, Faith had been avoiding the harsh reality of the situation he was in. The word “lawyer” brought it into sharp focus. She moved closer to her husband and put her arms around him.

“Sam will take care of it,” she said. “This is what he does. He’ll see something everyone, even the bank, has missed. What else did he say?”

“He pretty much asked me the same questions you did—who had access to the file, the keys. He also wondered if I’d been aware of anyone standing behind me when I used the ATM. Apparently there’s this thing called ‘shoulder surfing’—stealing someone’s PIN by looking over his or her shoulder when they enter it. There are other ways, too, but he didn’t go into them. I’m trying to think back, but it’s hard. That ATM area at the bank is pretty small and sometimes people are filling out deposit slips while you’re using the machine or just waiting their turns. I’ve done it myself.”