The Body in the Ivy (12 page)

“I'd be delighted,” she said. “There were so many lovely-looking trails in the woods. Beckoning, like the road less traveled by.” She beamed at her hostess, obviously pleased at the opportunity to work in a literary allusion.

“No, I want to go over by the cliff. It's such fun to sit on the top and look down.”

Margaret Howard blanched. “Well, I'm not…”

“I'll come.” Gwen hadn't taken anything to eat, but was drinking some Pellegrino water. She finished the glass and handed it to Faith, who happened to be close by. Faith had the feeling that it was not mere chance, but
some kind of ordering of earth's molecules that she happened to be where she was. The Gwen Mansfields of the world always had people in position to provide whatever service they might need.

Everyone watched as the two women walked across the meadow, filled with splashes of color from hawk-weed, crown vetch, clover, and Indian paintbrush. They were the same height and walked with the loose grace of people with personal trainers. At the edge they sat down, their legs out of sight over the cliff.

The group had watched silently, and taken a collective audible breath as the two assumed their precarious perch—then let it out as Lucy spoke.

“Like sister, like sister. The tower, cliffs, the highest possible place, where you can look down at everyone else, although in Elaine's case, it's only some seagulls and a whole lot of marine life.” Faith noted the bitterness in the woman's voice. She wished she knew more about Prin, the dead woman. The murdered woman?

No one said anything, unlike the two figures in the distance who appeared to be in deep conversation. The wind had picked up and blew Elaine's hair about. Gwen's was pulled back in a tight knot, not a single strand escaping.

“How about some dessert, ladies?” Faith asked brightly. She was beginning to feel like a camp director, or counselor, herself.

“Sure,” Phoebe said. “It's a vacation. Those brownies are calling my name.”

“Brownies have always been calling your name,” Bobbi said, standing up and offering a hand to Phoebe. “Remember how we used to break into the kitchen for
leftover desserts when it was something good like Pelham Pudding or Fudge Cake?”

Her words triggered a flood of food reminiscences, and suddenly the reunion was the way Faith imagined it would be, the way her sister's were.

“Garbage salad!” shrieked Rachel. “I'd completely forgotten about it! And we actually loved it. What was in it anyway?”

Lucy ticked off the ingredients on her fingers, “Lettuce, iceberg, no arugula or mâche, but they don't get that even now at Pelham, I'm sure; cucumbers, Velveeta cheese cut into matchsticks, hard-boiled eggs, cucumbers, more matchsticks of some kind of processed meat, tomatoes carved from wood, and tons and tons of French dressing.”

“And sit-down dinner every night—in skirts or a dress. I told my daughters about it recently and you would have thought I was describing life in Victorian times,” Lucy said.

“It
was
life in Victorian times. That's when all the rules were first made up. ‘Gracious living,' I believe it was called. Then all hell broke loose the fall after we left.” Chris sounded regretful.

“Maybe we were an anachronism, but I liked being forced to stop working and eat with all of you every night. I think kids now are missing out; no conversations, just grabbing whatever—and that's exactly what they say—before rushing back to their dorm rooms to instant-message each other,” Phoebe said.

Faith found herself laughing in appreciation. It was the perfect description of her friend and neighbor in Aleford, Pix Miller's daughter's campus life.

She bent down to gather up the empty plates, straightened up, and looked toward the figures on the edge of the cliff interrupting the horizon.

It was empty.

 

The light from a bonfire transforms even the most ordinary-looking face into something exotic and primitive. Conjuring up images of tribal rites, urgent signals, and secret summer nights—don't tell the grown-ups—a bonfire binds a group close with its flickering, mesmerizing flames, its fragrant smoke enveloping all impartially. Faith stood in the shadows watching. There were no stars in the ink-black sky and beyond the light cast by the fire the woods—the entire island—was devoured by the darkness.

All eight women sat on rustic stumps artfully arranged around the fire ring. Brent had laid the fire and placed more wood within reach. Elaine had been feeding it steadily, never letting the flames die down to embers. She and Gwen had not slipped off the edge of the island but had walked into the woods unnoticed, emerging just as the startled group was running toward the cliff—some with greater alacrity than others.

During the afternoon, Bobbi had given some massages and Chris had led a tour of Elaine's gardens, as well as talked about her own, showing photographs that illustrated her special gift for growing things. It wasn't clear whether she would continue with more of her planned programs. Only Rachel and Gwen had said they were leaving, and only Maggie, Phoebe, and Bobbi had said they were staying. And Faith.

Why had Bishop hired her? Faith wondered, staring
into the flames for an answer. She saw faces, goblinlike, and shapes—ancient walled cities with towers. But these were the images she always saw in bonfires on the beach at Sanpere or those by the pond where they skated in Aleford. There was nothing in the fire to guide her. The story that Elaine—Faith alternated between the nom de plume and the writer's real name—recalled Faith's culinary expertise from fifteen years ago now seemed a bit far-fetched. Faith knew she was good, but that good? Had the writer heard something else about Faith? That Ms. Fairchild had had more than her share of murderous encounters? Had solved more than her share? Rachel's words hadn't been far from Faith's mind all day.

“So, who's going first?” The night was chilly away from the fire. Elaine Prince had wrapped a deep red pashmina scarf over her head for the walk to the beach. It was draped around her shoulders now, as fiery as the flames. “With our life stories, that is. Mine is an open book, no pun intended. You all know much more about me than I do about you.”

“That's not true,” Phoebe said. “You seldom give interviews. And to start, I would never have dreamed that you were who you are. That is, you didn't write when you were in college. And you weren't even an English major.”

Elaine laughed. “Our Phebes, always out for the truth. Yes, I was a history major, but what could I do with that? Teach? I can't imagine anything more boring. Lucy knows how it all started. We were sharing an apartment in the city and both of us working for publishers. Luce, you were trying your hand at a novel and I suppose that's what gave me the idea. I went off to
Europe where my parents were living and then drifted from here to there, writing all the time. I know people thought I'd done something disgraceful, like join a cult or marry one of the help. My parents thought it was rather amusing—the way no one ever asked where I was or what I was doing, too well bred to come right out and say something. I suppose that's when I first began to enjoy being anonymous. In fact, I was writing, just like Lucy.”

Lucy, intent on the fire, didn't say anything.

“By the way, whatever happened to your book?” Elaine asked.

“You know very well what happened,” Lucy snapped.

Bobbi jumped into the conversation, steering it away from the shoals. “I for one would like to hear whatever somebody wants to share. I've often wondered what happened to all of you. Last night I told you about me. It isn't a long or very interesting story. Having no skills whatsoever and not wanting to go back home, I headed to California after graduation, as I said. My parents weren't pleased. In fact, we became almost completely estranged. Their ‘hippie' daughter wasn't going to give them bragging rights—or, as my marriages failed, grandchildren. My sister called me when my father was dying and I flew home, but he didn't want to see me, and my mother was upset that I'd come—and angry with my sister, who totally caved. I wasn't even there twenty-four hours. To them, I was nothing more than a prostitute. They didn't understand the philosophies behind massage at all.”

Chris reached over and took Bobbi's hand. “I'm sure
you have wonderful friends in California who do, and remember that old saying, ‘Friends are God's excuse for family.'”

Bobbi looked grateful. “I
do
have a great group of friends. And Calistoga is a very special place. The mineral pools and volcanic-ash mud baths are famous, but there's so much more—great places to eat, galleries…”

“You should work for the chamber of commerce,” Gwen said sarcastically, but then took some of the sting away from her words. “Calistoga is fun. I've been there several times.”

“And what about you, Gwen? Married? Kids? I know you're a financial wizard—bought the book—but what else?” Lucy asked.

“You may recall my first husband, Geoff Weaver. We got engaged senior year and married at the end of our first year in business school. Finances got tight and of course I was the one who dropped out to shore up the family fortunes. He decided after the B School that he wanted a law degree. By then, we had one child and another on the way. The summer I spent between our junior and senior years at Katie Gibbs proved fortuitous, and I got a secretarial job at Goldman Sachs, plus a new focus. It's such a cliché, but as soon as my husband passed the bar, he passed on us, too. Oh, he paid child support, but I decided I'd never be dependent on a man, or anyone other than myself, again—and I haven't. My second marriage was for love, and a little bit for money. David was older and we had ten very happy years together before he died. Since then, I've preferred to remain a merry widow, enjoying my career and alternating coasts.”

“Where do your kids live and what do they do?”

“My sons went to live with their father when they were teenagers and we have not stayed in touch.” Gwen's tone of voice made it very clear that the subject was off-limits. “It's getting rather windy, Elaine. How long do you intend for this little gathering to last?”

The wind
was
picking up and the fire was swirling higher, producing arcs like Fourth of July sparklers. Faith had brought various hot drinks ranging from cocoa to Irish coffee and had been refilling the women's mugs. Phoebe and Maggie were the only ones who ate full portions at lunch and dinner, so Faith had only brought cookies and fruit, which no one had touched. She thought of the groaning larders and wondered what she would do with all the leftover food at the end of her stint on Bishop's Island, although Indian Island, the original name, seemed more appropriate tonight. The bonfire suggested other, earlier incarnations.

“It's not up to me when we head back, it's up to you. But we haven't heard from everybody yet. Rachel?”

The musician had been lost in thought, and her head jerked up at the sound of her name.

“What? Oh, the story of my life? No, thank you. I'll pass. Give Maggie my turn.”

“Checkbooks out, everyone,” Gwen said dryly. “Sorry, Mags, but you know that's what your job is all about. I admire what you've done.”

“Thank you—and anyone who wants to make out a check to Pelham is more than welcome. I have no qualms about asking for donations anywhere, any time,” she said in an upbeat manner. “But you're not completely right, Gwen. Fund-raising is a major part of
my job, but not the most important part. The most important part is maintaining the excellence and integrity of the college. Fortunately, I have extraordinary faculty, staff, and students to help me.”

“Tell about your husband. He's in government, right?” Phoebe said.

“Yes, we met when I was working at Georgetown. And he's been in several governments. Equal opportunity opinion giver on international relations and very careful to keep his party affiliation secret.”

“A Deep Throat who speaks many tongues?” Lucy said mockingly. Faith had noticed she'd had more Irish coffee refills than the others.

“He
is
fluent in a number of languages, yes, but his connection to Bernstein and Woodward has always been purely social,” Maggie said.

Was it Faith's imagination or did Maggie's quick response seem a bit too defensive? What exactly did her husband do? She wished one of the women would ask for specifics. It wasn't her place to intrude.

Rachel spoke up. “You got exactly what you wanted, Maggie. I meant to send you a note when you were inaugurated. President of our class all those years, then student body head, and a whole bunch of other things. Your being Pelham's president was meant to be.”

“Just as being a world-famous guitarist was meant to be for you,” Maggie said, obviously pleased.

Elaine interrupted the exchange of kudos.

“And how about you, Mrs. Fairchild? Do you have anything to say? What do you think of us? You've had twenty-four hours to form some opinions. Don't be shy.”

“What she means is do you think any of us is a murderer?” The tide was coming in. The sound of the waves, the wind in the trees, and the crackling of the fire almost, but not quite, drowned out Lucy's question, an echo of Rachel's, earlier.

Unanswered, it reverberated in the dark night as they walked silently back to the house single file.

 

“Why are you so sure I did it?”

“I couldn't sleep—jazzed about graduating, I guess—and decided to take a walk. The fire door was propped open, so I knew I wasn't the only restless one. I saw you and Prin. I tried to catch up, but you were walking too fast, running almost. You were both laughing. I figured you were heading for the tower. It was her favorite place. You went in the back door—the one that she always unlocked. But when I got there, it didn't open. You or Prin had locked it behind you. That seemed odd, so I decided to stick around. I'm not sure why; maybe I wanted to try one last time to really be a part of your group—the inner circle, Prin's inner circle. She never liked me.”