The Body In the Belfry (25 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body In the Belfry
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“But you couldn't have thought your father had anything to do with your mother's death,” Faith said gently.
Jenny started to cry—grief, fear, and exhaustion.
“Never. I thought that it must have been a maniac.” She cried harder. “I don't know what I thought, but not Dad.”
They finished eating. For a short while it had seemed cozy and warm, as if they were on some sort of Girl Scout camp-out. Jenny giggled when Benjamin gave one of his mighty burps and if they could have just turned the latch and walked out, the whole thing might have seemed a perverse sort of fun. One of those “My Most Unforgettable Experiences.”
Faith began to systematically take the rest of the jars off the shelves. It appeared that the closet was built into the side of Belfry Hill. Still, she figured she might as well look. There was nothing else to do.
Jenny was rocking Benjamin and crooning softly to him. Faith looked at her watch, thanking her stars that she had worn it today, although she wasn't sure why it was so important to note the passing of time. It was eight o‘clock. She had arrived at Eleanor's doorstep about four o'clock. They had been locked in for over three hours, Jenny for four. It seemed like weeks.
“Jenny, do you want to take over for a while?” Faith struggled to keep her voice calm. The thought of all these jars suddenly overwhelmed her and she thought if she had to lift one more, she would start throwing them instead.
“Sure,” replied Jenny.
Faith sat down and pulled Benjamin onto her lap. She was very tired and wished she could sleep, but there was always the possibility that Eleanor could catch them unawares. She might have changed her mind about the “killing part.” A few shots followed by a speedy descent in that well would tie up all the loose ends and the money would be hers. “Why, what a surprise! Do I get all this?” Faith was sure she already had stacks of
travel brochures and charge account applications tucked away in some lavender-scented drawer.
As she thought this, she realized she was getting slightly hysterical. She patted the two quart jars of dill pickles they had placed close to hand and wished desperately for the chance to hurl them at Eleanor. It was becoming sickeningly clear that unless Eleanor
did
come in, they had no chance of getting out.
Jenny wasn't having any luck with her search either. “Mrs. Fairchild, what if there isn't a window? What are we going to do?” Her voice rose in alarm.
“There are a lot more shelves, Jenny. Let me take over again,” Faith said wearily.
By nine-thirty, Faith gave up searching for a window.
There wasn't any.
The brief feeling of coziness vanished. In its place desperation and a particularly pungent diaper of Benjamin's, which she had changed an hour before, gave an acrid scent to the air. The earthen floor that had reminded Faith of what was just outside and freedom now called forth only thoughts of entombment.
Benjamin suddenly and emphatically decided he was tired of this game and wanted to go home. Faith tried in vain to stop his cries. It seemed as though each wail used up half the remaining air. Finally he cried himself to sleep. She had some idea that there would be more oxygen at the top of the room and cleared a shelf for him to sleep on, barricaded by the jars, but now she didn't want to move him. In any case, what was the point? He might live a little longer than they would, but what good would it do him?
Jenny was nodding. Faith made her a pillow of the diaper bag and held the girl close until she felt her limbs relax in slumber. The sweet escape. Then she slipped Benjamin from under the receiving blanket and lowered
him into the Snugli, strapping him onto her chest. They were both warmer that way and thank goodness he didn't wake up. She put the tiny blanket on Jenny. The minutes began to crawl.
She went back to the door and tried desperately to chip away at the concrete with her awl. It snapped off and she tried with one of the knife blades. Finally she leaned up against it and sobbed.
She could hear the two children's regular breathing and felt complete despair.
They were all going to die.
 
A few feet away, Scott Phelan stood in Eleanor Whipple's backyard looking up at the sky. It was a clear night and the stars shone brightly. He could see other beams, flashlights, darting through the trees of Belfry Hill behind him. They had all started together at the top and systematically were searching their way to the bottom. It was very quiet. The flickering lights were moving steadily. No one was stopping for a closer look. No one was calling for the others to come.
Nothing. No sign of them. Not a button off a coat or a bent branch to show some struggle.
He decided to go back to the church, where they had set up a command post, to check in and find out if there was any news. There had to be. Three people couldn't just disappear. He looked to the moon for a clue.
Where the hell could they be?
Faith sat up with a start. She had fallen asleep. Her heart was racing madly and a scream rose in her throat.
She knew where she was.
She covered her mouth with her hand and bit her palm. It hurt. So she must be alive.
The children were still asleep. She could hear them and dug into her pocket for the light to shine on their faces. There wasn't much point in trying to save the battery anymore. Then she looked at her watch. It was six o'clock. Morning.
The tears began to stream down her face. Dawn was breaking. But not for them.
There was still some zwieback left and she took one, savoring each crumb. The darkness began to look a little
less dark and the top of her head was feeling lighter. She knew that it must be the beginning of the effects of the lack of oxygen, but for the moment it felt good. Just float. Eat and float. Food. That was something she knew about. Something she had accomplished. She must be hungry. The zwieback had gone straight to her stomach and was saying, “Send more. Send better.”
All those meals she had cooked. Even the failures weren't bad. Like Mrs. Haveabite's quiche. She knew her mind was wandering. There wasn't anything else to do except follow.
It was in the business's early days and Faith had been thrilled to get Mrs. H. as a customer. She was a wealthy parishioner of Faith's father and one of those ladies who lunched—and gave lunches. Soon Faith was catering all of them and the nickname arose out of the lady in question's irritating habit of hovering over a perfectly arranged platter, asking as she picked up the choicest morsel, “Oh, Faith, this looks delicious! May I just have a bite?”
The woman's other habit was worse. In those days Faith had charged by the job and not by the person. It was Mrs. Haveabite who changed her policy. A select luncheon for ten dear friends usually meant twelve and Faith would use up all the reserves she had brought. Then came the day when the ten turned into fourteen and no matter how she sliced it, the main course,
tarte à l'oignon,
was not going to stretch. Mrs. H. had thoughtfully told her about the additional guests when she arrived, so there was time to make another
tarte,
and that's what she did, using Mrs. Haveabite's own frugal supplies—margarine crust and yogurt instead of heavy cream. She made sure the hostess got a hefty slice of the emergency dish. She followed up the lunch with a polite note explaining the change in billing. She wasn't asked
back until Mrs. H. realized she had lost the hottest caterer in town and by then Faith seldom had an opening.
There had been other times as well. Like going into the wilds of Connecticut with her staff and after unpacking the van discovering that three perfect
charlottes aux poires
reposed in the refrigerator in New York, leaving them with absolutely nothing for dessert. She had dashed out to the 7-Eleven for inspiration and come back with vanilla ice cream, baking chocolate, heavy cream—all the ingredients for old-fashioned hot fudge sundaes, complete with nuts and maraschino cherries (horrid, but authentic) in bowls for those who wanted them. And everybody wanted them. After that the sundaes became a specialty. A big success. Some evocation of childhood? Forbidden calories? She never could figure it out.
She was dreaming, though not asleep.
And all the triumphs. That dinner at the U.N. with not one or two, but six exquisitely authentic cuisines.
She began to smell mushrooms—big, juicy porcini mushrooms, gently simmering in butter. Succulent mushrooms. Sexy mushrooms.
Someone was screaming.
It was Jenny.
“No! No! No! I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I don't …” Faith turned the dimming beam of the penlite on the whirlwind that was Jenny. Jenny sweeping jars from the shelves heedless of the wreckage. A stench of rotten vegetables and overripe fruit. She grabbed the girl's flailing arms.
It took all the strength she had left to pull Jenny down to the floor again, where she collapsed sobbing on Faith, and on Benjamin, who was awake and wailing himself.
“Oh, Jenny, darling, please, please try to stop. We
have got to try not to give up. We can't! Come pray with me. Just say the words with me, ‘Our Father who art in Heaven …'”
Jenny stopped and after a moment repeated the words with Faith. Repeated them over and over. The three of them clung to each other and after a while the storm had passed.
“Faith,” said Jenny, “Do you think we have a chance?”
“I don't know,” Faith said slowly, “but I think we have to believe there is one. We have to try to stay alive.”
“All right.” Faith heard her take a deep breath and let it out. “In that case I'm going to eat some of this stuff and figure out a way to pee into one of the jars. I'll put the lid on and maybe Cousin Eleanor will think it's honey.” She started to laugh a little wildly.
“Jenny, hush now. It's a good idea. I think the applesauce is the best bet. You take the light and find us some. I'm going to nurse Benjamin and change his diaper and clothes.” For the last time, she added mentally.
While Benjamin ate, heedless of his peril, and Jenny consumed what was probably the worst applesauce ever made in New England, Faith sat and thought of Tom or rather sat and said “Tom” over and over to herself. Tom, Tom, where are you?
 
Tom was at the altar rail. He had left the parish hall, which looked like a kind of campaign headquarters with people streaming in and out with information, food, comfort, and offers of help. The phone rang constantly. His parents were there. Faith's were on the way. He looked at the simple cross in front of him.
Dear God, don't forsake me now, he prayed over and over. But he was beginning to doubt he would ever see them alive.
 
 
They had fallen asleep again, Faith realized. She listened a moment. Yes, they were all breathing.
Faith had been trying desperately to stay awake. She was terrified that she would slip obliviously into the night. She wanted that for the children, but not for herself. She had to know when it was the end. Still, she had fallen asleep. Like someone lost in a snowstorm. Drowsiness crept up on her like a warm quilt and she had finally pulled it over her head. Yet she had awakened. This time.
She reached for the light. Where was it? She couldn't remember. Her pocket. Yes, her pocket. Why did she want it? Yes, the time. What time was it?
It was noon. The Congregational church bells were ringing. She had heard them the day Cindy died. She couldn't hear them now. But she and the children were still alive. Was it a record? She'd never know.
At twelve-one the door opened.
Faith watched it and knew she was supposed to do something.
The jars.
She picked up the jar and got unsteadily to her feet. Benjamin was still strapped to her chest and she pitched forward.
The door opened wider.
She straightened up and threw the jar at the opening with all her might. Pickle spices and rubbery undersized cucumbers flew in all directions as the missile fell short of the target, crashing on the floor instead. Light flooded in. Light silhouetting an enormous figure clad in a Burberry raincoat now spattered with vinegar. There was a smaller figure behind him, gabbling away.
Faith swayed and fell toward the door into John Dunne's arms. He dragged her into the open air and someone darted in for Jenny.
The fog began to clear. Benjamin began to cry. Faith took a deep breath.
Of course it was John Dunne. And he was crying or at least there were tears in his eyes. But who was that holding Jenny, exclaiming in what would have been a triumphant tone of voice if it had not also been so complacent, “You see? I told you they'd be in here?”
It was like a dose of ammonia salts. It was Millicent Revere McKinley.
Millicent Revere McKinley and John Dunne. Faith had never been so happy to see two people in her life.
She turned to Jenny and they clutched each other tightly. There weren't any words now that they could safely speak.
Then Detective Dunne was guiding them up the stairs like some kind of oversized sheep dog. They got to the top just in time to see Eleanor. She was putting on her coat and hat under the close watch of two state policemen. She looked right through Jenny, Faith, and Benjamin as if they had been some particularly distasteful panes of glass. She did give an involuntary glance at John Dunne. It was hard not to. But the full force of her venom was reserved for Millicent.
“Rose never did trust you, Millicent. And to think I stood up for you all those years!”
Millicent never turned a hair; she simply gazed back steadily, and said, “I think these gentlemen are waiting for you, Eleanor, and we'd all like to get by if you don't mind.”
Faith began to giggle. They might have been trying to get out of a crowded theater aisle for all the emotion Millicent put into her voice. Here she was where hours before the woman slowly putting on what Faith knew was her Sunday best coat had held a gun to her back and everyone was behaving like Emily Post. Or age before beauty. Or evil before good.
Then before she thought about it, she blurted out the question that had been nagging at her all night, “Eleanor, was the gun loaded?”
Eleanor acknowledged her presence with a look one might have given an adult asking who was buried in Grant's Tomb. “Of course the gun was loaded,” she snapped, “What on earth is the use of an unloaded gun?”
Faith's legs gave way under her and she heard John Dunne say, “Get that woman out of here. What are you all waiting for?”
After that Faith knew she was in a police car and that Jenny was being taken home in another. She also knew she was pulling into the parsonage driveway, but she didn't really believe she was home until Tom flung open the front door and crushed her in his arms. Oxygen and Tom. That was all anyone needed. She wouldn't have believed a few hours ago that she would ever feel this way again. Alive. Just plain alive. Then Benjamin in the Snugli, whom Faith had begun to think of as a somewhat smaller Siamese twin, was detached and taken upstairs by Pix.
Tom and Faith hugged, kissed, and cried, then hugged, kissed, and cried some more. After a while Faith found her legs, and other parts of her body seemed to be under her control again, and she said plaintively, “Tom, darling, I'm so hungry!”
He beamed. Faith was back.
Before Tom could answer, Dunne's deep voice called out from the kitchen, “I don't know how to cook any of the stuff in here, so I sent one of the guys for pizza. I told them to put everything on it and you can pick off what you don't like.”
“Tom,” said Faith, “that man thinks of everything.”
“And so,” replied Tom steering Faith through the kitchen door, “does that woman. Thank God for us.”
It hadn't really occurred to Faith to wonder what Millicent was doing with John Dunne at Eleanor Whipple's house. But it did occur to her to wonder why Millicent was sitting with Dunne so chummily at Faith's kitchen table. As was most of Faith's known world. Her parents. Tom's parents. Hope. Dave Svenson. Tricia. And last but not least, Scott Phelan.
After another round of hugging and kissing and crying and hugging and kissing and crying some more, Tom returned to the point, “It was Millicent who figured out where you were, Faith.”
“Millicent!” Faith was stunned. It wasn't that long ago that she had tapped Ms. McKinley as suspect number one.
Millicent smiled wickedly. “Yes, dear, and I suppose now you're going to tell me you thought I killed Cindy and Patricia.”
Really the woman was as irritating as ever, but Faith began to think she might come to like her someday. In ten or twelve years maybe.
Faith sat down next to her and Tom hovered above with his hands anchoring her shoulders, just in case.
Pix walked in and reported that Benjamin was playing happily with Samantha.
“Now,” she said, “why don't I get a bottle of champagne and you can tell all.”
“The telling is a great idea,” agreed Faith, looking hard at Millicent, “but champagne and pizza?”
“Why not?” asked Pix. “I thought champagne went with everything.”
Faith looked at her affectionately. There was a lot of work to do in this town. Maybe she'd add cooking lessons to the business.
“There's beer in the fridge, let's start with that.”
Charley MacIsaac brought the pizzas, practically a carload.
“I knew half the town would be here,” he said.
Finally they were all settled around the pizza-laden table either adding the virgin olive oil, grated cheese, and other things Faith had directed Tom to set out for their slices, or just methodically consuming them
au naturel
like John Dunne.

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