The Body in the Gazebo (21 page)

But it could have been brilliant sunshine and eighty degrees. Her mind was on the papers beside her.

“Who?” she repeated. “It has to be someone who saw your husband in the gazebo—and knows that you were there, too.”

“Which most likely means it’s one of the people who was staying in the house, although I suppose it could be any of the partygoers—the few still alive.” Ursula shook her head. “Very unlikely. It just had to be said. No, it’s one of the four, and easy to eliminate two of them. Charles Winthrop was older than the rest and I’m sure he’s been gone awhile. I know that Schuyler—Scooter—Jessup died just after Arnold. His wife, Babs, is alive, however. We used to run into each other in town at the Chilton Club from time to time over the years, but of course we never mentioned that night.”

Of course, Faith thought. Not the thing to do.

“Which leaves Violet Hammond, Violet Winthrop. The envelope has a New York City postmark and the Winthrops left Boston before the war so Charles could run the family’s Manhattan office.”

“How did you know? They wouldn’t have kept in touch, would they?”

Ursula shook her head. “No—thank goodness. I didn’t want anything to do with either of them, but I did want to know where they were, especially early on. I suppose I was nurturing notions of, well, revenge. I used to think I’d uncover some kind of evidence that would bring Charles to trial. As time passed, there were other things to think about, especially during the war years and after the children were born.”

During the last few minutes, everything had become clear to Faith. The cause of Ursula’s illness, the need to tell someone what she believed to be the truth, and now the kind of help Ursula wanted from Faith.

She was asking Faith to prove her husband’s innocence—a task she thought she had accomplished almost seventy years ago. A closed book—until the letters arrived sowing their insidious seeds of doubt.

Yes, Ursula wanted Faith to solve Theo’s murder, irrefutably.

“Tell me what you want me to do first.”

“We don’t have much time. I’d like to get this settled before Pix gets back, or near enough. And then, there’s the implied threat in the third letter. I think I know what it means.”

Faith did, too. “That the writer intends to use information about the crime to hurt you in some way? Knows, perhaps, that it was kept secret and plans a tell-all story, but where? I can’t imagine the media would be interested in such old news.”

“Nor can I, although it might make a splash for a while in the Aleford and Boston papers. And I wouldn’t want to see my family’s private affairs in the headlines.” Ursula pursed her lips.

Faith knew that Ursula belonged to the school that believed a lady was only mentioned in the press three times: when she was born, got married, and at her death. No, she wouldn’t like the notoriety at all.

“The writer means to go public in some way and I have to find out how. And find out what it is she believes happened that night. Yes, she. It has to be Violet because of the postmarks—and I think she was a rather unscrupulous woman. She’s a very old lady now and I suppose this is her idea of fun. She used to enjoy stirring things up—she was quite sarcastic, but that voice of hers tended to make even the meanest remark sound melodic. I don’t know why she’s waited so long to go after me—and my family. Perhaps something reminded her of that summer recently.”

“All will be clear.” Faith wished she felt as confident as she sounded. Ursula was asking the impossible—that Faith trace this old crime and unmask the culprit. Yet truth dealt with the possible, not the reverse, and Faith intended to do everything she could to reveal it.

“So,” she said, “I’ll find out where the old witch lives and go talk to her. Tell her to stop bothering you or we’ll get some kind of restraining order. She
is
making threats.”

Ursula nodded in agreement.

“She lives on East Seventy-second Street. I have the phone number.”

“How did you get this? I thought four-one-one wouldn’t give out an address.”

“I didn’t call information. I called that nice reference librarian Jeanne Bracken, and she got it for me. She said something about ‘Googling’ the name, but I think we had a bad connection because of all this rain. The wires must be soaked.”

Faith decided there were more important things to discuss, but she made a mental note to explain to Ursula sometime that “Google” was not a form of baby talk.

“I could go Thursday, or maybe even tomorrow,” Faith said. She could take the shuttle and if there was time swing by Zabar’s on the West Side for deli.

“Thursday would be fine. And tomorrow, do you have time to pay a call on Babs Jessup? I have her address and phone number, too. If you agree, we could call now.”

Faith was a little mystified.

“I thought you were sure that it was Violet Winthrop who is responsible for the letters.”

“I am, but forewarned is forearmed. I have a feeling that Babs might tell you what Violet has been up to all these years. I don’t think she liked Violet. In fact, I’m sure of it, but the Jessups and Winthrops were related.”

“So she’d know?”

“Yes. Should we make the call now? Probably sometime in the morning would be best for her. She’s an old lady, too. We all are—and that’s generally when we feel the best.”

Faith hated to hear Ursula refer to herself as an old lady.

“Anytime in the morning would be fine.” She’d been mentally rearranging the next two days, who might pick Amy up for ballet, what to take out of the freezer for dinners.

The call was made and a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Jessup’s companion told Ursula eleven o’clock would be a good time. After she hung up, Ursula reported the companion had said that Mrs. Jessup enjoyed visits and would be delighted to meet Mrs. Rowe’s friend. Faith was all set.

P
hillip Theodopoulos was sitting in the little room off their bedroom, which they’d made into an office. He was hunched over his computer at the desk and didn’t hear Niki come in. She put her arms around his neck from behind his chair and he started in surprise.

“Hi, honey. How’d it go? Fun with the Uppities?”

He always enjoyed hearing her accounts of these luncheons, even though at times he felt like a target, along with the rest of the male sex.

“Not just fun. I have three things to tell you. First, I saved you a big slice of cheesecake—chocolate hazelnut. Second, the Uppity Women’s network is on the job, or rather going to find you a job. I’m a little surprised your phone hasn’t rung yet.”

She hugged him tighter.

“And the third?”

“You’re going to be a dad.”

Chapter 10

S
tanding at the front window, Faith pulled the drape farther to one side so she could watch Amy get on the bus. Mothers with younger children were gathered at the stop. Faith wished she could join them, but that would only make Amy more of a target—“Kindergarten Baby Amy has to have her mommy walk her to the bus” or some other taunt. The bra had offered an enormous amount of support—psychological, not physical. Amy marched out each morning, chest—what little there was—forward, a smile on her face. If she’d known the song, Faith imagined her daughter would have been belting out “I Am Woman.” Time to teach it to her.

The bus stopped, the children got on, and Faith turned away. Amy had moved and was now sitting in the front seat. She said the teasing had stopped. Faith wasn’t complacent. Mean girls were devious and sometimes smart. They’d find something new, or someone. The school was implementing a more current antibullying curriculum. That would help. And meanwhile, she would continue to ask her daughter how her day had been much more thoroughly.

Amy looked like a child—long, straight fine hair the color of good butter; eyes the color and sheen of wild blueberries. She was growing fast and it was a pleasure to watch her move on the sports field and off. She loved to dance. Yet Amy wasn’t going to stay a child for long, especially not in twenty-first-century America where the media was constantly bombarding kids with messages to grow up fast, inventing a whole new market: “tweens.”

Her appointment with Babs Jessup—Mrs. Schuyler Jessup, she corrected herself, picturing a Beacon Hill grande dame—was not until eleven. She’d drive to the Alewife T, where she could park the car and take the Red Line to the Charles Street stop near Beacon Hill—an impossible place to park.

It was too early to leave, so she put in a wash and changed sheets. At nine the phone rang. It was Tom.

“Albert just called. He’s picked up some sort of bug and won’t be in today. He said it’s not bad. He just needs a day or two. The thing is, I know he meant to take a folder home with him yesterday that has articles he’s collected on how to make the church greener. He’s preparing a report for the congregation’s consideration.”

“I assume by ‘greener,’ you mean a paperless newsletter and toilet paper recycled from grocery bags or what-have-you.”

Tom laughed. It was good to hear.

“Yes. No plans to repaint our pristine white clapboard. Anyway, could you drop it off at his place on your way? I’m sure he’d be very grateful and you know how conscientious he is. He’d hate to waste time even while recuperating. This would give him something to read in bed.”

Faith quickly rearranged her plans. She’d have to leave a little sooner and park in the garage under Boston Common after she dropped off the folder in Cambridge.

“I’ll come and get the folder in a few minutes.”

“Meet you halfway in the cemetery?”

“Oh Reverend Fairchild, you do say the most romantic things!”

I
t all seemed to be coming to a close. Tomorrow Faith would fly to New York and confront Violet Winthrop. Given the woman’s age, it would have to be done gently, but given the woman’s actions, firmly. Faith had called her sister, Hope, and made a tentative arrangement to meet for coffee in the late afternoon before returning north. This was still Ursula’s story, not hers, so she’d alluded vaguely to having to meet with someone on the Upper East Side. Hope was born with a client-confidentiality gene and never pried—not overtly anyway.

Sam Miller would be back tonight and was coming straight to the parsonage from the airport. Pix was leaving Charleston—reluctantly from the sound of recent conversations—on Friday morning.

The rain had finally stopped.

She was driving down Route 2 toward Cambridge. Magic 106.7 FM was playing Dan Fogelberg’s “To the Morning.” What kind of a day was it going to be? Faith wondered, listening to the words of the lyrics. She felt more optimistic than she had since Tom had come home from the emergency meeting of the vestry called by Sherman Munroe. The man himself, or his name, had been popping up ever since. Was he the “shoulder surfer” or other kind of hacker? Was it all a setup to get rid of a minister he didn’t like? Church politics were never pretty. Yet, why not confront Tom directly if he was dissatisfied? Of course, Faith imagined Sherman was always dissatisfied and probably always devious. She realized that he was a man who enjoyed manipulating others, and reveled in his own power. This may all have been a game to him; one he thought he couldn’t lose. Everything remained unresolved. And Tom would always have the implicit accusation hanging over his head. The vestry had wanted to avoid police involvement from the first—dirty linen and all that. Thank goodness Sam would arrive soon. He might insist the authorities be informed and a proper investigation conducted.

The song was ending.
There is really nothing left to say but / Come on morning.
A beautiful voice. A beautiful song. Faith hummed the tune and thought, Okay, come on, morning.

Albert had lived off Kirkland Street near Harvard Square since moving to the Boston area. Miraculously Faith found a place to park. She’d never been to his apartment, and when she went up the front steps, she realized that there was no way to leave the folder in an entryway or tucked behind a storm door. Both substantial outer and inner doors were locked. She pushed the buzzer next to his name and waited by the intercom. It was a nice brick building, and obviously secure. She’d never given much thought to where he lived, but was a little surprised at how nice the building was. The rent would have been high for a student, although he was making a decent salary now. Maybe he had roommates, although his was the only name listed. She rang again. He must be asleep. She hated to get him out of bed when he wasn’t feeling well, but Tom had seemed to think Albert wanted the material. She gave it one more try and called Tom.

“Albert’s not answering the bell. Did you call him?”

“I did, but he wasn’t answering the phone, either, so I left a message on his machine. I figured he was asleep, or maybe in the bathroom.”

Faith didn’t want to dwell on the possibility of stomach flu.

“Give me his number and I’ll try.”

“Okay, and if he still doesn’t answer, look and see if his car is there, although I can’t imagine he’d go out. He has a parking place next to his apartment and you know the car.”

Faith did, as did her kids. They wanted a Mini Cooper just like Albert’s, complete with the Union Jack roof.

“All right.”

The phone rang four times before the machine kicked in. Faith told him she was leaving the packet for him propped up against the door. It wouldn’t be seen from the street, and didn’t contain anything of value. Rain wasn’t predicted, and if it did shower, the porch had a roof. She hung up and went around to the side of the building. The only car there was a Honda Civic of a certain age. From the look of the tire pressure, it had been there awhile.

There was a small yard enclosed by wire fencing and the other side of the building was separated from the next by an alleyway. No room for cars. She walked up the street to Broadway. No sign of the Mini Cooper. She walked the other way to Kirkland. Nothing there, either. She called Tom again.

“Are you sure he said he was home?”

“Absolutely. This is very odd. Do you think he had to go to the doctor’s, or even the hospital?”

“I wouldn’t start to worry yet,” Faith said. “He told you it wasn’t serious. Do you have his cell?”

“No,” Tom said slowly. “I’ve asked him several times—in case I need to get him in an emergency—but he’s been kind of funny about it. I’ve had the feeling he didn’t want me to know.”

It was a little past ten o’clock. She had an hour to get to Beacon Hill.

“I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart. Stay by the phone, okay?”

“Faith, what’s going on? Where—”

She switched her phone off and got in her car. Albert was definitely not home and Faith had an idea where he might be instead.

A
lbert Trumbull’s Mini Cooper was parked on Cameron Street in front of Lily Sinclair’s apartment. Faith didn’t know whether to feel glad that she’d been right or sad that she’d been right. She pulled up next to it and called Tom.

“Honey, I think you should come and have a chat with Albert. I’m at Lily’s apartment in Somerville and his car is parked in front.”

She could hear Tom’s sigh over the phone.

“Maybe he loaned it to her while he was sick?”

A person could drown clutching at straws, Faith thought. She also thought it was time for her too-nice husband to get tough.

“I doubt it and I doubt he’s making some kind of pastoral call. If you want me to check it out, I’ll go see. But Tom, get going now. You need to talk to him. To them. Call it a hunch.”

“But Albert?”

“Tom!”

“Okay. I’m leaving.”

Faith double-parked, deciding to take her chances on getting a ticket. She might get lucky even if the Somerville police did cruise by. The Mini was so small that her Subaru wagon looked like someone had inexpertly parked too far from the curb. She sat for a moment. Faith trusted her hunches, but she realized she might be able to get some confirmation if Zach was available. She dialed his number.

“Hey, what’s up? We’re still on for Saturday, right?”

Zach was coming out to go over the security programs on their computers.

“Saturday is still fine. I was wondering if you could take a quick look at a Facebook page for me? Her name is Lily Sinclair.”

“Sounds like someone working in a gentlemen’s club. It’s real?”

“Oh yes.”

Lily had been enrolled at the Div School. Despite what Zach thought, “Lily Sinclair” couldn’t be an alias.

“Here she is. Not bad. And her face isn’t, either.”

“Zach!”

“Just kidding. Actually she looks very nice. Cool taste in music.”

“Just tell me if there are any photos or comments about a boyfriend.”

“Would his name be Al? And would he be an Anglophile— his Mini Cooper has a British flag painted on the roof?”

“Yes, and yes. You’re a doll. Thank you so much! See you Saturday.”

“I take it you don’t want me to friend her?”

“Absolutely not.”

A hunch had just become a fact. She got out of the car.

Before she rang the bell, she took a look around. The double-decker backed onto another the next street over. It was attached to its neighbor on one side and separated from a single-family dwelling by a narrow driveway on the other. She’d blocked Albert’s car in, but he could still leave from the back door and get to the street down the drive. She pictured herself chasing him into Davis Square and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Not only would she feel ridiculous, but she didn’t have the time.

She rang the bell and heard steps in the hall.

“I’m coming, hon. Silly girl, you left your keys on the table.”

The door opened wide, and while Mr. Trumbull, sometime divinity school student and administrator at the First Parish church in Aleford, was registering extreme surprise at seeing his boss’s wife on the doorstep, said wife stepped across the lintel and closed the door behind her.

“Tom’s on his way. We need to talk. Lily out for coffee? Or something else to cure what ails you? By the way, glad you’re feeling better.”

Albert was wearing pajamas—pale blue cotton ones like the kind Brooks Brothers sold. Faith didn’t think young men wore these, opting instead for more casual nightwear or nothing specific. Albert had frozen in place. The only thing moving was his mouth and this was opening and closing like a fish out of water desperately gasping for air.

“Why don’t we sit down over here while we wait for Tom—and Lily?” Faith wasn’t worried anymore that Albert might try to take off. She was, in fact, wondering if she could get him to move into the living room and sit on what she recognized as an Ikea couch and one of their Poang chairs. She gave him a little nudge and he shuffled into the room, collapsing on the couch.

“I . . .” He stopped and didn’t start again, just rubbed his hand over his eyes and bowed his head. Faith hoped he was praying. He needed to.

She got up, went into the hall, and opened the front door, leaving it ajar. She wasn’t counting on Lily to be as docile as her boyfriend. This way, having forgotten her keys, Lily would think Albert had left the door open for her while he was getting dressed. If Faith answered when Lily rang, she would most likely make a run for it.

Faith returned to the living room and looked at Albert closely. Definitely bed hair. They sat in silence for what seemed like a very long time. Faith didn’t want to start without Tom—or Albert’s significant other.

“Where is Lily?”

“Starbucks,” he whispered.

“What is she getting?”

“Iced mochas and apple fritters.”

Faith nodded. The mocha might be a little sweet, but she’d suffer. No way was Albert getting it. He could have the fritter, though. Unless Tom was peckish. Faith had pretty high standards for fritters.

“Where are you? Why is the door open?”

Lily was home.

“In here,” Albert said hoarsely. Maybe he did have a sore throat. Faith resolved not to get any closer. “Mrs.—” Once more Albert clammed up, but this time it was because Lily interrupted him. For a moment Faith thought the young woman was going to toss the cardboard tray holding the drinks and pastry at her.

“I knew you’d figure it out. Your sanctimonious prig of a husband couldn’t in a month of Sundays! And, you.” She whirled around and took several steps toward Albert. Faith was hoping she’d get close enough for Faith to snatch a coffee. She needed it. “You probably told her everything.”

Albert cowered. Faith had never actually seen anyone do this, but that’s what it was. He put his arms above his head and folded himself into a sitting fetal position.

His behavior had an immediate effect on Lily. She put the tray down on the floor, sat next to Albert, and threw her arms around him.

“My poor baby! Has she been horrible?”

The bell rang and Faith sprinted to the door. She didn’t trust Lily not to disappear with her “baby” into the kitchen or elsewhere, barricading them both in. The woman was in tigress mode. The look she’d shot at Faith bore the promise of much harm, bodily harm.