The Body In The Bog (22 page)

“We'll talk. Got to run.” And Hope was off to crunch some more numbers, and squeeze some individuals, as well.

Late in the afternoon, Tom went out for milk. He returned from the Shop 'n Save with a gallon, some Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream, and the news that Aleford seemed to have developed a siege mentality overnight. There were very few people in the market and they weren't lingering. Even the checkout clerks looked nervous.

“It was weird. People were stocking up the way they do when a big storm is predicted, but there wasn't any excitement like there is then.”

Faith was making lentil stew, more than enough for dinner. She had also felt the need to fill the larder. A few loaves of olive bread were rising on the back of the stove. She'd taken some thick pork chops out that she planned to rub with garlic and rosemary before broiling. As usual, in times of trouble, she turned to substantial food. Garlic always made life seem better.

Pix had come and gone, jumpy as everyone else. She was picking the kids up rather than letting them walk home from their various practices. Faith had
asked about Samantha's latest college inclinations and Pix's face had gone blank for a moment. Samantha? College? She recollected herself and said, “Still waiting for Wellesley, and since that's the one place she hasn't heard from, that's the one place she wants to go. I'll be happy when this is all over.”

“So will I,” Faith said—and they both knew they weren't just talking alma maters.

Charley MacIsaac and John Dunne came by shortly after Pix left.

“Homicidal maniac—that's what people are saying,” Charley commented.

“And what do you think?” Faith directed her question to both of them. Dunne answered.

“Homicidal, obviously. Maniac, I doubt. Both of these crimes have been carefully planned, nothing accidental or spontaneous about them. And all this window dressing—poison-pen letters, disabled construction equipment, harassing phone calls.”

“The brick through Lora's window, the attack on Nelson, although that was probably not intended to fail,” Faith reminded him. “So you think everything that's been happening this month is connected?”

“Don't you?” Cops loved to answer a question with a question, Faith had observed.

“Yes, I haven't figured out how, though.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we haven't, either, which is why we're here.”

“You need my help.” It was a statement of fact.

Dunne grimaced. He would have done well in Ed Wood movies. However, Faith's overriding thought
was John's admission that he needed her particular expertise. They were back in business.

Dunne opened his Filofax and flipped to a blank page.

“Tell me everything you know about Joey Madsen and his family. Don't leave anything out, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

“Was he carrying a weapon?” Faith knew enough to get her questions in first when John was in one of these expansive moods.

“No—and before you get around to asking about the murder weapon, it was a common, ordinary kitchen knife. Impossible to trace. He or she could have had it in a drawer for years or picked it up at a yard sale—it wasn't new.”

Faith obediently filled John and Charley in on everything she'd learned about Joey Madsen and the family he'd married into. Tom added what he knew. Faith even mentioned Miss Lora's double life and her own recent visit with Gus.

“It's no secret Gus Deane didn't think much of his granddaughter's choice,” Charley told them. “Tried to buy him off. Bonnie heard about it and almost didn't invite the old man to the wedding. It was quite a scandal at the time. Her father was still living and he smoothed things over.”

They talked some more. Charley seemed convinced that someone connected to POW! was involved. John didn't comment, nor did Faith—out loud. Could Beecher's Bog mean so much that you'd kill for it? And no one in POW! would have murdered Margaret,
a founding member! Unless someone in POW! found out that Joey had killed her, enraged that she was burning the house down, then killed Joey, taking the law into his or her own hands. It certainly avenged the one crime while preventing what POW! viewed as an almost equally heinous one from occurring. Brad Hallowell clearly viewed the development of the land this way. And what about the possibility that Margaret hadn't been alone that night? Her accomplice had gotten away but might have seen who killed her—and again, the killer might have been Joey. Faith related her theories and ended, slightly chagrined, “There are a lot of ‘might haves.'”

The men, including her husband, nodded.

“But it's possible,” she protested, in the face of solid male opposition, never a pretty sight.

“It's possible,” Charley conceded in the tone of voice he used to humor her. She wasn't offended, just vowed to keep her theories to herself in the future. The other two didn't say anything. Dunne stood up. The kids came running into the room. They adored him. Something about his size, a Barney double. He hastily made for the door. Kids were fine in their place—his own kids at home, for instance—but they tended to make him nervous—those little feet, so easy to trip over, and the never-ending questions.

The Fairchilds ate early and bundled the children off to bed as soon as humanly possible, then went to bed themselves. By mutual consent, they didn't talk about what had happened. They were exhausted.

 

Faith pulled the loaded van into the winding driveway of one of Aleford's older homes—a large mid-nineteenth-century stone house that had grown over the years. It had a glassed-in conservatory and a long porch filled with comfortably cushioned wicker furniture. The porch was on the side of the house and faced gardens so magnificent that they had been included in the Evergreen's garden tour each year since the tour had started. No expense had been spared on this house and Martha Fletcher, the hostess, had given Faith the same instructions for this evening—although, she had been cautioned, nothing nouveau riche. The client had actually used the term.

It was 3:30 and Faith was glad to see Niki's car was already parked at the rear of the house. Typically, Mrs. Fletcher had invited people for six o' clock. In New York, that could sometimes mark the end of a long lunch. While not exactly in a party mood, Faith was looking forward to the event. Last night Joey's face, dead and alive, had punctuated her dreams. She was eager for distraction.

Niki opened the kitchen door. “Our hostess is indulging herself with a long soak in a scented tub. I know because she told me. She made it sound so sinful, I'm going straight out tomorrow and pick up some lavender bath salts myself.”

Faith began to cheer up and told herself that for approximately the next six hours, she wasn't going to
think about anything but food and drink. On the way over, she'd had trouble concentrating on the pot roast to hand; her mind, so cooperative earlier, had turned rogue and persisted in tossing about competing theories about Joey's murder. Niki helped with the resolution by giving her boss a tight hug and saying firmly, “I'm doing the fruit; you do the table. We can talk later. Nobody's going to get killed tonight.”

Faith appreciated the sentiment and sincerely hoped Niki was right.

An hour later, Mrs. Fletcher appeared, pink and rosy from her bath. She was wearing her dressing gown, but her makeup was on and she'd already scattered the jewelry from the safe-deposit box in various places about her person. Some good pieces, probably Grandmama's, but the diamonds needed cleaning and Faith noticed that the catch on the gold and sapphire bracelet had been repaired with a small gold safety pin. It would obviously be in bad taste to have anything professional done to one's heirlooms. Nouveau riche again.

Martha Fletcher stood in the dining-room doorway, a tall, substantial woman with her gray hair smoothed back into a tidy, at the moment, bun.

“It looks beautiful!” she gushed. Faith had to agree. They'd knocked themselves out creating this Patriots' Day buffet. The table was covered with material Faith had found at Fabric Place—a cream background with tiny flags, eagles, and stars stenciled in navy on the heavy glazed cotton. She'd placed groupings of votive candles in various-sized brass balls with star cutouts
throughout the room. They gave off a soft glow and matched her hostess's brass chandelier, suitably dimmed. They'd done a large arrangement of blue delphiniums, Queen Anne's lace, red and white ranunculuses, and several colors of anemones for the sideboard, where the wine and, later, the coffee would be served. A lower, smaller arrangement sat on the table.

“And everything smells so good already. I knew I was right to have you!” Mrs. Fletcher rambled on.

“Thank you.” The aromas from the kitchen
were
mouthwatering. Faith needed to get back there and see that the hors d' oeuvres were ready to go. She excused herself. Her hostess glanced at her watch and gave a shrill cry. “They'll be here any minute! I have to make sure Prescott's ready and get dressed myself!” Prescott Fletcher, her husband, was a distinguished-looking gentleman. He had popped his head into the kitchen earlier, looked about the room with a marked degree of unfamiliarity, asked them if they had everything they needed, and left in obvious relief when they said they had. Prescott had continued to add to the bounty of his family tree as a venture capitalist, Pix had told Faith, who wished she had the time—and nerve—to pin him down and ask him what this actually was.

In the kitchen, the staff was in full gear. Instead of a first course, they were serving heartier-than-usual fare for hors d' oeuvres: crab cakes with a spicy remoulade, asparagus wrapped in paper-thin slices of smoked salmon, zucchini pancakes with salsa and sour cream, wild-mushroom tartlets, two kinds of crostini—one
with a duck pâté, the other with tapenade—and cherry tomatoes stuffed with chèvre. There wasn't anything particularly patriotic about the choices, although all were made with native products. Faith had decided enough was enough after determining the main course, dessert, and decor. Her hostess had wanted the catering staff to wear period dress, but Faith had politely but firmly declined, explaining this would seriously hamper their performance. She had no intention of getting stuck in the swinging door—or roasting to death in all those layers. She wore her black-and-white chef's pants, tailored to fit, and a tuxedo-front white shirt with a black rosette instead of a tie. The rest of the staff was similarly attired, except they wore plain black pants, and Scott, the bartender, wore a tie. Faith had met Scott Phelan and Tricia, who was now his wife, five years ago. Scott had played a role in solving Cindy Shepherd's murder. It was as hard now as it had been then for Faith to keep her mind on track. If anything, he was better-looking. Take-your-breath-away looks. Old-fashioned movie-star good looks, Gregory Peck as opposed to Brad Pitt. Tricia was a beautiful girl herself and the two were very happy together. They were teasing Niki, who was frantically washing lettuce, a hateful task. She'd suddenly decided they didn't have enough for the salad—mixed greens topped with pomegranate seeds and a blueberry vinaigrette dressing.

“You're going to be an old maid if you don't watch out,” Scott warned.

“It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Better than ending up with some jerk.”

“Not all men are like Scott, you know, Niki. I happen to
like
jerks,” Tricia said, quickly moving out of her husband's reach. “Don't mess me up! I just did my hair.” She held up one arm to push him off.

“A jerk, huh?” He kissed her anyway—carefully.

“I'm only making sure you don't take me for granted,” she said.

This would have gone on—and had—but it was time for the party. Niki spoke before Faith could.

“Okay, okay. Enough foreplay. Get out there and do your jobs. Faith and I have real work to do here,” she ordered.

When the two had gone, Tricia with a tray of hors d' oeuvres, Scott to take drink orders, Faith and Niki laughed. “Better than TV,” Niki said.

“Much better,” Faith agreed, “And wait until they have kids!”

Scott returned. “It's not a white-wine crowd. Mrs. Fletcher was right about ordering a lot of scotch. And of course I have one order for a flintlock; it's a good thing we brought rum. They're starving, too. Went for Tricia like locusts.”

“I'd better take another tray out right away,” Faith said. This sometimes happened. People knew they were going to a dinner party, so they skipped lunch or ate lightly, then arrived ravenous. Well, there was plenty. She headed into the living room.

“And he has such a temper, my dear. No control at all. Remember when he turned his desk over in second grade!” A silver-haired lady was having a good time raking somebody over past and present coals.
Faith wondered who was the object of this conversation, and moved unobtrusively a little closer.

“That's where Joseph got it from, no doubt,” another woman commented, mouth pursed in disapproval.

“Joseph who?” a red-faced, rotund man asked, his drink—scotch, no ice—in one hand, a well-laden small plate in the other. He was wearing the modern equivalent of patriotic patrician dress: red chinos from Brooks, the same provenance for the navy sports jacket and striped tie.

“Joseph Madsen, the contractor who got himself killed yesterday,” the first speaker answered. “We're speaking of the way certain mannerisms run through the generations in that kind of family. He's exactly like Gus.”

“He may be like Gus, but he's not related to him. Not that I ever heard of. Married the old man's granddaughter.”

“Oh, that's right, of course. But it's all the same. They simply don't know how to behave.”

“Made themselves a bundle, though.” The man took a healthy swallow. “Misbehavior has its rewards, if you know what I mean.”