The Body in the Moonlight (3 page)

“We've worked with plenty of difficult clients. In fact, difficult clients are the norm. That's why you need never worry your pretty little blond head about my wanting my own business. You know me and ‘tact'—gives me hives. Think about what the Bullocks were like. This can't be worse than Stephanie's wedding!”

“True,” Faith admitted as she sat down to let the pastry rest. “It's me or, rather, ‘It's I,' but that sounds terribly affected.”

“Have you noticed you seem to be going off on tangents lately—conversationally, that is? Not that hearing about Eleanor the guinea pig or proper grammar isn't truly fascinating, but why don't we focus on the here and now for the moment? Starting with the Pringle caper. God, I can't wait to meet her. Big smile, right? And really, really sincere. Party planners are like that.”

Paula did have a big smile and sparkling teeth, perhaps a bit too pointed in the bicuspid department, but lipstick always in place, no matter how many cups of
coffee she drank. As for the rest of her, the image that came to Faith's mind was of an Afghan hound crossed with one of the Bloomsbury females. If not Virginia Woolf herself, then perhaps Lady Ottoline Morrell. Paula Pringle: long of face and tall in stature. There wasn't an ounce of extra flesh to be seen on her body—not that much flesh was ever revealed. Paula favored Eileen Fisher skirts that grazed the anklebone with matching jersey tops and cardigans. She loped about with a certain amount of grace, head and shoulders above the hoi polloi.

“You saw the invitations. They went out right away. I'm sure Paula had sent them to the printer even before the meeting.”

Niki nodded her head. “
Très
clever: ‘A Murder Is Announced.'”

“And she put ‘Tickets Limited' in boldface at the bottom. There's nothing like trying to beat out your neighbor. You'd think they were season's passes to the Fleet Center, the way the town has responded. We're sold out and there's a waiting list.”

“It was also a clever idea to invite those mystery writers. People like to rub shoulders—or, in this case, break bread—with celebs.”

The Boston area was particularly rich in talented authors mining veins of suspense, horror, terror, and fright to supply the voracious need readers have to try to outsmart them and guess who done it—or, as one writer had told Faith, to provide reassurance in what at times seemed like an increasingly wicked and capricious
world. “In my books,” she said, “evil
never
goes unpunished.” Paula had had little trouble finding four “honored guests.” Few writers are loath—or in a position—to turn down a free meal and a chance to sell some books. Paula had also promptly enlisted Kate Mattes, famed mystery bookseller of Murder Under Cover: Kate's Mystery Books in Cambridge, to come with plenty of wares. Kate was donating a portion of the proceeds to the campaign and, much to Faith's delight, had expressed the wish that they go to the crypt. Since the store's street number was engraved on a headstone in its front yard, this was no surprise.

“The
Boston Globe
covered it in their ‘Names and Faces' column with a list of the writers attending. Very impressive. And how did our Ms. Pringle get Anson L. Scott? He never does anything like this. Doesn't have to.”

“He lives in town. Didn't you know that?” Faith said. “But you're right. Even with this, I was surprised he agreed. He's not a member of the church and he's not active in town, but apparently she was able to play on his sentimental attachment to Ballou House. Several generations ago, some ancestor was a parlor maid. I'm sure being lionized in the very same room where great-grandmother cleaned out the fireplace ashes must appeal to him.”

“I read everything he wrote when I was a teenager—and couldn't get to sleep many nights because of it. The man never gives you a chance to breathe. Just one totally terrifying moment after another, one mutilated
corpse after another, one totally psychotic killer after another.” Niki smiled reminiscently. “That scene when the woman opens the trunk of her car…”

Faith recalled reading some of the books, too, but only vaguely, and she didn't want any more details. “Don't remind me.” Real life had provided too many scenes straight from a Scott book since then.

“I haven't read one in a long time. But I guess he's still very hot stuff. I'll have to pick up the latest.”

They worked together in companionable silence for a while. Tonight's job was a dessert table for a bridal shower. Niki loved to make desserts and had increased her repertoire with courses, besides reading every new dessert cookbook on the market. The puff pastry was for hazelnut mille-feuilles. There would also be chocolate brioche bread pudding with whipped cream, fresh berries with crème anglaise, a white-chocolate mousse cake, champagne sorbet, pumpkin cheesecake, warm apple crisp—these last as a nod to the season—and plenty of mini-pastries and cookies.

“I'll have to run over to the church and get Amy soon,” Faith said. When she had opened the business, she'd had to remodel the existing catering facility slightly and had added a play area for the kids. “Ben is staying for extended day. I don't know whether to be happy or sad that he doesn't want to come here or go home.” This had been a recurrent theme throughout the fall, ever since Benjamin Fairchild had walked into his kindergarten classroom with merely the briefest of backward glances at his stricken mother.
She was proud of his independence and immediate, self-confident adjustment to the rigors of block corner, storytime, snack, and recess, but some slight reluctance, some small sign of separation anxiety, would not have gone amiss, so far as she was concerned. Instead, from day one, it had been a cheery “See ya!” and he was off into the arms of another woman. Faith liked the teacher, Mrs. Black, a straightforward yet clearly nurturant lady, who was doing a fine job of setting her son's feet on that long and twisted path known as “school.”

Back to School Night had been an eye-opener. Perched on a tiny chair, Faith had watched Mrs. Black field questions with aplomb. She was bombarded with queries about college entrance requirements, spelling tutors, and whether particularly creative Giant of the Week presentations would be noted on a child's permanent record. Apparently, it was all old hat to her. It was new to the Fairchilds, though, and they were shell-shocked. At least they had been prepped on Giant of the Week. Ben was counting the days until his turn. You got to sit in the special Giant chair and wear a paper Giant hat. This was apparently the only effort required of the child. The parents, on the other hand, had to prepare an “All About Me” poster, complete with family photos from birth to the present, “attractively arranged with meaningful captions,” supply a favorite—nutritional—family snack for the class, and “enhance our students' learning experience” with a “cognitively challenging” presentation
about “what Mommy and Daddy do all day.” The current Giant's father, a doctor, had come dressed for surgery, and he had brought those little blue paper booties and things that looked like shower caps for each child. The mom had baked cookies in stylized shapes—stethoscopes, lungs, hearts, and brains—and they'd hired a graphic designer to do the poster
and
a video.

Faith had promptly called Pix. There were three Miller children, not counting the dogs. Danny, the youngest, was in middle school, Samantha was a freshman in college, and Mark, the oldest, a college junior. Pix had been there and done that. Faith had a feeling she'd be calling her frequently about the mysteries of education in years to come. “Nobody told me kindergarten was going to be so much work!” Faith had wailed. “And what are we going to do? Tom can't pass out surplices and Communion wafers.”

“You'll cook something with the children. And if Tom's free, he can help or read a story. It doesn't matter what you do, so long as you do something. All the kids care about is sitting in the chair. It's the parents who are out of control—and if you join them, you might as well close Have Faith, because you'll be too busy sewing costumes for the all-school musical or running the book fair,” Pix had cautioned.

Just as Faith had been about to let her breath out, Pix had added, “You do need to be an active presence at school, though. Otherwise, you won't know what's going on, and in Aleford, that often means
some unpleasant surprises. I remember when Samantha was in third grade, a very nasty group of parents had it in for the teacher. It was her first year and they didn't think she was ‘seasoned' enough.”

“And little Ignatz might not get into Harvard because of it?” Faith had immediately flashed on the group of intense adults at parent night.

“Exactly. George handled it beautifully, but a great deal of damage was done. It was insidious—the way they undermined her self-confidence. George got some of us to volunteer in the classroom, and eventually we were able to get her to see what a marvelous teacher she was. She's still at Winthrop, and now parents complain if they don't get her.”

George Hammond was the principal of Aleford's Winthrop Elementary School and had been for so long that he now had students in the school whose parents he'd had. A widower, he was a member of First Parish, and Faith was glad Ben was starting school with such a kind, patient man at the helm.

“Faith! Where are you?” Niki had seen Faith distracted, distraught even, but these abrupt, deep withdrawals into the world of her own thoughts was something new—like the meandering conversational tangents.

Faith managed a smile. “Sorry. Thinking about Ben at school got me thinking…well, about Ben at school.”

“But I thought it was all going fine.” Niki was fond of the little Fairchilds, especially Ben, who could hold
up his end of a conversation. She hoped he wasn't flipping out and becoming a biter, say—or, worse, a whiner.

“Everything
is
fine. We now have ‘The Sayings of Mrs. Black' as our guide to life, and it's hard not to laugh when Ben solemnly tells us that keeping things in place makes it easier to find them again or ‘Cross words trip us.'” She paused and looked at her assistant. “I know I've been kind of out of it lately. It's not the kids; it's me. Maybe it's winter coming. All those cold, dark days. Maybe it's the parish party. I don't know—but no big deal.”

“A touch of weltschmerz,” Niki said, noting Faith had omitted any mention of Tom. “Or, as some people call it, the blues.”

This time, Faith smiled for real.

“You got it, baby.”

 

Paula Pringle called the meeting to order.

“People, people. I don't need to remind you that we have less than a week before our party, and this is the last chance we'll all have to get together.”

Faith glanced longingly out the window at the parsonage. The late-afternoon sun had turned the leaves of the big oak in the backyard to Midas gold. The foliage had peaked, according to the
Farmer's Almanac,
except no one had told the trees, which continued to cling to their leaves, hues from a child's paint box against the deep blue skies of autumn. But nothing gold can stay—the Robert Frost lines came back to her: “So
dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.” Until next year. There was always next year.

The various subcommittee heads were giving their reports, and Faith grudgingly admitted to herself that Paula had whipped the benefit into shape in an amazingly short period of time. In addition to the revenue from the ticket prices, Paula had scoured the area for silent-auction items. She planned to run it all evening, confiding to Faith that as people imbibed, they'd up their bids.

“That sounds wonderful, dear,” she said, congratulating the woman who had done the seating. Faith would be in the kitchen, so she hadn't been paying much attention to the table arrangements. Paula didn't intend to be seated, either. She and her husband, Sydney, would be roving about the room, making sure everyone was at approximately the same point in the game.

Faith wanted to get the timing down. Paula had coordinated the courses to coincide with the unraveling of the whodunit.

“Could you give me a final timetable? I know you want drinks and hors d'oeuvres before everyone sits down and starts playing.”

“That's right. In the foyer, but the ballroom will be open so people can check out the auction items on the tables by the windows and start making bids. And they'll be introducing themselves, both in character and out.”

Faith hadn't read the script, yet she had a general
idea of what would be happening. Paula had sent each ticket holder the name of his or her character, a description, and genial encouragement to dress up and bring props. The mystery was set on a large Long Island Gatsby-like estate during the twenties. Tom planned to borrow his father's black-and-orange-striped Princeton blazer and had himself, somewhere along the line, acquired a straw boater. His name was Willoughby Forbes III. Each round table seated eight and, accordingly, there were eight suspects. The “crime” had already occurred—the murder of Willoughby's grandfather Willoughby Forbes—a crusty but likable curmudgeon with no known enemies. Paula had asked one of the mystery writers, a former actress, to read the description of the scene of the crime; then everyone was to do his or her best to fool everyone else while unmasking the “real” killer. Paula had obtained elaborate scripts for each player, including facts about themselves or the others that could be revealed in answer to questions and facts about themselves that could be concealed—things like so-and-so was overheard arguing fiercely with the old man the night before he died, and various relevant hobbies, such as the study of plant poisons. It sounded rather complicated to Faith and the plot was not exactly Conan Doyle, but Paula had assured her that everyone would love it.

The notion of combining a game, any game, with the kind of dinner Faith had planned was an alien one. Each course was meant to be savored, and conversa
tion, possibly witty, the only accompaniment required. She seriously doubted whether anyone would notice that the game hens had been smoked with apple wood or that Niki's
panna cotta
dessert—that luscious Italian cream—had homemade crushed amaretti biscuits on top. Faith was tempted to tell Niki to use imported Lazzaroni biscuits instead, but
they'd
know. Maybe they should have some of them on the table anyway with the other cookies and small pastries that would accompany coffee at the end of the meal to sweeten the denouement. They were so pretty, wrapped in brightly colored tissue paper. After eating the cookies, you flattened the paper, rolled it into a tube, set it upright on a saucer, and gently lighted the top. In a darkened room, watching it rise, glowing, toward the ceiling was lovely. If they wanted a game, this should be sufficient. Then Faith thought of possible fire code violations and nixed the idea.