Body in the Bookcase

She rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a bar of extradark Lindt chocolate she kept there for emergencies. She broke off a piece for Tom.

“Do you know what the worst thing about all this is?”

“No, what is the worst thing, and what is all this?”

“Looking for our stuff. The worst thing is that I’m even more dissatisfied now that I’ve found some.”

“Huh?” said Tom. “Is that all the chocolate there is?”

“No, here’s some more. It sounds crazy, but finding these things makes me remember what’s still missing, and I can’t appreciate what I’ve got, because I want it all back.”

“It does sound a little crazy, but also a little logical. Like being starving and only getting enough food to take the edge off your hunger. Or being thirsty—”

“I get it, I get it. Could be a sermon topic, honey.” Tom put his hand over Faith’s. “You never know.”

They were almost home. It had been a strange trip. On the way up, Faith had barely given a passing glance to the beautiful landscape—birches bent low against the looming dark conifers; maples and other hardwoods leafed out in brilliant greens that would give way to a more gaudy palette during fall foliage season. The small back road that crossed the state line would be bumper-to-bumper then. It was almost deserted now. On the way back, Faith was just as oblivious to her surroundings, at times forgetting exactly where they were. Peterborough? Pepperell? Lowell? Mars?

“Do we drive straight to the police station or call?” Tom asked.

“Call. We want to preserve your mother’s illusion that her grandchildren are perfect, and the longer we stay away, the more precarious that becomes. There’s also the danger that our children may start comparing me to her. ‘Granny never makes me take a bath. Granny never yells at me.

Granny lets me eat Happy Meals.’ I can hear Ben now.”

“Nonsense, you’re a perfect mother—and a perfect wife.”

Faith didn’t bother to correct him.

“Let me see if I understand this.” Faith was talking on the phone with Charley MacIsaac. “If you find out the name of the dealer from the Old Oaken Bucket people, you can’t search his house, even though he was selling stolen goods, because you wouldn’t be able to get a warrant without probable cause?”

Charley cleared his throat. They’d been down this road several times already in various vehicles.

“I can get the name and question him. Have him bring his receipts if he claims to have purchased the things, but you said you don’t want to do that.”

“He’ll get rid of everything if he thinks we’re on to him. The only way is to raid his house or storage locker. Whatever he uses.”

“You have heard of the U.S. Constitution, right?

And I don’t mean the ship in Boston Harbor.”

“No need to get sarcastic. I know what you’re saying.” Since the beginning of the conversation, Faith had been wishing she was not such an ardent supporter of constitutional rights. It was all well and good in the abstract, but they were definitely getting in the way now. Maybe this is when they are needed most, an annoying little voice nagged at her. The voice sounded remarkably like her Aunt Chat’s.

Another voice told her she was going to have to handle this investigation herself. She was sorry she’d called the police. Their goals were not con-verging at the moment. Yes, she wanted the perpetrators caught and brought to justice, but she also wanted to recover as much as possible in the process.

“Give me the booth number, Faith, and I’ll drive up there tomorrow. Then I’ll have a talk with the dealer. You say he lives in Massachusetts?”

“I think that’s what the woman said,” Faith replied tentatively. She had her own plans. “I don’t have the case number.” She didn’t, not by the phone.

Charley was getting annoyed. “Look, do you want me to investigate your burglary or not?

There’s another call coming and I’m alone here, as usual. You come by tomorrow and we’ll straighten this out.”

That was fine with Faith.

Nan Howell had been as good as her word. When Faith arrived at the shop the next day, Nan handed her a list of publications: The Maine Antique Digest, The Newtown Bee, Unravel the Gavel, and another list of the major antiques marts in New England. It was daunting. How would Faith ever be able to do her job, let alone tend her hearth?

“There’s a big show this weekend, paid preview all day Friday. It’s at the Copley Plaza in Boston. And then there are the auctions. You need to check the paper each week.”

“Do you go to all these things? How would you have time?”

“I make my rounds, especially the auctions and the better shows. For the rest, I rotate. I hadn’t been to the Old Oaken Bucket, for instance, since last summer, but they close for a couple of months in the winter. I have to do this in order to get stock. And a good part of my business is locating things people have asked me to look for. I get called in to buy pieces when estates are settled every now and then, but people tend to auction everything off—the treasures with the trash. People come in with things to sell, too, convinced Great-Aunt Tillie’s lamp is a Tiffany. Sometimes they sell, even after I tell them it’s a repro. Of course, if the PBS Antiques Road Show is to be believed, we might all find one of the missing copies of the Declaration of Independence in the basement in a stack of old newspapers, or a fifteenth-century Venetian gold helmet in the attic, lodged in the beams to catch a pesky drip.” Faith was curious. “Have you had the store for a long time?”

“About fifteen years. It started as a hobby. I collected art pottery before the prices skyrocketed.

Then I started doing flea markets with things I’d bought before I knew better or had had to buy in box lots and didn’t want. One thing led to another, and I was picking up stuff to sell as well as for my collection, reading all the books I could. I knew the man who owned this store and I began to work here a few days a week. Then he wanted to sell the business, and my husband said to go for it. It was a good thing I did. A month after my grand opening, my husband passed away suddenly. A sweetheart, but he thought he’d live forever. You know the type?”

Faith did. No insurance.

“Anyway, the kids were in high school, and this place saw them both through college and kept me from going crazy. Still does.” College, and a nice BMW parked outside that Faith assumed was Nan’s from the vanity plate: anteek. Tymely Treasures must do very well.

Very well indeed.

Faith had told Nan about their finds the day before at the Old Oaken Bucket when she’d called to be sure the shop was open. In the clear light of day, each item was a treasure, doubly treasured for having been restored to its rightful owners. Faith’s depression of the day before had abated—somewhat.

“Wouldn’t the Oaken Bucket’s owners tell you whose case it is?” she asked Nan. “You did leave an offer on a gold bracelet, so you have a reason to call. I think it was still there—heavy gold links with a ruby in the clasp?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Nan was flushed and it wasn’t just the green tea she’d brewed for them.

“This is exciting. I feel like Peter Wimsey, or Har-riet Vane, more likely. The Old Oaken Bucket opens at ten o’clock, too, and someone should be there. I’ve known the owners, Sharon and Jack Fielding, since I started in the business, and you’re right, I’m sure they’ll tell me.” They did.

“It’s George Stackpole,” Nan told Faith after she hung up the phone. “He lives in Framingham and does shows, has booths in a couple of places.

Cambridge, I think. Maybe Byfield. I saw him at an auction last week. He said he’s going to be at the show at the Copley that I told you about.”

“What’s he like?” Faith asked eagerly. After the trip to New Hampshire, she’d shelved her initial annoyance and had been blessing her mother-in-law steadily for starting her on the napkin ring trail. Nan was a similar gift from heaven, or so it appeared.

“He’s . . . well, unpredictable.”

“What does that mean?”

“He can get a little out of control at auctions—

accuses the auctioneer of ignoring his bids, that kind of thing—when he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know about this business. But he’s . . . volatile.” Nan was being uncharacteristically reticent and Faith wondered why. Her whole manner had changed after she’d found out who owned case number four. The enthusiasm she’d displayed before making the call had given way to decided reluctance. Just how well did Nan Howell know this George Stackpole? Faith wondered. Was this a case of dealers closing ranks, or some other protective impulse on her part? Instead of the question she’d intended to ask next—Was he known to be crooked?—Faith posed a less threatening one.

“How old a man is he?”

“Hard to say. Probably mid- to late sixties.” Certainly capable of wielding a crowbar and carrying a loaded drawer, Faith thought.

“Does he ever sell out of his house? I know it’s an awful lot to ask, but maybe the two of us could go and see what he has?”

Nan considered Faith’s suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “crooked dealers make the whole profession look bad. I guess I could tell him I’m low on stock and want to see what he has, then take you along as my assistant or something. I’m not sure when I’ll have the time, though. It’s been quite busy here.” The empty store yesterday and today made Faith wonder when, exactly, the busy time was—probably weekends—but she was glad she’d proposed the scheme. She had to see what else this Stackpole might have of theirs.

“You’ve been an enormous help and I can’t thank you enough,” Faith said. “I have to get to work myself. This is a very busy time of year for me too. I don’t know why more people don’t get married say in January.”

There was forced laughter on both sides and Faith left. On the ride back to Aleford, it occurred to her that another matter she hadn’t brought up with Nan was whether any of the foot traffic seeking to sell her items had seemed like footpads—a guy with a silver chest, for example, or a pillowcase of jewelry.

Stephanie was waiting impatiently outside the catering kitchens. “I thought you got to work early.”

Remembering Courtney’s not-too-veiled repri-mand, Faith bit her tongue and put on a pleasant,

“welcoming” smile. Niki could be bad cop—not that she could be otherwise with Miss Bullock.

“I’m sorry. Have you been here long? Usually, I am at work much earlier, but it’s been a strange few days.”

Stephanie’s interest was piqued, and for once she asked about someone else. “What’s been going on?”

As Faith made coffee and took out the ingredients for a small test batch of the cold avocado bisque (see recipe on page 336) she planned to serve at the rehearsal dinner, she found herself telling Stephanie all about the hunt for the missing Fairchild loot.

“You need to talk to Daddy. I’m sure he knows this George person. Daddy knows anybody who has anything to do with the business. Mummy, too.”

It was a good idea, made even easier by a call a few minutes later from Patsy Avery.

“Do you want to play hooky and go look at a dining room table with me? It’s at an antiques dealer’s out in Concord.”

“That’s funny. There’s one I want to talk to out there—Julian Bullock.”

Patsy laughed. “We are definitely on the same wavelength. The table is at Julian’s. We’ve bought quite a few things from him, and Will wants a really big table for entertaining. Julian says he has just the thing. Could you go tomorrow morning?”

What with the business, keeping things going at home, and the full-time job of tracking down her possessions, Faith had to think a moment before deciding she could go.

“I’d love to—and I have lots to tell you. We’ve found some of our things.”

“Say what!”

Faith gave Patsy a hasty description, aware that a few feet away Stephanie was bruising the avocados as she mindlessly picked them up and put them down, restlessly waiting for Faith to get off the phone.

“You can get all that money back,” Patsy was advising her friend. “A thief can’t transfer title, so the dealer has to give you back what you paid him. All you have to do is prove the goods were stolen.”

This was good news. They had the photographs, so when she was sure they’d retrieved everything they could, they’d send Mr. Stackpole a bill. It gave her a warm, righteous feeling.

“I thought you’d never get off the phone,” Stephanie said petulantly when Faith hung up.

“So, you’re going to Daddy’s tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. Coincidentally, a friend wants to look at a piece of furniture he has for sale.”

“All his furniture is for sale. Forget about getting attached to anything. I came home from boarding school one vacation and had to sleep on a cot because he’d sold my entire bedroom.” For a moment, Faith felt sorry for Stephanie. It couldn’t have been a happy home; furniture moving in and out was the least of the instability.

“Now”—Stephanie held up one of the alligator pears—“you’re sure the soup isn’t going to be too green?”

After Stephanie left, Faith quickly made the soup.

She hadn’t used this recipe in some time and planned to serve it to Bullock mother and daughter, along with some of the other goodies from both the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception menus when they came on Friday afternoon. As she finished combining the ingredients, Faith reflected on her uncharacteristic behavior. It was a great recipe and there was no need to make it now, but she was anxious. Anxiety was seeping into all the corners of her life, yet at the moment there didn’t seem any way to control it.

It was a good idea to give the Bullocks something to eat, though. They’d already sampled most of the food, but as they ate, or picked, in Courtney’s case, Faith firmly intended to keep the conversation on the swatch Mrs. Bullock was bringing and what kind of flowers she wanted—

anything but changes in the menu.

Faith poured the soup into a bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. The bisque was a lovely shade of green, like the owl and the pussy-cat’s boat. Looking at it made her feel better. She started taking out the fruit and cheese for some of the platters ordered for a function in Weston.

As she lined flat wicker baskets with grape leaves, the door opened and Niki arrived. “I‘m having so much fun, and I brought you a sample.

Really, on days like this, I can almost get myself to believe that food is better than sex.” She was taking a course in desserts at the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts, and Faith had become used to the sugar high Niki regularly reached after class.

She also looked forward to the treats Niki brought. Today, Niki announced they had each made a gâteau St.-Honoré, and she popped one of the extra cream puffs filled with chocolate pastry cream into Faith’s mouth. It was sinful.

“What are you doing?” Niki asked. “Those are for the Weston job, right? Do you want me to get started on the dessert tray?”

“Great. There really isn’t much to do. They’re taking care of the drinks and heating up the other hors d’oeuvres.”

“So,” Niki began, arranging bite-sized palmiers, lavender shortbread, chocolate mousse cups, and other goodies on a tray decorated with crystallized fruit and flowers, “what’s the latest?

Have you turned up any more valuables?” Niki had been one of the people Faith had called the night before with the news of the recovery of some of their loot.

“I went out to Nan Howell’s this morning and she got me the name of the dealer who rents the booth at the Old Oaken Bucket. She also gave me a list of places to write to with descriptions of what’s been stolen, as well as a list of antiques marts to check out.”

“Pretty full plate,” Niki observed.

Faith was feeling philosophical. “Getting robbed is like the gift that keeps on giving. You get trapped in the whole process, kind of like the twelve days of Christmas. You start out with one pear and a bird; then, before you know it, you’re up to your eyeballs in milkmaids, leaping lords, insurance adjusters—not to mention cowpats and bird droppings. Of course, you would have all those nice gold rings,” she mused.

Niki laughed. “Glad to see you’re not losing your perspective, boss.”

“Stephanie was waiting for me when I got here.

You just missed her.”

Niki snapped her fingers. “Aw, shucks! Don’t you seriously wonder what this girl is going to do with her time once this wedding is over? I mean, doesn’t she have friends, people to go to lunch with, pick up trifles on Newbury Street, and other mindless delights of the leisured class?”

“I think all her friends have jobs or are still in college. Stephanie dropped out to concentrate on being engaged, remember.”

“Yeah, I remember. Mater was complaining that Pater had saved a year’s tuition and shouldn’t be forcing her, of all people, to pay for any of the nuptials. This was after he put his foot down about the monogrammed Pratesi sheets for the Little Princess’s dowry.”

“Right—but Courtney got them herself, Stephanie told me. ‘Daddy’s so cheap. He told me to get Martha Stewart’s at Kmart!’ ” Faith had Stephanie’s voice down pat.

“I never thought I would live to see the day—

Martha Stewart and Kmart—talk about strange bedfellows.” Niki put the finishing touches on the tray, arranging clusters of tiny champagne grapes in each corner.

“Speaking of which, did you hear about Martha’s own daughter’s wedding? Julian Bullock would have been over the moon if Stephanie had gone the route Alexis Stewart did. Apparently, she’d had enough sugared almonds and tulle to last a lifetime and so got married in a gray flannel suit. There were virtually no guests, although Martha was there. They had lunch afterward at Jean Georges, that incredible restaurant near Columbus Circle in New York. Martha didn’t get to make so much as a petit four. I’d better be careful what I expose Amy to or she might do the same thing, and I’d like her to have as great a wedding as we did—and Tom has already practiced a few teary words to work into the ceremony. Stop it!” Niki was making gagging motions, as she did whenever she felt the subject of matrimony was hitting too close to home.

“Speaking of Amy,” Faith said, “I have to pick the kids up in twenty minutes. Afterward, I want to check out two or three of these antiques co-op places Nan mentioned. Can you manage? The Weston people insisted on picking the platters up themselves to save the delivery charge, and they’ll be here before three o’clock.”

“I’m going to work on perfecting my chocolate ganache, so don’t worry. I had planned to stay anyway. But, Faith, are those antiquey places kid-friendly? I adore Ben and Amy, but do you seriously want to set them free amid all that bric-a-brac?”

“No, but I don’t have any choice. Leaving children home alone only works in the movies. Besides, Amy will fall asleep in the knapsack and Ben can be very good if sufficiently bribed. He wants some kind of Hot Wheels car, and if I keep reminding him about it, he’ll be able to hold it together. I don’t plan to stay long. Two of the places are in Cambridge and one in Boston.” The act, seldom admitted, of a desperate mother worked like a charm. All Faith had to do was make vroom, vroom noises and Ben curbed the natural instinct he had to touch everything. At one place, he actually asked if he could sit on the bench by the entrance and just watch. “I’m only touching with my eyes, Mommy,” he told her vir-tuously—and priggishly. And she was quick. This time it was easy. At each place, she said, “I’ve been buying from George Stackpole”—which she had. Then she added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember the number of his booth.” Each place gave it—and she added a pair of sugar tongs, a wine coaster, and her Pearson silver necklace and bracelet to the growing list of items back from the dead. She was flushed with success as they stopped at the Toys “ R ” Us in Fresh Pond to make good her promise to Ben. Bribery worked only if you carried through immediately. Deferred gratification was as alien a concept to children as supply-side economics.

At home, as soon as the kids were occupied, she looked in the Framingham telephone book and found George’s address. A plan was forming and she needed to think about it. Above all, she didn’t want to discuss it with Tom.

Seven

Everything about Julian Bullock shrieked bespoke, from the cut of his summer-weight suit to his Turnbull and Asser shirt, the cuffs linked by discreet Cartier gold knots. He was a tall man with a well-scrubbed pink-and-white complexion. His thinning blond hair appeared to have been cut that very morning. He used Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet aftershave—but not too much.

He greeted the two women as they stepped out of Patsy Avery’s car. “So good of you to come by.” They might have been arriving for elevenses, rather than coming to what was, after all, a place of business. “Wonderful run of good weather. So good for the garden.” As with his person, there was a British inflection in his voice. It was a voice Faith had heard often since coming to New England—long pauses between words, followed by a sudden rush of sentences. And all the clichés, the Vaughn Meader imitations—those r’s and h’s where none existed. In short, it was the assured voice of the upper class.

Julian Bullock, however, was a fraud—or rather, he was his own creation. He’d been born in Massachusetts, but in South Boston, not in Milton or Prides Crossing. His ancestors had crossed the pond, but not on the Mayflower. He’d invented himself. Firmly turning his exquisitely tailored back on Southie, he’d pursued and won a scholar-ship to Deerfield, then another to Harvard. In one of her tantrums at Daddy’s “meanness,” Stephanie had gleefully revealed his roots. “He was so silly to divorce Mummy. I mean, it’s not likely he’ll marry a Cabot again, is it?” Blood will tell, Faith thought at the time.

“Yes, this weather makes me homesick. You Yankees get all excited at a few rhododendron,” Patsy was saying. “You should see Audubon Park back home this time of year. Makes your flora look puny. I know you know Faith Fairchild, and, by the way, congratulations on your daughter’s wedding,” Patsy added.

“Delightful to see you, Faith.” He extended his hand and ushered them into the house. “I suppose congratulations are in order, but, no offense to the caterer, you had best save them for after the happy day. So far, all it’s meant has been an enormous amount of aggravation.” His broad smile took some of the sting from his words. Faith sympathized with him, silently adding, And money.

She could imagine only too well what the year had been like.

“I’m off duty,” she said. “Here only to give my opinion if asked and possibly look for a sideboard. My house was burglarized and they took one of the drawers from ours to carry things in.” Julian shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Did you lose much?”

“All our silver, jewelry—everything of value.

They left us the plate.” Before he could tell her she’d been hit by pros, she quickly added, “We have recovered some items. They’ve been turning up in these large antiques marts.”

“Odd places.” He grimaced slightly. “One always feels so uneasy with those surveillance cameras. And they’re so superfluous. A show really for the poor unsuspecting public. Locking things up makes them seem more valuable, but the vast majority of the booths are filled with little flea-market turds.” He flung open a door dramatically, then caught it before it could hit the Queen Anne highboy on the other side. “Now, here, my dear, is your table.”

It was also the table for Stephanie’s rehearsal dinner, Faith realized. She’d seen it when she’d come here to check out the premises. If Patsy bought it, Courtney would be—she consciously echoed Julian’s slight crudeness, calculated to shock and amuse—bullshit. But Julian would get another in time. Twenty people couldn’t eat from TV trays.

Patsy was slowly circling the long, gleaming Federal mahogany dining table. She and Will entertained frequently. At last, they could have large sit-down dinners and forget balancing plates from a buffet. Conversations were so much better around a table. She crouched down to peer underneath and then stood up. “Faith?”

“It’s beautiful.” She’d start out slowly, waiting to take her cue from Patsy. It was, in fact, the perfect table for the Averys’ dining room, and Faith had already envisioned a runner covered with gourds, squash, beeswax candles, and fruit stretched down the center next Thanksgiving.

Patsy could spray them gold for Christmas.

Julian had effectively blended into the woodwork, effacing himself. Not an easy task in a room crammed with furniture. The whole house was like this. It seemed like someone’s home, but someone who delighted in multiples.

“Damn straight it’s beautiful. All right, Julian, I’ll take it. Let’s start playing that game where you name a ridiculous price and I say you’re crazy for a while.” Patsy was gleeful.

He materialized immediately. “Over tea? Or a glass of wine?”

They opted for tea and followed him out to the kitchen.

Boiling water was about all Julian could do, and the kitchen itself was not up to much more.

As Faith remembered, it looked marvelous. There was a Hoosier kitchen in mint condition and shining copper pots—all completely useless—hung from the rafters. But there was almost no counter space, the dishwasher dated from the fifties, and the oven was tiny, sporting the patina of years of spattered fats. She’d seen, and worked, in worse, but not many. Julian had made no apologies during her earlier visit, merely observing succinctly,

“I do very little cooking myself.” There must have been a cook—at least when Stephanie was growing up. Faith could not envision Courtney in an apron, whipping up meals for her family. The cook would have served up the plain, slightly monotonous fare that sustained this segment of the New England population: baked scrod, watery peas, lumpy mashed potatoes.

Julian had struck Faith as charming before, maintaining a slightly sardonic but amused manner with his ex-wife and daughter. Now, with a sale in sight, the charm had been turned up a notch. He carried the tea tray, loaded with objects of desire and all for sale, into the library.

“Tell me more about your quest,” he said to Faith after murmuring he’d “be mother,” pouring them each a cup of strong Darjeeling tea.

Knowing it was scripted as part of his sales campaign, Faith was nevertheless glad to have the opportunity to get some information.

“All the items have turned up in cases that belong to a dealer named George Stackpole. Do you know anything about him?”

“George Stackpole . . .” Julian popped a Pepperidge Farm Milano cookie into his mouth. “Met him once or twice. Know him slightly. He’s what’s called a ‘picker.’ Rather far down in the food chain, but you can make a decent living.” His smug glance around the room made the words nothing like me unnecessary.

“What’s a picker?” Faith asked.

Julian lifted the gleaming silver teapot with a questioning air. Both women extended their cups.

After pouring himself one, he drank half and put the cup down. He was in an expansive mood. He liked Patsy Avery and he liked his table. While he viewed the furnishings of his house as stock, he was not without prejudice when it came to part-ing with favorite items. The Averys had the mak-ings of discerning collectors, and collectors were his bread and butter.

“Pickers go around and knock on people’s doors, ask if they have any old junk for sale—that sort of thing. If you picture my business as a kind of pyramid, the pickers are at the base. Above them are runners. They don’t knock on doors, but they buy from the pickers and move good pieces on up. This is not to denigrate anyone, because at each level, you can’t make it in this business if you don’t have a good eye. A feel for things. A kind of visceral response to an object.”

“You make it sound very sexy,” Patsy commented.

Julian looked at her and took another cookie from the plate. “Every item can tell a story. A story of the past. Sometimes we know the tales, sometimes not. Your grandmother gives you something that was her mother’s and tells you about it. She’s connecting you to the past and leaving a bit of herself for the future.” Faith knew this. When she was robbed, the thieves had, in effect, taken scissors and cut some of these threads forever. She pictured her cameo ring on another finger, the wearer oblivious to stories about Great-Aunt Phoebe so often repeated to Faith—her musical ability, her love of poetry. Julian had warmed to his subject. “Someone like Stackpole doesn’t have the connections to sell a really expensive item. He doesn’t deal with museums and the major collectors. The further you go up the chain, the smaller the number of people involved—buyers and sellers.” It was fascinating.

“Of course, the deal is off if Will doesn’t like it,” Patsy said as she and Julian shook hands after arriving at a price.

“That goes without saying.”

“When can you get it to us?” Patsy asked. She knew full well her husband would adore the table—and would have ended up paying too much for it.

“As soon as you like. Today? Tomorrow?” While they were talking, Faith wandered out into the hallway. There were no price tags, but she knew the small oil painting of a rolling meadow in the last long light of the day, which looked like it had been done by a member of the Hudson River School, probably had been. And equally probable was the possibility that it was high up there on top of the pyramid, far out of her reach.

So, too, was the beautiful sideboard standing beneath it. It was elegant, graceful. She ran her hand across the surface. The wood was as smooth as butter. Much nicer than the sideboard they had, bequeathed by an aunt of Tom’s when she moved to a retirement community. It hadn’t been in the Fairchild family. Just something they picked up to fill the space, she’d told them. Tom and Faith had been happy to get it. This piece of Julian Bullock’s was in a whole different league.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Julian said. “A fake, but a very good fake. One hopes the intent was not fraudu-lent. Hepplewhites have always been very popular in this country and there have never been enough to go around. It was probably made at the turn of the century. I can give you a good price on it if you’re interested.”

“I am.” Tom had demanded and received another insurance adjuster. He’d turned up on Monday night, an elderly Irishman who won their hearts with his first sentence. “I treat every burglary as if it were my own house that was broken into. It’s a terrible, terrible thing to experience.” When he left, he told them to start replacing what they could. Faith hoped the fact that they’d been finding things wasn’t going to throw a monkey wrench in the works. But there was no question about the sideboard. They weren’t going to find the drawer in any of George Stackpole’s booths.

“I’d like to bring my husband by. We might be able to come on Saturday.”

“Just give me a call to make sure I’m here and come anytime you wish.” He made it sound as if they would be doing him a great favor. “I’ll also arrange to appraise your piece if you like. I can have a drawer made and keep it from being a total loss. We could apply the amount to the price of my little faux Hepplewhite—depending on how your insurance company handles things.” Faith liked the idea. She didn’t want to have a drawer made herself. She’d always know it wasn’t the original, yet she hated the thought of the whole piece being junked. Plus, now that she’d seen this sideboard, she would never be satisfied with the old one, intact or not.

“And a good time was had by all,” Patsy declared, waving good-bye to Julian.

On the way back to Aleford, Faith felt better than she had for days, weeks. The possibility of getting rid of the sideboard with its gaping reminder of the break-in filled her with optimism.

“What a roller coaster this is,” she told her friend. “You can’t believe some of the things I’ve been doing. I’ve only just stopped telling perfect strangers all about the robbery. It was beginning to get embarrassing. Even Ben noticed. I suppose it was a little weird when I told the clerk while I was picking up milk at the 7-Eleven last weekend.”

“I don’t think it’s weird at all. I’d be shouting it from the rooftops, only I know you all don’t do that kind of thing in Aleford. I’d be saying, ‘Somebody ripped me off! Ask me how I’ve suffered!’ ”

“It’s so pathetic, though. I should have carried a placard with feel sorry for me on it. This is what it’s all about, I suppose.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Patsy was quick to reply. “Pretend you’re on one of those talk shows—you have a right to your pain!” They both burst out laughing.

As she got out of the car, Faith thanked Patsy.

“This was great. You have a gorgeous table and I may have a gorgeous sideboard. And I learned a lot about the antiques world. I wouldn’t have known the Hepplewhite was fake, you know, if Julian hadn’t said so. I looked at it pretty closely and there were no metal screws or obvious give-aways.”

“If Julian knowingly sold fakes, he wouldn’t be in the position he’s in. We are minnows in his pond, but those big fish don’t like to be fooled. He has to maintain trust or he would be eating Ring Dings before you could say ‘Going, going, gone.’ ”

Faith didn’t think Ring Dings were all that different from the supermarket cookies Julian was presently consuming, but she got the message.

“I’ll do your first party. My thanks for taking me out there.”

“You’ll do no such thing. But you will be invited.” Patsy drove off before Faith could protest further.

Julian didn’t know George Stackpole—or rather, he didn’t know him well. He hadn’t been much help there, but he had given Faith a new perspective on the world of antiques. She knew it was big business simply by following the Christie’s and Sotheby’s auctions reported in the New York Times, but she hadn’t thought about the hierarchical nature of the process. Stackpole might be a picker, but he could be picking up some very choice items to send up the ladder. Faith was convinced the man had either broken into her house or knew who did and that this was a main source of his stock, as opposed to the methods of other dealers like Julian—or, lower down, Nan Howell.

But how to find out more about George Stackpole? The police weren’t going to investigate her hunch, even though she had what she felt was conclusive evidence. The first thing was to go to the antiques show preview tomorrow that Nan Howell had told her about and find Stackpole’s booth. It was a three-day affair, with dealers and the public paying for the privilege of first crack on Friday. She could go in the morning while the kids were at school. So long as Courtney didn’t decide to change their meeting time at the last minute—always a possibility if something in her own schedule changed—deciding to walk her dog herself, for instance.

Tom was holed up in his study, starting Sunday’s sermon. Occasionally when someone asked him what it was like to be a minister, he replied,

“Like always having a paper due, with no possibility of an extension.” Faith didn’t know how he did it week after week, especially the no exten-sions part. All-nighters and appeals for more time had been her modus operandi in college. She was sitting at the kitchen table, idly flipping through her recipe binders, one ear open for sounds of nocturnal activity from upstairs. Because Tom wanted to get to work, they’d eaten early, and Faith had seized the chance to get the kids into bed a little earlier, too. Ben especially had seemed tired after school and Faith hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. She’d finally reached the point where she didn’t have to wear a diaper on one shoulder as part of every ensemble and, even though she knew it was in vain, she planned on permanently avoiding any form of spit-up.

The house was uncharacteristically quiet. She could hear the clock ticking. It was 7:30. Maybe she’d call Pix and see if she wanted a cup of tea or something. This was the dreaded homework hour, though, and Danny needed his mother’s physical presence to stay on track.

She decided to put on the teakettle anyway.

She’d take Tom a cup. Waiting for the pot to boil, she confronted her restlessness. This wasn’t the run-of-the-mill weltschmerz she’d been experiencing for the last two weeks. It was worse. She wanted to find out more about George Stackpole and she wanted to find out now. Like so many of her responses since Sarah’s death, the impulse was . . . well, impulsive. She was itchy. She wanted to get out of the house. She wanted to see where he lived. She wanted to see what he looked like. The little bird on the top of the kettle began to chirp. Faith looked at it with annoyance. It was so cheery. She would have to get a kettle with a plain old-fashioned whistle.

She put some molasses spice cookies on a plate to go with the tea and went into the study.

“Honey, I thought you’d like some sustenance.”

“Hmmmm? What? Oh, thanks. Great.” Tom was frowning at the computer screen. “I don’t know whether technology makes it easier or harder to write. You can move things around so fast that it’s tempting to cut and paste, instead of chucking the whole thing and starting over, which is what I would have done before.” Faith had a vivid recollection of Tom sitting in the middle of a sea of crumpled lined yellow legal paper.

It was an endearing one.

“Do it anyway. Delete and start from scratch.” He wasn’t listening. He was already intent on the screen again. The tea would get stone-cold.

“I’m going to run out for a few things.” Something in her tone made him look up.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, but, unlike you, I’m having trouble concentrating, so I might as well get some shopping done. The kids need summer things. I guess I’m excited about finding a sideboard—and everything else that’s been going on. It’s distracting me from anything that requires more than a small fraction of my brain.”

“We’ll go out to see the sideboard on Saturday.

I hate looking at the other one, and if you liked this one so much, I’m sure I will, too.” He reached up an arm and pulled his wife close for a kiss.

“Don’t forget your tea,” she said as she left the room. “Or the kids.”

He picked up the mug and took a sip. “Don’t worry,” he reassured her. “I’ll check on the tea and won’t let the kids get cold.”

Framingham along Route 9 was one big mall—

mile after mile of stores surrounded by acres of cars. And consumers, weary of winter’s depreda-tions, were out searching for bargains in droves this Thursday night in May. Faith hated malls, even the upscale ones, and preferred to do her shopping in places where she could tell the weather and time of day as she went from establishment to establishment. Then there was the driving—no, she corrected herself, the parking. It wasn’t so much that you had to drive to get to these places; it was that you had to circle end-lessly, waiting for a spot to open up, pathetically tracking shoppers, car keys in hand as they emerged from the mall.

As soon as she put the keys in the ignition, she’d admitted to herself what she’d known all along. The car had headed for Route 128 south as if it were on automatic pilot. She was going to Framingham. She was going to drive by the dealer’s house. She had figured she’d shop on the way, easing her conscience. But she couldn’t.

Now that she was here, it was too depressing and she was too tense. Instead, she pulled into a gas station and asked for directions to Stackpole’s street.

It was dark by now and maybe she’d be able to see in his lighted windows, she reasoned as she drove the short distance to his address. She had a sudden fantasy of seeing her goods spread out on his dining room table, then calling the police to nab him.

George Stackpole lived on a small side street lined with rows of identical ranch houses. Over the years, various owners had strived to achieve some vestige of individuality—trees, hedges, garages replacing carports, new entryways, an addition here and there. But the houses still managed to look the same. She slowed down, trying to read the numbers on the mailboxes. Several of the streetlights were broken—or had been turned off in a cost-cutting measure. Aleford’s board of selectmen had proposed this recently, and the following week they faced a room packed with angry citizens recommending that the lights on the selectmen’s streets go, but not on theirs. The measure had been shelved.

Number 47. Stackpole’s was 51. She pulled over and parked. There were other cars on the street, but none in front of his house. A car had been pulled up under the carport. Scattered residents had put their trash out and their recycle bins. All very normal. She began to wonder why she’d come.

Number 51 was certainly a modest house. Very little had been done to it. The grass needed mow-ing and there were a few straggly arborvitae under the front windows. If he was making a lot of money, it was not obvious from his dwelling place. The car was a Mercedes, though. Only a few years old. It looked totally incongruous next to the house, with its slightly peeling paint and plastic shutters— Roman Holiday, a princess—or prince—mixing with the commoners.

Faith got out of her car. When she’d left the parsonage, she’d slipped on a dark raincoat over the black slacks and sweater she’d been wearing. It didn’t make her invisible, but it helped. Now she covered her light hair with a navy silk scarf she’d brought along. If she was going to make a habit of stakeouts, she’d have to invest in a proper surveillance outfit. Black jersey. Maybe Eileen Fisher would have something appropriate.

The lights were on in Stackpole’s house, so he was home. Yet, she couldn’t merely walk up to the front door and pretend she was collecting for the March of Dimes at this time of night. Besides, she didn’t want him to see her, since she hoped to be able to buy some more of their things back from him the following day at the Copley Plaza show.

What happened next wasn’t so much a decision as a reflex. She slipped into his side yard and flattened herself against the house, peering through the lower part of a window. She was looking into the dining room, where stuff was piled all over. There was no room to eat on the large round oak table. It was covered with stacks of china, a box of what looked like old Lionel trains, and a pile of damask table linens. None of it looked familiar. And no one was in the room.

Faith moved around to the back of the house. By standing on the bulkhead, she had a clear view of the kitchen.

A man, whom she presumed to be George Stackpole, was packing a carton with silver spread out on a 1950s Formica table—the kind of retro set New Yorkers were paying high prices for in SoHo. A woman was helping him. They weren’t talking, just packing. They must be getting ready for the show. Stackpole was the an-tithesis of Julian Bullock. Unkempt, unshaven, he wore a rumpled brown suit that appeared to have come from a vintage clothing store. He was short, paunchy. His red face looked oily and the broken veins across his nose and cheekbones betrayed years of drinking. The one indication of vanity was the attempt to cover the vast expanse of his baldness by combing the few remaining strands of hair over it, slicking them into place with some kind of gel that fossilized the whole attempt.

Should George ever be sucked up into a tornado, all three hairs would stay put.

The woman at his side appeared to be a few years younger, but not much more than that. All Faith’s notions of what antiques dealers looked like had been undergoing rapid revisions lately.

The establishments she’d frequented in the past had tended to be run by women of a certain age in twin sets and tweeds or men in sports jackets, suede patches at the elbows. Maybe dapper sus-penders. Like the proprietor at the Old Oaken Bucket, this woman looked as if she should be sitting on a bar stool. She was wearing a short, tight turquoise spandex skirt and matching top that was being stretched to its limits, the fabric straining over her midriff and breasts. She had big hair and it had been subjected to a serious henna treatment. Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes—she was covered with jewelry, most of it apparently fake, but the huge diamond solitaire on her ring finger sparkled as only the real thing could. There was no wedding band.

As Faith watched them work, she felt chilled to the bone despite the mildness of the evening.

These could be the people responsible not simply for the house breaks but also for Sarah’s death.

She stared at George’s hands. They didn’t match the rest of him—well formed, nails trimmed, long, tapering fingers. He was deftly wrapping objects, placing them in the cases and boxes that filled the floor space. Hands that could tie an old woman up, an old woman who would have been no match for him. And the woman with him. Had she played a part in all that? The fact that they weren’t talking made the scene unreal and even sinister. There was no indication of companion-ship, pleasure at what they were doing, doing together. They worked methodically, wrapping item after item, eyes on their work, eyes on the merchandise. Merchandise belonging to whom?

The silence gave no cue. No time for Faith to get away. Suddenly, the woman reached for the back door, opening it, anticipating George’s action.

Loaded down by two boxes, he was on the back stoop, a few feet away from Faith, heading for his car before she had any notion that he might be leaving the house. She didn’t dare move, dare breathe. She heard the beep as he unlocked the car automatically. He’d be back, unencumbered. If he looked sideways, he’d see her. She slid off the bulkhead and crouched down beside the small back porch, putting her head down, her arms clutched tightly around her knees, compressing her whole body into as small an object as possible.

The smell of dirt filled her nostrils. It wasn’t the smell of new earth and growing things. It stank of mold, of decaying garbage—of fetid waste poured out the back door: oil, and something sharper, vomit. She started to gag.

He was back, walking up the stairs, inches away. He stopped before he opened the door.

“What’s the matter?” The woman joined him.

“I dunno. Nothing, I guess.” They went in.

Faith started to stand up, about to sprint away.

She’d been crazy to come. The door banged open.

He was back. She turned her head to look. Was he looking at her? He was carrying a large green trash bag and walked directly around the house.

This time, he returned sooner. But again he paused. She buried her head; the muscles in her arms were straining and she tried to make herself smaller and smaller. He didn’t go inside. She imagined him peering about the yard. What had he heard? What had he sensed? She hadn’t made a sound, and if he had seen her at the window, he wouldn’t be acting this way. She knew what he would be doing, because in that first swift glance, she’d seen what he was carrying besides his trash.

A dog barked. Stackpole went into the house, letting the door slam behind him. The dog barked louder.

“What is it, George? What’s going on?” the woman said, her last words slightly muffled by the closing door.

This time, Faith didn’t wait. She raced around the house. Like his neighbors, George had put his Hefty bag of trash on the curb. Without breaking her stride, she grabbed it and made for her car, flinging herself and booty into the front seat. She sank down behind the steering wheel, groping with a trembling hand for the button to lock all the doors. She was breathless and the loud beating of her heart competed with her frantic audible gasps for air. She should have known better, and she could never tell anyone how stupid she’d been. How close she had come to danger.

The second time Stackpole had gone out his back door, he’d been carrying his trash, but when she looked up, she saw that he was also carrying a gun.

It took Faith a long time to get to sleep. Tom had still been working when she got home. Even when not preoccupied with “What Does Turning the Other Cheek Really Mean?”—this Sunday’s topic—he would not have been particularly interested in his children’s wardrobe, so her lack of tiny shorts and T-shirts went unnoticed. The last thing she wanted was to explain her agitation.

Later, she stretched out her ablutions until she heard his low, steady breathing, indicating he was asleep. She tried to read, then turned the light off, hoping the darkness would prove more soporific than her book, Beard on Bread.

Closing her eyes immediately brought the image she’d been trying to suppress into sharp focus, and opening them didn’t help much.

George Stackpole was in the shadows of the room. The scene played over and over again. She heard his back door open, darted a quick look at the stoop, and saw him. He was carrying the trash bag in one hand. His face was grim, alert.

His eyes, which had seemed bleary, hooded by his drooping lids, were sharp, intent on piercing the darkness of the yard. The gun was in his right hand. Faith didn’t know much about guns, but this wasn’t a toy and it wasn’t carved out of soap.

She remembered the smith & wesson sign at the Old Oaken Bucket, and the gun at the pawnshop, barely out of sight under a piece of paper. Charley MacIsaac had told her once that she’d be amazed at the people who kept a gun in the house. America was armed to the teeth. Everyone was afraid.

Afraid of being robbed, afraid of being hurt.

What they should be afraid of was having the gun in the house. She supposed a dealer like Stackpole would keep a weapon to protect his inventory, but why would he walk into his backyard armed? Who did he think was out there? The house was very obviously occupied. A thief would wait until it was empty. And George would be a target for pros. Nobody else would suspect a house like that contained items of so much value. He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t called out a name. She knew she hadn’t made any noise, so he expected someone to be there. Who was George Stackpole so afraid of that he packed a pistol when he took out his trash?

Faith rolled to one side and pulled the covers up over her shoulder. She fitted herself close to Tom. She began to feel warmer. She’d been chilled since she got back into the car. Slowly, she began to relax, sleep stealing over her.

Would he have killed her if he had seen her? A shot in the dark? No questions?

She turned on the light and picked up her book.

As soon as the kids and Tom were out the door, Faith went to her car and opened the trunk, removing the bag of garbage she’d hidden there the night before. She knew it was legal to have taken it. Once trash is on the curb, it’s public property.

She spread newspaper on the kitchen floor and prepared to analyze the contents. Daylight had chased away most of last night’s fears and she was feeling like her old self again. Whatever that self was, she amended. It was a self that was gearing back into action, however. After this job was done, she planned to drive into town, go to the show at the Copley, and find Stackpole’s booth. It would be crowded and the only guns in evidence would belong to the security guards.

An overwhelming smell of coffee grounds greeted her as she opened the bag and dumped the contents out. She was surprised. From his appearance and the look of the house, she would have pegged George Stackpole as an instant coffee aficionado—or a devotee of those horrific coffee bags. Aside from this fact, there didn’t seem to be anything illuminating in George’s trash—for instance, a map and instructions on how to get to the various houses in Aleford that had been robbed or pawnshop tickets for their items. He and his lady friend seemed to subsist on pizza and grinders, with the occasional Greek salad—there were a couple of partially consumed containers of shredded iceberg lettuce coated with feta cheese. Eggs in some form supplemented this diet. There were a lot of shells. He used Colgate toothpaste, the kind with the stripes. She paid particular attention to any mail or scraps of paper, but there was remarkably little. Unopened fund appeals from things like the Jimmy Fund, a few envelopes marked “You May Already Be a Winner,” but nothing remotely personal. She picked up one of the empty pizza boxes. Crumpled inside, there were several Post-it slips. She carefully smoothed them out. One was a grocery list: “Coffee, eggs, butter, t.p.” The next was a telephone number, seven digits. It must be in this area code, Faith thought. Just the number, nothing else. But what was this? “Call Nan” and a number. The handwriting was different from the writing on the grocery list. Excitedly, Faith picked up the last piece of paper. “Nan called again. Call her.” It was the same handwriting. She studied the three slips of paper intently. The list was printed in block letters. Someone had borne down hard on the pencil. The other messages were in ballpoint pen, clearly a more feminine hand—script, the Palmer method. It was safe to assume the calls from Nan were for George and the messages taken by the woman who’d been in the house with him.

Nan. Was she in on all this? It would explain her obvious reluctance to talk about George Stackpole.

She’d characterized him as “volatile,” and it was this description that had added to Faith’s terror the night before. But why had Nan told her about buying the napkin rings at the Oaken Bucket? To cover her tracks? None of it made any sense. Faith decided to give the woman a call. She was in the shop and answered the phone on the first ring. Expecting a call?

“Hi, Nan, it’s Faith Fairchild. I’m off to the Copley in a little while and thought maybe I’d see you there.”

“I can’t get there until this afternoon. A decorator is bringing a client in, someone who was at the show house. But you’ll have fun. The organizer gets inundated with requests for booths and only picks the best.”

This didn’t exactly square with Julian Bullock’s description of George as a picker, but Faith tucked that away to think about later.

“I wondered if you’d had time to call George Stackpole and see if he would let us come by his house.” The notion of going back there was not a pleasant one, but she wouldn’t have to if what she was thinking about Nan was correct. She fully expected the woman to say it wouldn’t be possible, so the dealer’s next words took Faith by surprise.

“He said it would be fine. Would late Sunday afternoon be okay?”

“Fine,” Faith gasped. “We’ll talk this weekend and arrange where to meet.”

“Oh, here are my customers. Got to run. Bye.” Faith didn’t know whether to be pleased or frightened to death. If Nan and George were partners, she’d be walking into a trap. But if she asked Nan if she could bring a friend, Chief MacIsaac, for instance, that wouldn’t work, either. One thing at a time. She’d go to the show. Courtney Bullock hadn’t canceled the meeting, so Faith had to get back to Aleford, pick up the kids, and get everything ready at work before three o’clock.

She parked at the Prudential garage and walked down Boylston Street into Copley Square. The square was the kind of place that made you feel like a walking Fodor’s. It was anchored on two sides by architectural landmarks: H. H. Richardson’s Romanesque-style Trinity Church and McKim, Mead & White’s glorious Medici palazzo of a library—the BPL, translated for outsiders as the Boston Public Library. New Old South Church—not to be confused with the Old South Meetinghouse downtown—hovered majestically on one corner. The Copley Plaza Hotel, her desti-nation, sat next to I. M. Pei’s sixty-floor column of glass—the John Hancock Building. The contrast was enormous and incongruous—a grande dame, spreading a bit with age, beside her chic, slightly anorexic Kate Moss of a granddaughter.

Copley Square was in Boston’s Back Bay section—literally a bay before the 1850s. The new Hancock Building had caused the older ones, especially Trinity, to sink significantly into the squishy soil beneath, creating slightly tipsy angles here and there. Boston’s city planners were notorious for egregious mistakes, such as the de-struction of the West End and the creation of Stor-row Drive along the Charles River, turning Olmsted’s green necklace into an add-a-pearl. In the same spirit of progress, the lush lawn in the middle of Copley Square had been extensively paved. Still, it was one of the loveliest sights in town, and Faith slowed her steps in enjoyment.

She walked into the Copley, patting one of the gold lions that regally flanked the entrance for luck, and soon found herself in one of the ball-rooms, elbow-to-elbow in a throng of treasure seekers.

Clutching the ticket that allowed her to come and go the entire day, she wandered about the room. Many of the booths had been set up to look like rooms. Shaker simplicity vied with Louis Quatorze curves. The room’s cream-colored walls, gold trim, and deep rose draperies added significance to the wares, burnishing their luster.

Setting is everything, Faith thought. A booth filled with an assortment of Kirk silver, Bavarian china, and sentimental genre oils in enormous gilt frames looked completely at home. In a flea market or antiques co-op, they would have appeared a tawdry mishmash and suspect.

The size of the room helped keep the noise level down, but there was a steady drone of conversation—or rather, negotiation. It was hard not to be distracted by the merchandise, but Faith didn’t have much time. She began to comb the aisles systematically There was no sign of Stackpole. Had Nan Howell been mistaken?

There were booths on the balcony that encircled the room and it was here that she finally found him. He was having a heated argument with someone over the price of an Art Deco diamond brooch.

“Look, I don’t need your business, Arnold. I don’t even want your business. Buy from somebody else. You’ve gotten plenty of bargains from me over the years, and you’re not going to find a piece to equal this anywhere else in the show. Take it or leave it!” He snatched the brooch from the man’s hand and put it back in the glass showcase.

“Calm down, George. I just said I thought the price was high, not that I wasn’t interested. We’re still talking here.”

Stackpole glowered at him. “Talk is cheap.

Come back when you’re serious.” He turned away and lifted another of the heavy flat showcases onto the table next to the one he’d just opened.

The man appeared to take no offense. “See you tomorrow night at Morrison’s. You consigned some lots, right? I did, too. If you haven’t sold the pin, bring it along and we’ll talk some more.” George totally ignored him. The man shrugged and left.

“Gloria,” Stackpole called to the woman who’d been at the house the night before and was now sitting in the back of the booth, sipping a cup of coffee. “Gloria, get your keister over here and help me make room for this case. Get your stuff out of the way.”

Faith trained her attention on the goods before her. There was a long row of glass cases, all locked, filled with jewelry and silver. Costume jewelry had been spread out on a piece of velvet at one end of a table. These were presumably Gloria’s things. Gone was the spandex of last night.

Today, she was dressed conservatively in a beige linen pantsuit and was wearing only a few gold chains. Her hair had been tamed by a scrunch.

The whole idea appeared to be to attract as little attention as possible. Let the customers concentrate on the goods, not her goodies, was the message. George was wearing what he’d worn the night before, but he’d shaved. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference.

Faith’s recent visits to the pawnshops and antiques marts had perfected her technique. Her eyes were minesweepers and rapidly trolled the merchandise for anything remotely resembling one of her possessions. They locked on the third case. It contained a Victorian gold pendant watch that Tom had given her when they were first married. A lovely ladies’ Waltham watch, still on the gold watch chain he’d bought to go with it, and still—she was sure—with the inscription inside:

“F.S.F. Always, T.P.F.”

“May I see that watch, please?” Faith asked.

She’d expected to be more nervous, more appre-hensive in Stackpole’s presence, but instead she was reacting to him as a kind of Jekyll and Hyde.

He seemed harmless, even pathetic—an ill-tempered, seedy, aging wreck of a man.

He put the watch in her outstretched palm. She opened the lid. The initials were there. It was her watch. “What are you asking for it?”

“I can do two hundred.”

Faith forced a smile, although she doubted charm of any kind made much impression on Mr. Stackpole. “Could you do a hundred and fifty—cash?”

“You a dealer?”

“No.”

It seemed to be in her favor. “All right, one seventy-five, but I’m losing money here.” Faith knew better.

“I’m also looking for cameos—pins or rings. Do you have any?”

“Do you see any?”

“I thought perhaps you might have things you haven’t put out yet.” There were plenty of boxes piled behind the tables and they appeared to be unopened.

Stackpole walked over to the next table to kib-itz with the dealer. He’d made a sale and wasn’t interested in Faith anymore.

“You come back later, honey.” It was Gloria.

“George’s bark is worse than his bite. Nobody puts all their stuff out at once. He’ll be filling in as he sells, and I think I remember seeing some cameo earrings.”

“Thank you.” Faith smiled warmly at the woman. What was she doing with a man like George Stackpole? Could he really be a teddy bear? An armed teddy bear? “I’ll try to get back tomorrow.”

“You do that, honey.” Gloria returned to her costume jewelry. She was painstakingly arranging it in glittering rows.

There was nothing else in the rest of Stackpole’s cases. After one last look, Faith left the hotel and drove back to what had once been her nice safe home.

The back door had finally arrived with hinges and been replaced the day before. In this respect, life was settling down to some semblance of normality. It would be physically complete when they replaced the sideboard. She let herself in to check the messages before getting the kids.

“Why, Mrs. Fairchild. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Nor I you,” Faith said, startled. It was Rhoda Dawson, emerging from Tom’s study with a sheaf of papers in her hand and a book.

“The Reverend asked me to get these things.

He’s a bit pressed for time.”

“Of course.” Faith didn’t know what else to say.

My house is your house? Drop by anytime? How often have you been here before? Tom, are you crazy? marched through her mind in succession.

“Well, I’d better get these over to him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see them.” Faith showed the secretary out, then leapt for the phone.

“Honey, your Ms. Dawson was just here.”

“Great. I’m terribly far behind, and she offered to get what I needed. So, she’s on her way back?”

“I suppose so. How many times has she come here without you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe three or four. Why?”

“Come on, Tom. We’ve been robbed. Why do you think! And what did you do, give her your keys?”

“It’s ridiculous to think she had anything to do with that, but if it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t ask her again. You never minded when my former secretary went into my study at home.”

“That was before we were broken into, and besides, she was about a hundred and ten years old.”

“Calm down and we’ll talk about this later.

She’ll be back any minute. Maybe I’ve been in-sensitive, but I think you’re overreacting. We can’t let the robbery take over our whole lives, getting suspicious of totally innocent people. Bye, sweetheart.”

“Totally innocent people tell you where they live, whether or not they have a family, and they don’t use a post office box for an address,” Faith sputtered. She was determined to have the last word and almost did.

“Hi, Rhoda. I’ll be with you in a minute. Thank you,” she heard Tom say as he hung up.

Easy enough to get a key made on your lunch hour, Faith speculated. Or make a wax impression if there wasn’t time before returning the keys to Tom. She was furious as she walked across to the church to get Ben. Tom really didn’t understand what she was going through. She’d forgotten to tell him about finding her watch. She felt lonelier than ever. Yet, maybe he was right.

Maybe this was taking over her life.

She returned to the house with Ben. She hadn’t checked the messages before. There weren’t any.

The meeting with Stephanie and Courtney was still on.

The man at George Stackpole’s booth had mentioned he’d see him at Morrison’s. It must be an auction. She grabbed the Yellow Pages and found “Morrison and Son” under auction houses. It only took a moment more to call and find out when and where the auction was being held.

Tomorrow night at eight o’clock, preview starting at six. A VFW hall in Walton. She’d be there.

Ben had learned a new song and entertained Faith with a spirited rendition of “Inch by Inch” as they drove to get Amy and then to work. The Bullock women, mother and daughter, were on time, much to Faith’s amazement. Making people wait was such an essential component of maintaining one’s position in society.

“Your children?” Courtney asked in a somewhat dubious tone, as if Faith might have rented them for the afternoon to add a note of authentic-ity to her role as working mother.

“Yes, Ben is five and Amy will be two in September.” True to her schedule, Amy was conked out in the playpen. Ben, humming steadily, was constructing a giant block tower. He’d barely cast a look their way, but Faith was eager to get the Bullocks in and out. Blocks captivated for only so long.

“I’m eager to see what you’ve picked for the tablecloth and I have some suggestions for the flowers. Would you like to sample the avocado bisque we talked about for the first course of the rehearsal dinner?” She knew enough to stop before saying, “I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“That would be lovely,” Courtney said graciously. She sat down and opened her briefcase, extracting the leather-bound wedding planner, thick as a dictionary now, and a fabric swatch.

“This will be striking,” Faith said appreciatively, fingering the charcoal gray heavy silk covered with tiny stars embroidered in thin gossamer gold thread. The woman did have good taste. The china was Wedgwood cream ware. Have Faith’s food would look gorgeous. Now, to decide on the flowers.

“This tastes better than it looks,” Stephanie said, scooping up the last drop of soup in her bowl. Faith reached for it to give her seconds and added some more puff pastry cheese sticks to the plate in front of them.

“Nonsense. The color is divine. Very primavera.

I see ranunculus—and masses of fringy parrot tulips in exotic colors. We can put them everywhere. Julian has tons of vases. We don’t want things to be too bridal. We need color.” Faith agreed with Courtney. This was going to be easier than she’d thought. She could do small nosegays to tuck into each napkin for the rehearsal dinner—maybe a few brilliant silken-petaled Icelandic poppies. But not tied with raffia. As far as Faith was concerned, raffia was the rubber band of the nineties and about as attractive. Call her old-fashioned, but she stuck to wired gauzy French ribbon and reels of satin.

“The word bridal comes from ‘Bride-ale,’ the brew the Britons drank at wedding celebrations,” she told them to pass the time. “Rehearsal dinners used to be more colorful in earlier days. The noisier the better to drive evil spirits away and ensure good luck for those about to be married.

All the plates and glasses were smashed at the end and people got roaring drunk.”

“I don’t think Daddy would go for that—the smashing part. He’s very attached to his possessions,” Stephanie commented, gracefully flipping her long flaxen hair back over her shoulders, a habitual gesture that palled in repetition.

“More attached to them than his family,” Courtney observed acerbically. “Now, shall we start making lists?” Business was business.

Forty minutes later, the menus were etched in stone, the flowers near enough, and Faith was beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Stephanie told me about your unfortunate experience.” Courtney had been delighted with Faith’s suggestions and was now in a cheerful-enough mood to chat up the help.

Faith knew Courtney was talking about the burglary, not a bereavement. Her ex-husband was not the only one for whom objects and individuals were interchangeable.

“Thank you. It has been a difficult time. I haven’t seen you since we’ve started turning up some more of our things, and that’s been encouraging, to say the least. Everything points to one antiques dealer in particular and I’m hopeful we’ll be able to use this lead.”

“That’s amazing. Congratulations.” Courtney was sounding positively human. “So few people ever find any of their lost valuables. You really have done a remarkable job—or I should say the Aleford police? I never would have thought it.” Faith felt a glow of pride. “I’m afraid the police have very little to do with it. Break-ins are all too common for them to try to track down individual items. I’ve been checking out this dealer’s various outlets, an antiques show at the Copley this morning, and tomorrow night he has some lots in an auction I plan to attend. I haven’t turned up much, considering what was taken, but at least we’re getting some of our own back.”

“Was Daddy any help?” Stephanie asked in a bored tone of voice. She was ready to leave.

“Yes, he told me a great deal about the way the business is structured, but he didn’t know much about the dealer in question, George Stackpole.”

“George Stackpole?” Courtney said. “Why, that’s absurd. Julian has known George for years.

They were partners in the old days.”

Eight

“When Julian graduated from Harvard, he was already spending most of his time buying and selling antiques. Daddy wanted to set him up with a shop on Charles Street, but Julian preferred to run the business from his—I should say our home. He bought so frequently from Stackpole that they worked out an arrangement that gave Julian first crack at whatever George turned up. I knew him, too, of course, and the man did have an eye. He could have done very well for himself if he hadn’t been such a lush.” Courtney’s voice dripped with scorn at the imperfections of others.

“He does have nice things; everyone did,” Faith said. “I had such a strange feeling walking around the show, wondering how much of what was for sale had ended up there the way mine did.”

“There will always be dealers—and customers—who are not overly concerned with provenance, and this is true on every level of the business. Just look at the fuss they had at the MFA about that Egyptian breastplate they bought from Sotheby’s that turned out to have been stolen from some little college someplace no one ever heard of.”

Faith remembered the incident, and the college was Lafayette, not exactly little. Stephanie was bored. The conversation wasn’t about her.

“Are you sure about the soup? I think we need to taste some alternatives.”

Courtney gave Faith a complicit glance. “Darling, you want to fit in your dress, don’t you? The menus are perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing at this point.”

Faith couldn’t believe her ears.

“I have to meet Binky at Sonsie’s for drinks in an hour and I really can’t sit here talking about some little man you and Daddy used to get antiques from. Binky doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

“Sorry, pet. I do feel for you, Faith. A home invasion is the ultimate violation.” Courtney shuddered. “Perhaps you misunderstood Julian. He’s a man of few words—believe me, no one knows that better than I—and he may be able to tell you more about George. He was certainly still purchasing the odd item from him as recently as last fall, because I bought something from him for a client and he said that it had come from Stackpole. To be sure, he paid the man a pittance compared with what he charged me.”

And you doubled that in your client’s bill, Faith thought.

Mother and daughter left in a cloud of complementary fragrances. As if on cue, Amy woke up crying and Ben decided to join her for no good reason. Faith locked up quickly, strapped them into their separate car seats, drove home, and settled down on the couch for a few hundred repetitions of The Very Hungry Caterpillar— Amy’s favorite—and every Henry and Mudge book written to date, Ben’s choices.

At 2:00 a.m., Faith wondered if she would ever get a full night’s sleep again. Either she couldn’t get to sleep or she woke up with a start, unable to fall back. She was getting more reading done than she’d been able to for a long time, but fatigue was taking its toll during the day. She’d nodded off on the couch with the children and Ben had been very annoyed. She’d started to snap back at them, then hugged both of them instead and got a cup of coffee.

Why had Julian Bullock downplayed his relationship with George Stackpole? She was sure she hadn’t been mistaken. He used few words, but the words were precise. “Met him once or twice.

Know him slightly.” Then all that business about pickers and runners.

While she was making dinner, Faith had tried dialing the phone number she’d found in Stackpole’s trash, first without any area code, then with several local ones. Tom had come in and she’d had to stop. They’d resumed the argument about Rhoda Dawson coming alone to the house, though, and Faith, frustrated at a number of other things, had told Tom it was fortunate he didn’t have to pick one of them over the other, because he’d have a very hard time. He’d started laughing at that point, which infuriated her further.

Her eyes smarted from lack of sleep and she turned the light off, yet her mind kept racing. Tomorrow—or rather, today, Tom had promised, they could go out to Julian Bullock’s to look at the sideboard. Maybe she could introduce Stackpole’s name again and watch Julian’s reaction.

She’d left Tom a message at his office as soon as she’d heard about the auction in Walton. She knew he was scheduling a meeting with the senior and junior wardens sometime on Saturday and she hoped to get to him before they did. If the meeting was too late in the afternoon, they’d miss the preview. When she’d called the auctioneers, she’d asked if there would be any furniture, specifically sideboards, and they’d said yes. She was in love with the one out in Concord, but she had to have a legitimate reason for going to the auction—and she wanted Tom to come, too. She was thankfully drifting off. Wouldn’t he be surprised when some of their silver came up in lot number something or other and they could buy it back? Who said she wasn’t efficient?

“He’ll be home all morning,” Tom announced.

He’d called Julian Bullock while Faith was getting Amy dressed.

“Daddy come.” She wriggled out of Faith’s grasp and passionately threw herself at her father. This is why women have sons, Faith reflected. Although a daughter is what you want in later years. A friend of Faith’s summed up her fil-ial role as “chief toenail clipper” after one of her frequent visits to her ninety-year-old mother.

Sons don’t do things like that.

“Great.” Faith was feeling optimistic. “Why don’t we go now?” Old age was a long way off and today the sun was shining.

The ride to Concord along Route 2A was a pretty one, especially in the spring. Orchards were blooming; trees had leafed out. There were still farms along the road, and the newly turned earth bore promises of plenty of corn and tomatoes come August. At the Concord Inn, they turned right on Monument Street, driving past Hawthorne’s Old Manse and stopping farther on to let a tour group cross from a parking lot to the path leading to the “rude bridge” where the pa-triots of 1775 had made their stand. They drove over one of the small bridges that crossed the Concord River. A canoe was gliding toward them.

Half a mile farther on, Julian Bullock’s two-hundred-year-old farmhouse sat high upon a knoll. It was surrounded by acres of meadows and or-chards. Horses grazed close to the lichen-covered stone walls. He’d named the estate Dunster Weald, a reference to Dunster House at Harvard, where he’d spent his undergraduate years. When she’d come with Patsy Avery, Patsy had explained to Faith that Julian let his neighbors use the pastureland so he could have an equine aes-thetic with none of the bother. When they’d pulled in the drive, she’d pointed out the beautiful post-and-beam barn behind Bullock’s house,

“filled with Chippendales, not Clydesdales.”

“Horsie! Horsie! Moo!” Amy exclaimed proud-ly, reaching toward the window.

“She’s so dumb, Mom. Why is she so dumb?” Ben complained in a long-suffering tone of voice.

“I mean, anybody knows horses don’t say moo.”

“She’s a baby, Ben. Remember? A baby—and you were one, too, once. At her age, you thought horses said meow.”

“Did not!”

Actually he hadn’t, but Faith had made her point.

With Amy delightedly in Tom’s arms and Ben’s hand in her viselike grip, Faith followed Julian into the hallway to show Tom the sideboard. She could tell from his expression that he was as taken with it as she was.

“Faith tells me it’s not genuine,” he said.

“If it were, it wouldn’t be here, but out in Greenfield Village or at Winterthur,” Julian pointed out. It struck Faith that he was as good at selling as he was at buying. She wondered if this was unusual. The two skills were so different. For one, you had to present yourself and your worldly goods to the public, or a rarefied stratum thereof; for the other, you had to be invisible, low-profile, behind-the-scenes.

“How much?” Tom asked bluntly.

Julian was not taken aback. “I could let it go for twenty-two hundred dollars.”

Faith had figured at least three thousand. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for them? But then she didn’t think emotion played much of a role in this kind of transaction.

“I assume this includes delivery,” Tom said.

“Certainly—and we might be able to work something out in regards to the one you’re replacing.”

Amy gave Faith a sudden panic-stricken look.

It had nothing to do with money. Faith knew it well. She took her from Tom and transferred Ben’s sticky little boy hand to his father’s large one.

“Could we use the bathroom? There’s one off the kitchen, isn’t there?”

“By all means.” Julian nodded in that direction, keeping his eyes on Tom’s face.

The small half bath had been carved out of a pantry, and they reached it not a moment too soon. Daytime dryness was a recent accomplish-ment, and Faith did not intend to have any recidi-vism. What they were saving in Huggies could pay for Amy’s first year of college.

There was a phone in the pantry, and on the way out, Faith thought she’d better call work to make sure Niki was all set. They were doing a luncheon for the Uppity Women, a small group of terrific women all originally from Aleford who got together several times a year, mostly because, according to one, “We do like one another, never have time to see one another without a definite date, and need to laugh far from the ears of the rest of the world.” Niki was doing the job solo.

When the Uppities called, Niki answered. She’d become their mascot, if not a member. The job required only one person. They’d flipped for it at first, but Faith had taken to sacrificing her turn to Niki—another carrot so she wouldn’t think about leaving.

Faith dialed the number and looked at the phone. It really was a rotary phone, an old black table model with the dial in the middle. Someone had printed the phone number on it years ago and it had faded—but not completely.

It hadn’t taken Faith long to memorize the digits she’d found in George Stackpole’s trash, nor Bell Atlantic’s message after each of her attempts:

“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and then dial your operator.” She wasn’t hearing the message now, but the number she’d learned by heart was staring her in the face.

Three crumpled pieces of paper—two leading to Nan Howell and now one straight to Julian Bullock.

“I don’t understand why you want to go see another sideboard when the one at Bullock’s is perfect. It’s unlikely you’d find anything of that caliber at this auction. Early Ethan Allen, maybe.”

“You mean just because it’s in the VFW hall and not at Skinner’s? You of all people, Tom! You know the kind of treasures that can get mixed in with trash.” Faith wished she’d chosen another word than trash. Since they’d left Julian’s, Tom in fine fettle over the sideboard, she’d been obsessing about the phone number and Julian’s denial of any knowledge of George Stackpole. She’d mentioned the man’s name as they were leaving.

“I was lucky again yesterday at the antiques show at the Copley. I found a gold pendant watch Tom had given me. It was at this George Stackpole’s booth—the same dealer who has had everything else.”

“Congratulations. Would that it could all be returned.”

“You did say you didn’t know him, know anything about him? I’m anxious, of course, to find out as much as possible, especially where he sells his things.”

Julian sighed heavily. “I’m really terribly sorry, but I can’t be of much help, I’m afraid. Have only had a passing acquaintance with the man.”

“Thank you anyway.” It was all she could do to keep from grasping the man’s shoulders, daring him to look her in the eye and say that.

Now Tom interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your message yesterday, but it would have been too late anyway. The only time all three of us could meet was tonight.”

“But you can meet here? I won’t have to get a sitter.”

“Yes, we can. That’s no problem.”

“I won’t be late. You’re probably right and Hummels will be the most interesting items put up for bid.”

It didn’t take long to get to Walton and Faith had plenty of time to preview the items up for bid. There were Hummels and just about everything else. It was an estate sale with additions, so boxes of kitchenware sat on the floor next to an Eastlake bedroom set. Tom had been wrong about the furniture. It wasn’t in Julian’s league and there was nothing close to the sideboard, but it was still good quality.

The parking lot was filled with vans, so the dealers must be out in full force. Nan Howell had told Faith she could expect this. The same stuff was appearing over and over again, so an estate sale with the possibility of items that were actually new to the market, and not simply touted as such, would bring out a large crowd. Late in the afternoon, Faith had called Nan to make sure they were on for the next day and to see if she knew about Morrison’s auction, reporting what she’d overheard George and the other dealer saying at the Copley. “Dealers who don’t have shops get rid of stuff they’ve picked up in odd lots themselves at auction. That’s often what the ‘with additions’ part means,” Nan had told Faith.

However, the real purpose of the call was to find out if George or Nan was canceling Sunday’s visit. Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to keep the appointment—images of lion’s dens and spider’s webs loomed large—but she was curious whether one of the dealers would call it off. Apparently not. It was still on, but Nan was going to another auction tonight, one featuring jewelry.

The VFW hall was filled with rows of folding chairs, but at this point they were occupied only by place-saving items—jackets, bidding numbers, containers of coffee. Everyone was roving about the stuffy room, checking out the merchandise.

Faith was excited. She loved auctions and there was an air of anticipation tonight that was common to all—whether the lots contained Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s personal belongings or the detritus of an old Swampscott family settling an estate, as now. Every bidder, dealer or not, was there for a coup—the Rembrandt etching hidden behind a print of The Maiden’s Prayer, a silver bowl, school of Revere, which turned out to be by the master himself, the locked trunk—no key found, buyer beware, the sly smile of the auctioneer daring you to be suckered in—or maybe not.

There was no sign of George Stackpole, or his friend Gloria. Faith hadn’t gone back to the Copley sale. There hadn’t been time. She would have made some if the woman had mentioned a cameo ring instead of earrings. Time. She wasn’t spending a great deal of it with her family lately. But she’d left a great snack for Tom’s meeting: smoked turkey, chutney, and a thick wedge of Wensleydale cheese on her own sourdough bread. There was pie, too. Pie was good meeting-type food and she’d taken a Dutch apple one out of the freezer.

She might be joining them for the snack. The only thing she’d found that she wanted to bid on was a small hanging cupboard that would be perfect to display the child’s tea set that had belonged to her grandmother, now intended for Amy. It was carefully packed away, too fragile for play. It would look lovely in Amy’s room—or maybe Faith’s.

The lots of silver and a small amount of jewelry were on two tables next to where the auction organizers were assigning numbers. After getting her own number, Faith had headed for them when she’d arrived, finding nothing. Since then, she noticed, they’d added some flat boxes of odd lots of silver and she went back for a look. Most of it was in pretty bad shape, tarnished and dented.

But still in the same jeweler’s cloth was the dessert set Tom’s aunt and uncle had given them—a cake server, berry spoon, large serving fork, six dessert spoons and forks with a gold wash on the bowls and tines. It was in a plastic bag with some salt spoons, one of which was theirs, and some Rogers silver plate—odd pieces.

Lot number twenty-five. It would come up fairly soon. Faith was thrilled. She couldn’t imagine she’d have much competition for it. She loved the dessert set, but it was new and wouldn’t interest any of these dealers. She knew from years of attending auctions that you could almost always outbid a dealer, since they had to be able to mark the item up at least 50 percent. Her only competition would be from someone like herself and she didn’t think there could be anyone else in the hall with quite her vested interest, but then, you never knew. She went to find a seat. Having neglected to save one, she was forced to the rear of the hall.

Bidding was spirited and the auctioneer was moving things fast. Much to Faith’s astonishment, an ocher-colored small painted shelf went for over a thousand dollars. There was a great deal about this business she didn’t know. When she’d pulled into the parking lot, there had been several groups, mostly men, smoking and confer-ring. Dealers setting prices, she figured—or maybe just passing the time of day with one another until the auction started. Now, nobody was leaving the room, not even for a smoke. She had the rear row almost to herself, though. Everyone else was in front of her, or standing along the sides.

“Lot twenty-four—sold to number—hold it high; don’t be ashamed—number one sixty-seven. Next item, lot twenty-five, assorted silver pieces. What do I hear for this lovely grouping?

Open that up, Jimmy. What’s in the cloth? Can we start the bidding at a hundred dollars? A hundred and go!” This was greeted with loud laughter.

“How about fifty, then? Do I have fifty? For this—let’s see, looks like a dessert set. Mint condition. Fifty, fifty, fifty—do I have twenty-five? All over the house!”

Faith had raised her card with a dozen others; she raised it again when he went to thirty-five. At forty-five, there was only one other bidder, another woman, near the front. “And to you, do I have fifty?” Apparently not. “All done at forty-five? Fair room and fair warning. Going once.

Twice.” He banged the gavel. “Forty-five it is to number one twelve in the back.”

Faith was so pleased she decided to wait and bid on the hanging cabinet. After all, it wasn’t painted. She might have a chance. For a moment when lot twenty-five had come up, she’d forgotten she was bidding on what rightfully belonged to her and just felt thrilled to be getting a bargain.

During the bidding, two men had come in, sitting on either side of her. She’d been too busy to pay much attention to them, but now, as the heavy musk cologne one was wearing saturated the air, she took a closer look. She was used to antiques dealers who didn’t seem like antiques dealers, but these two had definitely been cast against type. They were both wearing tight black cotton T-shirts designed to show off how much time they’d been spending at the gym, and an inordinate number of tattoos. Both appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One of them sported multiple Mr. T–type gold chains; the other opted for a single Italian gold horn. The one with the chains was the one with the musk and it seemed to be coming from his long, oily dark hair.

“You’re finished, lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” What was the man talking about? Maybe she’d heard wrong.

“I said you’re finished. Here and every other place you’ve been sticking your nose into. Now let’s get going.”

She was in a crowded hall; nothing could happen. She fought down her mounting fear and tried to reply coolly. “You must be crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone!”

He uncrossed his arms, which had been folded in front of his chest. “We just want to talk to you.

Outside. Come on.” He leaned against her—hard.

His buddy did the same thing.

“Nobody wants any trouble, lady. Let’s go.” He patted his jeans pocket. They were tight and she could see the bulge clearly. It had nothing to do with any personal attractions she might possess; besides, it was in the wrong place. It was another gun.

They were everywhere.

She jumped to her feet and waved her card.

The auctioneer looked her way and nodded.

“Seven hundred and fifty. Do I have eight?”

“No!” she shouted.

“Are you bidding or not?” He was smiling, but he wasn’t amused.

“I’m not bidding. I need help. These men are—” Before Faith could finish her sentence, they were out the door. An auction house employee was coming her way. She felt oddly like Cary Grant in North by Northwest. “Bothering me,” she managed to add, then sat down limply.

“I have seven hundred and fifty. Are you all done at seven hundred and fifty dollars for this magnificent Hummel?”

“What’s the problem?” the employee seemed genuinely concerned as he leaned over her.

“Those men who were sitting next to me, do you know who they are? They were annoying me.” The man shook his head. “Never saw them before. Is everything okay now?”

Hardly, but Faith didn’t want to go into it. She had to get to a phone.

“Yes, they’re gone, but I need to make a call.”

“There’s a pay phone in the hallway. I’m very sorry. This kind of thing doesn’t happen at our auctions, and if I see them again, I’ll be questioning them. A woman shouldn’t have to encounter that kind of behavior, and we won’t ignore the incident.”

He thought they had been hitting on her—and in a way, they had. She thanked him and went into the corridor.

The men weren’t there, but that didn’t mean they weren’t waiting for her outside, waiting to follow her home, force her off the road. She did need help and she needed it now.

“Going, going,” the auctioneer’s voice floated out to the hall as she made her call. “Gone!” Charley MacIsaac came in for pie and coffee.

He’d been able to come as soon as she called for an escort. She’d paid for her silver and watched until she saw the cruiser in the parking lot before venturing out of the hall. None of the other cars took off when Chief MacIsaac pulled in, but they would be too savvy for that. The last thing these men would want was a chase. Still, hiding in whatever car or van they’d come in, they’d seen the police car and knew she wasn’t alone in all this.

Not anymore.

George Stackpole had a lot to lose and he was playing for keeps. It had to be George who was behind this, but how had he known she would be there? That’s what was bothering her now as she explained to Charley what she’d been doing the last few days. Tom was still in his study with the wardens.

“Okay. I’ll pull this Stackpole character in. See what he says. You’ve turned up enough of your stuff at his outlets to make it legitimate, and tomorrow you can come look at pictures and see if you recognize the men from tonight. No more antiquing, Faith. Right?”

Faith was well and truly shaken by tonight’s threats. She had no desire to approach George Stackpole on her own at all. She’d let Charley handle it.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

Faith saw him out the back door, locking it after he left, still an unaccustomed habit. The alarm system had not been installed yet, but they were near the top of the list, they’d been assured. She cut herself a wedge of pie and sat down to think.

She hadn’t told Charley about going to Framingham, but she’d told him almost everything else.

Who knew she was going to be in Walton tonight?

Nan Howell. She’d talked to her about it. Who else? Faith hadn’t mentioned it when they were out in Concord today, yet she was pretty sure she had said something about it to Courtney and Stephanie yesterday. Stephanie babbled on all the time about anything and everything, and it was possible she’d have mentioned it to Julian. Who else? Well, Tom, of course—and Rhoda Dawson.

Faith had left the information on the parish answering machine, a machine checked with some frequency by the superconscientious Ms. Dawson. Rhoda Dawson. Who was she anyway?

“Maybe another time. No problem.” Faith hung up the phone early the next morning. It was Nan Howell and she was in a hurry. George had called and canceled their visit. Nan didn’t give a reason. Faith didn’t need one. She was becoming more and more sure Nan and George were linked together. It might simply be that Nan suspected the things she bought from the dealer were hot and continued to buy from him—or it might be more. Nan must have mentioned Faith’s name to Stackpole, or told him why Faith wanted to check his stock. Either way, the dealer wouldn’t want this particular lady anywhere near his house.

George probably figured that Faith had been sufficiently warned last night. He wasn’t about to have anything more to do with her—especially give her a chance to connect any more of the stolen items to him.

It was one of those Sundays when church seemed to go on forever and her mind kept wandering during the sermon. At times, the service was the only place where she had any peace and quiet for herself, and her thoughts took wing. This was one of those occasions. But she wasn’t thinking of last night specifically. She was thinking about Sarah Winslow. Two muscular young men.

George would never have had to be involved.

They’d done his dirty work for him—and frightening Sarah to death had been part of it.

Faith had given Tom a much-abbreviated version of the auction and told him Charley was bringing Stackpole in for questioning, which effectively quelled her husband’s fears. He agreed to take the kids for the afternoon while she looked at mug shots. By now, Faith had convinced Tom that the break-ins were linked, especially theirs and Sarah’s, both with missing sideboard drawers. These were also the only two houses where the police had been able to get prints—the Fairchilds’ on the back door frame and a good set on one of Sarah’s canisters. It had a tight lid and apparently the thief had had to take off his gloves to open it. There had been an attempt to wipe it off, but the police had one clear thumbprint. If Faith found the men from last night in the rogue’s gallery at the police station, their prints would be on file someplace—prints that could provide crucial evidence, tying them to the Aleford crimes. Tom had agreed with Faith on the importance of trying to identify the men. And if she did, he wanted to memorize their faces for his own reasons.

Faith vowed to create some quality family time soon. Much as Ben might love hanging out at the police station, she thought they should all head for Crane Beach or the Ipswich Audubon Sanctuary with a picnic. Next Saturday was the grand event—the Bullock wedding. Sunday would be Fairchild Day. Maybe they’d go down to Norwell.

Which reminded her that she hadn’t called Tom’s mother with an update. She’d be terribly pleased at the recovery of the fish-serving pieces, though Great-Aunt Phoebe’s ring was still missing.

Still missing.

After the fifth book, the pictures were beginning to swim in front of Faith’s eyes. She stood up and walked around the room. Charley said Stackpole was coming by at four o’clock and he wanted her out long before. Faith had no wish to meet the man face-to-face. Stackpole had been extremely cooperative over the phone, Charley reported, and was bringing receipts for the items the chief described that the Fairchilds had recovered. Faith was beginning to get a sinking feeling about the whole thing. Maybe she should have called John Dunne from the VFW hall instead of Charley, but he would have passed it all on to MacIsaac, she figured. This wasn’t a homicide, at least not in so many words. Manslaughter? How would Sarah’s death be characterized legally? Morally, Faith had no trouble finding the right word.

She opened the next book, and then the next. If it hadn’t been for the gold chains, she would have looked right past him, but apparently they were a permanent part of the man’s fashion statement.

“Charley!” She ran excitedly into the chief’s office. “Charley, I found one of them!”

“Terrific! Who is he?”

She placed her finger on the man’s forehead.

“James Green,” Charley read out loud, “and his last address was in Revere. I’ll run a check and get in touch with the police down there.”

“Sounds like an alias.”

“Go home, Faith. Get some rest. You’re looking a little peaked these days.”

“Thanks, Charley.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you know what I find out from this Mr. Stackpole.”

Charley was as good as his word, calling late that afternoon, as soon as the dealer left the station.

“He had receipts for the gold watch and some silver things. He says he buys at yard sales often and they don’t give receipts. He has no idea why your things have turned up in his booths, but he says this can happen. He suggests you keep checking the big co-ops and something called Brimfield.”

“It’s a huge outdoor antiques sale a couple of times a year in Brimfield, Massachusetts—hundreds of dealers. I went once. It was a mad-house.”

“He’s an old guy, Faith. Took this up in retirement, he says. Doesn’t make a whole lot. Very cooperative and pleasant.”

Faith was afraid of this. George, shaved and pressed, but not too much, had pulled the wool over Chief MacIsaac’s eyes.

Of course, she hadn’t told him what had happened Thursday night in Framingham. Hadn’t told anybody.

“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry.” Charley seemed to be saying this with some frequency to Faith lately and it was making her worry all the more. The phrase joined the others whose constant repetition brought her close to screaming. Charley was amplifying his remarks.

“I know you saw the man at work and how he was when he was selling. Now today was different. He was putting his best foot forward with me.

I’m sure he makes more than a nice little living from all this, but one he’d rather keep from Uncle Sam, so that’s one lie for starters. You also said he’s been in this business a long time, and that’s easy enough to check, so maybe lie number two.

Anyway, I’m going to be keeping tabs on him and he knows it. He said he had some more receipts and he’s coming back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks. Any word from the police in Revere?”

“They know Green. And by the way, it’s not an alias. Nothing big-time; penny-ante thug. We sent them the prints we lifted from your house and Sarah’s. We should know more tomorrow.” Tomorrow is going to be a big day, Faith thought.

George Stackpole called in sick on Monday, much to Faith’s disgust. “How can you let him get away with that? He was perfectly fine when I saw him on Friday and I’m sure he was all right yesterday, wasn’t he?”

Charley replied patiently, “We’re not arresting the man. He can come when he wants. This is the United States, remember? And he did look a little under the weather.”

“That’s how he always looks,” Faith snapped back. “He probably has a prior engagement—breaking into some houses in Concord.” Charley hadn’t heard anything more about Green from the Revere police. So far, Monday was a washout.

She groused some more at work to Niki. The day’s only notable event was the absence of a single call or visit from any of the Bullocks.

“Come by and see my table. It’s glorious!” It was Patsy Avery. The phone had been ringing as Faith walked in the door with the kids late in the afternoon and she lunged for it, expecting MacIsaac.

“I’d love to, but I can’t come now. You’d have little handprints all over that nice shiny surface.

It’s the children’s hour. Tom’s in Chicago until tomorrow night and I’m operating as a single parent.”

Patsy laughed. “I must be getting maternal.

The idea of the paw prints is appealing—but definitely not single parenthood. I want all the help I can get. You could bring the kids, you know, but we’ll make it another time if you’d rather. Did Tom like the sideboard?”

“He loved it as much as I did. Now we have to figure things out with the insurance company. Julian’s holding it for us.”

“He’s a good guy. Stuck on himself, of course, but a lot of that is Harvard. Still, I enjoy doing business with him.”

“You’ve never heard that he might be picking up items of dubious origin?” Faith asked.

“I wouldn’t imagine he’d do anything like that knowingly. He has too much to lose. Not just his business but his TV appearances, too. You know he’s a regular on PBS and his expertise has made him a kind of celebrity nationally, although only in the uppermost echelons, my dear. He sells to museums and the stars.”

They made a date for lunch and table viewing the following week. As she hung up, Faith wondered what Julian had put in place of Patsy’s table. She desperately hoped it was the same size as the one that had been there or there would be hell to pay. Courtney was spending a fortune, and her own, she’d pointed out, on the star-covered tablecloth. The rehearsal dinner was only four days away and Faith didn’t want anything to go wrong. But she knew in the pit of her stomach there was bound to be something. In fact, the tablecloth would be manageable. It was the fear of the unknown that gnawed at her, like those monsters under the bed in childhood, just waiting to grab your ankle.

She didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad sign that Charley was putting in a personal appearance late Tuesday afternoon, tapping on the glass at her kitchen door. It meant he had something to tell her that he didn’t want to communi-cate on the phone. Of course it could also mean he was hungry, was in the neighborhood, and wouldn’t mind the spare crumb or two.

“What’s up? News?”

“A couple of things, and I thought I’d drop by and tell you myself.”

“I have some of those sour cream brownies [see recipe on page 341] you like. Why don’t we sit in the kitchen.”

“Maybe later,” he answered, walking straight through the kitchen into the living room. He sat down in one of the wing chairs, kinder to his ample frame than the spindly Windsor chairs that had spread throughout the parsonage over the years like topsy. “I’m not hungry now. Tom still in Chicago?”

Charley MacIsaac turning down brownies. Not hungry. Faith steeled herself.

“He’ll be back late tonight. Let me make sure the kids are okay and you can fill me in on what’s been happening. I take it Mr. Stackpole is enjoying good health again?”

“Yes, he came by this afternoon—with his lawyer.”

Faith dashed into the den, made sure Amy was still in her playpen and Ben still enthralled with the Tintin tape. All was well, and if Amy’s vocabulary was being supplemented by Captain Haddock’s colorful phrases—“blistering blue barnacles”—

Faith would have no one to blame but herself.

“Why did he bring his lawyer?”

“A lot of people do when they come to a police station. I was a little surprised he didn’t have one the other day. We live in a very legalistic society, you know.”

Faith was surprised to hear Charley wax philosophical—and political. It was completely out of character.

“But before I go into all this, you’ll be happy to know James Green’s prints matched the ones we found in your house and in Sarah Winslow’s. An arrest warrant has been issued and we’ve informed the police in New Hampshire and Rhode Island as well. We’ll get him.”

Faith was stunned—and nauseated. She’d been sitting next to the man who broke into her house, the man who tied Sarah up, the man who killed Sarah.

“It was a great break, Faith. You did a good job.

I know how much Sarah meant to you, meant to us all.”

“The Revere police didn’t have any leads about where he might be?”

“He left his apartment early Sunday morning, according to the landlord, and hasn’t been back.

They’re staking it out anyway, also a sister’s place up in Billerica. He’s not going to get far. They never do, the dumb ones. He’ll come back to see his girlfriend or get some clothes.”

“What about Stackpole? Maybe that’s why he brought a lawyer. Because he thought you could connect him to Green.”

“He said he’d never heard of the man. We have no reason to believe otherwise. Okay—I know you’re not going to like this . . .” Here it comes, thought Faith.

“But I don’t see the guy as guilty of anything more than lousy bookkeeping and maybe in-come-tax evasion. He brought some shoe boxes full of receipts and his lawyer made the point that a lot of your things look like other items from the same period. I showed him the pictures and they agreed some of the things were the same, but apparently the guy has been to several auctions since your break-in and that’s where he claims to have bought your silver and jewelry. Obviously, Green sold what he stole to somebody, but not to Stackpole, according to him. I gave the lawyer the list of your missing items and they’re going to go over Stackpole’s inventory and see what else he might have.”

“What!” Faith shrieked. “I can’t believe you did this! Why didn’t I just give the man a key to the place initially and let him come in and take what he wanted!”

“Now, Faith. He’s cooperating with our investigation. This is not an unusual thing for the police to do.”

“Cooperating! He’s probably digging holes in his backyard, burying everything this very minute! Why couldn’t you simply ask if we could look at his stock?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“No, instead you give him a detailed list and photographs!”

“I didn’t give him the photographs.” Charley stood up. He knew he could kiss the sour cream brownies good-bye.

“I’m very disappointed in you,” Faith said in her best schoolmarmish voice.

“You’ll get over it,” Charley said, and patted her on the shoulder as he let himself out the front door.

“Jeez, Faith, don’t you know anybody else?” Scott Phelan was complaining even as he drove north toward the New Hampshire border.

Faith ignored the comment. He had come as soon as she called and that was all she cared about. Samantha Miller had come to baby-sit, too.

She was punting the rest of senior year, she’d told Faith a week ago, and was taking it easy for the first time since kindergarten. Next fall at Wellesley, she’d pick up the load again.

After Chief MacIsaac had left, Faith went into the den and watched the tape with the kids for a while until she calmed down enough to think clearly. And one thought was clear: George Stackpole, now armed with the list, would clean out all his outlets of anything remotely resembling Fairchild loot. She reasoned he’d go to the co-ops nearest Aleford first, figuring she’d head for them, too, so her best bet was to go to the Old Oaken Bucket. It was open until eight o’clock, but even with Scott driving as fast as he dared, Faith was beginning to realize they wouldn’t make it in time.

Which was why she’d called him in the first place. True, after Saturday night, she wasn’t eager to venture out solo into antiques land—a place that had become fraught with danger even in the most secure places. She wanted company, particularly company who had a better left hook than, say, Pix, although Faith had a feeling the athletic Mrs. Miller’s might not be so bad.

But should the Bucket be closed, Scott was the only person Faith knew who might be able to disarm an alarm system—not so she could break into Stackpole’s case, but so she could have a look, she told herself. The idea that everything was fast disappearing down the drain obsessed her and she was firmly suppressing any felonious thoughts. She wasn’t breaking and entering herself. Fair was fair. She was tracking her own possessions. What’s hers was hers. It would stand up in any court of law, she told herself. And besides, this was her last chance.

“You’re awfully quiet—and it’s making me nervous. What’s going on in that screwy little head of yours, boss?”

“If it’s closed when we get there, we may have to do something to the alarm so I can go in and have a peek at what’s in Stackpole’s case. You don’t have to come. I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble.”

“Good, because I’m not going to. If it’s closed, we turn around and go home. When I said

‘screwy little head,’ I wasn’t kidding.” Faith kept her mouth shut.

The Old Oaken Bucket was closed and it was dark by the time Scott pulled his precious Mustang into the empty parking lot.

“Okay, we tried. I’m sorry. First thing in the morning, we’ll come back.”

“Maybe they just have signs. Maybe they don’t set the alarm. Lots of people put the stickers up and don’t bother with the expense of a system.

Why don’t we pull around the back and have a look?”

Scott pulled around the back. It would be easier in the long run. Besides, she looked so pathetic.

She’d told him about James Green—the auction and the prints matching the ones in her house and Miss Winslow’s. He wished he could have a few minutes alone with the guy before the cops got him.

They had gotten out of the car and were approaching the back door when they heard another car stop in front of the building.

“George! I bet it’s George!” Faith whispered.

She darted around to the corner and was in time to see the dealer, flashlight in hand, unlock the front door and go in, closing it behind him.

“Come on.” She grabbed Scott’s sleeve, yanked him behind her, and crept toward the door.

Stackpole didn’t turn any lights on. Faith could see the flashlight beam through the glass on the door. He’d known how to disarm the alarm—if there had been one set. Despite her words to Scott, she was pretty sure there was. With all the security the Oaken Bucket displayed when open, they’d be even more cautious when closed.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Scott hissed at her. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m going inside. I want to see what he’s taking out of the case. And you can be my witness.

He’ll never see us. We’ll slip behind the counter and down the other aisle across from his booth.” She had the door open and was inside before Scott could object further. On the drive up, she’d told him about going to Framingham and seeing Stackpole with a gun—and told him he was the only person who knew. Scott wasn’t about to let her go into the building alone knowing this.

The interior of the Old Oaken Bucket was pitch-dark and it was easy to crawl under the counter and position themselves behind one of the booths in the aisle opposite the one Stackpole rented. The only problem was getting a clear view. If Faith had thought she’d have a front-row seat, she was mistaken. The flashlight darted up and down like a firefly. He was putting things into a bag at his feet, but it was impossible to see what these things were except for an occasional flash of silver.

“I’m going to try to get closer,” Faith whispered in Scott’s ear. He put his arm out in front of her.

“Don’t be crazy, Faith. The man packs a rod, remember?”

Faith did, but she’d been trying not to. She paused, then tried to push Scott’s arm out of the way. At that instant, the lights came on—bright, garish fluorescents flooding the vast interior, turning the booths into a sudden riot of sparkling color. Then as soon as they went on, they went off, leaving a series of images like smoke trails before Faith’s eyes. They must be on a timer, she thought.

She started to try to move forward again, but now it was a sound that stopped her. Crash! The sound of breaking glass. Crash! George destroy-ing his booth and maybe one or two others to make the break-in look legitimate. The noise stopped abruptly. Soon she heard the front door open and close. He was leaving with her things—

and he’d get some insurance money, too, she bet!

They were too late. She was close to tears.

It wasn’t the things—well, it was a little—but this had been her chance to nail him. To catch him with their stolen property. And then maybe this James Green would rat on his partner or employer, whatever George was. Sarah’s murderers.

And all the pain they’d caused the group of people that had met in the Fairchilds’ living room.

Lost class rings, lost lockets, lost links to loved ones.

But she’d blown it. They should have confronted him. Pretended to have a gun. They should have called the police as soon as they saw George go in. There was a pay phone in the parking lot. They should have . . . She heard the car speed out of the parking lot, sending a spray of gravel against the outside wall.

“Let’s get going. We don’t want to hang around.” Scott was speaking normally and it sounded now as if he was shouting, after the tense silence of the last quarter hour. “He wants the cops to find his B and E, so he’ll call in an anonymous tip and they’ll be swarming all over the place soon. I’ve never been in trouble in New Hampshire and I plan to keep it that way. Besides, Tricia would kill me.” Scott took Faith by the arm, firmly steering her toward the door.

“I want to check his case. He may have left something.” Faith wasn’t budging an inch. She dug into her pocket for the Penlite she’d shoved in when she left the car.

“Okay, but quickly. We don’t have a lot of time here.”

Faith went straight to case number four, following the tiny pinpoint of light. As they passed the other booths, objects took form, eerie outlines of bygone days. One case was filled with dolls.

Their glass eyes glittered like demonic children.

The rows of tools in another looked like medieval instruments of torture. Ordinary objects in the light; frightening ones in the dark.

“Watch out for the glass and don’t, I repeat, don’t touch anything!” Scott warned.

Faith had no desire to touch anything. There were shards under her feet, shards sticking to the soles of her shoes.

But George Stackpole hadn’t driven away and he wasn’t making any calls, anonymous or otherwise.

George Stackpole was dead—his throat slit from side to side. The Fairchilds’ missing carving knife was lying on the floor next to his lifeless body, the monogram completely obliterated by blood.

Nine

“The way I see it, we have two choices here. We can get the hell out and if the cops nail us, it will look bad. Or we can report the crime and when the cops arrive, it will look bad.” Scott was pacing up and down, running his hand through his hair, talking loudly. They had moved simultaneously to the front door as soon as Faith’s Penlite had illuminated George’s gory corpse.

Scott made a decision. “There’s nothing to connect us to this. Let’s go. Now!” He pushed her toward the door.

“Maybe not you, but certainly me,” Faith protested. “They’ll find out that MacIsaac had Stackpole in for questioning at my insistence. I don’t think I can tell that many lies to cover up going to his house and coming here.” She was speaking in a dull, leaden voice. Nobody deserved to die this way. She’d been having nightmares about George Stackpole when he was alive. Dead, he would become a permanent fixture of horror in her worst dreams—and for the near future, her waking moments, as well.

“If we call,” she continued, “at least we can try to explain why we’re here. And what kind of murderer phones the police, anyway?”

“A very clever one?” Scott was not convinced, though. Every bone in his body was telling him to get in his car and put as much distance as possible between himself and the Old Oaken Bucket.

He’d seen death before, but never like this. And he was scared. He knew a whole lot more than Faith did about the kind of assumptions the police would make—especially about him.

“There’s a pay phone in the parking lot. We can call, then wait for them there. There really is no other choice.”

He knew she was right, but he wished he didn’t.

She made the call, then said in a sudden burst of excitement, “Wait a minute. There’s no reason you have to be involved. I didn’t tell them anyone was with me. We should have thought of this right away. You’ll have to leave the car; otherwise, how would I have gotten here? Certainly not with George.” The dealer’s Mercedes was parked in front. “You start walking. Maybe somebody will give you a ride. Make up something about your car dying.” Poor choice of words, she thought instantly.

“Slow down.” Scott put his hand on Faith’s shoulder. Now that they’d called, he wished the police would get here soon. She was obviously in shock. “I’d never leave you here alone, for starters, and when they begin investigating this thing, don’t you think a lone hitchhiker in the middle of the boonies in New Hampshire would arouse suspicion? We’re seeing this through together, Faith.”

“I’d better call home while I can. I have the feeling this is going to be a late night,” Faith said ruefully. She was glad Scott wasn’t leaving. Under the lone lamppost, she could see his tense, serious face. “I’m sorry I got you into this.” He smiled. “Next time you need transporta-tion, call a cab.”

“If you’ll just get in touch with Detective Lt. John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police, he’ll vouch for us.”

She had expected an equivalent of Chief MacIsaac in rural New Hampshire and was surprised by the age and demeanor of the cops—

young and ultraprofessional, complete with state-of-the-art cars and equipment that arrived in a screaming tumult of flashing blue lights the moment she hung up the phone with Samantha.

The kids were asleep and Tom wasn’t back yet.

Maybe she could get home without revealing any of tonight’s escapade. Maybe she’d win Mass Millions. The odds were about the same.

“Let me see if I have this straight.” Scott was being questioned separately and Faith hoped he was having better luck making his interrogator believe him. So far, the police had a body and two people on the scene, ready-made perps. It was enough for them, but Faith was persisting. After all, the lack of blood on their clothes, when you would have had to have been laminated to avoid being splattered, was a major drawback in their case.

The cop was going over what she’d told him again—and again. “The victim’s name was George Stackpole, an antiques dealer. You think he either broke into your house or had somebody else break in for him. So you follow him here—” Faith interrupted. “No, we arrived first. We had no idea he was coming here tonight. He came right afterward and opened the door. That’s how we got in without setting off the alarm. Either it wasn’t set to begin with or he knew the code.” The man sighed. “You followed him inside to see if he had any more of your stolen items in the case he rented. Exactly how did you think you were going to do this in the dark?”