The Body in the Moonlight (5 page)

Paula, however, wasn't. “Are you ready to make an accusation?” she asked Anson.

“Accusation?” he asked, puzzled. “Oh, you mean do I want to guess who the guilty party might be? Gracious no, we're having too much fun. Besides, I've known since the soup. Excellent, by the way. Just a touch of Jamaican ginger, if I'm not mistaken.”

Faith nodded and smiled. The man certainly knew his ingredients. She leaned over to Pix. “Where's Tom?”

“I think he's dancing with Gwen.”

“I have
got
to take lessons before the wedding.” Jed sighed. “I've always been hopelessly clumsy. Good of Tom to do this. Gwen adores dancing.”

Faith was surprised at the admission. Jared was a slender, compact man, neither too tall nor too short. He moved with a great deal of grace, and when she watched him conduct the choir, she was always struck by how balletic he was. His normal expression was calm and relaxed—with a touch of humor. When he was conducting, his face became plastic, moving swiftly from grimace to grin. She would have thought him a natural dancer.

She went back to the kitchen by way of the dance floor and soon picked out Tom and Gwen. They were
a perfect match, effortlessly weaving their way in between the other dancers, matching their steps to “Cheek to Cheek.” Gwen, like Ginger Rogers, seemed to have no trouble tripping the light fantastic backward and in heels. Faith tried to catch Tom's eye to wave, but he didn't see her. He was looking through lowered lids at Gwen. His lips were moving slightly and she was sure he was singing softly. The song was one of his—one of their—favorites.

Faith slipped into the kitchen and surveyed the scene. The dessert was ready to go as soon as the salad plates were cleared and the tables crumbed. Trays of Niki's confection—the
panna cotta
with the crushed amaretti topping, surrounded by a raspberry coulis—sat on the counter. Niki herself must have gone to the bathroom or out to watch the goings-on—the party, that is. The rest of the staff was either in the large butler's pantry, now equipped with sink and dishwasher, starting to clean up, or out waiting on the guests. She was alone for a moment in the empty room. She sat on one of the high stools and leaned her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands. She was getting tired. Tom would be tired, too. Good that he was having such a nice time. He hadn't expected to and had been dreading the event. He'd been sure that both the steeple contingent and the crypt group would try to corner him. With all the joie de vivre in the air, Faith thought it would be the perfect time to get one group to give in. Take a quick vote. But no, that would instantly
destroy the mood. It would be back to business with a vengeance.

Yes, she was happy that Tom was happy. Except it was, she admitted to herself, a little like Ben and school. Just as a tiny bit of regret on Ben's part would not go amiss; she wouldn't mind if Tom's steps were not in such perfect synchrony with Gwen's. If an occasional toe got stepped on. She didn't expect him to dance with her. She was working, after all, and it was important to keep professional and personal lives separate, but, damn it, did he have to be having
such
a good time?

The kitchen door swung open violently and Paula burst in. “I've decided to change the schedule and close the silent auction during the dessert course. Some of the tables have solved the mystery already and they might leave right after dessert. You never know with people.”

This was certainly an understatement, but Faith agreed that closing the auction sooner rather than later was a good idea. Aleford might look like it was in for an all-nighter at the moment, but old habits die hard and once dessert was over, they, like lemmings, might all rush to the sea of their bedchambers in a single reflex. It was way after ten o'clock.

“I'll have Bill Brown make the announcement,” Paula declared.

“Let me get the desserts on the table first to avoid any collisions. You know how people are with silent auctions. They'll be running back and forth until the
last second to check their bids. It won't take long. Everything's ready to go. We'll wait and serve the coffee afterward.”

Paula nodded and left. Niki returned and the room filled up with staff. Faith was suddenly too busy to dwell on Tom's dancing partners.

Dessert out, she signaled Paula and told the band to take a break. She had food for them in the kitchen.

Bill Brown wrote a series featuring an ex-rabbi, ex–homicide detective, ex-gambler who ran an unorthodox private detective agency when he wasn't hang gliding, sailing, or fishing—Hemingway-type fishing, not Thoreau. Brown himself was a small man, solid—brush haircut, nothing extra, nothing wasted. His character was a six-footer with hands like mutton chops and the ability to slice them through bricks, stacks of cordwood, and the like. Brown announced the impending close of the auction. He had a surprisingly mellow, blurred Southern accent—like Shelby Foote's, incredibly charming and incredibly sexy. Had Paula Pringle selected the writers on the basis of their voices? Certainly Veronica and Bill were star turns.

For the next ten minutes, everyone concentrated on the tables by the windows. The combo returned and Brown led them in a dramatic countdown. Paula shrieked her thanks, but, cannily she did not announce the total raised—“If it sounds too good, they won't pledge enough,” she'd confided to Faith earlier—then told everyone, “Keep on dancing.”

They started serving coffee and plates of small confections. Niki walked over to Faith.

“Give me five! This was a good one.”

Faith raised her hand. She had to agree. The aggravation of the last few weeks was already receding and soon would be a distant memory, just as all her other work-related woes tended to be.

“It's partly the place. I love working here. All the ghosts of sumptuous repasts past. The courses, the silver, the china, the flowers…”

“I get it, boss.” Niki laughed. “Except in those days, I think I would much rather have been a guest than in the kitchen.”

“You're right, but I could see myself here as an American version of the British chef Rosa Lewis, Duchess of Duke Street–style. Nothing else. Which reminds me—I never asked Anson Scott about what his ancestor did.”

“You don't think he's touchy about it?”

“I think all the rumors about how difficult he is have been vastly inflated. He's been charming all evening. He's signed books, even just given autographs. It must be hard to have people always wanting things from you, trying to invade your privacy.”

“I thought that was how you describe your life.”

Faith punched her assistant lightly on the arm and tried not to think how apt the comment had been. Living in a parsonage wasn't simply like living in a fishbowl; it was like living in a fishbowl on-line.

“I'm going to see when Tom plans on leaving.
Danny Miller has been baby-sitting for us now that Samantha is at Wellesley, and this is his first really late night. I told him to go to sleep, but I bet he won't.”

Faith got to the table as Tom was pushing in Gwen's chair. He caught his wife's eye.

“A last dance,” he said quickly.

Gwen looked up at him. Their eyes met.

“And a perfect ending to a perfect evening.”

Then she smiled brightly at the table. “But I wouldn't have wanted to miss dessert and the end of the game. Then we must all go out and look at the moon. It's incredible tonight. So, who's the murderer?” She took a large spoonful of the almond cookie–crusted
panna cotta
and continued to eat with relish. The conversation at the table had turned to suspects and Faith lingered to hear the possibilities. Gwen joined in, offering her own theory that the old man had probably killed himself to spite everyone. She looked into her empty dish.

“This was absolutely fabulous. I've been trying to eat slowly to make it last, but I couldn't. Jed knows what a sweet tooth I have.” Her voice slurred over the words. She swallowed the last bite, and the spoon dropped from her hand, clattering against the bowl. She clutched her throat and began gasping for air. Jared and Faith were the first to react, offering water.

“Honey, are you okay? What's wrong!”

Gwen slumped into his arms and Faith sprinted for the phone to call 911.

As she passed the band, she screamed, “See if
there's a doctor in the house. Table twelve. Gwen Lord. Hurry!” What could be wrong? There was nothing in the dessert large enough to block Gwen's airway.

Faith wasn't gone more than a few minutes, but by the time she made her way through the hushed, frightened crowd, Gwendolyn Lord, a bloody froth at her mouth, one hand twisted in the folds of her beaded silk dress, was past all human help and Tom was bending over his dancing partner, saying a prayer.

It may have been a perfect evening; it hadn't been a perfect ending.

Faith put her head down on Patsy's wooden table. It felt good—cool and hard. She wanted to cry. She thought she should be crying. But not a single tear had leaked from her eyes since she'd stared in horror at Gwen's sightless face. She wanted to scream. She hadn't done that, either. After a moment, she raised her head and looked at Patsy, who had stopped taking notes.

“Don't tell me I shouldn't be worried.”

“I'm not going to tell you that, but I am a bit confused about why you think you might be arrested. The police can't possibly think you're a suspect. You scarcely knew the woman.”

“Niki made the desserts, but didn't have time to finish them. I put the crumb topping on—the amaretti topping.”

Patsy's face was calm. “It's too soon for any lab reports. It could have been any number of things.”

Faith shook her head. “Gwen was fine until she took a bite of her dessert. Over the years, I've learned a few things about poisons and the way they work. All her symptoms—” Faith's voice shook. There it was again.
The picture of Gwen, bloody mouth, her body contorted in an agonizing struggle with death. A battle lost. Lost quickly. The picture had been appearing over and over again—a crime-scene photo, with all the flashbulbs going off at once—in a part of Faith's mind that she could not shut down. Her voice steadied. “All her symptoms point to cyanide poisoning.”

“Very Agatha Christie—the smell of bitter almonds.” Patsy reached for Faith's hand. “Have Faith can't possibly be held responsible. We can check with a civil attorney. Maybe even brief someone, just in case her family takes it into their heads to sue for negligence. People will do anything for money—even take advantage of the death of a loved one.”

“She didn't have any family,” Faith said dully. She hadn't thought of a civil suit. She'd been too busy thinking of other things—things like word of mouth. Caterers had watched their businesses go down the tubes after a single case of mild food poisoning—chicken salad left out too long.

“No one at all?”

“An only of onlies, and both her parents are dead. She and Jed have that in common—or almost. He has a second cousin, Nick Gabriel, older than he is. Gwen works for him; that's how she met Jed.”

Patsy thought of her family, and Will's. At times, she had fantasized about being an only child, the sole focus of her parents' and grandparents' affections, but she knew she'd miss the loving, teasing, noisy whirlwind of her brothers and sisters—one that scooped her up
into that particular club whenever she was home. Will's was similar.

She looked down at her pad. She'd scribbled a few questions.

“Okay, let's say it was cyanide poisoning and it was in the dessert topping. How did it get there?”

Faith had been over this already in her own thoughts. “Obviously when I was putting it together from the amaretti cookies Niki had made, which means I'm the killer, but how would I know which dessert was going to be Gwen's?”

“And why would you want to kill her?”

Faith ignored the question and continued. “At the event, again I was the one who unpacked the desserts and set them out on the trays.”

“Was there ever a time when no one was in the kitchen and the desserts were on those trays, ready to be served?”

“No, it was a big party. My staff was around all the time.” Faith stopped herself suddenly, remembering the empty kitchen she'd walked into shortly before the desserts were served. She told Patsy.

“So anyone could have walked in and poisoned Gwen's portion.”

“Yes, theoretically, but how could he or she be sure Gwen would get the right dessert?”

“Forget the kitchen. How about after the desserts were served? Could it have been done then?”

“That's what I think happened. It's the only thing that makes any sense. There was mass confusion.
Paula Pringle, the party organizer, decided to close the silent-auction bids, because she was afraid people would leave and not make that mad dash to up their bids at the last moment. We served the desserts, because I didn't want people knocking into the wait staff as they took them around. Gwen was dancing, and her dessert sat at her place at the table for some time. The killer could have passed by and put the poison on top. It would have been very risky, but everyone was getting up and down, so perhaps not as risky as it sounds. Although I don't think Ursula would have moved about much, so there probably was always someone at the table.”

Patsy nodded. “But it wouldn't have taken long.”

“I'll talk to Charley about it. He's dropping by the house this afternoon.”

Charley MacIsaac, Aleford's venerable police chief, had been the first law-enforcement officer on the scene, because he'd been at the party. Faith had been surprised. A mystery dinner party game didn't seem to be Charley's thing. He got enough of crime in his everyday life, but then she remembered that Mattie Hawthorne, the manager of Ballou House, was an old friend of Charley and his late wife's. He must have gone to the event to lend Mattie some moral support.

“Do you want me to be there with you?” Patsy asked.

Faith shook her head. “No, I just like knowing that you could have been.”

“Have you had enough? We can talk some more later.” Outside, the bright morning mocked them.

“I should get home.” Faith stood up. “What else is there to go over?”

“I need to know what happened afterward. What you can remember about various people's reactions, especially the people at the table.”

“Yes, they're the ones who were closest—opportunity. And we know the means, or at least think we do. But motive? That's what's missing here.”

“Call me when you have some spare time. I know, I know, it's an oxymoron. But call me and we'll go over the rest of the night—and anything else you want to tell me.”

Faith was fumbling with her coat. She put it on and Patsy walked her to the front door. She pulled Faith to her in a tight hug and said good-bye. She watched Faith walk down the path to the sidewalk. Patsy knew Faith hadn't told her everything—and it wasn't just what she'd observed after Gwen's death. No, it was something else. Faith was holding back—but what, and why?

 

Faith walked quickly back to the parsonage, her feet rustling the fallen leaves, ankle-deep on the ground. She still had to change and get the children dressed. She'd been right to go to Patsy, and the total panic she'd been feeling earlier had lessened. But not disappeared. In the end, she hadn't been able to tell her friend everything she was thinking, everything she was fearing. Putting her amorphous fears into words would have made them real—and they weren't. They couldn't be. She was sure of it, yet…

Tom and Gwen. It was crazy. Except she couldn't forget the way he'd been looking at her when they'd danced. Couldn't forget the way he had been holding her. Or the rhythm of their bodies swaying together so familiarly, as if each already knew the way the other moved. Had known for a long time. She couldn't tell Patsy this.

She also couldn't tell her about seeing Gwen leave their house by the back door two weeks ago. Faith had been cutting across the cemetery on her way home from the library. She watched Gwen stand absolutely still for a moment, then saw her look about before darting across the driveway into the Millers' yard. Faith ran in that direction, in time to see the young woman cut into the field beyond her neighbors' garage. She'd walked into the kitchen. Tom was drying a mug. She'd planned to tease him, but something in his face had stopped her. She'd merely said, “I see you've had a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

She didn't want to hear him deny it, and feeling chilled to the bone, left the room to get a sweater.

She also couldn't tell Patsy about the way Tom had been behaving since he rose from Gwen's side, his face a mask of grief. During the commotion that followed, he'd been completely silent and had withdrawn. If he'd been aware Faith was by his side, he'd given no indication. Everything she'd thought of to say sounded completely banal: “Tom, are you all right?” Words to that effect. Obviously, he wasn't. She wasn't. They weren't.

As she walked home, she was hit by a wall of fatigue. She didn't want to talk over the whole thing with Patsy—or Charley MacIsaac. Living through it had been enough. And she had been reliving it in her mind ever since.

When she'd returned to the ballroom after calling 911, Charley had moved everyone away from the body. The music had stopped, but there had been a feverish level of conversation. Upon seeing Faith, Paula Pringle had promptly pointed one long, bony finger at her and screamed, “It was the food! Something in the dessert! The desserts are poison!” Then equally promptly, she began to laugh hysterically and cry at once. Ursula Rowe stepped over to the woman and coolly slapped her smartly across the face. Paula stopped instantly and returned to what was, for her, normal. “At least we finished the auction,” she said. Her husband took her to the far end of the ballroom and made her sit down and put her head between her knees. At any other time, Faith would have kissed Ursula for executing what Faith herself had yearned to do for several weeks. But just then, she scarcely took the gesture in.

“Things are getting out of hand,” Faith heard Ursula tell Charley. “You'd better do something quick.”

Charley nodded and took the mike.

“I know I can trust all of you to remain calm. There's been a tragic accident, and it will take a while to sort the whole thing out. We're waiting for a unit from the state police to arrive, and in the meantime, I'd
like to ask you all to stay in this room. Since there is a possibility that this could be food-related, I suggest that no one eat or drink anything further.”

That had caused an even more hectic buzz, but at least they'd avoided a repetition of Gwen's death. If it
was
the food, that is.

Faith walked up to her own front door with no recollection of the steps taken between it and the Averys' house. As she stepped into the living room, she heard Tom call from the kitchen.

“Faith, is that you? I have to leave five minutes ago!”

“Go on. I'll see you later.”

She heard the door slam shut and went to get the kids. Ben had dressed himself. He was wearing the navy sweatpants he'd had on the day before, which he must have dug out of the hamper, one of the two dress shirts he owned, and his Superman cape from last Halloween.

“I can't find my sneakers,” he wailed. “I bet Amy took them again.”

Last month, Amy had lovingly put Ben's favorite sneakers, the ones with Velcro frog fastenings, in the bathtub, where Faith had fortunately discovered them before turning on the tap.

“I'm sure she didn't, but why don't you look there just in case?” Faith decided to let Ben's outfit go. He'd appeared in worse combinations, and it was going to take more than little-boy outfits from Brooks Brothers to win over those in the congregation who thought her mothering skills sadly lax.

Amy was patiently stringing large wooden beads on a long string, unaware that there was no knot on the end. She simply kept on going, retrieving the beads as they fell off, then putting them on the other end. Her breakfast was on the table, practically untouched.

“Sweetheart, you need to eat your breakfast; then we'll get dressed and go see Miss Nancy.” Amy was passionate about Miss Nancy, her Sunday school teacher. Her little face glowed. “See Miss Nancy?” She laughed and clapped her little hands together. Faith pulled her onto her lap, burying her face in the sweet silk of Amy's hair and soft neck, which smelled like the baby soap Faith still used on her daughter's tender body.

“But first, eat some cereal. It's your goat spoon,” she wheedled.

Amy clamped her mouth shut. “No.” No explanation, no apologies, no guilt. Just no. This was happening a lot, and Faith's worst nightmare—that she'd give birth to a picky eater—seemed to be coming true.

She dipped the spoon—a silver one with a mountain goat and goatherd on the handle that Pix had brought back from Norway—into the cereal and brought it to Amy's tiny mouth. “Just three bites.”

The mouth didn't open. Faith sighed. “All right. Drink your milk.” Amy gleefully picked up her glass and drained it. She had graduated from a spouted beaker and was very proud. Faith was going to have to start concocting power shakes for her recalcitrant daughter and hope the phase passed. She pulled on one of her all-purpose church dresses, a soft gray Calvin
Klein knit, ran a comb through her hair, and then, after looking in the mirror, added some blush and lip gloss. She dressed Amy in the latest of the smocked dresses Tom's mother turned out with deceptive ease. This one was buttery yellow, with a cornflower blue tulip design.

“We're going to be late, Mom!” Ben screeched up the stairs. At five, he'd suddenly become extremely aware of social conventions, or perhaps it was kindergarten. Going out the door and across the well-worn path through the cemetery, Faith watched him speed toward church, his cape streaming out behind him. Amy walked at a slower pace, pausing to examine each passing blade of grass, small stone, ant.

“Ben is flying,” she announced without a trace of envy or doubt.

“Apparently,” Faith agreed, keeping a sharp eye on him as he disappeared through the side door on his way to his own class. He wasn't supposed to run ahead. He wasn't supposed to do a lot of things, and the list got longer every day. Some items would get crossed off—the running-ahead part. By the time he was sixteen, he could do that. But other things would be added. Be home before midnight. Call your mother. It was a life's work. She laughed at herself.

“Come on, chickadee, let's get you to Miss Nancy.”

“Chickadee-dee-dee,” Amy chortled. It was a game she never tired of; nor did her mother.