The Body in the Moonlight (16 page)

There were no streetlights on the back roads leading to Aleford. This had come as a surprise after the Great White Way she'd grown up with, and she remained unsure whether the lack of illumination was due to parsimony or the belief that if one was out after dark, then one could take one's chances. She pulled up to the small building that housed the catering firm and let herself in. She turned on all the lights, inside and out,
then rapidly transferred the food from her car to the refrigerators, saving only the generous platter she'd prepared in case Tom was in need of sustenance.

It didn't take long. She shut off the lights and locked up. Turning left onto the back way to the parsonage—slightly faster than through the center of town—Faith became aware of a car following her.

“You should be home asleep,” she told the headlights reflecting in her rearview mirror. As if in answer, they switched to high beams. Suddenly, she felt uneasy. The car was moving closer. She sped up. So did the other car. She was annoyed that she hadn't gone straight through the center of town, with its reassuring orange halogen lights—still controversial after several years—and the small but adequate police station. She'd be home soon. She was perfectly safe. She hit the lock button, although she'd done it when she'd gotten into the car.
Click.
Nothing could happen. I'm perfectly safe, she told herself again. This is Aleford. An animal darted across the road. She swerved and missed—and increased her speed. To begin the day with a dead animal and end with one would be too much. She tried to get the image of this morning's maimed squirrel out of her head, yet it pushed its way in, accompanied, inevitably, by the memory of Gwen's dead body, bright blood bubbling from her mouth. A week ago. Only a week ago. She put her hand up to signal the car to lower its beams. Nothing happened. She tried to see what kind it was or who was
driving, but the road was narrow and full of sharp curves. She didn't dare turn around.

Then suddenly, it was gone, disappearing as fast as it had come. She stopped and, shaking, watched the taillights disappear down a side road.

Faith was alone now—alone with her thoughts.

Tom was sitting in the wing chair, staring at the ashes in the fireplace, when Faith pushed open the kitchen door, intending to creep upstairs and slip into bed next to his warm body. He looked up and his face frightened her more than the unnerving encounter she'd just had. It wasn't the expression. In fact, that was what was so terrible. There wasn't any expression.

“Tom, are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes. Well, actually, no. Today was pretty rough,” he answered, then added, “You must be tired. How did it go?”

“It was fine and I'm not tired.” Suddenly, she wasn't. “Let me get you something to eat.”

“Thanks, honey, but I think I'll turn in.”

Faith became even more alarmed. When Tom was awake, he was always hungry—at thirty-two still your typical rangy, big, hungry boy. By the time Ben was a teenager, they'd have to keep a herd of dairy cows to keep the family in milk.

“Are you sure? I saved you some of the game we served, plus mashed potatoes.” Tom loved mashed
potatoes. “Or you could have some chocolate cake.” She'd hidden one piece from the Tillies. Tom loved chocolate cake.

He shook his head and stood up. “Let's just go to bed. It's late and I have to perform tomorrow.”

Faith had never heard him refer to his ministry as a performance. What was going on?

He put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close, moving her toward the stairs. Her cheek rubbed against the soft wool of the sweater he was wearing and she breathed in his reassuring smell—his shampoo, a faint whiff of the Penhaligon aftershave she bought for him, and something else, something that belonged only to him.

“Kids okay?” she asked as they entered their bedroom.

“More than okay—sound asleep,” he answered.

 

It was a first for them—and Faith knew she sounded scripted. “This happens to everyone. Don't worry. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally. It's late. Come on, darling, let's get some sleep.”

Tom started to say something, then turned over after kissing her quickly on the cheek. Within seconds, it seemed, he
was
asleep.

Don't worry. All right for you to say, Faith told herself. Even when they were quarreling, they could always make love—maybe because they were quarreling. But the point was that Tom's mind was elsewhere. She had to hope his heart wasn't, too.

 

November 1, All Saints', was the next day and they were singing “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God,” as was traditional at First Parish. I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of my life in one church or another, Faith thought as she tried to muster some enthusiasm for the hymn. By the time they got to the end—“For the saints of God are just folks like me /And I mean to be one too”—she'd put some vigor, if not belief, into her voice. It was one of the more singable hymns, but the likelihood of being a saint herself…

As if to make up for last night's disappointing performance, Tom had given his all to the sermon, but—as sometimes happened—Faith could not keep her mind focused on the subject, though it was certainly food for thought, “New Wine into Old Bottles or New Wine into New Bottles?: The Transformation of the Self.” Instead, she had been distracted by the back of George Hammond's head several rows in front of her. She planned to grab him after church and invite him back to the parsonage for lunch. Up early, she'd gone over to work and hastily assembled a game pie from last night's leftovers. It was ready to pop into the oven, and this along with a salad and fruit cobbler for dessert should entice George should he show any signs of hesitation. They weren't having anyone else, and she always fed the children separately, so they would have a chance to talk. She'd mentioned the plan, as well as her conversation with Janice, to Tom before he left for church and he'd agreed enthusiastically. She'd felt better than she had for days. Maybe she should simply let
the police solve Gwen Lord's murder and trust that the catering firm's reputation would draw people back little by little. Even as she considered the option, she acknowledged how hopeless it was. The case could remain unsolved and she'd always be known as “the caterer of the corpse.”

As soon as Tom gave the benediction, Faith stood up and made a beeline for George. One thing at a time.

“…and we'd love to have you come.”

George Hammond looked Faith straight in the eye. She was glad she hadn't any spitballs on her conscience. “Tom's had a hard week and I'm sure he'd rather put his feet up and watch the game than have company, but you've got something to say—and it's always a pleasure to eat at your house, so thank you very much.”

“Good. I'm leaving now, so come whenever you want.” She was going to skip the coffee hour to get ready.

He nodded. “See you soon.”

Less than an hour later, Tom and George came into the house together.

“Dinner in ten minutes,” Faith greeted them. “Why don't you have a glass of sherry?” This was a staid ecclesiastical custom, akin to the absence of any frivolity on earlier Sabbaths. Both men would probably have preferred a beer. Faith made sure the cellar always had a good dry sherry, and Tom poured a glass for each of them.

Ben stood shyly in the doorway. Amy was napping.
Faith had told her son he could stay with the grown-ups until dinner was served, but then he had to go upstairs to his room for a rest.

“Come and sit down, Ben,” the principal said. “I hear you're enjoying your bookmaking.” Each child was writing a story and illustrating it, which parent volunteers typed up, then helped the student bind into a “real” book.

“Mine is about a magic boy who can turn people into anything he wants by looking at them cross-eyed.”

“A handy trick,” the principal observed.

“He doesn't leave them that way,” Ben hastily assured him, then segued into the subject uppermost in his mind, saying in his best adult imitation, “On the subject of rests…”

“Time to eat. Ben, we'll see you later. I'll let you know when to get up, and please don't wake your sister.”

Ben scowled. Faith looked at him and sighed. The fact that life was monumentally unfair was written all over his face. There was no doubt in Faith's mind that at the moment, the little boy in front of her was wishing he could turn his mother into a bat. He'd regaled them at breakfast with a multitude of facts about bats that Mrs. Black the all-knowing had imparted.

“Come on, then.” Faith gave him a gentle push toward the door and tucked two big chocolate-chip cookies into his hand. Bats couldn't make cookies, she reflected. Maybe she was safe.

As soon as the food was served, George turned to Faith and said, “I can tell you what's been happening
in the last few days, and I'm sure you have things to share with me, too.” Apparently, there wasn't going to be any small talk, no discussion of the weather, or the proposed change in paint color for the shutters of the library.

“It's not completely clear, but one possible source for the rumor—and possible caller—is Janice Mulholland, whom, I believe, you know from the parish. She's the secretary of the PTA and we've had some disagreements over her daughter's teacher placement, as well as a few other issues that have come up about Missy, but frankly, I was surprised. Janice has been so involved at Winthrop, and I never suspected she would do something like this.”

“She probably wouldn't under normal circumstances, but I think she's really gone off the deep end when it comes to her daughter. I spoke to her yesterday about the school in general and she mentioned the necessity for being a ‘squeaky wheel' and that parents were often in an adversarial relationship with their child's teachers and the principal. I'm afraid she also repeated the rumor with the utmost conviction, but she wouldn't give me any specifics. She seems convinced it's true.”

George Hammond nodded. He didn't appear upset, simply resigned.

“Obviously, the police have got to talk to her and straighten this out,” Tom said firmly. “They should be able to determine if she's been making the calls. She came to me a few times for counseling after her hus
band left, and although she was extremely emotional—not uncalled for, given the situation—she seemed honest.”

“I'm sure she is. And she honestly believes I'm a child molester. And now, so do other people.”

“What are you talking about?” Faith asked.

“The superintendent and I met Friday afternoon. He'd had a call from a school committee member who'd had calls from two Winthrop parents. Both the school committee member and the superintendent affirmed their belief in my integrity, but it's been suggested that I take a leave of absence while this gets sorted out.”

“You can't!” Faith realized she had raised her voice. The last thing she wanted was for Ben to come running in. She lowered it. “We'll call the superintendent right now.”

“It's no use, Faith. I told you this would happen, and it's happening. Pretty soon people are going to be ‘remembering' all sorts of things. ‘Didn't he seem overly fond of little so-and-so?' ‘Didn't someone bring this up when he was a Scout leader?' That's the way these things go.”

“At least let me talk to Janice Mulholland. You have nothing to lose from that.”

“Talk to anyone you like. I'm meeting with my teachers tomorrow after school and I plan to leave at the end of the week. Mrs. Black will take over, as she did when I was gone before, and a new kindergarten teacher will be hired for the rest of the year.”

It was all Faith could do to keep from wailing out loud. It would be bad enough for Ben to lose his beloved principal, but Mrs. Black! The psychological scars would keep him on the couch for the rest of his life.

“Don't do anything hasty,” Tom advised. “What does Charley say about all this? Obviously, there have been no charges of any kind.”

“I haven't had a chance to talk to him, but I'll stop by the station on my way home.”

“It just seems to me that everyone is jumping the gun here. Two phone calls to a school committee member—and do we know who they were from? One could have been Janice—and you're out the door. It's gotten way too serious way too fast.”

“It's always serious when your boss tells you that you'd better get a lawyer, Faith. Now, could I have another spoonful of whatever this delicious meat thing is we're eating?”

As she cleaned up the kitchen after lunch, Faith wondered how she was going to squeeze everything in. She wanted to call Janice and go see her immediately, but she'd made an appointment to see the fourth mystery writer, Tanya O'Malley, and she didn't want to cancel. The woman had sounded reluctant enough, saying something about her animals. She lived in Wayland, which wasn't far, but Faith couldn't see both women and be home in time for the early trick-or-treaters, the little kids. Tom would be taking Ben around, and in any case, she hadn't told him about her interviews with last Saturday night's honored guests.
Hadn't told him that she was investigating Gwen's death at all. It appears neither one of us is communicating well, she thought ruefully. Although not telling Tom she was getting herself involved in yet another murder was an established pattern of behavior, born of necessity. He worried too much.

Once more using her atlas of the Boston area, Faith had located the address Ms. O'Malley had given her. She turned off Route 126 and found herself passing a series of open fields, occasionally coming upon old, extremely well-maintained farmhouses and barns. One resembled Monticello, and it was startling to see it tucked at the end of a drive with a prominent, oversized rural-route mailbox in front. It was unusually warm, so Faith hadn't bothered to put on the suede jacket she'd pulled from the closet. A few trees still blazed with color and she thought that October was definitely something about New England she would keep. Boiled dinners, black-flies, February, and ancestor worship could disappear without a trace and she wouldn't care, but October could stay.

The house numbers were on the mailboxes and Tanya O'Malley had helpfully added her name, as well. Her house was one of the farms—one of the most beautiful ones. Horses were grazing in sloping fields surrounded by venerable stone walls. There was a large gray-shingled barn, but the house itself, although traditional architecturally, was the color of Campbell's cream of tomato soup. The shutters were
shiny black and the trim glossy white. Somehow, it worked. Faith was looking forward to meeting a woman who would dare to stray from Farmhouse White so dramatically. She hadn't seen her at Ballou House, or if she had, she hadn't known who the woman was. Paula hadn't asked her to play a prominent role. She hadn't asked Anson Scott, either. Maybe she'd known what their answers would have been. Something like “I'll come, eat, and smile, but that's it.” Maybe not even the smile part. Tanya had sounded extremely brusque on the phone.

She rang the doorbell, then after a while rang it again. Of course it opened immediately, as it always does when you ring twice, which makes you feel both rude and overly anxious.

Tanya O'Malley did not look like an author. She looked like a farmer. She was wearing overalls over a sweatshirt, and rubber boots. Her gray hair was cut short and further kept from getting in the way of her face by a kerchief tied peasant-style at the nape of her neck. The kerchief struck the only incongruous note—Faith recognized it immediately as a Liberty of London silk scarf.

“You'll have to talk to me in the barn. I have a sick ewe.”

Given the context, Faith realized Tanya was talking about a sheep, and she followed her through the house. As she went, she took a quick inventory of the house's furnishings. Like the exterior, the interior was filled with color. Either Tanya had exquisite taste or her dec
orator did. The rooms opened off the long hallway, two parlors in the front, one of which was obviously a study; it was lined with bookshelves and sported an iMac on a beautiful Sheraton desk. The walls were covered with dark green damask striped wallpaper. Buttercup yellow silk drapes hung at the windows; they were tied back with green-and-gold tassels and puddled at the floor. She quickly shot a glance to the other side. A Scandinavian blue-and-white porcelain stove stood at one end and French doors led to a terrace. The walls here were Prussian blue, the drapes unabashedly red. Couches and chairs had been selected for comfort, and books were stacked on low tables, in large baskets, and on more shelves. She glimpsed a portrait of a mother and child either by or in the style of Lilian Hale, the American Impressionist. Two doors were closed. A bathroom? A closet? Another door into the large living room? Then they were in the kitchen, which occupied the entire back of the house and included a dining area. A round table surrounded by Shaker-style chairs was set in front of an enormous arched window, commanding a view of the fields. The rest of the kitchen was almost as well equipped as Faith's own—a Viking range, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and all sorts of other essentials.