The Body In The Bog (26 page)

Millicent had had enough. “I'm sure this is all very interesting”—her tone suggested “interesting to persons totally unknown to Millicent Revere McKinley”—“and we are sorry not to have your”—there was a pause, Faith waited—“help.” There was no adjective in front of the word, such as
competent, able, invaluable
. Miss McKinley gathered the papers in front of her into a pile. “I now declare this meeting adjourned.” So much for Faith.

Pix was giving Faith a funny look as they filed out of the room and up the aisle. “Now what was that about?”

“You know how stretched I am without Niki. I don't have time to be involved in POW!”

“But POW! isn't doing anything right now,” Pix pointed out logically.

This was why Faith had been glad Tom had stayed at the parsonage. She was beginning to wish Pix had stayed home, too.

“Millicent and Brad, probably the others, too, are going to want to have a meeting every time the Deanes replace a piece of rotted board. There'll be meetings of the inner circle all the time.”

“I hope not,” Pix said. “I'm busy myself.” She seemed to have dropped the subject and began to discuss Danny's problems at school. “I know next year will be better. We just have to get through these last few weeks.”

But when she left Faith at her door, it was clear she wasn't dropping the subject. “Do you want me to help you tomorrow night? I'm not sure what I could do—beat egg whites?” She sounded willing but dubious.

“It will take you twice as long as it takes me. Don't even think about it. Besides, it's nice to be by myself sometimes. It happens so rarely.”

“Pretty soon, Ben and Amy will be off to college and you'll wish for less time alone,” Pix commented sadly, although even with a future empty nest, all of her volunteer activities made time alone a remote possibility.

“Good night,” Faith said, then, for the second time that evening, added, “Don't worry. I'll be fine.” And she was sure she would be.

 

Niki
was
taking a pastry course and Faith
did
have to work Wednesday night making beef bourguignon and meringues. Faith spent the day making sure as many people in town knew these two salient facts. She even managed to work it into the conversation when she picked Ben up at school. Miss Lora, the professional that she was, had not let her personal grief intrude on her classroom demeanor and the children had spent a happy morning with papier-mâché. The large room smelled of wet newspaper and wallpaper paste. Ben was encrusted from head to toe and displayed a huge creature of some sort, sadly too wet to take home; besides, he had to paint it.

“It's a triceratops, Mom.” At last, something she could recognize.

“He has a very serious interest in prehistoric life,” Lora Deane told Faith, indicating that it was past time for the Fairchilds to get the brilliant child whatever encyclopedia and computer software he might need to further his study.

With children in tow, Faith spread the word at the library, the market, Aleford Photo, and ultimately the post office. If the post office didn't do it, nothing would.

Tom surprised her by coming home early. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways. A meeting I had to attend has been canceled. If you want to take off, go ahead. I'll handle things here. I know you've been stressed about getting everything done without Niki.”

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“Oh, Tom, that would be great.”

“I also have an ulterior motive. This way, you'll be home sooner.”

Faith sincerely hoped so.

Have Faith's kitchen was on the outskirts of town. She drove over, parked the car in front, then unlocked the door to the premises and went in. It was five o'clock. She'd told the world she was getting there at seven. That gave her two hours to get some work done. It was true. She was concerned about doing the work herself. Niki's class was three nights a week for the next month, and Niki had always had a part-time day job at a restaurant in Watertown.

But before she did anything else, Faith made her calls. First one to Charley.

“I'm going to be working at the company tonight and think you should be here at six-thirty.”

“What's going on, Faith?”

“I want to talk to you about the murders, you and John. Be sure he's with you. Something's come up and we may be able to solve this thing.” She liked the collegial way that all sounded.

“All right, I'll meet you there,” Charley said. “I'll call Dunne, too.”

“Six-thirty. Don't be late. I have to get home.” Faith didn't want to give Charley any more hints of what she was up to. He'd be over in a minute and mess things up.

Satisfied, she started separating dozens of eggs, reserving the yolks and putting the whites into a large
copper bowl. She hummed to herself. The meringues would be heaped with her homemade vanilla ice cream, then topped with a boysenberry puree and fresh raspberries. It was one of the desserts she'd created for the Patriots' Day dinner, then had abandoned when she couldn't get boysenberries last week.

She began to beat the egg whites with a balloon whisk. It was a satisfying job. Soon the white peaks began to stiffen. Things were going along beautifully.

The door opened. She heard footsteps. Charley hadn't waited. She looked up in annoyance. But it wasn't Charley.

Faith gasped. “You're not supposed to be here yet.”

It was the murderer.

It was Nelson Batcheldor.

Nelson?

Faith would have assumed he had stopped by for a cup of sugar, except for the fact that he was pointing a gun at her chest.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot you,” he said in an almost-jovial tone. Where was the bereaved widower?

“I should think not! Please put that gun away right now and tell me what you're doing here. I'm afraid I don't have much time to talk; I'm very busy,” said Faith, trying to bluff her way out.

“Oh, I do have to kill you, just not shoot you.” Nelson showed no inclination to follow Faith's request or lead.

There was a stool next to Faith. She grabbed it.

Nelson?

Nelson Batcheldor had killed his wife—and Joey Madsen?

“I've always been so fond of you and Tom, but you've been seriously interfering with my plans. I
had hoped to get everything settled last Saturday on the bike path, but then Millicent had to come along and stick her oar in.” Nelson was annoyed. Nature lover, bird-watcher, vestryman, librarian, handy-man—these were naught compared to the dramatis personae unfolding.

“And tonight I have a POW! meeting at seven-thirty. I was afraid I was going to have to be late, since you told us you wouldn't be here until seven. Then I said to myself, Nelson, why don't you take a little run over there and see if she started work early. You never know. So I did. Your car was out front, and here we are.”

Faith had been right. POW!
was
having meetings all the time, but that did not seem important at the moment, since, as Nelson had so aptly put it, here they were.

“Nelson, sit down. Why don't we both sit down? I'll make some coffee and you can tell me what's going on. You seem upset, and of course I want to help. All this talk of killing. Haven't we had enough? Think of poor Margaret.”

Two thoughts were pounding in her brain. The man was completely insane and the police wouldn't be coming for almost an hour. Insane. An hour with a homicidal maniac—Aleford had been right. Her head was close to bursting.

“I did think of Margaret. Often. I've wanted to get rid of her for years,” he said peevishly.

Faith felt incredibly stupid. Where is the first place you look for a suspect? The face on the pillow next to
the victim—or, in the Batcheldors' case, on the pillow down the hall. But they'd all been deceived by the attack on Nelson, staged by Nelson himself in some way. The man had been extremely clever and a consummate actor.

He was facing her across the broad metal counter where she'd been working. Nelson was slender and tall. His large, round, black-framed bifocals and the tufts that sprouted from his eyebrows gave him an owlish look. Perhaps this had attracted Margaret. He was dressed, as usual, in baggy tan pants and a rumpled button-down oxford-cloth shirt. In the winter, the shirts were covered by ancient Shetland pullovers, much mended, but inexpertly. Faith had always assumed the man was simply wearing his college wardrobe until the threads gave out, a common practice in Aleford and one from which she had had to wean her own husband.

Except for the gray in his bushy hair and the line through the middle of his lenses, Nelson Batcheldor had probably looked much the same at eighteen as he did now at forty-nine. He did not look like someone who had killed two people and was preparing to do away with a third. But then, murderers seldom did look other than completely ordinary. Few drooled or rolled their eyes.

Nelson was speaking very matter-of-factly about his desire to rid himself of his wife. “There were all sorts of opportunities, but I kept putting it off. I'm afraid I have a tendency to procrastinate,” he said apologetically. Faith hoped this tendency was rising
to the surface now. “I never had a pressing reason until last fall, and it also seemed sinful to take her life before it was really necessary.”

“Necessary?” Faith had missed a chapter.

“I couldn't remarry with Margaret alive,” Nelson explained patiently, much the way he'd explained the mechanics of a drill to Ben during the work on the classroom. Faith broke out in a cold sweat and the inside of her mouth got dry.

“Margaret wouldn't give you a divorce?”

“I don't know. I never asked her. No one in either of our families has ever been divorced,” he said with pride.

“Look, let me make the coffee.” Faith was sure Nelson would want to tell her all about it, and if she could keep refilling his cup, she had a chance of either being rescued or thinking of some way out of the situation herself.

“I don't have much time. Millicent doesn't like to start the meetings until everyone is present, and it's also going to take a while to set up your suicide.”

“My suicide!” Faith screamed.

Nelson jumped. He cocked the trigger. She realized she mustn't startle him.

“What suicide? I'm not planning on killing myself,” she said in what she desperately hoped was a calmer tone of voice.

“I know,” he whispered, “but I'm planning on it. I have to.” He raised his voice slightly. “You were bound to find me out sooner or later. You said so at the meeting, and that would have spoiled everything. De
stroyed my only chance for happiness. I think we'd better get down to it right away. You've been overwhelmed by work. The whole town knows it. You simply cracked.”

No problem with procrastination tonight.

“Now wait a minute,” Faith said, relying on whatever natural authority her position as his spiritual leader's wife might give her. At the moment, she was grasping at anything. “First, I think you owe me an explanation before I die. And second, I believe I'm also entitled to a last request. And I want a cup of coffee.” Nelson wasn't your run-of-the-mill criminal. She hoped her bizarre appeal would be matched by his own quirkiness. The code of the Batcheldors or whatever.

He sighed and looked at his watch.

“All right, but I'll try to be brief. Why don't you get the coffee while I talk. You see, I plan to knock you out and put your head in the oven. It is gas, I hope. Then, I need to stay around for a bit to make sure it's working.”

Faith knew all the color was draining from her face. She decided not to tell him that, although the burners were gas, the ovens were electric—a better combination. She didn't want him to opt for something short and sweet such as a pistol shot before burning the place down. He'd used the same basic method before.

Nelson perched on the stool across from her and eyed the large copper bowl. “What's that?”

“Egg whites for meringues. Are you hungry? I have some cookies—or I can make you a sandwich.”

“Margaret didn't like to cook. I'm afraid she wasn't very domestic. Of course I knew that when I married her. That wasn't the problem.”

Faith slowly ground some coffee beans. “What was the problem, then?”

“Not a very interesting story, I'm afraid. We married too young. I was just out of the service, the Vietnam War. Thank goodness I didn't have to go over there. I can't stand hot climates, and the jungle would have been the end of me. That's where I got my gun, though. Margaret never knew I saved it. I won a medal for marksmanship. For a long time, I thought I would shoot her, but it's so difficult to cover up that sort of thing. All my friends were getting married. No excuse, mind you. But I've always been a bit of a follower. Margaret did know that.”

The last phrase was spoken bitterly.

“I never even got to choose the color of my own socks, let alone make a big decision. Never even got to open my mouth. She wanted to live here. I wanted to live farther out in the country, but her family was from here. So Aleford it was. I wanted children. She didn't. And those damn birds. I would have liked to sleep late just once. Since she died, I haven't gotten up before eight.”

Faith found herself in the extremely odd position of feeling sorry for the man who was about to end her mortal life.

“You should have talked to Tom or his predecessor. Tried to work things out.”

“Talk about our personal life to an outsider? No, I
don't think Margaret would have liked that. I know I wouldn't.”

Faith was boiling water. The kettle whistled and Nelson was startled again. She quickly turned it off and poured it into the coffeemaker that sat on the counter to the left of the stove. It hissed as it hit the grounds and filled the room with a pungent smell. She set out two large mugs and waited before pushing the plunger down, straining the grounds in the glass cylinder.

“None for me, thank you,” Nelson said. “It keeps me awake.”

Keep him talking.

“All right. You killed Margaret, but why Joey Madsen? I assume you did, right?”

Nelson nodded. “I may not have shared Margaret's passion for ornithology, but I agree about Beecher's Bog. The man's plans were reprehensible.”

“You killed him to save the bog?”

“No, of course not. I killed him because he was blackmailing me.”

Faith poured herself a cup of coffee she didn't want. Even if she threw the scalding liquid at his face, he'd still be able to get her before she could reach the door—if not by racing after her, then with his gun.

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” She hoped this new appeal to his reference librarian's inherent sense of order would work.

He looked at his watch.

“A synopsis. You know Margaret was feeling incensed about Alefordiana Estates. I realized I could
capitalize on that fervor, and we began to plan little forays into the bog to drill, as it were, should it become necessary to confront the developers head-on, disable their equipment, whatnot. You surprised us one day and were no doubt surprised yourself by our uniforms. Margaret thought they lent verisimilitude. I was able to convince Margaret that Joey was writing those anonymous letters and that the threat to the land was increasing. In fact, I wrote the letters myself. The library was getting rid of a great many of its outdated magazines and it was quite easy to find the appropriate means.”

Nelson had always taken pride in his work. Faith remembered the way he'd shown her and Miss Lora the finished shelves and storage areas he'd built for the school.

“We decided that we had to send a strong warning to the Deanes, and burning down the new house appealed to Margaret. I'm afraid I fanned the fires of her conviction a bit, overriding her objections with some of Machiavelli's old arguments. Margaret had never been a part of the radical movement, since I'd been in the army and she thought it would be disloyal. She always thought she'd missed out on something. She certainly entered into my plans with gusto. We were going to destroy their excavator together, but it didn't work into my schedule. I was sorry she missed it.”

All Faith's prior sympathy for the man plummeted, leaving a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. Poor Margaret, duped to death.

“We took the gas can to the house and as she was
pouring it, I hit her on the back of the head with a wooden cudgel one of her ancestors had brought back from an Amazonian adventure. I made sure to place it in a pool of gas, and presumably it was destroyed in the flames.”

Along with your wife, you bastard, Faith said to herself. All the while Nelson had been talking, she'd been surreptitiously glancing about the kitchen, seeking a means of escape.

“So, Joey saw you at the house?”

“No, I was very careful. I disposed of my clothes—they smelled of gas and smoke—in the small pond on the way back to our house, taking the shortcut. No one saw me. Who would be about at that hour? I took a bath and went to sleep. Joey didn't see me the night of the fire; he watched me take the chloral at the Minuteman breakfast. He figured things out after I was stricken.”

It was on the tip of Faith's tongue to ask why Madsen hadn't gone straight to the police, but she had her answer. Joey needed money, a lot of money. Blackmailing Nelson was going to help pay for Alefordiana Estates. Simple—and Joey would have gotten a kick out of the whole thing, too. Making Nelson foot the bill for something he abhorred.

“Margaret had been having trouble sleeping a number of years ago and the doctor prescribed chloral hydrate. I substituted cherry cough syrup and an over-the-counter sleeping pill. It wasn't as effective and the doctor kept giving her the chloral in greater strengths. I was able to put quite a bit aside. My plan
was to kill her with it, but then Alefordiana Estates and POW! came along. Really much better.”

Faith was confused. “But weren't you afraid that you might overdose yourself?”

“I
am
a librarian, you know, and I thoroughly researched the drug and its effects before trying it out. As I mentioned, I had been able to put plenty aside, so I ran a few tests. To get the timing right.”

“But how did you manage to get it into the breakfast? The police searched the trash at the church and all the bins on the green. There wasn't a bottle or other container, and there wasn't any chloral in your flask. And how could you have taken it right under the eyes of the state police?”

Nelson permitted himself a self-congratulatory smile. Most murderers were extremely egotistical, Faith had heard, and Nelson was no exception.

“I filled a sturdy balloon with the dose and carried it in my shot pouch. My flask simply held water, as it might have on that famous day. Before leaving for the green, I told my bodyguard I had to relieve myself. Then I went into the bathroom, where I quaffed the chloral, then flushed the empty balloon down the toilet.” Nelson seemed to be reverting to 1775 speech. “I also drank two nips of vodka to help the chloral work faster. I was sure the police would not find those out of the ordinary, although I did not see any other liquor bottles in the trash at the time. And it worked perfectly. Except, unbeknownst to me, Joey Madsen was in one of the stalls, watching.”

It hadn't worked perfectly for Margaret, or for Joey. And not now for Faith.

It still seemed like an enormous amount of trouble to go through to get rid of someone who perhaps nagged too much. What were those references to marriage and things changing last fall?