The Body in the Moonlight (9 page)

“This is such a beautiful room,” Faith said, aware of the understatement but at a loss for a way to express how exquisite it all was, except in the most clichéd phrases. “These tiles…” She gestured toward the fireplace.

“Gruebys. The company was in Boston. You've probably run across the tulip ones—a single blossom
against a dark green background? I'm very fond of this period, both in Britain and in the United States. The notion that everyday items should have as much artistic integrity as paintings or sculptures is a credo of mine, too. Do sit down.”

Faith was tempted by one of several window seats, covered in Morris's Strawberry Thief pattern, but she chose the leather couch, nearer to hand. Scott nodded approvingly, murmured, “Original upholstery,” and selected a remarkable-looking oak chair across from it. The chair's tall back started at the ground and was made up of thin verticals, the outside one on each side forming the legs. It loomed thronelike even over Scott's height.

Faith took a guess. “Charles Rennie Mackintosh?”

“Close, close, but it's Frank Lloyd Wright, designed for the Robie House in Chicago around 1908. Well”—he rubbed his hands together—“you've discovered my passion, one that I was fortunate enough to develop early. When all this was considered junk. Either your grandmother gave it to the Salvation Army or it was relegated to the children's or servants' rooms. Or even worse, tossed out. I found one Stickley chair by a curb in Cambridge on trash day.”

There was a massive sideboard against one wall and it was covered with art pottery. “That stuff”—he pointed to the vases and bowls—“I mostly picked up in yard sales and flea markets. Now Sotheby's auctions it. But you didn't come here to chat about Rookwood versus Weller.”

“No, although I'd like to hear about it sometime.” She knew he was talking about the pottery, but the differences were hard to distinguish. The colors were similar, as well as the use of organic forms. Her mind was wandering. She brought it back.

“This may sound a bit odd, but I wondered if you'd give me your impressions about what happened on Saturday night. I mean, you invent this kind of thing and perhaps—”

“Perhaps I could take a busman's holiday and solve the crime? What a novel idea! A plot in and of itself! I am honored. Shall we unravel the threads over tea? Or sherry, if you prefer, although I think tea would better suit what I hope is in that package by your side. We'll have it in the library. I've a fire there, and it's also where I work. The muse pervades its air and may speed us along.”

A bellpull hung on the wall. It was embroidered with an intricate design of vines and roses. Anson got up and gave it a hearty yank. A woman who could have been anywhere from forty to sixty appeared. She was dressed in a dark sweater and skirt. Her starched white collar stood out. Nothing else about her did.

“Sir?”

“Tea, please, Margery, in the library, and my guest has brought provisions.” He took the bag from Faith and handed it to the housekeeper, who gave a small nod and disappeared.

“Come, let us cogitate,” he said. At this point, Faith didn't care whether he gave her any ideas or not. The
whole experience was fascinating and getting curiouser and curiouser.

In the library, in front of the fire, he sat still, like a pointer by a fallen bird. Finally, he said, “An interesting choice of venue. A murder mystery dinner. There might be something there. The plot was childishly simple. Who wrote the thing?”

In concentrating on the murder, Faith had overlooked the fact that the whole point of the evening was murder—or solving one. She had no idea who'd written the story. It was probably something Paula had bought. Faith had seen them for sale, along with those mystery jigsaw puzzles, in any number of stores. She realized that she didn't even know who the murderer was.

“I was paying more attention to the menu. I assume Paula Pringle, who was in charge of the event, bought one of those mystery dinner party kits.”

“No doubt, no doubt, but it's a possible angle. Our killer reads it beforehand and tailors the crime to fit. Many murderers are quite conceited and love to play tricks like this. Evidence in front of your nose, that sort of thing. The basic fact of a premeditated murder is that he or she has total confidence in his or her ability to get away with it—fool the world. So, the game—which, by the way, was quite obvious and I was correct.” He smiled engagingly. “I read ahead to the solution printed at the end of our booklets, as did several other naughty guests at the table. I spotted them. The old man was killed by his grandson, in part be
cause the grandfather objected to the lad's taste in fiancées—although, the lass
was
totally unscrupulous and interested only in young Willoughby's healthy cash flow. But the main motive for the young sprig was righting an ancient wrong. He'd nursed this grievance for years. Seems his grandfather had been indirectly responsible for young Willoughby's mother's descent into alcoholism and early death. When she'd married into the family, Forbes senior had insisted that she cut herself off completely from her own family, humble but honest yeomen, and even though she complied with his wishes, he continued to treat her as nothing more than a servant. Unlike our murder, it was murder committed in a fit of passion. The grandfather's objection to the fiancée was the match to the shavings.”

Nothing at all like Anson Scott's books, Faith thought. There was passion, but it was never straightforward, and certainly
much
bloodier than the country house crime enacted at the dinner. The grandfather would have been found in several parts, scattered about the estate. If they'd been following a Scott script, no one would have been able to eat.

“Gwendolyn Lord was playing the fiancée,” Anson continued. “I was the butler and, let's see, wasn't your husband playing Willoughby Forbes the Third?”

Faith nodded. Yes, the good reverend. Tom. Tom, her husband. The murderer.

The housekeeper arrived with a loaded tray. The silver tea service gleamed. Sliced lemons, hot water, milk, sugar, Faith's muffins and scones, arranged with
the housekeeper's addition of tea sandwiches and thin sugar cookies—it was all there.

“Thank you, Margery,” Anson said approvingly, and got up to stoke the fire. The housekeeper silently disappeared.

“Will you be mother?” he called over his shoulder to Faith.

“I am and I will,” she replied. It was getting to be more and more like an Oscar Wilde play. She expected Lady Bracknell at any moment.

“Milk or lemon?”

“Milk and three lumps of sugar, please. I'm terribly greedy.”

She put the cup down in front of him and poured one for herself. He was already eating one of her muffins with great relish. Looking behind him, she could see rows of bookshelves filled with leather-bound copies of his titles, as well as the translations into virtually every tongue on the planet. The walls were decorated with framed posters of the books that had been made into movies, as well as with a variety of scrolls and plaques, most of which were decorated with skulls, daggers, or gore of some nature.

“I've been trying to think of a motive. Gwen wasn't wealthy, so money is out.” Faith was feeling hopelessly outclassed.

“But there are so many, many more motives. More interesting ones—love, hate, fear, jealousy, pride—hubris, overweening pride, that is.” He was smiling broadly. The man obviously loved his work.

“What about the choice of poison? What does that say about the mind of the killer?”

“The psychological approach, yes! Poison is often a coward's choice—one doesn't necessarily have to be present to kill. Murderers are frequently cowards, you know. Terribly, terribly fearful people. Presumably, the killer was in attendance in order to get at the dessert and saw the death throes of the victim, hence perhaps, although a poisoner, not such a coward after all. More tea, if you will be so kind.”

He put several sandwiches and a scone on his plate. “I assume you will be visiting my fellow scribblers.” The look he gave Faith was definitely mischievous.

“I hope to—if they'll see me.”

“Take food, my dear. No one will refuse you. And come again to see me, even without your sumptuous victuals. I'd like to hear what they have to say. I'll be out of town, plugging my latest effort, for the next week, but I'll be back for a good while thereafter.”

The housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

“More tea, sir? Is the water still hot enough?”

“Everything's fine, thank you.”

She melted away. With that, it was time for Faith to return to her own family, accompanied by the famous man's ruminations. Ruminations—she was starting to sound like him. She laughed to herself.

 

The visit to Adder Chase, for such was the name of Scott's house—his first bestseller had been
The Adder's Smile
—had put Faith in a good mood. She was
doing something. What that was was not exactly clear, but the mystery writer had given her a great deal to think about and had issued an invitation for her to return and “cogitate” some more at “a moment's notice.” If each author provided similar fodder, she should have the whole thing figured out in no time. She knew it was a brave thought.

Tom was home for dinner. Afterward, Faith bathed Amy, tucked her in, and went to clean up the kitchen while Tom read some
Harry Potter
to Ben. From the sounds she heard, it was hard to say who was enjoying it more. She'd poached some boneless, skinless chicken thighs and breasts, then covered them with a sour cream and caramelized onion sauce. There had also been herbed basmati rice and haricots vert, the thin French string beans steamed just to the point of tenderness, but still crisp. As she dried the last pot, the doorbell rang. Her heart sank. Damn this job. The cozy evening in front of the fire with her husband, the kind of evening they hadn't had for weeks, vanished with the sound. The bell rang again. She hastily dried her hands and went to answer it.

“Hello, Faith. I'm sorry to bother you at night, but I wondered if I could talk to Tom for a moment. You, too, actually.”

It was George Hammond, the principal of Aleford's Winthrop Elementary School. Ben's principal. What on earth could her kindergartner have done that required a home visit from the principal? And why hadn't she been called? There was a boy named Jerry,
whom Ben kept talking about. Jerry was always getting into trouble. Each day, there was a new Jerry tale—broken crayons, shoving in line, and, worst of all, talking back to Mrs. Black! Maybe there wasn't a Jerry. Maybe Jerry was Ben!

Her thoughts raced as she smiled graciously, offered coffee, which was refused, seated the principal and headed upstairs, two at a time, to get Tom. Ben was beginning to drowse, Faith gave him a quick kiss and turned off the light, pulling Tom into the hall.

“George Hammond is downstairs.”

“I thought I heard the bell.” Tom moved down the hall.

“What do you think's the matter? What could Ben have done?”

“Ben? I'm sure it has nothing to do with Ben. His teacher would have called,” Tom said sensibly. “George probably wants to corral us into volunteering for something.”

Which could be worse.

But it was neither. George came straight to the point. “I've gotten a couple of nasty phone calls, and the latest one has accused me of molesting the children at school. It will be all over town soon, and I haven't the slightest idea what to do about it except resign.”

Tom found his voice first. “This is monstrous, George, and obviously the work of a very sick individual. I'll do everything I can to help you. Have you notified the police?”

The principal shook his head. “Thank you, Tom, but I don't think you understand. I came to tell you what was happening before you heard it from someone else. There's really nothing you—or anyone else—can do about the situation.”

Faith felt the fury that had been welling up inside her boil over. “That's crazy! I mean, the whole thing is crazy! People know you—some of them all their lives. You're one of the most trusted and loved men in town.” George was among a small handful of residents who'd twice received the Bronze Musket Award, presented every year on Patriots' Day to a resident who best typified the spirit of Aleford.

“I think I'll have that coffee after all. You're new to the school system and there's a lot you don't know,” George said ruefully.

They moved into the kitchen and soon Faith placed
a steaming mug of coffee into his hands. She set a dish loaded with oatmeal lace cookies on the big round table and took a seat herself. What George had said was true. Since the beginning of school in September, she'd felt overwhelmed by her ignorance of school mores. Pix was a wonderful guide through the labyrinth, but Faith was sure that even Pix would be stunned by this curve.

George spoke calmly and evenly. It was his normal demeanor. “Over the years, a climate of hysteria has taken hold, to the point where any and all accusations are accepted as fact, even when the individual is proved innocent. I've watched colleagues of mine in other parts of the state and country try to deal with this issue either for themselves or their staff. Their lives become a nightmare—and, in some cases, not worth living. There have been several suicides and any number of sudden ‘car accidents.' The worst part of it is that we can't be the kind of teachers and administrators we want to be. The kind we used to be.”

He sipped some coffee. The cookies went untouched.

“It's been years since I've been able to comfort a crying child by giving him or her a hug. No more encouraging pats on the back. No outward signs of physical affection or support at all. We've had faculty meetings about it. I tell my teachers they have to make their words palpable; their voices the equivalent of a nurturing hand. They understand. They're scared.”

Faith was remembering her elementary-school
teachers—warm individuals; one in particular, who had a rocking chair and a large lap.

“What happened to trust?” she said bitterly. “I don't want Ben and Amy to miss what I had growing up. Kids need pats on the back, hugs, and someone at school to dry their tears!”

George nodded, then continued to speak. “Sexual abuse in childhood is just about the worst thing that can happen to a person, particularly if the abuser is a close authority figure like a teacher. I don't want to minimize that. But the incidence is minuscule. Familial abuse is far more common, and we are always on the alert for it. The public, however, thinks otherwise. We're with children all day. There's proximity and that gives an automatic credence to any accusations.”

“How many calls have you had?” Tom asked.

“This was the second. The first was three weeks ago. I'd kidded myself into thinking that it was an over-the-edge parent dissatisfied with teacher placement or something like that who was making a onetime obscene phone call. The person didn't come right out with the accusation, unlike the latest one, but rambled on about my character in general, until I hung up. Maybe I missed the point, because I didn't want to deal with it, but there was no missing the message tonight. The call convinced me it's not going to stop—not just the phone calls but also the rumors that will be spreading soon. I came here for solace—and to be sure you knew the truth, too, I suppose.”

“We would never believe anything like this about you!” Faith protested.

George Hammond smiled slightly. “I hope not—and yes, I'm sure not. But you'd be amazed at what people will believe if they think their children are affected.”

“We can organize parents—and the rest of the town—in your defense. We can't let you be driven out by this kind of witch-hunt. It's McCarthyism all over again,” Tom said. “The parish will support you.” He was already framing a sermon.

Again, George smiled. “Any more coffee? I appreciate all this, Tom, but I'm not sure I have the energy to fight—and a fight it will be. A nasty, knock-down-drag-out fight. Headlines not just in the
Aleford Chronicle,
but the
Globe
and the
Herald,
as well. TV. This stuff is a gold mine for boosting circulation and ratings. Do I want every aspect of my life placed under this kind of microscope? And what about the town? The superintendent and the school committee are going to be put on the line. I'm not sure I want to know where they stand. You folks are still not getting it. This means the end of a career, no matter what the truth may be.”

“What will you do?” Faith whispered. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“Well, Polly and I had always planned to move to our cottage in Maine when I retired. After she died, I held on to it, even though I wasn't sure what I'd do. Now, it's beginning to look very attractive. My kids are scattered all over the place, and Maine is the one
constant in all our lives. The problem is that if I resign, it will be tantamount to an admission of guilt. If I don't, it means I'll be smack in the middle of this ugliness. I'd like to see the year out, but I may not be able to. Let's just say I know I'm leaving; I don't know when or how.”

“It may be that we don't fully appreciate all the ramifications of the situation, but I'd like you to consider at least telling Chief MacIsaac and immediately getting caller ID—I assume you don't have it—so you can get a lead on who's making the calls. It could be someone who is such an obvious crackpot—and you know we have those in Aleford—that no one will believe the charge,” Tom said forcefully.

George finished his coffee and rubbed his forehead. “God knows, I don't want to leave my school. I'd hoped for at least three more years,” he said. “I'll call the phone company in the morning—and go see Charley.”

“A man or a woman?” Faith asked. “On the phone.”

“Impossible to tell. The voice was disguised. But during the second call, there was a TV on in the background. I could faintly hear the theme song from that children's show
Wishbone
when I first picked up the phone; then it sounded as if a door shut.”'

“So, definitely a parent—or an adult with juvenile tastes—but much more likely a parent who's parked junior in front of the TV in the next room while making the call. And you're sure both calls were made by the same person?”

“Definitely. Same voice. I guess there's a silver lining here. At least I don't have two people after me.”

“What did you say back?”

“The first time I asked who it was a couple of times and then hung up. Tonight, I asked again, but when the person kept on talking, I lost it a little and said, ‘Goddamn it, leave me alone,' and whoever it was hung up.”

But you didn't deny it, Faith thought with dismay—not that it would have made any difference to someone crazy enough to bring the accusation in the first place.

They talked some more and even managed to laugh together at Ben's utter devotion to Mrs. Black. “She still gets Christmas cards from the families of kids she had fifteen, twenty years ago,” George told them.

He stood up to leave. “A school night, you know.” Both Faith and Tom hugged him. And he hugged them right back.

 

Faith had one arm around Tom's waist. They were lying in bed together, like spoons. She could tell he was wide-awake. After the principal left, they had talked of nothing else. It seemed to Faith that poison, real and figurative, was seeping from Aleford's every pore.

“You can do more about this than I can.” Tom rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow.

“What do you mean?”

“You're in the school a lot more than I am. Find out if any parents have particular grudges against George—or any teachers. We should have asked him
that, and I will, but he may not be aware of everything that's going on, even if he is the principal. But mothers are—the mothers who are at Winthrop all the time.”

Faith was surprised that Tom had picked up on all this. It was true that mothers ran the nonacademic side of the school and father volunteers were few and far between, to the point where they were suspect.

“Here's a time when you can use your powers of investigation—and without any danger. You're good at this. We can't simply stand back and watch a man's whole life be destroyed.” Tom was extremely agitated. Faith had seldom seen him so worked up. “There's an unhealthy tendency in this town, any town, to feed on rumors like this without questioning the source. A man's reputation is at stake here. It's the damn whispers, not the shouts, that bring people down,” he added bitterly.

She wanted to ask whom he was talking about now, but she said instead, “I'll try to find out as much as I can. We'd better get some sleep.”

Tom rolled back over, and soon Faith heard his regular breathing. Heard it while lying wide-awake. Tom wanted her to find out who was launching this attack on George and why. She wanted to know, too. But she did not intend to stop her other investigation—the one Tom didn't know about. She'd moonlight.

Her plate was pretty full at the moment. Maybe the cancellations weren't such a bad thing after all. Sleep began to descend. Aleford. A sleepy little New England town. Give me the city that never sleeps, she
thought as a sharp pang of homesickness struck. When this was all over, she'd take the kids to visit their New York grandparents. When this was all over—whatever “this” was.

 

The obvious place to start investigating what Faith was calling “the problem at Winthrop,” as opposed to “the problem at Ballou,” was next door—at Pix's house—although there she could cover both. After getting everyone off for the morning, Faith went over, stuck her head in the back door, and called, “Pix, are you home?” Just as she was about to leave, figuring that her friend was out walking the dogs, since the car was in the driveway, Pix called back, “Pour yourself some coffee. I'll be right down.”

Faith poured herself a cup. Making good coffee was Pix's penultimate culinary accomplishment. Everything else concocted in this kitchen was hit-or-miss. Gastronomically challenged, there was an unpredictability to her offerings that left her friends and family completely in the dark. It wasn't a question of feast or famine, but feast or what could this possibly be?

Coffee was the elixir of life in suburbia and coursed through innumerable everyday encounters—coffee to wake up, midmorning coffee with a friend, coffee at meetings, afternoon coffee, coffee as an offering, the container something to hold. It wasn't even really necessary to drink it. It had to be given—and taken. A rite.

“I promised myself that I would just shut the door and not get worked up about the mess in Danny's
room, but I totally lost it this morning when I went in to wake him—he forgot to set his alarm again—and discovered that a wet towel he'd thrown on top of a pile of dirty clothes under his bed was producing an odor not unlike Limburger cheese. I've been cleaning, and from now on, it's going to be like camp—inspections from Mom. What's up? You're holding that mug with two hands in what looks from here like a vise grip, and you haven't drunk a drop.” Pix pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek from the wrong side of her part, ended the outburst, and flopped into a chair across from her friend.

Faith put the mug down and told her what had happened the night before.

“I know you won't tell anyone, except Sam. And anyway, George seemed to think it would be all over town soon.”

Pix listened in silence, her face stricken. She'd sat up straight after the first sentence.

“Oh, it will be all over town all right. And all over every town in Massachusetts and other parts of New England. And why something like this has to happen to probably the best person ever to work in our school system is totally beyond me. A real test of faith. I know all about bad things happening to good people and I believe God is not a puppeteer, but wasn't it enough for George to lose Polly to ovarian cancer? He kept her home, and I can tell you, it was a hard death. Now this. I don't know whether to be relieved or sad that she's not here.”

“I'm sorry I never knew her. She died just before we were married. Tom has spoken of her often. She must have been wonderful.”

“She was,” Pix said emphatically. “And a strong woman. She would hold her head high and get George through this. But it would also have been horrible for her to watch the town she loved and grew up in tear her husband to pieces, because that's what will happen. He's right. There will be defenders and supporters, but he'll always be remembered as the principal with the problem—no matter whose problem it turns out to be.”

“Tom wants me to try to find out who it is.” As Faith told this to Pix, she realized that she wasn't sure how to take Tom's words from the night before: “You're good at this.” It was an affirmation. It was also a challenge. And a funny sort of challenge if you added “You think” to the beginning of the sentence—words she had felt hanging in the air. It was a command performance. There had been an edge to his voice. It was that edge that had kept her awake.

Pix was nodding. “I agree with Tom. I can't think of anyone in a better position. You can check things out at school and in the congregation. George is on the Anniversary Campaign committee and has been pretty vocal about using the money for the crypt.”