The Body In The Bog (7 page)

It was a welcome reprieve. After refusing all offers of help, Millicent left Faith alone to regroup. Getting
information from Aleford's prime source was more difficult than gaining access to the Beatles' uncensored FBI dossiers.

Millicent's parlor was crammed with objects, some good, some mediocre, yet all treasured. A veritable phalanx of Hummels stood imprisoned in a china closet like so many Hansel and Gretels biding their time behind the mullioned glass before the witch would bake them. There were small tables, tilt-top tables, one large trestle table beneath another window, and chairs everywhere. Looking at the worn but good Oriental at her feet, Faith suspected the furniture served several purposes, not the least of which was to cover the threadbare patches of the Hamadan. A mourning picture on silk, two braided-hair mourning wreaths, and a reproduction of Paul Revere as a very old man gave a slightly lugubrious air to the room. There was a fireplace, and Faith was surprised to detect a small curl of smoke. A fire in April? Had Millicent taken leave of her senses? No true New Englander burned wood out of season, no matter what the temperature outside—or storm conditions. Curious, she stood up and went over to look at what was left of the blaze. Whatever it was, it hadn't been much. It had been a paper fire and all that remained was the charred corner of an envelope—a plain white legal-sized envelope.

So Millicent had gotten one, too.

Faith resumed her seat quickly, fully restored. She had planned to say something about POW! She'd thought of saying that she needed a clipboard to col
lect signatures, or some other ploy. Since Millicent was not a member of First Parish, although she interfered enough in church business to be considered at least an “inquirer,” Tom had pointed out on more than one occasion, the parish-call routine would not do. Now she did not need subterfuge and could come straight to the point.

She let Millicent put the tray down on a wobbly Shaker-type table and waited while the older woman fiddled with a piece of cardboard shimmed under one of the legs. Finally, all was in place and Millicent was “mother,” pouring the strong tea she favored into delicate Limoges cups that she invariably mentioned were a throwback to the Reveres'—Rivoires'—French beginnings.

Teacup in hand, Faith declared, “You've had one of those nasty poison-pen letters.”

Millicent cast an involuntary glance at the hearth and then back, her piercing gray eyes matched by the iron Mamie Eisenhower fringe above them. Never a hostage to fashion's whims, Millicent—and Mamie—had found a hairstyle and stuck with it.

“What makes you say that?”

Faith noticed it was not a denial.

“Because you've burned it in your fireplace, which was really not the best thing to do. We need all the evidence we can get to discover who's behind this.”

Millicent gave Faith a world-weary smile—Oh, the impetuousness of youth. “I had a very good reason for burning it. It was crude and I didn't want anyone else to see it, but of course I told Charley. I described the
way it was written. A cut-and-paste job from magazines and newspapers. I'm sure he knew what I was going to do.”

“Do you know who else received one?”

“Do you?” Millicent parried.

“Yes,” Faith advanced.

“All right, then, let's try to figure it out. If the two of us can't, I don't know who can.” It was a major victory, and before Faith could let it go to her head, she told herself to remain steady and took out a pad and pen.

“When did yours arrive?”

“This morning—and it was mailed in Post Office Square on Thursday afternoon, like the others I know about.”

Before she could go off on the tirade against the U.S. mail that Faith had heard lo these many times before—“My dear, we used to have two deliveries a day! You could mail a letter in Aleford at night and it would arrive at its destination at breakfast. Now you're lucky if it makes it in a week. Far simpler to hand-deliver.”—Faith quickly interjected, “What about the others? Who's gotten them?”

“Brad has received one. He read it to me on the phone before taking it to the police. Also the Batcheldors and the Scotts. Who do you know?”

“Pix got one, also this morning. It alluded to the whole Cindy Shepherd affair and suggested that Sam had not stopped philandering.” Being with Millicent tended to make Faith use words she had hitherto seen only in print.

“Brad's was about that Deane girl he'd been seeing
several months ago, and it was rather graphic about what they may have been up to. He seemed to think the whole thing was funny, especially since they've parted company.”

“And the Batcheldors?”

“That was more circumspect. It just said they shouldn't go out in the woods if they wanted to stay healthy. It was a threat. But the one the Scotts got was particularly vicious, mentioning her father.”

“Her father?”

“He was an alcoholic and hit a little girl when he was driving while intoxicated. She survived but was paralyzed from the waist down. Shortly after, he took his own life.”

“That's terrible!”

“Yes, especially since it was so many years ago. And to lay it at the Scotts' doorstep! It had nothing to do with them. Louise was a girl herself at the time. I remember it well.”

And you were how old? Faith was tempted to ask, but she did not want to mar the precarious alliance. Millicent was notoriously sensitive about her age, admitting to no more than a vague reference to sixty-something.

“Pix's was signed ‘A friend.' How was yours signed?”

“The same, as was everyone else's except Brad's. Brad's wasn't signed. But that might simply mean whoever it was ran out of letters, got careless, or was in a rush.”

Faith made a note of the omission and the possible reasons.

“Such a cowardly thing to do.” Millicent's cheeks were flushed. She preferred to meet her enemies head-on. “And I always resent it when you read that anonymous letters are a ‘woman's crime.' As if a man can't cut letters out just as well.”

Faith agreed. “I don't think we should assume it's one or the other. And the recipients are mixed. Let's think about that. What do you all have in common?”

Millicent looked at her with pity. “Didn't you read last week's
Chronicle
?”

Faith had to admit the weekly
Aleford Chronicle
was still in a stack of papers in a basket in the kitchen. She knew that two children, husband, house, and career were no excuse for not keeping up with local issues, at least not to Millicent.

Millicent got up and went over to the decorative wooden canterbury next to an armchair. She plucked the newspaper from past issues of
Early American Life, American Heritage,
and other favored reading matter. Wordlessly, she turned the pages and pointed at one of the letters to the editor. Faith skimmed the lengthy plea to save Beecher's Bog, which ended with the words, “First the bog, then the green!” But it was not the letter itself that drew Faith's attention. It was the signers: Millicent, Pix, the Batcheldors, the Scotts, and Brad Hallowell.

“We wanted to create some interest for Friday night's meeting,” Millicent explained. “You'd be
amazed to know how many people aren't aware of what Joey Madsen is trying to do.”

“Does Charley know about the letter?”

“Of course. I told him right away. Obviously, we were targets for our activity on behalf of the bog. And it's also obvious who's most interested in stopping us—Joseph Madsen and company.”

It certainly seemed that way.

 

Faith left Millicent's full of information, yet feeling curiously hollow. She knew who had received the other letters and how, but the idea that Joey Madsen would be spending his time with scissors and Super Glue to intimidate his opposition just didn't fit. He, like Millicent, confronted people head-on—sometimes literally.

She walked slowly by the green and almost bumped into Pix, who was striding along with two of the dogs.

“Oops, sorry, Faith, we almost got you. After I dropped the kids off, I decided I needed to get out. Artie and Dusty always love walkies, too. What are you doing?”

“Not much. I've been talking to Millicent….”

“Oh, that explains the downtrodden look. Come on, walk with us. It will do you good.”

Pix was one of those believers in the efficacy of fresh air for all the ills of body and soul. Faith was not.

“Tom's taken the kids over to Drumlin Farm, so I think I'll go to work for a while and make up some
cookie dough for the freezer. We're going to need every spare minute soon, so I'd like to get ahead.”

“Then I'll come with you, but just to keep you company.”

Faith laughed. “That would be great.”

As they drove to Have Faith together, Pix told Faith that Charley had canceled their meeting. All the people who had signed the
Chronicle
letter had received the other kind. So far, no one else had reported getting one, so he believed he'd established the link. Sam had also called and was getting the first available flight. Pix was feeling much, much better.

“Millicent wanted the bog letter to go into this week's issue, so Sam wasn't here to sign it. I did speak to him about it on the phone, but he said he had to investigate a little further before he'd sign anything sponsored by a group called POW! It's that legalistic mind of his.”

And years of living in Aleford, Faith was sure.

“If he had, the letter would have been addressed to both of us, I suppose,” Pix continued.

It was an interesting point. The letter did sound as if it had been intended for both of them. Perhaps the writer had assumed Sam would join in with his wife's views. Then when the paper came out and his name wasn't there, the address was changed. The Scotts' letter was addressed to the couple, but concerned only Louise.

At the catering kitchen, Faith swiftly assembled her
ingredients and started to work. Pix sat on a high stool and wrapped her long legs around it.

“Knowing that everyone else got one cheered me up, which is awful, but I suppose normal,” she told Faith.

“Absolutely normal. Safety in numbers. I'm relieved, too. It's probably someone disgruntled with the idea of limiting development, and yes, that could be Joey Madsen. But a couple of things still bother me.”

“Something's always bothering you, boss,” came a cheerful voice from the doorway.

It was Niki Constantine, Faith's assistant. When she had reopened the catering business, Faith had advertised in the greater Boston area and interviewed dozens of applicants. Niki presented the perfect combination of impressive credentials, dedication—“Food is my life,” she often intoned, only half-jokingly—and a sense of humor. This last was essential in an operation like Have Faith. Niki had assumed more responsibility as time had gone on. Faith knew the young woman would leave to start a firm or a restaurant of her own one day, but she hoped that day would be a long way off.

Niki had grown up in a large Greek family in Watertown. Although food might be her life, she was thin and wiry, never eating much, but tasting constantly. Her short black curls were wiry, too, and sprang out from her head in disarray—a little like one of the metal pot scrubbers they used.

Faith had not been expecting her. “What brings you here? I thought you had a hot and heavy date with the
guy from Harvard Law. Weren't you going off with him this weekend?”

“I was, but I got cold feet. He's so respectable and perfect I know he must be wrong for me. For one thing, my parents are dying to meet him.”

“And that's a no-no?” Pix asked worriedly. She'd wanted to meet every one of her children's acquaintances since sandbox days. Evidently this was not the thing to do.

“Chill, Pix. You're different. If Samantha brings someone home when she's my age, you won't start making a seating chart for the wedding.”

They all laughed.

Niki grew serious again. “The worst thing about it is he's so understanding. He wasn't even mad at me. Told me he knows I need my space. What are you going to do with a man like that?”

“Probably marry him,” Faith said.

Niki frowned at her. “Anyway, we're going dancing tonight. He's a good dancer. Usually these preppy types look like Pinocchio, too humiliating. Now I'm going to make stock. I've been carrying these veal bones on the subway and bus in fear the bags would break and I'd be arrested for trying to dispose of my lover, conveniently chopped up in little pieces. Which takes care of all about me—what's going on here?”

They filled her in and she gave Pix a big hug. “How horrible for you. We had an obscene caller when I was in college and we had to change the number. I remember the first time it happened. It was such a shock, because you're expecting something so different.
Somebody selling carpet cleaning or wanting to be your broker, and then these other words come out. Of course, you've solved it already, right, Faith?”

“Not really. The most obvious suspect is Joey, but the letters don't seem his style. If anything, he'd write back in the paper for all the world to see.” Joey Madsen was noted for his letters to the editor. They pulled few punches and named names.

“What about his wife?” Niki suggested. “Standing by her man?”

Faith had considered Bonnie, then eliminated her for the same reasons. Bonnie didn't sneak around. If she was upset about something, Aleford knew it.

“But,” Pix pointed out, “Joey is trying to get his plans approved. He can't very well attack POW! in public without making himself look bad. He's got to keep everything legal and aboveboard. Maybe the letters are his way of trying to frighten us into abandoning our cause.”

Faith was kneading the rich shortbread that formed the base for her chocolate crunch cookies. There was another reason to believe Joey was behind the letters. It had struck her as soon as she'd heard it in Millicent's parlor. The wording. Could it possibly be a coincidence that both Lora Deane and the Batcheldors were being told to do something if they “wanted to stay healthy”—one on the phone; one in writing?