The Body in the Moonlight (23 page)

Andy nodded and took another cookie. “It might not be so hard to be convinced to keep quiet, money or no. Anyone working in a gallery knows that even when fakes are unmasked, often the buyers refuse to admit they've been duped. They don't want to hear about it—this goes for individuals as well as institutions. I say
it's a Picasso and it's a Picasso. Particularly when a large sum of money has been involved.”

“And according to Hebborn, it's simply a Picasso with a misattribution.”

Andy laughed. The waiter poured some more coffee. Faith knew she had to leave soon and catch the plane back to Boston, but it was so much fun to be a grown-up at a time like this. She allowed her cup to be refilled.

“It would certainly explain the words Sandy Hoffmann overheard—‘It was a game and you lost,' and that business about getting blood from a stone.”

“Well.” Andy stretched back in his chair. “I leave it to you, and do let me know the ending. I hate books that leave you hanging, and it's even worse in real life. Speaking of endings, did you see in this morning's
Times
that all those greedy people who were trying to sublet their apartments for New Year's aren't finding takers, plus those who have might find themselves in trouble with their landlords or co-op and condo boards?”

“I haven't seen the paper yet today, but I've heard that people were asking as much as ten thousand for the week. What are you doing to celebrate? Staying in the city? Since I assume you aren't taking in lodgers yourself.” Andy had a great apartment on Riverside Drive, overlooking the Hudson.

“It's all really Y2Much, as far as I'm concerned, and I haven't thought that far ahead. Probably have some people over, watch the fireworks, go to bed. Or maybe spend it in Paris or Cairo.”

“Difficult choices,” Faith said, teasing him. Andy didn't even want a pet. He once told her he wanted to be able to walk out his door and go anywhere in the world whenever he wanted, or needed to, without thinking about anything more than what adapter to pack for his shaver.

“I have to leave, but I'll tell you quickly about the great First Parish two hundred and fiftieth anniversary debate—steeple versus crypt repair to mark the momentous occasion.”

“You're making this up,” Andy said, signaling for the check.

“I couldn't possibly,” Faith said.

“There's that.” Andy smiled. “By the way, have I told you how really beautiful you're looking? Happily, you're one of those women who get better-looking as they get older, not that you weren't a dish at sixteen.”

“Oh, go on with you,” Faith said.

It really had been a great lunch.

 

Wedged into a seat in the rear of the plane, she was feeling extremely well fed. Andy had introduced her to Christer Larsson, the Swedish-born chef, on their way out and he'd urged Faith to return after Thanksgiving for the holiday menu and glögg.

The flight attendant had given her the
New York Times,
which she folded subway-style, so she could read the article about the millennial sublets. An ad for a reading and signing by Anson L. Scott at the Black Orchid Bookshop, a mystery bookstore on East Eighty-
first Street, caught her eye. It was for Saturday night. So, he was still out of town. That explained why she hadn't heard from him. She'd left a message on his machine the day before, reminding him that he'd told her to come back and talk with him about what the other mystery writers said. She was even more eager now to see Scott. Andy had given her a great deal to think about, and if she could talk about it all with a master plotter, it would definitely help. She'd like to talk to Bill Brown, too—and Tanya O'Malley. Which meant she'd have to see Veronica Brookside, as well. Faith remembered what the writer had said about how small a world the mystery community was. Veronica was bound to find out if she wasn't included. Faith felt a little uneasy about giving her any reason to feel offended, not that Veronica wanted to talk to Faith. But Faith had discovered that the Veronicas of the world had an odd way of popping up inconveniently later in life—and they had long memories.

She wasn't tired, but she closed her eyes and thought about how the afternoon sun in the city had turned the skyscrapers to dazzling silver and gold. Andy could have Paris or Cairo. If it were up to her, she'd spend New Year's in New York.

Then in what seemed like an incredibly short amount of time, the plane began its descent. It hit the tarmac with a thud. She was back.

The whole silly business will be over on Sunday,” Tom said excitedly as he entered the house.

“Why Sunday?” Faith asked, thinking also that
silly
was not the adjective she would have chosen to describe this business. “What's happened? Is it Janice after all?”

“Not that business. I certainly wouldn't describe murder as silly. The Anniversary Campaign. Steeple versus crypt.
That
business. The vestry met last night and decided that each side could make a ten-minute presentation after the service and then take a vote. You can bet there won't be an empty pew. They're informing the parish by the phone tree.”

“Why the big rush? Not that this isn't great news.”

“Apparently, word of the bickering has leaked out and steeple-versus-crypt jokes are rampant in the greater Boston area. The senior warden overheard several on the train, told with great relish by someone who got off in Concord, and enough very rapidly became enough. Aleford has its image to protect.”

“I thought this sort of thing was its image.”

“Now, Faith—” Tom admonished.

“Let's just hope there are more crypts than steeples,” she said, interrupting. “I wonder if there'll be banners? ‘Vote for above, not below'? ‘All rests upon a mighty foundation'?”

“I get the point,” her husband conceded.

It was only as she was dropping off to sleep several hours later that she recalled she had completely forgotten to mention she had had lunch in New York.

 

“So now you think it's Nick Gabriel?” Niki asked. “It makes sense. Maybe he's harbored a secret hatred for his cousin all these years, pretending to be close. Maybe he was jealous of him. I mean, the guy did seem to have it all—money and the dame.”

“Except they're both dead now.”

“True. But even aside from possibly peddling hot or phony art, there's a motive. With Janice, all you've got is the crazed-mom angle, not that I don't buy it. I read the papers—and remember what Anthony Perkins said in
Psycho:
‘A boy's best friend is his mother.' Make that ‘girl's' and ‘hers' and you've got Janice. Having the darkroom right there seems mighty convenient. But then, Nick would be in and out of artists' studios all the time and could easily palm some cyanide from one of the photographers the gallery represents.”

Faith had asked Niki to come over to talk. Niki had said she'd be happy to but that she reserved the right not to listen to anything she didn't want to hear. So far, any and all attempts on Faith's part to discuss
the future of the business, and Niki's future, in particular, had met with not-so-subtle resistance. Niki had insistently steered the conversation toward other topics.

“Look, forget about the murders. You have got to listen to what I have to say, and I never agreed to your terms. We're going into the holidays without any work. There's no money coming in, and we have to face facts.”

“We do too have a booking. You heard it yourself on the machine. Ursula is having a party.”

“We can't really count that,” Faith objected.

“Of course we can. We're going to charge her, and we have an obligation to stay in business until then.”

Faith sighed. “It's not the money. You know that. We're okay for a while. But what kind of a job are you going to get with me for a reference and all this following you around like a bad smell?”

“Hey, I resent that. Now look, boss, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but, number one, I think you are reacting way too fast, and, number two, I wouldn't want to work anyplace that didn't think a recommendation from you wasn't peachy keen. Which leads to number three—namely, I don't want to work anyplace else. Have Faith suits my lifestyle, and when you aren't trying to do what you think is the right thing, you're fun to work for.”

Niki went to the refrigerator and started pulling out eggs and butter. “Now I want to try that new recipe you found for those almost-flourless individual chocolate cakes.”

“You're hopeless,” Faith said.

Niki whirled around. “No,
you're
hopeless. You're supposed to be saying to hell with them and riding it out.”

And I would have a few years ago, Faith realized with a start. Was living in Aleford, in the parish, making her lose her nerve? The notion was extremely depressing—and scary.

She reached for the Valrhona dark chocolate. “You're absolutely right. We'll go out of business when we're good and ready.”

Niki laughed. “Glad you're back.”

“Brave words,” Faith said.

By the next morning, she was beginning to think some enforced time off might not be such a bad thing. It would certainly make the holidays easier; plus, here it was a Saturday and she didn't have to rush off to a job. She had actually been able to make something tasty for their lunch, a new, and absurdly simple, coq au vin recipe that was simmering away on the stove top. Tom was working on his sermon, and Faith was raking leaves with the kids in the backyard, creating huge piles for them to jump in. Pix had walked over, remarking on how much she missed the smell of burning leaves now that Aleford had banned open fires.

“Maybe you could sprinkle some on top of your fireplace logs,” Faith suggested.

“It won't be the same indoors,” Pix said.

Not having participated in this suburban rite, Faith
found it hard to share her nostalgia, but Tom, coming out to stretch his legs, immediately agreed, and the two had a jolly time talking bonfires.

When he left to go back indoors, Pix, gazing after him, said, “Poor Tom. He looks tired. I'm glad that at least this crypt/steeple matter will be out of the way when we vote tomorrow.”

It was one thing when Millicent Revere McKinley said “Poor Tom” and quite another when Pix did. Faith leaned on her rake, then ran after Pix, who was returning to her own leaves.

“Wait! Do you think Danny could baby-sit tonight so Tom and I could maybe go to the movies, get something to eat?”

“Great idea, and if he can't for some reason, I'll come myself.” Pix said this so enthusiastically that Faith felt as if she were being offered the last seat in the lifeboat. Obviously, Pix thought there was a lot at stake here. And there really wasn't—of course. Just a night out.

“I'll go right in and ask him. We can catch an early show.”

Faith ran in the back door and into Tom's study, stopping short when she saw that he wasn't madly typing away, as usual on Saturdays, but staring at the keyboard, his face in his hands.

“Honey?” she called. Startled, he sat up straight and clicked the mouse. The flying toasters screen saver gave way to lines of text.

She leaned over the back of his chair and put her
arms around him. “How would you like a hot date tonight? We've got a sitter and can go anywhere we want. Movies, dinner, motel.” Her words felt forced and she already knew what his answer would be.

“I'll take a rain check, okay? I don't really feel like going out tonight.”

 

It was a little after three o'clock when the phone rang. Amy was asleep and Faith had just put Ben down to nap, as well, after finding him with his eyes closed next to his father, who was watching a Celtics game. Ben didn't protest, and she hoped he wasn't coming down with something. Tom was half-asleep himself. We're all tired, Faith thought as she went to get the phone. It was bound to be about tomorrow's vote; most of them had been so far, and she intended to tell whoever it was that the Reverend Thomas Fairchild could not be disturbed. Let them assume he was praying. She couldn't use working on his sermon as an excuse. First Parish would not be particularly sympathetic to leaving something so important to the last minute. But it wasn't someone from the church. It was Anson Scott.

“Faith, my good—and talented—lady. I received your plea for help on my answering machine and dare to hope that you might have a moment anon. Admittedly, greediness is almost as strong a motive as base curiosity. I'm sure you have something in your cookie jar to bring me.”

“But aren't you in New York? Don't you have a
reading at a mystery bookstore tonight? The Black Orchid, I think it was called. It was in the
Times.
”

“
Last
night. That particular obligation has been met. Dear people, the owners, Bonnie and Joe.” He sounded slightly annoyed, and Faith wondered if the turnout had been low. She had thought the ad said Saturday, yet she had been concentrating on other things during her flight back from the Big Apple. “So, my dear, let's meet.”

Faith was reluctant to leave. They might not be going out, but she and Tom would at least have time together at home.

“Tonight's not good for me. How about tomorrow afternoon or evening?”

“No can do. I have merely the most minuscule of windows before I must away to more of my adoring public. If not tonight, how about now?”

Why not now? It was, in fact, a perfect time. Everyone was asleep, or nearly so, and she could slip away for an hour or two. She really wanted to run her latest theories by Scott and then call John Dunne.

“Yes, that would work. I can be at your house in fifteen minutes or so.”

“Margery has gone to her sister's in Ashtabula—really, that is where her sister lives, so much fun to say—and the house is rather shut up. I'm simply camping here, poised between flights.”

“There's always the Minuteman Café, good muffins, but very public.”

“Too public. I'd rather not sign any more books or
paper napkins, whatever. Hand gets rather cramped, you know.”

Faith was staring out the window. He could come to the parsonage, but she wasn't sure she wanted Tom to know she was talking to the mystery writer. Especially not at the moment when things between them were—well, what were they? She felt profoundly depressed. She looked at the church's steeple. Even from here, she could see it needed work. Paint was peeling on one side. The church. Perfect. She had a key. No one would bother them. They could use one of the older children's Sunday school classrooms. Somehow, she couldn't picture Anson in the rocking chair in the day-care center, and it would be Goldilocks all over again with one of the small chairs.

Anson thought the church was a fine idea and they arranged to meet. Faith promised cookies. She'd baked some more oatmeal lace ones the previous day.

She hung up the phone, filled a bag with cookies and a thermos with milk. She didn't want to take the time to brew coffee. Scott might be amused by this throwback to childhood, and she'd heard that milk and cookies were appearing as a dessert item at some of New York's trendiest restaurant; the milk was even being served in small containers with straws.

The game was still going strong and she went in to tell Tom she was going out for a while, to the library. As she formulated the fib, she thought about the last week and felt “sick with secrets,” as the old saying went. She was relieved to find she didn't have to say
anything. Tom was slumped over, dead to the world, and snoring slightly. She scrawled a hasty note—“Had to go out for a while; back soon”—and left it on the kitchen table.

She was early. Scott had said he'd need a half hour. She left the back door open for him and walked into the sanctuary, past the church offices. Missy's wrapping-paper display was still up. Maybe Janice
had
killed both Gwen and Jared. And if she had, Faith better be looking over her shoulder. After the other night, the woman certainly had no love for her. Janice and Missy. Perverted mother love. She thought about the Texas cheerleader case. The facts had seemed so unbelievable that they'd stayed in Faith's mind. Wanda—again, a name you didn't forget—had plotted to kill both the girl she thought had kept her daughter from the squad and the girl's mother, who she believed had engineered the whole thing. In the end, Wanda settled on just the mother, because hiring a hitman to kill both was too expensive, and anyway, the girl would be so distraught that she'd likely drop cheerleading. Was this so different from Janice? Janice believed Jared was responsible for thwarting Missy's musical career, that he didn't recognize Missy's true talents. Maybe she'd hoped he'd quit when Gwen died. Maybe she'd believed he, like the principal, was a sexual threat to Missy. And what better way to punish him than to first kill his girlfriend and then kill him after telling him about it? Were Janice and Wanda soul mates?

The door to the crypt was open. Faith smiled. She was surprised there wasn't a whole tour group of parishioners checking it out before finalizing their vote. They must have come in yesterday when the church was open. They couldn't very well climb the steeple. But the crypt was something else. She went over to close the door and decided to take a look around while she waited. It had been years since she'd been there. She stepped down and her pocketbook strap caught on the handle of the door, pulling it shut. Annoyed, she straightened her bag and turned the knob to open the door. It was the crypt, after all.

She now realized why it had been left ajar. It didn't open. The knob didn't budge, no matter how hard she turned it. She groped for the light switch and received the second blow. There was no power in the crypt, or, rather, what had been was presently kaput. Instantly abandoning all pretense of objectivity, she vowed to call the entire parish tonight to inform them of these facts. The crypt was a death trap and its repair was critical to the well-being of the church. It wasn't as if the steeple was falling down on their heads.

Her bag contained any number of possible aids, including a Swiss army knife. She could try to slide it between the door and the frame, releasing the catch. She also had a little penlight to help. After several frustrating attempts, she was forced to concede that the church was simply too well built—or the wood had swelled over the years. There was no way she could get the knife blade into the tiny crack.
She sat down on the top stair. When Anson didn't find her by the back door, would he leave after a while, look around for her, or call home? The last two might bring help. She should start pounding on the door soon in the hopes that he would hear. And Tom would search for her, wouldn't he? Of course he would. In any case, the worst that could happen would be that she'd have to spend the night in the crypt.