The Body in the Moonlight (7 page)

Dunne drained his mug, grabbed another cookie, and said, “We'll have to close you down for a while, Faith. You knew that, right?”

Faith nodded. They'd told her last night. State in
spectors would be going over her work kitchen with a fine-tooth comb. It was a protection for her, really. They wouldn't find anything, and when she received their seal of approval, it might, just might, make people believe that Have Faith had had nothing to do with Gwen Lord's death. Fine-tooth comb. Fleas. Well, they wouldn't find any in her kitchen. She pulled her gaze from the windows and the old cemetery upon which it had settled fixedly as she'd turned these thoughts over and over. She would
have
to get a grip. Have to stop her mind from wandering.

“Did you want to say something, Faith?” Dunne asked, eyeing her quizzically.

“No. I mean, yes. Do you have any idea why somebody would have wanted to kill her?”

“That's just what I was about to ask you,” the detective answered.

 

Faith woke up the next morning and went through her Monday-morning motions on automatic pilot. Children up. Children dressed. Children and husband fed. Snack for Amy. Snack for Ben. Frantic search for abandoned bird's nest found by Ben in garden and now absolutely essential for show-and-tell. No clean collars for Tom. Felt sure the Lord would turn a blind eye. Resolved to go to the cleaners, since congregation more observant.

She closed the door and poured herself a cup of coffee and tried to read the paper. They got both the
Boston Globe
and the
New York Times.
Most days,
neither got read. All the headlines were as bad as the one in her own head. The murder had occurred too late for Sunday's
Globe,
but it was prominently featured in today's. The picture of Gwen looked like one from a yearbook. She was staring straight at the camera, bold and timid at the same time. All right, world, here I come—am I ready or not? Her hair was much longer, grazing the top of her shoulders. She seemed impossibly young. How long ago had it been taken, and where? Jared was twenty-nine, three years younger than Tom and Faith. Gwen had been younger still. Twenty-four? Twenty-five? She started to read the article but could not get beyond the first sentence. “While partygoers in the town of Aleford made merry Saturday night, Gwendolyn Lord of Boston sampled her dessert and died in what police are calling a homicide.”

Faith stood up. She couldn't go to work. It was off-limits. She didn't feel like cleaning her house. The day lay stretched out before her—a blank page, and she had writer's block. Be careful what you wish for. She had all the free time she wanted and nothing she cared to do. She called Pix. There was no answer, but she left a message. Pix would suggest something, although it would be something like canoeing on the Sudbury River or taking the dogs for a run in the conservation land. Faith didn't care. She'd even go bird-watching, if that was what Pix was up to today, although she had a vague notion that people did this in the wee hours of the morning. Patsy was at work. They'd spoken briefly
late yesterday afternoon. Patsy was going to find out everything she could about the case today, but she'd told Faith not to worry. “And don't be telling me not to say it. I
mean
it.”

She could call Tom. See what his schedule was like. Usually, he told her, but this morning he'd been in more of a rush than usual. He did say Jared was coming out to discuss Gwen's service and to talk. They'd been on the phone several times the day before. Faith had asked Jed to lunch, but he'd refused. He needed to be alone, he'd told her after church, giving her a quick squeeze.

Jared Gabriel had always been one of Faith's favorites. A New Englander born and bred—his ancestors seemed to form the bulk of the
Mayflower
's passenger list—Jed had gone to school in New York and Paris, kicking over the traces of the bean and the cod. The fact that he had ended up back in Boston was purely accidental. He'd returned to be there for his infirm parents, become involved in the city's rich music world, and then had taken the job at First Parish on a temporary basis. Temporary had become permanent, even after the death of his mother and father six months apart two years ago had freed him to move elsewhere. By then, he'd met Gwen, an art history major, who, after Jared had introduced her to Nick, jumped at the chance to learn about the business of running a gallery. Faith thought about calling Jed, suggesting a long walk, lunch. There had always been an unspoken bond between the two—people who knew
what “away” was like. But she did not want to intrude on his grief. She couldn't imagine coping with both the intense pain of the loss and the horror of how it had occurred.

She went upstairs, made the beds, and shoved Tom's shirts and collars into a large canvas L. L. Bean tote bag. Aleford took recycling very seriously, and appearing at the market without your own assortment of reusable bags was a serious faux pas. The same with anything else you might have to transport. And woe betide the individual who mixed the green glass with the clear in the bins at the dump—the transfer station, to use the official, although never employed, designation.

She walked past Aleford's green—not so green at this time of year, the grass slightly sear, especially after the dry summer. It was another beautiful day. There had been a string of them, interspersed with periods of violent thunderstorms, a reminder from Mother Nature not to get too complacent. Complacent. That was the last thing Faith was feeling.

Millicent Revere McKinley's house was on the left, strategically poised opposite the green with a bird's-eye—and in Millicent's case, the bird was an eagle—view down Main Street. On impulse, Faith crossed over, opened the gate set in Millicent's unblemished white picket fence, walked up the herringbone brick walk, and rang the bell. The door opened immediately, thus confirming Faith's suspicion that Millicent had been watching Faith's every move from the bow window in the front parlor.

Millicent Revere McKinley was descended from Ezekiel Revere, a distant relation of the famous man. Ezekiel's claim to fame was casting the monumental bell that had sounded the alarm on Aleford green that famous day and year. The bell and belfry had been moved to the top of a small hill overlooking the green for reasons no one could recall, and Millicent had been trying for years to get the town to move it back to its rightful place. She had also been campaigning to change the town's name to Haleford, which, she averred, was its real moniker, the handwriting of the time having led to this grave historical error. There was a group sympathetic to the moving of the belfry. It was a long climb for tourists. But Millicent was a party of one on the name change, since it was well documented that the town had been named for an early tavern conveniently situated by the best ford across the Concord River for miles. Mention of this was enough to send Millicent for an ax—a portrait of Carrie Nation occupied a prominent position on the wall of the McKinley dining room, next to those of Millicent's parents. After a Spartan dinner there, Tom had observed that even if Millicent had offered anything alcoholic, the combined gazes of this particular trinity were enough to make a man forswear the grape forever. When asked to grace Millicent's board, most Alefordians had a few shots at home first.

Today, crossing the street to Millicent's was like crossing the Rubicon. Faith was going to Millicent for whatever information she could pry out of the woman.
This act, she admitted to herself, represented a commitment to finding out who had murdered Gwen Lord. There was no choice. She'd known this on some level all along.

“Always lovely to see you, Faith dear. On your way to the cleaner's with poor Tom's shirts? Of course, my mother always did my father's. Monday was washing day; Tuesday, ironing. I can still smell the suds and the starch. You young people today, even with all the labor-saving devices they have now—what would Mother have made of a steam iron, I dasn't think!—don't seem to have time to do such menial chores for your loved ones.”

That was where the “poor Tom” came from. Apparently, not seeing to his laundry was spousal abuse. Faith had learned not to answer when Millicent made this kind of remark. It was one of those lose/lose situations. Faith had vowed to “love, honor, and cherish,” but not iron.

She stepped over the threshold into Millicent's hallway and was forced to take a step backward. On either side of the hall, cartons were piled almost to the ceiling. The light was dim, but she could also make out several large sacks of what appeared to be rice and flour.

“What's all this? Are you collecting for a shelter?” Faith was dumbfounded.

“No, dear, although that's a noble thought. This is for me.”

“For you?”

Millicent couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds and wouldn't consume this much food in a year. Had she discovered Costco and run amok, buying in bulk? Faith had heard of people who returned home from the food warehouse with industrial sizes of everything from mustard to cat food, without the slightest use for any of it.

“Yes, for me.” Millicent was leading the way through the narrow passage she'd left clear, then she opened the door to the parlor. Gallons of water in plastic jugs lined the baseboards. A ham radio was set up where her old gramophone had been formerly, and there was a basket brimming with unopened packages of batteries next to the one with her knitting. Faith started to laugh. She couldn't help it.

“Oh, Millicent, don't tell me you're worried about Y2K?”

“Not Y2K, TEOTWAWKI.”

The end of the world as we know it. Faith stopped laughing.

Millicent and Y2K. It actually made sense. Her forebears would have been the ones with plenty of dried jerky and apples, doling out a nibble at a time to fellow needy Pilgrims who hadn't exercised sufficient foresight or self-restraint. Faith could see it all now. She'd be knocking at Millicent's door on New Year's Day, begging an Eveready or a sip of Poland Spring water.

“And you don't even need to depend on batteries for this.” Millicent was waving a flashlight, squeezing the handle like crazy to produce a steady beam of light. “I've got a radio, too,” she announced proudly.

There was an ancient flintlock over the fireplace and Faith glanced down to the hearth for powder and shot. She had no doubt Millicent would be ready for anything—including the breakdown of law and order. Widespread looting could place not only her family portraits and mourning wreaths of braided tresses from several generations at risk but also Millicent's own life work—the accumulation of Aleford memorabilia. Her earliest treasure was a centennial mug, only slightly chipped. The bicentennial had been a bonanza—mugs,
spoons, pens, pencils, even kazoos. This last had been an item distributed on that year's Patriots' Day by Aleford Photo, emblazoned on one side with the date and flag and on the other with their motto—Put Yourself in the Picture—and their name and address. Roughly several thousand were left, and every time the Fairchilds went into the store, Ben was presented with another, much to his delight and awe.

This whole millennium business had been going on for months—or more accurately, years—and Faith had tried to avoid paying much attention to it. Maybe they'd lose power, but that was a frequent occurrence in Aleford. The Fairchild larder was always stocked for a major emergency, and even if they were without electricity for several days, they would survive well on what Faith could cook on the gas stove top. They'd dine quite nicely on pasta, the staff of life, with simple sauces based on canned plum tomatoes; what Faith called “pantry soups” using last-resort cans of good chicken stock (not her own homemade); and bean dishes, such as one with chickpeas, rosemary, extra virgin olive oil, a dash of balsamic vinegar, and flaked Italian tuna. She'd put up a lot of green-tomato chutney last summer, as well as several kinds of jams and preserves. And she had plenty of garlic. She hadn't purchased any survival grub. Faith would far rather face TEOTWAWKI than eat reconstituted eggs.

New Yorkers, of course, were reacting to Y2K in their own inimitable fashion. She'd heard of one canny gourmet who was stocking up on foie gras to barter.
He'd also started laying down champagne well before the recent shortages and astronomical price increases. Faith was skeptical about the champagne crisis, suspecting a plot to fix prices. At this very moment, there were, no doubt, cases and cases of Dom Pérignon secreted in dusty warehouses in Hoboken and Jersey City. The parsonage wine cellar in the basement was full—a Fairchild addition—and included several cases of champagne.

Faith looked at Millicent's pile of batteries. These did make sense and she realized they'd better get some. It would be like fans and air conditioners in July. As they inched closer to midnight, December 31, there wouldn't be a pink bunny in sight. Pink elephants, perhaps, but no Energizers.

“Is First Parish
really
Y2K-prepared?” Millicent fixed Faith with a stern look. She'd always seemed to have an uncanny ability to read other people's minds, and Faith suddenly saw all her frivolous thoughts parading across the room, about to be impaled one by one.

“I think so,” she said hesitatingly.

“You think so? I would have thought by now you would know. I'm afraid you may not be taking this seriously enough, Faith. Sit down.”

Faith sat.

“None of this would have happened if computers had never been invented. There wasn't any of this nonsense at the turn of the last century.”

A sudden mischievous urge to ask Millicent for her
recollections almost overwhelmed Faith. She bit her tongue. An octogenarian forever sixty-nine, Millicent would not think it was funny. At all.

“But like it or not, we're stuck with them.” Her tone made it plain on which side of the fence she came down. “They invented them, but they didn't have the brains to think past their own noses—or, rather, own century. The computer identifies the date by the last two digits, so most of them will think it's 1900, not 2000, as of January first. Are you with me so far?”

Of course Faith knew all this, but it was so much fun to hear Millicent that she simply nodded. Besides, she hadn't thought about Saturday night for five whole minutes.

“This may not seem very important to you, but these things—they call them microchips—control everything from our electric lights to missile systems.”

Lights, and gas for cars, food distribution, ATMs, phone lines, water—Faith had thought of all these, but she hadn't thought about missiles, and for the first time, she felt a bit Y2K-uneasy.

There was a stack of millennial books and magazines piled in the dry sink where Millicent normally kept her African violets. Apparently, she had memorized them.

“Here's just one example. You might want to jot it down to tell Tom.” Millicent obviously regarded them both in the same category as those naysayers who'd insisted the world wasn't round when Columbus set sail. “The average offshore oil rig has ten thousand
microchips, some of them set in concrete and below water level. Now, if a single one malfunctions, the rig won't be able to pump oil. And you can imagine what will happen then. It's the domino effect.” Millicent presented the last concept with a triumphant air. She wasn't simply Y2K-compliant; she was Y2K-propelled.

There was no stopping her. “The average supermarket has roughly a three-day supply of food. How long do you think our Shop and Save could serve the needs of the Aleford community, particularly since the store will likely lose power? And after January first, how is the food going to make its way from the point of production to the point of distribution? Suppose you are a little coffee bean growing on a tree in Colombia. It might seem simple—get picked, roasted, packed, and shipped.”

This was getting weird.

“But all these operations are controlled by microchips. The chances of that bean getting to your kitchen when this hits are roughly the same as of a camel passing through the eye of a needle.”

Or mine of getting out of here without laughing, Faith thought. Apparently in the dark of night, a microchip had somehow embedded itself in Millicent's head.

Millicent flushed. She was doing the Vulcan mind-meld thing again, Faith noted dismally, and she willed her thoughts to what to have for dinner and how nice Millicent's garden had looked last summer.

“But you didn't come here to talk about all this, I'm sure,” Millicent said with a certain amount of good grace. Faith should have been suspicious.
Good
and
grace
were not words normally associated with Millicent, either paired or singly.

“No,” Faith admitted. It was always better to be straightforward. Millicent was going to tell you what she knew or not, and the approach made little difference. Although, if Faith had appeared with a four-foot cube of dehydrated nutrition, the woman might have been softened up. But who knew?

“No,” Faith continued. “I'm sure you've heard about what happened Saturday night at the First Parish fund-raiser at Ballou House.” Millicent had not attended. She only left home in the evenings for historical society and DAR meetings.

“Gwendolyn Lord was murdered,” Millicent said matter-of-factly. “Cyanide in your dessert, apparently.”

“Apparently,” Faith retorted quickly, “but in
her
dessert and only
her
dessert. Nothing to do with Have Faith.”

“Of course,” Millicent murmured. Either the Y2K soliloquy had loosened her tongue or she wanted to talk about what had happened, because she kept going. “I only met the girl once myself. After your spring concert. She was with Jared. Quite beautiful, I thought at the time. Perhaps too beautiful.”

Before Faith could ask her what she meant by that, Millicent added, “I've known Jared since he was a little boy. His parents lived in town, but his grandparents had
a house here and he used to come in the summertime. Even after they were gone, the Gabriels kept the place. It burned sometime in the late seventies. It was close to the river. A sad loss. Jared would come with Nicholas—their grandfathers were brothers. It was never a large family. Just those two little boys and now just those two young men. They all seemed to die so young. I believe Nicholas is in the art business, but I doubt it's anything I would be interested in. I saw the Sargent show and I'm afraid it spoiled me for anything modern. Such terrible colors these days, and the subjects!”

Faith didn't want to get sidetracked. She well knew that Monet was as avant-garde as Millicent got, and even that was a stretch. Returning to her own topic, she said, “The whole thing seems so unlikely. Why would someone want to poison Gwen?”

Millicent shook her head. “Hard to say what motivates the mind of man to commit evil acts.” Millicent tended to talk in aphoristic sentences. Faith pictured a large bowl of slips of paper with similar sayings that Ms. McKinley, or Miss McKinley, as she insisted upon, reached in to memorize each day. “She didn't have any money, at least not yet. Jared is comfortable. Jealousy?”

Faith knew she was not imagining the emphasis Millicent put on the word, nor the way she peered straight into Faith's eyes and soul.

Millicent went on. “A man—or a woman. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Gwendolyn might have snatched someone's beau or someone's some
thing else right from under her nose.” Faith was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Millicent's Y2K supplies seemed to be closing in on her and the air in the crowded room was stuffy. She felt a little like Alice growing too large for the space—and she hadn't eaten a thing. Not that there wasn't plenty around. Millicent continued to ruminate. “Or a man. A spurned lover perhaps? What do they call that now—‘stalking'? Someone in her past upset at the prospect of losing her to another?”

This struck Faith as a better idea than the first suggestion, and one that hadn't occurred to her. Both notions pointed to Gwen's past. It was likely that the answer lay there. It usually did.

It was time to go. She had to drop off Tom's shirts and get back to pick up Amy.

“I'll talk to Tom about whether we are sufficiently prepared for the millennium,” Faith promised, hearing words she never dreamed she would ever be saying.

Millicent smiled sweetly. “I'd say talking to Tom about any number of things might be a good idea. He knew the dead girl better than most.”

The earlier hint—“someone's something else”—took on all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Her willingness to discuss Gwen Lord's death with Faith became sickeningly clear. Faith felt dizzy and leaned against a pile of boxes labeled
CANNED GOODS
to steady herself, then rapidly threaded her way past Millicent's provisions and opened the front door.

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Good-bye, dear. Drop by any time.” She patted Faith on the shoulder in an overt gesture of affection, or pity—Faith couldn't decide which. All she knew was that she felt as if she'd been to the doctor and the prognosis was grim.

 

On the way home, she addressed herself with brutal honesty. Yes, she'd been jealous of Gwen and, yes, she was disturbed by Tom's behavior since Saturday night, but of course it would have been a shock to see the woman you'd been dancing cheek-to-cheek with moments before lying dead at your feet. That had to have been all it was. This was Tom! But this was also Aleford and if Millicent was dropping elephantine hints, then everyone else in town would soon be saying, “Where there's smoke there's fire, and maybe the jealous wife did have something to do with that poor girl's death. She probably just meant to make her a little sick but put too much of whatever it was in the dessert.” Insidious whispers echoed in Faith's thoughts. It wasn't reality. Reality was her good marriage, her children, her job.

It would be winter soon, and shadows were lengthening even in the early afternoon. It was all very wearying.

When she got home, she decided to phone Charley MacIsaac and find out when she could expect to get back into her kitchen. She had several events coming up and wanted to occupy herself with work.

“You know the state, Faith. Nothing happens in a hurry. They said they'd check everything today, but I
haven't heard from them yet. I know that John and his crew are finished.”

It had occurred to Faith that Dunne would need to check her premises—on the off chance that Niki or she had left a vial of cyanide lying on the counter. “Vial?” She didn't even know what the cyanide used looked like. A powder? Liquid? Little granules? To be mixed with the dessert toppings, granules, crystals, made the most sense.

“Can't you light a fire under someone? I need to get back to work,” Faith urged, knowing full well that Charley wouldn't do it and that even if he did, it would have to be a blaze of bonfire proportions.

“I'll call them again,” he promised. “Enjoy yourself. Take some time off. Most people would be thrilled.”

Faith hung up and then called Have Faith to check her messages. Her throat closed. Thrilled! The word was
panicked
. All but two of the events for the next several weeks had been canceled. Some people tried hard to come up with excuses—“postponing,” “illness in the family,” “sudden cash-flow problem.” Some didn't bother. She was left with a dinner at one of the clubs up on the North Shore, featuring game, and the sixtieth birthday party of one of her most stalwart customers. It was being arranged as a surprise by the woman's husband, and Faith prayed that when the birthday girl walked into her dining room, after all her friends had jumped up from behind the living room furniture, and saw Faith, she wouldn't lose her appetite.