Body in the Bog

Their speculation was stopped by Pix’s return. She was laughing.

“She’s under house arrest, too, or whatever you call this. Charley won’t let her do anything in public today and she’s furious. She wanted my support to complain to the police. I think she’s planning to call the Middlesex County DA’s office to register a formal complaint.”

“Protective custody,” Dale piped up, “That’s what I’d call it.” He returned to his magazine.

“In a way, I don’t blame her,” Pix continued. “Not that I’m leaving the premises, but Millicent works all year on this day. I think they should at least let her review the parade. That’s her favorite part.” Every year, Millicent, town officials, and other favored individuals—the closest egalitarian Aleford got to royalty—sat on a specially constructed platform near the green and watched the parade pass by, award-ing the prizes for best float, best band, and so forth.

Sat high up, out in the open. With hundreds of people strolling around below, cotton candy and fried dough in hand. But there might be a hand holding something else. Faith shivered. She was with Charley. She didn’t want Millicent to put one foot out of her clapboard house. She fleetingly wondered what Millicent’s bodyguard was doing. Probably helping her wind wool.

“Did you tell her that?” she asked Pix.

“Not exactly. I certainly wouldn’t advise the woman to defy the police. I told her what I was doing, but of course said I could not presume to make up her mind.”

“What did she say?”

“Thanked me and said it was exactly what she wanted to hear.”

“Great,” Faith said. Now she’d have to worry about Millicent, who was probably tying bedsheets together at this very moment while the police officer was trapped downstairs, his hands bound by the skein of wool.

She had an idea. “What about the Scotts? Maybe they could wait together? They’re such sane people.”

“The Scotts, very sane people, have left town. Ted told Charley they’d check in with him to find out when it’s safe to come back,” Sam told her. “I tried to get my wife to do the same, but obviously it was no use.” He shot a somewhat-sour look at Pix.

They settled down to wait again. The kids were in the backyard on the swing set. The yard was fenced, but Dale moved over by the window anyway. He’d finished the magazine. Another half hour passed.

Unaccustomed to inactivity of any sort, Pix was clearly getting restless.

“How about cards? Bridge?” she suggested.

Faith only knew how to play poker and Go Fish and was about to say so when Dale muttered something about being on duty, which immediately limited the choices.

“Double solitaire?” Pix said. Clearly the woman was getting close to the end of her tether.

“Sure,” Sam said. He knew his wife. “Have you got two decks of cards, Faith?”

Looking for cards proved a welcome time killer.

Pix went with Faith as she searched through various junk drawers and boxes of games that Tom was wont to buy at garage sales and auctions. The Fairchild clan were inveterate board game players, and when Tom came across a vintage set of Monopoly or Clue, he acted as if he’d found the Grail.

Triumphantly, Faith held two decks aloft. “I remember these because of the labels.” One was from the Queen Mary, and the other from Caesar’s Palace.

“A widely traveled family with broad tastes and maybe a sense of humor.”

Sam and Pix started to play. Faith, odd woman out, went into the kitchen to think. She sat by the window, idly watching Samantha swinging with Amy on her lap. The toddler laughed uproariously every time they swung gently forward. Faith stopped focusing on the scene outside and tried to sort through the thoughts elbowing one another for space in her mind.

Someone in Aleford wrote those letters. No one else would have known the poison involved. But whoever it was wouldn’t necessarily have had to have lived in town too long. It was only five years ago that Sam had had the affair with Cindy. Brad’s letter had been obscene, referring to certain sexual acts he may or may not have performed with Lora Deane, although given Lora’s transformation on Saturday, anything was possible. Their relationship was even more recent. Louise Scott’s alcoholic father and his accident dated further back, but it was something that might have come up in a certain kind of conversation about either drinking problems or car crashes. And the Batcheldors’. Faith searched her memory for the exact wording. Their letter had been the least specific—although no one, with the possible exception of Chief MacIsaac, knew what was in Millicent’s. The Batcheldors’ said they should stay out of the woods if they wanted to stay healthy. Almost the same words used on the phone to Lora. It was the only one that contained a direct threat. And now Margaret was dead; Nelson might be. What was in the woods? Why the Batcheldors?

All the POW! letter signers had received both letters, except Margaret, of course. Were there other recipients—too frightened to go to the police? And why the pointed omission of the signature—on Brad’s both times, the others only the second time. It suggested a precise person, someone who said only what he or she meant. A friend the first go-round, now a foe. But enmity toward Brad from the beginning. That could mean one of the Deanes, especially Lora’s grandfather or brothers, but they hadn’t known about the calls when the first letters were received.

The Deanes. Who lived in the apartment on Chandler Street? The letters and Lora seemed to be unconnected, but she kept popping up.

Faith tore a piece of paper from a pad on the counter and wrote: “apartment,” “signature,” “other letters?” and then “Brad.” She paused and after a moment jotted down “Margaret—meeting whom?” This last was a reminder to find out whether the police had located Margaret’s birding companion. Nelson had said she was going to meet someone. Who? She tucked the paper in her pocket. She knew she wouldn’t forget it.

Faith looked at the phone hanging on the wall and willed it to ring. It was one of the ones they hadn’t replaced. A dial phone. Ben viewed it as a priceless an-tique. So did Tom.

She gazed, unseeing, out the window again. The same names kept coming up over and over. A couple of these people were turning up on both her suspect and victim list: Lora Deane, Brad Hallowell. Lora’s family. And they had all been together this morning at the breakfast and on the green.

The phone rang at eleven. Faith was cleaning out the pantry by now and Sam owed Pix two thousand dollars. Dale and the kids were watching the Marathon.

This time it was Tom. He started speaking right away.

“He’s alive. He’s still in danger, but there’s hope.”

“Oh, Tom, thank God! What was it?” All morning she’d held on to the slim possibility that Nelson had had a heart attack or something else natural, however unwelcome. Then the whole affair could be a ghastly coincidence.

It wasn’t.

“He was poisoned. They’ve pumped his stomach and are analyzing the contents.”

“Poison!” A crystal clear picture of her husband giving the victim mouth-to-mouth flashed into Faith’s mind. “Tom, is there any possibility that you . . .” Tom had had his own uneasy moments. “I’m fine.

They won’t even tell me what they think it is, not yet anyway, but the doctor said he didn’t believe I was in any danger. Whatever it was, you had to have had a lot of it.”

“But how could he have been poisoned right before our eyes?”

“Exactly,” Tom said grimly.

“His flask. He was carrying one of those pewter flasks!”

“I’m sure the police are checking it. I’ve been out in the waiting room. I haven’t even seen Charley since we came in. Dunne arrived a couple of hours ago and then left. There have been cops in and out ever since.

They took everything Nelson was wearing or carrying away, including his musket.”

“Maybe Charley will tell you more when you do see him.”

“Possibly. I’m going to stay a bit longer. Nelson’s still unconscious, but he could come around in the next few hours, and I want to be here.” Tom had been feeling a bit incongruous sitting in the hospital in his Minuteman garb, but he didn’t want to take the time to go home to change. It wasn’t important enough for Faith to bring him his clothes, either. They’d been listening to the Marathon at the nurses’ station near the waiting room too. Everyone knew it was Patriots’

Day. He prayed for it to pass swiftly and safely.

Faith hung up the phone and went to tell the others.

How were they ever going to get through this long, long day? Waiting for the call had given them some focus. Now there were only empty hours ahead.

“Poisoned?” Pix said, shocked. “When would someone have had the opportunity? Unless it was extremely long-acting. But he would have been showing some symptoms. Did he look any different to you, Faith?”

Faith thought for a moment. “He looked tired, but not really any different from how he’s looked since Margaret died. I can’t imagine that he’s been sleeping well. Yet he was definitely moving more slowly.” Nelson, and Margaret, too, walked with brisk, purposeful strides—the strides of people who have feeders to fill, bookshelves to build. She remembered watching him leave the hall at St. Theresa’s, and while not exactly dragging his feet, he wasn’t rushing off to battle as were some of his fellow militiamen. She hadn’t been feeling especially perky herself at that hour in the morning, so she’d taken no notice of it until now.

“But he didn’t seem to be in pain, particularly gastric pain?”

“No, I would have noticed that.”

“Did you see him eat anything?”

Faith started to answer, then stopped herself. Who was supposed to be asking the questions here, anyway? After solving two murders, Pix had returned from Sanpere Island last summer ready to tackle anything from the case of Judge Crater to what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. Faith loved her friend dearly, but she wasn’t about to hand over her magnifying glass.

Fortunately, Samantha came into the room, effectively stopping her mother’s persistent line of inquiry.

Faith half-listened to the teenager while thinking about Pix’s question. She had not, in fact, seen Nelson eat or drink anything, but there were several rooms off the main hall and she had been in and out of them. It was possible he’d taken a doughnut, some coffee, or juice, all of which were in the main hall. He wasn’t at St. Theresa’s when she’d arrived and she never saw him with eggs and sausage later, so if the flask wasn’t poisoned, it was most probably one of those three.

Pretty hard to poison a doughnut, particularly one fresh from a box from a national chain. Coffee or juice, but again how, with a cop next to him and Nelson himself presumably keeping a close watch?

“It will be perfectly safe! Anyway, they’re after you, Mom, not me,” Samantha’s voice penetrated Faith’s speculations. Whoever said children were honest was right. Ruthlessly honest.

“I just called Jan and the car will pick me up here or at home. No one will even open a window, and the driver’s an auxiliary policeman anyway,” Samantha was pleading. She turned to her father. “Please, Dad, this is the last parade I’ll ever be in.”

“I certainly hope not,” he said dryly.

“You know what I mean!”

Pix sighed. “The whole thing is so crazy. I can’t imagine that anyone could want to harm us, but we—or, as you aptly point out, sweetheart, I—did get the letter. I’d like to assume Nelson was his or her intended victim and get on with my life, and my family’s, but my correspondent does not strike me as a particularly honorable or trustworthy person. What’s to prevent him from striking tomorrow or the next day or the next? Can we keep living like this—in hiding?” The Scotts could be out of town for quite a while, Faith reflected, because of course Pix was right. Murderers did not follow rules. Honorable, trustworthy—no, these were not words that sprang to mind.

“So you’re saying I can go, right?” Samantha was surprised. She’d expected a lot more opposition, especially from her mother. For a moment, adolescent that she was, she wondered if she ought to go if her mother thought it was okay.

“Sam?” Pix walked over to her husband and took his hand.

“Closed car, comes here, brings her back. A cop at the wheel. Probably as safe as the yard,” he answered.

“But no getting out of the car. Anybody. Go to the bathroom before you leave.”

“Daddy!” Patrolman Dale Warren was in the room again and Samantha was mortified.

Danny came running into the room. “You’re letting Samantha be in the parade and not me! It’s not fair!

You let her do everything!”

It was Sam’s turn to dig his heels in. A closed car was one thing. A three-mile march straight up Main Street, even in the DARE contingent, was another.

Help came from an unexpected source. “Couldn’t he come with me? There’s plenty of room, and one of our class projects was peer counseling with kids at his school. He could even wear his DARE T-shirt.” Everyone looked at Danny to see if he’d accept the compromise. Faith was getting a glimpse of a future she’d just as soon learn about when she got there—many years from now.

“Okay,” he said. “Those cars are cool. Wait till I tell Mark. He’s gonna wish he was here, too.”

“ ‘Going to,’ dear,” Pix said automatically, thanking God her oldest son was safely in New Haven.

“This solves one problem, anyway,” Sam commented as the kids left the room for the phone.

“What?” Pix asked curiously. Something his lawyer’s mind had picked up on that she’d missed?

“Now we have something to do this afternoon.

We’ll be glued to the TV, watching the parade to make sure the kids are all right. Can we stay for lunch, Faith? I think we’re going to need nourishment.

The parade started from East Aleford at about two o’-clock and usually reached the green about three.

Promptly at 1:30, a gleaming turquoise-and-white 1955 Chevy Bel Air picked Samantha and Danny up.

Amy had gone for her nap and Ben was complaining about missing the parade. They usually watched from the front steps of the church.

“I’ll take you out when the clowns come,” Faith promised.

“And I want to see Samantha and Danny. I want to be in the parade. Why can’t I be in the parade?”

“You can when your legs get a little longer,” Faith answered. The Aleford Minutemen marched, all in their proper uniforms for the parade, wives and children behind them.

Tom had called again to report that there was nothing to report and said he’d be home soon. That had been an hour ago.

Faith looked in the refrigerator and decided on big overstuffed sandwiches. She had some dark rye and piled thick slices of smoky Virginia ham, sharp cheddar cheese, lettuce, with some spicy chutney on the bread.

She set the table, putting out bowls of cherry tomatoes and Cape Cod potato chips—an indoor picnic.

Sam was starting his second sandwich and finishing his first beer—Sam Adams lager, in honor of the day—when Tom walked in the back door. They all started talking at once.

“I’ll tell you everything; just give me a minute. If I don’t get out of these clothes, I’m going to develop a serious rash. Even with my long underwear, this wool itches like crazy. Now I know why our ancestors all have such pained expressions in their portraits. I thought it was ill-fitting teeth, but they were merely waiting for a break to scratch.”

From the way Tom was speaking, Nelson must be out of danger, Faith thought.

“Do you want a sandwich?” she asked.

“At least two,” he called back over his shoulder.

When he returned, the first person to demand his attention was Ben, who had been doing Legos in a corner of the kitchen.

“Mom says we can’t watch the parade from the church,” he told his father woefully.

Tom and Faith looked at each other over the little tyrant’s head. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“I told him I would take him to see the clowns—and Samantha and Danny, if the senior-class car isn’t too far away from the clown contingent,” Faith explained.

“That’s going to have to be it for this year, Ben. You know Mr. Batcheldor is sick and we have a lot of grown-up worries right now.”

This plus a promise of cotton candy appeased the boy enough to send him back to his construction.

Faith set Tom’s food on the table and all of them looked at him expectantly.

“Chloral hydrate. But that’s not to leave this room.” Everyone nodded solemnly.

“A Mickey Finn,” Sam said. “Of lethal proportions.” He liked to read mysteries from the thirties and forties.

“Exactly. Nelson was regaining consciousness and I went in to see him. Charley and Dunne were both there asking him questions, which is how I found out.

It must have been put in something he ate at the breakfast, because it acts quickly and there was no trace of it in his flask. They were trying to get him to remember what he’d had, but he was pretty out of it.”

“It is still used to help people sleep, though,” Pix said. “My mother had some in the medicine cabinet from my father’s last illness, until I made her throw it out. It was in a brown bottle, a red liquid. Father used to complain about the cherry taste. That would be pretty easy to put into Nelson’s juice.” Faith thought of Ben’s bright red mustache. The cloyingly sweet juice would have masked the flavor of just about anything.

“But pretty hard to top up the man’s drink in a crowded room without attracting some attention,” Sam said.

“It also came in capsules, but those were too hard for father to swallow at that point,” Pix remembered.

She also remembered her children and jumped to her feet. “It’s after two o’clock; maybe the cable company will be televising the beginning of the parade.” They all crowded into the small room with the TV to watch. At first, all Faith could see were fezzes. The Shriners made up a good fourth of the parade—Shriners dressed as Minutemen, Shriners in tiny Model T Fords, Shriners playing bagpipes, Shriners on floats, Shriners on motorcycles, and her own favorite—Shriners playing snake charmer’s flutes dressed in Arabian Nights costumes with gold leather shoes that curled high in the air at the toe. A huge model of the Shriners’ Burn Institute adorned yet another float. The fezzes were mingling with huge bunches of balloons carried by vendors, banners, musical instruments, and flags—so many that at times the screen was filled with nothing but red, white, and blue.

“There they are!” Pix cried. They had a fleeting glimpse of the car, now decorated with blue and gold streamers and other Aleford High insignia. Danny and Samantha were just visible, wedged in the midst of the other occupants. Everyone was smiling. The camera panned to the Aleford High Drum and Bugle Corps behind them and a group of pint-sized twirlers.

Two of them dropped their batons. The Patriots’ Day Parade had started. The screen went blank for an instant and then the morning’s reenactment appeared.

“They won’t show any more until they reach the center,” Faith said, staying to watch the reenactment, as she hadn’t earlier. She’d been too eager to tell the police to get a tape. Everyone else stayed, too.

It was like watching something that had occurred months or even years ago, Faith thought. Just as it had been that morning, the figures on the green were scarcely visible in the darkness; then as the day dawned and the action started, the players appeared.

Nelson had answered in the roll call, but the camera was on Gus Deane, so it was impossible to see how Nelson looked. His voice sounded a bit reedy and weak, but the sound quality was not the best. Faith saw him take his place in the line; then the musket fire started and it was impossible to see anyone. She wished she had thought to tape it herself. She wanted to go back over it.

Nelson didn’t look well when the smoke cleared and seemed to stumble as he obeyed Captain Sewall’s commands.

She left the room to call the cable company to find out when it would be broadcast again. She had a feeling it would be replayed often today.

Ben was sitting in the corner. With Tom home, she could take her son out to the celebration for a while.

Not that she felt like celebrating, but she definitely felt like getting out.

They walked across the green toward the reviewing stand, stopping to get Ben his cotton candy. He pulled gauzy pink pieces of it away from the cardboard tube it was wound around. Some was already in his hair.

Faith pulled a piece off, too, and for a moment the grainy sweetness on her tongue tasted good, a reminder of family outings—carnivals, the Jersey shore.

She swallowed. It was enough.

“Come over here by the curb. We’ll be able to see them and wave when they go by,” Faith told Ben.

They hadn’t missed the clowns, more Shriners. They hadn’t missed something else, too.

Millicent Revere McKinley, flag in hand, waving the other with practiced, stately mien, was standing on top of the reviewing platform. She was flanked by two state policemen and there was no mistaking the look of triumph in her eyes.

Seven

It had been a long day and it was a long night. The Millers and escort went back home after the parade, only to return for supper at Faith’s insistence. She would have liked to have stayed by Pix’s side until midnight, but Pix had declared that doing nothing was exhausting and she wanted to go to bed early. Devoted friend that she was, Faith could not see herself lying across the bottom of the Millers’ connubial four-poster. In any case, one or more of the dogs usually occupied that position. Dale was relieved by someone from the state police, and Faith tossed and turned all night, afraid the phone would ring.

Somehow, she got everyone off to work and school the next morning, then presented herself at Millicent’s for the meeting to compose the letter for POW!’s town-wide mailing. She felt even more bedraggled when Millicent opened the door, starched, every hair in place. The exultant look Faith had seen on her face the day before had, if anything, intensified. And she not only had energy; she was raring to go. Faith considered leaving, pleading a sudden indisposition.

Then Brad appeared at the end of Millicent’s walk and Faith felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. She had work to do.

Brad had his laptop. They were all sitting around Millicent’s dining-room table. She’d pointedly got out the table pads when she’d seen the computer.

“Don’t want to mar the surface. Mahogany, you know.”

Faith looked at the highly polished surface. Millicent’s whole house reeked of beeswax. Mahogany veneer, maybe.

After this operation, Millicent sat at the head of the table and opened a bulging folder.

“Now, we want to be forceful, but we don’t want to alienate people.”

“Before we get to the letter, how did you convince the police to let you onto the reviewing stand yesterday?” Faith couldn’t help herself. She knew she was playing right into Millicent’s crafty little hands, but she had to ask.

Millicent gave Brad a slight smile. There was a trace of pity in it. She’d arranged for him to be on the platform, too, in recognition of all the work he’d done on the parade and other events. Unfortunately, Brad had had to contend not only with the police but his mother. He’d been lucky to go to the bathroom un-escorted and he’d had to sneak out the back door this morning for the meeting.

Yet mostly, Millicent’s smile conveyed superiority.

Assuming her rightful place on the platform in the face of all obstacles was one of her more minor accomplishments—a piece of cake.

“I called the state police and talked to that nice Detective Dunne. He understood completely. I also mentioned I was leaving the house and the young man they’d sent would have to forcibly restrain me to keep me here.”

Faith could imagine the scene. Millicent could match wits but not muscle. She was thin and had those angular bones that looked as if they would snap in a strong wind. And she would have put up a fight. No doubt about it. Dunne had obviously pictured the ill-matched pair rolling about the well-worn Oriental, dodging furniture and knickknacks, the poor officer trying not to do any damage to them or their owner.

“So you just left?”

“No, I didn’t have to. John very nicely sent a car for me, which was ridiculous. It was only across the green, but he insisted. He also sent another policeman. I promised him I would return home immediately afterward and that seemed to satisfy him.

‘Millie,’ he said, ‘we just don’t want anything to happen to you.’ So thoughtful.”

John Dunne was also in the select group that was permitted to shorten Millicent’s name.

Having cleared this up, Millicent got back to business.

“Now, as I was saying, we need to find the right approach. Our original broadside was effective, but this occasion calls for greater subtlety.”

After several tries, they came up with an acceptable letter. It was straightforward, avoided inflammatory statements, but was strong, ending with the warning:

“If we do not act now on behalf of Aleford’s future inhabitants, they may not have an Aleford to inhabit.” Brad had thought of the phrase and he was enjoying the sound. He repeated the words several times like a mantra.

Faith had been struck by two things about Brad during the meeting. First, he was clearly very bright.

The other feeling she had about him was harder to de-fine. He had mentioned that he spent a great deal of time playing certain Dungeons and Dragons–type games with fellow enthusiasts on the Internet. He seemed to regard POW! as another kind of game, talking about strategies for winning, tactical maneuvers, and referring to those not in agreement as opponents.

He cautioned Faith not to talk about what was in the letter. It would lessen the impact, he’d said, but she felt that was a ploy. Secrecy added drama. Millicent played right along.

“I certainly wouldn’t want Joey Madsen and his people to find out what’s in our mailing. They’d be certain to send out one of their own contradicting everything and getting everyone all muddled about the facts.” She gave Faith a piercing look.

Faith had every intention of telling Dunne and maybe Tom, yet kept quiet. Word wouldn’t get to Joey from them.

“I’m sure Joey will be sending out a mailing, or at least will write to the Chronicle. And since he’s a Town Meeting member, we can expect a good floor fight.” Brad was relishing the moment.

He’s immature, Faith thought suddenly. That’s his biggest problem. It is all a game to him. He likes to pit the grown-ups against one another and watch. She didn’t doubt his sincere commitment to the environment, but something else was going on—intrigue, danger, real threats. The monitor screen come to life.

He’d spoken of the letters with the same enthusiasm he’d reserved for his computer games.

“If whoever it is had used e-mail, I could have cracked this thing by now. The person may not have it, or may have known what I would do.” He seemed to think the first possibility absurd, despite sitting in the same room with two people who still licked stamps.

Faith was getting a little tired of him. He was so single-minded. Maybe Miss Lora was a better judge of character than Faith had previously given her credit for—judging her primarily on the depth of her relationships with preschool children. Maybe his boyish-ness had attracted her, besides his obvious good looks, then she’d gotten bored. Certainly the looks were here, though. His dark hair curled damply obviously fresh from a shower and he smelled like Ivory soap. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. Those muscles didn’t come from keyboarding.

“I think we all deserve a good hot cup of tea after this work,” Millicent offered. Faith accepted. She wanted the caffeine and she wanted some time alone with Brad.

He sat fooling with his laptop. He didn’t appear to be in need of conversation. Faith plunged right in.

“My son, Benjamin, is in Lora Deane’s preschool class. She’s a wonderful teacher. I understand your anonymous letter referred to her.” Faith watched his expression closely and saw his surprise. Whatever he had expected her to introduce as a topic of conversation, it was not Miss Lora.

“Yeah, well,” he stammered, and looked about the room. There was no help forthcoming from the break-front or the row of extra chairs, each at exactly the same distance from the wall. “I mean, we went out for a while, that’s all. The letter was pretty crude.” He grinned, then re-collected himself. Faith was a minister’s wife. “Filthy lies, all of it.” Faith waited. Sometimes this worked. It did now.

He started talking again, filling the empty air between them. His fingers were still hovering over the keyboard.

“She’s the one who broke it off. Just left word on the machine that she didn’t want to go out anymore.

No discussion. Nothing.” His anger was evident. “I pity the next guy who gets involved with that—I mean with her.”

He remembered Faith’s original remark and added,

“Oh, she’s good with kids.” It was not something he seemed to feel was especially noteworthy. He began to drum his fingers on the table. He was a nail-biter.

Lora would have cured him of that, Faith thought. A few applications of some nasty-tasting stuff—but her mind was wandering.

“So you wouldn’t want to get back with her?”

“Did she ask you to speak to me?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Anyway, it’s too late. Way too late.”

Before Faith could ask him why, Millicent appeared with the tea tray. For three meager cups, she was as loaded down as for a banquet. There was a pitcher of hot water, a smaller one of milk, a plate of thinly sliced lemons, a strainer and stand, two sugar bowls—one for white, one for unrefined—tongs, cups, saucers, linen napkins, a cozy, and the pot itself.

“Now,” she said brightly, “how do you take it?” Faith wasn’t altogether sure.

She had hoped to get some more time alone with Brad Hallowell, so Faith had consumed more tea than she wanted. But finally she had to leave to pick up the kids. Brad showed no intention of following her example. It had been foolish to think they would discuss the inner workings of POW! in front of her, if there were any. Keeping Brad by her side was more likely Millicent showing off and a reluctance to return home on his part.

She stood up to leave and Millicent’s phone rang.

When Miss McKinley excused herself to answer it, Faith sat back down, hoping for a long conversation.

Picking up where they had left off, she had just started to explain to Brad that no, Lora had not sent her and to ask why he’d said it was too late to get back together with such finality, when Millicent came through the doorway. Brad looked relieved. Millicent stood behind her chair, her hands clenched around the back.

There was a grim set to her mouth.

“This is not good news, I’m afraid. Not good for POW! at all.”

“Nelson! Is he dead!” Faith cried.

“No, nothing like that.” Millicent waved her hand dismissively. “Apparently, over the weekend one of the Deanes’ pieces of heavy equipment was vandalized—an excavator. Someone cut the hydraulic hoses on the boom. I gather it’s a very expensive repair.

They’re blaming us, of course.” Millicent seemed extremely conversant with the technical jargon relating to construction work, Faith thought. She did get the idea, though. Person or persons unknown had sliced the things that made the steam shovel lift its load.

Brad leaned forward and pounded the table so hard his computer shook. Millicent looked askance. “And you know the bastards did it themselves! Probably was one that didn’t work anyway and they’re out to collect more insurance money!”

Faith doubted this. Gus Deane did not strike her as the type of man who would cripple the way in which he earned his living. If a machine was broken, he’d fix it. She’d often heard him extol the virtues of owning your own machinery, being your own boss.

But it was getting late. She had to get Ben and Amy.

As she walked back along Main Street, she tried to think what connection this new piece of the puzzle had to the others. Tampering with the steam shovel was an indirect attack on POW!—which would, it was true, be suspected immediately. The letter writer was also attacking the group in writing and for real. Did this mean the same person? At least the latest attack was on an inanimate object.

She’d left Millicent and Brad earnestly discussing POW!’s response—ignore it or issue a statement?

Neither of these two anonymous-letter recipients seemed in the least bit nervous about their own well-being, or perhaps they assumed since Patriots’ Day was over, the threat was gone, too.

Millicent had told them Nelson wasn’t being allowed any visitors. She had called the hospital and she reported, “He’s out of danger and should be at tomorrow night’s meeting.” Faith didn’t let on that Tom had seen him yesterday. Millicent liked to be the bearer of tidings, not the recipient.

Faith crossed the green, avoiding the spot where Nelson had fallen. How did this attack fit into the puzzle? And Margaret, the first death. Had Nelson discovered something about the identity of her killer?

But if he had, he wouldn’t have kept it to himself, would he? Unless it was someone he knew, knew well. Faith felt depressed. Things seemed to be turning out like one of those bargains you picked up at a yard sale—a gorgeous, expensive jigsaw of the cathe-dral at Chartres that, after many hours of hard work, you’d find was missing the last few pieces of the rose window.

The sky was gray and it looked like rain was on the way again. She’d hoped to check out the bog today, maybe taking Pix and the dogs along with the kids.

The weather would make it impossible. Nor could she return to the Chandler Street apartment and make discreet inquiries. Children did not know the meaning of the word discreet and tended to get in the way. She’d try to go into town tomorrow morning.

Any question of whether Miss Lora had heard about the latest attack on her family was answered by the teacher’s first words to Faith, whispered furiously after the precaution “Little pitchers have big ears.” And what did that mean, anyway? Faith wondered. “I know you weren’t involved or Reverend Fairchild, but you have got to tell your group to leave us alone. I don’t know what my grandfather’s going to do, and Joey is ready to kill somebody!”

Faith didn’t doubt it. “I was just with Millicent McKinley and Brad Hallowell. They are as shocked and upset as I am. I’m sure POW! didn’t have anything to do with this. Does the construction company have any enemies you can think of? Another company that wanted a particular contract? Or maybe it was kids, too many beers on Patriots’ Day weekend?” Lora stared at Faith in disbelief and forgot to whisper. “Give me a break! POW! is the only enemy we have and the only group nutty enough to do all this.

Besides, a bunch of loaded teenagers would try to start the thing for kicks or spray-paint it.” Faith quickly bundled Ben away, picked Amy up, and tried to reach Tom. He wasn’t in his office and she assumed he must have gone to the hospital to see Nelson.

It wasn’t a day for a walk in the bog, but it was a good day for work. She was not going to be at POW!’s meeting tomorrow, Wednesday night—a meeting that had assumed dramatic proportions. Have Faith was catering dessert and coffee for a library-endowment-fund function. Besides that, there was the real Patriots’ Day dinner party they were preparing for on Friday night—April nineteenth.

When she opened the door at the company kitchen, she found Niki busy making pastry cream for the following evening. It would fill small tarts topped with raspberries. The former premises of Yankee Doodle Kitchens that Faith had taken over was large and well equipped. She’d added a play area for the kids at one end and had managed to convince Ben that coming to work with Mommy was an extraordinary treat. There were toys and books here he didn’t have at home; plus, he might sometimes get to lick a spoon. Niki held out one to him now.

“Pretty sucky weather,” she commented, glancing out the window at the sheets of rain pouring down.

“Oops, forgot the kids were here. Should say, Pretty inclement today, what ho.”

“What ho,” Faith said. She thought it was pretty sucky weather, too, and wondered if she was one of those people who suffered from light deprivation.

There hadn’t been much sunshine so far this spring.

But then, there were plenty of other things to account for her mood. She took Ben and Amy to their corner, depositing her daughter in the playpen for a nap and settling Ben with his Lincoln Logs. She looked at the two of them and tried to remember what Ben had been like at Amy’s age. Same silken flax-colored hair and same sweet baby smell. It went so fast, too fast. She gave them each a kiss.

“Is Pix coming?” Niki asked when Faith returned.

“No, she has a conference with Danny’s English teacher. It seems he’s adopted the role of class clown and the teacher doesn’t find it amusing. Pix doesn’t, either, but she also thinks he’s bored. If anyone can handle this, Pix can—simultaneous curriculum re-vamping and humble-pie consumption.”

“Speaking of which, what are we serving for dessert Friday night? Have you decided?”

“Yes. A plate of three sorbets: cranberry, apple, and blueberry—New England fruits, garnished with fresh fruit. And since people want something decadent for dessert, even here, those chocolate crunch cookies.

We can do half with white chocolate.”

“Yum,” Niki said. “They’re toothsome, and speaking of toothsome morsels, I saw your Miss Lora at Avalon Saturday night. And she wasn’t wearing a smock.”

A week ago, Faith would have dismissed Niki’s observation, yet now she knew it was entirely possible that Miss Lora was spending her free time dancing at this Boston hot spot and not doing the loopty-loo at home.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I am.” Niki was always sure. “At first, I didn’t recognize her without her glasses and those Mr.

Green Jeans outfits she usually wears, but it was her, or she, whatever. Cool dress, ended just below her ass, Mylar or something shiny. Definitely spandex.” Faith was going to Chandler Street even if she did have to tote her offspring.

Early the next morning, as soon as the kitchen door closed behind Tom and her brood, Faith grabbed a light jacket and got in the car. She followed the same route they had taken on Saturday, slowed now by morning commuters. She turned down Clarendon and started searching the side streets for a parking place.

Every empty space was either resident permit only or a tow zone. Finally, she spotted one on Tremont by the Boston Center for the Arts, pulled in seconds before the car behind her could cut her off, and got out.

Niki had described the man Lora Deane had been with at Avalon and it sounded like the same person she’d been with earlier on Saturday. When Faith had asked Niki if he could possibly be Lora’s brother, Niki had had a hard time stopping laughing. “If it was her brother, they’re giving new meaning to ‘incest is best,’ ” she’d told Faith wickedly. Hiring Niki had been one of the smartest things she’d ever done, Faith thought as she walked back toward Chandler. Work was never dull.

She did have a plan for this morning, and to that end, she had brought her clipboard. Today she’d be a graduate student doing research on feelings of community in Boston’s neighborhoods. How well do you know, say, the person downstairs? Whom can you turn to for help? That sort of thing. If she couldn’t find out anything about the apartment by the end of an hour, she’d have to try another approach. But it was bound to work—if anyone was at home.

She pressed the buzzer of the apartment on the floor below. No answer. Then she tried the one above.

Again nothing. She pressed the buzzer for Bridey Murphy, who was on the top floor. Her curiosity about this occupant was almost as strong as it was about Lora. Her ring was answered and she quickly pushed the front door open before it locked again. She walked into a neatly carpeted hall and up the stairs. The Deane apartment had the same hand-lettered sign on the door as on the mailbox. She went up two more flights. Bridey Murphy’s door was ajar, chain in place.

“Yes, what do you want?” a voice quavered.

Faith went into her routine.

“Well, I don’t understand all you’re saying, but I’ve lived in Boston neighborhoods my whole life. You’d better come in.”

Bridey Murphy was a little old lady.

Faith resisted the temptation to say, So this is what became of Bridey Murphy—hoax or no hoax. Instead, she started to explain why she was there, or ostensibly why she was there. It really wasn’t necessary. Bridey was obviously lonely and ready to talk to anyone about anything.

Her apartment was spacious, although crowded with furniture—a large couch, easy chair, ottoman, end tables, bookcases, a formal oak dining-room set, the china closet crammed with plates, figurines, and cups. Lace curtains hung at the windows, doilies were in abundance, and hand-colored family photos from the twenties and thirties decorated the walls. Over the small fireplace, there was a large, elaborately framed chromolithograph of a little stone cottage nestled in the green hills of County something.

“I grew up in the West End. It’s gone, of course.

They just leveled it for the hospital, you know. Mass General. But that would be before your time. Now, the West End—that was a neighborhood. If you had a scrape and your own mother wasn’t home, you could go into anyone’s apartment and they’d give you a bandage and a cookie. Not like today.” She was off and running. All Faith needed to do was direct the course toward the present.

“So, you don’t feel that close to the people around here? Even in your own building?”

“Not close, no. I know them all right, but that’s not to say I know them. Sounds silly—” Faith interrupted her. “They’re just people you say hello to in the hall?”

“Exactly. Would you like a cup of tea, dear? And I’ve got some nice Irish soda bread. I’m Irish, you know, both sides. I guess you could tell from the name. I’ve gotten a lot of comments on that over the years, but I just say, ‘Bridget—Bridey—Kathleen Murphy. That’s the name I came into this world with and it’s the one I plan to have when I go out.’ Not that I didn’t have my chances.”

Faith looked at the woman’s softly lined face and bright blue eyes. Her hair was still thick, although the curls were pure white now. She was sure Bridey had had her chances. She must have been very pretty.

“Never found anyone I thought I’d want to wake up to every day, and then, my own parents fought like cat and dog. Couldn’t see living the same way.

Maybe I’ll be sorry when I’m older, but not so far. I like my independence.”

If Bridey wasn’t sorry yet, Faith doubted she ever would be. The woman was close to ninety if she was a day. The cane leaning against her chair was the only sign of any infirmity.

“Tea would be fine, but please let me make it.” Over the woman’s protests, Faith got the tea and soon they were sitting at the kitchen table over their cups like two old friends.

“After I lost my apartment in the West End, I moved farther up on the Hill—Beacon Hill. It was a nice place, but I hated what was happening all around me. Thank the Lord my parents didn’t live to see it.

They loved the West End. Everyone together. It wasn’t just the Irish. All races, all religions, you name it. Everybody got along. We never thought not to.

“I was working at Chandler’s in those days, the bookkeeping department. Now, that was a lovely store. When they went out of business, I went over to Filene’s, but it wasn’t the same.” Bridey sighed deeply.

This was a woman who still wore a hat and gloves to church, Faith thought. Bridey was neatly dressed in a navy skirt, white blouse, and pink cardigan with a little enameled forget-me-not brooch at her collar.

“Then the rents on the Hill began to go up like crazy. My brother had bought this building and he told me I could have any apartment I wanted. I took this one because it was up high. He’s done very well in real estate,” she confided.

“What about the other people in the other apartments? Aren’t you friendly with any of them? I noticed some of the names as I was ringing buzzers.

There was one, for instance, Deane, just below. Their apartment must be like yours.”

“Well now, that’s a strange story if you ask me.” Faith was. “Yes?”

“Only here on weekends and sometimes, very rarely, for a week at a time or at night, then out the next morning, early. I know because I’m up at five myself. Never could lie about in bed, and I go down to get my paper. Something fishy, I thought, and I was going to tell my brother, but then I met her and I can’t imagine she’s involved in anything wrong. A nicer girl you’ll never meet, that’s Lora.” Lora! Lora Deane was renting this apartment herself! And one in Aleford!

“Has she told you why she’s on this peculiar schedule?”

“No, but I’ve figured it out. I think she’s a nurse or some kind of live-in worker and this is her permanent address. She’s never had time to come in for a cup of tea, but I know she will one of these days. She always stops to ask how I am when she sees me. Brought me some cookies she’d baked at Christmas. Now, you can put that down on your form, because it is neighborli-ness. I’d go to her for help in a minute if I needed it.

Not like some I could name. Why the Macombers have lived here for years, and if I get a nod of the head, I count myself lucky.”

Faith had her information, but she stayed for a half hour longer talking to the old lady. As she left, she promised to come back and knew she would.

Away from Bridey Murphy, Faith considered this new information. Lora Deane was living a double life.

Mild-mannered nursery school teacher by week, hip single on the weekends. But why was the deception necessary? What else was going on? And maintaining two places ran into money. Was this the real reason Lora didn’t want to loan Joey Madsen funds for Alefordiana Estates?

Faith drove past the bowling alley on Route 2 and accelerated as she went up the hill before the Aleford exit. She’d never thought of Miss Lora as a mystery woman. But what did they really know about her—or any of the rest of the family? Faith decided it was time to pay a call on Gus, the paterfamilias. She knew him from the Aleford Minutemen activities and they’d always maintained a light, joking relationship. Gus was a bit of a flirt, but not obnoxious. He never crossed the line from art form to lech. It was a skill she admired—and enjoyed. She tried to think of some pretext. No parish calls, and ringing his doorbell for POW! was definitely out. Besides being in the Minutemen, Gus was president of the Aleford Chamber of Commerce.

As soon as she’d started Have Faith again, she’d joined. The Chamber sponsored a large cookout on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. All the local merchants had special sales and the event drew a big crowd. She felt a sudden pressing need to talk to Gus about the plans and what Have Faith might supply.

Ben was spending the afternoon with a friend and Faith was able to get Mrs. Hart to come over while Amy napped. The way things were going, the woman might never get to see what the child looked like awake. She almost called Pix, but she didn’t want to let her know where she was going. Pix might have a lot on her mind, but she’d still remembered that Faith hadn’t told her why she was asking questions about Brad Hallowell earlier.

Faith had completely forgotten her promise to tell Pix everything when she could and was a little embarrassed to reveal it had involved the phone calls Lora Deane had been getting, which were by then common knowledge in town.

“And you suspected Brad?”

“Well, an ex-boyfriend, angry, hurt.”

“And that was what you couldn’t tell me?” Pix said, looking Faith straight in the eye. No wonder the Millers had such honest children.

Gus and Lillian Deane lived in a large brick house at the end of a winding drive near the Aleford/Byford border. It was imposing—a three-car garage, swim-ming pool for the grandchildren and now the great-grandchildren. The shrubs were trimmed into round balls; those lining either side of the front walk were squat muffin shapes. There wasn’t a fallen twig or leaf on the smooth green lawn. Every window was shielded from the sun’s rays by an awning with an elaborate D in script square in the middle. She’d decided not to call first, just take the chance he would be in. She didn’t want him to have time to think why else she might be paying him a visit. Supposedly, he was retired from active work and didn’t spend much time on the job sites anymore.

Faith rang the bell and heard chimes.

She was in luck. Gus opened the door himself.

“Now, this is a nice surprise to find on my doorstep.

Come on in, Faith.”

“I had a few moments free, so I thought this might be a good time to talk about the plans for the Memorial Day cookout. It’s not that far away.” Gus nodded. “Only six weeks.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was onto her or not.

There had been an underlying note of amusement in his voice.

“Terrible weather this spring,” he continued. “Hope it’s better for our cookout. But then a lot can happen in six weeks.”

He led the way to the rear of the house. Lillian didn’t seem to be home; otherwise, she’d have been there offering Faith something to eat or drink. Gus might maintain a higher profile in town, but the house was his wife’s domain.

“Lillian’s over at Bonnie’s. Can’t keep away from the baby. Let’s sit in here and you can tell me what’s on your mind.” He opened the door to what was obviously his den. There was a large-screen TV at one end with appropriately comfortable seating. French doors led to a broad patio that ran the full length of the rear of the house. A desk with computer and printer indicated that the room was not purely recreational. He motioned to two chairs overlooking the garden and Faith sat down. A curio cabinet held a collection of beer steins. Some of them looked quite old. He noticed her glance.

“I started buying these when I was a young man.

Can’t pretend they came down in my family. Nothing came down, except maybe an attitude. I don’t want to say it’s special to the Deanes, but it’s a way of life.

You work hard, don’t let yourself be pushed around, and leave the key under the mat for those coming next.”

He knew damn well she hadn’t come about how much potato salad they were going to need.

She sat quietly and let him go on.

“When I was growing up in this town, the same few people ran everything, always the same names. The board of selectmen—and it was only men—school committee, the library, the churches. If their families had missed the Mayflower, it was because they had something better to do. Times have changed.”

“Thank goodness.” Faith found something to say.

Gus nodded. “Wish I hadn’t let Lillian talk me out of smoking. Feel like a pipe now. Anyway, where was I? Yes, it’s changed.” He leaned forward. “But not completely. Not completely, Faith.

“So far as some of those people—or I should say the sons and daughters of those people—are concerned, the Deanes will always be upstarts. We make more money than most of them do now and there’s resentment about that. We were their ancestors’ servants and we didn’t stay in our place.”

“But do you really think this is still true?”

“Absolutely. Now, you take this business with the bog. I don’t mind telling you I’m more than a little annoyed with Joey for stirring the whole thing up in the first place. But not because I don’t like to stir things up.”

Faith ventured a smile.

“Okay, maybe I even like to stir things up, but I was angry with him because he didn’t think it through. It’s a bad investment. He has to put out too much of his own money before he sees any return and he’ll be lucky to break even, what with all the stipulations the town is going to slap him with about the roads, septic systems, what not. Meanwhile, the whole Deane family looks bad. Even people who have never been to the place are suddenly talking about the Deanes robbing Aleford of precious open space. No, I’m not happy with Joey.”

Faith felt a sudden twinge of sympathy for Mr.Madsen. Gus was not a man you wanted to antagonize.

“Could have done better. Told her so at the time, but she’s just like her father, just like me. Wouldn’t listen, and you’ll never hear a word of complaint from her, either. I don’t know if she loves or hates the man at this point.”

He didn’t say her name, but Gus was obviously referring to Bonnie.

“Alefordiana Estates—what the hell kind of a name is that? Thinks we’re in Florida or something,” Gus growled.

“Well, of course I’m not happy about it,” Faith said.

“Going to have a road at your back door. I’ll say you’re not happy about it, but here’s my point, Faith.” He leaned over again and this time raised his forefin-ger. “I may not agree that Joey’s doing the brightest deal, I may not even like the man that much myself, but I’ll defend him to my death against anyone who says he doesn’t have the right to build what he wants on his own land so long as it’s not against the law.

And it’s not. Not a single person in that group of yours can say he hasn’t met every requirement.”

“This may be true, but—”

“Hear me out—I’m not finished. Then you can have your say.”

Faith shut her mouth.

“Somebody in that organization is not normal. I know I lost my temper at the selectmen’s meeting and I’ve been hearing about it from my wife, but my property had been destroyed and my family threatened.

This is the work of a lunatic. My excavator, too!

You’ve heard about that?”

Faith nodded.

“And the Batcheldors. I don’t know what Margaret, God rest her soul, was doing in our house, but she was in there with a can of gas. And now somebody’s tried to do poor Nelson in. Maybe this nut was up to something with Margaret. People can believe so much in a cause that they think anything they do is justified. But I’m not going to sit back and watch the whole Deane family go up in flames.”

He sat back. It was Faith’s turn, but she couldn’t think of any response.

“So, how much potato salad do you think we’ll need this year?”

It was only after they had finalized the menu for the cookout, same as last year’s and the year before, that Faith was able to swim her way back up river and introduce the subject of Lora Deane.

“We feel so lucky to have Lora as Ben’s teacher.

She’s wonderful with children.” This ploy had worked with Brad—more or less.

“She’s gifted with children and I’m happy she’s found a job close by. Wish she’d settle down herself, but she hasn’t shown any signs of it. There was the Hallowell kid. That’s over or I’d have had to put a stop to it. She wants to go back to her place, but we’ve been firm. She’s not to move one foot until everything gets cleared up. Fortunately, she’s a timid girl and listens to us. That’s why she’s not too popular with the guys, I suppose. An old-fashioned girl, that’s our Lora.”

One of them, anyway, Faith thought. For an instant she felt the urge to tell Gus about Lora’s apartment in the South End and Mr. Miata. It seemed wrong to keep any secrets at all from this commanding figure, and Faith was amazed Lora could pull it off day after day. Faith bit at her lip. She’d come to get information, not give it—at least not until she’d figured things out a bit more. Until then, Gus could go on thinking that his granddaughter was up for a role in Little Women.

With a little time left before she had to pick up Ben, Faith went home and reported in to John Dunne about the meeting at Millicent’s. Amy sat at her mother’s feet, surrounded by puzzles, her favorite toy. She was babbling softly to herself and Faith listened intently for recognizable words. Amy had said bird yesterday.

They’d be having mother-daughter talks in no time.

Detective Lieutenant Dunne came to the phone immediately. Faith hated to disappoint him.

“They may be having separate, even clandestine meetings, but if so, it’s only to satisfy Brad Hallowell’s theatrical inclinations. And they were both surprised when they heard about the excavator sabotage.”

“I can’t see Millie shimmying up the boom with a machete in her mouth,” John agreed. He’d been having a good day. They’d checked prints from a particularly grisly homicide with the New Hampshire police after coming up with nothing in Massachusetts.

Bingo, and the arrest had been made an hour ago. The guy was now safely under lock and key.

“How about other POW! members? You said some of them were pretty militant,” he asked.

“The Batcheldors were the most militant, and neither of them was in any shape to disable a steam shovel. I can’t think of anyone else.” She decided the time had come to tell John about meeting Nelson and Margaret in the woods.

After she told him, he asked, “Anything else you’re saving for a rainy day?”

“No—and you did say you only wanted to know about the POW! meetings.”

“You knew what I meant. Anyway, we’ll have a look around Beecher’s Bog and see what we can find.

Nelson Batcheldor is out of the hospital. Might have a word with him about his wardrobe. What about that big donation, the five-hundred dollars. Any ideas?”

“Not really. I think Pix is right and it’s someone in public office who can’t come out and openly support POW! Whoever it is, I don’t see how it’s connected to Margaret’s death or the letter writing. Quite a few people in town are convinced that Joey Madsen wrote the letters and killed Margaret when he found her setting fire to his house—a crime of passion. I’m not convinced.”

“Neither am I,” Dunne admitted.

Amy was losing interest in the puzzles at last and using her mother as a climbing structure.

“I’ve got to go now, but I’ll keep in touch.”

“I know,” John said, and hung up.

Faith put the phone down. She wasn’t holding out on him, but she hadn’t told him about Lora Deane or her own visit to Gus. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with either POW! or Margaret’s murder. Tom would have to take over her duties at POW!’s meeting tonight and report back to Detective Dunne. Given recent events and the imminence of the special Town Meeting, there might be more militancy and, in turn, more suspects. These people seemed so sure. Although Faith believed it was best for the town that the bog be preserved, she could see the other point of view. POW! didn’t.

She put Amy in her car seat and looked past the church to the woods beyond, leading to the bog.

Though it wasn’t harvested anymore, at one time it had been a working cranberry bog. Part of the Beecher’s barn was still standing, their stone walls tumbled but in place, and their old orchard bloomed in the spring. In effect, Joey Madsen would be turfing over a piece of Aleford’s history. The rights of the town versus the rights of an individual. It was a tough call.

The library event was a great success and the head of the endowment campaign told Faith she had already been slipped two hefty checks and received several pledges. “It’s your food, I’m sure. Puts everyone in a benevolent mood,” she’d said. Faith was grateful for her praise but thought it also had to do with the excellent speaker, an eminent historian, who introduced his talk by pointing out the accessibility of libraries in the United States compared with that in other countries and suggesting everyone dig deep into his or her pocket to keep it that way.

When she got home, Tom was waiting up by the fireplace. There were two brandy glasses on the coffee table. Hers was full.

“You always have the best ideas,” she said.

“And here’s another,” he told her, moving from the wing chair to the couch and taking her in his arms.

“There’s nothing like staring into the nonflickering flames of a lifeless fireplace to arouse one’s passion.”

“True, true,” Faith said, sipping her Rémy Martin,

“but first tell me what happened at the meeting tonight.”

“This could kill the mood,” Tom warned.

“I doubt it.”

“All right.” Tom had been planning to tell his wife the moment she walked in, anyway. He knew she’d be kicking herself for missing it—and it had been something to miss.

Joey had arrived at the meeting ready for blood. His lawyer wasn’t with him. He walked in, went to the front row, and sat directly facing Millicent. Her face was stony. She called the meeting to order, but before she could ask for a reading of the minutes, Joey jumped up. “You did it at my meeting, so I can do it at yours. Equal time, right? Isn’t that what all you lily-livered liberals believe in? Well, I’ve got my rights and I’m taking them.”

Tom knew why he’d come alone. Madsen was certainly not following counsel’s advice.

Maybe Millicent thought the best way to deal with the situation was to be gracious. Maybe she was just plain curious. In any case, she recognized the irate builder.

“I believe Mr. Madsen has something to say before we begin. Mr. Madsen?”

“Damn right I do. First of all, whoever screwed up my excavator, I’m going to get you. If it takes the rest of my life. Now, for the rest of you, you can hold meetings round the clock and it isn’t going to do you any good. My lawyers have been over the plans a thousand times. There’s nothing wrong. Alefordiana Estates is going to happen, so you’d better get used to the idea. I’m under the impression that this is still a free country and a man can do what he wants with his own land. You’re trying to take that right away from me and I’m serving notice here and now that you’re going to fail. Nobody takes anything away from me that’s mine.”

The room was silent. Joey was running out of steam. He left the stage and walked to the doors at the rear of Asterbrook Hall. He turned and shook his fist, repeating his last words. “Nobody does me out of what’s mine. Remember that!”

Faith was listening openmouthed to Tom’s description of the meeting. “What happened after he left?”

“You know Millicent. A class act. She thanked the group for their indulgence and called for the minutes.

The rest of the meeting went fast. I had the feeling people were itching to get out and tell everyone who wasn’t there what had happened. Pix almost had me winded by the time we got here, she was so eager to tell Sam. Oh, and by the way, the Scotts are back.

Louise was looking very determined, so I have the feeling it was her idea more than Ted’s. But you know Ted. If he didn’t think it was safe for them, especially her, to be back, he wouldn’t budge. Millicent read your letter—very good—swore us all to secrecy for some reason. We’re not to reveal the contents, and Louise announced she and Pix would be preparing the mailing tomorrow. I didn’t volunteer you.” Faith’s brandy glass was empty and it was late. It had been a long day—Bridey Murphy, Gus, the library. She was tired—but not too tired.

When you sign up for something, April seems a long way off in September, which is why Faith found herself at the end of a line of preschoolers, all chanting,

“I know a little pussy, who lives down in the lane” in unison. When they got to “He’ll never be a pussy, he’ll always be a cat, ’cause he’s a pussy willow, now what do you think of that!” for the fourth time, she thought she might have a new description of hell. An eternity of Miss Lora’s annual Pussy Willow Walks.

They were on their way into the bog. Faith had on the fisherman’s boots she’d purchased in Maine and the ground squelched beneath them. They’d had more rain during the night, but today was bright and fair.

“It never rains on Pussy Willow Walk days,” Lora told the helper mothers. She didn’t like to call them chaperones—“sounds too much like your Dad insisting on going on your dates,” she’d told Faith once.

Any relative of Lora’s would be getting more than he or she bargained for on the young woman’s dates these days, Faith thought. And how did she manage to look so full of energy and good cheer after weekends of carousing?

The helper mothers—helper fathers appeared only occasionally—were spread out through the line.

Faith, at the front, was supposed to keep watch for low branches and thorny bushes. She trudged along and tried to ignore the performers behind her. They were gearing up to start the poem again—Ben’s high little voice chanting as enthusiastically as the rest.

The densely growing trees, covered with thick ropes of interwoven vines, had kept the ground beneath from getting as wet as the ground immediately around the bog. Lora had made sure there were pussy willows to find, she’d reassured the mothers. They were on the other side of the woods, on a path that led to a small pond. Faith continued to reconnoiter. She was getting a bit ahead of the pack, but she told herself it was for their own good. She snapped a few branches out of the way to convince herself.

Emerging from the woods into the open, she noticed that there seemed to be a fallen log in the path.

They’d have to help the children over it. She went closer.

It wasn’t a log.

It was Joey Madsen. Face up, his eyes wide with surprise. There was a knife in his chest. He’d been stabbed and he was dead.

Eight

Faith screamed. She couldn’t help it, even knowing the children were close behind her. She ran back toward the group, which had become instantly silent.

The children’s faces were frightened. One little boy was getting ready to cry.

She spoke quickly. “I saw . . . I saw a poor dead animal and it startled me. I’m sorry if I startled you, too, children.”

There were a few solemn nods. Ben immediately spoke up. “What kind of animal? A big animal? A fox? A deer? What is it, Mom? Can we see?” Faith cut him off, “No, sweetheart, I think it would be better to go back now and wait until the path is clear. We need to leave him in peace.” Lora was looking at Faith in some confusion.

“You’re sure we should turn around?”

“I’m sure,” Faith said firmly.

The other mothers began to get the children back in line and one of them started singing “Inch by Inch.” Soon the kids joined in. Thank God for presence of mind, Faith thought, and motioned for Lora to step aside.

“What’s going on?” the teacher asked in a low voice.

“There’s been an accident.” Faith could not bear to tell Lora that her brother-in-law was dead, and in any case, she couldn’t let her know until the police had been there. “A very bad accident. Please call Chief MacIsaac and tell him to get here right away. Tell him to call the state police and ask Detective Dunne to meet him here.”

“The state police! Faith, you’ve got to tell me! It’s a person, isn’t it! What’s happened?”

“I can’t say any more and I can’t let anyone go any closer until the police arrive. Please, you have to take care of the children.” Faith hoped this would distract Lora. It did. The class was almost out of sight and Lora sprinted after them.

Faith called after her, “Wait! Go upstairs to Tom’s office and tell him to come as soon as possible!”

“Okay,” Lora said, running to keep up with her charges.

They were gone and Faith was alone in the bog with the body. She would have welcomed the sound of any nursery rhyme, no matter how many times it was repeated.

Joey. Joey was dead. She felt dizzy and sat down on a rock. For a moment, she thought she might be sick.

She dropped her head to her knees. Pine needles carpeted the ground in a thick brown mat. They smelled faintly of balsam, of Christmas trees. An ant crawled from underneath. She sat up. Joey. Joey Madsen had been murdered. She couldn’t stop thinking of his sightless eyes staring up at the spring sky. Face up.

Not face down.

Joey had known his killer. No one had crept up stealthily behind him. He’d come down the path, maybe his hand out in greeting. Someone Joey knew.

Someone he trusted. Why were they meeting here, out of sight? Why not at the company’s office or at Joey’s house?

She stood up, wishing Tom would hurry. She walked back toward the body, careful to retrace her steps. Away from the dense canopy the trees made, the ground was soft. She could see the imprint of her boots, coming and going. There were other footprints, too. A ditch ran alongside the path, filled with the runoff from the pond.

The water was still and covered by thick green slime.

There was very little blood. Just a stain on the surface of Joey’s sweatshirt, around the handle of the knife. A large crow flew overhead, cawing loudly. She needed to stay nearby. She needed to keep the birds or other predators from desecrating the corpse. From pecking at those open eyes.

An animal, she’d told the children, to protect them from the horror of the truth. What if she hadn’t been first in line? She shuddered. An animal. But Joey was not an animal. He was a proud new father, a husband, a son, a human being. She thought of Bonnie and little Joey.

Tom found her in tears a short distance from the body. She threw herself into his arms.

“Oh, Tom, it’s Joey Madsen. He’s dead. There’s a knife in his chest. I had gone ahead. The children didn’t see. Oh, what will his poor wife do!” She sobbed. Tom held her close and stroked her hair. She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “Who can be doing all these terrible things? First Margaret, then Nelson, now Joey! Who will be next? I’m scared!”

“Me, too,” Tom said.

They held each other in silence for a few minutes; then Tom asked, “Are you okay? I want to go a little closer.”

Faith nodded.

“Tell me how far you went.”

“See that bush by his foot? Up to there.” Tom walked carefully in his wife’s tracks and knelt by the bush. Staying where she was, Faith said her own prayer for Joey—and for the rest of the town.

Tom came back and they stood holding hands, waiting for the police.

Charley arrived first, crashing out of the woods, followed by two patrolmen. “What’s going on?” Faith pointed to the body. “It’s Joey Madsen and he’s dead.”

“What the hell!” Charley started to go over to the dead man, then stopped. “Who else besides you two has been here?”

“Nobody, except Joey and whoever did it, so far as I know.”

Charley considered the lifeless form a few feet away. “Face up,” he commented out loud. “Didn’t think he had anything to be afraid of, even way out here. Now what was he up to?”

The shock was wearing off and Faith had started to think along the same lines. Did his death have anything to do with his outburst at the POW! meeting last night? Tom had quoted Joey’s threat: “I’m going to get you, even if it takes the rest of my life.” Did whoever cut the hoses on the excavator get him first?

“Joey is ready to kill somebody.” Where did that come from? Lora, speaking of Joey’s outrage. Was it a question of kill or be killed for the murderer? But Joey wouldn’t have come to this isolated spot to confront an enemy—unless he was armed himself. And Faith wouldn’t know that until the police told her— if they would tell her.

Charley was asking her what time she’d found the body and what she was doing here in the first place.

As she began to relate the morning’s events, Detective Lieutenant John Dunne arrived with his partner, Detective Ted Sullivan, and the rest of the CPAC unit from the state police. The medical examiner was on the way from the Framingham barracks, Dunne told Charley before turning to Faith. Both Sully and Dunne did not seem surprised to see her there; Charley must have told them, of course. On the other hand, neither looked pleased at her presence. John strode over closer to the body and Faith now knew exactly what a quaking bog was. He returned, conferred with Sully, who already had his camera out, then walked over to the Fairchilds.

“Taking a nature walk?” he asked Faith.

“No, I was one of the helper mothers, the chaperones, for the Pussy Willow Walk Lora Deane’s class was taking.”

Dunne wrote it down in his notebook. Cases where Faith was involved always introduced concepts and words he had to ask his wife about. Snuglis, now Pussy Willow Walks.

“Have you touched the body, moved anything near it?”

“No to both. I could tell immediately he was dead.” The eyes. The eyes would haunt her waking and sleeping hours for a long time to come.

“Be sure to get shots of the footprints, and we’ll make the casts right away,” he called out to Detective Sullivan. The rest of his men were combing the area for evidence—anything. The knife handle was being dusted for prints.

“You two going to be home today?”

“We are now,” Tom said, and John nodded. He knew what they must be feeling—shock, fear—and this was all before the delayed reaction.

“Did you know him well?”

“Not well, but we knew him,” Tom answered.

And even more about him, Faith finished silently.

She wanted to go home.

After a few more questions, Dunne told them they could leave.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Faith. She knew what he was trying to say and was grateful.

“Thank you.”

The Fairchilds went back up the slight slope into the woods, retracing their own steps—and the path the murderer had taken. There was only one way in and one way out. Joey had come that way, too—and Miss Lora’s class. It had been a busy morning in the bog.

“You get Amy and I’ll get Ben?” Faith suggested.

“No,” Tom said. “I want to stay with you. We’ll get them together.”

They walked quickly away from Beecher’s Bog.

Joey had died on the first warm, sunny day of the year, beneath a cloudless blue sky. The air was filled with birdsongs. Margaret would have known what they were. She’d been alive ten days ago. Joey had been that morning. Their deaths were linked. Faith was sure of it and she knew she had to try to find out before there was another.

The Fairchild family was sitting around their large kitchen table, eating lunch. Amy was in her high chair, feeding herself after a fashion. She’d recently displayed an independent streak when it came to food, grabbing the spoon herself and taking great joy in picking up such things as linguine, one strand at a time, with her tiny fingers. While Faith was happy to note these beginnings that promised a lifelong interest in food, it made feeding Amy in a hurry difficult. Today there was no rush and the toddler was delicately picking out the peas from the chicken potpie with puff-pastry crust that filled her bowl.

Ben had finished his and asked for more.

“Did they move the animal?” he’d wanted to know earlier, as soon as he’d seen his mother.

“They will soon.”

“Then we can go for our walk tomorrow?” It was going to be a while before Faith willingly entered the bog and she’d resorted to that useful catchall, “We’ll see.”

Now, being together felt good. Faith had the feeling that she and Tom had gone through something akin to an earthquake or other disaster. Afterward, you just want to hold on to those closest to you.

Comfort yourself. Feel blessed. She could tell Tom was experiencing the same emotions. His chair was so near Amy’s that she was getting potpie on both their clothes.

Faith wasn’t hungry and had been picking at her food. She was nervous, expecting the phone to ring, or a knock on the door.

The phone was first.

“Faith! My God! I just heard!” It was Pix. “We were finishing the mailing and Ellen Phyfe came bursting in, shouting that Joey Madsen had been murdered in the bog and that you’d found him.”

“How did she find out?” Aleford really was incredible.

“She was in the camera store, and you know they listen to the police band all the time.” Faith did know. The group at Aleford Photo was an interesting crew, who gave new meaning to the term moonlighting. Bert, for example, was a licensed undertaker, had two paper routes, restored old cars, sold crucifixes and other religious articles by mail, had a houseful of foster children and his own kids—and worked in the store. By comparison, Richard was a sluggard, working only three jobs: at the store, as an auxiliary cop, and as a professional race-car photographer. If you wanted to know the latest in either photographic techniques or local larcenies, Aleford Photo was the store to frequent. They were pretty good for car advice, too.

“I have to take Danny to soccer; then I’ll be right over,” Pix said. “And we didn’t send out the mailing.

It seemed terribly inappropriate, if that’s the right word.”

Faith wasn’t sure inappropriate was the right word, either. Callous, unfeeling, dancing on Joey’s grave—

all came to mind. She went back to the kitchen. Tom was cleaning up himself and Amy. Ben was in the backyard on the swings.

“It’s all over town,” she told him.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised.” He’d missed a spot and she took the wet cloth and wiped his cheek.

“It does change things, though. Pix said they didn’t send out the mailing. Do you think the Deanes are likely to press forward with Alefordiana Estates? Remember, Gus wasn’t too enthused about it.” Gus hadn’t been too enthused about the man his granddaughter had married, either. But that was a long way from murder. Although, two men with violent tempers . . .

“I have no idea,” Tom said. “Bonnie may be so upset that she’ll want to continue even if it doesn’t make the best business sense—in memory of her husband and because there’s no doubt he would have wanted it that way.”

Faith thought about Bonnie and found herself disagreeing with Tom. Bonnie might be upset, but if it didn’t make sense financially, she wouldn’t have any part of it. She wondered how Bonnie had viewed Joey’s scheme. She had been conspicuously absent from all the presentations, but then, she’d just had a baby. This thought was qualified immediately. A woman who closes a deal as she’s going into labor wouldn’t shy away from important meetings after the birth—if she wanted to be there.

“I wonder what Millicent is planning to do? She’s put so much time and energy into fighting Alefordiana Estates. It wouldn’t be like her to abandon the cause, even if the cause is dead.” As she spoke, the last word stuck in her throat. Faith picked Amy up. She was beginning to droop. Sleep, the sweet escape. Faith wished she could crawl in with her daughter.

Pix’s call was just the first, and eventually they had to take the phone off the hook. Faith prepared a brief statement that she gave to the Aleford Police Department, then referred all the newspapers and other media to them. Prudently, she’d called both her parents and Tom’s when it became apparent that the news would spread. She downplayed her role: “Wrong place, wrong time.” Her mother, Jane, had sounded skeptical, “I did hope your last murder would be it, dear”—making Faith feel somewhat like “the bad seed.”

Faith’s sister, Hope, on her way to an important meeting, was more direct. “Can’t you find anything else to do up there? I thought when you started the business again that would take care of things.”

“It’s not a hobby,” Faith had protested. “I’m not deliberately finding bodies!”

“We’ll talk. Got to run.” And Hope was off to crunch some more numbers, and squeeze some individuals, as well.

Late in the afternoon, Tom went out for milk. He returned from the Shop ’n Save with a gallon, some Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream, and the news that Aleford seemed to have developed a siege mentality overnight. There were very few people in the market and they weren’t lingering.

Even the checkout clerks looked nervous.

“It was weird. People were stocking up the way they do when a big storm is predicted, but there wasn’t any excitement like there is then.” Faith was making lentil stew, more than enough for dinner. She had also felt the need to fill the larder. A few loaves of olive bread were rising on the back of the stove. She’d taken some thick pork chops out that she planned to rub with garlic and rosemary before broiling. As usual, in times of trouble, she turned to substantial food. Garlic always made life seem better.

Pix had come and gone, jumpy as everyone else.

She was picking the kids up rather than letting them walk home from their various practices. Faith had asked about Samantha’s latest college inclinations and Pix’s face had gone blank for a moment. Samantha? College? She recollected herself and said, “Still waiting for Wellesley, and since that’s the one place she hasn’t heard from, that’s the one place she wants to go. I’ll be happy when this is all over.”

“So will I,” Faith said—and they both knew they weren’t just talking alma maters.

Charley MacIsaac and John Dunne came by shortly after Pix left.

“Homicidal maniac—that’s what people are saying,” Charley commented.

“And what do you think?” Faith directed her question to both of them. Dunne answered.

“Homicidal, obviously. Maniac, I doubt. Both of these crimes have been carefully planned, nothing accidental or spontaneous about them. And all this window dressing—poison-pen letters, disabled construction equipment, harassing phone calls.”

“The brick through Lora’s window, the attack on Nelson, although that was probably not intended to fail,” Faith reminded him. “So you think everything that’s been happening this month is connected?”

“Don’t you?” Cops loved to answer a question with a question, Faith had observed.

“Yes, I haven’t figured out how, though.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we haven’t, either, which is why we’re here.”

“You need my help.” It was a statement of fact.

Dunne grimaced. He would have done well in Ed Wood movies. However, Faith’s overriding thought was John’s admission that he needed her particular expertise. They were back in business.

Dunne opened his Filofax and flipped to a blank page.

“Tell me everything you know about Joey Madsen and his family. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

“Was he carrying a weapon?” Faith knew enough to get her questions in first when John was in one of these expansive moods.

“No—and before you get around to asking about the murder weapon, it was a common, ordinary kitchen knife. Impossible to trace. He or she could have had it in a drawer for years or picked it up at a yard sale—it wasn’t new.”

Faith obediently filled John and Charley in on everything she’d learned about Joey Madsen and the family he’d married into. Tom added what he knew.

Faith even mentioned Miss Lora’s double life and her own recent visit with Gus.

“It’s no secret Gus Deane didn’t think much of his granddaughter’s choice,” Charley told them. “Tried to buy him off. Bonnie heard about it and almost didn’t invite the old man to the wedding. It was quite a scandal at the time. Her father was still living and he smoothed things over.”

They talked some more. Charley seemed convinced that someone connected to POW! was involved. John didn’t comment, nor did Faith—out loud. Could Beecher’s Bog mean so much that you’d kill for it?

And no one in POW! would have murdered Margaret, a founding member! Unless someone in POW! found out that Joey had killed her, enraged that she was burning the house down, then killed Joey, taking the law into his or her own hands. It certainly avenged the one crime while preventing what POW! viewed as an almost equally heinous one from occurring. Brad Hallowell clearly viewed the development of the land this way. And what about the possibility that Margaret hadn’t been alone that night? Her accomplice had gotten away but might have seen who killed her—and again, the killer might have been Joey. Faith related her theories and ended, slightly chagrined, “There are a lot of ‘might haves.’ ”

The men, including her husband, nodded.

“But it’s possible,” she protested, in the face of solid male opposition, never a pretty sight.

“It’s possible,” Charley conceded in the tone of voice he used to humor her. She wasn’t offended, just vowed to keep her theories to herself in the future.

The other two didn’t say anything. Dunne stood up.

The kids came running into the room. They adored him. Something about his size, a Barney double. He hastily made for the door. Kids were fine in their place—his own kids at home, for instance—but they tended to make him nervous—those little feet, so easy to trip over, and the never-ending questions.

The Fairchilds ate early and bundled the children off to bed as soon as humanly possible, then went to bed themselves. By mutual consent, they didn’t talk about what had happened. They were exhausted.

*

*

*

Faith pulled the loaded van into the winding driveway of one of Aleford’s older homes—a large mid-nineteenth-century stone house that had grown over the years. It had a glassed-in conservatory and a long porch filled with comfortably cushioned wicker furniture. The porch was on the side of the house and faced gardens so magnificent that they had been included in the Evergreen’s garden tour each year since the tour had started. No expense had been spared on this house and Martha Fletcher, the hostess, had given Faith the same instructions for this evening—although, she had been cautioned, nothing nouveau riche. The client had actually used the term.

It was 3:30 and Faith was glad to see Niki’s car was already parked at the rear of the house. Typically, Mrs. Fletcher had invited people for six o’clock. In New York, that could sometimes mark the end of a long lunch. While not exactly in a party mood, Faith was looking forward to the event. Last night Joey’s face, dead and alive, had punctuated her dreams. She was eager for distraction.

Niki opened the kitchen door. “Our hostess is indulging herself with a long soak in a scented tub. I know because she told me. She made it sound so sinful, I’m going straight out tomorrow and pick up some lavender bath salts myself.”

Faith began to cheer up and told herself that for approximately the next six hours, she wasn’t going to think about anything but food and drink. On the way over, she’d had trouble concentrating on the pot roast to hand; her mind, so cooperative earlier, had turned rogue and persisted in tossing about competing theories about Joey’s murder. Niki helped with the resolution by giving her boss a tight hug and saying firmly,

“I’m doing the fruit; you do the table. We can talk later. Nobody’s going to get killed tonight.” Faith appreciated the sentiment and sincerely hoped Niki was right.

An hour later, Mrs. Fletcher appeared, pink and rosy from her bath. She was wearing her dressing gown, but her makeup was on and she’d already scat-tered the jewelry from the safe-deposit box in various places about her person. Some good pieces, probably Grandmama’s, but the diamonds needed cleaning and Faith noticed that the catch on the gold and sapphire bracelet had been repaired with a small gold safety pin. It would obviously be in bad taste to have anything professional done to one’s heirlooms. Nouveau riche again.

Martha Fletcher stood in the dining-room doorway, a tall, substantial woman with her gray hair smoothed back into a tidy, at the moment, bun.

“It looks beautiful!” she gushed. Faith had to agree.

They’d knocked themselves out creating this Patriots’

Day buffet. The table was covered with material Faith had found at Fabric Place—a cream background with tiny flags, eagles, and stars stenciled in navy on the heavy glazed cotton. She’d placed groupings of votive candles in various-sized brass balls with star cutouts throughout the room. They gave off a soft glow and matched her hostess’s brass chandelier, suitably dimmed. They’d done a large arrangement of blue delphiniums, Queen Anne’s lace, red and white ranun-culuses, and several colors of anemones for the side-board, where the wine and, later, the coffee would be served. A lower, smaller arrangement sat on the table.

“And everything smells so good already. I knew I was right to have you!” Mrs. Fletcher rambled on.

“Thank you.” The aromas from the kitchen were mouthwatering. Faith needed to get back there and see that the hors d’oeuvres were ready to go. She excused herself. Her hostess glanced at her watch and gave a shrill cry. “They’ll be here any minute! I have to make sure Prescott’s ready and get dressed myself!” Prescott Fletcher, her husband, was a distinguished-looking gentleman. He had popped his head into the kitchen earlier, looked about the room with a marked degree of unfamiliarity, asked them if they had everything they needed, and left in obvious relief when they said they had. Prescott had continued to add to the bounty of his family tree as a venture capitalist, Pix had told Faith, who wished she had the time—and nerve—to pin him down and ask him what this actually was.

In the kitchen, the staff was in full gear. Instead of a first course, they were serving heartier-than-usual fare for hors d’oeuvres: crab cakes with a spicy remoulade, asparagus wrapped in paper-thin slices of smoked salmon, zucchini pancakes with salsa and sour cream, wild-mushroom tartlets, two kinds of crostini—one with a duck pâté, the other with tapenade—and cherry tomatoes stuffed with chèvre. There wasn’t anything particularly patriotic about the choices, although all were made with native products. Faith had decided enough was enough after determining the main course, dessert, and decor. Her hostess had wanted the catering staff to wear period dress, but Faith had politely but firmly declined, explaining this would seriously hamper their performance. She had no intention of getting stuck in the swinging door—or roasting to death in all those layers. She wore her black-and-white chef’s pants, tailored to fit, and a tuxedo-front white shirt with a black rosette instead of a tie. The rest of the staff was similarly attired, except they wore plain black pants, and Scott, the bartender, wore a tie. Faith had met Scott Phelan and Tricia, who was now his wife, five years ago. Scott had played a role in solving Cindy Shepherd’s murder. It was as hard now as it had been then for Faith to keep her mind on track. If anything, he was better-looking. Take-your-breath-away looks.

Old-fashioned movie-star good looks, Gregory Peck as opposed to Brad Pitt. Tricia was a beautiful girl herself and the two were very happy together. They were teasing Niki, who was frantically washing lettuce, a hateful task. She’d suddenly decided they didn’t have enough for the salad—mixed greens topped with pome-granate seeds and a blueberry vinaigrette dressing.

“You’re going to be an old maid if you don’t watch out,” Scott warned.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Better than ending up with some jerk.”

“Not all men are like Scott, you know, Niki. I happen to like jerks,” Tricia said, quickly moving out of her husband’s reach. “Don’t mess me up! I just did my hair.” She held up one arm to push him off.

“A jerk, huh?” He kissed her anyway—carefully.

“I’m only making sure you don’t take me for granted,” she said.

This would have gone on—and had—but it was time for the party. Niki spoke before Faith could.

“Okay, okay. Enough foreplay. Get out there and do your jobs. Faith and I have real work to do here,” she ordered.

When the two had gone, Tricia with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Scott to take drink orders, Faith and Niki laughed. “Better than TV,” Niki said.

“Much better,” Faith agreed, “And wait until they have kids!”

Scott returned. “It’s not a white-wine crowd. Mrs.

Fletcher was right about ordering a lot of scotch. And of course I have one order for a flintlock; it’s a good thing we brought rum. They’re starving, too. Went for Tricia like locusts.”

“I’d better take another tray out right away,” Faith said. This sometimes happened. People knew they were going to a dinner party, so they skipped lunch or ate lightly, then arrived ravenous. Well, there was plenty. She headed into the living room.

“And he has such a temper, my dear. No control at all. Remember when he turned his desk over in second grade!” A silver-haired lady was having a good time raking somebody over past and present coals.

Faith wondered who was the object of this conversation, and moved unobtrusively a little closer.

“That’s where Joseph got it from, no doubt,” another woman commented, mouth pursed in disapproval.

“Joseph who?” a red-faced, rotund man asked, his drink—scotch, no ice—in one hand, a well-laden small plate in the other. He was wearing the modern equivalent of patriotic patrician dress: red chinos from Brooks, the same provenance for the navy sports jacket and striped tie.

“Joseph Madsen, the contractor who got himself killed yesterday,” the first speaker answered. “We’re speaking of the way certain mannerisms run through the generations in that kind of family. He’s exactly like Gus.”

“He may be like Gus, but he’s not related to him.

Not that I ever heard of. Married the old man’s granddaughter.”

“Oh, that’s right, of course. But it’s all the same.

They simply don’t know how to behave.”

“Made themselves a bundle, though.” The man took a healthy swallow. “Misbehavior has its rewards, if you know what I mean.”

Both women nodded. That they were above such things—well above—was written all over their faces, suffused with the sherry they were sipping—and their own blue blood.

Faith turned to another group and offered the hors d’oeuvres.

Gus had been right.

The conversation was hard to swallow—from the notion that Joey had gotten himself killed, and this was taking “blame the victim” to a new height—to the idea that these “newcomers” to our shores were unable to control their passions. A prospect not without titillation for some in the room, she was sure. The whole thing made her sick. These were not the Alefordians she knew. When she’d mentioned the job to Pix, she’d made a face. “Pretty snooty bunch. I’m surprised she’s hiring you. They always use the same people from Cambridge or entertain at the club.” Aleford boasted its own country club, but the Fairchilds didn’t know anyone who belonged, except the Scotts, who were avid golfers and regularly apologized for their membership: “The club’s so close to our house.” Faith moved to another group and offered the tray.

They, too, were discussing the murder. It had been naïve to think it would be otherwise. This was a more savvy bunch, more circumspect.

“We understand you discovered the body of poor Mr. Madsen,” one woman said, “It must have been quite a shock.”

“Yes, it was,” Faith answered. “Try one of the crab cakes, an old family recipe.” It was. Faith had created it when the firm was just starting in New York.

“And the police have no idea who could have done such a thing?” the woman persisted.

“Not to my knowledge,” Faith answered.

“Probably a business deal gone sour. You hear about these things all the time. Of course, not in Aleford. Shame he had to be here when it happened,” the man next to her said. Faith had the impression that he wouldn’t have minded if Joey had been killed elsewhere. It was the venue that bothered him. “Not in my backyard” joined “blame the victim.” Faith left the room, her mind filled with murder-ous thoughts, and they had nothing to do with Joey Madsen.

Back in the kitchen, Niki was arranging the slices of Yankee pot roast on a hot platter, with the vegetables and potatoes grouped at one end. The gravy was keeping warm on the stove. The sight of the meat, prime beef shoulder from Savenor’s Market on Charles Street, suddenly made Faith hungry. It was a delicious dish. She took baskets of corn-bread sticks and nut bread out to the table. But the party mood had vanished. Pix had told her once when Faith had first moved to Aleford that the town was like a patchwork quilt, all sorts of patterns and colors sewn into a usable whole. The bits and pieces of its fabric didn’t look like much until it was assembled; then you could see how one square complemented another. Faith liked thinking about the town this way, but tonight’s gossipmongers didn’t belong. Second grade! And she was damn sure that if Gus had indeed overturned a desk, he’d had a good reason.

By the time Have Faith’s crew was wearily washing the last streaks of sorbet from the dessert plates, Faith had decided she would try to stick to her rule more strictly in the future and stay in the kitchen during events, emerging solely for her bow at the end. Then she could pretend that only the most sophisticated, intelligent, broad-minded people were enjoying her fare. It would keep her fantasies in place.

The Phelans followed her back to Have Faith and helped her unload the small amount of leftovers. She pressed some of the pot roast on them for the next day; then Scott walked her to her car after they had locked up.

“I know the twins, Terry and Eddie Deane. They used to race dirt bikes up in Pepperell with me. Good guys. I still take care of their cars.” Scott had recently started his own auto-body business after working for someone else for years. “The Deanes will get to the bottom of all this, and, Faith, Joey wasn’t the nicest guy in the world—or the most honest. I’m not saying he deserved what he got, but there’s a lot you don’t know.”

Faith had told them in the kitchen what she’d over-heard at the party.

“It could be somebody settling an old score, even a very old score. And it may not have anything to do with this bog business.” Scott liked to ride his bike on the trails surrounding the bog, which upset the con-servationists, so he’d stopped—not because he was convinced, but because he didn’t want to get in trouble. He hadn’t cared before he was married, but Tricia was not someone you made angry. Besides, he was older now.

“I know you think you’re pretty good at this detective stuff, but some of the people Joey was involved with wouldn’t think twice about sending you on a very long one-way trip. He’s been borrowing from everybody and his uncle for the Estates thing. Could be that somebody wanted the money back and he didn’t have it. Stay away from this one, Faith.” He grinned at her. “Tricia and I need the work.” She appreciated the intent, but there was no way she could keep out now.

“Can you find someone to take care of your children?” Faith was used to Millicent’s habit of plunging in directly after a perfunctory “hello, how are you,” but this was more of a dive than usual. She knew if she kept on the line, eventually all would be clear. Millicent also had a way of saying “your children,” which laid any blame squarely at Faith’s door. When she spoke to Tom, it was always “your dear little Ben and Amy.”

“I can usually turn up someone,” Faith replied. So long as the individual did not have a known criminal record or express intense dislike of anyone under twenty-one, Faith would hire him or her, often in desperation. Baby-sitter lists in Aleford were more closely guarded secrets than the formula for Coca-Cola.

“Good. I want you and Tom both here for an emergency meeting of some of the members of POW! this morning. We have to figure out whether or not we should go forward with Town Meeting.”

“But doesn’t that depend—”

“See you at ten o’clock.” Millicent hung up.

Faith went into Tom’s study, where he was wrestling with his sermon. The events of the past two weeks had impelled him to write his response to this community rent by fear and distrust. He looked as if he had been on the mat for real, brow sweaty and hair mussed. She told him about the meeting.

“You don’t have to go just because Millicent has made it a command performance,” she said.

“But I want to go. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to say—meetings like this make things worse.

And I intend to tell them. The whole business should be dropped immediately. If the Deanes pursue the project at some later time, we’ll decide what to do then, but my God, a man and a woman are dead because of all this strife.”

The babysitter appeared with a pile of homework and Faith didn’t dare tell her that both children were not the types to sit quietly at play. Motioning to a note on the kitchen table with instructions and phone numbers, she left quickly, before the girl could change her mind.

On the way over, Tom told Pix, who had joined them, how he felt.

“I agree completely. It would be unseemly to keep attacking the poor man now that he’s dead. It’s all become so unimportant, anyway,” Pix said.

Millicent ushered them into her parlor. It was crowded with people: the Scotts, Brad Hallowell, Ellen Phyfe, and Nelson Batcheldor. He still wore a black armband, but he seemed fully recovered from his own ordeal.

Millicent took charge. “Now, what is the opinion of this body? I called you as representatives of the larger group and we’ll have to do a telephone tree to confirm whatever we decide, but we should come to a decision today. People are starting to talk.” Tom stated his position eloquently and the Scotts voiced their agreement.

“There’s no need to reconvene Town Meeting now, when we don’t even know if the project is going forward. It would be extremely disrespectful to the entire Deane family, and particularly his widow,” Louise said.

Brad Hallowell and Ellen Phyfe disagreed. Faith had expected it from Brad, but she was surprised at Ellen.

“We’ve worked so hard,” Ellen said. It must have been all those envelopes she’d stuffed. “Don’t you think we should see it through just in case?” Brad seconded her vehemently. “Everything’s in place. We can have this thing nailed down by this time next week, and I wouldn’t put it past the Deanes to use Joey’s death to get everybody on their side—a big play for sympathy. Then zap, we’ve got Alefordiana Estates and the bog is literally history.” Tom stood up. “I, for one, will have no part of any further efforts of POW! I can’t condone taking advantage of a man’s death, even for a cause I may have thought was worthwhile. I strongly advise you to hold off. The town is divided enough—and frightened.”

“I agree with the Reverend,” Millicent declared.

“Nothing’s going to happen overnight, and we are ready if something does. As you point out, Ellen, we have worked hard, and much of that is due to the efforts of those in this room.”

“Margaret wouldn’t have wanted us to stop,” Nelson said in a surprisingly strong, firm voice from the corner of the room where he’d been sitting silently since the meeting began.

“Are you sure?” Faith asked. “Don’t you think the murders—and the attack on you, her own husband—

would have led her to the same conclusion most of us have reached? My own feeling is that we have to find out who’s behind all this and solve the crimes before doing anything else. That’s what I intend to concentrate on.”

“Margaret hated Joey Madsen. I can’t say she would have mourned him too much.”

Tom was quickly losing patience with the gathering. “Margaret was a member of our church, and as a woman of faith, I would not have expected her to like the man, but I know she would not have taken any pleasure in his death. Particularly in a case where murder was involved.”

Nelson seemed to come to. He looked chagrined.

“Of course she wouldn’t. I don’t know what I’ve been saying.”

Faith felt a stab of pity for the man.

The meeting ended with a unanimous vote to sus-pend activities for the present, a grudging assent on Brad’s part. Everyone else seemed convinced. There was one amendment. Instead of a telephone tree, Millicent decided it was only fair to hold one more meeting to put the matter before the full membership. Faith thought she probably enjoyed these get-togethers and wanted one last night onstage. It could be a long time before POW! met again.

She stood up and pulled on the denim Comme des Garçons jacket she had worn. “The sitter is taking the kids to the big playground and I said I’d meet them there, so I have to run.” It was almost noon.

The room emptied, leaving Millicent, Brad, and the Scotts to set up the agenda for Monday night. Tom was returning to his sermon. He was pleased with the way things were turning out. Faith was pleased, too—plus, she had a plan she was beginning to mull over.

The quickest way to the playground was on the new bike path. The old tracks from the commuter train that had gone to Boston’s North Station had been taken up and replaced with macadam. It was so new that few Alefordians had started to use it. Any innovation, no matter how useful or pleasurable, took a while to catch on. She went through Depot Square and entered the path. Any bikers, or walkers, were busy eating lunch. She felt hungry herself and began to think what she should make. Croque-monsieurs, the French version of toasted cheese sandwiches, weren’t the most healthy choice—cheese, butter, smoked ham—and if they had croque-madames, a fried egg, too—but it was what she wanted to eat today. They’d have a big salad too.

She’d come to the part of the bike path she liked best. The trees on either side would be covered with blossoms soon. It was the wildest part of the byway—no houses and no entry on or off the path. It was wooded on both sides; the children liked to explore here and they’d discovered a small pond with ducks one day that had now become a frequent destination.

She began to walk more rapidly. The sky was growing overcast and she didn’t have an umbrella. It had been sunny and warm when she’d left the house.

There was a sudden rustling sound in the trees to the left of her. She knew it was absurd, but she felt nervous and picked up her pace even more. The rustling increased and followed suit. She stopped. It stopped. Now she was panicky. There was no way out.

No houses. No way to get off the path until the next cross street—a long distance ahead. She couldn’t run off into the woods on the right side. If someone was following her, there was nothing to stop the pursuit and she’d be even farther away from help. She looked into the woods, venturing to take a step closer, but she could see nothing beyond the trees. Whoever it was stayed hidden, taking great care not to be recognized.

The thought chilled her.

Faith started walking again, then ran. Ran flat out.

The watcher in the woods increased speed. When and where would the attack come? Her heart was racing.

If only she could make it to the street! If only someone would come along! She opened her mouth to yell for help and at first no sound came out. Then she managed a strangled cry. She was getting breathless.

Who will be next? That’s what she’d wondered aloud with Tom. The question had been answered.

Faith was next.

Nine

To her left, she could hear her stalker coming closer.

Faith looked frantically ahead for the cross street. She had never run so fast in her life. She focused all her thoughts on her legs, pushing and straining to keep going. There was no hope of screaming now; she was gasping for breath. Any second, her attacker would be at her back. She heard a whooshing sound and turned her head, even as fear produced a fresh burst of speed.

It wasn’t an assailant. It was a bicycle. A venerable lady’s Raleigh with a wicker basket dangling from the handlebars.

It was Millicent Revere McKinley.

“Help!” Faith grabbed at the bike. “There’s someone in the woods. Someone’s after me!” Millicent reached into the basket and took out a pocket siren. She pressed the button and produced the desired effect. Faith put her hands to her ears and sat down in the middle of the path, panting. After a while, Millicent twisted the canister and the noise stopped.

“It’s not a good idea to sit there. You’re smack in the way of traffic,” she pointed out. “Now, what’s going on?”

Faith wanted to hug her and did. It was that kind of moment. Fleetingly, she realized that this was the second time Millicent had come to her aid in a time of great peril. Faith wondered if she would have to present the woman with her firstborn or perform some kind of Herculean labor such as cleaning the moss from all the headstones in the old burial ground to even the score.

It took a moment for her to get her breath and arrange her thoughts.

“Someone was stalking me. I could hear the person but couldn’t see who it was—not even if it was a man or woman. Every time I stopped, the noise stopped and whoever it was hid. But why wasn’t I attacked right away? Not that I’m sorry.” Now that the danger was passed, Faith was puzzled. There had been plenty of time before Millicent happened by. Had it been some sort of sadist who had been delighting in her terror?

“You’re sure it wasn’t an animal, a dog?” Millicent asked.

“I’m sure. An animal doesn’t increase speed when you do and slow down when you do. And whoever it was kept moving closer to the path. If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what would have happened.” Faith’s last words were sticking in her throat.

They had moved and were sitting on the grass off to the side of the path. Millicent’s bike was resting ma-jestically on its kickstand.

“I use the bike path often. Much safer than the street, but I always carry my horn. You never know what undesirables could be lurking about, and I suppose that’s who it was—a tramp in the woods, some such person.” She looked Faith straight in the eye.

Neither woman believed for a second that it had been a tramp.

“Maybe,” Faith said. “I can’t imagine who else it could have been.” Which was the truth.

“I’ll see you home,” Millicent offered courteously.

Faith had almost forgotten she was not going straight home. “Oh dear, the children. They’re at the playground. I was on my way there.”

“Then we’ll go there.”

Millicent got back up on her steed and rode at a stately pace next to Faith, who was happy to trot rapidly alongside. She wanted to get off the bike path as soon as possible.

“Where were you going?” The last Faith had seen of Millicent, she was deep in conversation with those who lingered on after the meeting.

“I was on my way to see Chief MacIsaac. Right after you left, we realized that we can’t plan any sort of meeting until we know when the funeral will take place, and there are one or two other things I want to discuss with Charley in person. We would not want to offend anyone by having the meeting on the same day as the funeral. It would be in extremely poor taste.” Faith agreed. She was tempted to tell Millicent not to mention the incident on the bike path, but Charley might as well know sooner than later. Also, Millicent wouldn’t listen to her anyway.

They reached Reed Street and turned toward the playground. Faith felt as if she was stepping back into place, back into her normal life. Kids were running around like crazy; their mothers were sitting in small groups, talking and every once in a while retrieving an overly ambitious toddler from the big slide or settling a dispute about whose turn it was for the tire swing.

Amy was in the sandbox and Ben was on the mon-key bars. The sitter was halfway between, reading Hermann Hesse. Millicent bade Faith farewell, looked around at the scene with the air of someone visiting the zoo, and rode off. Without Faith beside her, she rode speedily and with expertise, negotiating hand signals and turns with aplomb. Speed. If she hadn’t ridden so fast . . . Faith didn’t want to think about it.

She paid the sitter, thanked her, and led the children home. Amy had collected as much sand in her shoes and clothes as a day at the beach produced.

Tom was waiting for them. “I finished my sermon.

It’s a gorgeous day and we need to go someplace.” He looked at his wife. “What’s happened? Are you okay? You look—”

She interrupted him. “Pas devant les enfants,” she said. Definitely not in front of the children. She put Amy in her high chair with a cup of yogurt and cut-up strawberries, then Ben at the table with the same. She drew Tom into the living room and told him what had happened.

He was terribly upset. As soon as she finished, he went to the phone and called Charley. Chief MacIsaac arrived in time for a bowl of squash soup, bread, and cheese.

“What do you call this? It’s good.”

“Butternut squash soup—good for us, too. I added lots of nutmeg and a little cream,” Faith told him.

She’d had some herself and was feeling better. She took the kids upstairs. Amy went down for her nap—

you could set the town hall’s clock by her—and Ben went to his room to “rest,” protesting vociferously all the way, “But I’m not tired!”

When she returned, Charley was eating some apple crisp Tom had dug out of the refrigerator. Tom had a plate of it, too. Both portions were crowned with a large scoop of ice cream.

“But you didn’t warm it up,” Faith protested. “The ice cream is supposed to melt.”

“Tastes fine. Now let’s talk about your adventure this morning. Millicent filled me in, but I want to hear it from you.”

Faith described what she now considered her marathon and ended with a new idea.

“It had to be somebody I know.”

Tom nodded. “I thought of that right away. Otherwise, why not come out immediately and why take so much trouble to hide each time you stopped? You didn’t even catch a glimpse of any clothing, right?”

“No, not even the size of the person, although to make that much noise, he or she couldn’t have been too small. But that doesn’t give us much to go on.”

Charley was getting depressed. Things were totally out of control. “I’ve called Dunne and should hear back from him this afternoon. What are your plans for today? Going to stay put?”

“No,” said Faith.

“Yes,” said Tom.

They looked at each other and smiled for the first time since Faith had come in the door.

“I have got to get out of the house,” she said. Out of the town, too, she added to herself. Aleford had lost some of its charm lately. “I want to go someplace with lots of people, where no one knows us. Someplace indoors. No nature walks.”

Tom nodded. Faith was right.

“The Boston Museum of Science it is, then,” he said. “I can’t think of anyplace more crowded on a Saturday afternoon than that, except the Children’s Museum maybe, but we were just there, or the Aquar-ium, only I’m not in the mood for sharks.”

“Neither am I,” his wife agreed.

It was late, but Faith and Tom were still sitting up in the kitchen. They’d eaten at Figs in Charlestown, great thin-crust pizza—tonight’s the house specialty: figs and prosciutto with Gorgonzola cheese.

There wasn’t a sinkful of dirty dishes staring them in the face, but that was the prevailing mood in the room. The kids were finally asleep—wired after the museum, even Amy.

“Hungry?” Faith asked in a desultory voice. She knew the answer.

“No, thanks. Want anything to drink?” Faith thought for a moment. The occasion didn’t call for champagne. “Pour me some seltzer, will you?

The prosciutto made me thirsty. I’m going to get some paper. Maybe if we write this all down, we’ll be able to make some sense out of it.”

“I doubt it, but you get the pad and I’ll pour the libations.”

Faith was a great believer in organization. She couldn’t cook in a messy kitchen, and while she didn’t always measure ingredients, when she committed a recipe to print, everything was precise. She approached crime the same way.

“All right, let’s list the targets. In some cases, he or she was successful; in some, not.”

“Thank God,” Tom said. “But shouldn’t we list suspects? Isn’t that the way it’s usually done?”

“Do you want to help or not?” Faith was understandably abrupt after the day she’d had.

“I want to help. It was only a suggestion. Targets it is. Much easier, too.”

“That’s the idea.” Faith patted his hand. “Now, the first was Margaret, then Nelson, then Joey, then me.”

“What about the people who received the letters, and Lora?”

“For now we’ll start with bodily harm, known attempts; then we can add all the other information.” She folded the paper into columns and wrote each name at the top. “Think suspects, means, motive, opportunity—all the stuff you read about. Also, anything else that comes to mind. For instance, Margaret got one of the letters.” Faith wrote “letter” in the column, followed by “threat”—that “if you want to stay healthy” business. The Batcheldors’ letter had been the only one to contain a threat. Faith put an asterisk next to the threat and wrote, “Same wording as Lora’s calls” at the bottom of the page, after another asterisk.

She continued. “Now, in terms of suspects, it could have been anyone in Aleford. Maybe we can get at it through motive.”

“The only scenario I can think of is that Joey, or someone else in the family, came across the arson attempt too late to do anything about saving the house, hit her—maybe not with the intent to kill her—then got panicky and left when it became clear she was dead.”

“I agree, and therefore, the likeliest suspect is Joey.”

“Okay, but what about the attack on Nelson? Let’s assume it’s the same person. Nelson has said over and over that he has no idea who would have wanted to harm Margaret, so what would the murderer gain from Nelson’s death? Nelson doesn’t know anything.”

“Gain—that’s what’s missing. Usually there’s a common link there. Who would profit from Margaret’s death? Nobody. The same with Nelson’s. Unless the Batcheldors have all sorts of hidden assets.

Certainly they spent a fortune in bird seed, but apart from that, they never threw money around.”

“True, but the link may not be gain. It could simply be to avoid exposure.”

“You certainly seem to have the lingo down, darling.”

“I try. I’m switching to beer. You want one?” Faith shook her head. She wanted to keep her mind clear.

“The suspects in Nelson’s case are more limited,” she said. “The chloral hydrate had to have been ad-ministered sometime during the breakfast, which means it had to have been someone who was there.”

“It’s beginning to look more and more like Joey. He may have thought Nelson knew something—or Nelson may know something and not know he knows it.

That makes more sense than it sounds.”

“I know,” Faith said, and wrote it down. “But Joey didn’t kill himself—and he is in no condition to go scampering in the woods after me.”

Tom looked disheartened. “We do have a problem.

Unless Joey’s killer was completely unrelated to the other two crimes and that killer thinks you saw something when you discovered the body.”

“It was a person he knew,” Faith mused. “Who disliked him but might have seemed like a friend, or at least an acquaintance?”

“People in the construction field, perhaps, some of the POW! members, and from what you told me about your conversation with Gus, he might be a possibility.”

“If Gus found out that Joey had killed Margaret and tried to kill Nelson, would he have taken the law into his own hands? He wouldn’t have wanted his family’s name dragged through the courts—and the tabloids.

It’s also possible that it was Joey all along who sent the letters to try to intimidate POW! and made the calls to Lora. If Gus found all this out, he might have seen getting rid of Joey as justifiable homicide, an extreme form of citizen’s arrest.”

“I can’t believe Gus Deane would kill anyone, though. Especially a family member.” Tom sipped his beer slowly.

“He was at the breakfast, remember. And he adores Bonnie. If he thought Joey was hurting her in some way . . .” Faith was scribbling madly. “And what about Bonnie herself? She’s very tough. Suppose she found out what Joey had been up to?” Faith added her name. Bonnie had been at St. Theresa’s. She’d been wearing a voluminous snuff-colored skirt with a wide apron of blue-striped mattress ticking—plenty of room for pockets. Plenty of room to hide a bottle of medicine.

“And you? What would these people have against you?” Tom asked.

“I must be getting close to the truth—which leads me to my plan.” She hadn’t intended to tell Tom, but they were in this together now. “I want to give whoever it is another chance, but before you say anything, this time it would be perfectly safe. I’d be a decoy, let it be known that I do know something. But have John or Charley in the pantry or wherever.”

“You must be out of your mind!” Tom exploded.

Faith was disappointed. She’d thought he understood.

“Tom, it’s the only way to stop this. Someone else may get killed.”

“And it’s not going to be you.”

Faith kept quiet. Tom finished his beer.

“Well, what have we learned?”

“Besides the fact that I married a crazy woman?” He tempered his remark with a long kiss.

“Besides that.”

“One of our killers, if there are indeed two, was someone at the Minuteman breakfast. Although, the notion that there are two seems unimaginable.” Faith was casting her thoughts back to Patriots’

Day morning, assembling the cast of characters: Gus, Joey, Nelson, Bonnie, Brad . . .

“Brad Hallowell. We haven’t talked about him.”

“How does he fit into all this?” Tom had slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. She smelled good—

having put Amy to bed, Faith had a whiff of the corn-starch powder she used for the baby mixed in with her Arpège.

“Suppose he was the person Margaret was meeting at the unfinished house on Whipple Hill. He sees Joey kill her, then tries to blackmail Joey into dropping the Alefordiana Estates plan. When Joey refuses, Brad kills him.”

“What about the attack on Nelson?”

“Nelson knows Margaret was meeting Brad at the house. Maybe Brad has a ski mask, too, and was ca-vorting in the bog with them. Brad is satisfied now that Nelson is too terrified to say anything and is letting him live. He may be certain there’s no evidence to tie him to the crime.”

“And he made the calls to Lora and threw the brick?”

“Yes—and cut the hoses on the excavator. Joey would never damage his own property, unless he really did want to frame POW! But I think he would have picked something less expensive.”

“All the pieces fit so far, but there’s the attack on you. You guys are on the same team,” Tom pointed out.

“True, but Brad knows I’ve been looking into things. I implied that I’m not satisfied with what the police have been doing—or not doing. I said as much at the meeting this morning.”

“I remember,” Tom said glumly.

“And Brad was sitting right there.”

“He certainly is temperamental. I thought he was going to blow his stack when I said I’d quit if we didn’t call off Town Meeting for now.”

“Exactly. Lora said as much, too, when she first told us her suspicions about her caller.” That night, Lora in Tom’s arms, seemed a century ago. And what about Lora? Lora, the lady of at least two faces, if not a thousand. Could she have been in this with Brad and their whole breakup a smoke screen? Then who was Mr. Miata?

Faith wrote a few more hasty notes.