The Body in the Moonlight (2 page)

The beginning. Faith let her gaze soften as she cast back in her mind—far back, months ago.

The First Parish Church of Aleford, Massachusetts, had no intention of letting the congregation's 250th anniversary slip by them without proper notice. It coincided with the upcoming year, 2000, which was noted with varying degrees of interest. There had been a handful of dreary sticklers insisting that it wouldn't really be the millennium until January 1, 2001, and the vestry had reached a swift, rare, unanimous decision to concentrate on the event of
real
importance. That decided, how, in fact, should the church mark the occasion?

A committee was formed, and after several interminable and increasingly rancorous meetings during the summer, it reached a stalemate. Half the members wanted to restore the steeple, the other half the crypt. When ex officio member Tom Fairchild returned home to tell his wife the news, she was sure he'd made it up.

“No, really, darling, you can't be serious. It's too per
fect. Steeple or crypt—diametrically opposed proposals. The paint in the sanctuary is starting to peel and the organ could use overhauling, yet no one's pushing them. It's pique, that's what it is. You want the steeple, then I'll take the crypt.” She put a cool mug of Killian's Red ale in his hand and set a plate with a sandwich within reach on the coffee table. As usual, Tom had had no time for much of a dinner. Most of the clergy Faith knew had adopted grazing as an eating habit born of necessity long before it became fashionable.

They were sitting on the couch, which Faith had moved from in front of the fireplace to a spot perpendicular to it. During the summer, she'd gotten tired of looking into an unlighted hearth and decided she'd rather face the cemetery and church through the wavy glass of the windowpanes instead. Besides, from the marks on the floor, she was sure a couch had always been in front of the fireplace, and she was feeling uppity. Virtually every parishioner entering the room since had remarked on her avant-garde decorating. She had never heard four words—“You've moved the couch”—uttered so many different ways. Tom was slumped comfortably against its deep cushioned back. He was the only person who had not commented—unless one counted a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Unfortunately, it's not a joke. I hate this kind of thing. It's a side to the congregation I'd rather not know anything about.”

“Like your parents having sex.”

“Worse. Like your children having sex.”

Faith thought of Ben and Amy mushrooming into adolescence and adulthood. Hair growing in new places. Hormones. Muffled sounds from behind closed doors. Tom was right. It wasn't something you wanted to consider—this leap from Little Tikes to Trojans.

“What do you think the church should do? Are you for the heavens or the bowels of the earth?” There were so many ways to express the dilemma—and Faith was sure she'd be treated to them all in the months to come.

“I'm not supposed to have an opinion and I'm sticking to that. Much safer—and saner.”

“Come on, I know you've wanted to use the crypt for Tenebrae and other services. You can tell me. I promise not a word will cross my lips, even if the entire vestry shows up en masse and threatens to toss the new pew cushions into the Charles River.”

The old cushions, consisting after many years of two worn pieces of fabric with a thoroughly compressed millimeter of stuffing and thereby unworthy of the name, had finally been replaced the previous summer when a sudden and dramatic infestation of moths had rendered them holey. Suspicion had briefly fallen on Faith, who had made no secret of her pious discomfort, and mutterings of “Just like the gypsy moth that escaped from that scientist's house in Cambridge” were heard. But the cushions had been replaced, to Faith's delight—and surprise. Talking with friend and fellow parishioner Pix Miller, she'd voiced her fears that the congregation would opt for the hard, unadorned wood as more conducive to penitence. But First Parish had had pew cush
ions for as long as anyone could remember, so, with a bow to tradition, pew cushions it had been.

“You're right. I would like the crypt to be restored—not only for services but also because the memorial stones need cleaning. They're a significant part of the church's history, and if we don't take care of them, they'll disintegrate. The steeple is certainly more visible and it does need repair and new paint, but it can wait.”

“So, what's going to happen?”

“This is an incredible sandwich. What's in it, anyway?” Tom had inhaled it in a few bites, and the beer was almost gone, too.

“Chèvre, roasted peppers, and red onion. I'll make you another, but I don't have any more of that bread. It will have to be focaccia.”

“My tough luck.” Tom grinned. He was feeling better, much better. He followed his wife into the kitchen.

“To answer your question. I have no idea. It could go either way, but they're going to start the fund drive immediately.”

Faith nodded. This was the maddening thing about the congregation—and probably about any congregation. They could be at each other tooth and nail, irrevocably divided one minute, then in complete accord the next. They'd conduct the campaign in total equanimity while thrashing out the object of the effort behind closed doors.

“What's the plan? Or is it another committee?”

“A subcommittee. Specifically to plan a kickoff
event for sometime in October, raise a moderate bundle that way, then pledge cards in the mail the next morning, before the rosy glow of a good time had by all has had a chance to wear off.”

“That doesn't give them much time. Do they have any idea what this event is going to be?”

“Paula Pringle proposed one of those mystery dinners—as in solving a crime, not what's being served. She wants to hold it at Ballou House, very ‘swish,' with ‘luscious food'—her words—and ‘fun people.' Again—”

“Her words,” Faith interjected, finishing the sentence for her husband, then handing him another sandwich. “Are you sure that's her real name? ‘Paula Pringle Parties' has such a made-up ring to it.”

“I don't know how she started out, but she is definitely married to a Mr. Pringle, although I have never met the man. He's ‘not a spiritual being.' Again…”

Neither of them bothered to finish.

Faith laughed. “Oh dear, this wasn't what you signed on for, was it? Was there ever a time when you believed you would be simply practicing theology with a pastoral call or two?”

“Some nasty types at the Div School used to spread it about that all was not to be loaves and fishes, but I didn't listen. Such is youth.”

“Well, Paula Pringle is a professional party planner—I'll bet you can't say that six times—so you won't have to be involved in this part at any rate.”

 

The phone rang the next morning precisely as Faith closed the front door, having put her son on the kindergarten bus and waved good-bye to her husband and daughter, who were setting off for a morning of work and day care at the church.

“Mrs. Fairchild—Faith dear—it's Paula. Paula Pringle from church.”

A deep sense of foreboding swept over Faith.

“Yes?” Then hastily remembering her manners, she added, “How are you?”

“Fine, and you, too, I hope.” The woman had not called to waste time in exchanging pleasantries. “Perhaps Reverend Fairchild told you about our plan of action for the Anniversary Campaign?”

It had a distinctly militaristic ring to it phrased that way, Faith realized—and Paula Pringle was definitely the one to marshal the forces.

“He mentioned you'd formed a subcommittee to do some fund-raising for a commemorative project,” Faith said cautiously, mindful of the word
crypt
and nervous at the possible intent of the call. Her ministerial spousal radar system was bleeping loud and clear. Paula Pringle wanted her to volunteer.

“I know how busy you are….”

Here it comes, thought Faith

“Your business is soooo successful. Everywhere I go, people only want Have Faith to cater their events.”

In which case, Faith wondered, why is it that I've never worked at one of your functions?

“After the meeting last night, a few of us got together at my place and sketched out some rough ideas for a really fabulous fund-raising kickoff party.”

Don't these people sleep—or work? It had been after eleven by the time Tom came home.

“And this morning, I was lucky enough to reach Mattie Hawthorne, who manages Ballou House, and we have a date.”

Up with the chickens as you both were. Faith was fatalistic, possibly resigned. Whatever was coming, she was no match for this woman.

“Have you ever catered at Ballou, Faith? Such a treasure, and right here in our own Aleford.”

Faith
had
catered several weddings at Ballou House. It was an extraordinary eighteenth-century country estate built in the Georgian manner by Increase Ballou as a forty-acre retreat from his Beacon Hill mansion. True to his name, he had taken the modest shipping company founded by his father and made a fortune, staggering at that time—or any time. Ballou House had a large ballroom, punctuated by the classic columns beloved by the Georgians. At one end, French doors, a later addition, opened onto a patio overlooking Italianate gardens. At the other end of the room, an architectural wall, complete with pediment and more columns, surrounded a huge fireplace with a gray-veined marble mantel wide enough to display the shiploads of Chinese export porcelain Increase's ships had used for ballast. The cargo was an example of the perfect marriage between pragmatism and aestheti
cism that characterized so much of New England, even up to the present day.

Subsequent generations had added wings and outbuildings to Ballou House, making it still more of a grand mixture. The furniture that had not been given to the Museum of Fine Arts, along with Copley's portrait of Increase, was a hodgepodge of Queen Anne, Chippendale, Gothic, Victoriana, and Arts and Crafts. The original Chinese wallpaper graced the drawing room, protected by glass, and a grand Palladian window above the front door had also happily been left alone.

Besides Ballou House, there were several other “rustic” retreats tucked away in Aleford. During those long-ago summers, the town's sturdy populace, mostly farmers descended from its first settlers, was outnumbered by these wealthy landowners and their servants—from Ireland, the Maritime Provinces, and Italy—all essential to maintain their masters' way of life. Eventually, many of these employees and their descendants became year-round residents, distinctions supposedly blurred as the twentieth century brought dramatic changes to the rural character of the town. Typically, however, Aleford was slower than most to embrace any newfangled notions, actually voting to keep their streetlights filled with kerosene until 1910—long after neighboring towns had electrified.

The Ballous had continued to prosper, at least financially, and when Increase's last direct descendant died childless sometime in the forties, he left Ballou House to the town and an ample trust fund to keep it in good
repair. The thrifty town fathers and mothers promptly began to rent it out for weddings and “other appropriate functions,” while using it themselves for the yearly Patriots' Day Ball, the reception following the close of Town Meeting, Milk Punch with the selectmen at New Year's, and other joyous occasions. A manager was installed in the former coach house, and it was his daughter who had the job now. Ballou House was an inspired choice for First Parish's kickoff campaign. Aleford residents received a reduced rate, and if the whole idea was to inspire a sense of worth and well-being, there was no other place like it.

“Yes,” said Faith, reluctantly abandoning her reverie to answer Paula's question, “I've done a number of events there.”

“Marvelous! Now, I know how busy you are, but you are our absolute first choice and we are so hoping you can do the dinner.”

Faith knew what she had to say—and in truth, she really didn't mind. It wasn't as if she was being asked to take on the church school's Christmas pageant.

“I'd be happy to help. And of course I'll do it at cost.”

“I knew you would,” Paula said appreciatively, letting the words sink in, then added briskly, “Now, we haven't got a moment to spare. When can we meet? You don't need to worry about a thing. I'm going to be with you every step of the way. Such fun! We'll do it in tandem!”

That's what Faith had been afraid of—a yoke.

 

By the end of the first week in October, Faith was ready to kill Paula Pringle—especially Paula Pringle, Party Planner. The menu was set; the menu was changed. The color scheme and table decorations were set; they were changed.

“If she would only let me do my job and stick to planning the entertainment, I might, just might, get through next week,” Faith fumed to Niki Constantine, her assistant.

“That's supposed to be puff pastry, remember?” Niki commented as Faith pressed the slab of buttery dough with the intensity of a laundress attacking an intransigent wrinkle.

“I never was very good at sharing,” Faith muttered. “Poor Mother. It must have been mortifying. ‘Faith needs to work on her sharing skills.' My first kindergarten report. Apparently, I wouldn't pass the guinea pig on to the next child for a turn. But Eleanor—that was her name (the animal, not the child) was happy with me, and who would want to be handed around like that anyway, being squeezed too hard? Tommy Martin almost strangled her.”

“Faith! Get a grip! What's going on?” Niki meant it. This wasn't like her boss. And Faith
was
good at sharing—especially food.

“I don't know,” Faith said slowly, matching the tempo of rolling the dough to her words. It suddenly seemed like an enormous effort. Most things did lately. She got up tired and she went to bed tired. Tom and she passed, nodded, and went on their appointed rounds.
She thought back. The last time they'd sat down for any length of time together had been that Sunday night when the whole steeple/crypt fund-raiser had first come up. Since then, she'd been working, he had, or they'd both had to be out together—and not at the movies. When was it they'd taken to leaving each other notes on the kitchen table? Last spring, she thought. Not love notes, but “Put dinner in oven at 350 degrees” notes and “Home late—hope not too late” notes.