Body in the Bog

“Let’s call it a day—or rather, it is day. It’s tomorrow already, and if I’m not mistaken, it will be show time in a few hours.”

Tom pulled her to her feet. “Show time? Not exactly. But I do have plenty to say.” Joseph Madsen’s wake was Sunday evening. The funeral would be held at St. Theresa’s early Monday.

Faith put on a black linen suit from Searle and went next door to drive to the wake with the Millers. Tom had had to go to the hospital to see an elderly parishioner who’d suffered a heart attack that afternoon.

“I wonder who will be there?” Pix said as they drove to the funeral home.

“Judging from the number of cars, I’d say most of the town,” Sam remarked. “You two go on in and I’ll park in the Shop ’n Save lot. There’s no room here.” The parking lot of the Stewart Funeral Home was full and when Faith and Pix went inside, there was a long line to get into the room where the family was sitting with Joey. Faith spied Millicent ahead of her and the Scotts. Nelson was with them. This was an occasion that transcended mundane disagreements. At least, Faith hoped so. For these two days, no one had any affiliations. Death was a nonexclusive club. No sponsor needed.

Faith had been in a great many funeral homes. It went with the job. Stewart’s was interchangeable with most, except for the framed prints of the battle on Aleford Green and other famous moments from local history. The furniture was Chippendale by way of Ethan Allen, the wall-to-wall carpeting beige, and the walls themselves covered with a muted striped paper that matched the floors. As the line moved slowly forward, they passed a number of large floral offerings: Deane Construction Company, Deane-Madsen Development Corporation, Deane Properties, Deane Toyota, the Masons, the Aleford Minutemen, and, when Faith glimpsed the casket, the biggest and most heartrend-ing of all: “Love from Bonnie and Little Joey.”

“Open or closed?” whispered Pix. She figured Faith, of all people, should know.

“Closed, I would think,” she answered. Yet, morti-cians could accomplish a great deal. They’d shut those staring eyes and cover the wound. The casket might be open after all. She thrust the image out of her mind and tried instead to think of Joey as he’d been at the selectmen’s meeting.

Sam joined them. “Such a young guy.” He thought of his own children. “His poor parents. They were very proud of all he’d accomplished. He comes from a large family in Somerville and he’s always been the star.”

The star. Faith believed it—married well, made good money, produced a long-awaited child, another Joey at that. Joseph Madsen had had everything going for him.

They were close to the front and one of the Stewarts came along with the guest book for them to sign.

It was hard to tell the various Stewart generations apart. In their somber clothes and conservative haircuts, they all looked about fifty. Faith wrote her name.

She was dreading meeting Joey’s parents, who she was sure were the two elderly people sitting next to Bonnie. Mrs. Madsen’s eyes were red and puffy. A balled-up handkerchief was clenched in one hand.

Bonnie had brought the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in her arms at the moment, unaware of the tragedy surrounding him. It was unbearably sad.

The casket was closed. Faith breathed a sigh of relief. Someday she might be able to remember him alive. Gus stood up to greet her, gripping her hand hard and pulling her into his arms.

“I’m so sorry, Gus. I know how horrible this is for all of you.”

The old man nodded. He hadn’t been crying, but his face was red. He looked angry. Lora was standing beside him. She hugged Faith, too. It was as Faith had expected. All thoughts of POW! and divisiveness were absent.

“We’ll get whoever did this,” Lora said angrily; then her face changed and tears welled in her eyes.

“Poor Bonnie! Poor little Joey! He’s never going to know his father.” Lora had her hair pulled back and it looked limp. She was wearing her glasses and no makeup, but now that Faith had witnessed the transformation, she could detect the very attractive woman beneath the disguise. She was surprised she’d missed it before. Context is everything. The way you don’t recognize the checkout people you see several times a week at the market when you bump into them on the MBTA or other places. Brad had picked up on Lora’s appeal. So had the well-dressed stranger. Who else?

A young man next to Lora put his arm around her and Lora managed to make the introduction, “This is my brother Bobby. Eddie and Terry are over with the Madsens. This is Mrs. Fairchild, Bobby.”

“So you’re the one who found him. I’m sorry. It must have been a terrible experience.” Bobby Deane was tall and successfully fighting the weight a slight heaviness at the jowls indicated could be a problem.

He sounded sincere, yet car salesmen always did. He took her over to the Madsens.

“This is Mrs. Fairchild.”

Faith looked back at the Millers, who were still talking with Gus senior. She caught Pix’s eye and signaled for her to come to Faith’s rescue—immediately.

This was because as soon as Bobby said those words, poor Mrs. Madsen lost whatever composure she’d maintained and was now sobbing uncontrollably on Faith’s breast.

“Tell me what he looked like! Did he say anything?” Faith patted the woman on the back. Mr. Madsen hovered next to his wife. His face seemed to have shut down when he got the news and not opened up again.

He was silent, waiting for Faith’s reply, too.

“He was . . . he was at peace. I know he didn’t suffer”—there hadn’t been time—“and I’m afraid he was already gone when I got there.”

Mrs. Madsen lifted her face to Faith’s. She smelled faintly of some kind of floral toilet water, the kind you give your mother on Mother’s Day when you’re a child.

“Thank you.”

Bonnie, who had been sitting motionless with the baby as all this was going on, stood up and guided her mother-in-law back to where they were sitting. It wasn’t that Joey’s widow didn’t look at Faith; she looked through Faith. Pix slipped her arm around her friend and they moved on. Faith realized she was trembling.

“Dear God, these poor people,” Pix said. Sam came up behind them. “Let’s go get something to eat.

Samantha’s with the kids and you don’t have to go home yet. You need a drink, and I wouldn’t mind one myself.”

Gratefully, Faith let the Millers lead the way. On the way out, Millicent stopped them.

“Nothing is going to be right until we find out who’s responsible for all this.” When she closed her mouth on the words, it made a grim line across the bottom of her face, a line sharply accented by the unvarying shade of red lipstick she favored.

Faith nodded and started walking. She really wanted to get away. Away from the fury of Bonnie Madsen’s grief. The candles they were burning smelled sweet, like the incense that would be used in tomorrow’s Mass. She was beginning to feel queasy.

Pix had a question, though. “Did any of the Deanes seem upset to see you or other POW! members here?

Lora used to baby-sit for us and I don’t think they associated us with the group, but it might have been different for you.” Faith stopped to listen.

“No, no one expressed anything other than thanks for my words of comfort. I wouldn’t have expected otherwise. I’ve known Gus all my life,” Millicent replied.

Faith was feeling better. “And that would be . . .” Millicent smiled sweetly and left.

It was hard to find food in the suburbs, unless you wanted to drive to Waltham, which had unaccountably become the mecca for innovative, excellent chefs outside Boston or Cambridge. To get a quick meal, you had to settle for a chain or choose warily from the menu at the Aleford Inn. They went to the inn. Sam ordered some scotch for himself and sweet vermouth for his wife and asked Faith what she wanted. She knew enough not to order the house wine and joined Pix in some vermouth—but dry.

The trick with the inn was to avoid anything with a foreign name or fancy sauce. No chicken à la Ver-sailles or scrod with hazelnut sorrel cream. Scrod simply broiled accompanied by the inn’s thick-cut french fries, the skin left on, was delicious, though, and all of them ordered the same thing. They opted for the vegetable of the day, carrot pennies, rather than the house iceberg-lettuce salad with Thousand Island dressing.

They’d tested those waters before. When the food arrived, Faith ate hungrily.

“Remember, just a memorial service and maybe a few words at the grave,” Pix was reminding Sam. The Millers had a plot on Sanpere Island in Maine, where Pix’s father was buried. It was a lovely cemetery surrounded by birch and evergreens. Faith thought it might not be a bad place to end up. Her thoughts were determinedly morbid. Joey was only a few years older than Tom and she. But then they weren’t going to get themselves killed. Not that Joey had chosen this course, but something he did had led to murder. His murder.

“Who do you think killed him?” she asked Sam straight out.

Sam took the question in stride. He chewed reflectively.

“I wish I could think it was someone from away.” He used the term the natives on Sanpere applied to anyone not born there—a category distinct from summer people and tourists; people who lived there but weren’t from there.

“But you don’t.”

“No, I’m afraid I think it’s someone he knew well; someone we all know. But damned if I can come up with who that someone is.”

Faith and Pix nodded their heads simultaneously in agreement. They looked like the ornaments people put in their cars’ rear windows. They bobbed again.

Someone they all knew.

The funeral was as sad as—and even more crowded than—the wake. Cars lined the side streets near the church. There were also a number of pickups and vans with the names of various local construction companies. Joey’s colleagues had come to pay their last respects. Inside the church, Faith half-expected the pallbearers to be followed by a contingent of hard hats, uniformed like a police funeral. The police were there; both Charley and John sat in a pew near the door. As Faith and Tom walked by toward the front of St. Theresa’s, John leaned out. “Are you going to be home later this afternoon?”

They would be now and told him so.

It was a long service. Father Reeves was accompanied by the priest from Joey’s old church in Somerville, who drew tears when he described Joey as an altar boy, Joey in CYO. Faith tried not to think about what Scott Phelan had told her the night of the Fletchers’ dinner party. Maybe Joseph Madsen’s feet had strayed from the path, but they were there once, and this could be one of the reasons his mother was crying so hard.

The interment was in a cemetery in East Boston, where his grandparents lay at rest. Tom was going, but told Faith she should pick up the kids and stay home.

Enough was enough.

She spent the afternoon engaged in quality time, aware that she hadn’t exactly been piling up points for her motherhood merit badge. She read to Amy until she went down for her nap. Ben was doing Legos on the floor next to them. It was a baby book, he’d declared, but Faith knew he was listening intently as the Poky Little Puppy made his distinctive way through dogdom.

Tom came home. It had started to rain as soon as they reached the cemetery, of course, he told her. A sodden spring. It meant a hot, dry summer everyone said—the same people who knew the wind velocity merely by glancing at a swaying branch. The catering company was air-conditioned; the parsonage was not.

Faith figured on doing a lot of cooking. She would, in fact, be doing a lot of cooking this week. They’d accepted several jobs and had a wedding the following weekend.

She looked out the front window. The rain hadn’t reached Aleford yet, but Detective Lieutenant Dunne had. He was coming up the front walk, covering the distance in several fewer steps than most. She opened the door before he could knock.

“Good, you’re home,” he said, and walked in.

“Tom, too?” There was a distinct note of hope in his voice.

“Tom, too,” Faith assured him.

Tom had told Faith that Dunne had been in East Boston, as well. It was hard for him to be unobtrusive, but he’d remained at a distance from the main body of mourners.

He sat down, removed his raincoat, but refused Faith’s offer of nourishment, as usual. The man must eat like a horse when he got home, she thought. Some form of nourishment was preventing any withering away of flesh from his immense frame. She’d been to the state police barracks and aside from some ancient, moldy-looking sandwiches in a machine next to one that dispensed soft drinks, there wasn’t a scrap of food in evidence. She pictured Dunne’s wife, who Faith had heard was a mere slip of a woman, valiantly stirring large pots and turning a spit with huge haunches of meat. Faith was so distracted by her mental images, she almost missed John’s first words.

“I have to get back right away, but I want to talk to you about Saturday.”

Faith figured as much.

“Are you absolutely sure you were being stalked? It wasn’t an animal—or a kid playing some kind of game?”

“If it was a kid, it was a very weird one,” Faith said, then went through the whole experience again—the way the person had stopped when she did, speeded up—and hid.

“It seems as if someone thinks you know something. Do you?” John’s question was direct and forceful. “This is no time to hold back, Faith.”

“I do have several theories. Tom and I spent Saturday night going through every possibility we could think of, but I’m sure I haven’t missed anything and I’ve told you or Charley everything.” It was true—and frustrating.

“So what did you and Tom come up with?” Dunne leaned back in the wing chair. It didn’t creak, but it looked full.

Tom gave him a synopsis of the various suspects.

“Nothing makes sense. Murder doesn’t make sense.

It’s an act against nature, against the divine order of the universe, but the most likely possibility is that there were two killers: Joey Madsen and then Brad Hallowell. Faith thinks Brad may have developed serious psychological problems as a result of his involvement with some violent fantasy computer games.”

“He seems to view life as one giant monitor screen and doesn’t distinguish between reality and RAM,” she told John.

“And you think he was your would-be assailant?”

“I don’t have any evidence, but yes, I think he was,” she replied. No evidence yet, she added to herself. After Tom’s reaction to her decoy plan, she knew what Dunne’s would be. Not telling him about a future possibility wasn’t, strictly speaking, withholding information—at least not in Faith’s book.

John stood up to leave. “You notice anything at the Madsen wake or funeral?”

Faith shook her head. “Nothing, except a truce has been declared between POW! and the Deanes. Bonnie Madsen wasn’t particularly cordial to me, but that’s understandable since she might have some powerful feelings regarding the person who discovered her husband’s body. I don’t think it had to do with my opposition to Alefordiana Estates. Millicent has called a meeting for tomorrow night to suggest to the membership that all efforts to halt the development of Beecher’s Bog cease for the present. Depending on how people react, the truce might be over.” But Joey wouldn’t be around to find out. He wouldn’t be around to make his fortune, either.

Tom refused to have anything more to do with POW!

“I made myself clear to Millicent and the others.

No matter which way the membership votes, I’m out.” Faith felt slightly guilty. She planned to set her trap tonight, or the first phase, and it suited her not to have Tom around. Though she agreed in principle with his stand, she had to go to the meeting. Besides, she was curious. At any rate, Tom’s staying home solved the sitter problem.

Maybe a hair more than “slightly.” She was walking over with Pix, who didn’t have any problems with guilt at all. She was still 100 percent opposed to the destruction of the bog, she’d told Faith earlier in the day.

“Of course, I don’t think we should be doing anything about it now. I agree with everything Tom said on Saturday, yet it may become necessary to take action in the future. Suspending but not disbanding POW! would make that easier.”

Faith kissed her husband good-bye.

“Why do I have the feeling you’re up to something?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“No, you’re supposed to tell me.”

“That you’re being silly?” She kissed him again.

“Don’t worry.”

“Now I really will,” he said gloomily. “I’ve heard those words before. Maybe I should go to the meeting with you after all. We can see if Samantha is free.”

“Tom! Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me at the meeting, before or after. Besides, I am a grown-up. I also happen to know that Samantha is at some regional sports banquet tonight. The team made the finals, or whatever they’re called. She also got into Wellesley and is going there, so I’m sure she doesn’t want to change a diaper tonight or play Candyland with Ben.”

“Neither do I.” Tom was being unusually truculent.

“The two of us haven’t been out alone in ages. Let’s go out next weekend.”

“That would be lovely, darling. Friday night? Ri-alto bar and a movie?” The bar had the same incredible food as the Cambridge restaurant, but the Fairchilds preferred the service and ambience at the bar, more casual, also more attentive—besides, they could eat well and get to a movie this way.

“Okay. I’ll look and see what’s playing. What do you want to see?”

“Sweetheart, this is Tuesday. We have all week, and Pix is waiting. I have to go.”

“Fine, fine, leave me here all by my lonesome.” Ben called plaintively from his room, “Daddee, Daddee, are you going to read me a story?” Tom wouldn’t be lonesome at all.

Again, Asterbrook Hall was crowded. Pix and Faith didn’t get front-row seats, but they found two together, even though they were late.

“Look, Joey’s lawyer is here,” Pix said, expertly scanning the audience for a head count and to see who was there. “What do you think he’s up to?”

“Same thing he was doing at the other meetings, collecting information for the Deanes.” But the lawyer hadn’t been at the last POW! meeting. Joey had been alone. Faith took a deep breath. She was waiting for the right moment.

The moment came late in the meeting. It had been an acrimonious one at times and the lawyer would have plenty to report. Distrust of the entire Deane family was in the air. Although no one actually attacked the company, the innuendos were less than subtle. One of the things that was making the majority of the people in the room uneasy was the fact that the Deanes had started renovating the old Turner farmhouse on the property—the house Joey had referred to as “the jewel in the crown” at Alefordiana. He had told the selectmen the house would be “lovingly restored” and promised that not an inch of original clapboard would be sacrificed to a Palladian window or any other anachronistic architectural detailing.

“I want to know why they’ve started to work on the house when they haven’t received the permits for the rest of the plans. What do they know? Have the selectmen given a secret go-ahead behind our backs?” Ellen Phyfe’s voice was shrill as she raised these points.

Several people in the audience clapped. Angry faces turned to confront the lawyer, who remained impassive. The seats to either side of him were empty, as if he carried some dread disease. But it wasn’t contagion that the Aleford residents at the meeting feared; it was association.

“Fortunately, we have a member of the board here tonight. I asked Penelope Bartlett to come as a personal favor. Mrs. Bartlett?”

“ ‘Personal favor’—I’d say more like arm twisting,” Pix whispered to Faith. Indeed, Penny did not appear overjoyed to be there.

“Come up here, so everyone will be able to hear you,” Millicent directed. Penelope Bartlett was made of stern stuff, however, and whatever means Millicent had used to get her there did not extend to Penny’s performance once she was in the hall.

“Everyone can hear me perfectly well from where I am, Miss McKinley. Let me start by saying that I am saddened and appalled that any citizen of Aleford should think the board of selectmen would make secret agreements with anyone! This indicates a serious lack of trust and I intend to bring it before the board at our next meeting and hope that Mrs. Phyfe and others who share her views will be in attendance.” Since Ellen Phyfe’s husband was a member of the board, everyone immediately began to look forward to another good episode.

Penny continued. “The late Mr. Madsen applied for and was granted permits to restore the old Turner farmhouse earlier this winter. The planning board, the Historic Commission, and the building inspector all advised the board to approve his plans, which we did.

The meeting was open, of course, and some of you who are here tonight were there then, so I’m surprised this has come up. Obviously, the Deane-Madsen Development Corporation, to whom we granted approval, had to wait for the weather to improve, and this was our understanding at the time.” Penny sat down. Millicent smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett. I believe that clears things up.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Sherwin Greene jumped to his feet, no easy task for a man carrying as much weight as he did. “Why were they starting work before the rest was approved? And why are they continuing?” Ellen called out, “That’s right. I saw the trucks there today.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask those wishing to speak to wait to be recognized,” Millicent said. She had thought Penny’s presence and reply would do the trick, but more was needed.

Help came from an unlikely corner. The lawyer had languidly stretched his long arm into the air. Millicent recognized him immediately. He didn’t bother to stand.

“The Deane-Madsen Development Corporation is undertaking the restoration of the property known as the old Turner farmhouse because it owns it and has received the appropriate permits. The company intends to sell the property irregardless of the outcome of the plans pending for the area known as Beecher’s Bog.”

“Thank you very much. Now I think we’re all clear on this matter.”

Of course “we” all weren’t and there was further discussion that went around the same circles in endless and boring detail. “I’ve lost all feeling in my right buttock,” Pix whispered. “If I don’t get out of here soon, the left one is going to go, too.” Faith bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She was getting punchy—and numb.

Finally, Millicent offered a compromise.

“It’s clear that there are two very distinct posi-tions: those who feel we should dissolve the organization and those who oppose that. I’d like to put a motion before the group that we effectively disband but keep a core executive committee who will monitor all matters dealing with the disposition of Beecher’s Bog and activity at the old Turner farmhouse. This group shall be composed of the original signers of the letter in the Chronicle and those who worked on the mailing, to be more specific: myself, Nelson Batcheldor, Louise and Ted Scott, Pix Miller, Brad Hallowell, Ellen Phyfe, and Faith Fairchild. I will now take five minutes of comments from the floor in favor and five minutes opposed.” Surprisingly, there was almost no opposition.

Maybe everyone was getting pins and needles. Sherwin Greene got up during the time allotted for the opposition and everyone expected a blast. Without naming the Deanes, he had repeatedly referred to “un-trustworthy, greedy, bloodsucking land developers” during the previous debate.

“I assume you will keep the membership’s names and other information on file, as well as other material we might need to make a sudden response to an attack?”

“Certainly,” Millicent replied. “Perhaps Brad could speak to this issue.”

Brad Hallowell stood up. He had been strangely silent all evening; then Faith realized that of course he’d already known about Millicent’s watch-and-wait motion. She’d presented it as a compromise, yet it had been the plan all along. Brad had no quarrel with it; he’d still be in the game.

“Everything’s on my computer with backup discs.

We could get a mailing out or start a telephone tree of the membership for a meeting in no time at all.” Sherwin stood up again. “That’s all right, then, but what about reconvening Town Meeting? Would we have to collect the signatures again?” Millicent had been doing her homework. “Since we did not actually set a date, the signatures we have will suffice. I checked with Lucy Barnes yesterday.” Lucy Barnes was the town clerk.

Sherwin sat down, Millicent took the vote, and the motion passed.

“If there is no further business, I declare this meeting a—”

Faith’s hand was up. Millicent looked peeved.

“Mrs. Fairchild?”

Mrs. Fairchild rose and addressed the room.

“I’m afraid I will have to decline the position on the executive committee, honored as I am. My work has recently increased. We’re moving into the wedding and graduation season. I’m also shorthanded at present because my assistant is taking a pastry-making course, so I’m alone at the company. Tomorrow night, for instance, all by myself I have to make beef bourguignon for seventy-five and bake a hundred meringue shells—some always break.” Faith was deliberately rambling. She knew she sounded nutty, but she didn’t care. She was speaking loudly and clearly.

“I won’t even be able to get there until seven because of the kids. . . .”

Millicent had had enough. “I’m sure this is all very interesting”—her tone suggested “interesting to persons totally unknown to Millicent Revere McKinley”—“and we are sorry not to have your”—there was a pause, Faith waited—“help.” There was no adjective in front of the word, such as competent, able, invaluable. Miss McKinley gathered the papers in front of her into a pile. “I now declare this meeting adjourned.” So much for Faith.

Pix was giving Faith a funny look as they filed out of the room and up the aisle. “Now what was that about?”

“You know how stretched I am without Niki. I don’t have time to be involved in POW!”

“But POW! isn’t doing anything right now,” Pix pointed out logically.

This was why Faith had been glad Tom had stayed at the parsonage. She was beginning to wish Pix had stayed home, too.

“Millicent and Brad, probably the others, too, are going to want to have a meeting every time the Deanes replace a piece of rotted board. There’ll be meetings of the inner circle all the time.”

“I hope not,” Pix said. “I’m busy myself.” She seemed to have dropped the subject and began to discuss Danny’s problems at school. “I know next year will be better. We just have to get through these last few weeks.”

But when she left Faith at her door, it was clear she wasn’t dropping the subject. “Do you want me to help you tomorrow night? I’m not sure what I could do—beat egg whites?” She sounded willing but dubious.

“It will take you twice as long as it takes me. Don’t even think about it. Besides, it’s nice to be by myself sometimes. It happens so rarely.”

“Pretty soon, Ben and Amy will be off to college and you’ll wish for less time alone,” Pix commented sadly, although even with a future empty nest, all of her volunteer activities made time alone a remote possibility.

“Good night,” Faith said, then, for the second time that evening, added, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” And she was sure she would be.

*

*

*

Niki was taking a pastry course and Faith did have to work Wednesday night making beef bourguignon and meringues. Faith spent the day making sure as many people in town knew these two salient facts. She even managed to work it into the conversation when she picked Ben up at school. Miss Lora, the professional that she was, had not let her personal grief intrude on her classroom demeanor and the children had spent a happy morning with papier-mâché. The large room smelled of wet newspaper and wallpaper paste. Ben was encrusted from head to toe and displayed a huge creature of some sort, sadly too wet to take home; besides, he had to paint it.

“It’s a triceratops, Mom.” At last, something she could recognize.

“He has a very serious interest in prehistoric life,” Lora Deane told Faith, indicating that it was past time for the Fairchilds to get the brilliant child whatever encyclopedia and computer software he might need to further his study.

With children in tow, Faith spread the word at the library, the market, Aleford Photo, and ultimately the post office. If the post office didn’t do it, nothing would.

Tom surprised her by coming home early. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways. A meeting I had to attend has been canceled. If you want to take off, go ahead. I’ll handle things here. I know you’ve been stressed about getting everything done without Niki.”

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

“Oh, Tom, that would be great.”

“I also have an ulterior motive. This way, you’ll be home sooner.”

Faith sincerely hoped so.

Have Faith’s kitchen was on the outskirts of town.

She drove over, parked the car in front, then unlocked the door to the premises and went in. It was five o’-

clock. She’d told the world she was getting there at seven. That gave her two hours to get some work done. It was true. She was concerned about doing the work herself. Niki’s class was three nights a week for the next month, and Niki had always had a part-time day job at a restaurant in Watertown.

But before she did anything else, Faith made her calls. First one to Charley.

“I’m going to be working at the company tonight and think you should be here at six-thirty.”

“What’s going on, Faith?”

“I want to talk to you about the murders, you and John. Be sure he’s with you. Something’s come up and we may be able to solve this thing.” She liked the collegial way that all sounded.

“All right, I’ll meet you there,” Charley said. “I’ll call Dunne, too.”

“Six-thirty. Don’t be late. I have to get home.” Faith didn’t want to give Charley any more hints of what she was up to. He’d be over in a minute and mess things up.

Satisfied, she started separating dozens of eggs, reserving the yolks and putting the whites into a large copper bowl. She hummed to herself. The meringues would be heaped with her homemade vanilla ice cream, then topped with a boysenberry puree and fresh raspberries. It was one of the desserts she’d created for the Patriots’ Day dinner, then had abandoned when she couldn’t get boysenberries last week.

She began to beat the egg whites with a balloon whisk. It was a satisfying job. Soon the white peaks began to stiffen. Things were going along beautifully.

The door opened. She heard footsteps. Charley hadn’t waited. She looked up in annoyance. But it wasn’t Charley.

Faith gasped. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.” It was the murderer.

It was Nelson Batcheldor.

Ten

Nelson?

Faith would have assumed he had stopped by for a cup of sugar, except for the fact that he was pointing a gun at her chest.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you,” he said in an almost-jovial tone. Where was the bereaved widower?

“I should think not! Please put that gun away right now and tell me what you’re doing here. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to talk; I’m very busy,” said Faith, trying to bluff her way out.

“Oh, I do have to kill you, just not shoot you.” Nelson showed no inclination to follow Faith’s request or lead.

There was a stool next to Faith. She grabbed it.

Nelson?

Nelson Batcheldor had killed his wife—and Joey Madsen?

“I’ve always been so fond of you and Tom, but you’ve been seriously interfering with my plans. I had hoped to get everything settled last Saturday on the bike path, but then Millicent had to come along and stick her oar in.” Nelson was annoyed. Nature lover, bird-watcher, vestryman, librarian, handy-man—these were naught compared to the dramatis personae unfolding.

“And tonight I have a POW! meeting at seven-thirty. I was afraid I was going to have to be late, since you told us you wouldn’t be here until seven. Then I said to myself, Nelson, why don’t you take a little run over there and see if she started work early. You never know. So I did. Your car was out front, and here we are.”

Faith had been right. POW! was having meetings all the time, but that did not seem important at the moment, since, as Nelson had so aptly put it, here they were.

“Nelson, sit down. Why don’t we both sit down?

I’ll make some coffee and you can tell me what’s going on. You seem upset, and of course I want to help.

All this talk of killing. Haven’t we had enough? Think of poor Margaret.”

Two thoughts were pounding in her brain. The man was completely insane and the police wouldn’t be coming for almost an hour. Insane. An hour with a homicidal maniac—Aleford had been right. Her head was close to bursting.

“I did think of Margaret. Often. I’ve wanted to get rid of her for years,” he said peevishly.

Faith felt incredibly stupid. Where is the first place you look for a suspect? The face on the pillow next to the victim—or, in the Batcheldors’ case, on the pillow down the hall. But they’d all been deceived by the attack on Nelson, staged by Nelson himself in some way. The man had been extremely clever and a con-summate actor.

He was facing her across the broad metal counter where she’d been working. Nelson was slender and tall. His large, round, black-framed bifocals and the tufts that sprouted from his eyebrows gave him an owlish look. Perhaps this had attracted Margaret. He was dressed, as usual, in baggy tan pants and a rumpled button-down oxford-cloth shirt. In the winter, the shirts were covered by ancient Shetland pullovers, much mended, but inexpertly. Faith had always assumed the man was simply wearing his college wardrobe until the threads gave out, a common practice in Aleford and one from which she had had to wean her own husband.

Except for the gray in his bushy hair and the line through the middle of his lenses, Nelson Batcheldor had probably looked much the same at eighteen as he did now at forty-nine. He did not look like someone who had killed two people and was preparing to do away with a third. But then, murderers seldom did look other than completely ordinary. Few drooled or rolled their eyes.

Nelson was speaking very matter-of-factly about his desire to rid himself of his wife. “There were all sorts of opportunities, but I kept putting it off. I’m afraid I have a tendency to procrastinate,” he said apologetically. Faith hoped this tendency was rising to the surface now. “I never had a pressing reason until last fall, and it also seemed sinful to take her life before it was really necessary.”

“Necessary?” Faith had missed a chapter.

“I couldn’t remarry with Margaret alive,” Nelson explained patiently, much the way he’d explained the mechanics of a drill to Ben during the work on the classroom. Faith broke out in a cold sweat and the inside of her mouth got dry.

“Margaret wouldn’t give you a divorce?”

“I don’t know. I never asked her. No one in either of our families has ever been divorced,” he said with pride.

“Look, let me make the coffee.” Faith was sure Nelson would want to tell her all about it, and if she could keep refilling his cup, she had a chance of either being rescued or thinking of some way out of the situation herself.

“I don’t have much time. Millicent doesn’t like to start the meetings until everyone is present, and it’s also going to take a while to set up your suicide.”

“My suicide!” Faith screamed.

Nelson jumped. He cocked the trigger. She realized she mustn’t startle him.

“What suicide? I’m not planning on killing myself,” she said in what she desperately hoped was a calmer tone of voice.

“I know,” he whispered, “but I’m planning on it. I have to.” He raised his voice slightly. “You were bound to find me out sooner or later. You said so at the meeting, and that would have spoiled everything. Destroyed my only chance for happiness. I think we’d better get down to it right away. You’ve been over-whelmed by work. The whole town knows it. You simply cracked.”

No problem with procrastination tonight.

“Now wait a minute,” Faith said, relying on whatever natural authority her position as his spiritual leader’s wife might give her. At the moment, she was grasping at anything. “First, I think you owe me an explanation before I die. And second, I believe I’m also entitled to a last request. And I want a cup of coffee.” Nelson wasn’t your run-of-the-mill criminal.

She hoped her bizarre appeal would be matched by his own quirkiness. The code of the Batcheldors or whatever.

He sighed and looked at his watch.

“All right, but I’ll try to be brief. Why don’t you get the coffee while I talk. You see, I plan to knock you out and put your head in the oven. It is gas, I hope.

Then, I need to stay around for a bit to make sure it’s working.”

Faith knew all the color was draining from her face.

She decided not to tell him that, although the burners were gas, the ovens were electric—a better combination. She didn’t want him to opt for something short and sweet such as a pistol shot before burning the place down. He’d used the same basic method before.

Nelson perched on the stool across from her and eyed the large copper bowl. “What’s that?”

“Egg whites for meringues. Are you hungry? I have some cookies—or I can make you a sandwich.”

“Margaret didn’t like to cook. I’m afraid she wasn’t very domestic. Of course I knew that when I married her. That wasn’t the problem.”

Faith slowly ground some coffee beans. “What was the problem, then?”

“Not a very interesting story, I’m afraid. We married too young. I was just out of the service, the Vietnam War. Thank goodness I didn’t have to go over there. I can’t stand hot climates, and the jungle would have been the end of me. That’s where I got my gun, though. Margaret never knew I saved it. I won a medal for marksmanship. For a long time, I thought I would shoot her, but it’s so difficult to cover up that sort of thing. All my friends were getting married. No excuse, mind you. But I’ve always been a bit of a follower. Margaret did know that.”

The last phrase was spoken bitterly.

“I never even got to choose the color of my own socks, let alone make a big decision. Never even got to open my mouth. She wanted to live here. I wanted to live farther out in the country, but her family was from here. So Aleford it was. I wanted children. She didn’t. And those damn birds. I would have liked to sleep late just once. Since she died, I haven’t gotten up before eight.”

Faith found herself in the extremely odd position of feeling sorry for the man who was about to end her mortal life.

“You should have talked to Tom or his predecessor.

Tried to work things out.”

“Talk about our personal life to an outsider? No, I don’t think Margaret would have liked that. I know I wouldn’t.”

Faith was boiling water. The kettle whistled and Nelson was startled again. She quickly turned it off and poured it into the coffeemaker that sat on the counter to the left of the stove. It hissed as it hit the grounds and filled the room with a pungent smell. She set out two large mugs and waited before pushing the plunger down, straining the grounds in the glass cylinder.

“None for me, thank you,” Nelson said. “It keeps me awake.”

Keep him talking.

“All right. You killed Margaret, but why Joey Madsen? I assume you did, right?”

Nelson nodded. “I may not have shared Margaret’s passion for ornithology, but I agree about Beecher’s Bog. The man’s plans were reprehensible.”

“You killed him to save the bog?”

“No, of course not. I killed him because he was blackmailing me.”

Faith poured herself a cup of coffee she didn’t want. Even if she threw the scalding liquid at his face, he’d still be able to get her before she could reach the door—if not by racing after her, then with his gun.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” She hoped this new appeal to his reference librarian’s inherent sense of order would work.

He looked at his watch.

“A synopsis. You know Margaret was feeling incensed about Alefordiana Estates. I realized I could capitalize on that fervor, and we began to plan little forays into the bog to drill, as it were, should it become necessary to confront the developers head-on, disable their equipment, whatnot. You surprised us one day and were no doubt surprised yourself by our uniforms. Margaret thought they lent verisimilitude. I was able to convince Margaret that Joey was writing those anonymous letters and that the threat to the land was increasing. In fact, I wrote the letters myself. The library was getting rid of a great many of its outdated magazines and it was quite easy to find the appropriate means.”

Nelson had always taken pride in his work. Faith remembered the way he’d shown her and Miss Lora the finished shelves and storage areas he’d built for the school.

“We decided that we had to send a strong warning to the Deanes, and burning down the new house appealed to Margaret. I’m afraid I fanned the fires of her conviction a bit, overriding her objections with some of Machiavelli’s old arguments. Margaret had never been a part of the radical movement, since I’d been in the army and she thought it would be disloyal. She always thought she’d missed out on something. She certainly entered into my plans with gusto. We were going to destroy their excavator together, but it didn’t work into my schedule. I was sorry she missed it.” All Faith’s prior sympathy for the man plummeted, leaving a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach.

Poor Margaret, duped to death.

“We took the gas can to the house and as she was pouring it, I hit her on the back of the head with a wooden cudgel one of her ancestors had brought back from an Amazonian adventure. I made sure to place it in a pool of gas, and presumably it was destroyed in the flames.”

Along with your wife, you bastard, Faith said to herself. All the while Nelson had been talking, she’d been surreptitiously glancing about the kitchen, seek-ing a means of escape.

“So, Joey saw you at the house?”

“No, I was very careful. I disposed of my clothes—they smelled of gas and smoke—in the small pond on the way back to our house, taking the shortcut. No one saw me. Who would be about at that hour? I took a bath and went to sleep. Joey didn’t see me the night of the fire; he watched me take the chloral at the Minuteman breakfast. He figured things out after I was stricken.” It was on the tip of Faith’s tongue to ask why Madsen hadn’t gone straight to the police, but she had her answer. Joey needed money, a lot of money. Blackmailing Nelson was going to help pay for Alefordiana Estates. Simple—and Joey would have gotten a kick out of the whole thing, too. Making Nelson foot the bill for something he abhorred.

“Margaret had been having trouble sleeping a number of years ago and the doctor prescribed chloral hydrate. I substituted cherry cough syrup and an over-the-counter sleeping pill. It wasn’t as effective and the doctor kept giving her the chloral in greater strengths. I was able to put quite a bit aside. My plan was to kill her with it, but then Alefordiana Estates and POW! came along. Really much better.” Faith was confused. “But weren’t you afraid that you might overdose yourself?”

“I am a librarian, you know, and I thoroughly researched the drug and its effects before trying it out.

As I mentioned, I had been able to put plenty aside, so I ran a few tests. To get the timing right.”

“But how did you manage to get it into the breakfast? The police searched the trash at the church and all the bins on the green. There wasn’t a bottle or other container, and there wasn’t any chloral in your flask. And how could you have taken it right under the eyes of the state police?”

Nelson permitted himself a self-congratulatory smile. Most murderers were extremely egotistical, Faith had heard, and Nelson was no exception.

“I filled a sturdy balloon with the dose and carried it in my shot pouch. My flask simply held water, as it might have on that famous day. Before leaving for the green, I told my bodyguard I had to relieve myself.

Then I went into the bathroom, where I quaffed the chloral, then flushed the empty balloon down the toilet.” Nelson seemed to be reverting to 1775 speech. “I also drank two nips of vodka to help the chloral work faster. I was sure the police would not find those out of the ordinary, although I did not see any other liquor bottles in the trash at the time. And it worked perfectly. Except, unbeknownst to me, Joey Madsen was in one of the stalls, watching.”

It hadn’t worked perfectly for Margaret, or for Joey.

And not now for Faith.

It still seemed like an enormous amount of trouble to go through to get rid of someone who perhaps nagged too much. What were those references to marriage and things changing last fall?

Nelson was still reminiscing about Patriots’ Day. “I felt a bit groggy, but I knew that everything would be all right. If I died, then it would be God’s will and my love would not have proved as pure and holy as I had believed.”

At some point soon, he would be coming around to her side of the counter to knock her out, with the pistol butt probably. He wouldn’t expect her to put her own head in the oven. There was a smoke alarm. It was hooked up to the alarm company. If she could set it off, help would arrive quickly, but perhaps not fast enough. And setting it off would involve starting some sort of fire. Nelson would not stand idly by while she burned some newspaper and held it to the alarm.

“I love the reenactment. It’s one of my favorite days of the year. She looked so lovely in the morning mist. A goddess.”

The only possibility was to get to Nelson before he got to her. It would have to be when he came near.

Faith had often thought what an ideal setting a kitchen would make for murder. Batterie de cuisine could easily become battery by cuisine. Knives, heavy pots, pans, cleaning fluids, the oven—Nelson’s own choice. . . . She tuned back in to what the man was saying. She thought she had a plan. Under his watchful eye, she backed toward the coffee and poured another cup. Quickly she turned the burner next to the pot on simmer.

“It was a shock when Joey called me and said he’d figured out that I had killed my wife and staged the attack on myself. But I wasn’t too worried. I played along and gave him three thousand dollars in cash to start. He was to collect another seven and we arranged to meet at the bog. I’d been keeping some cash on hand for some years. You see, I wasn’t sure exactly what I might need. I was glad I had been so foresighted, because this has been rather expensive. I had to give five hundred dollars to POW! Anonymously, of course. The last thing I wanted was for the group to disband due to lack of funds. Then Joey’s blackmail money, although I didn’t even bother to bring the second payment. I used that for the ring.”

“The ring?” Faith was paying close attention now.

But Nelson was off on his own tangent.

“Blackmail. A terrible thing. And if a man can’t have privacy in the bathroom, where can he, I ask you!” It was a rhetorical question and he did not pause for an answer; although at this point Faith would have agreed with anything the man said just to keep him talking.

“He had such a smug expression. I expect he thought he could bleed me dry. I’d have had to sell my house, although I do hope to move. Sauntered down the path to meet me. ‘Got something for me, Nelson, old buddy?’ he said. As if we could ever be friends. I grabbed his hand—he’d actually had the nerve to extend it in greeting—then inserted the knife. The library had a wonderful medical text I was able to study at length. I had never realized that you could employ a knife with such a relatively short blade—one a little over four inches, and we happened to have exactly the right size at home.”

It was as Faith had imagined, even down to Joey’s greeting. She didn’t think she could stand to hear Nelson say any more, but the hands on the clock had barely moved. Unless Charley and John decided to come early, too, she had to keep the conversation flowing.

She asked her question again. “What ring, Nelson?

You mentioned a ring.”

“The engagement ring for Lora. Didn’t I tell you?

We’re getting married.”

Faith sat down on the stool. It was that or fall down.

Her knees had buckled beneath her.

Nelson spoke dreamily. “I think I must have always loved her. You know how she is with the children. We plan to have a large family. She comes from a large family, but I’ve never known the pleasure of siblings.” Some siblings might dispute that characterization, but Faith wasn’t about to interrupt.

“Of course, I’d seen her in town. Watched her grow into full womanhood, but it wasn’t until last fall that I knew my destiny had arrived. I had a kind of epiphany the day the Story Lady came. It might be interesting to talk to your husband about this sometime. It was a religious experience.”

Faith thought now would be as good a time as any, but was sure that Nelson would not.

“The Story Lady?” Her questions had been brief ones throughout Nelson’s monologue. It was so unbelievable, more complex inquiries eluded her.

“Lora has a friend who is a professional story-teller and actress. She came to entertain the children one day. I’m surprised Ben didn’t mention it,” he said accusingly.

In her son’s defense, Faith spoke at greater length.

“I do remember now. Ben was very upset at missing the visit from the Story Lady. The children talked about it for weeks afterward. But he was home with chicken pox. Amy had it, too.” Faith had soaked them in so many Aveeno baths that the skin on her own arms had never been softer.

Nelson was mollified. “I’m sure she’ll come back.

A wonderful performer. She brought a suitcase filled with costumes and had the children act out the various stories with her. At the end, she spun a tale about a beautiful enchanted princess whose heart had been turned to stone because no one loved her. The Story Lady loosed Lora’s lovely hair. It fell to her shoulders in a gleaming cloud.” Nelson was quite the weaver of tales himself.

“She put a gold crown on Lora’s head and draped her in a purple velvet cloak. Lora took her glasses off and sat in the story chair.” At least Faith knew what this was—an oversized rocker where the children gathered to hear Lora read.

“The princess could only be rescued by true love.

The Story Lady had the children think of all their favorite people and things. One by one, they expressed their thoughts to their teacher. It was a very moving experience. As they went around the circle, Lora began to glow, lifting one arm, then the other. Her eyes opened wider. She smiled. Their love was working. I directed all my thoughts toward her from the corner where I had been working. I’d stopped when the program began. At the end, Lora kissed each child. I thought for an instant she might kiss me, too, but that would have given us away.”

Lora with her hair down, Lora without her glasses, Lora with a crown—Faith knew what all that would have looked like. The Story Lady had unwittingly signed Margaret’s death warrant.

But Lora and Nelson? What would Lora get out of the relationship, although it was clear that the Batcheldors had more money than Faith thought. You could get quite a decent diamond for seven thousand dollars, especially at the Jeweler’s Building in town, but Nelson would have gone to Shreve’s. He was a man who stuck to tradition.

He looked at his watch and uncocked the gun.

Quickly, she tried to stall with another question.

“Have you set a date for the wedding? We’re pretty booked, but it’s possible we could fit it in. Niki does a beautiful cake—and it tastes good, too. Lots of butter-cream frosting with a hint of orange and—”

“You’ve finished your coffee.”

The innocuous phrase had never sounded so chilling.

Nelson stood up and moved toward the end of the counter. She couldn’t act too quickly—or too late. He wasn’t saying a word now and was holding the gun by the barrel, ready to strike. He seemed much taller. She watched him intently. He was coming around the edge. Dozens of eggs were lined up in their cartons.

He knocked into one with his elbow but didn’t look away from his prey.

When he was almost next to her, she jumped off the stool and pushed it straight in his path. At the same time, she kicked some of the large pots stored under the counter out onto the floor. They made a loud clattering sound. He stumbled, as she hoped he would, and the pots added to his confusion. He leaned down slightly to push everything out of the way, shoving the stool aside with his foot.

Using her apron as a pot holder, Faith immediately grabbed the heavy copper skillet she’d planned to sauté the beef in from the burner she’d turned on. The pan was red-hot. She brought it down on Nelson’s head as hard as she could, letting it rest a moment.

Her fingers were burning. He screamed in agony. The smell of his singed hair was nauseating. She hit him again full force and he fell to the floor.

“I thought you might need help,” a voice at the door called out.

It was Pix.

Chief MacIsaac and Detective Lieutenant Dunne were punctual men. Faith had said 6:30, so 6:30 it would be. They were sharing some supper at the Minuteman Café—meat loaf—when their beepers went off. They jumped in John’s car and arrived at the kitchen with several other officers of the law, sirens blaring—and Tom.

The first thing Pix and Faith had done was to make sure Nelson would not be mobile should his unconscious state prove brief. They did a thorough job of trussing him with twine Faith kept for the purpose, although in the past it had bound poultry and beef. Pix was good with knots. Then they called the police, Sam, and Tom, in that order. Sam walked into the parsonage to watch the kids just as Tom was hanging up, frantically wondering what to do about them.

“I’m not sure I’m made of the same stuff as Charlotte—you know, the one who continued to cut bread and butter as her lover was carried past the kitchen window stiff and cold on a shutter. Nelson wasn’t my lover—far from it—but I still don’t feel much like cooking tonight. It’s going to be a while until I forget the sight of his body on the floor, and I may have to get rid of this perfectly good skillet.”

“Early days yet,” Pix advised. “We can wash the skillet and Twinkle its bottom.” It was at this point that the police arrived.

“Copper cleaner,” Pix explained. Then Faith explained a whole lot more.

Nelson wasn’t dead, for which Faith was profoundly grateful. They took him out on a stretcher and he was already stirring.

Tom took Faith over to the end of the room. They sat in Ben’s beanbag chair, with Faith on her husband’s lap. The picture they presented would have been laughable if the situation had been comical.

“Faith, Faith, Faith . . . I almost lost you!” He held tightly to his wife, as he had since his arrival, rushing wide-eyed through the door.

The terror was over and Faith was beginning to breathe normally again. She was aware that her heart-beat had slowed. Nonetheless, she didn’t mind the position she was in and was happy to cling in return.

Pix was starting to clean up, but John Dunne stopped her.

“I know you’re trying to help, but this is all evidence and we have to do some work here. I want to make sure this guy goes away for a long, long time.”

“I don’t think there is much doubt of that,” Pix replied somewhat acidly. She didn’t want Faith to have to deal with the eggs and dirty dishes in the morning—and she doubted the police would tidy it all away. “He’s killed two people and tried to make it three.”

“Why don’t I call you when we’re finished?” He smiled at her. She wasn’t as used to his appearance as the Fairchilds and found herself instantly obedient.

“We should get Faith home now, anyway.”

“Good idea. Charley and I will drop by in a while.”

“Maybe we’ll take her to our house. My husband is watching the children at the parsonage and my daughter is coming to take over. She can feed them and put them to bed. No need for them to see their mother upset.” They both turned toward the end of the room, where Faith and Tom were still ensconced in the beanbag chair. They looked comfortable, but Charley and Pix couldn’t see Faith’s face. Pix put herself in her friend’s shoes for a moment and knew she would need a drink and a whole lot of people to talk to right away.

It turned out to be what Faith wanted, too, and they went straight to the Millers’. She was happy to let them take charge of her life for the moment, only specifying pot stickers instead of the pu pu platter they were ordering as an appetizer from the local Chinese restaurant.

While they waited for the food, the seats at the Millers’ long harvest table gradually became filled with people. Pix had been busy making calls. Millicent arrived with Brad, followed immediately by Gus, his wife, Lillian, and Lora. Sam phoned for more food and told his wife to stop alerting the populace. “We’ve got a quorum or whatever, and with Charley and John, there won’t be any more room.”

Faith was sitting at the head of the table. She was feeling slightly dissociated. All around her, people were chattering away, expressing shock and relief. An hour ago, she had been on her way into her own oven.

“You okay, honey? Want to go home?” Tom asked anxiously.

“Not yet. I have too many questions. And I’m hungry.”

By tacit consent, everyone was waiting for the food and the police. Pix had given them a rough idea of what had happened at Have Faith when she’d contacted them, but no one was approaching the subject directly now.

Lora Deane got up from the table. She had followed her grandparents in, subdued, and been sitting quietly ever since. Looking at the young woman, Faith realized most of the questions that remained unanswered had to do with Miss Lora—both Miss Loras.

Lora bent over Faith’s chair as she passed by. “I’m so glad you’re all right! And I think you’re incredible.

I would have died with fear on the spot or fainted or something.” She leaned close to Faith’s ear and added in an urgent whisper, “Please don’t say anything about the apartment.” Faith looked at her in surprise.

Lora explained, “Bridey told me about the ‘student’ who’d been by and described her so well, I knew it was you. I’ll meet you wherever you say tomorrow and tell you everything.” Lora straightened up and went on her way, presumably in search of a bathroom.

Faith was happy to comply with her request since it meant Lora Deane would tell all. Opportunities such as this didn’t come along every day, and Faith could wait. She had a pretty good idea what the apartment was for, anyway.

The doorbell rang. It was the food. Opening the containers and serving the food caused some good-natured commotion. It wasn’t exactly Eat Drink Man Woman, but the dishes smelled inviting. Gus and Lillian wanted fried rice. Millicent was reaching for the family-style spicy tofu. “Cleanses the blood,” she informed the table. Sam wanted some of everything and Danny wandered in, complaining they hadn’t ordered any spareribs. Sam heaped a plate with food and sent him back to the computer and MYST.

“Is this the no-MSG place? Changhai?” Brad asked.

“Of course.” Pix was indignant. The young man was lucky he had even been asked to dinner. There was no need to cast aspersions on her culinary judg-ment. She had picked up a thing or two from her employer. They had stopped using the place that drenched everything in red dye number two sweet sauce months ago.

Charley and John arrived, creating another round of confusion. Contrary to usual practice, Detective Dunne was ready for food. He and Charley had had to leave a perfectly good meat-loaf dinner, barely touched, on the table at the Café. He grabbed a container of rice, one of pork with black-bean sauce, and dug in, first carefully removing his Sulka tie.

“What have we missed?” Charley asked.

“Nothing,” Faith answered. “We’ve been waiting for you. Is Nelson conscious?”

“Yes, but he’s not making much sense. You hit him good and hard. He seems to think he’s getting married on Saturday—to you, Lora.” Charley was sitting across from the Deanes. He added, somberly, “Seems to believe it absolutely. Says he gave you a ring.” All three Deanes dropped their forks.

“You were getting married and you didn’t tell us!” Lillian wailed.

“He’s old enough to be your father!” Gus thundered.

“Stop shouting at me! I don’t even really know the man!” Lora protested. “Somebody tell me what’s going on?”

John had wedged a chair next to Faith’s. He was annoyed with her for setting the trap. They’d suspected Nelson Batcheldor for some time and were trying to collect evidence. It was true they hadn’t come up with much, but Dunne did not approve of ordinary citizens taking police matters into their own hands, especially at considerable risk. But then, Faith wasn’t an ordinary citizen. He reached for another container. He wasn’t picky when it came to Chinese food. This one had some kind of chicken with fruit. It tasted like oranges or tangerines.

He and Charley had agreed not to tell the Fairchilds Nelson’s other babblings, most of which concerned all the things he planned to do to Faith to get even.

John hitched his chair closer to Faith’s. With Dunne on one side and Tom just as close on the other, she was beginning to feel as if she’d acquired an extremely mismatched set of bookends.

“Between the two of us, we ought to be able to answer Lora’s question, don’t you think?” he said to Faith. She’d had a few pot stickers and that was all she felt like eating for now. Her appetite had deserted her when the police arrived and she’d realized they’d be going over the events of the evening.

“Shall I start?” she asked. He nodded. His mouth was full.

“Nelson Batcheldor was deeply unhappy in his marriage to Margaret. He was also an extremely disturbed person with a distorted view of reality. That meant he didn’t do any of the things another man in his position might have—seek counseling, get a divorce. Instead, he developed a rich fantasy life revolving around getting rid of Margaret and replacing her with his ideal mate. I’m afraid that turned out to be you, Lora,” Faith explained.

“Me! Why did he pick me! And how could he possibly have thought I’d be interested in him? He was old and not exactly what I’d call attractive.” Faith knew what Lora called attractive and she agreed silently. Nelson Batcheldor was not it. Now the old part, that was debatable, especially as the years were passing. The young woman’s reaction had chased away any lingering suspicions Faith had had about her involvement in Nelson’s schemes. He had sounded so definite about their plans, as if they had been spending every spare moment planning their future together.

“He wanted children,” Lillian Deane informed them. “And wasn’t he doing all that carpentry work at the school? He must have seen how gifted you are with them,” Lora’s grandmother said with pride. “The only reason I know how much he wanted to be a father was a remark he made many years ago. I was pushing you in your stroller, Lora.” She paused as the irony of the situation was duly registered by everyone present.

“He stopped me and told me what a beautiful baby you were, which was true. Such lovely soft curls and big blue eyes. ‘You’re a very lucky woman, Lillian,’ he said. ‘I’ll never be a father—or a grandfather. It’s the tragedy of my life.’ I tried to reassure him. Of course, he and Margaret were quite young then. He cut me right off, ‘It’s out of my hands.’ Those were his very words. He smoothed your hair and tucked the blanket around you and left. I remember thinking what a good father he would have made. It’s a shame. I always thought he meant they couldn’t have children.” No one had interrupted Mrs. Deane’s lengthy reminiscence. They weren’t used to hearing so much from her, especially when Gus was around. Faith resolved to get to know the woman better.

“Always thought it was some sort of plumbing problem,” Gus commented. “Didn’t like to pry.”

“Margaret didn’t want children. That was one of the things he held against her,” Faith explained. “But that wasn’t the only thing wrong—the only thing he held against her.”

Nevertheless, Pix, Lillian, and Lora exchanged meaningful glances. Not want children! Faith felt compelled to come to the defense of friends, relatives, strangers who’d decided otherwise.

“Children are not for everyone.”

“Amen,” said Charley. “Now let me get this straight, Lora. He didn’t give you a ring. Didn’t approach you in any way?”

“No, he was rather shy. I don’t think we ever had a conversation about anything except the size of the bookshelves and the weather. No, wait, he was there when my friend came and acted out some stories with the children. He was very impressed by her and came over to talk afterward.”

Faith told them about the Story Lady and her transformation of Lora into Lorelei.

“I can never let her know.” Lora was aghast.

“If it hadn’t been then, it would have been another time. When you were singing ‘Wheels on the Bus’ or reading Love You Forever—that’s a real tearjerker.

Nelson saw his devotion to you as a pure and holy thing. It justified everything else.”

“We had our suspicions that he may have staged his own poisoning, but we weren’t sure how,” John said.

“We’d found some vodka nips with his fingerprints on them in the men’s room trash at St. Theresa’s. Alcohol intensifies the effects of chloral hydrate. But we couldn’t figure out how and when he’d taken the drug itself. He was lucky he didn’t kill himself.”

“It would have been lucky for Joey,” Gus said sternly.

Faith realized she’d have to reveal Joey’s blackmail activities to his in-laws. She wasn’t sure this was the time or place.

“He’d practiced on himself,” she told them, then described the way he’d brought the chloral into the hall.

“A Minuteman for twenty years. It’s hard to fathom,” Gus remarked. Like Millicent, uncharacteristically remaining in the background, Gus believed certain avocations produced unassailable moral fiber.

Before the talk ventured into Joey Madsen’s activities, Faith brought up her question.

“Nelson confessed to sending the letters and cutting the hydraulic hoses on the excavator—and the murders—but he didn’t say anything about the calls.

Did you ask him about them—and the brick through Lora’s window?”

Lora flushed and looked at Brad. He sat up and swallowed hastily. Somehow most of the smoky chow foon rice noodles with beef and peppers were finding their way to his end of the table.

“Hey, I didn’t call you! You made it perfectly clear that you never wanted to hear from me again. Or made it clear to my answering machine, I should say.

And why would I throw a brick through your window? Why would anyone?”

His anger intensified his good looks. A bit of the moors—of Heathcliff—swept into the room.

“That was insensitive of me, I’m sorry. I should have spoken with you in person, but I wasn’t sure I’d go through with it then.”

Gus appeared to be fearing the rekindling of a flame he had considered doused, the ashes raked into the ground. “We’re wandering here. If Hallowell didn’t make the calls, who did?”

Dunne answered. “Nelson again.” He regarded Lora with pity. She was going to have a great deal to work out. “He just wanted to hear your voice.” There wasn’t much to say after that—or rather, there was, but no one wanted to voice the sentiments. It was sad, horrible, scary. Millicent broke the mood.

“So, Gus, what are you going to do about the bog?”

Before Gus could reply, Sam intervened. “You don’t have to answer that, especially not in my nice, peaceful house.”

Everyone laughed. Gus put the tips of his fingers together. He regarded each face in turn. Faith knew what he thought about the project. She wondered what he would say—if anything.

“The bog. The damned bog, as far as I’m concerned. Joey would still be alive. Probably not poor Margaret, but it gave her crazy husband a way to do her in. I’d just as soon never see the bog again or hear about it. But we own it. It’s ours.” Millicent wasn’t one to back down. “I know that, but you don’t have to go through with Alefordiana Estates. There are other options.”

Gus nodded. Lillian was poking him in the ribs.

“Don’t worry, Mother, I’m not going to embarrass you. You’re right, Millicent. We have lots of options, but they’re our options. I don’t mind consulting with you, but not with that group you got up. That’s got to go. Divides the town into warring factions, and we have enough natural divisions.” Gus reached across the table to shake Sam’s hand. “Thank you for your advice and for dinner. This is the first time we’ve been invited to your house.” Pix turned scarlet. “Now, Pix, don’t feel bad. We haven’t invited you to ours, either.

And all of us have lived in Aleford since we were hatched. We have a lot of work to do.” Faith knew she was witnessing an occasion as historic as the events celebrated each Patriots’ Day. But she was tired. Someone had tried to kill her and come very close. She wanted to kiss her sleeping children.

She wanted to make love with her husband.

“Tom, let’s go home.”

“I couldn’t sleep a wink all night.” Lora and Faith were having a late lunch at Geoffrey’s on Tremont Street in the South End. When Faith considered the local options for their tête-à-tête, none had seemed suitable. A picnic at the bog, and anything reminiscent thereof, was out. So was The Minuteman Café or the inn—too public. The Fairchild kitchen meant constant interruption. And obviously, meeting at the Deanes was impossible.

Lora did have two apartments, but Faith wanted the teacher off her own turf, vulnerable, and ready to spill her guts. Geoffrey’s had great food and was close to Chandler Street. After meeting with Lora, Faith planned to visit Bridey. She felt she owed the woman an explanation, and besides, she wanted to see her again. With Nelson securely behind bars, Tom was happy to watch the kids and give his wife an afternoon out. Niki was making the bourguignon and meringues, with Pix as sous-chef. All bases were covered—a rare occurrence. Faith had driven into town, a little light-headed, and entertained a fleeting thought of keeping on going—that primal urge to run away from home that most women experience at times.

“Why, I could just keep on driving.” Lora had been waiting at the restaurant and started talking before Faith even sat down. They ordered and Lora picked up where she’d left off.

“I kept wondering whether all this would have happened if I had gone to the police in the first place, as you and Reverend Fairchild wanted me to.” The same thing had suggested itself to Faith—as soon as Detective Dunne had revealed the source of the calls.

Resisting the urge to say, “I think there’s a lesson here,” Faith settled with, “I think I understand why you didn’t want to go to the police, but the phone calls themselves were a crime and shouldn’t have been covered up. Charley would have helped you get the phone company to trace them.”

Behind her glasses, two big tears welled in Lora’s eyes. Her hair wasn’t pulled back and she did have some makeup on, but otherwise she looked like her everyday self.

“I could have saved Joey’s life. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

There was enough guilt in the world. Lora wasn’t a parent yet, but she had a mother. Faith couldn’t let her sit there and suffer, weeping into her grilled-vegetable sandwich.

“You should have reported the calls, but remember, you didn’t tell us about them until that Wednesday.

You went away the following weekend, which we’ll get to in a minute, and Nelson must have known that.

He didn’t make any more calls, so there would have been nothing to trace. Then Margaret’s death was Monday night, or, strictly speaking, Tuesday morning. You got a brick through your window, then moved to Gus and Lillian’s house.”

“You’re right! I never got any more calls. He must have been too nervous to call. I didn’t recognize his voice, but I’d never talked to him much, and he may have used a handkerchief. I’ve seen that on TV. I bet he thought grandfather would, though.” Or he was too busy cutting up magazines, filling balloons with chloral hydrate, attending his wife’s funeral—no idle moments for Nelson, Faith thought.

“But I still don’t get it. Why was he threatening me if he was in love with me?” Lora asked.

“It’s hard to say. Maybe somewhere deep inside, he was conflicted about his attraction to you and wanted the temptation removed? Or more likely, he hoped if you moved away, he’d be able to see you without the whole town knowing.”

“He probably doesn’t know himself. Kind of an approach-avoidance thing.” It seemed Lora was reading more than Dr. Seuss.

Faith took a bite of her southwestern chicken salad.

Lora had perked up considerably during their foray into the unconscious. Now was as good a time as any.

“Why have you been living in two apartments?” Miss Lora blushed.

“This is very embarrassing—especially because you’re one of my mothers.” Faith presumed she was referring to the preschool and not any special devotion on Lora’s part.

“I have a certain image in Aleford. ‘Miss Lora’—she’s so good with kids, never gave her parents or grandparents a moment’s worry. Will make some nice man the perfect little Betty Crocker wife someday. Sure, she’s a bit homely, but some men don’t care about those things.”

All of it was true. Each item had crossed Faith’s mind at some point or been introduced into conversation. There was no doubt—in Aleford’s collective conscious, Lora Deane was Miss Goody Two-Shoes come to life.

“I love to dance. When I went off to college, I discovered that music did something to me, released something, and I felt so free. One of my roommates was really good with makeup and clothes. She encouraged me to get contacts, but I don’t see as well with them as with my glasses. Still, well enough for a date. Well enough to dance.”

“But why the double life? Why not just be who you are all the time?”

Lora appeared to be about to go into her “give me a break” routine, but stopped. She sighed instead.

“First, I would have caught hell at home. My dad was still alive, and he was just like his father. My brothers are the same way. They all actually thought it might be a good idea for me to be a nun when I was deciding where to go to school! Then Dad died so suddenly and everybody was a mess. I couldn’t upset them then.”

“And the money? Weren’t you afraid Gus might not give it to you if he disapproved of the way you were behaving?”

Lora hesitated. She pushed a piece of eggplant that had escaped from the overstuffed sandwich around her plate with a fork.

“Well, yes, that did cross my mind.” She ate the eggplant. “Okay, I thought about it a lot and it didn’t seem fair. He never said anything when my brothers sowed their wild oats, and believe me, it was quite a crop. When I got the money, I used some of it for rent here and I really did use some for tuition. It’s true that I’m working on my master’s.”

Faith was glad to hear it. Miss Lora was so good with children.

“And no one knew about Chandler Street?”

“No. I left a letter in the box where I keep all my important papers in the Aleford apartment—in case I got hit by a car or something.”

There were so many somethings going on lately that Faith thought an explanatory letter showed foresight.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to keep deceiving people, especially my grandparents. But I don’t want them to get mad at me, either. My mom won’t care.

She has a whole new life and she’d probably be glad I was having one, too. She used to get a little fed up with being one of the Deanes all the time.”

“And you?”

“I’m proud of the family, but we are pretty old-fashioned.”

It was time for Miss Lora to grow up and become Ms. Lora.

“Why don’t you start by telling them you want to leave the Aleford apartment and move into the city.

Say that you found the perfect place.” Faith didn’t think Lora had to be too precise about when she had found it.

“Then gradually start changing your appearance.

Wear the plum-colored dress, then immediately go back to a jumper the next day. After a while, everyone will have forgotten how you looked before. They might say, ‘Have you cut your hair?’ or ‘There’s something different about you; I can’t quite put my finger on it.’ ” Faith thought she had worked the whole thing out rather neatly.

Maybe not.

“How do you know I have a purple dress? I’ve never worn it in Aleford.”

Faith gave a hasty and abbreviated account of the day the Fairchild family shadowed Ben’s teacher, then suggested dessert.

“I’m not seeing Eduardo anymore. Things were getting too heavy. Maybe I should go back with Brad.

What do you think?”

Faith had a strict rule about giving advice to the lovelorn, and she stuck to it now. The person involved usually ended up blaming you if it didn’t work out, and sometimes if it did. She had the same policy when it came to discussing husbands.

Lora was eating a huge piece of chocolate truffle mousse cake. Faith was drinking espresso with a twist of lemon.

“The only thing we don’t know is who threw the brick.”

“I suppose there has to be some mystery left,” Lora commented complacently. Mrs. Fairchild knew all about her now. It hadn’t been too weird.

They went to see Bridey Murphy, who expressed great delight in the drama of the situation. She’d read about the murders in Aleford and seemed to feel she had played a small role in solving them. Faith wasn’t sure of her reasoning, yet she did not disabuse her of the notion. Bridey was a wonderful lady. Then Lora insisted that they both see her apartment and advise her about window treatments—advice Faith did feel comfortable offering. And she always liked to see where other people lived.

Lora’s apartment was more sparsely furnished than Bridey’s, but bright and cheerful. There were stuffed animals on the bed and in an old rocking chair Lora had painted blue. Combining the animal collection from the two dwellings might pose a serious design problem.

Faith got home about five. After being greeted by her family, somewhat picturesquely engaged in planting a flat of Johnny-jump-ups along the front path, Faith went inside and noticed the light on the message machine was blinking.

It was Brad Hallowell. “Um, this is Brad. Um, Brad Hallowell. Could you give me a call, Mrs. Fairchild?

Faith, I mean? Um, maybe I could come over? Or you could come here—no, that wouldn’t be good. Look, just call me, okay? I want to tell you something.” Apparently, this was the day for true confessions.

Faith dug out the Aleford phone book from the stack in the cabinet next to the phone. Brad had either forgotten to leave his number or assumed that she knew it by heart. She didn’t.

He answered after the first ring.

“Hello, Brad? This is Faith. I got your message.” Never one to mince words, he dispensed with any small talk. “Look, this is kind of embarrassing.” She’d heard that before today, too. Was Brad Hallowell also leading a double life? Maybe he actually hated computers and was secretly holing up in a garret in Cambridge writing his coming-of-age novel in longhand.

“I know I should be telling the police, but . . . well, it’s my mother, and she didn’t mean any harm.” Mother, harm, police. This was getting interesting.

“What has she done?”

“She threw the brick through Lora’s window.”

“Your mother!” Faith couldn’t help herself—her voice rose near a screech.

“After I left the Millers’ last night, the brick thing kept bothering me. I mean, everybody there thought I did it. I guess I was pretty steamed by the time I got home, and Mom was waiting up for me, as usual.” He sounded resigned but not pleased. “I told her all about what had happened to you and also about the brick business. She got terribly upset and told me she’d done it.”

“All because Lora broke up with you?”

“Basically, yes. I had been taking it badly, especially at first. I knew she was mad at Lora and I guess she just kept thinking about it. She was edging a new bed she’d put in the garden and somehow got the idea that heaving a brick at Lora’s house would make her feel better. She didn’t intend to break the window; Mom has terrible aim.”

Faith was pretty sure Mrs. Hallowell’s aim was much better than her son believed. But then, apparently he was willing to believe anything.

“Let me get this straight. Your mother was out putting bricks in her garden in the dark of night and had an extra, so she drove over to Lora’s and let it fly?”

“We have floodlights in the back. Mom often gardens late at night. She likes to hear the crickets.” No more mysteries. Except for a few that would forever surround Mrs. Hallowell.

“She’s outside now; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to talk. She doesn’t want anyone to know about this, but I don’t want the cops, or Lora, to go on thinking I did it.”

So much for Mom.

“I’m glad you called me, but shouldn’t you be telling this to Chief MacIsaac?”

“I have the feeling he’s a little antagonistic toward me. You know I kind of lost it at the selectmen’s meeting that time.”

This was true, and now Faith knew what was coming—and why Brad had called her.

“I was hoping you could talk to him. Maybe Mom wouldn’t even have to know.” He was wheedling and sounded exactly like Danny Miller when he wanted to get out of doing his homework.

“I’ll talk to him—but your mom will have to know,” Faith told him.

No more mysteries.

Eleven

The morning of one’s child’s birthday always dawns with joy. There’s a moment of thanks, a moment of quiet reflection: looking back over the years, anticipating the years to come. Then the day comes gallop-ing in, starting in Ben’s case with a flying leap into his parents’ bed. “Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday to me!”

Night brings a return of that morning mood and the supine position. May tenth was drawing to a close and Ben was five years old. Faith was lying down on the couch. Tom was in the study working on a sermon entitled “Beginning Anew.” “I can work in spring and the quality of mercy,” he’d told her.

Sticking to the formula of one guest for each year of the child’s life, Faith had still found Ben’s birthday party more enervating than the large society wedding she’d catered recently. The children seemed to multi-ply and were everywhere at once. Fortunately, it had been a beautiful, warm day and the party was outside.

Tom had been on the other end of the camcorder most of the time—why he was working now. Pix brought the dogs over at Ben’s request, as a special treat, then left with them soon after, when one child reacted with terror, not delight.

Faith sat up. Ben would start kindergarten in the fall. It was going too fast. Although, in a few more years, she wouldn’t have to worry so much about day care. . . .

She missed Tom. It had been sixteen days since Nelson had tried to kill her. She had found herself counting immediately afterward and hadn’t stopped.

She and Tom had instinctively been spending as much time as possible together and with the kids. Maybe he’d like a beer. Maybe he was ready to go to bed.

She walked into his study and came up behind his chair, kissing the top of his head.

“That’s nice,” he murmured, then stood and took her in his arms. The study door burst open. They sprang apart like guilty lovers. It was déjà vu all over again, except the woman in Tom’s arms was his wife and the woman at the door wasn’t.

It was Millicent Revere McKinley.

“You’ll never guess!”

That was obvious.

“Oh, the front door was open and I saw the light on in here when I came up the sidewalk. I assumed you were working.” She gave them both a reproving look.

“Such wonderful news!”

Faith didn’t mind playing along. It had to be pretty important for Millicent to come barging in like this.

“What is it?”

“We own Beecher’s Bog! That is, the town owns it, always has!”

“But why didn’t we know before?” Tom asked.

“I’ll start from the beginning. Apparently, the town only leased the land to the Turners. Originally, it was going to be the site for the Poor Farm, which was why the town didn’t want to sell it all. The Turner family could build a farmhouse on the small lot they did own and would retain ownership of that, but the rest was to revert back to the town after Roland Turner’s death.

He could leave his house to his heirs, but not Beecher’s Bog and the surrounding fields. He was farming it in those days and getting cranberries from the bog. Later descendants made quite a profitable business of it.”

“How could it have taken so long to discover this?” Faith was extremely disappointed in Millicent—Millicent, who had ferreted out virtually every detail of Aleford life since the town was incorporated in 1713.

“Roland lived to be a very, very old man. Ninety-eight or ninety-nine. By then, the Poor Farm was located elsewhere. Anyway, during his life, neither he nor anyone else in his family brought up the life-tenancy question, in the hope that the town would forget about it, which it did. During the war, many papers were destroyed and there must have been a great deal of confusion.” When Millicent said “the war,” it was not WW II, the Big One, or the Vietnam War, but the one and only one as far as she was concerned—the War of Independence.

This was all very interesting, but Faith was still in the dark.

“It would certainly have changed things if we’d known about this sooner,” she said bitterly.

“But they only found the papers today!” Millicent protested.

“Who found what papers, where?” Tom asked.

“The Turners were too honest, or too nervous, to destroy the papers detailing the agreement. They hid them in the house, in one of the kitchen walls. You know the restoration work has been continuing. Today they were replacing some of the plaster and found the tin box with the documents.”

“You mean the men working for the Deanes?” Faith was astonished.

“I mean Eddie Deane himself. Gus just called.” There was a Bronze Musket plaque in here for somebody, maybe the whole family.

“Now, I have a million more people to tell. Isn’t it thrilling?” And she was off into the night to spread the news, not unlike her illustrious ancestor.

Faith and Tom went back to what they had been doing. After a while, Faith observed, “That does it, then.

The bog has been saved. The identity of the poison-pen writer and murderer revealed. The mystery of Lora’s double life solved. The only thing we’ll probably never know is what was in Millicent’s letter, her guilty secret.”

“I think I can help solve this one, if you promise not to get mad at me for not telling you sooner. Believe it or not, the whole thing completely slipped my mind.”

“I believe it. Now tell! I knew Charley was giving you all sorts of inside information!”

“The letter contained no words, only a number, Seventy-four.”

“Of course. I should have known. Her age! Seventy-four. Her guilty secret! She should be shouting it from the top of her gabled rooftop. Besides, these days it’s nothing. Millicent will still be Millicent twenty years from now.”

Faith paused a moment to reflect on this daunting thought—with the happy realization also that Millicent’s secret was hers. No more vague allusions to the 1940s as dark ages.

She settled back into Tom’s arms, another thought uppermost in her mind.

“You know, we made a very good team, darling, although you tended to be a little too cautious—and forgetful.”

“A team?”

“As in Nick and Nora Charles, for instance.” Tom made a face. “I could never drink that many martinis and still function, but now that the kids are older, we might consider getting a dog—say a wire-haired terrier?”

Faith smiled. Definitely a very good team.

Author’s Note

Next to eating good dinners, a healthy man with a benevolent turn of mind, must like, I think, to read about them.

—W. M. THACKERAY

Faith and I would add “and woman” to the sentence, but Thackeray was definitely onto something. We enjoy reading about food. And for many of us, reading about food and murder is the real frosting on the cake. Why is the pairing of gastronomy and crime so seductive?

Dorothy L. Sayers delights us with her descriptions of Lord Peter Wimsey’s meals, with perhaps the best title in the annals of culinary crime: “The Bibulous Business of the Matter of Taste.” That short story describes a six-course dinner, with the emphasis on the identification of the wines accompanying each course.

Only the real Lord Peter is able to correctly name all of them. I like the breakfasts best and entertain fantasies of Bunter appearing at the door of my bedchamber, tray laden with tea, kippers, coddled eggs, and a rack of toast.

Meanwhile, across the Channel, Madame Maigret is taking excellent care of her husband, preparing traditional French dishes that Simenon writes about in mouthwatering detail. It is no wonder Maigret tries to get home for lunch so often. I would, too, if someone was whipping up coq au vin and a tarte à la frangi-pane (a particularly sinful custard pastry) for me.

On our own shores, we have Nero Wolfe, whose attention to food is as obsessive as his devotion to his orchids. He and Fritz Brenner, his chef, range over a number of cuisines in the pursuit of their art. Fritz is so gifted that he even makes milk toast “superbly.” Why on earth would Archie ever look for his own apartment? Would you?

It would be simple to say that each author uses food as a way of characterizing each sleuth, a way of extending our knowledge of the kinds of people they are, and leave it at that. An idiosyncrasy perhaps? But it’s more.

We get hungry when we read these books, and I’m sure the authors did, too, as they wrote. How could it be otherwise, given the emphasis they place on the joys of the table? Food is important. It makes a statement on its own. Whodunit is irrevocably joined to whoateit.

Faith doesn’t have a cook, nor do I. If we want something tasty, we have to make it ourselves—something, fortunately, both of us like to do. We hope you will enjoy these recipes, and when you’re ready to sit down to the fruits of your labor, prop a good mystery up in front of your plate!

EXCERPTS FROM

HAVE FAITH

IN YOUR KITCHEN

BY Faith Sibley Fairchild

A WORK IN PROGRESS

FAITH’S YANKEE POT ROAST

23/ pounds beef bottom

3 cloves of garlic

4

round, tied

1/ teaspoon thyme, more if 2

1/ cup olive oil

using fresh

3

3 large carrots

Salt and pepper

4 medium potatoes (Faith

1 bottle Samuel Adams likes Yukon Golds)

lager, cream stout, or the 3 medium onions

equivalent

Preheat the oven to 350° F.

Brown the meat in the oil on all sides in a large casserole with a lid or in a Dutch oven.

Peel the carrots and potatoes. Cut the potatoes and onions into quarters and the carrots into twoinch pieces. Mince the garlic. Layer the vegetables around the browned meat and add the thyme, salt, and pepper.

Pour the beer into the casserole and bring it to a boil, uncovered, on the top of the stove. After it boils, turn the heat off and cover the casserole. Place it in the oven and cook for one hour. Remove and let cool.

Refrigerate overnight.

This tastes best when made a day ahead. Skim the fat from the top, cover, and reheat in the oven. Remove the meat, slice it, and arrange with the vegetables on a warm platter. Sprinkle with finely chopped parsley. Heat the juices on the top of the stove. You may want to add some flour to thicken. Adjust the seasonings and serve the gravy separately.

ALEFORD BAKED BEANS

4 cups Great Northern

3/ cup molasses

4

beans or pea beans,

3/ cup dark brown sugar

4

dried

11/ teaspoons salt

2

Pinch of salt

11/ teaspoons fresh ground

2

3/ pound wellstreaked salt

4

pepper

pork

1 cup boiling water

3 tablespoons Dijon mus1 large yellow onion tard

Soak the beans overnight and drain. Add a pinch of salt and enough water to reach two inches above the beans. Bring to a boil and simmer for an hour. Drain and reserve the liquid. The beans should be barely tender.

Preheat the oven to 400° F.

Scald the salt pork by letting it sit in boiling water for ten minutes. Cut two thin slices and place one in the bottom of your bean pot or casserole. Cut the other into small pieces and set aside. Score the rind of the remaining piece with a sharp knife and set aside also.

Mix the mustard, molasses, brown sugar, salt, and pepper with the boiling water. It’s easiest to do this in a large glass measuring pitcher.

Layer the beans in the pot with the pieces of salt pork and the mustard/molasses/sugar mixture, burying the onion in the middle. Place the large piece of salt pork on the top, rind up, and pour the remaining liquid mixture over it. If there is not enough liquid to cover the beans, use some of the water you reserved when you drained the beans. Be careful not to use too much liquid. You can always add more as the beans bake.

Put the lid on the pot, or cover on the casserole, and bake the beans at 400° F. for thirty minutes. Turn the temperature down to 200° F. and bake for six to eight hours, checking to see that the beans do not become too dry. Uncover the container during the last hour of cooking.

Baked beans were the Puritans’ answer to the Crock

Pot and provided them with a tasty meal during the Sabbath. The pot would be placed in the fireplace on Saturday morning, or handed over to the baker, who would call for it and place it in the community oven, usually in a nearby tavern. After cooking all day, the beans were ready for Saturday supper and Sunday breakfast. Traditionally, Bostonians eat their beans with brown bread, but Faith has served them straight from the pot with everything from focaccia to corn bread. Beantown’s pot is earthenware with a narrow throat, but this recipe tastes fine cooked in any deep casserole with a cover, such as a Dutch oven.

This makes a great many beans. For the next meal, add barbecue sauce, drop a poached egg on top, or give some to your neighbors.

CARDAMOM RAISIN BREAD

1 quart milk

1 package golden or mus

11/ cups sugar

cat raisins (approx. 15

2

1/ cup butter

ounces)

2

1 teaspoon ground car2 eggs, beaten damom seeds (or 1

12 cups flour (approxi

tablespoon of preground

mately)

cardamom)

1 egg yolk, 1 teaspoon

2 cakes compressed yeast

vanilla, 1 tablespoon

or two packages of yeast

sugar, mixed together

granules

for the glaze

1 teaspoon salt

1 package seedless raisins

(approx. 15 ounces)

Preheat the oven to 350° F.

Heat the milk and sugar, then add the butter and cardamom. When the butter has melted, cool the mixture to lukewarm in a large mixing bowl. Add and dissolve the yeast. Add the salt, raisins, and beaten eggs. Mix together well and then add enough flour to make a firm but elastic dough. Cover the dough and let it stand in a warm place until doubled in bulk. Then knead it well and form into two round loaves—or four standardsized bread loaves. Place these in greased pie tins or loaf pans and let rise until doubled again.

Bake for one hour. Brush loaves with the mixture of egg yolk, vanilla, and sugar when they come out of the oven.

Once you’ve made it, you’ll get the knack. It needs to rise for a long time and you also have to watch that the top doesn’t get too brown or burn in the oven. You may have to cover it with foil near the end. You can also make the dough in a braid.

This cardamom raisin bread is a Norwegian recipe from the real author’s grandmother. We’ve always made it for Christmas. In Norwegian, it’s called Julekake, “Christmas cake.” I now make it yearround.

PATRIOTS’ DAY PANCAKES

1/ cup milk

4 tablespoons sugar

2

2 tablespoons melted butter

1/ teaspoon salt

2

1 egg

1/ teaspoon vanilla

4

1/ cup sour cream

1/ cup raspberries

2

2

1 cup flour

1/ cup blueberries

2

2 teaspoons baking powder

Mix the milk, melted butter, egg, and sour cream in a bowl until smooth.

Sift the dry ingredients together in a separate bowl and then add all at once to the liquid ingredients. Stir until mixed. The batter will be a bit lumpy. Add the vanilla and stir again. Fold in the berries.

The pancakes cook more evenly if you can find blueberries and raspberries of approximately the same size.

Cook on a hot griddle over medium heat. Serve immediately with a dusting of powdered sugar. (Some people also like butter.) Makes eighteen to twentyfour pancakes, depending on size. You may also wish to add more fruit, but not too much or the pancakes get mushy.

In the book, the children pour syrup on them, but they taste far better without it.

CHOCOLATE CRUNCH COOKIES

1/ pound unsalted butter

11/ cups dark or semisweet

2

2

1 cup brown sugar

chocolate bits combined

1 egg yolk

with 1/ cup toffee bits

2

2 cups sifted flour

1/ cup toffee bits for top2

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

ping

Preheat the oven to 350° F.

Cream together the butter and sugar. Add the egg yolk and beat until smooth. Add the flour, mix, then add the vanilla. At this stage, Faith uses her hands, as the dough tends to be crumbly. Knead until smooth.

Spread the dough in a greased ninebytwelveinch baking pan and place in the middle of the oven.

Again, Faith finds that it is easier to pat the dough evenly into the pan using her hands.

Bake for twentyfive minutes and take the pan out of the oven.

Distribute the combined chocolate and toffee bits evenly over the cookie layer and bake for four minutes more.

Remove the pan from the oven and immediately spread the melted chocolate and toffee bits. Sprinkle what is now the frosting with the remaining toffee bits.

It is important to let the cookies cool completely in the pan before cutting into squares.

This is a decadently rich cookie and makes either twentyfour or thirtysix cookies. It’s up to you.

NOTE ON RECIPES:

As with Faith’s other recipes in The Body in the Cast and The Body in the Basement, all these will taste just fine with healthwise modifications such as Egg Beaters, lowfat sour cream, 1 percent milk, butter substitutes, and the like. Unfortunately, the cookies definitely need the real thing—the best chocolate bits you can find and real toffee bits. Think of them as a reward for all those rice crackers you eat.

Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge George Gabriel, “Captain John Parker,” of the Lexington Company of Minute Men, and David Hackett Fischer, author of Paul Revere’s Ride, for their help with the historical portions of the book. Thanks also to Robert Hilton for the title and sundry bog information. My special thanks to the best agent in the books, Faith Hamlin.

About the Author

KATHERINE HALL PAGE is the author of thirteen previous Faith Fairchild mysteries. Her first book in the series, The Body in the Belfry, received the Agatha Award for best first mystery novel. She also won an Agatha Award for her short story “The Would Be Widower,” and The Body in the Lighthouse was nominated for a Mary Higgins Clark Award. She lives with her husband and son in Massachusetts. You can visit her website at www.katherinehallpage.com.

Praise for

KATHERINE HALL PAGE’s

Agatha Award-winning

FAITH FAIRCHILD MYSTERIES

“Sparkles like a Yankee pond on a bright autumn day!”

Washington Post Book World

“Mystery that will make the reader chuckle while they try to figure out who done it.” Trenton Times

“An expert at the puzzle mystery.”

Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“Satisfying and surprisingly delicious.” Los Angeles Times

“Faith is a gem.”

Toronto Globe & Mail

“Forget about your diet. It’s time you sampled this author’s marvelous treats.”

Jackson Clarion-Ledger

Other Faith Fairchild Mysteries by

Katherine Hall Page

from Avon Books

The Body in the Moonlight

The Body in the Big Apple

The Body in the Bookcase

The Body in the Fjord

The Body in the Basement

The Body in the Cast

The Body in the Vestibule

The Body in the Bouillon

The Body in the Kelp

The Body in the Belfry

Coming Soon in Hardcover

The Body in the Bonfire