The Body in the Moonlight (4 page)

“Soup at eight,” Paula instructed. “They'll have had an hour to arrive, drink some champagne, chat, and bid before sitting down. Then the main course at eight-thirty, dessert at nine-thirty?”

“I'd planned on serving a salad course after the main course,” Faith remarked.

Paula wrinkled her brow. “We're giving them soup
and
salad?” She made it sound like “caviar
and
foie gras.”

“Yes,” Faith said firmly. The tickets weren't cheap, and besides, Paula's timetable would have them eating dessert before ten o'clock. It was Aleford, but even so,
the guests wouldn't be ready to leave that early. Suitably, a combo would be playing twenties music and people would be dancing as well as sleuthing. Of course, each course would inevitably stretch out longer than planned. Faith hated events where plates were whisked from the table before you had a chance to finish, or if you had, the next was arriving while you were still full.

“Then salad it is. Our salad days! But surely after the soup and before the main course.”

Faith sighed. “If everyone insists, but I like to serve it after the main course. It refreshes the palate for dessert—light, you can always eat salad.”

The party planner brayed her distinctive laugh and cried, “We bow to the expert, of course. It's going to be a madcap night, so why not have salad then? I'm sure you know best, dear.”

The next day, she called to change the table decorations one “absolutely last time.” It was revenge—a reminder to “dear” of who was really in charge. Faith had already sprayed the gourds she'd selected to use with gold paint and decided to let them come as a surprise to Paula the night of the party. She planned to group them around the centerpieces, clear glass globes filled with crushed colored tissue that bled beautifully when wet. The flowers themselves would be simple—snowball dahlias, tiny late sunflowers, burgundy astilbe, and sprigs of boxwood lightly touched with the same gold as the gourds.

 

At last, the night of the First Parish 250th Anniversary Campaign Kickoff arrived. Faith and Niki were at Ballou House, getting ready. The sun had set in a glory of roses and magentas streaked with molten rays, but the evening was still warm, especially for October 23. At breakfast, Ben had informed the family that today was the day the swallows left Capistrano. More lore from Chairman Black? Faith hoped he wasn't becoming precocious. This yearly event was something she had never given much thought to, but now a host of questions crowded into her mind. How did the birds know when to leave? Where did they go, anyway? Why did they always come back to the same place? She could imagine a group of birds challenging the leader: Can't we go someplace new for a change? Just because you like it so much doesn't mean we all do.

When she'd tuned back into the conversation, Ben had been posing the same queries, except for the bird conversation part. She'd felt relieved. He wasn't ready for
Jeopardy
yet.

A bird flew by Ballou House's kitchen window. Niki looked up from the bread she was cutting. Faith had combined the salad with a cheese course by serving mixed greens in a vinaigrette topped with warm chèvre on a lightly toasted round of thin
ficelle
.

“What a place! Can you imagine the staff they must have had to keep everything running? Talk about
Upstairs Downstairs
!”

Faith nodded. She'd brought plenty of staff tonight
herself. It was a big party and, so far, a great party. Her spirits had been lifting steadily since she'd arrived.

The kitchen door swung open and Tricia Phelan, who worked for Faith part-time, came through with an empty tray. “Nobody wants to sit down. Lots of people are out on the veranda watching the moon rise. It's almost full and I need another tray of hors d'oeuvres.” Her words rushed together and she was slightly flushed. The party mood was infectious. “We're also pouring champagne like there's no tomorrow. You could almost believe it
is
the twenties, the way people are acting. Hubba, hubba! I never knew your husband was such a good dancer, Faith. He's doing the Charleston with some babe in a beaded dress, and they are moving!”

Faith knew Tom was a good dancer, but he'd kept his Charleston act a secret. She took the tray out herself to get a look.

Most of the guests were in costume, and from the slight smell of mothballs as she passed some of the older people in attendance, she guessed that their raccoon coats or fringed silk chemises had been father's or mother's—stowed in the attic along with all the other generational accumulation that just might come in handy someday.

She spotted Tom on the dance floor and winked. He waved and motioned her over, but she shook her head. She had to get back to the kitchen. He was dancing with Gwen Lord, a striking brunette who was engaged to Jared Gabriel, First Parish's choirmaster
and music maven in residence. Jed had composed some music for the church and was working on the “Anniversary Chorale.” Gwen's beaded turquoise dress shimmered as she shimmied. She worked in a gallery on Boston's Newbury Street and her stylish, sleek haircut fit both eras. Faith didn't know her that well, but this was only the second time she'd ever seen Gwen in an outfit that wasn't black or gray and Armani.

Someone grabbed Faith's elbow, neatly tipping the tray sideways. The last of the coconut shrimp toppled to the floor. The parquet had been covered by a thick Aubusson carpet in Increase Ballou's day, a symbol of his taste and success, but it had been removed and sold by his heirs. Too French.

“No harm done,” Faith said, pulling a cloth from her pocket and turning with a smile to reassure the partygoer. Except it wasn't a partygoer, but a party planner, and she never needed any reassurance.

“We have got to get people to sit down, or we'll be here until the wee hours of the morning!” Paula wailed. She was wearing a vintage beaded black flapper dress. A black velvet band encircled her brow, complete with feather trim sprouting straight up above her eyes. She looked like something you'd rather not see circling in the desert sky.

“The wee hours of the morning wouldn't be so bad,” Faith couldn't help teasing her. “People are having fun.” But Paula was right. It was time to start serving—and start the game.

“Have the mystery writer (what's her name?—Veronica Brookside—and is that really her name?) invite everyone to be seated and give the combo a break. We'll stop pouring wine. That should do it.”

As Faith offered the solution, she wondered why Paula was in such a state. The woman did parties all the time and must have encountered this problem before. Paula had been mildly crazed all evening and had not said a word about the table decorations. What was the woman so worried about? The silent-auction bids were already higher than they'd projected for final bids and Kate Mattes was running out of books to sell. The mystery writers were circulating, happily signing their books and greeting fans. Even Anson Scott was smiling. As Faith passed him on her way back to the kitchen, he stopped her.

“From your attire, I surmise you are the chef. My compliments. If those toothsome vegetable fritters and scallop seviche are portents of what is to come, we are in for a sublime gastronomic experience.” Faith had rented twenties servant's attire for the wait staff, but she was wearing her usual checked chef's trousers and white jacket.

“Thank you,” she said. Did he always speak this way, or was it a result of the ambience and what he'd been drinking?

“My good lady, that was not an idle compliment. Food is a passion with me and I fancy myself a knowledgeable connoisseur. Do not let me leave without one of your cards.”

A kindred spirit. “There are cards on the table in the
hall, and if you don't pick one up, the name of my firm is easy to remember, Have Faith. My name is Faith, Faith Fairchild.”

“Clever, very clever. I believe I will be sitting with your husband at dinner—if the Reverend Thomas Fairchild is that man.”

“He is, and I'm sure he'll be delighted.”

“Well, I mustn't keep you from what awaits. Have Faith. Yes, an inspired choice. And do you?”

“Have faith?”

“Yes.” He fixed his gaze directly on her. His deep-set brown eyes invested the question with mock gravity. Anson Scott was a mountain of a man, whose girth was keeping pace with his height. He'd dressed for the occasion in a well-cut shawl-collared tuxedo. Instead of a boutonniere, he sported a tiny silver dagger in his buttonhole, dripping ruby droplets of blood. He was clean-shaven, but his hair reached his collar in back, a mass of tight curls, more gray than black. He wore a large signet ring on his right hand, nothing on the left.

“Quite a bit,” she answered, judging it neither the time nor place to describe her somewhat pantheistic beliefs, which still managed to fall under First Parish's rubric. He'd be a fun dinner guest, so long as he didn't talk shop, regaling them with his villains' modus operandi. He traveled a great deal and was never seen about town, but she was sure she could lure him to her table with the promise of something like a risotto with lobster and wild mushrooms or an herb-encrusted rack of lamb.

“Welcome to the party of the century,” Faith heard as she pushed open the kitchen door. The room almost immediately quieted. What a voice! Low, rich, incredibly sultry. It was Veronica Brookside. Veronica wrote a hard-boiled series that featured a foulmouthed female former librarian turned private detective who could hit a knothole at seventy-five feet while quoting the ruder parts of the
Canterbury Tales
. But what am I thinking of? Faith chided herself. They had to get the soup out! Ginger squash—and it had to be served hot.

By the time they'd cleared the main course and started to serve the salad, Veronica's declaration was well on the way to becoming a reality. Aleford was uncharacteristically letting its hair down to Rapunzel length. Faith had been drawn out of the kitchen several times, ostensibly to check up on things, yet really to watch the fun. The mystery game was an uproarious success. People were switching tables and sharing clues—and from what Faith gleaned, the floor should be awash with red herrings before the night was over. Paula and Sydney Pringle had completely given up trying to organize the game. Faith took pity on them and squeezed in two more places at Tom's table. Besides Anson Scott, there were Janice Mulholland, a parishioner and single mother with an elementary-school-aged daughter; Jared and Gwen; Nick Gabriel, Jared's cousin and owner of the gallery where Gwen worked; and Pix and her mother, Ursula Rowe. Sam Miller was out of town. Faith had advised Paula to reserve spots for the two of them, but Ms. Pringle had
been adamant that they would not have a moment to sit down. She continued to pop up and flit about the room, adding to the confusion. Sydney didn't budge, devoting himself to the food and devouring the entire contents of the bread basket Faith had replenished.

The combo had returned and was playing Gershwin and Cole Porter. Looking through the glass of the French doors, Faith could see couples dancing on the veranda in the moonlight. She half-expected a pool filled with shrieking flappers to appear on the sloping lawn beyond. The moon, almost full, illuminated the scene with what appeared to be artificial light. The Hunter's Moon. It was so clear, the canals and craters stood out, but not like Roquefort cheese, Faith's usual thought. No, tonight there did seem to be a man in the moon, armed or not. The pattern was a face, a face with a slight smile—indulgent or sardonic, Faith wasn't sure which.

It had been impossible to link the courses to the game—some tables were still happily mired in part one—but she thought she'd try to see how close Tom's table was to the solution and serve dessert based on that. With Anson Scott close at hand, they definitely had an advantage, and Ursula had kept them all on track, moving things right along. Pix's family, like Tom's, were inveterate game players and considered a night without Scrabble while on vacation in Maine or Nantucket much worse than a day without sunshine. Fog or rain was natural. The inability or disinclination to pit one's wits against all comers was not. Faith fell
into this category, much to her friends and family's bewilderment. “Not even the dictionary game?” “Not even tiddlywinks,” she'd asserted. She did play a mean game of poker, however.

“I believe you are secretly engaged to Willoughby Forbes the Third, Miss Prettyman, and his grandfather had objected strongly to the match on the grounds that you were nothing more than a gold digger. Pray tell us what you have been hiding.” Ursula fixed her daughter with a gimlet eye.

“Well, if it comes to that,” Pix retorted smartly, “I believe you have been blackmailing the old man for years, Mrs. Hardcastle. Your position as housekeeper made you privy to certain family secrets.”

“But,” Anson pointed out in a reasonable tone of voice, “why would she want to kill off her goose? Let's get back to the question she addressed to you, missy.”

Everyone laughed at Pix's discomfort. “That's supposed to be concealed information, Mother. How did you find out? I'm sure it's not in your script.”

“No, it isn't, but there's always a secret engagement in this kind of story, and rich grandfathers always object. Jealous, probably.”

“Have you ever thought of writing a book, my dear? You have the formula down perfectly.” Anson raised his glass to Mrs. Rowe and then to Faith, with a nod at the wine—an excellent, full-bodied Hawk Crest merlot.

Ursula demurred. “At my age, it's quite enough to read one through to the end.”

Jed Gabriel jumped in. “Now, Mrs. Rowe, you can't
get away with that. We all saw you kayaking your way past everyone else during the retreat last spring.”

Pix met Faith's eyes. They were used to the way Ursula became the focal point without so much as pointing a finger toward herself.