The Body in the Moonlight (13 page)

She looked at her watch. She didn't have any time. She had to pick Ben up and then tear Amy away from Jeremy, literally. Both kids tended to howl, as if they would never see each other again. Jeremy's mother said he wasn't good at transitions, whatever that meant. Faith thought it had more to do with being a relatively powerless two-year-old in a grown-up world. You stood your ground wherever you found it.

“I do have to leave soon.” She looked at Sandy. Her earlier elation was ebbing. “Can you think of anything at all that might help identify Gwen's killer? Any visitors to the gallery whom she reacted to in an odd way? Anything?”

His face flushed and his eyes shifted from her
face. “I wouldn't want to make too big a deal out of it, but—”

“Faith. Lovely to see you. What brings you all the way into town? I thought you Alefordians didn't know how to get to Boston.” Nick Gabriel was coming through the front door.

Faith forced a laugh. “It's not quite that bad. I was in town and thought I'd drop by. I've been thinking of getting Tom a print or a drawing for Christmas and it's not too early to be looking.” It hadn't occurred to her, but as she said it, she decided it was true. They must have something in her price range.

“No, indeed, it will be here before we know it. You're wise not to put your shopping off. This way, you'll get exactly what you want—and isn't that why you came?” Nick asked pointedly. “I hope Sandy here has been taking care of you.”

“Absolutely,” she replied, slightly uncomfortable at his tone. What was he suggesting? “Unfortunately, I have to leave now, but I'll be back.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.” He gave Faith an air kiss—she hadn't realized they were so close—and went through a door at the rear of the gallery. Sandy walked her to the door.

“What were you going to say?” she asked.

“I can't talk now.” He gestured with his head toward the office. “I'll see you tomorrow, too.”

It wasn't until Faith was putting her key in the door of her car that she made the connection. Of course they would see one another tomorrow. It was Gwen Lord's
memorial service. She'd completely forgotten about it. And there hadn't been a single note of sadness in Nick Gabriel's voice.

 

The phone was ringing as she stumbled into the house carrying a bag of groceries, with Amy clutching at the hem of her skirt. She grabbed it just before the machine picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild. It's Julie Black. Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all,” Faith lied. Tossing a raisin bagel to each child, she pointed toward the small den, where the TV was. Ben practically sprinted out the door, dragging Amy. His TV time was very limited and no doubt he hoped the phone call would be a long one.

“I won't keep you, but I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible. I found out the source of the rumor about George Hammond. The mother heard it from Janice Mulholland. I told George, and he was as surprised as I am. Mrs. Mulholland is a little high-strung and things have been difficult for her since the divorce, but I can't imagine why she'd attack George this way, unless she, too, heard it from someone else. Please don't say anything to anyone else except your husband. We're trying to think of the best way to handle the situation. We certainly don't want it to blow up in our faces, and that could happen if she thinks we're accusing her unjustly.”

“I understand and won't say a word. Please do let me know what you're doing, though.”

“Of course.”

“Let's just hope that whatever you decide will put an end to the whole matter.”

Julie Black gave such a heavy sigh over the phone that Faith could almost feel the coolness on her ear. “I wish I felt more optimistic. Several more teachers and two parents have mentioned it to me since we spoke. We have to act quickly. I told George that, but I can't do anything until he does.”

“Please tell him to get in touch with us. I'm sure Tom has time to talk to him about what's best. We'll be home all evening.”

“I will. Oh, if you're still interested in the PTA, the meeting's Tuesday night. Ben should have a notice in his backpack.”

“I'll be there,” Faith promised. Janice Mulholland was the secretary of the PTA. She'd be there, too.

“Ben handled his disappointment today nicely. Don't feel bad. Mothers forget all the time. That's why I keep extras.”

Faith thanked her profusely for she knew not what, hung up, and went into the den. She was so tired, she felt as if she were swimming in Jell-O.

“Ben, sweetheart. Was there something special going on in school today? Something you were supposed to bring things in for?”

He turned away from the screen.

“Only my Halloween costume,” he said, and turned his attention back to Big Bird. Big Bird never let anybody down.

“Oh, Ben! I am so sorry.” The adult note of bitterness in his voice was deeply upsetting. She switched off the TV. Amy said, “Bye, Big Bird.” Faith gathered both kids on her lap.

“Things have been too busy around here. But that is no excuse. You brought the note home last week and we should have made the costume right away. We'll make it now and you'll be all set for Sunday.”

“And can we carve our pumpkins?”

Advantage, Ben. “Yes, we can carve the pumpkins,” Faith said. “The only thing I have to do is put the groceries away, and with my good helpers, that will be done in a minute.”

One of Faith's good helpers managed to drop a carton of eggs, much to her brother's disgust, but only one broke. The costume was so much easier to make than Faith had envisioned that she felt even more guilty, if that was possible. Ben had told her Mrs. Black had given him a pirate costume, complete with eye patch, to wear in the school's Halloween parade. “So this year, I have two costumes. I bet no other kid in Aleford, maybe the world, has two costumes. Right, Mom?”

“Right, Ben.”

They had dug all the seeds from the pumpkins, putting them aside to toast, when the phone rang again.

It was Tom.

“Honey, I'm with Jared. We're working on the service and it's going to take awhile.”

“Why don't you bring him over here for some supper when you're through?”

“I think we'll go over to the Willow Tree for chili and a beer. Jared suggested it when he came in.”

“I have chili in the freezer and plenty of beer in the fridge….”

“Another time, Faith. I won't be late.”

“Give him my love.”

“I will.”

And love to you, too, Faith thought, putting the phone down.

“Okay, guys, let's carve some jack-o'-lanterns.”

Soon Amy was covered in seeds and chanting “Jackelanman” over and over to herself softly. Ben was drawing a huge toothy grin. Faith carved Amy's, adding stars and crescent moons on the sides and back of the smiling face. Then she helped Ben with his. They took them out to the front walk and lighted the candles inside, then stepped back to admire their work.

“These are the best ever!” Ben exclaimed. “Look at the pattern your stars are making!”

They did look beautiful. Faith usually thought of this squash as a container or ingredient. Tonight, she went back to her own childhood and remembered the mingled fear and excitement Halloween always brought. She and her sister, Hope, had trick-or-treated at a few apartments in their building, then, accompanied by their father, they had first gone to their grandparents', then to Aunt Chat's, enjoying the novelty of traveling through the city in disguise. Sunday, Tom would take Ben to some houses in the neighborhood.

“Come on, it's getting very late and we still have to
eat. Plus, you have got to take baths. You could be pumpkins yourselves, there's so much on you!”

They raced back into the warm house, giggling. She loved her children so much, it hurt.

Faith fed the kids toasted cheese sandwiches and split pea soup, then left Ben to put the finishing touches on his costume while she bathed Amy. “I may need some help on this,” Ben said. “Why can't you stay? Where's Dad?” His lower lip trembled.

“He's still working, and you know I can't leave Amy in the tub alone.”

“Don't let her play with my boats.” He picked up a Magic Marker to add to the dials he'd drawn.

Faith kissed him. “I won't let her touch any of your things. I promise.”

Soon, Amy was asleep and Faith was reading
Harry Potter
to a clean and drowsy Ben. “I'd be pretty good at Quidditch, don't you think, Mom?”

“I think you'd be great at it. Now go to sleep. Danny is going to watch you and Amy tomorrow morning. If it's a nice day, you can all go to the playground.”

“That'll be good,” Ben said, his eyes closed. “But I don't want Amy using my shovel in the sandbox. She broke my last one. Tell Danny. Okay, Mom?”

“I'll tell Danny. I promise,” Faith said.

Promises, promises. To love, honor, and respect. Until death do us part. Faith longed for Tom to come home. She moved throughout the house, tidying, picking up a book to read, setting it down. Ben's backpack lay on the kitchen floor, where he had dropped it after
school. She opened it and took out a picture that had been carefully rolled up. It proved to be Ben's rendition of a Muggle, accompanied by a caption he'd dictated to his teacher. There was the notice about the PTA meeting and a booklet with order forms for the gift wrap. There were five forms. She calculated quickly. Two sets of grandparents, Aunt Chat, themselves, and maybe the Millers, although Pix probably had enough paper to stock Santa's workshop. Faith put everything on the counter.

Even though she hadn't eaten with the kids, she still wasn't hungry. She poured herself a glass of wine and lighted the fire, then sat in the wing chair, watching the way the flames made cities of conflagration out of the embers. Promises. All those promises and they'd said, “I do.” Yet for the moment, death had parted them. Not their deaths, but a death. She wanted to talk to Tom. She had to talk to Tom—to Tom, her husband.

He came home at nine o'clock, looking exhausted. She went and put her arms around him. He held her close.

“Come sit by the fire. Unless you'd rather go to bed,” she whispered in his ear. He pulled away. “I'm too tired to sleep. Let's sit for a little while.”

She hadn't been thinking about sleep.

“Kids okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Typical scene getting Amy to leave Jeremy's house, but fortunately, he's just as bad. Ben missed you. I read to him, but he said it wasn't the same. He's so passionate about everything. Not letting Amy touch
any of his things. Having you catch up so you know what happened to Harry. I should have read something else.” She didn't mention the forgotten costume.

“That might have been a good idea. It's kind of our thing.”

His words stung her. She was sure he didn't mean them the way they sounded. It had never occurred to her that there would be things each child shared with them separately, but of course there would.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

They were sitting on the couch, her head leaning against his shoulder. He smelled like the Willow Tree—grease, beer, and cigarette smoke.

“No thanks.”

They sat in silence for a while. Now that it was autumn and they had fires, she should move the couch back. It was silly to sit away from it, staring out the window at the darkness. But then she'd have to put up with all the smug “I told you so” looks as the parishioners marched through. She'd leave it where it was.

“Tom, we need to talk.”

That wasn't what she had meant to say. Men were genetically disposed to abhor those four particular words, and women were similarly programmed to say them.

“I mean, it's just that I've been feeling so distant from you lately. We never have any time together.” Faith flailed about for words. “Last Saturday night was terrible. And then all this business with George Hammond. Our life is filled with these things, and I need you to be with me.”

“I can't.”

There it was. And she sat listening desperately for more.

“There is a lot going on in both our lives right now. But it can't be helped, Faith. I love you and I'm doing the best I can. You'll have to accept that.”

“But, Tom—”

“Look, what we need more than anything, or what I need, is sleep. I've got the service tomorrow and a full day after that. You've got that dinner tomorrow night. I don't want to talk anymore. I simply want to go to bed. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. But it wasn't. It wasn't okay at all.

It was done so neatly. The head had been severed with a single sharp stroke and placed carefully next to the body. There was very little blood and what there was had hardened into glistening clots. Faith ignored the paper she'd come outside for, stumbled on the doorstep as she ran back into the house, and threw up in the downstairs toilet. Then she went to find Tom. The yard was filled with bushy-tailed gray squirrels, chattering in the trees, stealing all the bird seed from the feeders. This morning, there was one squirrel less.

“It's Halloween weekend, Faith, and celebrants, particularly adolescent boys, have varying interpretations of what constitutes a ‘trick.' The definition of
treat
is universal, and I hope you got plenty of candy. We ran out last year, remember?” Tom wasn't taking the appearance of a mutilated corpse on the front steps seriously at all. “Let Charley know, by all means, but I'm sure he'll agree with me.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Don't worry, I'll clean it up.” It had never occurred to Faith that she would have to dispose of the remains. Women are extremely good at dealing with
large amounts of blood, levelheaded, applying pressure, bandages as needed—and extremely bad at handling small amounts, mice in traps, paper cuts.

After Tom's words, it took Faith an hour to decide to call the police. She felt foolish, but surprisingly the police chief wasn't as quick as her husband to chalk up the headless squirrel to a prank.

“Anything else? A note?” he asked.

“Perhaps there wasn't time and he'd only a few nuts to leave. No, no note.” She'd been trying to sound lighthearted throughout the conversation, as if to suggest that discovering dismembered animals with her newspaper were mildly annoying everyday occurrences.

“Funny, very funny, but I'm sure you weren't laughing when you found it.”

“No, I wasn't.” Faith sobered up immediately, grateful for the implied sympathy and glad to be taken seriously. “Do you think this has anything to do with Gwen Lord's death—or the business with George Hammond?” George had met with Charley and Charley had called Tom afterward. “The whole town seems to be going crazy.”

“Possibly, and the town usually is going crazy about something or other most of the time, but I can't really see how this relates—I'm just going to keep it in the back of my mind. Remember, there are smashed pumpkins and trees decked in toilet paper all over. Lord knows what the next two nights will bring. I hate Halloween. Given that there was nothing besides the squirrel, I'd say it's kids—somewhat sick kids.”

“What do you think a note would have said?” Faith had been puzzled by Charley's question.

“Something like ‘Mind your own business'—you
are
sticking your nose into all this, I've heard. Been out to Scott's place and talking to people.”

Faith was impressed once more by the efficacy of the Aleford grapevine.

“No chance a dog did it—killed the squirrel, that is?” Charley asked.

Faith thought of the neat decapitation. Maybe Lassie with a carving knife and fork could have managed it, but not your average canine.

“No, I'm sure it was something on two legs.”

“Then mind your own business.” Charley hung up almost immediately after the warning. Faith went about the morning's chores, feeling distinctly out of sorts.

Gwen Lord's service was scheduled for one o'clock and Danny Miller came to baby-sit at 12:30. Tom was already at the church with Jared. Pix was at the door with her son.

“Let's walk over together. I hope the press and other ghoulish onlookers won't try to crash.”

“Tom has Rhoda Dawson posted with the ushers, and if she can't tell who belongs and who doesn't, nobody can.” Ms. Dawson was the formidable parish administrator, Tom's assistant, who transformed herself into “Madame Rhoda, Psychic Reader” on her days off.

Pix laughed. “Let's go.” She kissed her son. “It's not
public, just the parsonage, so don't ‘Oh Mom' me. The service should be over in an hour, and if Faith still needs to be there, I'll change places with you so that you can get to your game.” Danny was on the Middle School soccer team.

Danny squirmed away from her kiss with the deftness of practice and told Ben and Amy to get their jackets and then they'd go to the playground. Their squeals of delight reminded Faith that she hadn't had time to take them herself in quite a while. It
was
my suggestion, though, she thought, consoling herself.

As they walked to the church, Faith told Pix, “The service is mostly music, with some brief readings. Jared is playing part of one of his new compositions as the eulogy. He said it was inspired by his love for Gwen and it's what she would have wanted.”

Pix looped her arm through Faith's. “It's too sad and horrible, but you didn't do anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” Faith said shakily. “Okay.”

The church was packed, but as far as Faith could tell, everyone looked as if they belonged. Many were young—friends of Jared's and Gwen's, dressed in somber, grown-up clothes, with somber, grown-up expressions on their faces. The weather had turned cold and rain was predicted. Coats were kept on, buttoned up.

Tears began to well up in Faith's eyes from the moment musician friends of Jared's from Boston joined him in a heartbreaking rendition of Ravel's “Pavane for a Dead Princess.” Tears coursed down her cheeks
throughout Tom's readings, and by the time Jared played his own composition, “Love Never Lost,” she was choking back sobs.

The conventional arrangements of funeral flowers were missing. No gladioli or white lilies. Nothing on the top of the closed coffin. Instead, there was a large burnished copper container in front of the pulpit, filled with hydrangea—white tinged with pink and blue, huge, lush blossoms. More of the flowers had been placed inside the entrance to the church.

Jared had selected only two readings. Parts of Keats's
Endymion,
including “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” which was no surprise and certainly apt. The psalm was also appropriate, but for different reasons. Psalm 55—not a lyrical psalm, nor a psalm of consolation—a psalm of raw grief, of revenge and the recognition of betrayal. Faith could hardly bear to listen to the pain in Tom's voice,

Jared had chosen an indictment, a gauntlet thrown down.

Murder had been in someone's heart. Did Jared suspect someone? Someone close to Gwen?

By the end of the reading, Tom was almost shouting from the pulpit, like an avenging prophet of old.

The last line was uttered so bitterly that a number of heads jerked up in surprise. Pix reached for Faith's hand and gave it a hard squeeze. They stood to sing “I Cannot Think of Them As Dead,” and Faith was shivering under her thick coat. But not from the cold. Tom had been so passionate. So…so involved. His face was flushed.

It wasn't an ordinary funeral.

There was a brief, almost hurried prayer. Then Jared came down from the choir loft and placed one perfect white rose on the coffin. It was over.

“You have to go to the reception,” Pix said.

“I know.” It wasn't what Faith wanted to do at all. She wanted to go home, crawl under the covers, and try to sort out all the conflicting emotions she was feeling. Sorrow and fear predominated. It was unutterably sad. And horrible. And frightening. And threatening. Tom and Jared had left the sanctuary immediately. Tom and Jared, the chief mourners?

“I'll take care of the kids. Go.” Pix gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the Parish Hall, where, Faith knew, a caterer—obviously not Have Faith, under the circumstances—had laid the New England equivalent of funeral baked meats: small white-bread sandwiches with anchovy paste, a millimeter of chicken or egg salad, and perhaps cucumber; trays of orange cheddar cheese cubes, Triscuits, and grapes; some butter cookies. And coffee, lots of coffee. She stopped at the ladies' room to postpone the inevitable.

Even under the best conditions—the deceased age ninety-something, hale and hearty to a mercifully swift end—Faith hated funerals. And she'd had to attend an enormous number of them over the years. It went with the territory. Making her peace with death was something she planned to do in old age, and until then, she preferred not to think about it. Of course she knew she was going to die. It would be unnatural not to, and when she did, she wanted Ben, Amy, their spouses, her grandchildren, whoever was around, to display noisy, no-holding-back, proper grief. But the notion of this ultimate change from all she had been accustomed to was one she kept securely locked up, along with other dismal inevitables like cellulite and gray hair.

She sighed and made ready to leave the security of the toilet cubicle, which had been growing more and more attractive. She was about to open the door when she heard two women come in. They were talking. She recognized one as a cashier at the market; the other was someone Faith couldn't identify.

“What a service! I don't think I could have stood much more.”

“I know. Poor Jared. What will he do? His music will be a comfort to him—and his friends, but his life will never be the same. I suppose he'll find someone else. But what a problem she'll face. How could you ever measure up to someone's fiancée who was murdered just before the wedding?”

“Maybe he won't marry. Just keep her memory forever fresh. It's like a movie.”

“I've never heard Reverend Fairchild read the Bible that way before. I expected to see a flaming sword appear in his hand.”

The other woman laughed.

“It really isn't funny, but I just got this picture in my head. You're right, though. He was pretty worked up and certainly seemed to be taking it personally.”

“Well, from what I've heard that's not so surprising.”

“You don't mean to say—”

One of them turned the water taps on and the rest of the sentence was drowned out. Faith had been standing still, far back in the stall. Unless one of them tried the handle, they wouldn't know there was anyone else in the bathroom.

The water stopped.

“…hadn't realized it was
that
well.”

“So they say. Let me finish putting my face on. I have to go back to work.”

“I'll walk with you.”

The door swung shut and they were gone. Faith slumped against the wall. So, the whole town did know.

Know what?

She entered the Parish Hall and from force of habit searched the crowd for Tom's familiar face. He was talking to Ursula Rowe, Pix's mother. Away from the sanctuary, the mourners had become more cheerful. The bulk were parishioners who had attended the service because of Jared, their music director. They hadn't known Gwen. Paula Pringle was at the center of a group of women, most of whom Faith recognized as having worked on the Ballou House event. Faith recalled that she wanted to ask Paula how she'd obtained the script for the game, but now was not the time.

John Dunne had told Faith once that a surprising number of murderers showed up at their victims' funerals. They'd talked about the various reasons one might have for returning not to the scene of the crime but to the aftermath. A subconscious wish to be caught? Thumbing one's nose at the inept police? Remorse? It was possible, therefore, that the murderer had been in church and was here now. The room smelled of coffee and wet wool—the Parish Hall's habitual winter aroma. It also smelled of fear. Or perhaps that's my imagination, Faith told herself. Yet, once planted, the notion bloomed and she was sure she could detect the undercurrent beneath the clinking of the cups and saucers, the banal pleasantries and
chitchat. A week before, a young woman had been killed at the First Parish 250th Anniversary Campaign Kickoff. It was inexplicable—and frightening.

“So, what do you think?” a familiar voice asked. Faith turned in relief and gave Patsy a hug. She wasn't sure exactly why she was so glad to see her friend—her lawyer—but she was.

“I didn't know you were coming to the service.”

“We came to the concert last spring and Jared is a friend of a friend, so we wanted to come. Besides, I thought I'd better keep up with things.”

Faith was tempted to blurt out what she'd heard in the ladies' room, so she could get Patsy's reassurances—and Patsy would reassure her, wouldn't she?

Patsy looked at her hard. “One of these days, you'll have to come clean and tell me what's bothering you, besides what's bothering you, just so I know. Not that I'm pressuring you, but it is written all over your face.” She'd slowed down and emphasized each of the last words.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Faith said, trying to turn the corners of her mouth up. “Tomorrow's another day. Not now. I'm doing a dinner up on the North Shore.”

“Anytime, Miss Scarlett. Now I have to get Will home before he gets so hungry that he succumbs to one of these white folks' sandwiches. I shudder to think what my mother would say about a spread like this. Talk about respect for the dead—you should have seen the food at my father's funeral. The entire city of New
Orleans could have eaten for a week, and eaten like kings.”

Faith laughed and started to walk across the room with Patsy to find Tom, but halfway there, the crowd separated them. Faith was about to push through politely, when the young man with the red hair who worked at the Undique Gallery grabbed her by the arm.