Body In The Belfry

The Body In The Belfry

By

Katherine Hall Page

1

Faith Fairchild, recently of New York City, paused to catch her breath. Benjamin, her five-month-old son, was sound asleep, securely strapped to her chest in his Snugli. Her aching shoulder blades and the fact that she had been focusing on the worn path beneath her feet instead of the autumnal splendor to either side reminded Faith that Benjamin was definitely getting a bit too chunky for this mode of transportation. She straightened up and looked around.

It was New England with a vengeance : riotous orange and scarlet leaves beneath enormous, puffy white clouds suspended in a Kodacolor blue sky. A calendar maker 's dream. And of course brisk, clean air as crisp as a bite of a McIntosh apple just off the tree.

Faith hated McIntosh apples.

She walked up the Belfry Hill path a bit farther to a small clearing, which gave her an unobstructed view of the Aleford village green far below. She sat down and sighed heavily.

Her life was becoming terribly quaint, Faith thought. Time was when "village" meant "the Village" and "town" was up or down. And when did she start using phrases like "time was"? She let another sigh escape into the pollution-free landscape and longed for a whiff of that heady combination of roasted chestnuts and exhaust fumes that meant autumn to her.

There wasn't even any litter in Aleford, she mused wistfully as she hummed a few bars of "Autumn in New York" softly to herself so as not to awaken Benjamin. Memories of the angry looks she used to hurl at offenders tossing candy bar wrappers on the sidewalk were conveniently pushed to a far corner of her mind, a corner somewhere near Lexington and 59th Street.

She stared fixedly at the green—so very green and like a tablecloth spread out for a tidy picnic. She blinked and wondered, not by any means for the first time, how Fate could have plucked her from her native shores and placed her in this strange, wholesome land.

But then Fate had nothing to do with it. It was plain old love and not a little of plain old sex. All in the seductive shape of Thomas Fairchild, a New Englander born and bred, and, to make matters worse, a minister.

For Faith, the daughter and grandaughter of men of the cloth, who had sworn all her life to avoid that particular fabric, was the village parson's wife. It had been and was a terrific surprise. Not at all what she had had in mind for her life.

Benjamin gave a tiny burp and Faith welcomed the slightly sour, milky baby smell that, delighted as she was with her infant, she knew only a mother could love. She stroked his soft cheek and cooed, "You sweet boy, you." Hitching him up farther on her chest to a possibly more comfortable position she added, "My darling benign little growth." Faith was fond of outrageous endearments and the Snugli always reminded her of those trees with the bulges growing to one side, so obviously not a part of the original trunk.

A trunk in Faith 's case more like a sapling's. Faith was as slender now as she had always been, despite a pregnancy punctuated by voracious cravings for H&H bagels with Zabar's herring salad, which her mother kindly supplied. Her mother had also supplied Faith's big blue eyes. Her father 's family was responsible for the blond hair, which she wore in a blunt cut that just touched her shoulders. She was neither tall nor short. In fact she looked like a lot of other women, and people had a tendency to greet her warmly in the street, only realizing that she wasn't "Nancy" or "Jill" when they were actually face to face. But when they were, they always looked twice—an act that had never displeased Faith. Just now the despised New England air had given her complexion a rosy glow, which matched Benjamin 's, and she looked beautiful.

Faith frowned and resumed her climb. She was annoyed with herself, all these Victorian sighs. But it was hard not to think about what was wrong, and she was drawn to her misgivings just as one's tongue irresistibly searches out the sore place in one's mouth to see whether it still hurts and of course it always does.

I have everything anyone could possibly want, she told herself sternly. A darling baby who sleeps through the night ; a wonderful husband who fortunately doesn't. Good food, good health, and a pretty little house, maybe a mite too much like an illustration for Mosses from an Old Manse, but as parsonages go, a jewel. No damp and plenty of working appliances.

This wasn't a question of physical well-being. She had never felt better in her life. This was a mental sore spot. And the worst possible kind. She was bored. And not only bored, but homesick.

The parish, as well as the whole town, had welcomed her warmly, but there were few women her age who weren't working and those were busy with hearth and home. Faith was pretty busy with these things herself. Benjamin took up more time than she would have believed possible for one small infant. She didn 't begrudge it, but at the same time he wasn 't exactly a scintillating conversationalist. Tom was around more than many other husbands—the parish office was in the church, which was in turn a mere stone 's throw away from the parsonage, if one had been inclined to throw stones at the church, that is, and Faith had not reached that point.

She wasn't actually unhappy, she told herself. Yet there was an insistent, insidious whisper murmuring in the porches of her ears that nothing had ever happened in Aleford, at least not since 1775, and that nothing ever would. Especially to Faith.

She stood up and shook a mental finger at her pathetic weaker self. The whole thing was absurd. Things didn't just happen, one made them happen. Sure, it was easier in New York, but she had to start looking at Aleford as a challenge.

Her steps assumed a firmer character and she realized she was almost at her destination, the top of Belfry Hill and the reconstruction of the original belfry erected for the Bicentennial. Inside the wooden structure, which looked like the top of an old schoolhouse without the bottom, was the reconstructed original bell. The bell that had sounded the call to arms on that momentous April morning. Now it was solemnly tolled for only three occasions: the death of a president; the death of a descendent of one of the original Aleford settlers ; and the alarum for the Patriot 's Day reenactment of the skirmish. A very serious bell.

While all of this was of mild, and possibly even mildly increasing, interest to her the longer she lived in Ale-ford, Faith was not on a historical pilgrimage. She was headed for one of the benches inside the belfry that the town fathers and mothers had thoughtfully provided for weary tourists. The benches were solid and had supported the Bicentennial hordes without a crack. Now they were used by occasional visitors, but more frequently by the inhabitants of Aleford. Faith liked to sit and eat her lunch here while gazing out the doorway to the town below. From the hilltop, the church, with its tall white steeple surrounded by prim clapboard houses and brick sidewalks, reminded her of those tiny wooden villages in gold mesh bags she and her sister, Hope, used to get in their Christmas stockings.

Today she had one of her favorite sandwiches tucked in the pocket of her Girbaud jeans—a pan bagna with ripe tomatoes, hard-boiled egg, tuna, and a little olive oil on her own homemade bread. She felt more cheerful just thinking about it and as for the sighs—the ennui, the restlessness, the lack of someone to give her a really good haircut—well, she would just have to cope.

Besides, there simply wasn 't any choice. Some people wore their hearts on their sleeves. Tom Fairchild wore his on his face and Faith had only to picture this charming visage with the slightly off-center nose to know that there was no place he might go to which she wouldn't happily go along. She might be homesick, but there wasn't a blessed thing she could do about it.

Blessed ? When had she stopped swearing ? She sighed before she could help herself and continued up the steep path.

Faith Fairchild, née Sibley, had not only been bred in Manhattan, but born there. Faith's mother, a capable and beautiful woman with the deceptively simple name of Jane, was descended from several of New York's old families, the branches of the tree heavily weighted with Stuyvesants and Van Rensselaers. She had married an impoverished divinity school student on a sudden uncharacteristic romantic impulse and accepted the role of minister's wife, but gently and firmly refused to leave the city. It would have been impossible to consider giving up its many amenities—Carnegie Hall, the MOMA, the Metropolitan, Bergdorf 's and Balducci's—even for God 's work. Jane was sure there was plenty for God, through Lawrence Sibley, to do in New York and no doubt she was right.

Jane Sibley was a real estate lawyer specializing in litigation involving new construction, of which there seemed to be ever increasing amounts in the city.

When Faith, and then Hope, one year younger, were born, Jane had stopped working briefly before firmly putting her little Frizon-clad feet back into place. There were no more babies after Hope, which Faith attributed in part to her mother 's understandable aversion to the name "Charity,”

“Chat" for short. The first three girls in generations of Sibley families were always named "Faith,”

“Hope," and "Charity," after a pious ancestral trio. Boys were named "Lawrence" or "Theodore," nothing for short, after equally distant kinsmen.

Faith 's father, a Lawrence, grew up in New Jersey, virtually another country for Jane, who was raised in solitary splendor, or rather "comfort," high above Fifth Avenue. She still felt more wary about crossing the Hudson than the Atlantic.

Lawrence settled into life in New York City, his adaptation perhaps hastened by the winds of change that swept away the old farms surrounding his father 'schurch. The rolling meadows and gentle-faced cows, which had been his boyhood neighbors, were replaced by shopping malls and parking lots. In New York, he told himself, you knew where you were and no one, not even Donald Trump, would ever think of blacktopping Central Park.

As Faith and Hope grew older they were allowed to roam around the city on their own—a very carefully circumscribed part of the city, that is. They walked from their apartment to school—Dalton, and to various lessons at which they did not show any genius, but did not disgrace themselves either.

College followed Dalton as night the day. Both Faith and Hope returned to the city immediately afterward, but there the resemblance stopped.

Hope, when her turn came, burst meteorically upon the skyline and landed a terrific job at Citibank, began to dress for success, and bought a Bottega Veneta briefcase. Faith was still busy wondering what to do.

But when Faith finally hit upon her life's work, it satisfied her every requirement. No one at home would like it much and no one at home could do it. She was amazed that it hadn 't occurred to her before.

Faith had always loved to cook, and from the time she was a little girl would happily mess about the kitchen inventing surprisingly good things to eat whenever her mother would let her. Now she started quietly taking advanced culinary courses, coming home a bit befloured and flushed from the hot kitchens. As no one asked where she was spending her days, she didn 't say.

Later she went to work for one of the city's top caterers at a ridiculously low salary and started to dream of Japanese vegetable flowers and salmon coulibiac. At this point the family knew she was doing something with food, but assumed it was a hobby.

* * * When Faith announced she was dipping into the small but adequate trust fund set up by her grandfather, "and mine own" she reminded them, to start a catering business, they were amazed. However, nothing daunted, she went forward and Have Faith was born. The rest is history, culinary and cultural. As soon as the initial confusion over the name was straightened out—people thought she was a new cult, an escort service for the guilt ridden, or, worst of all, a food service specializing in lenten fare—New Yorkers were vying for her services and she was a year ahead in her bookings. The fact that she had been at their parties as a guest added to the image. Now she supplied not only her beautiful self, but her beautiful food.

By the time Faith met Tom at a wedding she was catering, she had been featured in Gourmet, New York Magazine, and the Times.

Thomas Fairchild was in town to perform the ceremony for his college roommate. Tom had grown up in Massachusetts on the South Shore. His family was not particularly religious. They went to church every Sunday and the four little Fairchilds regarded it in much the same light as the invariable Sunday dinner that followed, or as playing baseball in the town league or doing well in school. This is what the Fairchilds did. Not with a lot of show, but solid and steady. This was what life was all about. The family had lived in the area for generations and Tom's father's business, Fairchild's Real Estate, had several counterparts : Fairchild's Ford in nearby Duxbury (Tom's uncle) and Fairchild's Market in town (Tom's grandfather and another uncle).

The wedding was a small one in an apartment overlooking Central Park, and if Faith had divined the past and present of the man hovering over the buffet when she went to check on the supply of saucisson en brioche,she might have approached with a little trepidation. As it was, all she saw was a terribly attractive, tall, handsome stranger. Always good qualifications. She liked his reddish-brown hair and figured she could get rid of the straggly mustache once she got to know him better. Nobody told her he was the minister and nobody told him she was the caterer. They started to talk.

They were still talking several hours later, huddled under blankets against the February cold, riding in one of those tacky, impossibly romantic horse-drawn carriages around Central Park. If Faith gave an embarrassed thought to what her friends would say if they could see her in one of these, it quickly vanished in the moonlight.

And there was a lot of moonlight.

The mustache came off the next day.

Tom gave Faith the Fairchild engagement ring, a tiny little diamond, when she came to visit him two weeks later. It was so sweet Faith thought she would cry. She made a mental note not to wear the more noticeable stone her grandparents had given her for her twenty-first birthday until they had been married a couple of months.

Then as he slipped the ring on her finger she realized with a start that she was not going to have her cake and eat it too. The cake being Tom and it, New York City. Not just Have Faith, but her cozy little apartment on the West Side, the first place all her own, and a social life that could be as dazzling as she chose. She also knew from experience that parish life was a goldfish bowl, however holy the water. Tom had told her the ministry wasn't like this anymore and she could behave as she wished.

He was a dear, of course, but Faith knew better.

Then in church the next morning she had subtly scrutinized the congregation and come to the conclusion that they looked like ordinary God-fearing souls who would mind their own business and let her mind hers. She wanted to believe. Later Faith and Tom, recalling this optimistic moment, had dissolved in tears of laughter, and other things too.

After the quick study of her fellow worshippers, she had turned her attention to Tom, who was stepping into the pulpit. His sermon was filled with common sense and occasional poetry. She got a lump in her throat and her heart was filled with nonsinful pride. She felt devoutly thankful. Thankful for Tom and thankful she had managed to find him.

She knew, she told herself that night in her bed back in New York, if it hadn 't been Aleford, it would have been someplace very like it. Tom found it puzzling that she could even consider living in New York City. Nor would he raise a family there. Faith had often found this true of people who didn 't live in the city. Very intelligent people, too. Surely they knew when one told them one had been born and raised in New York that that meant one had spent one's childhood there, and lived to tell the tale ; but they continued to speak as though Manhattan and the five boroughs were inhabited only by adults.

In Tom's view, Faith and Hope were somehow exceptions. No other children had ever been raised there.

Another thing Tom was firm about was not using any of Faith's trust fund. He considered that it was for Faith's future (read lonely old age, widowed at ninety) and the children's. It wasn't that Tom didn't like money and what it could buy. He was as pleasantly hedonistic as the next parson—or lawyer or firefighter or anyone else. And he was happy for Faith to work and bring home "beaucoup de bacon." A sophomore year in France had left him fluent, permanently in love with the country, and prone to such expressions.

Faith agreed with him about the money—up to a point. She had replaced what she had initially withdrawn with Have Faith 's profits and was happy to have the fund merrily accumulating "beaucoup de interest.”

As for the trust, she decided to let the matter lie for the time being. Certainly they would educate their children well and then the darlings were on their own.

She had no intention of a frugal old age trying to make ends meet on a parish pension when her arms were no longer capable of beating egg whites in her copper bowl. The trust fund could make those golden years a little more golden, preferably somewhere sunny like Provence. But it was not something that concerned her now. She figured she had years ahead to convince Tom.

Meanwhile the only exception she was quite firm about was clothes. Faith could not see herself in Filene 's Basement beating other women over the heads for a skirt from Saks that no one had wanted to buy in the first place ; nor was she about to plug in a Singer and start running up tea gowns. No, she would pay for her own clothes and Tom, blissfully ignorant of what a little black dress cost these days, gracefully acceded. She would also be allowed to give him an occasional present, and it was her fervent hope to wean him away from Brooks and a little closer to Armani. Tom was heir to the Yankee pride in the longevity of one's wardrobe. He would gleefully point out articles of clothing from days gone by that Faith would have donated to charity years ago.

Now more than a year and a half later as the Tavern on the Green faded into the grass of the village green, she had Tom. And she had a baby.

Said baby wriggled against her and she felt inexplicably happy. So I'll get the business going again and meanwhile what better way to spend one's time than sitting with this lovely little brown-eyed bundle, she told herself.

Faith had reached the end of her journey and turned to enter the belfry. The doorway was low and she had to duck slightly. Sitting down, she reached into her pocket for the sandwich and ^.put it on the bench beside her, while she started to unloosen the straps of the Snugli. That was when she realized she wasn't alone.

In the dim light inside, she had not noticed that the bench against the other wall was occupied. Whoever it was was awkwardly slumped over in sleep. Faith stood up to leave. She would eat outside. Benjamin could be waking up any moment and would no doubt disturb him or her. Benj was not an easy waker and protested the abruptness of the transition from sweet dreams to rude awakenings with a particularly lusty cry. She took a step closer to the other bench as she went out and all at once several things became abundantly clear.

First, it wasn't a stranger. It was Cindy Shepherd, a member of the parish and in fact, President of the Young People's Club.

Second, Benjamin wouldn 't disturb her. She was not sleeping. She was dead.

At least Faith assumed she was, since there was a kitchen knife sticking out of her motionless rib cage.

A kitchen knife that also impaled a single pink rose.

Having taken in all these details with the precision of a slow-motion camera, Faith suddenly covered Benjamin 's already closed eyes with her hand while she moved quickly to the center of the belfry.

A murder had occurred and that meant a murderer. There was only one thing to do.

Faith grabbed the bell rope, pulled with all her might, and sounded the alarum.

2

In the days that followed, the actual murder itself was almost eclipsed by the debate that raged within the town over whether Faith should have rung the bell or not. Leading the group that opposed the action was Millicent Revere McKinley, great-great-great-granddaughter of a distant cousin of Paul Revere. It was this progenitor, Ezekiel Revere, who had cast the original bell.

“I don't know what Grandfather would have said," Millicent remarked in a slightly sad but firm tone that went straight to the hearts of many of her listeners—in the post office, the library, the checkout line at the Shop and Save. Wherever she could gather a crowd. Faith grew accustomed to dead silence and slightly guilty smiles when she entered these places.

Millicent wasn 't smiling, though. It was her belief that Faith could have run down the hill as quickly as possible and then screamed loudly. Millicent did grudgingly admit that screaming from the top of the hill, however therapeutic, would have been useless.

After the grandfather line, she would generally add, " It's just not going to be the same on Patriot's Day when we sound the real alarm," and drift out of whatever public site she happened to be in toward home.

Best actress in a supporting role, Faith thought bitterly.

This was not Millicent's first foray into local controversy. She was also the main and most impassioned supporter of a proposal, which surfaced at Town Meeting every year, to change the name of Aleford to Haleford. She averred that the H had been inexcusably obliterated by the mists of time and the town was actually named for a family with the illustrious name of Hale. The fact that she was not in the least related to them gave her campaign a disinterested sincerity—as she was quick to point out.

Opponents logically argued that the very earliest town documents recorded the name as Aleford and there was no question in this case of s's that looked like f 's to confuse the issue. The town was probably called Aleford because of a well-known and well-frequented tavern conveniently close to the best ford of a branch of the Concord River that ran through the town. Ezekiel himself may have hoisted a few at said hostelry.

Any suggestion of this was enough to make Millicent see red, white, and blue. A member of the cold water army from birth, she scorned the base suggestion that either grandfather or the town had anything to do with ale. And so the battle raged.

Tom and Faith privately sided with the Aleford contingent as opposed to the Halefordians, and wished thatthe tavern hadn't burned down one particularly boisterous night. Millicent and friends had managed to prevent the licensing of any others. There was no Ye Olde Groggery in town. If you wanted a drink, you had to go to Byford, the next town. So called because it was near yet another ford, not as Millicent might have contended because of an ancient family named By. More familiarly it was known to some Aleford inhabitants as the Packy Run.

The question of the bell promised to be as engrossing as the Haleford/Aleford issue, and Millicent, or "Thoroughly Militant Millie" as she had been irreverently tagged, certainly must have felt just a tiny bit grateful to Faith in an unexplored corner of her heart.

For the bell had certainly been rung—furiously, conclusively, and with all the strength Faith could muster from arms that felt like limp strands of pasta. This done, she had raced down the path, literally colliding with the town police chief, Charley MacIsaac, several of his men, and almost everyone else within hearing distance. It was pretty hard to stop on Belfry Hill's sharp incline once you got going.

They were quite surprised to see Faith, having expected to catch some wayward juveniles (not from Ale-ford, of course) fooling around with the bell. And they were flabbergasted when she blurted out, “Cindy Shepherd's been murdered and the body's in the belfry.”

The crowd immediately rushed off, leaving Faith and Benjamin in the dust. No one wanted to be left behind. Murder victims were about as rare in Aleford as Tories.

Faith took one look at the solid phalanx of retreating backs and decided that the safest place for a mother and child was home.

It had apparently not occurred to MacIsaac and his troops that the murderer could still be lurking about concealed in the underbrush, ready to strike again. It did occur to Faith, however, and this is why she left the scene of the crime ; to answer the questions of all those who have audibly wondered why she didn 't stick around and own up to A: ringing the bell and/or B: murdering Cindy, or even C: discovering a body in a town monument. Not a few held this to be the most heinous crime of all.

When the chief got to the belfry, saw Cindy's very obviously dead body, and turned to ask Mrs. Fairchild a question, he realized she wasn 't there. He quickly sent Patrolman Dale Warren, new to the job and pleased as punch at the turn it was taking, outside to find her. Dale never thought that she would simply go home. This explains the brief APB which went out all over the state for Faith and Benjamin after Patrolman Warren made a thorough search of the hill. Rather than being annoyed when she finally heard about it, Faith was terribly pleased that he had subtracted several years from her age—he made her twenty-four.

In any case, everything was straightened out that afternoon. Or, rather, nothing was straightened out about Cindy, but everything was straightened out about Faith.

Except she never did correct Dale. Young people today had few enough illusions to hold on to now that Martha Stewart was doing commercials for K mart.

Tom, meanwhile, had been running errands as a break from pastoral duties, and after leaving the bank was waiting on line in the post office when the person in front of him turned around and seemed mildly interested to see him there.

“Don't suppose you know that your wife found Cindy Shepherd's dead body up in the old belfry ? " he remarked.

Tom had heard the bell pealing earlier and wondered what was going on, but to say the idea that Faith was ringing it after finding the corpse of the president of his Young People's Club was the farthest thought from his mind would be to place that thought somewhere on Venus. He rushed home, correctly divining Faith's natural instincts. She had locked all the doors and was in the bedroom, shivering, with her down quilt pulled tightly around Benjamin and herself. Benjamin was smiling in cozy comfort and blowing little drooly bubbles.

She sobbed, "Where have you been, Tom? I've been calling the office for hours ! “

Then she burst into tears. It was not unknown for Faith to cry, in anger, sadness, and especially at the movies; but there was a qualitative difference to these sobs and it took Tom a long time to calm her down. Finally all three of them were bundled under the quilt and Faith started to talk.

“You can 't imagine how terrified I was, Tom. I kept expecting some maniac with a meat cleaver to come after us. And the body! I've never seen a dead person not in a coffin!”

Tom was holding her close and making comforting noises.

“All I was going to do was have a picnic," Faith wailed, “and there she was ! Of course it was lucky it wasn't somebody I liked.”

Tom looked as though he were going to say something and changed his mind.

“You were going to say I shouldn 't be speaking ill of the dead."

“Maybe something like that, but two things stopped me in time. It sounded inappropriately pontifical and besides I agree with you.”

Faith nestled closer to him. Tom might be a little too pious on occasion, but he was no hypocrite.

She was feeling very drowsy and now that she was safe she found her mind wandering to all kinds of interesting questions, such as who killed Cindy? And given her personality, why had he or she waited so long? Faith started to tell Tom, but when their two heads bent as one toward Benjamin, they both drew back quickly and she spoke first. "My turn or yours?”

By the time Tom had changed Benjamin, wondering as he often did how one tiny infant could produce such a volume of odiferous merde, the police had arrived, having eventually figured out Faith 's whereabouts.

She gave Charley an account of what she had seen or rather hadn't seen. There had been nothing to note that she could think of. They left, then returned an hour later. They had forgotten to fingerprint her and the CPAC unit from the DA's office was screaming for her prints so they could eliminate her. Faith noticed Mac-Isaac's fingers were inky; it looked as if his had had to be eliminated, too.

It was close to nine that night when the phone finally stopped ringing with calls from assorted well-wishers and gossip mongers. Even the most desperately curious would never break that New England taboo and call after nine o 'clock.

Faith was curled up in the blue wing chair next to the fireplace, which she had filled with pots of fiery gold and russet chrysanthemums until the weather called for logs. She was beginning to shake off the feeling of being terribly cold and terribly nauseated at the same time.

Tom walked into the room and threw himself down on the couch.

“ These calls are beginning to drive me crazy, Faith. They start out sympathetically, but somehow everyone manages to work in the bell. I really think they would rather you had put it to a vote at Town Meeting before you rang it.”

Faith had her legs draped gracefully over the arm of the chair. She had poured two glasses of Armagnac while he had been on the phone the last time and she held one in her outstretched hand now. She had been thinking about the murder and was starting to enjoy herself.

“I'm sorry you have to deal with all this, Tom, but think how much worse they'd be to me. Has anybody said anything about suspects? Other than Ben and I?"

“No, a few have mentioned feeling sorry for the Moores, but mostly they ask kindly if you and the baby are all right, then go straight to the bell. Oh, Mrs. Keller did offer the opinion that it was probably a tramp—not Cindy, you understand, but the murderer."

“Tramps don't usually carry around roses, Tom. That's the part I don't get," Faith said speculatively. "Who does something like that—a disappointed lover? A mad botanist ? Somebody who 's read one too many Georgette Heyers ? “

She took a sip of brandy, savored it, and continued. "And why kill Cindy in the first place? I mean, sure, there were any number of reasons to kill her. Even you, Tom, could have done the deed after a particularly heated Young People 's meeting. But why kill her now when she was about to leave town, presumably for good?"

“Just to set the record straight, I was talking to Mrs. Norris at the register of the Shop and Save. I was in fact returning a quarter I had found on the floor."

“Are you sure you 're still not an Eagle Scout or something ? I hope you do have to go to court and establish an alibi. There haven 't been too many trials with such exciting testimony lately.”

Tom grinned.

“ Well, she did see me pick it up, Faith. I suppose I could have said I would put it in the plate. Anyway I didn 't kill Cindy, despite the number of times I've said to you I'd really like to kill that girl.”

Cindy Shepherd had arrived in Aleford at age five, when her parents were killed in an automobile accident, to live with her aunt and uncle, Patricia and Robert Moore. Since that time, she had managed to antagonize the majority of the town's inhabitants by ferreting out the one weakness an individual most wished to hide and relentlessly bringing it forth into the light of day with her treacherously sharp tongue. Kids were easy prey and she honed her skills on them. Although she did have friends—anyone who preferred to be in the quiver rather than impaled on the target. These friends also helped in the information-gathering process and loyally elected her to anything she wanted to be—president, director, whatever was in charge.

Adults were not safe; in fact, she enjoyed the challenge. When she was younger she would adopt an air of youthful ingenuousness to deliver her remarks: "Oh, Mrs. Martin, did I see you in town last week ? Wasn't it on Tremont Street ? Near that cute shop where they sell the wigs ? " When she got older, she didn't bother with subtlety and adopted the simpler method of pretending not to see that the person was standing nearby before she aimed.

Her behavior was a terrific embarrassment to her aunt, who was acutely aware that, although her female friends pitied her, they were also extremely angry. Women tended to come in for more scorn than men, since as Cindy matured she began to like men very much and women not at all.

Patricia Moore had spent countless hours talking to Cindy about hurting people's feelings, hours that could more productively have been spent filling holes in a dike with sand. After one particularly trying day when Cindy, aged fourteen, referred to the Whipple sisters as"dried-up old maids who needed to get some," Patricia burst into tears while she was telling Robert.

“I know everyone blames me, but short of preventing the accident, I don't know what I could have done differently."

“Nothing, my dear, you have done more than enough. The only thing that could have happened that didn 't was Cindy's presence in the car with them," he said, sighing.

Faith had heard all these stories and new ones continued to circulate. They were all coming back to her now.

“Think, Tom. Even after eliminating one of the town 's most respected members of the clergy who clearly harbored ill will toward her, we can certainly list countless others. It 's not hard to come up with suspects, however unlikely. What keeps puzzling me is the timing. That's a bigger mystery."

“You're right," he agreed. "Who didn't want her to leave, absurd as that seems? Or had she done something recently to someone that was so monstrous he or she had to kill her and the fact that she was leaving is coincidental ? “

Tom was an inveterate mystery reader and he was beginning to enjoy himself too, especially as Faith, slightly flushed from the brandy, was obviously more than all right.

“This is good, Tom; let 's try to think of all the possible connections. How about someone who didn 't want her to get married—an old flame, her future in-laws, or maybe some secret girlfriend of Dave's?”

Cindy was engaged to Dave Svenson, much to the town 's surprise, although they had gone out together for years. The only logical explanation anyone had been able to come up with was that she had cast a spell on him.

It wasn 't a wedding Faith looked forward to. She had already attended one function catered by the firm hired for Cindy's reception and the pathetic attempt at "continental cuisine " in the form of Chicken Kiev with what Faith detected as Cheese Whiz in the center had convinced her that it wasn't a moment too soon for Have Faith, Benjamin permitting She was continually astounded at what her neighbors ate. Locating her business in Aleford would amount to an act of mercy. She herself drew the line at boiled dinners. Furthermore, if they were going to want beans it would have to be cassoulet.

“I've never heard of any other girlfriend. It's been my impression that Cindy and Dave have been going steady for a long time," Torn mused.

Faith had been delighted to discover that Tom was quite interested in gossip, unusual for a minister. Her own father could never get even the most straightforward scandals right and was apt to let his mind wander, presumably to a higher plane, whenever she tried to impart or extract any information. Tom spent a great deal of time with the kids in the parish. He was worried about the kinds of choices they faced, and was also aware that a congregation needed young people to keep going. If Dave Svenson had had another girlfriend, particularly one passionate enough to wield a kitchen knife, Tom surely would have known about it.

“It's more the kind of thing Cindy would have done rather than have done unto," he remarked.

“I 'm not sure of the grammar, but that 's what I've been thinking. If anyone was going to commit a murder in this town, it would have been Cindy, and I'm sure she would have thought she had a pardonable reason for it. That leaves us with an old boyfriend of Cindy's—of which there are legion—or a new boyfriend?”

Cindy was notorious for regularly staging scenes with Dave that, Faith correctly assumed, then gave her the excuse to go off with someone else for a while. Often she didn't even bother with the scene.

“Let 's see, it's hard to keep track, but it was about a month ago that she told me for the thousandth time that Dave took her for granted and needed to be taught a lesson. I believe that coincided with the Calthorpes' nephew 's visit," Tom recalled wryly.

“So maybe he fell desperately in love with her and d ecided if he couldn 't have her, nobody would.”

“That would solve things nicely, Faith, but he is presumably in West Germany for the semester. At least the Calthorpes drove him to Logan and put him on a plane for there. Still I know you won 't rule it out."

“If it's not sex, then it's money," she said, ignoring this last. "It has to be one or the other."

“Why ? There must be plenty of other reasons people kill other people. Anyway I thought that was why people got divorced."

“Virtually the same thing. Murder, divorce. Gone is gone." Faith waved one hand summarily in the air. "Now the money. Cindy was going to be rich, we know that.”

If Cindy Shepherd had lived to turn twenty-one, she would have come into a very tidy little fortune from her parents. Nobody had mentioned the exact figure, as Faith had discovered when once she had asked Tom just how tidy it was. She was always surprised how seldom anyone in New England ever mentioned actual dollar amounts and how much they appeared to think about them.

“She must have made a will. Maybe Pix knows." Faith furrowed her brow. Their neighbor Pix's husband, Sam Miller, was a lawyer and had been known to let harmless but tasty tidbits of information fall from the table.

“Please, Faith," Tom protested, "After all this mess with my mother 's family I don 't even want to hear the word will!"

“I'm sorry, sweetheart, just thinking out loud.”

Tom 's grandmother had died the previous spring and Marian, his mother, fully expected to claim the garnet brooch, wedding pearls, cameo, diamond lavaliere, and other mementos, which her mother had indicated were her birthright since she was a little girl. It had been a shock to discover that her mother had left her house and its contents to Marian 's brother, who had moved in with his wife to take care of her seven years earlier. Even then Marian had assumed they would share and share alike as was the right thing to do. Months of wrangling and eventually a hefty lawyer 's fee trying to prove undue influence had left her without so much as a jet hat pin.

Faith shook her head.

“No, I don't think it was money. If she had already inherited, then it would make sense. And anyway, given Cindy, sex is a more logical motive." She held out her empty glass. "Un peu more brandy, s'il vous plait," she said, slipping into Tom's eccentric French. (She had noticed that married people seemed to pick up each other 's habits, although so far she didn't see Tom adopting any of hers.) "It helps one think so much more clearly. Except that we should be drinking Scotch and calling for Asta.”

Tom took her glass and looked down at her reprovingly, "Have your fun tonight, Nora Charles. I'll talk with you about all this until the cows come home, but if you have any idea of doing some sleuthing, with or without your Nick, forget it. I like you without roses stuck in your side."

“ Don't be silly, Tom. What can I do, after all ? Maybe ask a few questions here and there. Do admit, this is pretty exciting. When is the last time they had a murder in Aleford anyway?"

“ I have no idea. Although I did hear something about one of the Hales running amok in the thirties and killinghis wife's dog, then being prevented just in time by a neighbor from giving its mistress forty whacks as well."

“So mine could be Aleford 's first real murder!"

“I doubt it, Faith, and in any case it's not yours."

“Ours then."

“ No, absolutely. not."

“You're just being cranky because you 're hungry and so am I. Did we have any supper ? I can 't remember. Anyway, I'm starving.”

Faith was always starving, Tom thought happily. What a good idea it had been to marry someone who shared and satisfied his hungers so well.

He followed her into the large kitchen and sat at the big round table while she split some bread in half and liberally covered it with chèvre and toasted walnuts before running it under the broiler for a moment. The kitchen bore little resemblance to the room Tom had used infrequently during his brief bachelor days in the parsonage. Faith had kept the old glass-fronted cabinets, but everything else had been torn out. She had actually shuddered when she saw the electric stove, vintage to be sure, and the single sink next to a small drainboard, the only counter in the room. Now with her gleaming, glass-fronted refrigerator, Garland stove, rows of hanging pots and pans, miles of white formica counters with a marble insert for pastry making, and a black and white tile floor, Faith felt at home. The table stood by a bow window overlooking the garden. As a concession to the setting, Faith had covered the window seats and chair cushions with Souleiado Provençal fabric. "But no country, Tom, nothing with cows on it and not even one dried flower wreath, please," she had stated emphatically.

In between crusty bites, Faith kept talking about Cindy.

“ It has to be a disappointed lover because of the rose.

A poetic gesture, the final symbol of their blighted romance."

“ If any romance was blighted, it was Cindy and Dave's. You know, Faith, I never could understand why those two were getting married."

“Elementary, my dear Thomas. Because Cindy wanted it and Dave wanted her. Think about it, or rather, imagine yourself at twenty—not that long ago to be sure—and all those hormones and Cindy walks into your life. Those proverbial curves in the correct places, that long black hair with the blue highlights just like Wonder Woman's in the cartoons. It was sex. Frequent, prolonged, and poor Dave got hooked."

“Keep talking, Faith. I find this not only mesmerizing but kind of a turn-on."

“I'm not sure why Cindy wanted poor Dave, though. Maybe she wanted to get marriage out of the way and go on to bigger and better things, like affairs." She saw Tom's look. "Bigger and better for Cindy that is, silly. And Dave is a good catch. Steady, dependable, bright, and handsome. You know, I wouldn't put it past her to have chosen him because she wanted a blond to contrast with her looks."

“ `Poor Dave' does sum it up. I tried to talk to him about Cindy several times, but he never seemed to want to. We were due to start the prenuptial pastoral counseling soon and I thought I might understand the whole relationship better then."

“Yes, and probably you would have given Dave the courage to back out. Although short of having his parents fill his ears with wax at birth and tie him to the liberty pole in the middle of the common, I don't see how he was going to resist her call. But if you did, then Cindy would have killed you and Dave both. The invitations have gone out and she was not a girl to be spurned lightly.”

Tom finished the last morsel on his plate and stood up and stretched.

“It is pretty horrible, Faith. I've been thinking about her wedding service and now I have to write a funeral oration instead."

“These theological dilemmas are bound to come up, Tom, but I have no doubt that you will rise to the occasion." Faith smiled primly, secure in the knowledge that rising to that sort of occasion was something she would never have to do.

“It's certainly not one of the topics we wrestled with in Divinity School. Now what do you say to some sleep ? Frequent and prolonged or whatever."

“Good idea. I am exhausted. This has been a very busy day, if I may be permitted the greatest understatement of my life, so far anyway."

“You may and it is," Tom agreed.

Faith followed him upstairs and wondered briefly if he had found Cindy attractive. She had worn sex the way other girls wore makeup. Depending on the circumstances, it could be the full treatment or a hint of lipstick and powder. Whatever it was, though, it was always there, unsettling and devastatingly provocative. Faith started to ask, then changed her mind. It was one of those questions, like whether there really is life after death, that she didn't want answered for sure.

They looked in at Ben, marveled at that splendid accomplishment babies perform—breathing—and went to bed.

They were not prepared for an insistent ringing at six o'clock the next morning. Faith woke up and wondered groggily why Benjamin was making such an odd noise. She was at the side of his crib looking down at a peacefully sleeping child before she realized it was the doorbell.

She ran back into their bedroom, fully awake.

“Tom!" she cried, "wake up! Somebody 's at the door!”

Tom was a very sound sleeper. She shook him. " Tom ! Somebody's ringing the bell !"

“ What ? Not again ? " he mumbled.

“ The doorbell ! Someone is ringing our doorbell !”

“All right, all right." He roused himself, got out of bed, and struggled into his robe. Faith followed him downstairs, hovering anxiously.

“ Be sure to ask who it is, Tom," she cautioned as she moved toward the poker by the fireplace.

“Faith, murderers usually don't ring the doorbell," Tom said. Like Benjamin, he was a slow waker and apt to sound snappish. "But if you like, I'll ask." Feeling slightly foolish, he addressed the solid oak door. “Who is it?"

“It's me, Dave. Dave Svenson." Tom quickly opened the door. "I hope I didn't wake you folks, but I thought with the baby, you'd probably be up by now and anyway I was getting tired of waiting.”

It turned out that Dave had spent most of the night crouched under the large willows in the backyard, and he looked it. There were deep circles under his eyes and his normally ruddy Nordic complexion was pale and wan. Tom led him straight into the kitchen for some sustenance, wondering what was going on besides what was going on.

“Dave," he said soberly and with as much dignity as an old plaid Pendleton bathrobe could lend, "I know how you must be grieving. It is difficult to lose someone you love whatever the circumstances, but to have it happen in this cruel and senseless way tests all our belief. It is not much comfort now, but time will help and I hope you will come and talk with me whenever you feel like it.”

Dave was looking at him in some bewilderment andTom wondered if he was in shock or if the bathrobe was simply too incongruous.

“That's very kind of you, sir," he said as Faith entered the kitchen. She had hastily thrown on a pair of jeans and a shirt and grabbed Benjamin, hoping not to miss anything. She hadn't.

Dave opened his mouth and a garbled bunch of words came tumbling out.

“The cops are looking for me everywhere and they may be here soon. They think I did it and they're right. I mean," he amended hastily after seeing the looks of horror and disbelief on Faith and Tom's faces, horror for Tom, disbelief for Faith, "they're right that I wanted to kill her. I didn't actually do it, but I could have. I really think I would have done it if somebody hadn't beaten me to it."

“ But Dave, if you didn't do it, why are you avoiding the police ? " Tom asked.

“It's a long story," he answered, looking out the window anxiously as if he expected MacIsaac to be peering in.

Faith took his arm and led him to the table.

“Sit down. I'll get us something to eat and you can tell us about it," she offered.

She put Ben in his playpen and stuck sonic plastic keys in his hand. He smiled benevolently at her. She was not deceived. She just hoped his fascination with the toy lasted long enough for Dave to tell his story.

She took some of her sour cream waffles from the freezer, put them in the microwave, and started the coffee. A lot of coffee. She had visited the Svensons and the house always smelled like freshly baked bread and Maxwell House. It was unusual to see one of the Svenson family without a mug in hand. Dave had started to talk again ; he grasped the cup she put in front of him as it was a lifeline.

“ Wednesday night Cindy and I had a wicked big fight. I had finally told her I couldn't marry her. I know I shouldn 't have waited this long, but every time I tried I just couldn't tell her. We'd been together so many years and—well, she could be very nice at times.”

Faith had a pretty good idea of what being nice meant and gave a small knowing nod toward Tom.

“I came home and told my parents and I planned to tell the Moores on Thursday, but I didn't want to see Cindy. I knew if I stayed away from her for a while I could stick to it. We've broken up before, but I always went back when she called. You don't know how much I've hated myself this past year. And hated her.”

Faith pried the empty mug from his grasp and gave him a refill along with a stack of waffles.

“ I'm sorry, Dave," Tom said, " I wish I could have helped you. I must confess I didn't think the marriage was a good idea, but I thought you wanted it."

“ So didn't everybody. Even my parents. I guess a lot of people thought I was marrying her for the money. And she did give me a lot of expensive things, like this watch." He looked at the Rolex on his wrist in horror as if it had suddenly started to ooze slime. He quickly took it off and dropped it on the floor. Faith retrieved it and put it on the counter. A Rolex was a Rolex, after all.

“The truth is, I was marrying her because I didn't have the guts not to. She's had her whole life planned since she was eight years old. She picked me then and in her mind there was no backing out. But I did."

“Dave, just because you fought doesn 't mean the police suspect you," Tom said firmly.

“ Maybe not, but the fact that the person she was waiting for in the belfry was me does."

“What ? " Faith exclaimed.

Dave nodded his head. The circles under his eyes madehim look like an underripe jack o 'lantern. One of the sad ones.

“She called my house all day Thursday and I wouldn 't talk to her, then Friday she called at the crack of dawn and told my mother her parents wanted an explanation, which was a lie, I 'm pretty sure. She never told them anything. But my mother was getting upset, so I told Mom to tell her I'd see her and she said she'd be waiting in the belfry at noon. We used to go up there a lot."

“S-E-X," Faith mouthed over his head. Tom pretended not to see.

“She called back later to make sure I'd gotten the message and Mrs. McKinley was there drinking coffee with Mom and heard the whole thing. So you know there wasn 't a person in Aleford who didn 't know I was meeting Cindy in the belfry."

“But Dave," Faith said, "I started walking up the hill around noon and I didn 't see you and I would have. It's not that big and the top is flat."

“That's because I didn't go. I didn't like going against my mother, but she didn 't know Cindy the way I did. I guess I didn 't trust myself and maybe I hoped I 'd make her so mad, she would agree to break up. I started going in that direction, then turned and went for a walk in the woods by the railroad tracks instead. The later it got, the freer I felt. Then I went home, got my car, and drove into town to do some studying at the library. I didn 't even hear she was dead until I got home last night."

“ And of course nobody saw you down at the tracks," Tom said.

“That's the problem. Some guy on a dirt bike buzzed by, but I have no idea who it was or what time he was there," Dave answered morosely.

“I know they're looking for me" he went on, "be- cause they've been to the house twice. My parents were worried sick and when I walked in they both started talking at once.”

Which must have been an event tantamount to sunshine in Stockholm in January for the taciturn Svenson household, Faith reflected.

“They hadn't told the police anything except that I was at school and things were fine between Cindy and me.”

Dave was a senior at BU and had applied to law school for the following year. He had wanted to get a degree in agriculture at U Mass, but Cindy did not fancy herself a farmer 's wife, even the kind of farmer Dave had wanted to be, a researcher in alternative food sources. " It's all cow cakes, Dave, no matter how you slice it," she had said, laughing at him.

“When the police get me, they don't have to look any further. I wanted to do it and so far as anybody knows I was there. Even my parents thought I might have done it. I've been pretty crazy lately. All I know is I'm not going to be locked up."

“Dave, believe me we'll straighten this out. It looks bad, but we 'll do everything in our power to help you. You must remember, God protects the innocent. Hold on to that," Tom consoled.

“Thank you. I guess that's why I came. I need your help, though unless you find out who the real murderer is, I'm not sure what you can do."

“Then that's what we'll have to do," Faith said briskly, suddenly seeing Dave twenty years ago, a replica of her own darling babe. The thought stabbed her, but it was nothing compared to the hardball of a baleful glance that Tom threw across the table. She took it bravely full in the face and got some more waffles. Benjamin was still contentedly in training for a lock-picking career.

After Faith had spoken Dave looked a lot better, eating waffles steadily and to all appearances without a care in the world save whether State would take the pennant this year or not. It amazed Faith that even someone as relatively grown up as Dave still invested real adults with so much power. Faith considered herself to be one of the real adults since starting her business and even more since Benjamin was born. Unreal adults were all those yuppies somewhere in their twenties for decades who appeared intent only on making a fortune, brushing their teeth, and having an inordinate amount of fun. They weathered market fluctuations and favorite restaurant closings with equal aplomb. The wages of sin weren't what they used to be.

Tom continued to look at her, cartoonlike balloons coming out of his mouth : "Don't make promises you can't keep.”

“This could be dangerous.”

“Stay out of it."

“I don't see why I can 't devote a little time to thinking about all this," Faith muttered to herself. "It's not as if I'm going to get myself killed.”

She had leaned over to pick up Benjamin, who had started to demand a new diversion, when they heard a car pull into the drive. Dave was out the back way before the engine stopped.

Faith thrust his dishes into the dishwasher.

“Now, Faith," warned Tom. She motioned for him to be quiet, scooped up the Rolex, and put it in her pocket. "Now, Faith," he said with greater determination. "Let's just see who it is and what they want. Don't worry, Tom, I'll be good."

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

The bell rang.

3

Tom opened the door. It was Chief MacIsaac, all right, and he was not alone.

Charley MacIsaac was a large man—stacks of oatcakes in his youth in Nova Scotia—but he was completely dwarfed by the man at his side. Clad in what Faith noted with surprise to be a rather modish Burberry raincoat, the giant was about six-foot-seven and hefty. His dark hair, streaked with gray, was curly like a perm, but Faith, a specialist in snap judgments, immediately concluded that this wasn't the sort of man who went in for perms. A mother, most likely his, would have described his face as having character ; others equally charitable would call it homely. When he greeted themwith a thin-lipped regulation smile, uncharitable Faith barely repressed a shudder.

“This is Detective Lieutenant John Dunne from the State Police," Charley said, "They've been kind enough to give us a hand in this unfortunate business." Dunne looked at Charley with tolerance bordering on annoyance. The case would have been a whole lot easier if MacIsaac had never had his hand anywhere near it. In their initial excitement, the Aleford Police had trampled Belfry Hill like a pack of puppies not yet housebroken, destroying evidence that might have been there and leaving their tracks all over the place. These small town guys might be likable as hell, but they were a pain in the ass to work with.

Dunne moved into the room, quietly for a man his size. "I hope you don 't mind going over this again, Mrs. Fairchild," he said in a tone of voice that left no alternative. And a tone of voice that revealed other than Yankee roots.

“ Not at all," Faith replied politely as she steered him toward the wing chair, the only one in the room she trusted to hold him safely. There was a superabundance of spindly New England furniture in the parsonage and one of those chairs would fall apart like balsa wood if he sat in it.

Where did they find this guy ? she wondered. He sounds like he comes from the Bronx. And what kind of a name was John Dunne for this decidedly unpoetical creature ?

She was terrifically disconcerted to hear her unspoken thoughts answered.

“ I understand we are fellow New Yorkers, Mrs. Fairchild. I grew up in the Bronx.”

This was probably supposed to make her feel at ease Faith reflected, if such a presence could. Why was it that the police had this effect on her ? She hadn 't murdered Cindy, but she felt as wary as an about-to-be-uncovered serial killer.

“Yes, I'm from Manhattan." That sounded like one upmanship. She hastily added, "Though of course I know the Bronx—the Zoo, the Botanical Gardens, but I must confess I mostly go there for egg creams.”

it was Dunne 's turn to be wary. He looked at her hard. Egg creams were nothing to joke about.

He stood up and took off his tan raincoat. It reminded Faith, as Tom jumped up to take it, of a frost heave—huge boulders suddenly emerging from the earth. Dunne sat down and the terrain settled.

Faith put Ben in the playpen again, showering him with all his favorite toys, Happy Apple and a stuffed clown that never failed to send Ben into gales of laughter. It was doing so now and Charley shot an avuncular smile at the baby, but Dunne never gave him a tumble. This wasn 't going to be easy.

Tom tried to catch Faith 's eye. She deliberately ignored his rather impassioned glance. Subtlety had never been Tom 's strong point.

“ Would anyone like some coffee ? It's already made," Faith offered.

“ I never say no," Charley answered. He could usually be found having a cup at the Minuteman Café every morning at eight and every afternoon at four. When Faith used to roam the town restlessly before Benjamin's arrival, she would see him there and would join him for the Minuteman 's surprisingly good muffins. The café had replaced the old country store as gathering place and information center, not that she had ever seen anyone there engaged in idle chatter or gossip. But somehow they managed to keep on top of things by nods over their coffee mugs and monosyllabic hints.

She looked over at Detective Lieutenant Dunne.

“Thank you, no," John Dunne replied as he took out his Filofax.

Faith was startled. She hadn't seen a Filofax since she'd left the city ; her own was gathering dust in a drawer upstairs. She knew it was simply a matter of time before Dunne would get her to confess the infractions of a lifetime, starting with stealing a bottle of red nail polish from Woolworth's on a dare in sixth grade up to the present suppression of the whereabouts of a key suspect in a murder investigation. She would have found whips and chains easier to resist than calculated organization.

She left, quickly returned with coffee for the rest of them, and sat down next to Tom on the couch.

“Now, Mrs. Fairchild, could you tell me what happened yesterday? I've read the reports, but it would help to hear it in your own words.”

This was something she could do. Faith sat up straight and patiently went through what was beginning to seem like something she had dreamed.

“I started up Belfry Hill just before noon with Benjamin."

“ Excuse me, but how did you know what time it was?" Dunne was looking at her watchless wrist.

“No, I didn't have a watch on," she answered, correctly interpreting his gaze, "I don 't wear one unless I need to. I knew it was near noon, because when I was halfway up the hill, I heard the bells ring at the Congregational church.”

Dunne nodded, "Okay, so it was slightly past noon when you reached the belfry."

“Probably about five after," Faith corrected, recalling her self-pity stop. "I was walking rather slowly. I got to the top, went inside and sat down. I took my sandwich out and put it on the bench and started to loosen the Snugli straps.”

37 Charley interrupted this time, " Sandwich, Faith ? You didn 't mention a sandwich before." He appeared hurt.

“ I'm sorry, Charley. It was tuna, tomato, and egg.”

“And I thought we had something there," he said glumly. "We're having it analyzed."

“Just plain tomato and egg," said Faith, "But the tuna is from Dean and DeLuca in New York. It's imported from Italy.”

Mac Isaac had been eyeing her hopefully as if perhaps she would remember that she had left her particular sandwich on the kitchen counter yesterday, but this last piece of precise information squashed that.

“You still have the rose," said Faith gently. "And the knife.”

Charley paused and cleared his throat, "Yes, we still have the rose and the knife. A rose that grows in pretty near every garden in town and the kind of knife that is used in every kitchen, including mine. And whoever used it was damn lucky or knew a lot about surgery.”

Faith hoped he was not going to turn cynical over this business.

“It looked like a good sandwich. Too bad we didn't know sooner.”

Faith was relieved. Chief MacIsaac was on the job, but he was not off his feed. At least not yet.

John Dunne had clearly had enough of this meandering. It was often helpful to let a witness go off on tangents, but this was getting ridiculous. Imported tuna fish and Snuglis, whatever they were.

“When you entered the belfry, Mrs. Fairchild, can you describe exactly what you saw ? Sometimes it helps if you close your eyes.”

Faith obediently shut her eyes, looked at the mental picture, and carefully began to put it into words. "It was very bright out, so it was a few seconds before I saw that somebody else was there on the other bench. I thought she was asleep because her head was on the bench. It looked like a very awkward way to sleep. Not very comfortable, tumbled over to one side. I stood up to leave, because I thought Benjamin might start to cry and disturb whomever it was. That was when I realized it was Cindy and that she had a knife with a pink rose twisted around it sticking out of her side.

“I tried to think what to do. She wasn't breathing and I knew she was dead. I remember thinking it wasn't any use to try to resuscitate her.”

Faith 's big blue eyes flew open, filled with some of the fear of the day before. "My next thought was that the murderer must be close by."

“Why did you think that?" Dunne queried.

“Because the body was warm. Oh, that's right. I put my hand in front of her mouth to see if I could feel any breath and I touched her neck to find a pulse. There wasn't any, but the skin was still warm." Faith shivered. " I knew she couldn't have been dead long. So I rang the bell."

“And a good thing too," MacIsaac noted. He was solidly in Faith's camp on the bell controversy and was contemplating nominating her for the Bronze Musket, a plaque awarded on Patriot's Day to a citizen who has contributed above and beyond the call of duty to the town. Had it not been for Faith's quick thinking, they would have wasted valuable time apprehending the perpetrator. Of course they hadn 't apprehended anyone yet, but they would. Towns like Aleford had few secrets for long. His thirty-year sojourn had taught him that.

Dunne nodded in agreement. " Now one or two other points, Mrs. Fairchild.”

Faith stiffened slightly. What on earth was she going to say about Dave ? Just then Benjamin began to scream angrily from his cage. Her relief was enormous. She started to get up, then changed her mind. Who knew what Tom would say if she left him alone ? By their very nature, most ministers are notoriously poor liars. His innate goodness, something she cherished, had the effect of both buoying her up and weighing her down. This was one of the times when she could feel the water level rising. She put her hand on his shoulder.

“Tom, dear, would you see what Ben needs and I'll come help as soon as we're finished here ? " Faith hoped the emphasis she put on "finished" wasn 't too obvious, but obvious enough to get them out of her living room.

Tom took Benjamin upstairs grudgingly, well aware that his wife was about to tell any number of, to her, perfectly justifiable falsehoods.

Dunne turned back to Faith and asked, " How did you know so quickly that it was Cindy Shepherd ? “

She was surprised and momentarily relieved. So he didn't want to know about Dave. Not yet anyway.

“ It wasn't hard. I recognized her hair first of all and she had on a nice turquoise and black Benetton sweater that she'd worn to the last Young People's dance at the church.”

She was also wearing those black stirrup pants, tacky and already passé, and turquoise ballerina flats, Faith recalled to herself. It was definitely an outfit and she was pretty sure what Cindy was wearing underneath was black lace or nothing at all. Not a class act, but proven effective. She wondered if Charley would tell her about the underwear if she got him alone some time.

Tom was back with a fussy Benjamin in his arms.

“I'm afraid he needs your particular talents, darling," he said with a touch of smugness as he handed Ben over.

“We're just leaving," Dunne said and stood up, occupying most of the airspace in the room. He walked over to Faith with MacIsaac at his heels. She noticed Dunne had on a well-cut Harris tweed sports jacket. She felt a little sorry for Charley, whose plain clothes usually took the form of an ancient Celtics jacket or shapeless brown overcoat. He'd been widowed a long time and his wardrobe had definitely remained in mourning.

Faith faced the two of them squarely. This is it, she thought.

Dunne spoke sternly, " What we are investigating here is a murder. And the murderer is still at large. We don't want to alarm you or your husband, but you must exercise simple caution until this is all wrapped up."

“You can 't mean that you think somebody wants to kill me ? " Faith protested.

“ Remember, the murderer may think you saw something you didn't.”

Faith blanched.

“We don't want you to lock yourself in the house day and night, Mrs. Fairchild. Just report any odd behavior to Chief MacIsaac or to me. Here's my card with numbers where I can be reached day or night. For instance, let us know if someone asks you a lot of questions about what you saw."

“ But that will be the whole town ! You might as well arrest Millicent McKinley and be done with it. Sorry, no I^r pun intended.”

Dunne smiled, or grimaced, it was hard to tell. "None taken. Believe me, I'm used to it. My mother was a poetry lover," he added.

Charley spoke up, "She does have a point, John. Just about the entire town will have an unhealthy interest in all this. Maybe it would be better to focus on the folks who don't talk about it.”

Detective Dunne looked at him with something like respect, "Please be careful, Mrs. Fairchild, and keep in touch. Above all, don't play amateur detective." He turned to Tom, including him in his remarks, " You'd be amazed at how many people who are involved in crimes like this think they can do better than the police." Tom was standing near the fireplace. "You don 't say ?" His deliberately neutral tone was belied by a sudden flush on his face that could scarcely have been caused by the flamelike chrysanthemums.

“I blame TV," Dunne said, moving across the room to the door with the others in his wake. He stopped just before opening it.

“By the way, we haven't been able to locate Cindy 's boyfriend, Dave Svenson. Do you happen to know where he is? We'd like to ask him some questions.”

Before Tom could speak, Faith stepped in front of him.

“No," she said firmly, "We don't know where he is, but if we see him, we'll give him your message.”

All of which was perfectly true, she told herself, crossing her fingers behind her back to be on the safe side.

Since Dunne didn't say anything further, she added, " Is he a suspect then ? " There was no harm in asking.

Dunne looked at her intently. "Everybody's a suspect until we have a suspect." It was a good exit line and had never failed him yet.

MacIsaac was listening to a different drummer. A beat that kept you lingering on the doorstep.

“Oh, Tom, we'd like a list of the members of your Young People's group and anything else you think might pertain," he said.

“No problem. I'll get everything together for you and call the station. I would also appreciate it if you could let us know when the funeral can take place. I'll be seeing the Moores this afternoon.”

Charley looked at Dunne, who obviously wanted to be in the car backing out of the driveway by now, for an answer.

“They're doing the postmortem this morning, so I'dsay Monday or Tuesday. Tuesday to be on the safe side." He strode off purposefully.

Tom shut the door.

“Faith, what can you be thinking of? And crossing your fingers behind your back does not make a lie any less of a lie, as I believe I have told you God knows how many times before !"

“Hold on a minute, Thomas! First of all, God does know what I mean and even so I know very well what makes a lie and what doesn't. And next, I didn't see you blurting out that Dave had been here for breakfast !" Tom looked uncomfortable.

“All right, all right. I just can't believe he had anything to do with it and it may be wrong—no, I know it's wrong—but I couldn 't turn him in."

“Besides," Faith consoled him, "we honestly don 't know where he is.”

Tom smiled. "Besides, we don't know where he is." The smile disappeared. "What I'd like to do after I get the stuff for MacIsaac together is try to find him and get him to go to the police with me. The longer he stays away the worse it's going to look."

“That's a great idea, Tom. I'll help you find him. He must be with one of his friends. That 's where kids always go when they run away. Not that this is your typical kid running away because he doesn 't like the curfew his parents slapped on him."

“That's exactly what I don't want you to do. Help, that is. I want you to stay as close to home as possible until they find out who did it. `They' being the police. Honey, don 't you see? I don 't want anything to happen to you ! "

“I don't want anything to happen to me either. And nothing will. Anyway, what can I do ? Get a plaid cape and a magnifying glass? I'm simply going to keep my eyes and ears open, that's all. But first, if I don't feed this baby, we're both going to explode.”

Dunne and Charley had come to the same conclusion that Tom and Faith had and they were on their way to the Svensons to get a list of the names of Dave's friends.

“If they don't give us much, which will probably be the case, there are a bunch of other people we can ask," Charley told Dunne.

“Well, the kid's all we have so far, so we'd better concentrate on finding him. Now how much of a problem is this Mrs. Fairchild going to be ? I know the type—couldn't wait for us to leave so she could sit down with her husband and solve the case.”

MacIsaac laughed. "She's an intelligent woman. I don't think she's going to put herself in any danger. I doubt she'll interfere and Tom's as sensible as they come."

“If she's so smart, too bad we can't recruit her to fill out all the damned reports and let us get away from the desk long enough to get a handle on things.”

The paperwork was Dunne's least favorite part of the job. He wasn't sure he had a favorite part, but he knew what he hated. His father had been a cop. He'd died of a massive coronary while chasing a suspect. Dunne was three years old and too young to hear the pros and cons of the business. His mother wanted him to go to college and he'd ended up at Columbia on a Regent's scholarship. He stayed for two years, developed a taste for elegant clothes and New Orleans jazz, then enlisted in the army. He knew he'd be going to Vietnam, and he wanted to do it on his own terms. When he returned from the war, he became a cop, just as he had always assumed he would. Anything else would have been boring. All the paperwork in the world could be balanced by ten minutes of action. He married and moved to Mas- sachusetts, the midway point between his family and his wife's in Maine—a bitch of a drive either way. That was ten years ago and he'd mellowed a little. This bothered him occasionally. Without the city to keep him perpetually in a state of alert, he worried he might be losing his edge, and this Aleford case didn't promise to be much of a sharpener. It was probably the boyfriend or someone like him. One look at the girl had told him that. Of course it was these easy assumptions that always turned out to be wrong. That was the fun of it.

“All right, Charley, we'll look for the kid, then I'll toss you for the reports.”

Charley looked a little askance.

“Just kidding.”

Tom called the Svensons as soon as the police left, but they either didn't know where Dave was or weren't saying anything. So he started going down the list of kids who he knew were friends of Dave in the parish. At noon, he called it quits.

“He does seem to have vanished into thin air, Faith. At any rate, if someone I spoke to does know where he is, he'll get the message that I'm looking for him and maybe he'll show up here again.”

He went upstairs, donned his collar, and got ready to go to the Moores'. They had asked Faith to come, too. She wasn't sure whether it was because they wanted to talk to her about finding the body or because she, as the minister's wife, could offer support to them in their grief. She was still new at the support business and hoped it was the former. She was looking forward to some discreet inquiries into the life and death of Cindy Shepherd and it would be hard to direct the conversation that way if she was going to be limited to empathetic nods and gentle pats on the shoulder.

They left Benjamin at home with thirteen-year-old Samantha Miller from next door, whom Faith was grooming for a life of baby-sitting bondage. She fervently hoped Samantha 's shyness lasted through high school. Not that she wanted her to be unpopular, but the baby-sitter wars in Aleford made the War for Independence look like a fistfight. And the parsonage didn 't have Nintendo or big screen TV to lure anyone. Sure, the snacks were superior, but Samantha, like most teenagers, preferred Doritos and diet Coke to tarte tatin and Faith 's secret recipe puff pastry cheese straws.

Faith had fallen in love with the Moores' house the first time Tom took her there, and further acquaintance had served to deepen the passion. It was the most beautiful house in Aleford, just on the other side of the river and a short drive or long walk from the center, depending on one's time and temperament. Cindy had never walked once she got her license ; Patricia Moore only used the car for shopping.

Behind the house the garden sloped gently down to the water. When the river flooded, some of the flower beds were submerged and the old swing set that stood on the banks was an informal yardstick of the severity of the storm. One wet spring the swings had floated back and forth with the current for a week. No one had ever thought to move them or take them down now that the children were grown. They had always been there and so they stayed. Which was the case with most things in the house. Whatever found its way inside never left. The house was a fantastic, glorious muddle of the treasure and trivia of many generations.

Patricia Moore 's great-great-grandfather, Jeremiah Cox, had been a ship captain and later owner of a fleet of vessels, which, from the look of things, had never unloaded cargo except at this landing. He built the original square clapboard house, but it was Patricia's great grandfather, Martin, who added a wing here and there as his family and fortunes increased. Now it was a rambling house, painted that buttery yellow so beloved of New Englanders, with black shutters and white trim. It looked like a smaller, slightly eccentric version of Long-fellow's home in Cambridge. Patricia's grandparents had added a deep porch, which stretched across the back of the house so they could sit in their wicker rockers and watch the river go by. It wasn't screened in. Mosquitoes either never bit people in Aleford or were studiously ignored, which amounted to the same thing. Maybe everyone put repellent on behind closed doors. The first time Faith went to one of the church picnics and took out a container of Off !, the whole congregation looked as if she had whipped out a hip flask of hootch.

Tom and Faith climbed the front stairs. Patricia had seen them from the window and was opening the door. She had been born in the house and as she stepped forward to greet them, Faith suddenly imagined a whole line of Patricia's ancestors making the same gestures and smiling the same warm but not gushing smile. And Patricia's grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren, too, would watch her and inherit the legacy of this graciousness. Her two children, Rob and Jenny, had. Cindy hadn't.

Faith's small apartment in New York had been the last word in stripped-down High Tech. The only color had been the flowers delivered by Mädderlake each week. Yet she coveted every square inch of Patricia's house, from the patchwork quilts on the spool and four-poster beds to the china closets crammed with export porcelain, and set after set of Limoges wedding china.

They sat down in the living room and Faith stopped her usual envious inventory to listen.

Patricia started right in with plans for the funeral. "We would have wanted things to be simple in any case, Tom, and the fact that it was murder makes that seem all the more important somehow," she said.

“Not that it 's something to be ashamed of, my dear," Robert interjected.

“Oh, no," Patricia responded, "It's just that there will probably be a lot of newspaper reporters and people who don 't even know us. So we thought a brief service now and a memorial service sometime in the spring.”

Patricia looked very tired and drawn. So did Robert. Faith was used to seeing them hale and hearty. The Moores looked remarkably alike. Or perhaps, Faith mused, it was true that married people grew to look like each other. She darted a quick glance at Tom and felt reassured.

Both Robert and Patricia were tall, fair-haired Yankees with slightly equine faces and well-shaped feet and hands. Capable hands.

Patricia was an avid and knowledgeable gardener, president of the local garden club, The Evergreens. Robert was some kind of lawyer. Faith never heard him talk about his work. Only sailing. The Moores had a summer house on the coast of New Hampshire and Robert sailed every chance he could get. They were still tan from all this outdoor activity, but the tan seemed to have faded overnight, like one of the countless watercolor landscapes done by Patricia's forebears that hung on the walls, bleached from years of sun.

Even Patricia's normally crisp white round-collared blouse looked wilted. Faith always wondered where on earth Patricia found her clothes and had decided that she must have a stockpile of vintage Villager shirtwaists in Liberty cottons, John Meyer A-line wool skirts, matching sweaters, and blouses. Patricia also wore those Pappagallo pumps that look like bedroom slippers and she had on the discreet diamond and sapphire circle pin Robert had given her when they got married. Aside fromher gold wedding band and diamond solitaire from Shreve's, it was the only jewelry Faith had ever seen her wear. And the diamond was usually in a dish by the sink, since Patricia's hands were usually in the soil.

“Did Cindy have a favorite poet or piece of music that would be appropriate to the service ? " Tom was asking.

Faith thought for a moment that a look of irritation crossed Robert 's face before he replied, "None of which we are aware, Tom. Why don't you choose something?"

“Maybe Wordsworth? A slumber did my spirit seal'? Or part of Tintern Abbey'?" Patricia offered.

Patricia had been an English major at Wellesley, Faith recalled.

Reaching back to her own British Poets 101, she thought "I travell'd among unknown men" would have been more appropriate, but she kept her mouth shut.

“Wordsworth has always been a family favorite," Patricia said and stopped abruptly. She started again before Tom could say anything, "And to be perfectly honest, if Cindy had a favorite, it would undoubtedly be inappropriate if not blasphemous.”

Faith decided it was time for someone to do something about the situation. These people were simply too good to be allowed to suffer like this.

“Patricia, Cindy was not Tom's favorite youth group member and although I am appalled and angry at what has happened, she was not someone I found easy to like either.”

The Moores breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“That's it exactly, Faith. Thank you. We have to make the service a decent one, but not ludicrous. Cindy hurt a great many people in this town. It was our fault, really, for allowing her to get so out of hand, but we can't be hypocrites. The last few years with her have been very difficult ones and enough people, which is to say all of Aleford, know, so any pretentious show of mourning would be a lie," Robert spoke bitterly. "We are to blame," said Patricia, "but I don't know what we could have done differently. The person I feel sorriest for is Dave. He's lost his fiancée and the police suspect him of murder, which is, of course, absurd. Apparently Cindy and Dave had a fight Thursday night and the police believe her murder was a crime of passion." She gave a somewhat crooked smile.

Tom spoke. "We We can't believe it was Dave either, and I'm hoping he'll get in touch with me." Faith noticed he didn 't say "again." He was learning, or maybe already knew. "I wouldn't be surprised if he came to you, Patricia, you've always been so close."

“ Yes, I keep looking out at the garden, half expecting to see him there.”

Dave had started helping Patricia in the garden when he was a little boy and it had grown into a labor of love for the two of them.

The door opened and thirteen-year-old Jenny Moore walked into the room. She looked a good deal worse than her parents, genuinely distraught. Either that or, Faith quickly conjectured, like a person with something to hide.

“Jenny, why don't you show Mrs. Fairchild the garden while we finish up in here ? " her mother asked. "Sure," muttered Jenny, a terse monosyllable from this normally bouncy kid.

Definitely hiding something, Faith concluded.

They walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. The garden was filled with mums—not stiffly in pots nor those funny football pompoms, but cascades of white, lavender, and gold—all sizes and shapes. Here and there a rosebush was still in bloom. Patricia was famous for her roses. Some were very old ; varieties mostly vanished from the seed catalogs, with names like " Old Blush "and "Rosa Mundi." They filled the air with a sweet fragrance that mingled with the bitter smell of the mums. Someone was burning leaves. Maybe autumn in Aleford wasn't so bad.

Faith sat down on a bench under one of the rose trellises and stretched her legs out to the sun. Jenny sat next to her. Clearly the girl was miserable. Her eyes were filled with tears. Could Cindy and Jenny have been close ? Somehow Faith automatically assumed that anyone she liked couldn't like Cindy, but Jenny was virtually her sister and she had lived with her all these years.

“Jenny, is there anything you want to talk about with me ? Anything you want to ask ? I know this has been a terrible shock for you.”

Faith put her arm around Jenny 's shoulders and Jenny began to sob.

“It's Mom and Dad ! This is so awful for them and it's just like Cindy to do it. She caused them so much trouble when she was alive and now she's dead and it's worse than ever ! The phone rings all the time and all the newspapers have stories about us. It's even on TV ! Robby called from college and some reporter had gotten into his dorm." She stopped a moment and grinned through her tears.

“His buddies helped him throw the guy out the window." She gave Faith a reassuring look. "Not a very high window.”

So much for grief, Faith thought.

“Jenny, I know that at the moment things must be terrible for you and your parents, but they will calm down soon. The police will find the murderer and the public will find something else to talk about. You'll see.”

Here was a chance to practice. Was this what a minister 's wife would say ? What would her mother say ? Actually she found it impossible to imagine her mother in this situation. The idea of one of her father's parishioners getting murdered was just too crazy.

The idea of one of Tom 's was as bizarre, but here they were.

Jenny had stopped crying and, impelled by her promise to Dave and by native curiosity, Faith started to probe.

“Jenny, this may sound strange, but do you think Cindy was seeing anyone else besides Dave?”

Faith was sure there was another man involved in this business somewhere. She was banking on sex. Tom thought it was money. They had bet each other a dinner at a restaurant of their own choosing once the mystery was solved. Faith had something like Le Cirque in mind and Tom, she was sure, would opt for Durgin Park. Remembering the giant slabs of beef hanging over thick china plates unceremoniously banged down on the table by a waitress whose surliness was supposed to be some kind of treasured Bostonian tradition, Faith felt she had to win. For Dave, for herself, and for la qualité de vie.

“One! Try twelve or thirteen," snorted Jenny, "Cindy thought she was Scarlett O'Hara or something.”

The movie had been on TV recently. Faith nodded sagely.

“But was there someone particular ? " she asked. Jenny looked evasive and didn 't answer right away. "I think there might have been. But she didn 't talk to me about that stuff much," she said finally.

I'll bet she didn 't, Faith thought, conjuring up a distasteful image of Cindy boasting to little Jenny about her sexual conquests. But why was the girl lying?

“You know it 's not all Cindys and Scarlett O'Haras, ' Faith said.

“Oh, you mean sex, Mrs. Fairchild? I know that. Look at Mom and Dad," replied Jenny.

Faith was surprised. The Moores had always suggested cozy comfort rather than Alex Comfort, but then one never knew. In any case, Jenny was okay and apparently not soured on men, women, and relationships for life despite her close association with Cindy.

“So how did she look anyway ? " Jenny asked after a moment.

“You mean Cindy?"

“Yes. That is, if you don 't mind talking about it." Absolutely no need to worry about Jenny, Faith thought again, and proceeded to give her what she hoped was a satisfactory description of the scene in the belfry. Although Jenny did seem a bit disappointed that there hadn't been more blood.

As they strolled back toward the house, Jenny looked up with a bright face. "They're going to bury her in her wedding gown, just like in the books, only Cindy didn't go mad with unspeakable horror on her wedding night.”

What kind of books was this child reading? Then Faith remembered the rows of turn-of-the-century ladies' novels that lined the Moores' bookshelves mixed in with first editions of T. S. Eliot and Henry James.

“You don 't think that it 's too weird, do you?" Jenny wanted to know. “ The wedding dress ? “

Faith did think it was a little weird. She supposed they had to bury her in something, but a Priscilla of Boston wedding gown did not seem much like a winding sheet, which was what Faith vaguely imagined most people were buried in.

“ I haven 't decided whether I want to be buried or cremated," continued Jenny, " How about you ? “

Faith reached for Jenny's hand. She was reassured. Jenny was definitely fine. Whatever it was that Faith sensed was bothering her had not dulled her normal adolescent ghoulishness.

“Neither, dear," she answered her, "I plan to float gently into the sky at the moment of dissolution only to return to earth as an unforgetable meteor shower." Faith had read this in a novel recently and it sounded good to her.

Jenny giggled. "Does Reverend Fairchild know about this ? "

“Absolutely," assured Faith, "But he doesn't like to talk about it, so don 't mention it, please.”

The girl giggled some more and they went into the house.

Jenny seemed okay, but Faith, returning to the living room, wasn't so sure about her parents. Maybe they were just tired. It was a strain, after all, and, as Jenny had pointed out, they were constantly being bombarded by the media, the police, and everybody else in Aleford with good and bad intentions.

But would that totally account for the deep circles under Patricia's eyes and the new furrows on Robert's forehead ? Robert Moore had been brutally honest about his feelings for Cindy. But was there something he wasn 't saying? Faith felt more puzzled than ever. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination unimaginable, the Moores had killed Cindy, why now ? They were getting rid of her in December. Somehow Faith didn 't see Cindy running home for marital advice or tips on how to make good pie crust. Once she was married, she would have been gone.

The arrangements for the funeral service were complete and the Fairchilds got ready to leave. Faith stood in the large hall looking at some ship paintings on the walls while Tom went with Robert to find their coats.

“Grandfather Martin's ships," Patricia said affectionately, "I've always loved these paintings. They were the last ships under sail that the family had. When we were children, we always called them the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, much to my grandmother 's annoyance. I'm afraid we have always been a bit toocaught up in the past in this family—we were all raised with a heavy dose of quite sinful pride."

“ I don 't think it's a sin to be proud of the accomplishments and personalities of another generation. We are their inheritors, after all—and the fruit on my own family tree makes quite an assortment," Faith commented. She studied the ships again. "We had some seafarers, too, and I wish I had paintings of their vessels. These really are treasures."

“Oh, Faith, as you can see, this is an acquisitive family. Not much ever goes out of here." Patricia was smiling at her genetic foibles. A shadow crossed her face. "I had planned to give Cindy some family things as a wedding present. Now they won't be leaving.”

And a good thing, too, thought Faith.

The next morning Faith sat in church with anticipation.

Tom had been up late the night before writing his sermon, having abandoned the one he had worked on all week. She liked Tom 's sermons, and not just because he was her husband. They were a mixture of good sense, eloquence, devotion, and almost never were boring.

She looked about. Sunday had dawned fair and bright, but no one seemed to have skipped church to rake leaves or go for a drive to see the foliage. The sanctuary was full.

Tom had selected "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" for the opening hymn, and the congregation did it full justice, then worked its way through the service to the responsive reading of Psalm 22. Faith began to have some idea of where Tom was heading when she heard him intone, “ The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble ; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee"; and the congregation's response, "Some trust in chariots, and some in horses : but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.”

It was a time of trouble. The worshipers had entered the church in relative silence, without the usual cheerful Sunday buzz of greetings. There had been a few uneasy glances toward the Moores as well as at other fellow parishioners. It was clear that nobody knew what to do.

The Old Testament lesson was from Job, chapter 24. Faith had predicted that book, and now she congratulated herself on how well she knew her husband.

The New Testament lesson was Matthew 12. “ A house divided against itself shall not stand." Tom spoke the words slowly, with precision, and a note of warning in his voice.

At last it was the sermon. He climbed the stairs to the pulpit, which was raised above the congregation. All eyes were drawn upward. He didn 't waste any time.

“Murder is an abomination against the Lord.

“The murder of one is a murder of all. We have lost a young person of this parish, slain before her maturity and we are slain with her. The task we face now is to comfort the grieving and look to this house. Not with suspicion, but with strength. Not with the gossip that inevitably accompanies such a tragedy and has been such an affliction for her family, but with words of care and concern.

“ It is a time that bewilders us. Which, like Job, tests our faith and poses fundamental questions.

“But like Job we must arrive at the same answer. He cries out, ‘ And if it be not so now, who will make me a liar, and make my speech nothing worth ?'

“Job knew the answer. We know the answer. It is here with us in this place and in all the other places we inhabit. It is God who makes Job a liar and liars of all of us who curse him for the random events of this earthly life.

“ Fear walks among us. I can feel it coming from you today, but our fears must take us closer to God, not away. We must walk with our fears toward God the fortress and make our house endure in his love and justice.

“ Now let us pray. For strength in God and each other and for Cynthia Shepherd.”

Faith bowed her head. The sermon had been longer, but these were the phrases she turned over in her mind as she prayed. The silence before the service had not been as quiet as she thought. It was full of apprehension and unspoken fears. Tom had tried to dispel it, and when they stood up and shook hands with their neighbors at the close of the service, she knew he had been successful. Patricia and Robert went up to him and he embraced them warmly.

They walked home after retrieving Benjamin from the volunteers who ran the child care during the service. Faith took Tom's hand, "It couldn't have been easy, Tom. But somehow you managed to do it. All the awful things I've been thinking about Cindy dropped away and I felt terribly, terribly sad. She should be very grateful to you."

“Thank you. I think the congregation is going to be fine, but it's a tough time.”

As they went through the back door into the kitchen, the phone rang.

“Probably more plaudits, darling. Why don't you get it?" Faith said, "I'11 start lunch.”

Tom picked up the phone, listened, and exclaimed, "Oh, no! Of course, I'll be right there. Have you called the police ? " He listened again briefly, said good-bye and hung up. Faith was by his side in a flash.

“ What's happened ? “

Tom looked grim. " Apparently while we were all in church taking in that uplifting sermon of mine, someone broke into the Moores' house and ransacked Cindy 's bedroom. Patricia is very upset and Robert asked me to come.”

Faith grabbed her coat. " I'm coming too ! “

“I thought you might say that.”

4

They were at the Moores' in record time. They managed to disengage the seat belt from Benjamin's infant seat without waking him. Unpredictable as he was in almost everything, he could always be counted on to fall into a deep sleep at one in the afternoon. Faith thought it was Nature's way of evening up the score.

Tom carried the baby bucket with Benjamin up the front stairs, where they were momentarily halted by Patrolman Warren. It was no surprise. There must have been five or six police cars in the drive. Faith put her finger to her lips and pointed to Ben. Whether it was the sleeping baby or the memory of his earlier mistakes in judgment, Dale hurriedly opened the door and ushered them in. Patricia was waiting in the hall.

“Put Ben in the study, Faith, there's too much commotion upstairs. We'll be in the living room," she said softly.

Faith walked into the living room just as Robert was finishing a sentence, "... never been broken into in its entire history. Such a violation ! "

“Do you have any idea what they were looking for ? Did Cindy keep cash or valuables around ? " Tom asked. "She had some good jewelry that belonged to her mother, but that 's at the bank. I suppose there were some other things of value, but nothing much, and I doubt she had any money. She seemed to think credit cards had replaced currency," Robert answered.

“The police brought us her jewelry box a short while ago to see if anything was missing. It had been dumped out, but her pearls and a watch she wore when she dressed up were still there." Patricia stopped, then spoke again in an anguished tone. "Just think of all the other valuable things in the house, the silver, the rugs, the paintings ..." Patricia's face tightened as she catalogued her beloved possessions. "Thank goodness we surprised them and they didn't get that far," she added.

“But why start in Cindy's room ? " Faith asked.

“ Exactly," concurred Robert, "We We have to asume it 's tied in with the murder, that there was something she had that would incriminate the murderer.”

Faith wondered how she could get upstairs and take a look at Cindy's room. The police were obviously going over it with a fine-tooth comb for fingerpints, stray hairs, distinctive buttons, calling cards. She was pretty sure from the way the chandelier shook that Dunne was up there.

It was going to have to be the old bathroom trick. She stood up and excused herself demurely.

Why don't you use the one upstairs, Faith ? " Patricia never missed much.

The stairs and upper hail were carpeted with an oriental runner, so Faith was able to linger undetected for a moment outside Cindy's bedroom door. "Ransack" had been a mild description. Detective Dunne, his back to her, stood in the center of a room that looked as if the Vikings had joined Attila the Hun to pay a call on the Sabine women. All the drawers were pulled out, the bed torn apart and the pillows slashed. Enough shoes for an Imelda were flung about the room, and pictures had been ripped from their frames. Faith was fascinated. From what she could see, it seemed Cindy had an entire mirrored wall of closets. She glanced at the ceiling. No. Robert and Patricia must have drawn the line somewhere.

She was just about to take a step nearer when John Dunne glanced in one of the mirrors and their eyes met in mutual annoyance. He turned abruptly, strode to the door in one step, and shut it.

Faith continued down the hall to the bathroom. She might as well use it as long as she was there ; it would give her time to think. It was possible that the Moores had interrupted the intruder before he or she had had a chance to find anything. This was certainly the thought behind Dunne 's thorough search. Faith doubted she would be asked to join the team, so she had to think of something else. Or someplace else She went back downstairs and stopped in the study to check Benjamin. He was sound asleep and looked cherubic. These were moments to treasure and recall when you were wiping baby cereal off your clothing.

Jenny was outside the door. She looked a little lost and more than a little angry.

Faith said sympathetically, " I know. Cindy again. It is dreadful and shouldn't be happening."

“She would have been very ticked off at the mess they made of her room, though," Jenny said with some satisfaction.

Faith looked at Jenny and the tiny thought that had sprouted upstairs burst into bloom.

“Jenny, maybe what they're looking for was never in Cindy's room. This house must have dozens of hiding places. If they bothered to rip open picture frames, it must have been small. Can you think of any place she might have hidden something that size '1"

“Well, the maple secretary in the study has two secret drawers and so does a little lap desk that they used to take to sea long ago, but I doubt she would use these because we all knew about them. And besides Mom is always cleaning and she might find it.”

Jenny paused. " If I were going to hide something, I think I'd put it in the playhouse, because no grown-ups ever go there and there are no little kids anymore.”

“Where is the playhouse ? "

“Down near the river. Do you want to go look?”

I thought you'd never ask, Faith thought as she replied, "That sounds like a good idea.”

She ducked her head into the living room to tell Tom she was taking a walk with Jenny. He was discussing the funeral again with Patricia and Robert and she knew she wouldn't be missed.

It was beautiful outside and warm. They rustled along in the leaves down the long slope to the river. Nestled under the trees was a white playhouse, the kind every child dreams of having—a small porch in front and two child-sized rooms. There wasn't much in it—two chairs, a table, and a wooden play stove in one room ; some doll beds and a brightly painted chest of drawers full of dress-up clothes in the other.

The house was big enough for Faith to stand up in. She and Jenny systematically went through everything. Nothing. Faith reached up to feel on top of the wide, exposed ceiling beams.

Just over the door she found it. A tin box. She grabbed it and it came tumbling down with a crash. It was an old Louis Sherry candy box that had probably once held someone 's treasured mementos. Cindy 's collection spilled onto the floor. Jenny rushed to her side.

“What is it ? Do you think that's what they wanted ? " Faith looked down at a bunch of photographs, a couple of joints, some cash, a matchbook or two, and some cocktail napkins. There was also a roll of film.

“Yes, Jenny, I think we can safely say this is what everyone is looking for. Could you run back to the house and have your parents tell the police what we've found ? I'll stay here. Tell them we haven 't touched a thing." Jenny sped up the hill.

But looking is not touching. Faith crouched down as close as she could get to the contents without disturbing anything. She was the one who had found it, after all. And John Dunne didn 't seem the type to exchange boyish confidences.

Obviously it was the pictures. And they were hot enough to have melted the box. Cindy was evidently into porn—with herself as the star. The photos Faith could see completely featured Cindy in bed with different partners. It looked like Cindy had set the timer on the camera and raced back into position, unless there had been a third party to the fun. In some shots, the man was asleep, or exhausted. In others, the man was awake. Faith didn't recognize them. Some of the shots were close-ups. Unusual to collect snapshots of male organs you have known, but everyone has to have a hobby of some sort, Faith supposed. She didn't recognize any of those either.

Another photo was partially covered, but she could make out a city sidewalk, a convenience store, and part of another building. What was it doing mixed in with Cindy 's personal Playgirl gallery ?

The backs of some of the photographs had initials and dates. One had the name of the Crowne Plaza—Holiday Inn 's answer to the 'Ritz Carlton—printed below the date. An enchanted evening ?

Then there was the money. Quite a bit of money if all the bills were Ben Franklins, as the top ones were. Was Cindy blackmailing someone? If she had been, why? Cindy had a lot of money of her own, and would have more. She probably demanded and got a generous allowance. Why would she have blackmailed people ? Faith knew you were never supposed to be too rich or too thin, but it still didn't match her image of Cindy.

Then there were the joints, two small ones, the matches, and the napkins. The matchbook she could see was from a motel in Ogunquit. It didn't look like the sort of place the Moores would have stopped for a family vacation. It did look like Cindy's speed—the right cable channels and one of those beds that ate quarters. The other matchbooks and more photographs were under the napkins.

Faith was trying to decipher the letters and numbers written on a napkin when Dunne arrived. She stood up quickly. He was leaning over the porch and peering in the door. There wasn't a ghost of a chance that he could get in the tiny building.

“The next time you have a hunch, would you be so kind as to tell us, Mrs. Fairchild? This isn't one of your Upper East Side scavenger hunts," Dunne said in what Faith knew was a controlled voice. He obviously wanted to scream at her.

“West Side," she said, pushing it. She knew she should have told them, but how was she going to help Dave at all if she didn 't find things out on her own?

“ Did you touch anything ? "

“ Only when I reached for the box. It's open because it fell.”

Dunne looked at her skeptically. She inched past him and started back to the house. He called after her, "Mrs. Fairchild."

“Yes?"

“Your baby 's crying.”

She didn 't bother to thank him.

Tom was in the kitchen pacing up and down with Benjamin.

“I think he 's hungry, Faith. But the Moores want to know what 's going on, so I'll keep him out here while you tell them, then we'll go."

“Oh, Tom, this isn 't going to be easy. How do you tell two people who've just had their home broken into that their recently murdered ward may have been, from the look of it, a blackmailer?”

Tom stopped, shook his head, and said, "I know this is happening, Faith, but tell me it's not."

“The Pandora's box Jenny and I found was full of naughty pictures of Cindy and her conquests and a large amount of cash. Undoubtedly she kept the photos for her own entertainment, but it's possible that several of her beaux might not have wanted them for the family Christmas card. Some of the pictures seem to have been taken while her partner was asleep and unknowing.”

Tom looked grim. "What else did you see ? "

“Nothing else that made any sense to me, but I'll bet everything in there was something that could threaten somebody.”

Faith told the Moores as gently as she could and was a bit startled at their reaction. They seemed relieved that the break-in had a specific object in mind, an object that was now found. It wasn't an attack on the house, or on them—just on Cindy.

Tom and Faith packed Benjamin back in his car seat and left, passing Eleanor Whipple, some sort of ultra-removed cousin of Patricia's, on the drive. She was carrying a pie and a shopping bag filled with what lookedlike all the produce she had put up the summer before. She continued swiftly up the walk with that purposeful Yankee stride that age seems not to diminish, but intensify. Oswald Pearson, editor of the town paper, notebook in hand and hot on the trail of another sensational story for The Aleford Clarion, was a few paces behind her. Obviously the word had gotten out.

On the way home in the car, Faith told Tom about the Moores' reaction to her news.

“Faith, at this point, I don't think anything Cindy did would surprise them. They're numb. Maybe when it's all over it will hit them, but right now I imagine they simply want to get the funeral over with, have the police find the killer, and go back to their lives.”

Which was just about what Patricia said the next day at the monthly meeting of the Ladies' Alliance, now the Women 's Alliance—but nobody ever remembered to call it anything but the Alliance.

When Faith arrived in Aleford as a new bride, she had no idea what to expect of the group, which she knew it was one of her duties to join.

“Only if you want to, Faith," said Tom. "Really, this is my job, not yours. What you do is totally up to you." So sweet and so naive, thought Faith.

To her amazement, she enjoyed the meetings in the church social hall and discovered the group did an enormous amount of good in a characteristically unobtrusive manner. Originally founded as a sewing circle to make feather-stitched layettes for orphans, the women now raised money for some of the church 's projects, but mainly for The Pine Street Inn in Boston, a shelter for the homeless ; and a local drug and alcohol abuse program. Additionally most of the women worked as volunteers at one or the other place. The Alliance Christmas Bazaar was a blockbuster moneymaker, with people ar- riving from all over the Greater Boston area to snap up Mrs. Lewis 's pinecone wreaths or an Attic Treasure from the table of the same name. Faith couldn't believe the amount of money they made each year, but seeing how industriously they stitched away at each meeting, it was perhaps inevitable. Idle hands and all that. She had had to start knitting again, something she loathed, but it was the only handwork she knew how to do other than the running stitch. She did not burden last year's fair with her lumpy muffler, but gave it to Tom for Christmas instead. The ladies were more than pleased to get jars of her fraises des bois confiture with cassis and dozens of melt-in-your-mouth hazelnut cookies, most of which never made it past the church parking lot.

Faith wasn 't surprised to see Patricia. She was beginning to learn a lot about Aleford and one of the things she had learned was not to be surprised. Whatever might be going on at home—and in this case there was plenty—one still had one's obligations.

They listened to the minutes of the last meeting and had a formal discussion of bazaar plans before they turned to the real business, which was drinking coffee, sewing, and talking.

Patricia had turned to them and with her mouth set in a firm line told them, “ I know what you're all thinking about, so let me just say Robert and I are fine. It's been a terrific shock, of course," her voice faltered a bit, then rallied, "and you've all been wonderful, sending food and calling. You know how much we have appreciated it. The funeral is tomorrow and after that we are going to try to get back to normal.”

Eleanor Whipple gave Patricia's shoulder a reassuring little pat. So demonstrative.

“We'll all be there, Patricia, and you only have to ask if you need anything." -

“Thank you, Cousin Eleanor. I know that. One realizes how much one depends on friends and family at these times.”

They sewed for a while in companionable silence. There was a sense that Patricia hadn 't quite finished and it was correct.

She blushed a little, looked around the group, and said, "When the funeral home asked for a dress, I sent over her wedding dress.”

Did Faith imagine that an eyebrow or two went up 9 Maybe she wasn't the only one who thought it a bit odd.

“It was because the morning we bought it was one of the last times I remember having a happy day with Cindy.”

Or one of the only times, was the thought in not a few heads.

Patricia spoke wistfully. "She was so excited and the dress was perfect, white velvet with tiny seed pearls. She looked like a Renaissance princess. The saleswomen were all oohing and aahing over her. Afterward we had lunch at the Copley to celebrate. I began to think marriage might change things.”

The women listened as they stitched away. Over the years they had quietly heard so many revelations—breast cancer now thankfully in remission for one of them ; problems with children ; once even the possibility of an unfaithful spouse ; though as a rule husbands, where they existed, were seldom mentioned. They seemed oddly out of place at an Alliance meeting. As if one of them had suddenly taken it into his head to join them and crochet.

Patricia sighed. "But of course it didn 't. She was just the same at dinner that evening, making sly digs at Robert and leaving in the middle of the meal.”

And probably without being excused, thought Faith, a sin in her own family not unrelated to ax murder, certainly considered in as bad taste.

“She seemed especially on edge lately," said Patricia, “ I keep wondering if something was wrong that we didn't know about.”

There wasn't much to say to that, or rather there was a lot to say that no one quite had the heart to bring up.

The group adjourned at five o'clock as usual and rushed off to the Shop and Save to pick up something for supper. Faith's beef carbonnade was all made, waiting to be reheated with some of her fresh egg noodles. She strolled leisurely along Church Street with her next-door neighbor, Pix Miller, toward their respective houses. Pix always had pizza on Alliance nights. She had somehow managed to convince her family it was a special treat.

“Poor Patricia," Pix said to Faith, "As if Cindy wasn't enough of a pain in the neck when she was alive. Now they'll lose their deposit with the caterers and everything." Pix was eminently practical.

Faith was thinking of what Patricia had said about Cindy's digs at Robert and wasn't really listening. "What ? Oh, the deposit. I can't imagine a caterer keeping it under these circumstances. I certainly wouldn't.”

Pix laughed and said, "Well, with your food you wouldn't have to. These guys have to get whatever they can before you go back into business.”

It was true that Faith had had a slightly nervous exploratory call from one of the local caterers about her future plans. She had been suitably evasive and quite flattered. New gun in town, or rather new whisk.

“It wouldn't have occurred to me," Pix said, "except I was with Patricia in Talbots the other day and she decided not to get a new coat. ,Something about it never hurt to watch one's pennies.”

Which meant Robert could be making a killing—or be on skid row, in typical local parlance. New Englanders seemed to watch their pennies most when the pennieswere either pouring in or pouring out. Still it gave one pause. Which was it for the Moores?

She said good-bye to Pix and went into the house. Tom was in his study presumably working on the eulogy for Cindy. When Faith came in after tapping lightly on the door, he was staring at the wall.

This was one of the more difficult tasks he had faced so far in his ministry, and the full wastepaper basket by his side attested to the amount of luck he was having getting it done. Benjamin was lying in his playpen by the small bay window staring at a mobile with a slightly puzzled expression, obviously wondering what fish were doing flying around in the air instead of under water where they belonged.

“Tom," said Faith, "What do you know about Robert and Cindy 's relationship ? "

“ Robert, you mean Robert Moore ? "

“Yes. Patricia remarked that she used to make “sly digs' at him at the dinner table."

“ Faith, I imagine Cindy made “sly digs' at anyone unfortunate enough to share a meal with her at one time or another. I never saw him, or Patricia either, treat her in anything but a reasonable way, which makes them both candidates for any kind of sainthood you could mention. What are you getting at? Still Sherlocking?"

“I admit it's farfetched, but she could be so sarcastic and after years and years of it, you might explode."

“Yes, but on Belfry Hill—with a rose and a knife? Sorry, Faith. Try something else."

“All right. Have you heard anything about Robert being in financial difficulties? Pix says Patricia didn't buy a coat last month because she was watching her pennies."

“Which probably meant that Patricia thought she had a perfectly good coat at home and didn't need a new one."

“Yes, probably one from college. One of those duffel coats.”

Tom looked hurt. He had been very fond of his duffel coat in college and couldn't understand why Faith had been so firm against another one as a winter coat. " I have a rule, Tom, that my clothing should never weigh more than I do and I think you should adopt it," she had said.

Faith reluctantly abandoned her line of inquiry, "Okay, you're probably right. I may be grasping at straws—or toggles, as it were. Anyway the Alliance is going with the 'deranged tramp now someplace far away' theory." This was the going theory in town and a lot of people thought MacIsaac should buy it or pretend to and not waste his time and valuable town money on the case.

Tom looked at her in shared disbelief. They laughed and went over to Benjamin.

As he bent into the playpen to pick up his son, Tom said, "What did they say about Dave?" He never underestimated the Alliance as the prime news-gathering agency in town.

“He's still missing. His mother was at the meeting, so of course no one said anything, but Pix and I talked on the way home. She pointed out that Eva looked pretty terrible, but not out of her mind, so she must somehow know he's safe. Which makes sense."

“Yes, I'm sure he's in the area. I can't believe he would run away from all this."

“I wonder if he knew anything about Cindy's photographic interests ? Maybe the two of them were involved in some sort of blackmail scheme with Cindy as bait, but that doesn 't go along with my impressions of Dave."

“Nor mine, but this whole town is beginning to resemble one of those tanks at the aquarium—a few sleepy frogs sitting on rocks at the top and underneath, tangledseaweed and fish frantically darting around. I could almost believe anything."

“I like the fish image. Maybe you could work it into a sermon.”

They moved out of the study toward the kitchen. Tom turned to Faith, " I'm convinced the key to the whole thing is one of those pictures. You're sure you didn't recognize anyone ? "

“It was an odd context, but I'm sure." Faith had been mentally undressing Aleford 's male population ever since her discovery.

“It's very puzzling. And what about the joints in the box ? Although it wasn't enough to suggest an opium den. And then there 's the money—it might not have been blackmail ; she could have been selling pot.”

Faith sighed. " I wish we'd hear from Dave, then maybe we could get somewhere.”

But Dave didn't call and the next morning was the funeral.

Faith stood in the cemetery, shivering in the bright sunshine. Tuesday was as glorious a day for Cindy's funeral as Friday had been for her death. Yet Faith was cold despite the warmth of her Lauren suit. The shrill orange and red of the sugar maples and the black clothes of the mourners reminded her of Halloween. All Hallow 's Eve. The night when the dead rise from their graves.

There is nothing quite so silent as a burial.

All the birds must have already gone south, Faith thought.

Then Tom 's solemn, measured voice cut through the air.

He was reading the Wordsworth and it was beautiful; Patricia had been right : A slumber did my spirit seal ; And I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

Poor Cindy, thought Faith. So young. Death must have been the last thing on her mind. She was completely alive, grabbing at life with amoral abandon. She deserved something for the way she lived, but was it death l They were lowering the casket now. Faith pictured Cindy still beautiful, lying in its satin interior in her wedding gown. Somewhere her would-be groom, Dave Svenson, was at large. It was all quite impossibly morbid and melodramatic. Faith gave her arm a surreptitious pinch to remind herself she wasn't in some Victorian time warp.

Even the cemetery contributed to the illusion. It was an old one, of course. People were always coming to make rubbings of the headstones for notions of interior decoration, which Faith had never understood. Virtually every home in Aleford had one or two of the most lugubrious examples framed in the hallway—all those skulls with the wings of angels and drooping willows. The oldest section of the cemetery, by the river, blended well with the motifs of the headstones. Actual drooping willows grew so thick they blotted out the sky above. The lawn was mostly moss. In the summer the dark shade and damp, warm ground below gave it the lush sultry feeling of a bayou, quite alien to its Puritan roots. Despite the obvious romanticism, Faith preferred the newer section.

Here the trees had not yet reached the stage where they blocked the light, and the grass was green, very green. There were pretty white benches and plantings kept up by the Evergreens. Last year, shortly before Benjamin was born, she often used to stroll here, too unsteady for more ambitious walks. It was peaceful and suited her slightly philosophical musings on beginnings and endings. Unlike its murky neighbor, it was a cemetery in which one could believe life would go on forever. Today, at the end of Cindy's life, those spring thoughts seemed a long time ago.

Faith looked around at the people gathered at Cindy 's grave : the Moores ; youth group members, looking scared and awe-stricken ; parishioners ; friends of the Moores ; just about everybody else in Aleford not in one of the other categories ; and a few obvious reporters. Only the putative chief mourner was absent.

In fact he wasn't. As Tom moved onto Wordsworth 's second stanza, Dave Svenson was gazing down on the assembled group through binoculars from a small hill north of the cemetery. Unlike Faith, he was not thinking about what Cindy was wearing. In fact, he found it hard to believe it was Cindy, but he knew that the lowering of the casket and those clods of earth that fell upon it were once and for all signaling an end to some part of his life—for better or worse.

Since leaving the Fairchilds on Saturday morning, he had been staying with various friends. He managed to call his parents, but did not tell them where he was so they wouldn 't have to tell any lies to the police. His mother had cried, but she didn 't advise him to turn himself in. He knew he had made the right choice.

All his friends were trying to piece together what they knew and what they heard that the police knew, but so far it was a total mystery. No one, least of all Dave, could figure out why Cindy had been killed. And especially why she had been killed in such a strange way. The Alliance might have been buying the tramp theory—or saying so—but none of Dave 's friends were.

He had spent most of his time with Steve, who lived on the outskirts of town. Steve's parents had bought a farm in Aleford during the sixties, intending to live off the land. Now in the eighties, they found themselves making a small fortune selling chèvre and wild mushrooms to New York and Boston specialty stores. Dave had been living in their barn and eating whatever Steve could sneak out to him. He was heartily sick of goat cheese and hoped he would never have to eat it again. It was fine for his Swedish relatives, but he frankly preferred Velveeta (a fact that, had it come out at the time, might have taken the edge off Faith's partisanship).

So Dave stood under the gaily colored tent of leaves that in another time and setting might have been his bridal canopy.

He focused his binoculars on indlvidual faces : his parents, dour and Ibsenesque; the Moores harder to read, a mixture of confusion and something that might have been sadness. Faith looked as if she was thinking of something else and Reverend Fairchild just perfect, serious, but not fake either.

Dave was so intent on the scene before him that he did not hear the branches snapping behind him. He was leaning against a tree trying to figure out what exactly he was feeling besides relief and fear when the biggest hand he had ever seen in his life came down hard on his shoulder. He froze.

“Dave Svenson?" the hand's voice asked quietly. "Yes," said Dave, figuring it was pointless to argue or run.

“ My name is Detective Lieutenant John Dunne. I've been looking for you.”

Dunne was happy. He was seldom disappointed. They just couldn't stay away. You could count on it. They always turned up for the funeral.

Down in the cemetery, the group had dispersed. Manyof the mourners, or more accurately, attendees, had returned to the Moores' house for the traditional funeral baked meats—in this case, thimbles of dry sherry and tea sandwiches. Faith eyed the sandwiches suspiciously. Anchovy paste on trustless triangles of white bread and maybe some egg salad spread a tenth of a millimeter thick. Still, people were managing to put away quite a lot of them. What would they do with real food ? Faith asked herself. If ever a demand existed, it was here.

She took some sherry in a fragile glass and looked at it appreciatively. Sandwich glass, the exquisite blownthree-mold variety. Just what she would have expected at the Moores. It was lovely not to be disappointed. In a way, the sandwiches matched the setting and occasion, too, but there was such a thing as going too far. She walked over to the window seat, covered with chintz roses, and sat down to think a few wistful thoughts.

It was still a, beautiful day and people were strolling in the garden. It was not really a mournful occasion, but there was an undercurrent of tension, not lessened by Charley MacIsaac 's presence at the funeral and now back at the house. He joined Faith, balancing a tiny Spode plate heaped with sandwiches and something that was not dry sherry in a tumbler. Faith smiled up at him.

“Hi, Charley, where's your big friend?"

“He does give you a start at first, I'll say that," Charley replied, “ but I don't know what he 's up to today. Said he was coming to the funeral."

“Maybe he's busy tracking down a hot lead," Faith said. " In any case, what's the talk down at the station ? Anything new ? "

“ Now, Faith, you know I can't discuss it with you."

“Charley! Is that fair? After all, if I hadn't found her, you wouldn't even have a case," Faith argued with perfect illogic, which nevertheless seemed to convince MacIsaac.

“Well, you know we're looking for a certain person to question and after that maybe we 'll have something to say.

“Oh, that 's as ridiculous as the tramp theory! You've known Dave all his life. You can't honestly believe he would kill anybody ! “

Charley looked Faith straight in the eye and drained his tumbler. "Faith, anybody can be a killer given the right place and the right time. Even you would kill to protect that baby of yours, right ? Or Tom ? "

“ Yes, of course, but it's not the same ! "

“It's all the same in the end. And I'm not saying Dave did kill Cindy. We just want to know where he was and where he's been.”

Faith had to be satisfied with that and, disgruntled, left MacIsaac. Of course he was keeping something from her. How was she ever going to help clear Dave if she couldn't find out what was going on ? She felt it was rather mean of Charley not to share what he knew. It wasn't as if she would snitch to Detective Dunne.

She looked around the room for Tom. How long did they have to stay anyway ? She had had enough of the mystery for one day, and the sherry on an empty stomach—no, she would not eat fish paste sandwiches—was making her slightly queasy. Or maybe it was MacIsaac.

Oswald Pearson was busily jotting down notes and Faith wondered what he could be writing. Descriptions of what everyone was wearing ? She noted today he didn't seem the dandy he usually was. Oswald was a round little man in his early forties who had compensated for an early loss of hair by growing a precise Van Dyck beard. The few hairs left on his head were carefully drawn across his scalp and had a tendency to rise together in a solid phalanx whenever a breeze drifted by. Today his pink and white complexion looked gray and white. Faith couldn't imagine that he was upset at Cindy's death, especially since the headlines it was producing were increasing his circulation beyond the town limits. Maybe he was coming down with the flu. Where was Tom ? When she was forced to medical speculation about the inhabitants of Aleford, she knew she had reached boredom 's rock bottom.

Just then Robert Moore came into the living room with Charley MacIsaac and said something to the Sven-sons. They all went out into the hall and Faith saw Erik Svenson reach for the phone. Eva Svenson clutched his arm. As if a message had been delivered, those who had been outside in the garden came in and the talking stopped.

MacIsaac left the hall, went out to his car, switched on the radio, its blare jarring the silence unpleasantly. No one could make out what was being said. Abruptly, Charley drove off.

Erik put the phone down. With Eva quietly weeping at his side, he came into the room and told them, "Dave is at the police station. That was Detective Dunne. What he said exactly was they're holding him for questioning.”

Eva stood absolutely still, with a bewildered expression on her face. Her eyes were locked on one of the portraits of Patricia's ancestors and she looked as though she wished her family had never heard of the Moores—or Aleford either. That they could all have stayed on the farm in Sweden and never come across the ocean at all.

Tom stepped forward. "I'll go down with you, Erik, let me get my coat." He came over to Faith, gave her a kiss, told her he would meet her at home, then left the room. The Svensons waited immobilized, until Tom came back with Robert. Robert took Eva's arm. " I've called another lawyer and he 's meeting us there." That seemed to trigger something and Eva began to sob openly. They hurried out to the cars.

Those left looked stunned and then all began to talk at once. There was a lot of anger, but also a lot of fear. It had been hard to connect the day 's events with the murder. It had been a funeral like every other funeral. There had been a sense of security in going through the established motions. Now they all remembered. It wasn't just any funeral. The dead woman was a murder victim. And someone, however unlikely, had been picked up by the police.

Faith went home soon after and sat in Tom's study nursing Benjamin in the big old rocking chair her Aunt Chat had given them when Benjamin was born.

“You'll use it more than any booties or sweater I could knit," she had said, and it had been true. It was comforting to sit and rock and Faith fell asleep with Benjamin nuzzled close to her breast. When she woke up, it was dark outside and cold. She felt stiff. Tom still wasn't home.

Faith realized she hadn't eaten anything all day and after she changed and bathed Benjamin, she went into the kitchen to make herself an omelet. She had just broken the first egg when Tom walked in. He looked horrible : His face was drawn and there were circles under his eyes that hadn't been there earlier. She broke some more eggs and got out the remnants of last night's capelli d'angelo and pesto to make a frittata.

“I can't believe they are putting this kid through all this. They've been at him all afternoon. About Cindy. About the damn photographs. Even the minuscule amount of marijuana .they found.

Faith had never heard Tom sound so depressed and she quickly left the frittata to put her arms around him.

“This is too much, Tom. The funeral and now this.”

She poured him a glass of Puligny-Montrachet.

“I'll admit I'm totally overwhelmed. They really think he did it ! MacIsaac and Atlas or whoever he is.

Poetic mother, my foot, more likely straight from Barnum and Bailey's!"

“Now, Tom, he can't help his genes and he 's really not so big, he simply looks it—big bones.”

Tom eyed her in astonishment and began to laugh helplessly. "And what, pray, is the difference ? "

“You know what I mean. He's not fat like those before-and-after ads where the man has his whole family standing in a pair of his old trousers. He 's just big.”

Faith was drying the lettuce, a thankless task. Tom walked over to the sink. His glass was empty and he was feeling slightly better. He planted several kisses on the back of her neck. She always smelled terrific—if it wasn't the kitchen, it was Guerlain's Mitsouko. He couldn't decide which excited him more. But the day's events crowded in again.

“Oh, Faith, I kept looking at the Svensons and thinking how we would feel if anything like this happened to Benjamin. I felt so useless. At least Robert had the sense to get on to his law firm and they sent their top criminal lawyer. Fortunately Dave had refused to say anything until his parents got there and by that time, the lawyer was on the way, so he didn't incriminate himself. The way he was going on to us—about being guilty in thought. That's all the police had to hear."

“What did he know about what was in the box ? "

“Nothing. He was pretty amazed, in fact. It's not the behavior one expects of one 's betrothed. He did say that they smoked occasionally. Cindy especially liked to smoke before they had sex. Dave didn't."

“The old impairment theory, no doubt," Faith interjected.

“Whatever," Tom continued, "Anyway, Dave insists that dope never did much for him. My guess is a stiff shot of aquavit and a jump in the snow is more in the Svensons' line."

“The police really don't have much of a motive, aside from the fact that he hated her guts. But they do have the fact that he had a quarrel with her shortly before she was killed, a quarrel in the Burger King on Middlesex Turnpike that was witnessed by most of Aleford's teenagers. He also had an appointment to meet her in the place and at the time she was murdered," Tom spoke ruefully.

“What's going to happen now ? " asked Faith.

“They'll either formally charge him with murder or keep him as long as they can for questioning. If they don't charge him, they'll have to let him go.”

They went to bed early, falling wearily, easily, but not straight, to sleep.

The next morning, Benjamin woke them up at five o'clock, soaked through and hungry. Faith fed and changed him, made a bargain with God that if He would make Benj go back to sleep again, she would try very hard to be a better person, and tumbled gratefully back to bed, God having recognized a good thing when He saw it. Then the phone, not Benjamin, awakened them at seven o'clock. It was Eva Svenson. Dave had been released on personal recognizance the night before, but the police had arrived a few minutes ago to take him in for more questioning. His father had gone with him and they hoped Tom would join them.

Faith went into the bathroom, threw up, washed her face, and decided enough was enough. She had to get busy.

She made a hasty breakfast for Tom while he was shaving and told him that while he was gone she was going to take Benjamin for a walk and pay a few calls. She toyed with the notion of going back up to the belfry to get some kind of inspiration from the scene of the crime, but she decided she wasn't desperate enough yet for what was admittedly a slim possibility. There was achance that Cindy 's ghost was moving around restlessly until avenged or whatever, but it was more likely to be haunting the parking lot at Friendly's, where her crowd hung out, than the belfry.

No, best to concentrate on the living and she figured she ought to start bravely at the source.

5

Millicent Revere McKinley was always home in the mornings, seeing to her garden behind the white picket fence surrounding her small, eighteenth-century clapboard house or crocheting endless doilies in an easy chair poised strategically close to her front living room window. Both activities afforded her every opportunity to keep her eye on Aleford and as it was all absolutely necessary work, no one could ever accuse her of nosiness. Was it her fault that her house was smack in the middle of town ? That was where her ancestors had built it, or rather moved it. It seemed as if houses were constantly on the move in those days, presumably as neighborhoods or pastures changed, but Millicent 's would stay where it was now, thank you, if she had anything to say about it and she did.

Faith approached the gate with not a little trepidation. She knew she had never been number one on Milli-cent's list of favorites and now after the bell-ringing incident, Millicent regarded her as certifiable or worse. Nor was Millicent, who attended the Congregational church as did her fathers before her, a member of the parish, which might have given Faith an opening. No, the only thing to do was throw herself on the floor (uneven pine) and beg for mercy.

Millicent answered the door with an assumed look of surprise, not a particularly nice surprise.

“Why, Mrs. Fairchild ! What brings you to my little cottage so bright and early ? “

From her expression, one would have thought it was about six o'clock in the morning and Millicent straight from her four-poster. Actually it was after nine and Millicent had been perched in her window as usual. Faith gritted her teeth and leaned down to take Benjamin from his stroller. Wasn 't the old witch even going to ask her in ?

“I have been wanting to talk with you since last Friday, Mrs. McKinley, and tell you how deeply sorry I am about the whole incident." Faith assumed correctly that Millicent would know she was referring to the bell and not Cindy.

“I know how upset you have been over the bell ringing and I just wanted you to know that it will never happen again." Faith felt this was a pretty safe promise to make. Another body in Aleford 's belfry was as likely as a Benedict Arnold Fan Club.

“Well, that 's very sweet of you, dear, but it has nothing to do with me particularly, you know. Well, perhaps a bit more than some since it was my great-great-great- grandfather who east tlle bell," Millicent thawed minutely. "Why don 't you and your baby (she managed to make the words sound dubious, as though Benjamin might perhaps be someone else 's) come in and have some coffee.”

Cups in hand, they settled down in her living room with its multitude of candle stands, tilt-top tables, card tables, and whatnots, for each of which Millicent hastened to say, "Please dear, not on that surface, antique, you know.”

Faith could have sworn not a few were Ethan Allen, but she balanced her cup on her knees nonetheless and ate some more crow. Finally she managed to steer Millicent onto the murder itself and most particularly onto Cindy. Faith had a hunch that the key to the whole murder lay in Cindy's noxious personality. After all, someone had disliked her enough to kill her. If that wasn't bad personality, what was it?

“Mrs. McKinley," she began.

“Do call me Millicent, everyone does. And I shall call you Faith, or is it Fay ? "

“Faith, please, Millicent—or" (She couldn't resist) "is it Millie?"

“ Millicent," she snapped. " And you were saying ? "

“Yes, well, having discovered the body and since the Svensons are members of our congregation, of course I've been giving Cindy 's murder a lot of thought," Faith said, all of which did not fool Millicent for a minute as one snooper eyed the other. Still it sounded good.

“ What I've been wondering about is Cindy's other ' friends.' I'm sure Dave was not the only one, and perhaps you saw her with someone else ? “

Millicent smiled. It was frightening.

“Oh, I saw Cindy all right. With Dave, of course. On their way to the belfry. And I knew what they were up to. But you're right. He wasn 't the only one. Most of theothers were from the high school or college boys home on vacation. Nobody special. I think they all knew she was going to marry Dave, although for the life of me, I could never figure out what she saw in him."

“Oh?”

Faith suddenly realized that Millicent was perhaps the sole person in town who had some admiration for Cindy. Millicent looked at her sharply.

“Yes, I thought Cindy could do a lot better. She would never have been happy with Dave. She could have had him on toast for breakfast. Not that I liked her," and a scowl crossed her face.

Ah, thought Faith, another victim.

“No, she was mean-spirited and selfish, but she was also bright and strong. And what energy ! When she organized anything, you knew it would be done correctly.”

Faith remembered that Millicent and Cindy had been the driving, very driving, forces behind that big Patriot's Day pancake breakfast every year that raised funds for the DAR and CAR.

“ She was exactly like her great-grandmother Harriet, full of ambition and energy. It's an interesting family, the Coxes—Cindy's great-great-grandfather was Captain Martin Cox and everybody always referred to the family as “Cox,' even though Patricia's maiden name was Stoddard and they were Eliots before that." Millicent was quick to grab any and all opportunities to show off. Her mind was a familial pursuit Rolodex.

“Harriet wrote a history of the family, which you might enjoy reading. Of course, I can 't lend you my copy, but the library has one."

“Thank you, and I wouldn't dream of taking your copy. I'll make a point of getting it from the library," said Faith sweetly. And resolved to add the work to the list of books she would probably never read along with the collected works of Mrs. Humphrey Ward and Sir Walter Scott that stood in leather-bound glory on the parsonage bookshelves.

Returning to her mission, Faith tried to steer Millicent back on course. "But," she insisted gently, "there was never any one boy you saw Cindy with other than Dave?"

“Not ' boy,' dear," Millicent said archly, "More like 'man,' but that would be telling and I do not believe in spreading idle gossip.”

The hell you don't, thought Faith bitterly. This is just to get back at me for the bell again.

Millicent stubbornly continued on her way and was talking about the Coxes again. It had been madness, Faith thought, to think that she could actually direct the conversation.

“Of course the Captain, as Martin was always called, did make a fortune, but I believe Harriet's husband added to it considerably. The Captain's money had all gone to Harriet. She was the oldest. It was some whim of his to keep it all intact. The whole will was distinctly original. The Coxes always were. In this generation Patricia got the house because her sister Polly didn 't want it. Polly took the money, though, and it passed to Cindy, or would have."

“Who will get the money now, then ? " Faith asked boldly.

“Oh, it will go to Patricia, of course. And just in time, if you ask me.”

Which Faith did to no avail. Millicent Revere McKinley was more than willing to drop hints, but as for spreading around any real information of the specific "The British are coming" nature of her illustrious forebear, the answer was "Ride on." So Faith did.

Millicent walked her to the door and continued out down the brick path in front of her house. Faith said good-bye and thanked her nicely for the coffee. She wondered if it was worth it to come back and try again or if Millicent would continue to dangle clues in front of her cat-and-mouse style. Probably the latter. She glanced back over her shoulder. Millicent was picking a few late-blooming roses.

A few pink Sweetheart roses.

Faith 's next stop was Eleanor Whipple's pretty white Victorian house. She didn't expect much information here. Eleanor was the soul of innocence and even if she had seen something would probably not know what it meant. Still, her house was at the foot of Belfry Hill and she just might have noticed something, or rather someone.

Eleanor welcomed her warmly and ushered Faith into her cozy parlor. Faith managed to avoid the horsehair loveseat, which always threatened to land her on the carpet, and chose a low-slung sort of folding chair covered with blue and white striped velvet.

“Father always called that the “Egyptian chair,' whether because it folds in that interesting way or because of the material, I never remembered to ask him and of course now it is too late.”

Considering that Miss Whipple's father had been dead for some thirty years, Faith thought it was much too late.

Faith got some nice digestive biscuits with her coffee this time and she was able to set it on a little découpage table in front of her.

“This looks much too fragile to use," Faith protested. "Oh, that's just an old piece of clutter that Mother made," Miss Eleanor said. "Don't worry about it." Faith knew it wasn't at all, and managed to find a doily to slip under her cup and saucer. In Aleford, it was usually possible to find a doily someplace—or in certain homes it was, anyway.

She took a sip of coffee; it was good and strong. She thought of the first time she had visited Eleanor and fought to stifle the giggles that always threatened at the memory. It had been teatime and Eleanor had entered the parlor with a heavily laden tray, announcing proudly, "You'll never taste tea like this anywhere else. I make it with my own water," and proceeded to pour a pale, slightly golden stream into Faith 's cup. Was she insane ? Faith wondered as she eyed the brew. Too much tatting? "Yes," Eleanor continued, "When we modernized the kitchen, Mother made them leave the old pump by the sink. The well is right underneath, in the basement. She didn 't like the taste of town water. It's all right for washing, but you don 't know what could have fallen in the reservoir and we never drank it." Faith drained her cup and had to admit the jasmine tea did taste delicious. Afterward Eleanor took her to see the pump. She insisted Faith give it a try, although the whole idea, quaint as it was, filled her with repugnance, raising the possibility of blisters and unsightly muscular development.

Faith took another sip of coffee and glanced about the room. It was a shrine to Eleanor 's ancestors. There were daguerreotypes perched on the tables and portraits of various sizes hung on the walls. Thick albums covered with velvet attested to still more. Just over Eleanor's head was a faded enlargement of three little girls with fluffy hair, their dresses covered with Fourth of July bunting. Who were they and where were they now ? Faith shivered slightly, pondering the probable answer.

Eleanor had noticed her apparent interest.

“I like to be surrounded by my family," she commented, "Of course I didn 't know all these people, but I am proud of them nonetheless. Nothing is more important than your family. This was one of my mother's lessons, Faith, and I'm sure you'd agree.”

Faith gave what she hoped was an enthusiastic response and managed to work the conversation around to the murder, "Cindy Shepherd was distantly related to you, I understand. What do you think about all this?"

“ I think it is terrifically inconvenient for Robert and Patricia," she commented emphatically. That seemed to be the extent of her thinking, although she was willing to talk as much as Faith wanted.

When Faith asked if Eleanor had seen anyone go up the hill on Friday, or noticed Cindy going up on other days, she looked up from the detailed bit of petit point she was working on, " You know, my eyes are not what they used to be, dear, and in any case, I'm afraid even if I had seen someone, I wouldn 't have known who it was. I don 't know the names of all the young people anymore. Of course I knew Cindy." There was a noticeably acerbic tinge to her voice, "But not her friends.”

She returned to her handwork. It was easy to see why her eyes were going.

Faith was forced to concede she wasn 't going to get anything from Eleanor, and after some delightful minutes spent with Eleanor admiring Benjamin, she firmly refused lunch—Welsh rarebit—and set off for her third and final stop.

As she sat down at Pix Miller's big kitchen table, Faith had to admit she was there as much for some cheering up as information. Certainly morale was important in any murder investigation.

It wasn't that Pix was little Mary Sunshine exactly and thank goodness. What she radiated was solid common sense mixed with a very funny sense of humor.

She had been a tiny child and her parents had whimsically called her "Pixie"—why do people do these things, Faith wondered, resolving that she would stop calling Benjamin " Punkin" immediately lest it stick with him unto old age. Pixie had solved the problem by shooting up alarmingly in her teens so that at close to six feet, "Pixie" was not only ludicrous, but obscene. Still, old habits die hard and she became "Pix," which seemed to suit her. When Faith finally remembered to ask her what her "real" name was, it turned out to be "Myrtle." After the ground cover with the pretty little purple flowers. Who were these people'? So "Pix" it was.

She was the person you called in Aleford if you were looking for another driver for the scouts overnight to Harold Parker State Forest or if someone needed a volunteer to help at the Senior Center kitchen. Pix drove a Land Rover, bred gorgeous golden retrievers, was an expert white water canoer, and had three kids, the middle of which was Faith's trusty babysitter, Samantha. Sam Miller was a lawyer. They had both grown up in Aleford—a high school romance that endured.

Pix welcomed Faith in, automatically gave her some coffee, which Faith had learned they did in suburbia, and took Benjamin lovingly on her lap. Pix adored babies.

“You look full of secrets, Faith," she said, making horrible grimaces at Benjamin, which he regarded with great amusement.

“I wish I were," Faith responded, "This whole thing is a complete mystery."

“Murders usually are—for a while, anyway. But I agree this one is especially deep and dark. The kids are very upset about Dave and everyone is racking his or her brains for some kind of alternative. We all know he didn't do it, but who else is there?"

“Exactly what I tried to find out this morning. Millicent knows something, but she's not telling. Or rather she's not telling me. Maybe she would talk to you?"

“Not likely, Faith. She's never forgiven my mother for refusing to join the DAR. I think she thinks we are some sort of pinkos and you know what she thinks of Redcoats.”

They laughed.

“I'll bet there is a Tory or two in her closet," Faith said, "Maybe we can find out and blackmail her into telling us what she knows."

“Faith ! My word ! You have been taking this more seriously than I thought. What would Tom say ? " Pix chided mockingly.

“What he always says, `Faith, Faith, Faith,' slowly shaking his head and looking at me with those cocker spaniel eyes. Oh, pardon, golden retriever eyes."

“That's better," Pix propped Benjamin up against one shoulder with a practiced arm and gave a whiff, "Faith, sweetie, give me a diaper—you've got a messy boy here—and while I change him why don 't you heat up the lentil soup in the fridge and add anything that comes to mind ? Maybe if we eat something we'll think more logically.”

The soup was good. Pix could be counted on for certain things, Faith had learned—a terrific chili for a Boston bean and great soups. But then there had been that dinner of chicken covered with pineapple chunks and maraschino cherries. Pix had a fatal tendency to be swayed by the pictures in some women 's magazines.

While they ate, Faith told her about her visit to Eleanor and the dry well it turned out to be. Pix wasn 't surprised.

“I don't think Eleanor would notice a crime even if it were occurring in her own living room. She'd just straighten the antimacassars and put a blanket over the body, presuming whoever it was was taking a short nap."

“Come on, she can't be that out of it," Faith protested.

“Believe me, she is," replied Pix, "and somehow I hope she stays that way. Something unchanging in this wicked whirling world of ours. You know her skirts will never go up or down and if she 's not sitting straight as a ramrod in the third pew from the pulpit on the left-hand side of the church at ten forty-five every Sunday then she's either gone to her Maker on her own or the whole town has been wiped out by an atom bomb or the bubonic plague. I look at her and it gives me strength to cope with my hectic life. At least one person isn 't as crazy as the rest of us.”

Pix was what could be euphemistically referred to as "overextended," Faith reflected. In one month she probably put on the equivalent of a cross country journey chauffering the kids and doing errands. She was unbelievably organized, though. There were lists and notes taped to every surface in the house: "Samantha, don 't forget your flute" and "Danny, there are cookies in the cupboard, enjoy them while you do your spelling words," and so on. Her laundry room had five separate baskets each labeled with someone 's name and standing ready for the clothes as they came out of the dryer. What Faith, and others, did not know was that all this planning and list-making was a cover for Pix 's fundamentally disorganized mind. She was the type of woman who asks herself out loud, "Why did I open this drawer ? " in order to jog her memory to say, " Scotch tape." She knew that without the mnemonics, life would be hopeless. Where her thoughts wandered was not altogether clear ; she could certainly call them back when she needed them, but basically she was a dreamer—night and day. It amused her, and caused an occasional pang of guilt at the deception, that people thought she was so practical and organized. Her husband, Sam, was amused too, but that was because he had observed that over the years she really had become practical and well organized without knowing it. He knew he'd never be able to convince her of that and didn 't try. There wasn 't any point.

While Faith and Pix finished the soup, they discussedthe contents of the tin box. Its existence was not yet common knowledge, but Jenny had immediately called Samantha, her best friend, with news of the find.

“Not the easiest identifications to make," Pix commented. " Can you imagine Charley knocking on doors and asking the man of the house to please drop his drawers ? “

They laughed and turned to talk about domestic trials. Samantha wasn 't talking to Pix, because said mother had humiliated her by picking up Willy Stergis, a sixth-grade boy, on the way to school.

“ Honestly, Faith, you should have seen her ! " Pix laughed. " Her entire seventh-grade body was hunched down in the seat and she wouldn't get out of the car at school until poor Willy had gone in the door. I mean who knows what social suicide she would have committed if any of her friends had seen her. And of course, the fact that I had on my flannel nightgown under my trench coat made matters even worse. All I wanted to do was give Willy a ride. It was chilly last week.”

They went back to the murder and the various blackmail possibilities, but didn't get any further in their speculations. Faith arrived home to put Benjamin down for a nap with no clearer idea of who could possibly have killed Cindy Shepherd than when she started.

Tom came home late in the afternoon. Wednesday was his day at the VA hospital as chaplain. He was always tired after this and sometimes a little depressed. Today was no exception. Faith fed Benjamin, who rewarded her efforts by giving her the raspberry with most of his meal. Then she made an early dinner for Tom and herself. Afterward they sat in front of the first fire of the season to read.

At nine o'clock Faith realized that she was nodding off and Tom was sound asleep. Rousing him and sending him up to bed, she went into the kitchen and made her- self a strong cup of tea. She could get sonic sleep when the case was closed.

She went upstairs and whispered in Tom's unconscious ear that she was going out for some ice cream, a statement that would have astounded him had he been awake, since they had a freezer full of Faith 's own glacés and sorbets.

She eased the car out of the driveway, knowing full well that it would take several belfry bells, or Benjamin 's cry, to awaken Tom, but she thought a little bit of stealth was appropriate to the scene. She wasn 't driving a sleek, fully equipped Aston Martin, but a dull, gray, very dependable Honda. It would have to do.

As Faith suspected, the parking lot at Friendly 's was filled with kids. Some were inside their cars, but, despite the nippy weather, more were sitting on the hoods, the tips of their cigarettes flickering in the dark. Marlboros and Mocha Chip. Great combination.

Faith sauntered over to the take-out window and ordered a small chocolate cone. It was like eating chicken feet in Chinese restaurants. One had to establish one's credentials in order to get the good stuff.

She recognized one of the church youth group members, Becky Sullivan, perched with a couple of other kids on the hood of a car. Faith walked over to them and they instantly ditched their smokes. It was things like this that forcibly reminded Faith she was indeed the minister's wife.

“ Hi," she said, " I got a sudden craving for ice cream. How are things ? “

The kids eyed her with unabashed curiosity. The person who had actually discovered the body !

Faith knew it was no good trying to bullshit seventeen-year-olds, not that she had had much luck with any age group. Even if they bought the ice cream story, they would find it hard to believe a conversation in which Mrs. Fairchild first asked them how school was, then wanted to know by the way who killed Cindy. So she decided to be direct.

“Look, you all know that Reverend Fairchild and I are very close to Dave. We're trying to help him. Dave didn 't kill Cindy, but obviously somebody did."

“You found her, didn't you, Mrs. Fairchild?" one of the girls said.

Faith had expected someone would ask for an eyewitness account, and she went quickly through it all again. She was rewarded by their rapt attention, and while their eyes were still shining and directed at her, she moved smoothly to the matter at hand.

“What I want to ask you is if you ever saw Cindy with someone other than Dave, especially lately. Or maybe she talked about someone with one of you.”

Suddenly everyone was looking at the stars, the thin sliver of a moon, each other, everywhere but at her.

After a long moment, Becky spoke, " Well, Mrs. Fairchild, Cindy didn't have, like a best friend. I mean, like Karen and I tell each other everything." Pause while Karen giggled and some of the other kids said, " Everything ? " etc., etc.

“Anyway, Cindy had sort of friends. We were kind of her friends." Becky seemed at a loss for words.

Faith helped her out. " I don't think she would have been my best friend when I was your age. She always seemed to me like someone who was more concerned for herself than she would be for a friend."

“A back-stabbing bitch," called an anonymous voice from the next car hood.

Nobody denied it. Becky looked uncomfortable and one of the kids slid silently off the car into the darkness.

“ So none of you really know anything ? " Faith was sure they knew a lot.

One of the boys spoke, "She was older than we are, Mrs. Fairchild, although she did hang out here, but she was usually in a car or with Dave. " He stopped, embarrassed at the obvious implications.

Faith nodded and persisted, " When she was in a car was it with somebody in particular ? “

A pretty, brown-haired girl spoke bluntly in an angry voice. "Mrs. Fairchild, she was scum. She'd go off just to get Dave upset. It wasn't that she cared about the person and it didn't matter who. Even," she added bitterly, "if it was somebody else's boyfriend."

“So you really don 't have any theories about who killed her or why ? " Faith sighed. Could it have been a tramp after all ?

The kids mumbled vague denials and Faith left them to light up again in peace. She really hadn 't expected to get much. It was just another lead to follow. Maybe it was true that they hadn 't known her that well, but more likely if they were onto something they might assume she would tell the police. Which she would, wouldn't she?

As she was leaving, she thought of one more thing and turned around. Everyone sat up a little straighter again. "At the time Cindy was killed, Dave was walking by the railroad tracks and he saw one person, a guy riding a dirt bike. It would help if we could find him."

“ I know someone with a bike and he rides down there a lot. He might know who it was." It was the girl with the brown hair.

Faith smiled at her. "That would be terrific, thank you. Would you let me know if you find out anything ? “

It wasn't much, but it was the first something she had turned up all day.

She climbed into her car and sat reflecting. They were all trying to help Dave, and the territories were defined. So let the kids do whatever they were doing and she would try to think of something she might have missed.

Not now, though. She was tired and couldn 't have investigated her way out of a cardboard box at the moment. Friendly 's was out in a mini-mall near the edge of town and the roads were deserted as she drove back. The darkness surrounded the car and she felt as though she had switched on automatic pilot and the machine was driving her. Gradually she became aware of the sound of another engine. She peered in the rearview mirror. Another car had appeared from nowhere behind her. They were close to the straight stretch of road bordering the Long Meadow conservation land. Faith pressed down on the accelerator. It was a totally irrational impulse.

Faith, she told herself, don 't be ridiculous ! It's probably some of the kids from the parking lot.

The car behind her speeded up, too.

Don 't tell me they think I want to drag ! She tried to laugh. Mrs. Fairchild burns rubber on local road.

She slowed down and whoever it was seemed content to follow her lead. She looked into the mirror again and could only make out the driver. If there were any passengers, they were out of sight in the backseat. At this point Faith hoped they were there, no matter what that might suggest. It was infinitely better than being followed by a solitary stranger.

This part of town certainly needs some streetlights, she thought as she drove cautiously in the pitch dark. There was evidently some old Yankee prejudice that if you were not home in bed where you belonged at this hour, you could take your chances. She resolved to call one of the town meeting members about it tomorrow and felt better thinking of that word, tomorrow.

Because, she admitted, she was more than a little nervous. She was inching through fright and close to panic. Why didn't the car pass her? It was right on her tail. She accelerated. Behind her the driver did the same.

Faith was sure now. She was definitely being followed.

She turned left on Liberty Lane.

So did the car behind her.

She glanced out the side window. The passenger side door was unlocked and she quickly reached across to lock it. As she did so, she realized the back was unlocked too. It was just out of her reach. She'd have to stop to lock it. And she didn 't want to stop.

All the Alfred Hitchcock Presents she and Hope had watched when their parents weren't around to tell them not to crowded into her consciousness. Was there somebody actually in her backseat?

Of course not. And there wouldn't be.

She was crossing the river and would soon be out of these dark, lifeless streets. The lights burning at the parsonage blinked a welcome to her. Faith was almost home.

She started to pull into the driveway, then abruptly turned the wheel in the other direction. Whoever it was could pull right in behind her and she would be trapped !

Calm down, Faith. What do they tell you to do in situations like this? What was it she used to urge those poor defenseless people on TV to do? Drive to the police station, of course.

Her pursuer either didn 't know the town or he was a lunatic. He followed her right up to the station.

Faith pulled as close to the station door as she could and the car stopped right behind her. She reached back and locked the rear doors and had started to lean on the horn to attract attention, when someone tapped on the window. After an instant of motionless terror, she slowly rolled it down.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fairchild, out for a little drive ? “

It was John Dunne.

Faith was furious.

“ Do you have any idea how much you frightened me ?What the hell were you doing out there following me that way ? "

“I was driving to work, and might one ask what the hell you were doing on Byford Road at eleven o'clock at night all by your lonesome ? Parish work ? "

“As it happens, I was." Faith thought talking to Becky could qualify and certainly helping Dave was, although Tom might not agree with the definition. " In any case, Detective Dunne, I really don't see that any of this is your business.”

He looked at her in mingled concern and exasperation. "Until this thing is wrapped up, you are very much my business, Mrs. Fairchild, and I'll be following you home now, too, if you would be so kind as to start your car and get out of here.”

Quick as a flash, Faith asked, " So you don't think Dave did it?"

“That's not what I said. I said it's not `wrapped up.'

“Same thing," said Faith smugly as she started to turn her key in the ignition. " Good night, Detective."

“ Wait a minute, Mrs. Fairchild. So what did the kids there at the mall tell you ? " he asked conversationally.

Faith was momentarily taken aback by this sudden reversion to good cop and decided to tell Dunne the night's events, meager as they were.

“Well, fine, Mrs. Fairchild. Now isn 't it time you went to bed?"

“Absolutely. Good night again, Detective.”

Dunne got in his car and pulled out behind her. Faith eased into her driveway and got out to open the garage doors. They weighed a ton and swung outward with surprising swiftness. She dodged them nimbly and waved a cheerful good-bye to the detective before driving in. He was still at the end of the drive when she got out to close them. Evidently he was going to wait until she was actually in the house and evidently he wasn 't going to help her with the damn doors. She slammed them shut and waved a little less cheerily.

Once inside, Faith took a quick look at Benjamin and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was a relief to know that the police weren't convinced that Dave did it. As she drifted off, her restless brain continued to send annoying messages. There was something they were all overlooking. Well, at least now she knew that Dunne knew it, too.

The phone rang late the next afternoon. It had been a particularly frustrating day. Faith was tired after her late-night rambles and Benjamin did not seem to want to eat, sleep, play, or anything else. She grabbed the phone, well aware that whoever it was would hear his screams in the background and she could kiss away her Mrs. America nomination forever.

“ Mrs. Fairchild ? “

It was the girl from last night.

“I'm, um, Trishia. The one you talked to about the dirt bike last night."

“Yes, I recognized your voice. Did you have any luck ? " Faith asked eagerly.

“ It was a guy from Byford, but he doesn't want to talk to the police. He said he would talk to you, though.”

Faith was surprised. " Okay, how do I reach him ? "

“He has supper at the Willow Tree Kitchen every night. It's on the way to Concord.”

Faith had seen it, a weathered, gray-shingled roadhouse that looked like a cross between a speakeasy and a farmhouse. There were only a few tiny windows, but they had checkered Priscilla curtains.

“ Yes, I know where it is, but how will I know him ? What 's his name ? "

“Oh, don't worry, he knows you." Trishia laughed and hung up.

The goldfish bowl again.

It was four-thirty. Dinner in New England, Faith had learned, could be anytime from five to six o'clock, possibly six-thirty. The first time she gave a dinner party inviting the guests for eight, she discovered later from Pix that they had all eaten before, and assumed they had been asked for dessert and coffee. She shook her head. How would she ever be able to cope with all this ?

Of course, she had to talk to this mysterious biker right away. An eyewitness alibi would strengthen Dave's case immeasurably. Besides, if she didn't, she would die of curiosity.

She quickly called Pix, who was always happy to watch Benjamin, and Samantha was there, too. Somehow a rendezvous with a secret informer lost some of its excitement and romance if one arrived with a fussy baby on one's hip.

Benjamin had thankfully stopped crying and was preparing himself for an hour of cuteness. Well, Pix would get to enjoy it this time, thought Faith, as she hastily stuffed enough baby things into the diaper bag for a month-long expedition to the Amazon. She left a vague note for Tom on the kitchen table about running an errand and was off.

Willow Tree was packed to its low rafters with people stopping off for a quick one on the way home or, in some cases, it appeared they were home. Faith looked around the smoke-filled room for some hint of Mr. Motorcycle like a helmet, or a red carnation in his black leather lapel, but all she saw was a crowd intent on which letter Vanna White was going to turn over next or catching the eye of one of the waitresses who were hustling around at the speed of light. True to the Willow Tree's contradictory appearance, the waitresses balancing the oversized mugs of beer looked as if they would be more comfortable at Schrafft's with starched, pleated pastel handkerchiefs coyly peeking out of their uniform pockets. They were all of some indeterminate age and wore sensible shoes. Faith wouldn 't have been surprised to see one hand a tract to a customer along with his Budweiser.

There was a smaller room off to the right, which was separated from the bar and booths of the main room by a low divider decorated with wildlife. Real wildlife. Stuffed, slightly worn, patched bobcats, snarls intact and repellent ; molting owls ; and a stag's head on the wall with just a few antler branches missing. Muskets and other weaponry festooned the rafters. A pair of old snowshoes were crossed above the door, presumably for the pacifists and animal rights advocates who might patronize the place, but somehow, looking around, Faith didn 't think there were too many of those. She gazed into the darker, smaller room as the more likely place for a clandestine meeting, if in fact that was what she was having. It appeared to be empty.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around.

“You get to like them after a while."

“Get to like them ? "

“ All the animals. They've been here forever. This little guy is my favorite," he continued, pointing to a dusty red squirrel, “ I guess it 's because I remember him from when I was a kid. He was the only one who looked like he wasn't going to come to life and rip your guts out.”

It wasn't the way Faith imagined the dialogue would go, but it got them to the booth where he had been waiting and they sat down and looked at each other appraisingly.

“By the way, I'm Scott Phelan and if I'm right and you're Mrs. Fairchild, then I'm going to have to start going to church more often.”

Faith in turn was stunned. First of all, Scott was not a teenager. More like mid-twenties. And second, or rather first and foremost, he was gorgeous. Looking at him purely from a connoisseur 's point of view, of course, and nothing personal. He was dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a sleeveless blue jean jacket over it. His leather one was on the seat. If from the neck down, he was James Dean, the neck up could only be described as one of Ozzie and Harriet's kids, the boy next door. If you should get so lucky. Dark brown curls, big brown eyes with flecks of gold and a generous mouth curved at the moment in a slightly quizzical smile. What were they doing here anyway '?

Faith reeled herself in and got down to business.”

I understand from Trishia that you are the person who was riding down by the tracks last Friday. Do you remember seeing Dave ? "

“Yeah, I saw him. Almost clipped him. Not too many people stroll there in the daytime." He waited for her to ask another question and nodded casually to one of the waitresses. Two of them arrived simultaneously.

“Another of these," he pointed to his empty mug, "and a bowl of chili." Then he turned to Faith. "I recommend the chili, the chowder, and the beef stew. Starting in the spring, the lobster and clams are good too." He smiled. A girl could get dizzy from that smile. "And I ought to know. I eat here every night." He smiled at the waitress. She dropped her pencil.

“I'll have a cup of chowder," Faith said.

“ And to drink ? " asked the waitress.

“It's whatever you want, or tonic if you don 't drink. But not fancy," Scott told her matter-of-factly. He had obviously brought too many women here who wanted Black Russians or Strawberry Daiquiris. There was nothing elaborate about Willow Tree and if they wanted the other stuff they could get a frappé at Friendly's and pour a nip in it, which is what they usually did.

“A glass of white wine then, thank you," said Faith and smiled. Faith's smile was pretty dazzling, too, but the waitress was apparently looking elsewhere. She returned almost immediately with the drinks, the chili, the chowder, and a huge plate of baking soda biscuits the size of baseball gloves. Faith was momentarily diverted by the horror of the wine, which came in a small bottle with a twist-off cap instead of a cork. After one sip, which left an aftertaste reminiscent of Dalton 's Chem lab at the end of a long, sulfurous day, she gently pushed the glass to one side and took a spoonful of chowder. It was delicious. Faith sighed. All these contradictions. It was odd that they had produced such a solid citizenry. Then she recalled that she was here investigating a murder.

“That's why I stick to beer," Scott remarked, "That stuff always gives me a headache."

“ It's not exactly grand cru. There are many better wines that I am sure you'd like." Roughly every other growth ever produced.

They were straying again and before she found herself inviting him to the parsonage for a little wine tasting to the accompaniment of Tom's raised eyebrows, she continued the questioning.

“About Dave. Do you know what time it was when you saw him ? "

“It must have been about noon, because I get off work for lunch at eleven-thirty. I work at a body shop in By-ford. It probably took me ten minutes to drive to Ale-ford, then another ten to unload the bike from my pickup and eat my sub. I had ridden a ways up the tracks when I saw him. I turned to go to the hills by the power lines after that. My boss is pretty strict aboutbeing on time, so I only rode for about a half an hour. I usually wait to ride until after work, but it was too nice a day to waste.”

Except in Cindy's case.

“But I don't understand. You saw Dave and can even pinpoint the time. Why can't you tell the police?"

“It's not a matter of `can't,' it's more `don't want to.' "

“But why on earth not ? A person's freedom is at stake here."

“Look, Mrs. Fairchild, the cops and me have never been what you'd call buddies. I finally got off probation a year ago and I swore I would never have anything to do with them again if I could help it." He saw the sudden question in her eyes. "Nothing big, no B and E's or anything. Just a lot of little stuff that mounted up—vehicle unregistered, uninsured ; trunacy, minor in possession. And for the record, since I'm sure you would all like to find a suspect to replace Dave, I barely knew Cindy. Didn't want to. She used to try to talk to me and I would just split.”

I'll bet she wanted to get to know you, Faith thought. What a notch that would have been in Cindy's garter belt. Suddenly she remembered what Trishia had said about Cindy going after other girls' boyfriends. Maybe she was approaching this thing from the wrong angle. Revenge could provide a pretty powerful motive for a woman scorned.

Scott was still talking. " I don't know Dave much, either. Just to say hello to."

“But you can't let him go to prison simply because you don 't have a particular fondness for the police ! It's not as if you committed a crime."

“Ah, but you see, that's the problem. Legally speaking, you're not supposed to be riding a dirt bike by the tracks or by the power lines. And it's posted. Everybody does it, but you can get nailed for it."

“For a person who doesn 't want to have anything to do with the police, you seem to be taking some rather big chances." Faith was getting annoyed.

Scott looked at her calmly and smiled. Trishia had said he'd like the minister 's wife and Trish was usually right. That's why she made such a good girlfriend. She knew him. Ever since they had heard about the murder and Dave 's arrest, she had been after him to go to the cops. She was from Aleford and knew Dave. But he wouldn 't and then she came up with Mrs. Fairchild—she knew he'd much rather talk to Faith than to Mac-Isaac.

“Little chances," be told her. "Tiny chances. I never ride there on weekends when people are out walking. And it's not exactly a big city police department. They don 't have the manpower to stroll along the railroad tracks every noon on the off chance that Scott Phelan might go for a ride when there are all those traffic tickets to give out and lost dogs to find."

“So you're just going to sit back and let Dave be found guilty of a murder he didn't commit !"

“Now, be calm, Mrs. Fairchild. I never said that. I said I didn't want to and I don 't. And here is where you come in, and your husband, since I assume you don't keep secrets from him.”

Was he laughing at her, Faith wondered ? And of course she didn 't keep secrets from Tom. At least not secrets like this.

“Of course you can just go to the police and tell them what I've told you and they'll come and boot me down to the station for questioning, but what I want you to do is hold off for a day or two. They have a lot of guys working on this case and the police are not the jerks they seem to be, or not all of them anyway. They'll turn something or someone up and then I won 't have to get mixed up in it. But don 't worry, I'll be a good citizen and if it looks like Dave needs my testimony, I'll come the minute you tell me to. I just don 't want to get involved if I don't have to and that's the best I can do for you. Except for one more thing. If you agree to this, I'll work my butt off trying to find out anything else—starting here at Willow Tree. If someone here doesn't know all about it, it hasn't happened yet. If you don't agree, you're on your own. No hard feelings either way.”

The smile again.

Faith wasn 't sure what she had gained. A partner? A Watson he wasn 't and she knew that Tom for one would be appalled by the ethics or lack thereof in the agreement. But somewhere it made a little sense. In any case, it would have to do. She was sure he wouldn't have told her he had seen Dave if he hadn 't been pretty sure she would agree to his terms.

“All right," she said, rising to leave, "but not for long and we get to tell Dave."

“That's no problem. I would have told Dave myself, but they've been keeping him pretty busy.”

Maybe she was wrong about the ethics, Faith thought. Scott stood up, too. Really, he was breathtaking. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fairchild," he said, extend- ing his hand.

She took it.

“Nice to meet you too, Scott, and say hello to Trishia for me. She is your girlfriend, isn 't she ? “

Faith looked at her watch. She had been gone almost an hour and had better hurry. Tom might be getting worried. On her way out she glanced into the smaller room and was getting into her car before the fact fully registered that the Moores' son, Robert Jr., had been sitting across from someone in a shadowy corner of the room. Now what was he doing home from college ? As far as she knew it wasn 't vacation. Maybe he had stayed on for a day or so after Cindy's funeral.

That evening when she told Tom about her conversation with Scott Phelan, he was even more annoyed than she had thought he would be. He was in fact, very angry. He had been angry enough earlier when Faith, in a misguided bid for sympathy, told him about Dunne following her.

“ Faith ! " he said now as he strode up and down the living room setting off a cacophony of creaking floorboards. "Faith! I thought you were merely going to keep your ears and eyes open.' That is a far cry from leaving your house in the middle of the night to tryst with a bunch of teenagers, ending up with a police escort home ! And thank goodness he is keeping an eye on you, although what he must think of me snoring away while you are all over the landscape, Heaven knows. And now you go off to some shady diner to meet a strange man. Faith, I just can't believe you would put yourself in such danger!"

“Now, Tom, I wasn't in any danger. Okay, I was a little nervous driving back last night, but meeting someone at a public place—it is not shady and they have very good chowder—is not exactly tying myself to the railroad tracks."

“And what if he had suggested you go examine the exact spot where he had seen Dave ? You would have gone. I know you would have. You are the most outrageous combination of blind trust and curiosity of any woman I have ever known ! "

“Stop shouting, Tom, you're going to wake the baby. And, how many trusting, curious women have you known ? Please give me a little more credit. I do have some common sense. I would not have gone to the railroad tracks with Scott. Especially not at first."

“Faith!”

It took a while, but eventually Tom calmed down and Faith was able to tell him exactly what Scott had said. Which started him up all over again.

“ What does this guy look like anyway ? I think he must have mesmerized you."

“Honestly, Tom! He 's just a kid. A little better than average looking, jeans, leather jacket. You know the type."

“Yeah, Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, and Tom Cruise all rolled into one."

“Tom, we're getting off the subject here. We have a witness. Whatever you may think of him. He saw Dave by the tracks at noon and will testify if he has to and I think he knows he has to. It's that he wants to come in through us and as part of Dave's case rather than through the police. He didn 't say not to tell Dave's lawyer, only the police, and we can check with him tomorrow.”

But Scott was right. By the next day it wasn't necessary.

6

Faith was awakened early next morning by the sounds of an unusual amount of activity next door at the Millers. She got up and looked out the window.

“Tom ! Tom ! My God! Get dressed! There are a million police cars next door. Hurry ! “

Tom pulled on his clothes in record time and sped over to the Millers. He almost collided with MacIsaac and Dunne, with Sam Miller between them. Faith, watching from the window, could not imagine what was going on. What could they possibly want with Sam ? Tom got into the patrol car with them. Faith wasn 't sure whether she should go over to Pix or wait to see if Tom called. Five minutes later the phone rang. It was Tom.

“Faith, it's absolutely insane. Sam is a suspect inCindy's murder ! Evidently there are eyewitnesses who saw them together on Friday morning, quarreling. And some of the photos were of Sam. It seems he was having an affair with her. And they found a one-way ticket to Puerto Rico in his pocket for a flight tomorrow. You'd better get over to Pix.”

Faith for once in her life was absolutely speechless. Sam ? Cindy ? Who was going to be arrested next ? Mr. Brown, the church's seventy-five-year-old sexton ?

She got Benjamin ready quickly. She wasn't going to stop for breakfast, she was going right over to Pix. But as she opened her door, there was Pix on the doorstep, red-eyed and slightly crazy. They went into the kitchen where Pix immediately began to weep hysterically.

“Oh, Faith, I hope you don't mind. I didn 't want the kids to see me like this. Of course they don't want to go to school, so I can't leave them long. What are we going to do ? "

“Have something to eat first and then we'll try to figure it out." It was Faith's credo. "I assume you have a lawyer, right ? "

“Lawyers! Yes, we have a lawyer and he's on his way." Pix was starting to hiccup, but it didn't lessen the emotional impact of her words, "Faith, this is all my fault ! "

“Now don't tell me you were having an affair with Cindy, too," said Faith, hoping to inject a little humor in the situation. She poured some coffee into two mugs, adding a liberal dose of brandy to Pix's. She cut some thick slices of cinnamon bread, buttered them, and sat down.

Pix raised her head from the table where she had collapsed. "Believe me, Faith, if it would have kept Sam from having one with her, I would have. The little slut. It makes me nauseous to think of it.”

She took a large swallow of coffee and continued. "I knew Sam was having an affair and I figured I'd just wait it out. You know how hard he took turning forty. You were at the party.”

Faith remembered. The tight little smile and forced laughter Sam had displayed as he opened his "gifts"—bottles of Geritol, Playboy calendars, all singularly tasteless, in her opinion. Then there were all the jokes about getting it up—someone had even given him a small toy crane with a long pointless poem about how to use it and when. Somebody else had presented Pix with an elaborate gift certificate entitling her to trade him in for two twenties.

Sam got pretty drunk and went out the next week and bought a silver Porsche. He said it was his present to himself.

Pix seemed to be reading Faith's mind. “ He bought the car and I knew something was going on, but he didn 't want to talk about it. It looked ridiculous—our two cars in the driveway side by side—me the big clunky Land Rover, Sam the sleek Porsche. I tried to talk to him about it. After all, I had turned forty last year—very quietly.

“I knew the signs. I read books. Midlife crisis, all that, so I thought I'd try to change, too—bought a lot of lingerie and even tried some of the Total Woman stuff, you know getting rid of the kids and welcoming him home dressed in Saran Wrap and nothing else, but we just laughed too hard. I knew everything would be all right and decided I would just go on as always. Pretend that nothing was the matter. Sex was still good. I wasn't complaining and neither was he.”

Faith wondered if all minister's wives had to listen to this sort of confession, and tried to look mature and worldly, as if she had the wives of accused murderers sitting at her kitchen table every day, pouring out the most intimate details of their marriages.

“But if I had known it was Cindy, I would have killed her myself," said Pix vehemently, "Sam is a baby. He was too innocent for her and she must have been driving him crazy. I knew he was tense, but he said it was work. I knew it wasn't all work. There were a lot of unexplained late nights. It wasn't something I liked, but there it was.'' Faith reached over and took her hand. Pix gave it a squeeze and sat up straight.

“Faith, marriage is taking turns," she said somewhat didactically. She was on her second mug of coffee cum brandy and her voice was assuming the authoritative tone Faith thought she herself should have. Who was supposed to be comforting whom ?

“You go through so many stages. When the kids were little and driving me crazy, Sam would come home and pitch in with the wash or whatever. He was strong for me. Now it's my turn to be strong for him. I certainly wasn 't going to throw a perfectly good marriage out the window because he was feeling middle-aged and needed some reassurance. Remember that, Faith. Tom may not have an affair" (better not, thought Faith) "but there will be something, sometime.”

Pix started to cry again. This time quietly and that was somehow more desperate than her earlier wails. The anger was gone and the fear was taking hold.

“I've got to get back to the kids and I've got to find out what's going on. You've been a darling, Faith." Faith gave her a hug at the door.

“Just remember, Pix, Tom and I are here for you any time of day or night—and for the kids, too. Whatever happens, just remember that. We're on your side." Faith felt rather proud of this speech. It sounded like something a minister's wife should say. Then Pix took the wind right out of her sails; in fact, she capsized the craft.

“Faith! You think Sam is guilty!" She looked stunned.

“ Of course I don't ! " said Faith immediately, realizing that in the back of her mind in fact she had believed Sam had killed Cindy in some crazed moment. She was as shocked at herself as Pix was. This was Sam and just because Dave would be off the hook now was no reason to think her obviously innocent neighbor, friend, and fellow parishioner was guilty. It looked as if she wasn't going to be able to abandon her investigation yet.

“ Pix ! You must believe me ! I'm as sure of Sam's innocence as I am, well—of yours or mine!”

Pix looked at her in the eye. "That's better," she said, then added, "but I wouldn 't be so sure of mine if I were you.”

Faith gasped.

“Just testing," Pix said wickedly.

Faith closed the door and wondered if all her parish duties would end up making her feel like she'd just had one of her mother 's talking tos. In any case, she was not sure what she had done for Pix, though Pix had certainly opened her eyes on a few things. At least Faith had cheered her up; the Pix who left was quite different from the one who arrived. But then it might have been the brandy. Now the main thing to do was find out what sort of case the police had against Sam. She doubted that John Dunne would figuratively throw the cuffs on someone without pretty solid evidence.

Tom called again at noon. The police were being terrifically considerate. MacIsaac was letting him stay with Sam and Dunne had just gone out to get them all some meatball subs to eat. Faith almost gagged. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.