The Body in the Moonlight (15 page)

The woman gave new meaning to the word
paranoia
. Everyone was out to get her kid—and, by extension, herself. It was truly scary.

Faith glanced at her watch and panicked when she saw the time. She should have left for Marblehead and the Tiller Club dinner by now. Tom wouldn't be back from Framingham yet, but the sitter she'd hired, since Danny had a game, must be at the house by now. If not, she'd have to impose on Pix yet again.

“I'm sorry I have to leave. I didn't know how late it was. I'm catering a dinner on the North Shore tonight.”

“Did you say you were catering it or attending it?” Janice had heard what Faith had said, but obviously she couldn't believe her ears.

“I'm
catering
it,” Faith said firmly, aware that she was clenching her fist. She planned to clock the woman—parishioner, PTA honcho or no—if she impugned one more thing.

“Well, I guess you'd better run, then. See you Tuesday night—and remember, be a squeaky wheel. It's the only way to get what's best for your child.”

When she stepped outside, Faith took a deep breath. The fresh air felt wonderful and she stood in the church driveway for a moment, letting the oxygen clear her head. Then she dashed across to the parsonage and into the kitchen. Pix was still there, and Faith's heart started to sink.

“Don't worry. The sitter's here. I just wanted to see how you were. Do you want me to come along
tonight? Sam's out of town and Danny has a friend coming over to watch
Star Trek
tapes—not my idea of fun.”

Pix worked part-time for Have Faith, keeping the books and bringing her considerable organizational skills to ordering supplies and scheduling events. She had agreed to take the job, provided she would not be required to have anything to do with actual food preparation, not so much as turning on an oven or stirring a pot.

“It's a long drive. Stay home. Read a book. Niki will be there. But thank you. I'm all right. Really.”

“Patsy called. She said to remind you that you're to call her tomorrow.”

Faith was sure her two friends had been talking about her. She was surprised Patsy wasn't waiting in her kitchen, as well.

“She and Will are going to see Bill T. Jones dance tonight in town. I told her you'd be late anyway. But don't forget to call her.”

“Yes, mother.” Faith grinned, then stopped.
Mother.
The word reminded her of Janice Mulholland.

“Am I wrong or is Janice Mulholland a very, very crazy parent?”

“Not noticeably more nutso than a lot I know. Why?”

“I'll talk to you about it tomorrow. I've got to change and go. But quickly, do most parents really use Visitation Day to pick out a teacher for the next year and even the year after that?”

“Some years, I was the only current parent in my kid's class. All the rest were on spec.”

“Maybe Janice isn't as crazy as I thought. No, she is. It's not just Winthrop Elementary but the choir, too. Nobody appreciates Missy enough.”

“Replace choir with Little League, piano, or soccer and you've got a bunch more just like her.”

“Thank God I had totally disinterested parents.”

Pix raised her eyebrows.

“They loved us, made sure we were healthy, relatively happy, but I doubt if they had more to do with our schools than knowing the teacher's name and showing up if we were performing, which, in my case, wasn't often.”

“And you never had a teacher who put you down or a situation at school with another kid that upset you? But then, you turned out okay—that
is
what you were going to say, right?”

Faith tried to laugh, but the thought of a certain sixth-grade teacher's ridicule all year and a group of girls who teased her for being a PK—she didn't even know it stood for preacher's kid until years later—made her laughter a bit strained. “Point taken. A happy medium. I get it. Now I'd better change and head north to the land of port, starboard, and the Tillies.”

 

Niki was already at the yacht club and had unloaded the van. For the next few hours, they worked hard. The first task was getting the hors d'oeuvres out. The Tillies were gathering for aperitifs at 6:30. Someday,
Faith told herself, I'll get used to New England's totally uncivilized social hours—or not. And it wasn't that they wanted to be home in time for Leno or Letterman. They wanted to be home in time for bed.

The yacht club itself was a wonderful late Victorian wood-shingled structure that meandered imposingly along and above the shoreline. A porch stretched across the back, facing the water. It was still light enough to imagine what it would be like to sit on it and watch the races in the summer, sipping iced tea or something stronger. The porch was bare now. Faith was sure it was crowded with comfortably cushioned wicker in season. The long-ago ghosts of women in shirtwaists and men in straw boaters or commodore's caps lingered throughout the year. The sea beyond was beautiful, and after a gray day of rain, the sky had cleared up enough to suggest there would be at least one last glorious sunset before the clocks would have to be turned back. A sunset to ease the prospect of the short, dark days ahead. Inside, the club was luxuriously appointed—deep-pile carpeting, with good Orientals spread on top, massive easy chairs, sofas, and, in the main room, a large fieldstone fireplace under the club's insignia, which was carved on an elaborate gilded wooden plaque. The walls were hung with ancient knot boards, crossed oars, pennants, awards, plus photographs and paintings of all sorts of boats with all sorts of sailors—sailors in groups, sailors alone. Glass trophy cases displayed glittering testimonies to the members' prowess. It was the kind of place mentioned
in an offhand kind of way as “the club” by those who belonged, and completely unknown, or off-limits, to those who didn't. You could only see the building from the water, and the dock, needless to say, was private.

Maybe the newest Tillie would be someone who would introduce a note of diversity. Last year, all the faces had been white—flushed, but white. Black, Asian, Latino? Faith wasn't counting on it, and a survey of the crowd from the pass-through in the butler's pantry confirmed it.

“A cheerful crowd, wouldn't you say, boss?” Niki commented, peeking over Faith's shoulder.

“Absolutely. What do you think the invitations said? ‘Brooks navy blazers only'? ‘Women in pants stay home'?”

Niki laughed. “‘And be sure to polish your buttons.' They're a pretty well-preserved bunch, too. I'm looking at a lot of time at the gym here and more than walking Bowser for the ladies. Plus, they've still got their summer tans.”

“I think they sail pretty much year-round. Tom told me real sailors never stop, just change locales, or outerwear, and go ‘frostbiting.' Anyway, thirty-seven is not that old. ‘Well-preserved' will describe them when they're in their seventies, at least.” Having crossed the great divide to her thirties, Faith was a little touchy on the subject of age.

It was time to serve the first course, then the main courses. With the club settled and the wait staff in attendance, Faith sat down at the counter next to Niki,
who was digging into a plate filled with mashed potatoes, the roasted root vegetables, and venison. “Yum, yum. I didn't have time for lunch and I'm starving. I'll bet you didn't, either. Grab a plate,” Niki said.

Faith hadn't eaten, but she wasn't hungry. Thinking about what Tom had said about sailing had started her thinking about—Tom.

“All I have is a quarter,” Niki said, digging into her pocket and tossing the coin on the counter. “No pennies, so I should get a lot for my money. Thoughts, that is. The Tillies are going to be busy scarfing down the food for at least another half hour. Remember how much they ate last year? And the cake is all ready to go. So, spill your guts, Faith. This has gone on long enough.”

She was serious. So was Faith. She picked up a piece of focaccia and began to pull it apart.

“There's the murder—and the business with George, although I'm pretty sure I've figured that all out and now it's a question of what to do—but mostly it's Tom.”

“Okay. Go on. What's happening with Tom?”

“Nothing. I try to get him to talk, but he's totally uncommunicative. It's stupid to think there was anything between him and Gwen, but he's taking her death so hard. Even complete strangers have noticed.” She told Niki about the conversation she'd overheard in the bathroom after Gwen's service.

“I don't know what there is about the sight of gleaming white porcelain that causes mouths to flap. You
can't imagine some of the conversations I've had in bathrooms. People will tell you anything—I suppose because they think they'll never see you again. Not to mention what I've overheard. It's just gossip, Faith, idle gossip.”

“I know that deep down, but why can't I get Tom to talk to me about all this? I tried last night but got nowhere.” Her hands were covered with crumbs and little pieces of rosemary. She wiped them on her apron.

“Faith, Faith, Faith. And all along, I thought
you
were the one who knew everything. It's a guy thing.” Niki continued to eat, secure in the knowledge that she had solved the problem. She reached for more potatoes. Thin and wiry, she possessed an enviable metabolism, the kind that immediately burned up whatever calories entered her system, converting them to instant, observable energy. She had short dark hair, tightly curled, like a pot scrubber. At times like these, it seemed to spark.

“When did you ever think I knew everything, and what do you mean ‘guy thing'?” Faith asked.

“Men don't talk.
They don't know how
. They are not communicators. You are asking for behavior that is not in Tom's repertoire. Yes, even perfect Tom. If you really want to talk to someone, talk to me—or Pix, or Patsy. We're good at it. Men can give speeches, flirt, make jokes, and on occasion bring forth appropriate remarks—but talk, no. When you see them with their cell phones, they're checking a point spread or making an appointment.”

Faith did know this and had, in fact, given a similar speech to her sister, Hope, once after yet another possible Mr. Right turned out to have much in common with Marcel Marceau. As she recalled, she'd told Hope that women should really marry other women if all they wanted was open, frequent, emotional conversations. Something like that.

Niki was continuing, mimicking. “I can't get him to open up. Well, duh, of course not. Once in a blue moon, maybe. Or if he's Greek. Greek guys talk, except it isn't always what you want to hear.”

The waiters returned with the Tillies' clean plates. Some of them appeared to have been licked. “They're roasting the chairman during dessert. And we're to serve the sauterne immediately,” one of the staff said. “I just hope we don't have another incident like last year.” An exuberant member had leaped up onto one of the tables, which promptly crashed beneath his weight.

Niki looked at Faith. “This is how they communicate.” She sounded as if she were referring to a newly discovered tribe of aborigines. “They can't come out and say, ‘Fitzwilliam, you're a wonderful friend and I love you,' so instead, they run him down, and the worse it is, the more they care. Go figure. A woman would be destroyed—in tears. A man is in his element.”

The cake and wine dispatched, Faith and Niki went to the pantry to watch the festivities. “I feel like I'm nine years old, spying on one of my parents' parties when I was supposed to be in bed,” Faith said.

“We'd better count the lamp shades when they leave,” Niki advised.

The Tillies and their guests were roaring with laughter. At the height of the frenzy, most of them stood up and threw their napkins, tied into knots, at the speaker and the honoree, who immediately threw them back, starting a jolly melee that ended only when the waiters circulated with seconds of cake. No one wanted coffee. Cigars were lighted, cognac produced, and Faith began to get sleepy. They'd packed up everything they could. Now they had to wait until the Tillies wound down.

“Why don't you go home?” Niki suggested. “To put it mildly, you've had quite a day.”

“No. I'm not tired at all. We'll finish this together.”

“This is the beginning of the evening for me. I'm supposed to meet a date at Axis at one. I'll tell you what. You take the food in your car—there isn't any cake left—and leave it at work. I'll take the van. I can change here. My stuff is in my bag. Sometime tomorrow, I'll bring the van out and get my car. There isn't much to do for Monday's dinner, but we can be sure we have everything.”

It was a good plan, especially since Faith had lied. She
was
tired, and the idea of slipping into bed in an hour was irresistible.

“Okay. But if the Tillies get out of hand, don't hesitate to call the authorities.”

“Mater and Pater? A stern talking-to will do it, and I'm up to it, but I think they're running out of steam.
The napkin snowball fight did some of them in. One woman lost her headband.”

“Okay, I'll go. But you're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Driving down Route 128, Faith thought longingly of home—and Tom. Niki was right. Tom had said as much himself: He couldn't handle talking about all this now. She felt guilty. He'd had to deal with Jared's grief and planning the memorial service, plus everything else that was going on in the parish. People were ill, troubled, and then there was George. She knew the principal's situation was preying on Tom's mind. They'd talked about it again last night and he was so angry, he couldn't sit still. At least she could tell Tom about Janice Mulholland and what was going on there. She'd accomplished something. She sped up past the Burlington Mall, its parking lots unaccustomedly barren. It wouldn't take her long to put the food in the refrigerators at Have Faith's kitchen; then she'd be home in ten minutes. Tom would be asleep, but she was sure she could make it worth his while to wake up.