The Body In The Bog (25 page)

She looked out the front window. The rain hadn't reached Aleford yet, but Detective Lieutenant Dunne
had. He was coming up the front walk, covering the distance in several fewer steps than most. She opened the door before he could knock.

“Good, you're home,” he said, and walked in. “Tom, too?” There was a distinct note of hope in his voice.

“Tom, too,” Faith assured him.

Tom had told Faith that Dunne had been in East Boston, as well. It was hard for him to be unobtrusive, but he'd remained at a distance from the main body of mourners.

He sat down, removed his raincoat, but refused Faith's offer of nourishment, as usual. The man must eat like a horse when he got home, she thought. Some form of nourishment was preventing any withering away of flesh from his immense frame. She'd been to the state police barracks and aside from some ancient, moldy-looking sandwiches in a machine next to one that dispensed soft drinks, there wasn't a scrap of food in evidence. She pictured Dunne's wife, who Faith had heard was a mere slip of a woman, valiantly stirring large pots and turning a spit with huge haunches of meat. Faith was so distracted by her mental images, she almost missed John's first words.

“I have to get back right away, but I want to talk to you about Saturday.”

Faith figured as much.

“Are you absolutely sure you were being stalked? It wasn't an animal—or a kid playing some kind of game?”

“If it was a kid, it was a very weird one,” Faith said,
then went through the whole experience again—the way the person had stopped when she did, speeded up—and hid.

“It seems as if someone thinks you know something. Do you?” John's question was direct and forceful. “This is no time to hold back, Faith.”

“I
do
have several theories. Tom and I spent Saturday night going through every possibility we could think of, but I'm sure I haven't missed anything and I've told you or Charley everything.” It was true—and frustrating.

“So what did you and Tom come up with?” Dunne leaned back in the wing chair. It didn't creak, but it looked full.

Tom gave him a synopsis of the various suspects. “Nothing makes sense. Murder doesn't make sense. It's an act against nature, against the divine order of the universe, but the most likely possibility is that there were two killers: Joey Madsen and then Brad Hallowell. Faith thinks Brad may have developed serious psychological problems as a result of his involvement with some violent fantasy computer games.”

“He seems to view life as one giant monitor screen and doesn't distinguish between reality and RAM,” she told John.

“And you think he was your would-be assailant?”

“I don't have any evidence, but yes, I think he was,” she replied. No evidence yet, she added to herself. After Tom's reaction to her decoy plan, she knew what Dunne's would be. Not telling him about a future pos
sibility wasn't, strictly speaking, withholding information—at least not in Faith's book.

John stood up to leave. “You notice anything at the Madsen wake or funeral?”

Faith shook her head. “Nothing, except a truce has been declared between POW! and the Deanes. Bonnie Madsen wasn't particularly cordial to me, but that's understandable since she might have some powerful feelings regarding the person who discovered her husband's body. I don't think it had to do with my opposition to Alefordiana Estates. Millicent has called a meeting for tomorrow night to suggest to the membership that all efforts to halt the development of Beecher's Bog cease for the present. Depending on how people react, the truce might be over.”

But Joey wouldn't be around to find out. He wouldn't be around to make his fortune, either.

 

Tom refused to have anything more to do with POW!

“I made myself clear to Millicent and the others. No matter which way the membership votes, I'm out.”

Faith felt slightly guilty. She planned to set her trap tonight, or the first phase, and it suited her not to have Tom around. Though she agreed in principle with his stand, she had to go to the meeting. Besides, she was curious. At any rate, Tom's staying home solved the sitter problem.

Maybe a hair more than “slightly.” She was walking over with Pix, who didn't have any problems with guilt at all. She was still 100 percent opposed to the destruction of the bog, she'd told Faith earlier in the day.

“Of course, I don't think we should be doing anything about it now. I agree with everything Tom said on Saturday, yet it may become necessary to take action in the future. Suspending but not disbanding POW! would make that easier.”

Faith kissed her husband good-bye.

“Why do I have the feeling you're up to something?” he asked.

“I don't know. Why?”

“No, you're supposed to tell me.”

“That you're being silly?” She kissed him again. “Don't worry.”

“Now I really will,” he said gloomily. “I've heard those words before. Maybe I should go to the meeting with you after all. We can see if Samantha is free.”

“Tom! Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me at the meeting, before or after. Besides, I am a grown-up. I also happen to know that Samantha is at some regional sports banquet tonight. The team made the finals, or whatever they're called. She also got into Wellesley and is going there, so I'm sure she doesn't want to change a diaper tonight or play Candyland with Ben.”

“Neither do I.” Tom was being unusually truculent. “The two of us haven't been out alone in ages. Let's go out next weekend.”

“That would be lovely, darling. Friday night? Rialto bar and a movie?” The bar had the same incredible food as the Cambridge restaurant, but the Fairchilds preferred the service and ambience at the
bar, more casual, also more attentive—besides, they could eat well and get to a movie this way.

“Okay. I'll look and see what's playing. What do you want to see?”

“Sweetheart, this is Tuesday. We have all week, and Pix is waiting. I have to go.”

“Fine, fine, leave me here all by my lonesome.”

Ben called plaintively from his room, “Daddee, Daddee, are you going to read me a story?” Tom wouldn't be lonesome at all.

Again, Asterbrook Hall was crowded. Pix and Faith didn't get front-row seats, but they found two together, even though they were late.

“Look, Joey's lawyer is here,” Pix said, expertly scanning the audience for a head count and to see who was there. “What do you think he's up to?”

“Same thing he was doing at the other meetings, collecting information for the Deanes.” But the lawyer hadn't been at the last POW! meeting. Joey had been alone. Faith took a deep breath. She was waiting for the right moment.

The moment came late in the meeting. It had been an acrimonious one at times and the lawyer would have plenty to report. Distrust of the entire Deane family was in the air. Although no one actually attacked the company, the innuendos were less than subtle. One of the things that was making the majority of the people in the room uneasy was the fact that the Deanes had started renovating the old Turner farmhouse on the property—the house Joey had referred to as “the jewel in the crown” at Alefordiana. He had
told the selectmen the house would be “lovingly restored” and promised that not an inch of original clapboard would be sacrificed to a Palladian window or any other anachronistic architectural detailing.

“I want to know why they've started to work on the house when they haven't received the permits for the rest of the plans. What do they know? Have the selectmen given a secret go-ahead behind our backs?” Ellen Phyfe's voice was shrill as she raised these points. Several people in the audience clapped. Angry faces turned to confront the lawyer, who remained impassive. The seats to either side of him were empty, as if he carried some dread disease. But it wasn't contagion that the Aleford residents at the meeting feared; it was association.

“Fortunately, we have a member of the board here tonight. I asked Penelope Bartlett to come as a personal favor. Mrs. Bartlett?”

“‘Personal favor'—I'd say more like arm twisting,” Pix whispered to Faith. Indeed, Penny did not appear overjoyed to be there.

“Come up here, so everyone will be able to hear you,” Millicent directed. Penelope Bartlett was made of stern stuff, however, and whatever means Millicent had used to get her there did not extend to Penny's performance once she was in the hall.

“Everyone can hear me perfectly well from where I am, Miss McKinley. Let me start by saying that I am saddened and appalled that any citizen of Aleford should think the board of selectmen would make secret agreements with anyone! This indicates a serious
lack of trust and I intend to bring it before the board at our next meeting and hope that Mrs. Phyfe and others who share her views will be in attendance.” Since Ellen Phyfe's husband was a member of the board, everyone immediately began to look forward to another good episode.

Penny continued. “The late Mr. Madsen applied for and was granted permits to restore the old Turner farmhouse earlier this winter. The planning board, the Historic Commission, and the building inspector all advised the board to approve his plans, which we did. The meeting was open, of course, and some of you who are here tonight were there then, so I'm surprised this has come up. Obviously, the Deane-Madsen Development Corporation, to whom we granted approval, had to wait for the weather to improve, and this was our understanding at the time.”

Penny sat down. Millicent smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett. I believe that clears things up.”

“No, it doesn't.” Sherwin Greene jumped to his feet, no easy task for a man carrying as much weight as he did. “Why were they starting work before the rest was approved? And why are they continuing?”

Ellen called out, “That's right. I saw the trucks there today.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to ask those wishing to speak to wait to be recognized,” Millicent said. She had thought Penny's presence and reply would do the trick, but more was needed.

Help came from an unlikely corner. The lawyer had languidly stretched his long arm into the air. Millicent
recognized him immediately. He didn't bother to stand.

“The Deane-Madsen Development Corporation is undertaking the restoration of the property known as the old Turner farmhouse because it owns it and has received the appropriate permits. The company intends to sell the property irregardless of the outcome of the plans pending for the area known as Beecher's Bog.”

“Thank you very much. Now I think we're all clear on this matter.”

Of course “we” all weren't and there was further discussion that went around the same circles in endless and boring detail. “I've lost all feeling in my right buttock,” Pix whispered. “If I don't get out of here soon, the left one is going to go, too.” Faith bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She was getting punchy—and numb.

Finally, Millicent offered a compromise.

“It's clear that there are two very distinct positions: those who feel we should dissolve the organization and those who oppose that. I'd like to put a motion before the group that we effectively disband but keep a core executive committee who will monitor all matters dealing with the disposition of Beecher's Bog and activity at the old Turner farmhouse. This group shall be composed of the original signers of the letter in the
Chronicle
and those who worked on the mailing, to be more specific: myself, Nelson Batcheldor, Louise and Ted Scott, Pix Miller, Brad Hallowell, Ellen Phyfe, and Faith Fairchild. I
will now take five minutes of comments from the floor in favor and five minutes opposed.”

Surprisingly, there was almost no opposition. Maybe everyone was getting pins and needles. Sherwin Greene got up during the time allotted for the opposition and everyone expected a blast. Without naming the Deanes, he had repeatedly referred to “un-trustworthy, greedy, bloodsucking land developers” during the previous debate.

“I assume you will keep the membership's names and other information on file, as well as other material we might need to make a sudden response to an attack?”

“Certainly,” Millicent replied. “Perhaps Brad could speak to this issue.”

Brad Hallowell stood up. He had been strangely silent all evening; then Faith realized that of course he'd already known about Millicent's watch-and-wait motion. She'd presented it as a compromise, yet it had been the plan all along. Brad had no quarrel with it; he'd still be in the game.

“Everything's on my computer with backup discs. We could get a mailing out or start a telephone tree of the membership for a meeting in no time at all.”

Sherwin stood up again. “That's all right, then, but what about reconvening Town Meeting? Would we have to collect the signatures again?”

Millicent had been doing her homework. “Since we did not actually set a date, the signatures we have will suffice. I checked with Lucy Barnes yesterday.” Lucy Barnes was the town clerk.

Sherwin sat down, Millicent took the vote, and the motion passed.

“If there is no further business, I declare this meeting a—”

Faith's hand was up. Millicent looked peeved.

“Mrs. Fairchild?”

Mrs. Fairchild rose and addressed the room.

“I'm afraid I will have to decline the position on the executive committee, honored as I am. My work has recently increased. We're moving into the wedding and graduation season. I'm also shorthanded at present because my assistant is taking a pastry-making course, so I'm alone at the company. Tomorrow night, for instance, all by myself I have to make beef bourguignon for seventy-five and bake a hundred meringue shells—some always break.” Faith was deliberately rambling. She knew she sounded nutty, but she didn't care. She was speaking loudly and clearly. “I won't even be able to get there until seven because of the kids….”