The Body in the Moonlight (11 page)

Faith nodded. Pix had mentioned the parent grapevine—that certain teachers were preferred, often for no discernible reason, but simply because the gossip mill deemed them the best. Thinking about what
lay ahead seemed almost as complicated as what lay before her at present.

“How about the faculty?” she asked. “Any problems there?”

She smiled. “We're a fairly good-natured bunch, and most of us have taught together for a long time. George did have a problem a couple of years ago with a prima donna teacher. He was convinced that his way was the best and only way, that he was the only innovative teacher here. He had his kids plowing up the playground and planting crops to teach them about the struggles of the early settlers. He even built a sod house with money they raised by selling the vegetables. It's the type of curriculum that looks wonderful from the outside and the media loved it. He also had quite a bit of parent support. George was concerned that the students weren't learning enough of the fundamentals in math and reading that they'd need to move on to the next grade. He also saw that the kids who were benefiting the most were the ones who were highly self-motivated. They formed a kind of club with the teacher within the class, excluding other kids, particularly those with less self-confidence and ones with special needs. The teacher resigned at the end of the year and sent a bitter letter to the newspapers denouncing the school, and George in particular.”

Faith felt a surge of hope. “Where is this teacher now?”

“The West Coast—software development, of course. Making a fortune. Any vegetables he's involved with at
present are designer vegetables.” Mrs. Black definitely had a sense of humor.

Faith was crushed. She'd worked out the whole thing in her mind. Now it was apparent there was nothing the ex-teacher could gain, unless he had been smoldering with spite these last years, but success tends to blunt this kind of reaction.

“I've got to go pick up my daughter at day care. Will you call me when you find out who the parent who mentioned the rumor is? And I
will
go to the next PTA meeting. There might be something in the air.”

“Oh, there will definitely be something in the air. Don't worry.”

Mrs. Black lugged her stack of books over to the counter and started to check them out. Faith pulled her coat on. She was almost out the door when the teacher called, “I'll wait until you figure this all out before making Ben one of our Giants. It's not that it takes much time, despite what you hear, but you should be able to have some leisure to enjoy his week with him.”

Faith smiled gratefully at this vote of confidence, as well as at the postponement of the project, thinking at the same time, And that would be when?

 

Patsy Avery arrived shortly after Faith had put Amy down for her nap. Ben was staying for extended day, and Faith now blessed her son's desire for independence. The last thing she needed to think about was occupying a five-year-old. Leave it to the pros.

“Let's sit a minute and see where we are,” Patsy said, refusing coffee and accepting a tall glass of milk and some of Faith's oatmeal cookies instead. “The police can't think you're involved; otherwise, they wouldn't have let you reopen. Have you heard from either Chief MacIsaac or the state police detective in charge of the case? What's his name again—Dunne?”

“Yes, John Dunne, as in ‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls,' except with a
u,
not an
o.
”

“Very enlightening. Now, I'll tell you what I know—although it's not much—and then it's your turn.” There was a slight but unmistakable emphasis on the word
your.

Patsy opened up a small notebook. “It was, as you know, cyanide—in the dessert, and only her dessert. Gwendolyn Lord, age twenty-five, born in Framingham, Massachusetts. No siblings. Father worked for UPS and mother sold cosmetics at Jordan Marsh until she died of breast cancer when Gwen was eighteen. Her father died of lung cancer two years ago. Gwen was number one in her high school class and on full scholarship at Harvard. Reputation for keeping to herself and working night and day.” She looked up. “Someone in our office was in her class and remembered her.” She returned to her notes. “Let's see. Ms. Lord interned at various museums during the summers and seemed headed for curating. She had started her graduate work when she took the job at Nick Gabriel's Undique Gallery.
Undique
is the Latin word for ‘from everywhere,' by the way.
The gallery specializes in twentieth-century prints—lots of Chagalls, Dalís, Mirós, and Picassos—but Gwen mounted several exhibits showcasing new young artists in a variety of other media: painting, sculpture, photography, as well as printmaking. At the time of her death, she had a very nice portfolio herself—stocks, that is—and left an estate of close to a million dollars.”

“What! Where would she have gotten money like that?” Faith was stunned. “Did she have a will?”

“Yep—and Jared is the beneficiary, after some minor bequests to a few charities like Rosie's Place and AIDS Action. As to the amount, if she'd been shrewd enough to buy and sell some of her discoveries, she could have accumulated that much in a relatively short period of time.”

“I had no idea the Boston art market was this hot.”

“Regional prejudices showing? The Big Apple is not the only place in the country with big money—or big talent. Bostonians stopped painting still lifes with teacups and fruit a long time ago. You need to broaden your horizons—have a look at Aaron Fink, Jon Imber, Jill Hoy, Jody Klein, Henry Horenstein, Walter Crump—I could go on.”

Faith pressed on. “Anything else about her personal life? Men in the past; men in the present?”

Patsy shook her head. “That's not the stuff I can dig up without hiring someone, which we can do if it comes to that, but that's your job. Assuming it is your job?”

Faith didn't have to answer. It was written all over her face. It was her job all right.

Small whimpering noises from upstairs indicated that Amy was awake and unhappy at having to stay in bed—even her new, big-girl bed. Faith sprinted up the stairs before the whimpers became wails. Patsy followed. Faith hadn't told her what she'd been up to and obviously Patsy didn't intend to leave until she knew what her client had been doing.

Faith dumped a container of blocks on the floor and a box of small wooden animals sent by Faith's own aunt Chat. The two women sat on the window seat while Amy played, delighted by the audience.

After hearing about Faith's visits to Millicent McKinley and Anson L. Scott, Patsy remarked, “I sometimes think there aren't any places, just place names. Every town and city has the same people, the same situations. We had our Millicent, only she was called Miss Belinda—knew things about you before you did yourself. And Scott could be Mr. McBride, who wrote long novels filled with family secrets—his and everybody else's. Wore a white suit with a gardenia in the lapel—year-round, of course—looked like Truman Capote and talked like Orson Welles.”

“I know what you mean. Every city is a village and vice versa. Human nature, or, in this case, inhuman.” She paused. “There's something else going on, but I don't know if I have the energy to go into it.”

“Oh yes you do. You don't put pie on the table without a knife and fork. Now, what's up?” Patsy asked.
From the very beginning, she'd sensed that Faith was keeping something back. Now here it was at last.

But it wasn't what she had expected—something involving Faith directly, involving Faith personally. Patsy listened gravely as Faith told her about George Hammond, and she made all the right responses. She continued to listen as Faith described her visit to Winthrop Elementary. Outside, the sun was dipping down toward the horizon. Its rays caught the silk bursting from the milkweed pods in the field beyond the next house. Amy was putting an animal on top of each block. The elephant kept falling off. Patsy murmured a comment or two and kept listening some more as Faith feverishly outlined a jam-packed schedule filled with interviewing the other three mystery writers who had been guests at Ballou the night of the murder, making a trip into town to the Undique Gallery, hanging out at the school library, attending the next PTA meeting, and calling Paula Pringle to find out more about the murder game setup. It was an ambitious plan of action, especially considering the fact that hearth, home, and work had to be squeezed in. Faith would be so busy, she would scarcely have time to think.

No time to think—exactly the whole idea.

The Tiller Club's annual autumn game dinner was one of its most popular events—next to the annual summer lobster feast—and thirty of its thirty-seven members would be attending with a guest on Saturday night. The Tillies, as they affectionately referred to themselves, had started as a group of sixteen sailing buddies who'd known one another “forever” up on the North Shore. They regularly left Pride's Crossing, Hamilton, and Manchester-by-the-Sea for prep school and college, but they always managed to get home for the summer and spend every free moment on the water. At age sixteen, the sixteen of them had decided to formalize the bonds of friendship with a club and immediately agreed to limit the membership—adding only one carefully selected new Tillie as they aged a year. When Niki Constantine had heard this, she'd exploded with laughter.

“I can never get enough of these quaint WASP customs! Now, obviously the person, the man, of course, has to be the same age as the rest of them to keep the whole age/number thing the same, so when they're all
ninety-nine, which without a doubt they assume they will be, they'll be beating the bushes with their canes for a suitable candidate. Someone no one would black-ball. Someone named Somerset or Chandler and still breathing.”

It was Friday morning, early, and the following evening's game dinner was very much on both Faith's and Niki's minds.

“Savenor's is delivering the meat this morning. Everything except the quail and the rattlesnake will need marinating,” Niki said.

Savenor's Market on Charles Street had the best meat in Boston, maybe in the country, and was a favorite of Julia Child. They stocked a wide variety of game—everything from lion to moose. The Tillies had given Faith a free hand with the menu, their sole demand being chocolate cake for dessert. Boys will be boys. She'd done the event last year, as well, and she'd promised some new dishes to supplement the venison they considered de rigueur.

“Real men don't eat quiche, so I told the chairman the first course would be rattlesnake tartlets. As soon as Savenor's comes, put everything else away, but start parboiling the snake to get the meat off the bones so we can get these done today. There's plenty of pâté brisée for the pastry shells in the freezer.”

“Can do. Can do the whole thing, in fact. Why don't you get out of here and get on with
your
work.” Niki gave her boss a playful shove.

Faith was not averse to the idea. The dinner was
under control. Besides the rattlesnake, they were serving roast venison with juniper berries; quail stuffed with wild rice, pecans, and spices in a sweet Madeira wine sauce; and a bear ragout—the stew tenderized the meat and produced succulent gravy. Roasted root vegetables in a garlicky vinaigrette, mashed Yukon Gold potatoes with plenty of cream and butter, plus a bread basket with buckwheat/walnut and sourdough rolls, Parmesan bread sticks, and rosemary focaccia filled out the menu. The Tillies were providing their own wines. They fancied themselves connoisseurs, and last year, in fact, Faith had been impressed with the selections. Nary a jug in sight. Or a keg, as in their youth, but then, these guys might well have been the ones with the Mouton Rothschild at their tailgate picnics.

“And the cakes?”

“I'll do them in the morning. Don't worry!”

The dinner itself was at one of the yacht clubs in Marblehead and the club was providing the wait staff and equipment, but it didn't prepare meals off-season. All Faith had to do was appear with Niki and the food. It was indeed a piece of cake.

She'd been half-expecting a phone call to cancel, but either they hadn't heard or didn't care. A steady hand on the tiller. The Tillies wouldn't be driven off course by something as trivial as a little cyanide. Now, a tsunami…

Faith had spent the many moments before sleep the night before planning every minute of today. She'd left for work the moment her family was out the door,
having arranged earlier for Amy to go to her friend Jeremy's house for the afternoon—a treat that had caused Amy to be dressed and ready before the rest of the family was awake. In honor of the occasion, she was wearing a bathing suit, tutu, and Easter bonnet. It had been a struggle to get her to change and Faith had given in on the tutu, but she'd replaced the one-piece bathing suit with a turtleneck and warm pants. Amy's relatively recent mastery of toilet skills would have been severely challenged. The bathing suit had had to go. Also the hat. It was cold out, and only by reminding her daughter that Jeremy had a terrific swing set and she'd need something warm on her head to go outside had Faith finally managed to carry the day. It was exhausting. Ben had been jumping up and down, almost at the point of tears, since his snack wasn't ready.

“Mom, the bus will be here any second!”

He was staying for extended day again and Faith had added a second bag for the afternoon, feeling enormously and inexplicably guilty. Ben loved going. He was ready for all-day school. She wasn't doing anything bad. But it must be, a little voice inside had said. It's convenient and makes your life easier, so something has to be wrong with this picture.

As she drove down Route 2 toward Cambridge and Boston, Faith thought some more about this conundrum that haunted her life, and the lives of most other women she knew. If it's for me—whether the “it” be time, material goods, or situations—there was supposed to be a thorn, a sharp reminder of priorities. She'd suggest to
Tom that the four of them do something together Sunday afternoon. Go to Family Place at the Museum of Fine Arts or to the Children's Museum. Then she remembered it was Halloween and they'd be going trick-or-treating. Ben wanted to be a robot. She'd promised to help him with his costume. The box, aluminum foil and other components, was in a corner of his room—exactly where it had been all week. Tonight, she'd get to it. Tonight. Amy was going to be a ballerina and help her mother give out the candy. No problem there.

She flicked off the radio in order to concentrate on where she was going.

Veronica Brookside, the mystery writer, lived in Jamaica Plain. Faith had spoken with her earlier in the week and set up the appointment. Veronica hadn't been as warm as Anson L. Scott had been and she had told Faith not to bother when she'd offered to bring some raspberry/peach scones. Maybe she was behind on her deadline. Maybe she was on a diet. Maybe she didn't want to get poisoned.

Jamaica Plain was an interesting place, Faith noted. She hadn't been in this part of Boston before. Veronica had been quick to claim she lived in Jamaica Plain, not Boston, and Faith had the feeling that many of its residents shared the same sense of identification. She drove down Centre Street, noticing several interesting ethnic restaurants that might bear future investigation, as well as equally diverse shops, galleries, and bookstores. She almost missed her turn.

Veronica's house was a well-maintained Victorian
with plenty of gingerbread. Remnants of what must have been a glorious flower garden last summer occupied the front yard. She saw the curtain twitch, and the writer answered the door before Faith had time to ring. Clearly, minutes were going to count.

She stepped into the hall and was stunned by what she saw. Veronica herself was dressed in a long black Lycra skirt and a soft gray cowl-necked sweater. Very minimalist. Very nineties. 1990s. Everything else within sight was also nineties, but 1890s—frilly, madcap, Gay Nineties. The woman who wrote one of the most hard-boiled series going favored antimacassars and knick-knacks. Every surface was covered with one or the other. A lot of angels. A lot of cats and kittens. She motioned Faith into the parlor and indicated a seat—a velvet-covered slipper chair with several needlepoint pillows. Faith sat down.

“I don't believe in amateur sleuths.” Veronica's voice was as impressive as Faith had remembered, but not as sultry. She wasn't upping the wattage for her current audience. “Dempsey Lansky has a PI license.”

Faith hadn't read any of Veronica's books, but she knew that this was her character—a character who was obviously very real to her creator.

“They get in the way and mess things up for the professionals. I simply don't believe in them.”

Or Santa or fairies or the efficacy of vitamin E. But Faith knew exactly what Veronica was talking about. She'd heard it before.

“Until the police or someone else finds out exactly how Gwendolyn Lord died, my business will be virtually nonexistent. Almost all of the jobs I had have been canceled.”

Veronica didn't look particularly sympathetic. She lit a cigarette and didn't offer one to Faith. Faith wouldn't have accepted, but she would have liked to have been asked.

“I see, but exactly what do you want to know from me?”

“I wondered if as a professional, you might have given any thought to the case. If it were your plot, where would you go with it?”

“You're talking to each of us?”

“Hoping to, yes.”

“Whom have you seen so far.”

“Only Anson Scott. I haven't been able to reach Bill Brown or Tanya O'Malley.”

“She'll be back this weekend. We're on a panel Sunday night. Bill is hard to get. When he's working, he doesn't answer the phone or even check his messages. The mystery-writing world is a small one. We tend to know what's going on with one another.”

Suddenly, she was being helpful, and Faith wondered about the abrupt change. Veronica hadn't asked what Anson's take had been, and this also was a surprise. She hadn't acknowledged his name at all.

“What would Dempsey make of it?” Veronica mused. She blew a smoke ring and got away with it. She really was very beautiful. “Why that particular
place and time? So public. Someone wanted to make a statement. It's terribly easy to kill people, of course. Perhaps the killer wanted a challenge. Cyanide. Not a pleasant death, nor an exotic method. But the setting—that would pose some difficulties. It's very important. Place can be another character, you know.”

Faith didn't know, although certainly Ballou House had character to spare. She nodded. Anson had mentioned the choice of Ballou as the murder scene also, but he hadn't put the emphasis on it that Veronica was.

“What about the mystery game? Was that merely a coincidence? Would Gwen have been killed if the fund-raiser had been, oh, I don't know, a bingo night or a plain old dance?

“Rather too much of a coincidence, don't you think? I suspect our killer has a sense of humor. So many of them do. Twisted, but funny.”

Faith thought she'd stop at the bookstore she'd seen on the way, Jamaicaway Books & Gifts, and buy one of Veronica's books. Dempsey Lansky might have something to say to her.

Veronica put her cigarette out in a cut-glass ashtray. The interview was fast coming to an end. She stood up.

“What about motive?” Faith asked hastily, rising from her chair. “Gwen did have some money, but it was all left to her fiancé, and aside from my knowing him very well, he'd have to be an extraordinary actor to fake the grief he's displayed.”

There was no mistaking the patronizing smile on Veronica Brookside's face.

“But—what was your name again, Fairfield?—but, Mrs. Fairfield, murder
is
an extraordinary act. And each murderer plays his or her part to perfection.”

The front door closed on her last word and Faith walked down the path and through the curlicued iron gate, feeling like a complete fool.

She bought her book and sat in the car. Her plan had been to drive straight to Newbury Street and visit the Undique Gallery, where Gwen had worked, but she realized she was not far from Brookline, where Bill Brown lived. Her interview with Veronica had left Faith wanting more, much more. If he didn't answer his phone when he was working, she reasoned, he wouldn't answer his door, either, so she wouldn't be disturbing him. Brown lived on Tappan Street. She found it easily in the atlas a realtor friend had given her. She pulled out of her parking space, and as she drove down Centre Street, she muttered, “I don't believe in amateur sleuths” in a mocking approximation of Veronica's voice. Who did the woman think she was? Amateurs indeed! Faith had always believed it was much more likely that people would tell all to someone without a badge or license—a point she had made repeatedly to Detective Lieutenant John Dunne in the past and one she now saw the possible need for repeating in the not-so-distant future.

Bill Brown's apartment complex was an older one and had been elegant in its time. The brick building surrounded a pretty courtyard, still well kept up. An elderly woman was sitting in the sunshine, seemingly
oblivious to the cold. Her coat was open at the neck and she wore no hat. She greeted Faith cheerfully. “Isn't it a beautiful day! So restorative!”

Faith agreed, “Yes, lovely. We need all the sunshine we can get at this time of year.”

“Oh, yes. Daylight saving ends this weekend. Always such a shock to the system. I don't know why they don't simply keep the same time all year long. My husband, God rest his soul, used to try to explain it to me, but I never cared much for logic.”

She patted a spot on the seat next to her and Faith accepted the invitation, sitting down for a moment. It really wasn't all that cold, and the woman was a kindred spirit. There were many times Faith didn't care much for logic, either.

“I haven't seen you before. Are you looking at the Meyersons' apartment? Very clean people, and they put in a new kitchen two years ago.”

Faith was filled with a sudden, almost overwhelming desire to rent the Meyersons' apartment and walk into another life. Just for a little while.

She sighed. “No, I'm not. I'm looking for Bill Brown.”

“He went out for breakfast—he doesn't cook—but he's been back for several hours. He's in three B, on that side.” She gestured to the left. “Nice man. He came and opened a jar for me once. He's a writer, you know. Mysteries. I don't read his books. Too violent. But people say they're very good. I do crosswords. Can't get into trouble with them.”