The Body In The Bog (18 page)

From the way Tom was speaking, Nelson must be out of danger, Faith thought.

“Do you want a sandwich?” she asked.

“At least two,” he called back over his shoulder.

When he returned, the first person to demand his attention was Ben, who had been doing Legos in a corner of the kitchen.

“Mom says we can't watch the parade from the church,” he told his father woefully.

Tom and Faith looked at each other over the little tyrant's head. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“I told him I would take him to see the clowns—and Samantha and Danny, if the senior-class car isn't too far away from the clown contingent,” Faith explained.

“That's going to have to be it for this year, Ben. You know Mr. Batcheldor is sick and we have a lot of grown-up worries right now.”

This plus a promise of cotton candy appeased the boy enough to send him back to his construction. Faith set Tom's food on the table and all of them looked at him expectantly.

“Chloral hydrate. But that's not to leave this room.” Everyone nodded solemnly.

“A Mickey Finn,” Sam said. “Of lethal proportions.” He liked to read mysteries from the thirties and forties.

“Exactly. Nelson was regaining consciousness and I went in to see him. Charley and Dunne were both there asking him questions, which is how I found out. It must have been put in something he ate at the breakfast, because it acts quickly and there was no trace of it in his flask. They were trying to get him to remember what he'd had, but he was pretty out of it.”

“It is still used to help people sleep, though,” Pix said. “My mother had some in the medicine cabinet from my father's last illness, until I made her throw it out. It was in a brown bottle, a red liquid. Father used
to complain about the cherry taste. That would be pretty easy to put into Nelson's juice.”

Faith thought of Ben's bright red mustache. The cloyingly sweet juice would have masked the flavor of just about anything.

“But pretty hard to top up the man's drink in a crowded room without attracting some attention,” Sam said.

“It also came in capsules, but those were too hard for father to swallow at that point,” Pix remembered. She also remembered her children and jumped to her feet. “It's after two o' clock; maybe the cable company will be televising the beginning of the parade.”

They all crowded into the small room with the TV to watch. At first, all Faith could see were fezzes. The Shriners made up a good fourth of the parade—Shriners dressed as Minutemen, Shriners in tiny Model T Fords, Shriners playing bagpipes, Shriners on floats, Shriners on motorcycles, and her own favorite—Shriners playing snake charmer's flutes dressed in
Arabian Nights
costumes with gold leather shoes that curled high in the air at the toe. A huge model of the Shriners' Burn Institute adorned yet another float. The fezzes were mingling with huge bunches of balloons carried by vendors, banners, musical instruments, and flags—so many that at times the screen was filled with nothing but red, white, and blue.

“There they are!” Pix cried. They had a fleeting glimpse of the car, now decorated with blue and gold
streamers and other Aleford High insignia. Danny and Samantha were just visible, wedged in the midst of the other occupants. Everyone was smiling. The camera panned to the Aleford High Drum and Bugle Corps behind them and a group of pint-sized twirlers. Two of them dropped their batons. The Patriots' Day Parade had started. The screen went blank for an instant and then the morning's reenactment appeared.

“They won't show any more until they reach the center,” Faith said, staying to watch the reenactment, as she hadn't earlier. She'd been too eager to tell the police to get a tape. Everyone else stayed, too.

It was like watching something that had occurred months or even years ago, Faith thought. Just as it had been that morning, the figures on the green were scarcely visible in the darkness; then as the day dawned and the action started, the players appeared. Nelson had answered in the roll call, but the camera was on Gus Deane, so it was impossible to see how Nelson looked. His voice sounded a bit reedy and weak, but the sound quality was not the best. Faith saw him take his place in the line; then the musket fire started and it was impossible to see anyone. She wished she had thought to tape it herself. She wanted to go back over it.

Nelson didn't look well when the smoke cleared and seemed to stumble as he obeyed Captain Sewall's commands.

She left the room to call the cable company to find out when it would be broadcast again. She had a feeling it would be replayed often today.

Ben was sitting in the corner. With Tom home, she could take her son out to the celebration for a while. Not that she felt like celebrating, but she definitely felt like getting out.

They walked across the green toward the reviewing stand, stopping to get Ben his cotton candy. He pulled gauzy pink pieces of it away from the cardboard tube it was wound around. Some was already in his hair. Faith pulled a piece off, too, and for a moment the grainy sweetness on her tongue tasted good, a reminder of family outings—carnivals, the Jersey shore. She swallowed. It was enough.

“Come over here by the curb. We'll be able to see them and wave when they go by,” Faith told Ben. They hadn't missed the clowns, more Shriners. They hadn't missed something else, too.

Millicent Revere McKinley, flag in hand, waving the other with practiced, stately mien, was standing on top of the reviewing platform. She was flanked by two state policemen and there was no mistaking the look of triumph in her eyes.

It had been a long day and it was a long night. The Millers and escort went back home after the parade, only to return for supper at Faith's insistence. She would have liked to have stayed by Pix's side until midnight, but Pix had declared that doing nothing was exhausting and she wanted to go to bed early. Devoted friend that she was, Faith could not see herself lying across the bottom of the Millers' connubial four-poster. In any case, one or more of the dogs usually occupied that position. Dale was relieved by someone from the state police, and Faith tossed and turned all night, afraid the phone would ring.

Somehow, she got everyone off to work and school the next morning, then presented herself at Millicent's for the meeting to compose the letter for POW!'s town-wide mailing. She felt even more bedraggled when Millicent opened the door, starched, every hair in place. The exultant look Faith had seen on her face the day before had, if anything, intensified. And she not only had energy; she was raring to go. Faith con
sidered leaving, pleading a sudden indisposition. Then Brad appeared at the end of Millicent's walk and Faith felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. She had work to do.

Brad had his laptop. They were all sitting around Millicent's dining-room table. She'd pointedly got out the table pads when she'd seen the computer.

“Don't want to mar the surface. Mahogany, you know.”

Faith looked at the highly polished surface. Millicent's whole house reeked of beeswax. Mahogany veneer, maybe.

After this operation, Millicent sat at the head of the table and opened a bulging folder.

“Now, we want to be forceful, but we don't want to alienate people.”

“Before we get to the letter, how did you convince the police to let you onto the reviewing stand yesterday?” Faith couldn't help herself. She knew she was playing right into Millicent's crafty little hands, but she had to ask.

Millicent gave Brad a slight smile. There was a trace of pity in it. She'd arranged for him to be on the platform, too, in recognition of all the work he'd done on the parade and other events. Unfortunately, Brad had had to contend not only with the police but his mother. He'd been lucky to go to the bathroom un-escorted and he'd had to sneak out the back door this morning for the meeting.

Yet mostly, Millicent's smile conveyed superiority. Assuming her rightful place on the platform in the
face of all obstacles was one of her more minor accomplishments—a piece of cake.

“I called the state police and talked to that nice Detective Dunne. He understood completely. I also mentioned I was leaving the house and the young man they'd sent would have to forcibly restrain me to keep me here.”

Faith could imagine the scene. Millicent could match wits but not muscle. She was thin and had those angular bones that looked as if they would snap in a strong wind. And she would have put up a fight. No doubt about it. Dunne had obviously pictured the ill-matched pair rolling about the well-worn Oriental, dodging furniture and knickknacks, the poor officer trying not to do any damage to them or their owner.

“So you just left?”

“No, I didn't have to. John very nicely sent a car for me, which was ridiculous. It was only across the green, but he insisted. He also sent another policeman. I promised him I would return home immediately afterward and that seemed to satisfy him. ‘Millie,' he said, ‘we just don't want anything to happen to you.' So thoughtful.”

John Dunne was also in the select group that was permitted to shorten Millicent's name.

Having cleared this up, Millicent got back to business.

“Now, as I was saying, we need to find the right approach. Our original broadside was effective, but this occasion calls for greater subtlety.”

After several tries, they came up with an acceptable letter. It was straightforward, avoided inflammatory statements, but was strong, ending with the warning: “If we do not act now on behalf of Aleford's future inhabitants, they may not have an Aleford to inhabit.”

Brad had thought of the phrase and he was enjoying the sound. He repeated the words several times like a mantra.

Faith had been struck by two things about Brad during the meeting. First, he was clearly very bright. The other feeling she had about him was harder to de-fine. He had mentioned that he spent a great deal of time playing certain Dungeons and Dragons–type games with fellow enthusiasts on the Internet. He seemed to regard POW! as another kind of game, talking about strategies for winning, tactical maneuvers, and referring to those not in agreement as opponents. He cautioned Faith not to talk about what was in the letter. It would lessen the impact, he'd said, but she felt that was a ploy. Secrecy added drama. Millicent played right along.

“I certainly wouldn't want Joey Madsen and his people to find out what's in our mailing. They'd be certain to send out one of their own contradicting everything and getting everyone all muddled about the facts.” She gave Faith a piercing look.

Faith had every intention of telling Dunne and maybe Tom, yet kept quiet. Word wouldn't get to Joey from them.

“I'm sure Joey will be sending out a mailing, or at
least will write to the
Chronicle.
And since he's a Town Meeting member, we can expect a good floor fight.” Brad was relishing the moment.

He's immature, Faith thought suddenly. That's his biggest problem. It
is
all a game to him. He likes to pit the grown-ups against one another and watch. She didn't doubt his sincere commitment to the environment, but something else was going on—intrigue, danger, real threats. The monitor screen come to life. He'd spoken of the letters with the same enthusiasm he'd reserved for his computer games.

“If whoever it is had used e-mail, I could have cracked this thing by now. The person may not have it, or may have known what I would do.” He seemed to think the first possibility absurd, despite sitting in the same room with two people who still licked stamps.

Faith was getting a little tired of him. He was so single-minded. Maybe Miss Lora was a better judge of character than Faith had previously given her credit for—judging her primarily on the depth of her relationships with preschool children. Maybe his boyishness had attracted her, besides his obvious good looks, then she'd gotten bored. Certainly the looks were here, though. His dark hair curled damply obviously fresh from a shower and he smelled like Ivory soap. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. Those muscles didn't come from keyboarding.

“I think we all deserve a good hot cup of tea after this work,” Millicent offered. Faith accepted. She
wanted the caffeine and she wanted some time alone with Brad.

He sat fooling with his laptop. He didn't appear to be in need of conversation. Faith plunged right in.

“My son, Benjamin, is in Lora Deane's preschool class. She's a wonderful teacher. I understand your anonymous letter referred to her.” Faith watched his expression closely and saw his surprise. Whatever he had expected her to introduce as a topic of conversation, it was not Miss Lora.

“Yeah, well,” he stammered, and looked about the room. There was no help forthcoming from the break-front or the row of extra chairs, each at exactly the same distance from the wall. “I mean, we went out for a while, that's all. The letter was pretty crude.” He grinned, then re-collected himself. Faith was a minister's wife. “Filthy lies, all of it.”

Faith waited. Sometimes this worked. It did now. He started talking again, filling the empty air between them. His fingers were still hovering over the keyboard.

“She's the one who broke it off. Just left word on the machine that she didn't want to go out anymore. No discussion. Nothing.” His anger was evident. “I pity the next guy who gets involved with that—I mean with her.”

He remembered Faith's original remark and added, “Oh, she's good with kids.” It was not something he seemed to feel was especially noteworthy. He began to drum his fingers on the table. He was a nail-biter.
Lora would have cured him of that, Faith thought. A few applications of some nasty-tasting stuff—but her mind was wandering.

“So you wouldn't want to get back with her?”

“Did she ask you to speak to me?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Anyway, it's too late. Way too late.”

Before Faith could ask him why, Millicent appeared with the tea tray. For three meager cups, she was as loaded down as for a banquet. There was a pitcher of hot water, a smaller one of milk, a plate of thinly sliced lemons, a strainer and stand, two sugar bowls—one for white, one for unrefined—tongs, cups, saucers, linen napkins, a cozy, and the pot itself.

“Now,” she said brightly, “how do you take it?”

Faith wasn't altogether sure.

 

She had hoped to get some more time alone with Brad Hallowell, so Faith had consumed more tea than she wanted. But finally she had to leave to pick up the kids. Brad showed no intention of following her example. It had been foolish to think they would discuss the inner workings of POW! in front of her, if there were any. Keeping Brad by her side was more likely Millicent showing off and a reluctance to return home on his part.

She stood up to leave and Millicent's phone rang. When Miss McKinley excused herself to answer it, Faith sat back down, hoping for a long conversation. Picking up where they had left off, she had just started to explain to Brad that no, Lora had not sent her and to
ask why he'd said it was too late to get back together with such finality, when Millicent came through the doorway. Brad looked relieved. Millicent stood behind her chair, her hands clenched around the back. There was a grim set to her mouth.

“This is not good news, I'm afraid. Not good for POW! at all.”

“Nelson! Is he dead!” Faith cried.

“No, nothing like that.” Millicent waved her hand dismissively. “Apparently, over the weekend one of the Deanes' pieces of heavy equipment was vandalized—an excavator. Someone cut the hydraulic hoses on the boom. I gather it's a very expensive repair. They're blaming us, of course.” Millicent seemed extremely conversant with the technical jargon relating to construction work, Faith thought. She did get the idea, though. Person or persons unknown had sliced the things that made the steam shovel lift its load.

Brad leaned forward and pounded the table so hard his computer shook. Millicent looked askance. “And you know the bastards did it themselves! Probably was one that didn't work anyway and they're out to collect more insurance money!”

Faith doubted this. Gus Deane did not strike her as the type of man who would cripple the way in which he earned his living. If a machine was broken, he'd fix it. She'd often heard him extol the virtues of owning your own machinery, being your own boss.

But it was getting late. She had to get Ben and Amy.

As she walked back along Main Street, she tried to think what connection this new piece of the puzzle
had to the others. Tampering with the steam shovel was an indirect attack on POW!—which would, it was true, be suspected immediately. The letter writer was also attacking the group in writing and for real. Did this mean the same person? At least the latest attack was on an inanimate object.

She'd left Millicent and Brad earnestly discussing POW!'s response—ignore it or issue a statement? Neither of these two anonymous-letter recipients seemed in the least bit nervous about their own well-being, or perhaps they assumed since Patriots' Day was over, the threat was gone, too.

Millicent had told them Nelson wasn't being allowed any visitors. She had called the hospital and she reported, “He's out of danger and should be at tomorrow night's meeting.” Faith didn't let on that Tom had seen him yesterday. Millicent liked to be the bearer of tidings, not the recipient.

Faith crossed the green, avoiding the spot where Nelson had fallen. How did this attack fit into the puzzle? And Margaret, the first death. Had Nelson discovered something about the identity of her killer? But if he had, he wouldn't have kept it to himself, would he? Unless it was someone he knew, knew well. Faith felt depressed. Things seemed to be turning out like one of those bargains you picked up at a yard sale—a gorgeous, expensive jigsaw of the cathedral at Chartres that, after many hours of hard work, you'd find was missing the last few pieces of the rose window.

The sky was gray and it looked like rain was on the way again. She'd hoped to check out the bog today, maybe taking Pix and the dogs along with the kids. The weather would make it impossible. Nor could she return to the Chandler Street apartment and make discreet inquiries. Children did not know the meaning of the word
discreet
and tended to get in the way. She'd try to go into town tomorrow morning.

Any question of whether Miss Lora had heard about the latest attack on her family was answered by the teacher's first words to Faith, whispered furiously after the precaution “Little pitchers have big ears.” And what did that mean, anyway? Faith wondered. “I know you weren't involved or Reverend Fairchild, but you have
got
to tell your group to leave us alone. I don't know what my grandfather's going to do, and Joey is ready to kill somebody!”

Faith didn't doubt it. “I was just with Millicent McKinley and Brad Hallowell. They are as shocked and upset as I am. I'm sure POW! didn't have anything to do with this. Does the construction company have any enemies you can think of? Another company that wanted a particular contract? Or maybe it was kids, too many beers on Patriots' Day weekend?”

Lora stared at Faith in disbelief and forgot to whisper. “Give me a break! POW! is the only enemy we have and the only group nutty enough to do all this. Besides, a bunch of loaded teenagers would try to start the thing for kicks or spray-paint it.”

Faith quickly bundled Ben away, picked Amy up,
and tried to reach Tom. He wasn't in his office and she assumed he must have gone to the hospital to see Nelson.