Body In The Belfry ff-1

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Well, the kid's all we have so far, so we'd better concentrate on finding him. Now how much of a problem is this Mrs. Fairchild going to be ? I know the type—couldn't wait for us to leave so she could sit down with her husband and solve the case.”

  MacIsaac laughed. "She's an intelligent woman. I don't think she's going to put herself in any danger. I doubt she'll interfere and Tom's as sensible as they come."

  “If she's so smart, too bad we can't recruit her to fill out all the damned reports and let us get away from the desk long enough to get a handle on things.”

  The paperwork was Dunne's least favorite part of the job. He wasn't sure he had a favorite part, but he knew what he hated. His father had been a cop. He'd died of a massive coronary while chasing a suspect. Dunne was three years old and too young to hear the pros and cons of the business. His mother wanted him to go to college and he'd ended up at Columbia on a Regent's scholarship. He stayed for two years, developed a taste for elegant clothes and New Orleans jazz, then enlisted in the army. He knew he'd be going to Vietnam, and he wanted to do it on his own terms. When he returned from the war, he became a cop, just as he had always assumed he would. Anything else would have been boring. All the paperwork in the world could be balanced by ten minutes of action. He married and moved to Mas- sachusetts, the midway point between his family and his wife's in Maine—a bitch of a drive either way. That was ten years ago and he'd mellowed a little. This bothered him occasionally. Without the city to keep him perpetually in a state of alert, he worried he might be losing his edge, and this Aleford case didn't promise to be much of a sharpener. It was probably the boyfriend or someone like him. One look at the girl had told him that. Of course it was these easy assumptions that always turned out to be wrong. That was the fun of it.

  “All right, Charley, we'll look for the kid, then I'll toss you for the reports.”

  Charley looked a little askance.

  “Just kidding.”

  Tom called the Svensons as soon as the police left, but they either didn't know where Dave was or weren't saying anything. So he started going down the list of kids who he knew were friends of Dave in the parish. At noon, he called it quits.

  “He does seem to have vanished into thin air, Faith. At any rate, if someone I spoke to does know where he is, he'll get the message that I'm looking for him and maybe he'll show up here again.”

  He went upstairs, donned his collar, and got ready to go to the Moores'. They had asked Faith to come, too. She wasn't sure whether it was because they wanted to talk to her about finding the body or because she, as the minister's wife, could offer support to them in their grief. She was still new at the support business and hoped it was the former. She was looking forward to some discreet inquiries into the life and death of Cindy Shepherd and it would be hard to direct the conversation that way if she was going to be limited to empathetic nods and gentle pats on the shoulder.

  They left Benjamin at home with thirteen-year-old Samantha Miller from next door, whom Faith was grooming for a life of baby-sitting bondage. She fervently hoped Samantha 's shyness lasted through high school. Not that she wanted her to be unpopular, but the baby-sitter wars in Aleford made the War for Independence look like a fistfight. And the parsonage didn 't have Nintendo or big screen TV to lure anyone. Sure, the snacks were superior, but Samantha, like most teenagers, preferred Doritos and diet Coke to tarte tatin and Faith 's secret recipe puff pastry cheese straws.

  Faith had fallen in love with the Moores' house the first time Tom took her there, and further acquaintance had served to deepen the passion. It was the most beautiful house in Aleford, just on the other side of the river and a short drive or long walk from the center, depending on one's time and temperament. Cindy had never walked once she got her license ; Patricia Moore only used the car for shopping.

  Behind the house the garden sloped gently down to the water. When the river flooded, some of the flower beds were submerged and the old swing set that stood on the banks was an informal yardstick of the severity of the storm. One wet spring the swings had floated back and forth with the current for a week. No one had ever thought to move them or take them down now that the children were grown. They had always been there and so they stayed. Which was the case with most things in the house. Whatever found its way inside never left. The house was a fantastic, glorious muddle of the treasure and trivia of many generations.

  Patricia Moore 's great-great-grandfather, Jeremiah Cox, had been a ship captain and later owner of a fleet of vessels, which, from the look of things, had never unloaded cargo except at this landing. He built the original square clapboard house, but it was Patricia's great grandfather, Martin, who added a wing here and there as his family and fortunes increased. Now it was a rambling house, painted that buttery yellow so beloved of New Englanders, with black shutters and white trim. It looked like a smaller, slightly eccentric version of Long-fellow's home in Cambridge. Patricia's grandparents had added a deep porch, which stretched across the back of the house so they could sit in their wicker rockers and watch the river go by. It wasn't screened in. Mosquitoes either never bit people in Aleford or were studiously ignored, which amounted to the same thing. Maybe everyone put repellent on behind closed doors. The first time Faith went to one of the church picnics and took out a container of Off !, the whole congregation looked as if she had whipped out a hip flask of hootch.

  Tom and Faith climbed the front stairs. Patricia had seen them from the window and was opening the door. She had been born in the house and as she stepped forward to greet them, Faith suddenly imagined a whole line of Patricia's ancestors making the same gestures and smiling the same warm but not gushing smile. And Patricia's grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren, too, would watch her and inherit the legacy of this graciousness. Her two children, Rob and Jenny, had. Cindy hadn't.

  Faith's small apartment in New York had been the last word in stripped-down High Tech. The only color had been the flowers delivered by Mädderlake each week. Yet she coveted every square inch of Patricia's house, from the patchwork quilts on the spool and four-poster beds to the china closets crammed with export porcelain, and set after set of Limoges wedding china.

  They sat down in the living room and Faith stopped her usual envious inventory to listen.

  Patricia started right in with plans for the funeral. "We would have wanted things to be simple in any case, Tom, and the fact that it was murder makes that seem all the more important somehow," she said.

  “Not that it 's something to be ashamed of, my dear," Robert interjected.

  “Oh, no," Patricia responded, "It's just that there will probably be a lot of newspaper reporters and people who don 't even know us. So we thought a brief service now and a memorial service sometime in the spring.”

  Patricia looked very tired and drawn. So did Robert. Faith was used to seeing them hale and hearty. The Moores looked remarkably alike. Or perhaps, Faith mused, it was true that married people grew to look like each other. She darted a quick glance at Tom and felt reassured.

  Both Robert and Patricia were tall, fair-haired Yankees with slightly equine faces and well-shaped feet and hands. Capable hands.

  Patricia was an avid and knowledgeable gardener, president of the local garden club, The Evergreens. Robert was some kind of lawyer. Faith never heard him talk about his work. Only sailing. The Moores had a summer house on the coast of New Hampshire and Robert sailed every chance he could get. They were still tan from all this outdoor activity, but the tan seemed to have faded overnight, like one of the countless watercolor landscapes done by Patricia's forebears that hung on the walls, bleached from years of sun.

  Even Patricia's normally crisp white round-collared blouse looked wilted. Faith always wondered where on earth Patricia found her clothes and had decided that she must have a stockpile of vintage Villager shirtwaists in Liberty cottons, John Meyer A-line wool skirts, matching sweaters, and blouses. Patricia also wore those Pappagallo pumps that look like
bedroom slippers and she had on the discreet diamond and sapphire circle pin Robert had given her when they got married. Aside fromher gold wedding band and diamond solitaire from Shreve's, it was the only jewelry Faith had ever seen her wear. And the diamond was usually in a dish by the sink, since Patricia's hands were usually in the soil.

  “Did Cindy have a favorite poet or piece of music that would be appropriate to the service ? " Tom was asking.

  Faith thought for a moment that a look of irritation crossed Robert 's face before he replied, "None of which we are aware, Tom. Why don't you choose something?"

  “Maybe Wordsworth? A slumber did my spirit seal'? Or part of Tintern Abbey'?" Patricia offered.

  Patricia had been an English major at Wellesley, Faith recalled.

  Reaching back to her own British Poets 101, she thought "I travell'd among unknown men" would have been more appropriate, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “Wordsworth has always been a family favorite," Patricia said and stopped abruptly. She started again before Tom could say anything, "And to be perfectly honest, if Cindy had a favorite, it would undoubtedly be inappropriate if not blasphemous.”

  Faith decided it was time for someone to do something about the situation. These people were simply too good to be allowed to suffer like this.

  “Patricia, Cindy was not Tom's favorite youth group member and although I am appalled and angry at what has happened, she was not someone I found easy to like either.”

  The Moores breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  “That's it exactly, Faith. Thank you. We have to make the service a decent one, but not ludicrous. Cindy hurt a great many people in this town. It was our fault, really, for allowing her to get so out of hand, but we can't be hypocrites. The last few years with her have been very difficult ones and enough people, which is to say all of Aleford, know, so any pretentious show of mourning would be a lie," Robert spoke bitterly. "We are to blame," said Patricia, "but I don't know what we could have done differently. The person I feel sorriest for is Dave. He's lost his fiancée and the police suspect him of murder, which is, of course, absurd. Apparently Cindy and Dave had a fight Thursday night and the police believe her murder was a crime of passion." She gave a somewhat crooked smile.

  Tom spoke. "We We can't believe it was Dave either, and I'm hoping he'll get in touch with me." Faith noticed he didn 't say "again." He was learning, or maybe already knew. "I wouldn't be surprised if he came to you, Patricia, you've always been so close."

  “ Yes, I keep looking out at the garden, half expecting to see him there.”

  Dave had started helping Patricia in the garden when he was a little boy and it had grown into a labor of love for the two of them.

  The door opened and thirteen-year-old Jenny Moore walked into the room. She looked a good deal worse than her parents, genuinely distraught. Either that or, Faith quickly conjectured, like a person with something to hide.

  “Jenny, why don't you show Mrs. Fairchild the garden while we finish up in here ? " her mother asked. "Sure," muttered Jenny, a terse monosyllable from this normally bouncy kid.

  Definitely hiding something, Faith concluded.

  They walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. The garden was filled with mums—not stiffly in pots nor those funny football pompoms, but cascades of white, lavender, and gold—all sizes and shapes. Here and there a rosebush was still in bloom. Patricia was famous for her roses. Some were very old ; varieties mostly vanished from the seed catalogs, with names like " Old Blush "and "Rosa Mundi." They filled the air with a sweet fragrance that mingled with the bitter smell of the mums. Someone was burning leaves. Maybe autumn in Aleford wasn't so bad.

  Faith sat down on a bench under one of the rose trellises and stretched her legs out to the sun. Jenny sat next to her. Clearly the girl was miserable. Her eyes were filled with tears. Could Cindy and Jenny have been close ? Somehow Faith automatically assumed that anyone she liked couldn't like Cindy, but Jenny was virtually her sister and she had lived with her all these years.

  “Jenny, is there anything you want to talk about with me ? Anything you want to ask ? I know this has been a terrible shock for you.”

  Faith put her arm around Jenny 's shoulders and Jenny began to sob.

  “It's Mom and Dad ! This is so awful for them and it's just like Cindy to do it. She caused them so much trouble when she was alive and now she's dead and it's worse than ever ! The phone rings all the time and all the newspapers have stories about us. It's even on TV ! Robby called from college and some reporter had gotten into his dorm." She stopped a moment and grinned through her tears.

  “His buddies helped him throw the guy out the window." She gave Faith a reassuring look. "Not a very high window.”

  So much for grief, Faith thought.

  “Jenny, I know that at the moment things must be terrible for you and your parents, but they will calm down soon. The police will find the murderer and the public will find something else to talk about. You'll see.”

  Here was a chance to practice. Was this what a minister 's wife would say ? What would her mother say ? Actually she found it impossible to imagine her mother in this situation. The idea of one of her father's parishioners getting murdered was just too crazy.

  The idea of one of Tom 's was as bizarre, but here they were.

  Jenny had stopped crying and, impelled by her promise to Dave and by native curiosity, Faith started to probe.

  “Jenny, this may sound strange, but do you think Cindy was seeing anyone else besides Dave?”

  Faith was sure there was another man involved in this business somewhere. She was banking on sex. Tom thought it was money. They had bet each other a dinner at a restaurant of their own choosing once the mystery was solved. Faith had something like Le Cirque in mind and Tom, she was sure, would opt for Durgin Park. Remembering the giant slabs of beef hanging over thick china plates unceremoniously banged down on the table by a waitress whose surliness was supposed to be some kind of treasured Bostonian tradition, Faith felt she had to win. For Dave, for herself, and for la qualité de vie.

  “One! Try twelve or thirteen," snorted Jenny, "Cindy thought she was Scarlett O'Hara or something.”

  The movie had been on TV recently. Faith nodded sagely.

  “But was there someone particular ? " she asked. Jenny looked evasive and didn 't answer right away. "I think there might have been. But she didn 't talk to me about that stuff much," she said finally.

  I'll bet she didn 't, Faith thought, conjuring up a distasteful image of Cindy boasting to little Jenny about her sexual conquests. But why was the girl lying?

  “You know it 's not all Cindys and Scarlett O'Haras, ' Faith said.

  “Oh, you mean sex, Mrs. Fairchild? I know that. Look at Mom and Dad," replied Jenny.

  Faith was surprised. The Moores had always suggested cozy comfort rather than Alex Comfort, but then one never knew. In any case, Jenny was okay and apparently not soured on men, women, and relationships for life despite her close association with Cindy.

  “So how did she look anyway ? " Jenny asked after a moment.

  “You mean Cindy?"

  “Yes. That is, if you don 't mind talking about it." Absolutely no need to worry about Jenny, Faith thought again, and proceeded to give her what she hoped was a satisfactory description of the scene in the belfry. Although Jenny did seem a bit disappointed that there hadn't been more blood.

  As they strolled back toward the house, Jenny looked up with a bright face. "They're going to bury her in her wedding gown, just like in the books, only Cindy didn't go mad with unspeakable horror on her wedding night.”

  What kind of books was this child reading? Then Faith remembered the rows of turn-of-the-century ladies' novels that lined the Moores' bookshelves mixed in with first editions of T. S. Eliot and Henry James.

  “You don 't think that it 's too weird, do you?" Jenny wanted to know. “ The wedding dress ? “

  Faith did think it was a little
weird. She supposed they had to bury her in something, but a Priscilla of Boston wedding gown did not seem much like a winding sheet, which was what Faith vaguely imagined most people were buried in.

  “ I haven 't decided whether I want to be buried or cremated," continued Jenny, " How about you ? “

  Faith reached for Jenny's hand. She was reassured. Jenny was definitely fine. Whatever it was that Faith sensed was bothering her had not dulled her normal adolescent ghoulishness.

  “Neither, dear," she answered her, "I plan to float gently into the sky at the moment of dissolution only to return to earth as an unforgetable meteor shower." Faith had read this in a novel recently and it sounded good to her.

  Jenny giggled. "Does Reverend Fairchild know about this ? "

  “Absolutely," assured Faith, "But he doesn't like to talk about it, so don 't mention it, please.”

  The girl giggled some more and they went into the house.

  Jenny seemed okay, but Faith, returning to the living room, wasn't so sure about her parents. Maybe they were just tired. It was a strain, after all, and, as Jenny had pointed out, they were constantly being bombarded by the media, the police, and everybody else in Aleford with good and bad intentions.

  But would that totally account for the deep circles under Patricia's eyes and the new furrows on Robert's forehead ? Robert Moore had been brutally honest about his feelings for Cindy. But was there something he wasn 't saying? Faith felt more puzzled than ever. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination unimaginable, the Moores had killed Cindy, why now ? They were getting rid of her in December. Somehow Faith didn 't see Cindy running home for marital advice or tips on how to make good pie crust. Once she was married, she would have been gone.

  The arrangements for the funeral service were complete and the Fairchilds got ready to leave. Faith stood in the large hall looking at some ship paintings on the walls while Tom went with Robert to find their coats.

  “Grandfather Martin's ships," Patricia said affectionately, "I've always loved these paintings. They were the last ships under sail that the family had. When we were children, we always called them the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, much to my grandmother 's annoyance. I'm afraid we have always been a bit toocaught up in the past in this family—we were all raised with a heavy dose of quite sinful pride."