The Body in the Bonfire (12 page)

Tom wasn't hungry. He ate only one large helping of what was one of his favorites.

At 7:45, children disposed of appropriately, Faith sat him down on the couch and said, “Now, I've been patient enough. What exactly is going on between the two of them?”

“I wish I knew. Dad wishes he knew,” Tom said mournfully. “You have
got
to talk to Mother. What she's doing is going on a cruise. A cruise!”

Faith sighed. All was clear. A cruise. To the Fairchilds, at least the Fairchild men, this meant the
Love Boat.
Marian, an attractive woman, would fall into the clutches of some Lothario, a babe magnet. Marian herself perhaps was trolling for just such a contemporary adventure to go with her new furniture.

“Well, why doesn't your father go with her?” The obvious solution.

“It's complicated. You know he doesn't like to travel, and Mom has always seemed content with the place at the Cape and a few ski trips to Vermont in the winter.”

Death, thought Faith. Death. It would be like death. Keep house, then go to the Cape and keep house. Rent a condo and ski, and keep house some more. Granted, Tom and Faith had a small cottage on Sanpere Island, off the coast of Maine, yet she had made it very clear to her husband that
this was not to replace foreign travel. Travel often, without children and with someone else making the beds.

“She just presented it as a done deal. She's got her tickets, everything. Told him she's tired of asking him and said if she's going to see anything of the world, she'll have to go without him.”

It was straight from the pages of
Ladies' Home Journal
—“Can This Marriage Be Saved?” She has an itchy foot; he just wants to stay home.

“But let me get this straight. She's not talking about a divorce, right? She only wants to go on a trip.”

“So far.” Tom's tone was portentous.

“Your dad thinks it's the thin end of the wedge. Today Nassau or wherever she's going, tomorrow Reno.”

“This is really nothing to joke about,” Tom protested.

Faith was immediately contrite. These were Tom's parents, after all, and men didn't have much of a sense of humor when it came to this sort of thing, even when not related to the persons involved.

“I'm sorry, darling. And of course I'll talk to your mother.” In fact, Faith could hardly wait. “But I think you and your dad—and the rest of the family, if they're upset, too—should let Marian enjoy her trip and welcome her back. Lots of couples take separate vacations. Not that I'm advocating it,” she added hastily. There was no way
Tom was going anywhere without her. “But think of the Millers. Sam goes on fishing trips without Pix.”

“That's different,” Tom said. “Pix has to take care of the kids. He stopped. “Omigod, what a stupid thing to say.”

Faith gave him a big kiss. He was coming round. Perspective was everything.

“Anyway, Mom's not going to Nassau. She's going to the Galápagos. They have lectures and everything. Dad would hate it. She's right.”

“Did you invite them for the weekend?”

“Yes, and Dad said he'd call. It was so sad, Faith, the way he was pointing out all these places they used to go. They had their first date right at the Union Oyster House, you know.”

“I know,” said Faith. “Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Your mother just needs a little space.”

“That's what
she
said,” Tom remarked, the small cheerful spark Faith had ignited totally extinguished by the sigh that accompanied his words.

The phone rang exactly at nine o'clock, the cutoff time for calls in Aleford and the like. Tom picked it up, expecting his father, but it was Pix, wanting to talk to Faith.

“Sorry to bother you this late, but I had to go to a Planning Board meeting.” The Millers were extremely involved in town politics. Faith used Tom's position as an excuse to remain bipartisan and thus unable to attend meetings, et cetera, un
less she really cared deeply about an issue. Then she made an exception—just this one time. So far, the strategy had served her well.

“It's not late. Don't worry. What's up?”

“It's Danny.”

Faith's heart sank.

“I got a call from school today,” Pix continued. “He's failing math and barely passing everything else. Sam is still away, and Danny refuses to talk to me about it. I'm going crazy.”

“I'll be right over,” Faith said.

“You're wonderful, but I don't want to sit talking about him when he's right upstairs. Tomorrow?”

“As soon as I get back from Mansfield, I'll call you. And I know this isn't a big help, but try not to worry. Kids go through times like this.”

“I'm trying to remember that,” Pix said. “At least I know what's going on.”

Faith said good-bye and hung up. Now was definitely not the time to tell Pix about Danny's sound system.

“How are things going?” A bright and cheery voice greeted Faith as she walked toward Carleton House the next morning. It was Connie Reed.

Tempted as she was to answer, My in-laws' marriage may or may not be on the rocks, I haven't made much headway in finding out who's attacking Daryl Martin, someone is sabotaging my ingredients, my best friend's son has gone haywire, and I'm catering a luncheon next week and have no idea what to serve, she settled instead for “Fine. The kids really seem to be enjoying themselves, and,” she added hastily, since the aim of education at places like Mansfield was not enjoyment but achievement, “they're learning a great deal. You may want to think of opening up a café on the school grounds.”

Connie frowned, and Faith belatedly recalled her impression that the woman had virtually no
sense of humor. “I don't think the headmaster, or the trustees, would be in favor of a commercial enterprise, but I'm glad the boys are taking the course seriously. Why don't you come have a cup of coffee with me? You're a bit early. Chapel is just starting.”

Faith had planned to taste-test any ingredients left on campus, then take a quick look at John MacKenzie's room, yet she didn't want to hurt Ms. Reed's feelings. Maybe she had friends among the faculty, maybe not. She lived in a small house on campus, one of the buildings left from the estate that had preceded the school.

“That sounds great. Where to?”

“Mrs. Mallory keeps a pot going all day for the faculty and generally leaves a plate of cookies or muffins to go with it in one of the rooms off the kitchen. Faculty members eat with the students, and this is the nearest thing we have to a lounge, although each department has created its own.”

Well, back to plan A. Faith had planned to see Mrs. Mallory before class and had only changed her mind in the wee hours of the morning, when she realized she hadn't searched MacKenzie's room yet.

When they were seated with their mugs and cinnamon scones, still warm from the oven, Faith mentioned that she wanted to schedule Mrs. Mallory for tomorrow's class, Saturday. “And I thought I'd ask Mrs. Harcourt for the next. At the sherry hour, she offered to teach the students how
to make beef Stroganoff, a traditional family recipe, I gather. I know she must be terribly upset about the theft, but I hope it will all be cleared up by then.”

“Mrs. Harcourt teach the boys?” Connie sounded dubious. “I'm not sure that's totally appropriate, or rather,” she said hastily, “that she meant to seriously offer her services. She's never actually taught, you see, and it might be a bit much for her. Perhaps she could just give you the recipe.” Connie beamed at her solution.

Zoë, armed with sour cream, a good knife, and her own commanding persona, not able to control a roomful of teenage boys? Hard to imagine. Why didn't Connie want her to take the class?

The woman was talking rapidly now, burying the previous subject. “Of course, we are all appalled at the theft. This kind of thing just doesn't happen at Mansfield. Robert, Dr. Harcourt, sets such a high moral tone. We searched the boys' rooms immediately but didn't find any of the articles, and they still haven't been returned.” She sounded oddly triumphant. Faith had a wild thought. Was it Ms. Reed herself? Pocketing Zoë's bibelots to teach her a lesson? And what lesson? To behave more like a headmaster's wife and less like an escapee from the Bolshoi?

“Did you check the blazers, too?” Faith asked. “I mean for a missing button.”

“I suppose that's common knowledge, though I'm surprised it got as far as you,” Connie replied
somewhat absently. “Yes, we checked, and all buttons were in place. Of course, the first thing the boy would have done when he realized it was missing would have been to sew another one on. Boys are always losing buttons, and there are plenty of various sizes in the sewing kit we issue them in ninth grade, along with other necessities.”

Faith wished someone had issued Tom a sewing kit at some point, since he'd gone straight from a mother who'd mastered the Singer around age four to a wife who was severely challenged in this department. When he handed her a sock to mend, Faith replaced it with a new one she'd washed a couple of times and then buried the old one in the trash. It wasn't that he'd care about the substitution, but he'd protest the disposal. Old socks were handy for polishing—or she could make hand puppets for the kids from them. Thrift. Yankee thrift. She sighed and tuned back in to Connie's paean to her boss. She'd moved on to Project Term in general and what a visionary concept it was. Faith had had enough of Robert worship, so she explained she just had time for a word with Mrs. Mallory, thanked Connie for the coffee, and headed into the kitchen.

Only a few breakfast dishes remained—bowls encrusted with oatmeal, plates streaked with egg. The room was warm and moist from the steam of the dishwasher. Mrs. Mallory was nowhere in sight—and had she been around, there would have been no mistaking her presence. Mabel was
sitting on a stool, reading the paper. She looked up and smiled at Faith.

“The boss will be back in a minute. Have a seat. Want some coffee?”

Faith hadn't seen Mabel face-to-face at their earlier meeting, and she now realized the woman was much older than she had thought.

“Thanks, I just had a cup, and a delicious scone.”

Mabel nodded. “We're known for our baked goods. Freshman go home at Thanksgiving looking like the Butterballs on the table.” She laughed. Faith did, too.

“You must get to know the students pretty well over the years.” The boys rotated table-waiting and other jobs.

“That we do—and some of them come back to see us after they graduate. Bring their families sometimes.”

“I've gotten to know a few of them myself since I've been teaching them this cooking course. Daryl Martin is in the class, and I like him very much.”

Mabel looked at Faith appraisingly. “Daryl's a good boy. Smart boy. He knows how to get along here.”

“What do you mean? I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound like I'm quizzing you.”

“But that is what you're doing, isn't it, child?” Mabel laughed again at Faith's discomfort.

Impulsively, Faith reached for the woman's
hand. “Yes, it is. No one else knows, but Daryl's been getting…well, some nasty messages on his computer and in his backpack. I'm trying to find out who's doing it.”

Mabel gave Faith's hand a little squeeze. “I knew something was troubling him. Don't worry, I won't say a word to anyone. But you've got a big job on your hands.” All traces of amusement had vanished. “Could be almost anybody.”

She's right, Faith thought dismally as Mrs. Mallory loomed in the doorway.

“But I'll do what I can,” Mabel whispered, then returned to her perusal of the obituaries. It was Faith's grandmother's favorite section of the paper, too; she always turned to it before the headlines. Faith was never sure whether this was for information or reassurance. Probably both.

She stood up, walked over to the cook, and got straight to the point, asking her if she would take tomorrow's class. It was time to get over to Carleton House. In addition, she couldn't think of any other way to approach the woman. Flattery was out.

“I don't know…” Mrs. Mallory began.

“Soup and sandwich lunch on Saturdays. Do the soup today and nothing much else to do tomorrow morning that the rest of us can't handle,” Mabel said.

“Well…”

“Teach those boys to make the cookies they like—chocolate chip, hermits, and those peanut ones. They'll bless you for the rest of their lives.”

Whether it was due to the prospect of a perpetual state of grace or the assumption of her rightful position as purveyor of culinary expertise at Mansfield, Mrs. Mallory agreed.

“Tell the boys I will not tolerate lateness and I will bring everything that I will need.”

Faith thanked her profusely, and as soon as she was out the door, she ran as fast as she could, since she was loaded down with the assorted equipment and ingredients for today's class. She was late herself.

Angry voices greeted her as she pushed open the front door. Good Lord, she wasn't all that late. She heard what sounded like a chair falling over, then abrupt quiet, followed by Daryl Martin's voice, choked with anger: “I'm going to kill you, Buxton. You'd better watch your back.”

“What's going on here?” Faith's own voice was raised as she stepped into the room.

Sloane Buxton very deliberately righted the overturned chair. “I'm afraid we got a little rowdy, Mrs. Fairchild. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

His loyal lieutenants, who had been standing on either side of him, echoed the sentiments. All three were the pictures of innocence, appropriately chastened. Daryl's face was impassive—the mask in place—impossible to tell what he was feeling or thinking. The ninth graders, all three, including Brian Perkins, looked terrified. John MacKenzie was pointedly staring out the
window and Zach Cohen—Zach Cohen was laughing.

Faith went right to tuna fish.

“Easy, tasty, good for you, but you have to remember to drain the oil or water it's packed in before using it.”

 

As she expected, Daryl returned after the class was dismissed, slipping in the back door. Faith was busy tasting what was in the canisters. Someone had mixed salt with the sugar and the flour was flecked with black—coarsely ground pepper, obviously meant to suggest mouse turds. She'd have to come back later and replace the contents. Mrs. Mallory said she was bringing everything herself, but Faith didn't want to take any chances. She could just see her running out of sugar or flour and thinking Faith herself had contaminated the ingredients.

“Hey.” Daryl's soft voice startled Faith.

She shook her head. “Soy sauce in the milk, salt in the sugar, and God knows what in the flour. And a brawl. What is going on here?”

“I can't stay long. I have to go to lunch today.” He smiled ruefully. “Pride, you know. When you've been dissed, you don't crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head.”

“As much as you'd like to,” Faith said.

“Yeah.”

“So what happened?”

“It was dumb. I was dumb. I lost it—and I hate
that. We were all here waiting for class to start. I opened my knapsack and took out the folder with the packet you gave us. I found this inside.” He handed her a folded piece of paper, which he had taken from his pocket. It was a Xerox of one of the original Aunt Jemima pancake mix ads. Someone had added to that offense by further thickening her lips with a marker and drawing obscenely large breasts.

“Sloane was next to me. He was smiling. ‘Wouldn't have thought you'd go for older women, Martin,' he said, and his buddies laughed their heads off. I was going to smash his ugly face in, then stopped and kicked the chair instead. You heard the rest.”

“It's sick.” Faith stared at the picture. Where had Sloane gotten it? Because it had to be Sloane, after the business in class about the pancakes.

“I am so sorry, Daryl.” Seldom had words seemed so inadequate. “I don't know what to say.” She felt sick—and angry. She'd like to smash Sloane's face in, too. “Let me keep this and I'll call Patsy as soon as I get home. The only good thing is that this makes it clear who's been doing all this. I searched his room and found nothing, but he'd be too smart to leave anything incriminating lying around. Maybe I should check his two friends' rooms. It could be a group of them.” Strength in numbers. Mobs. Lynch mobs.

“Not a bad idea. And in the meantime, I'm going to be keeping my eye on Mr. Buxton.”

She remembered she hadn't told Daryl about the knife or other stuff she'd found in Zach's room. When she did, Daryl's reaction was typically calm.

“I'll take the knife. He's either going to hurt himself or someone else with it. Best put it out of his reach.”

“But won't he miss it?”

“Sure, but things disappear from people's rooms all the time. The good old open-door policy. The school covers itself by telling us not to keep valuables on campus.”

“What about all his computers and the other things, sound systems?”

Daryl laughed quietly. “Zach has been known to buy, sell, and trade. And he told me he has all the serial numbers. None of it is going anywhere unless Zach gets his money or something in trade—barter is mostly what he does. He's a computer hack himself—the kid is so far out of anyone's league here, including the computer science teacher—and he knows what everyone has and thinks he knows what everyone needs.”

Faith shook her head in amazement. “Now, what we
need
is to put everything together, tell the headmaster, then confront Sloane. He might confess when faced with the evidence.”

“That kid wouldn't confess to anything if his own mother was on the rack. No, we have to catch him—and we will. Now, I'm out of here.”

Faith wanted to give the boy a hug and did.
“See you at the bonfire. Maybe by then this will all be over.”

Daryl hugged her back. “Don't get your hopes up.”

 

Faith had made sure to be one of the first mothers at nursery school that afternoon, and the only problem with that was it meant peeling a reluctant Amy from a riding toy before the eyes of all those who followed. They made it home; Faith put Amy down for her nap, then checked the answering machine. There was one message. It was Tom.

“Hi, honey. Hope your class went well. I shouldn't be late today, and my sermon's pretty much done, so we can do something tomorrow.” His tone was determinedly jaunty. Faith was immediately suspicious. “I don't know about Mom and Dad, because…Well, the thing is, Dad called, and he hasn't told Mom he had lunch with me and that we know about everything. So he can't ask her about the weekend.” There was a longish pause. Faith was surprised at her father-in-law. What was this, junior high? “Anyway, could you call Mom and invite them? Tell her about the bonfire thing and that I'm pretty free tomorrow? I'll talk to you later. Love you.”