Today’s paper contained an article about the origins of British Summer Time. An article on Saturday would have been more useful to help prepare one in advance, but we are in the land that time forgot, literally. Anyway, it seems that during World War II in England, they set the clocks ahead for summer, but they didn’t set them back when summer was over. This threw everything out of step until finally they got it sorted, in 1945.
The more governments get involved, the bigger the mess.
Off to yoga class now, where the talk will no doubt be all about what happened to Thaddeus. I doubt Melinda will be there, but you never know.
Love, your Gabby
CHAPTER 9
All Things Bright and Beautiful
Monday, March 26
MI5 had, if nothing else, provided Max with a strong sense of purpose. He had begun to fear he might have lost the almost incandescent awareness that had consumed him in the days when every lapse in his attention to detail might mean a life lost. But at his core he remained vigilant, alert to nuance—mostly by nature, he had come to realize, and only partly by training.
Now, the priesthood had provided him with a sense of purpose, if of a different kind.
And Thaddeus’s death, he realized, provided a nearly perfect intersection of the parts of his MI5 life he had missed with the instincts and intuitions he had honed as a priest. The things happening in Monkslip were like fault lines beneath the surface, biding their time and waiting silently to destroy.
If there were any way to stop the damage, he intended to.
Following Morning Prayer, and guided by yesterday’s phone conversation with Awena, he walked over to the Goddessspell shop. So many of the women seemed to know one another from that particular nexus of village life, it seemed as good a place as any to start his asking around (he still hesitated to use the word investigation, even if that was what it was).
And from what he knew of the shop’s schedule, one of Tara’s yoga sessions in the back room should be just about wrapping up.
Goddessspell held everything magical, including, as far as Max was concerned, Awena herself. Her absence from the shop when he walked in, setting the bell over the door jangling, reawakened Max’s sense of a gap in his personal universe. Several times a day, he’d turn to say something to Awena, or his hand would reach for the phone, and the realization she wasn’t there or couldn’t easily be reached left a frustrated void in his soul. He’d started saving up little things he wanted to tell her, rehearsing them over in his mind.
Max marveled anew at how quickly he had fallen into the most significant romantic relationship of his life. They had been friends for several years, and Awena was someone in whose presence he always had felt comfortable. She was easy to talk to, she tended not to judge him or others, and she was inclined to keep her mind trained on the same things that mattered to him. On the “bigger-question picture,” he supposed he would call it.
If she did judge, it seemed to him she never judged harshly, even if she did appraise with astonishing accuracy.
The night of her holiday party in December, the night of the Winter Solstice, he had fallen irretrievably in love. He’d been drawn to Awena for a very long time, and was only just then willing to take a chance and act upon this attraction. He’d just returned to the village after an upsetting incident of murder at Chedrow Castle, a case that he’d helped Cotton sort out. While the distance from Nether Monkslip and from Awena had not been great, it had at the same time seemed endless, and he had come to realize the one person he needed to talk with, to sort things out in his mind, had been Awena. Thus so stealthily had she become his confidante. Thus so irreversibly had he realized his need for her—not just as a friend but as a partner and lover. Her face had become as familiar to him as his own in the mirror: her dark hair, with its prematurely white streak at one temple, her face soft as rose petals, her stately demeanor. And while temperamentally there might have been differences between them, he knew the differences were beneficial to them both.
Inside the shop, Max peered through the beaded curtain at the back, to be greeted by a sea of undulating derrieres of varying sizes and latex coverings, all pointing more or less skyward in what had to be a down-dog pose. Max didn’t entirely understand the need for organized group exercise—he ran, biked, or walked almost everywhere, alone or with Thea for company. But he suspected there was a lot more female bonding going on in these classes than would have been the case in a male-equivalent class, where such activities tended to devolve instead into high-stakes competitions.
Delicately, he withdrew and began looking around at the merchandise in the shop. There were crystals and stones and chimes, candles and incense, herbs and oils, soaps, and bundles of sage—smudge to purify the air. There were shawls and cushions and bells, and jewelry and books and relaxation CDs, and little statues and emblems representing different beliefs: Pagan, Goddess, and Wiccan; Buddhist, Hindu, and Christian. Everything in the place sparkled; everything enchanted, appealing to all the senses. The hand could not resist reaching out to touch the different baubles and crystals, and the mind could not fail to be calmed by the little prayers of hope and affirmation. Max himself owned several of the music CDs of Eastern and Western chanting.
Through his mind ran more of his conversation with Awena on the subject of how Melinda had become a fixture at the yoga class.
“I’ve also had a word with her,” Awena had told him, “because I thought her working out was getting to be obsessive, and I was trying to steer her toward the meditation classes. Even yoga, done the wrong way, too vigorously, can damage the muscles and ligaments. Besides, Melinda was becoming emaciated, even by Hollywood standards. And who was she trying to impress? Her husband, easily thirty years her senior? It was all out of balance.”
“I saw that for myself,” said Max.
“Tara called it ‘appeasement,’” Awena concluded. “She wasn’t trying to impress Thaddeus, but appease him, or so Tara thought. He’s a bully, that man.”
Max decided it might be safe now to steal another look at the yoga class. Now they were on their backs, legs feebly waving, like dying insects after a visit from the exterminator. The likeness was particularly pronounced in the case of Melinda, with her sticklike legs sheathed in black. He could see now that Gabby was also part of the class. She was having as much trouble as the others with this pose, which the lithe Tara illustrated with the ease born of years of practice. But then, Gabby had twenty to forty years on most of them, too. Viewed in that light, she was holding her own with women half her age.
In a few minutes, the class ended, on Tara Raine’s “Namaste.” Tara emerged first from behind the curtain, her face serene but flushed, the freckles highlighted against her lightly tanned complexion. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt over peach-colored yoga pants; her hair was curled into a bun at the neck and held in place with four butterfly clips, their wings opalescent. When she saw Max, she bounded across the room, greeting him with a smile and a light hug, exuding good health and karma. Tara greatly approved of Max as a suitable partner for her friend Awena.
Other women began to file out from the yoga studio. Max realized they were all there, the ones he wanted to talk with: Lucie Cuthbert and Bernadina Steed and Gabby Crew. They began to gather around him, all, like Tara, looking flushed and rejuvenated by their exercise.
And by something more, Max realized: Sensing his mission, they were finding the chance to speculate wildly about the murder too good to resist.
“I should run,” announced Gabby. “I have an emergency updo to fit in this morning, Melinda’s coming over for her regular appointment, and I still have to shower.” But she made no move to leave.
Tara said to Max, pointedly, although Max could not fathom what the point might be, “Melinda gets her hair done nearly every day.”
“Every day?” Max, knowing nothing of what women required to keep them looking their best, felt he was wandering into foreign and potentially hostile territory. “That see
ms a lot.”
Tara said, in a low voice, “Not if you’re Melinda. It’s all in keeping with her personality. I’ve heard it called a ‘toxic quest for perfection’—that was Jane Fonda, I think. And that’s what it looks like—toxic. The constant exercise, the perfect makeup, the focus, focus, focus on wardrobe. I’m worried about her weight. She’s too thin but doesn’t seem to realize it.” Now Tara made a shushing signal, one finger against her lips. “She’s still in the next room.”
Just then, the subject of the conversation unfolded herself from where she had stayed behind, doing extra-credit poses: Melinda Bottle, the grieving widow. Although, Max realized, there were worse ways to mourn a sudden loss than by practicing yoga.
She greeted Max with a wan smile and, wrapping a drapey brown shawl across her bony shoulders, she nodded absently to the others before leaving. The bell over the shop door clanged with finality behind her. Gabby Crew followed her out, perhaps to offer an encouraging word.
Once they were certain Melinda had gone and would not be returning to retrieve some forgotten article, Lucie and Bernadina quickly got down to brass tacks.
“You are investigating the death,” said Lucie Cuthbert with her typical forthrightness. “You think it is a murder, don’t you?” There was concern on her face and a furrow in her brow, but also a sparkle in her eye—one with which Max was getting to be too familiar. Homicide was the great leveler—everyone was interested in murder, particularly one that had taken place practically in their midst. That Thaddeus had actually been in her house, having a meal at her table, probably added much to the frisson. Bernadina Steed gazed up at him, the same look of anticipation widening her made-up eyes and parting her glossy lips.
They were excited by the murder, Max realized. Not an unusual reaction for those whose lives seldom were touched by the harsher realities of life and death, but still …
Max wheeled out the usual platitudes (“It’s too soon to call it murder”), knowing he wasn’t fooling Lucie, and knowing she knew.
“The lab hasn’t returned all the results yet,” he said. “We can’t know until then, and it would be wrong to speculate.”
Lucie and Bernadina exchanged glances, then turned to look at him. “Hmmph,” they said. Lucie, religiously brought up, could not quite bring herself to tell the vicar to cut the crap, but it was a close thing.
“If there is anything you noticed that night at dinner, however,” said Max, “you never know…” His voice trailed off vaguely, hopefully.
It was all either of them needed in the way of prompting. They again exchanged glances, and somehow during the exchange, without moving a muscle or so much as blinking an eye, Lucie gave Bernadina the go-ahead signal. The women of Nether Monkslip mobilizing for an intelligence-gathering mission were an awesome sight to behold. They probably had received their marching orders from Miss Pitchford, who had recently been sidelined to her cottage by a minor injury to her foot. The frustration of not being in the center of operations must have been almost more than the poor woman could bear.
“Well,” said Bernadina breathlessly. “He was rude, didn’t you think? He was just really out of line with her. With Melinda.”
“Um-hmm. Anything else? Anything concrete that you noticed that he said or did?” asked Max, quickly relinquishing his hold on the pretense that none of this mattered to him apart from idle curiosity. He, too, was “on a mission from God with a full tank of gas,” as the Blues Brothers would have it—an MI5 hound on the scent.
Another telepathically significant glance was exchanged. This time, the torch was handed over to Lucie. She inched closer, as if about to impart the secret ingredient in her recipe for chicken stuffing.
“There have been rumors,” she began. “About Melinda.”
Max waited. It was a bit like watching the slow drip of a water tap after the pump has been primed. And here, at last, out it came.
“There is a man involved, Father Max,” said Lucie, the words tumbling, and her accent becoming more pronounced, in her haste. “No one is quite sure who it is, and one does not like to say unless one is positive. But cherchez l’homme and you may find the bottom of this.”
She looked pointedly at Max, as if expecting him to whip out a pencil and notebook and start jotting all this down.
Bernadina, practically hopping from one foot to the other, jumped in.
“I think I know who it is, but of course I couldn’t possibly say.” This virtuous silence lasted less than three seconds. “The thing is, I may have been instrumental in introducing them. I didn’t mean for anything to happen, you understand. It’s just that when Thaddeus asked for a recommendation—well, you see, with me being in the business and all, it was natural I—”
Here Lucie cut in, “It’s Farley. We think it’s Farley.”
It was not a name with which Max was familiar.
Lucie elaborated: “He lives in Staincross Minster and he’s an architect. Farley Walker is his name.”
Max nodded. “That’s right. I’ve seen him in the village—rather, I’ve seen his sports car.”
“That is him,” said Lucie. “A shiny red sports car, very expensive. He’s quite well known in these parts. People looking for someone who understands renovations and the restoration of old buildings go to him. We consulted with him when we moved out of our rooms over the shop and into our new house.”
“Not only Thaddeus but also Melinda asked me for a reference,” said Bernadina, thus somehow absolving herself of all blame in the murder that surely must have resulted from this innocent introduction. “They both did.”
“What makes you think there was anything between Melinda and this Farley person?” Max asked them.
A scoffing noise erupted from both Lucie and Bernadina. Really, men could be so thick at times.
“One just knows, Father. It is impossible to hide l’amour en fleur from a woman, particularly, if I may be permitted to boast, a Frenchwoman.” Here a Gallic sniff as she looked down her nose, as if to demonstrate her bona fides in these matters. “Melinda, who was leading a dog’s life with old grumpypants—the world’s greatest writer and actor, to hear him tell it—had in recent months just cheered up no end. Oh! Mon Dieu! The signs were clear.”
“But you’re just guessing it was Farley—if there were anyone. There’s no evidence it was he. Or even that she was interested in anyone but her husband.” And he thought, I need to check this out before the gossip reaches the ears of Cotton and his team. What if the women have it all wrong?
The women shook their heads in unison this time at Max’s stubborn refusal to face facts.
“Why don’t you go and ask her?” said Lucie.
Max thought he probably would do just that, wondering very much what sort of answer he’d get.
But: “Now, that’s funny,” Max heard Tara say as he turned to leave. “Who would steal that?”
Max looked over to where she stood. Engaged in organizing trinkets on one of the wooden shelves, she had held herself apart from Max’s conversation with the other two women. Now she was holding up a little display of herbal sachets made of some shimmery blue fabric. “I know there were five sachets in this basket a few days ago—I noticed because we were running low, and I meant to tell Awena when she came back. Now there are three, and I haven’t sold any. How odd.”
It is odd, thought Max. Nether Monkslip wasn’t immune from crime—God knew—but pilfering and petty theft were mercifully rare.
“Kids,” said Tara. “We do get them in here, attracted to all the sparkly stuff. I suppose when my back was turned … Anyway, Father Max, when you talk with Awena next, tell her I miss her.”
CHAPTER 10
Three for Tea
Max retraced his steps of Sunday morning, walking out of the village proper and past the train station, on his way to ask Melinda about the architect’s place in the scheme of things.
But as it turned out, he didn’t have to ask.
When he’d talked with Melinda ear
ly Sunday, Max had promised he would again stop by the house with information regarding services for Thaddeus at St. Edwold’s, once he had checked his calendar. Again walking up the graveled path to her door, this time in broad daylight and at a leisurely pace, Max was met by the sight of a flashy red sports car parked askew in the circular driveway, as if the driver had been in a great hurry. Max stopped to admire the sleek red lines, the chrome, the shiny hubcaps. It was the same car he had seen around the village—it would be impossible to miss—and of course the women at Goddessspell had just reminded him of its existence. The architect to whom it belonged seemed to have wasted no time in calling on the grieving widow.
Max knocked on the door rather more loudly than was necessary: He felt the pair might need a little time to sort themselves out before anyone could make it to the front of the house. The Melinda Bottle who answered the door was looking flushed and disorganized and—no question about it—happier than when Max last had seen her. She had changed from her yoga togs into a jumper over a tank top and jeans, and her feet were bare aside from the bright pink polish on her toes. From somewhere deep in the house, the dog, Jean, barked.
Melinda pushed back the heavy dark hair that fell in messy ringlets over one eye. “Oh,” she said.
Max explained his mission with regard to services for her husband. He added gently and with an Oscar-worthy subtlety, “I see Farley is here.”
“Hello, Father.” The brash male voice reached him from around the corner, coming from the direction of the front sitting room. The voice was followed into the extravagant hallway by a man of middle years—he was perhaps in his early forties, but on first meeting he looked younger, having the physique and the sun-kissed glow of an athlete, perhaps a rower. He first shook Max’s hand, then smoothed back his own shiny dark hair, nearly a match for Melinda’s shade. He straightened the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, pulled his matching tie into line, and smiled.
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