The Body in the Moonlight (18 page)

“Okay. How about your gray sweatshirt? Robots can have gray arms.” Faith was halfway up the stairs to get it before Ben could object, but he didn't.

“Robots do have gray arms,” he told her when she returned with the article of clothing in hand. She helped him put it on, then lowered the robot box over his head and kissed him. He was out the door, with Tom streaking behind him, trying to catch up after having settled on the couch for what had promised to be a long wrangle. Faith smiled as she heard him say, “Wait, Ben! Now remember, Daddy likes Kit Kats,” before they went to the Millers', next door, their first stop.

Amy had been watching the goings-on, alternately jumping up and down in a toddleresque Margot Fonteyn imitation and sitting squarely on the floor, her chubby little legs stretched straight out in front of her, admiring her pink ballet slippers.

For the next several hours, the doorbell never
stopped ringing. The parsonage was directly across from the Aleford green and its central location made it a prime target. Faith was beginning to panic that she might run out of candy again, when the flood turned to a trickle, and it had all but stopped by the time Ben and Tom returned.

Amy was asleep on the couch. Faith hadn't had time to put her to bed and greet Harry Potter numbers fifty to ninety-six, complete with brooms and the occasional owl puppet.

“I'll take care of her, honey,” Tom offered.

Ben had struggled out of his costume and was waving his Unicef box and bagful of treats wildly. “Wow, Mom, come on and see what I got!”

“How about we do it in the kitchen? I want to make something for your father to eat, and maybe you'd like a cup of soup or a bowl of cereal before you go to bed?”

“I'm not hungry and I don't have to go to bed yet!”

“Not yet. First things first, but tomorrow is a school day.” The moment she said that, Faith wondered whether this was some sort of response programmed into a mother's brain the moment she acquired a child. She'd hated it when her mother said it to her, but here was the same phrase popping out of her mouth like the toads in the fairy tale.

“Any more of that pasta?” Tom asked as he entered the kitchen after reading to Ben, who was now hopefully fast asleep.

Faith had whipped together a sauce by boiling down some leftover squash soup, adding Parmesan and some
grilled vegetables. She'd mixed it with orecchiette, and there was still plenty. She placed a steaming plate in front of her husband. “Beer, or some of that nice Australian Rosemount cabernet? Kit Kat and milk?” She felt like a stewardess and was tempted to add, Or me? Very tempted to add it.

“Let's have a glass of wine.” While Faith poured two glasses, Tom picked up an orange plastic pumpkin lying on the table. Amy had been insistently dragging it around all weekend. “All Hallows' Eve. I remember my dad taking us out on Halloween, standing with the other dads, who were all carrying their flashlights and waiting at the end of the sidewalk while we ran up to ring the doorbells. Mom always made our costumes. I usually went as a cowboy; then one year, I wanted to be Elvis and came up with my own outfit—early Elvis, you understand, so not too hard, only I didn't know the marker I'd used for my sideburns wouldn't come off. I borrowed my brother's guitar. Very cool. That was the last year I trick-or-treated. Now I'm the dad on the sidewalk.”

“You sound sad.” Faith wasn't sure what Tom was mourning and hoped it was simply lost youth.

“I guess I am a little. You don't get that same feeling of anticipation in adulthood. You know, standing in front of someone's door, maybe someone you know, maybe a stranger, and when it opens, they'll say your costume is great and who could it possibly be? Plus, you walk away with candy.” He smiled and lifted his glass. “But I have Ben—and Amy can go with us next year.”

And me, you have me, Faith thought.

“It was pretty much the same in the city, except hallways mostly instead of sidewalks. My father took us, too. Moms handing out candy apparently crosses state lines.”

Tom looked skeptical. He knew his wife and her sister had been born and raised in New York City, but the concept was so alien to him as to be the stuff of myth.

“My mother bought our costumes at F.A.O. Schwarz. I know she must have had a sewing kit, but the only needle I remember seeing is one she used to take splinters out of our fingers. The costumes were great, though, and we didn't mind recycling them with a few new additions. I was usually a gypsy, but one year, Hope gave up Cinderella and demanded to be an astronaut. They'd just started including women in the space program. There were a lot of jokes about having ‘the right stuff,' as I recall. The last year I went out, a friend and I went as our grandmothers, so we could wear their minks. Fur and bright red lipstick. My grandmother wouldn't be caught dead in either now.” Faith realized Tom wasn't listening. She also realized she was babbling. She reached for his hand. She had an idea where his mind might be.

“It was a beautiful service yesterday. We've been so busy, we haven't really talked about it.”

“I don't know if I could have done what Jared did without breaking down. He's an amazing man. It was all his doing—all his planning, even the flowers. They were from their friend Priscilla's garden.”

“How did things go at the interment?”

“Oh, I read all the things you're supposed to read, but again, it was Jared who made the whole thing a real tribute, a real good-bye. He sang ‘Amazing Grace' to her, softly, then put another white rose on the coffin before we left. Nick was with us, and he was crying like a baby.”

Faith could hear Jared's fine tenor voice. She had tears in her eyes, too.

“Oh, Tom, I wish it had all never happened! I wish we could fall so far back that someone could grab the spoon out of Gwen's hand before she took a bite! And now I wish we knew who killed her, so it can all be laid to rest.”

“I do, too, honey. I do, too.” Tom squeezed her hand hard.

Faith remembered what Tanya O'Malley had suggested.

“Do you think there's any possibility that Gwen may have taken her own life? That she was depressed?”

He dropped her fingers as if they were covered with thorns. “Where on earth would you get an idea like that?” He sounded angry. “Is this the result of all your nosing around? I know you are—you can't help it. But please keep this thought to yourself, especially don't mention a word to Jared.”

“Of course I would never say anything to Jared.” Faith was deeply wounded. How could Tom think that she might be so insensitive? “And I'm only raising the possibility because it all seems so inexplicable.”

Tom put his face in his hands for a moment, and when he took them away, he wasn't angry anymore.
His face sagged as if punctured. “I'm sorry. You're right. It is totally and completely inexplicable. It forces us to question all kinds of things. Maybe she did kill herself. But if I thought that, I'm not sure how I could live with myself.”

“What do you mean, Tom?” Faith was frightened.

“I'm just talking crazy. Let's go to bed.” He stood up, put their dishes in the sink, and walked to the doorway. She followed, turning off the light. The sharp click the old switch made sounded harsh in the silence.

“Could you please blow the pumpkins out?” Faith called downstairs. Tom had gone into his study for a book. She heard his mumbled reply and soon they were in bed. Tom was reading, but Faith's light was out and she was praying for sleep and oblivion.

 

She looked at the clock: 3:00
A.M
., really 4:00
A.M
. according to her body, which was wide awake and thirsty. Not that she was an early riser, but she knew that for the next few days, she'd be at odds with time. Water satisfies parched children, but adults are not so easily pleased. She wanted juice—orange juice. And that meant getting out of bed and going downstairs. It was warm and cozy under the duvet. Tom's steady breathing was so familiar, she could almost believe everything was all right. Sighing, she slipped silently from under the covers and tiptoed across the room—her precautions completely unnecessary, as only a sonic boom or a cough from Ben or Amy would wake her husband.

She stood in front of the fridge and poured juice into a large tumbler, drinking some greedily, then pouring more. The cool liquid traveling down her grateful throat across her chest felt like a biology text's diagram come to life. She put the pitcher back and, holding the glass, returned to the living room. As she started up the stairs, she noticed a faint flicker of light at the front window. The pumpkins. Tom had forgotten to extinguish them. They would probably be fine until morning. She'd used tea lights, encased in aluminum, so there was no danger of a candle tipping over. But a dry leaf, or several, could blow in and ignite. A spark would find its way to the parsonage and the whole thing would go up like a house of straw. After her parents' first visit, Faith's mother had insisted they put in supplemental smoke alarms. A real estate attorney's worst nightmare was fire, and this coupled with genuine maternal concern had provoked several comments of the “quaint New England death trap” variety from Mrs. Sibley. Faith knew she had to put out the candles. If she burned the place down, she would never hear the end of it—and she could forget about lunch—in this town again.

It looked cold and she was barefoot, but Faith opened the door and dashed out to the pumpkins. She could see from the streetlights along the green that someone had flung a stuffed dummy on her lawn. It was one of those that—with corn husks, fake spiderwebs, and strings of Caspers—had graced many houses since mid-October, to the children's delight and
Faith's ongoing bemusement. Aleford took the holidays, even one with satanic overtones, seriously.

She blew out each flame and put the tops back on the pumpkins. There was a pleasant smell of smoke and squash. She looked at the lifeless figure again. And again. The cold flagstone sent a chill straight up her legs into her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself and forced her feet to move forward; each step was an effort. It took a long time for her to get near enough to see that the figure was indeed lifeless.

And that the figure was Jared Gabriel.

The Druids had been right. Saman, the Lord of Death, had been abroad, accompanied by the souls of the wicked. Jared was lying on his back in the moonlight, his eyes wide open, staring toward heaven. He looked startled. His mouth hung slack. For a moment, Faith couldn't move. She was trying desperately to take it in. Then she bent down to check for a pulse, placing her fingers on his neck—patiently waiting, going through the motion, a motion she knew was pointless. Jared was dead. She wanted to close his eyes, pull shut the unbuttoned coat that had fallen to either side. Every instinct called for respect, but this was murder, and murder kills all respect. She couldn't touch him. Not even stroke his smooth cheek, brush back the hair that fell across his forehead. She couldn't disturb the evidence.

There wasn't much blood. Just a small stain above his heart, the blood having seeped in a circle on his white shirt. The seconds stretched into minutes and still she didn't move away from the body. Every detail came into sharp focus. He'd been carrying his briefcase. The contents were strewn next to him—a pitch
pipe, some music, copies of yesterday's order of service, a train schedule, and a yellow order-form receipt. Faith felt as if she were in a dream, a play, a film. She was watching herself act out a script, a script that wasn't, couldn't, be real. She stood up and then crouched down again, closer to the briefcase. The train schedule was for the MBTA Boston/Fitchburg line. It stopped in Aleford at peak hours. Jared often took the train. But it was the order form that had drawn her eye. She'd seen the same kind before. She knew what it was. Jared had bought some wrapping paper. Wrapping paper to benefit the Winthrop Elementary School PTA. She scanned the sheet for the seller's name and found it at the bottom, written in expert D'nealian script, Winthrop's preferred method: Missy Mulholland. It was so unexpected, and yet expected, that Faith thought she would faint. Her heart raced and she struggled to stay conscious. The film was very real now. She put her hand on the walk to steady herself and stood up. Again she felt herself begin to fall down, descending into a long black tunnel.

Faith looked at Jared once more, then ran into the house and called the police. When they arrived, she was on the couch, soundlessly screaming into a pillow. She hadn't been able to move—even to get Tom.

 

By the time the children woke up, the front yard was festooned with yellow crime-scene ribbons and there was a state police cruiser parked at the end of the walk to deter sightseers or macabre souvenir hunters.
Jared's body had been removed. That all of this might escape Ben's notice was as likely as his overlooking a
Tyrannosaurus rex
that had wandered by. Faith and Tom had agonized over what to say to their son. When Ben was born, Jared had given him a music box in the shape of a little French sailor. It played “Somewhere Beyond the Sea” and had been one of his favorite toys, an instant antidote to fussiness. It still stood on his chest of drawers. Jared was one of the adult guests every year at Ben's birthday, along with Pix Miller and Tom's parents. He always brought his guitar to lead some singing, and like the giant soap bubbles the children blew, Jared's songs were one of the things that didn't change, even though Ben did—moving from Winnie-the-Pooh parties to Inspector Gadget. Next year, when he was in first grade, Ben would be old enough for the junior choir, and he had talked about it earnestly with Jared, who assured him he would do fine, that he had a lovely voice. As soon as they heard Ben stirring, Tom and Faith went into his room. It was early. He was still on the old time, too.

“Ben,” Tom said. “I'm afraid we have some bad news for you. There was an accident in front of our house last night and you'll see a police car there, besides some other things the police need to have on our lawn just for now.”

Ben sat up in bed, alert. For once, he wasn't asking questions. Faith had her arm around him and she could feel his little body tense.

“Our friend Jared was in the accident and he's dead.”

A look of horror swept over Ben's face; he blinked, then screamed, “Nooooooooooo!” and began to cry, still repeating “No” in between sobs and gulps for air. The noise woke his sister, who came padding into the room in her sleeper. The scene that greeted her eyes was a puzzling one. Tom picked her up. “Ben get a boo-boo?” Faith was trying desperately not to cry herself, and this was almost too much. It was frightening for children to see their parents out of control. She reached over Ben, who was burrowed in her arms, to take Amy's hand. “Yes, Ben's sad.” Amy looked from parent to parent. “Mommy, Daddy, make it better?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes, honey.” Faith's voice acquired a note of resolve. “We'll make it all better.”

It seemed like hours before the kids were off to school and day care, and it
was
longer than the usual amount of time, since they were up so early—an amount of time normally filled with the frantic attempt to get everyone dressed, fed, and out the door. Tom took Amy across to the church while Faith waited for the school bus with Ben farther down the street, away from the parsonage. Tom had called George Hammond with the news and Mrs. Black had called almost immediately to say she'd take good care of Ben, keeping a close eye on him.

“Will there be a new choirmaster?” Ben asked, not only allowing Faith to hold his hand while they waited but holding hers tightly.

“Yes, but not right away. And you know we'll never forget Jared. He will always be with us.”

“I'll have to practice. He wanted me to be in the choir. I have to do it, Mom.”

“Of course you do, and he'll be listening.”

Ben got on the bus, waved a tremulous good-bye, and Faith returned home, feeling emotionally exhausted. As she entered the back door, the phone was ringing. It was Tom.

“Nick has been with the police and, as you might imagine, he's pretty strung out. He's on his way here. He needs to talk. Do you think Ben is going to be all right at school?”

Faith recounted their curbside conversation, which reassured Tom. Ben had never lost anyone significant—especially not someone so young. It would take awhile, but he would be okay. She hoped he would always miss Jared. For herself the notion of not talking to him, laughing over some parish foolishness, or taking a walk was incomprehensible. There was a hole in her universe where Jared had been, and it would always be there.

It all left her with a heightened sense of purpose. Bill Brown had been right. Gwen wasn't the intended victim; Jared was. The dessert was supposed to have been his. Perhaps Gwen had switched, thinking her portion larger. Women did that. Women watching their weight. Beautiful women. Faith had a lot to do, but there was one thing she had to do right away. Should have done the day before. And if she had, would Jared Gabriel still be alive?

 

Janice Mulholland was dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. She'd obviously just come in from a run and had been headed for the shower when she'd stopped to answer the door. She was in her stocking feet.

“Mrs. Fairchild, Faith, hello,” she said with obvious surprise. “Please come in. I'm sorry I'm such a mess, and I don't have any coffee on, either. I never eat before I run, but I can start some, if you like.” No proper Aleford hostess ever forgot to offer coffee.

“No, thank you, I've had more than is good for me,” Faith said, which was true. Janice did not look like someone who had been grilled by the police during the wee hours of the morning. She did not look like a killer, either. She looked like a healthy suburban housewife approaching forty well armed.

The house was an oversized Cape and the living room looked as if it had been transported intact from an Ethan Allen showroom, right down to the silk tulips in a tole coal scuttle.

“Tell me, what can I do for you? Is it something about school or First Parish?”

So she hadn't heard. Faith had beaten the police, which she'd figured was a long shot, but it gave her a sudden advantage. Still, it didn't make sense. Why hadn't they been here?

It was as if she'd spoken aloud. “I'm a morning person. I start my run at six, after getting Missy up and going, then loop back to make sure she's eaten what I've left out. You'd be amazed how picky children can
be, even Missy, who is such an adventurous eater. Imagine, she asked for caviar last week! Then we go to the bus stop and I finish from there. It gives me the whole day.”

To do what? Faith wondered. But she didn't have time for speculation about that or Missy's “Let them eat cake” food demands. Janice was going to hear about Jared's death sooner or later, and it might as well be from Faith. She couldn't question her about the wrapping paper or she'd be in big trouble with the police. She could ask questions around it, though, and she could certainly find out more about Janice's campaign to get rid of the principal. She took a deep breath.

“Jared Gabriel is dead. He was killed sometime last night or early this morning.”

“My God!” Janice clutched her throat. “Gwen and now Jared! It's the work of a madman. A serial killer! What are the police doing? Why didn't they cancel school? Are they sure it's safe for anyone, especially children, to be walking about town?” The color had drained from her glowing face. Actors. Veronica Brookside had said that murderers were consummate actors. If so, then there was a golden statuette in Janice's future.

“It's been a terrible shock, but I don't think we have to worry about the safety of our children, just their reactions to the loss. The police are investigating, of course,” Faith said, thinking, Now, it's your turn to say, Why, Missy just sold him some wrapping paper.
But Janice Mulholland was shakily opening a drawer in the coffee table and taking out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“I never smoke in front of Missy, but would you mind terribly?”

“Go ahead.” Faith waited until Janice took a long drag, and then she said, “What we were talking about on Saturday—this business with George Hammond. You know him from church. He's been at Winthrop for years and is one of the most respected people in Aleford. You've
got
to tell me what evidence you have to back up your accusation, because it's you, isn't it? Nobody else told you about George. This started with you.”

Janice continued to smoke, taking another long drag before she spoke. “You have children yourself. You ought to understand how important they are. How you have to watch them—and everyone who comes in contact with them. Anything can happen at any time. Whenever Missy walks out that door, I don't know what will happen to her.”

“But, Janice, you can't live like this. It's bound to affect Missy, too. Parents transfer their fears. We live in a safe town with a wonderful school system—”

Janice interrupted her, raising her voice. “A safe town! Two murders in a little over a week!”

“They have nothing to do with our kids, with George. I want you to tell Charley MacIsaac what you did. That you made the calls. Maybe you believed what you said at the time. Maybe you thought you had good reason, that George was somehow doing something
that you saw as harmful to Missy, a teacher you didn't want for her, or some other issue. But please, just tell him—or talk to my husband. Tell Tom.” Faith was prepared to go on. She saw something like the possibility of relief cross Janice's face, a letting down of her guard.

Then the doorbell rang.

Detective Lieutenant John Dunne, Charley MacIsaac, and another plainclothes police officer, whom Faith recognized as Detective Ted Sullivan, “Sully,” Dunne's right-hand man, more than filled the door frame.

“Mrs. Mulholland,” Charley said, “we'd like to speak with you for a moment.” It wasn't a question, and Janice stepped back to let them in. Dunne saw Faith and scowled. “Paying parish calls, Mrs. Fairchild?” He would have been happier to see her anywhere else, an alternate solar system, for example.

“I was just leaving.” Faith stood up.

“No,” Janice said firmly, putting her cigarette out. “I would like Mrs. Fairchild to stay. I'd also like to know if you think I should call my lawyer.”

Dunne lowered himself onto the couch and motioned everyone else to sit. “Do
you
think you should call your lawyer, Mrs. Mulholland?”

“I believe it's my right, and if you're going to start making accusations about me regarding George Hammond, I want a lawyer here and, until then, Mrs. Fairchild as a witness.”

“Hammond? George Hammond?” Dunne turned to Charley. “Who the hell is that?”

“The principal of our elementary school. He's been getting some unpleasant phone calls.”

“Well, most principals do, but how is Jared Gabriel involved?”

“He's not.”

Dunne sighed. These Aleford cases took a lot out of him. He'd much rather have a straightforward hit in Revere or somewhere like that.

“Okay, let's start again. Hello, Mrs. Mulholland. I'm Detective Lieutenant John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police, Chief MacIsaac you know, and this is Detective Sullivan. I'd like him to take notes for me, which you may read and accept or not accept. You may call your lawyer, but we are not interested in your elementary school principal. We are investigating the murder of Jared Gabriel, which, I assume from Mrs. Fairchild's presence, is a fact not unknown to you.”

Janice relaxed visibly and nodded. “Poor Jared. We didn't always see eye-to-eye, but he was a fine musician and I don't know what the church will do without him.”

“Just to get it out of the way, could you tell us where you were last night?”

“Why, I was here, of course. I seldom leave my daughter, Missy. She's in third grade. And when I do, I have an excellent woman who baby-sits. I wouldn't use a teenager. Drugs, you know.”

Dunne nodded and waited.

“I especially wouldn't have left Missy on Halloween. Her pumpkin was smashed last year. Very little is done to control the youth of this town, I'm
afraid.” She shot an accusatory look at Charley, who winced.