The Body in the Cast

Chez Claude was a short drive away in Acton. Claude Miguel, the chef, who owned the restaurant with his wife, Trudy, had been one of Faith's discoveries soon after moving to Aleford. The Parisian had come to Acton by way of Chez Pauline on the rue Villedo and Maison Robert in Boston. Now, in a cozy restored farmhouse, he did a superlative job cooking the traditional dishes he knew best.

Over a glass of kir in one of the smaller dining rooms, the Fairchilds were having their usual discussion of which favorite to order.

“We know we want the onion soup, the gratinée, first," Faith declared, her mouth watering. It was the perfect choice for a cheerless winter night. She had never tasted a better one, even in France. Claude topped his rich onion-laden stock with several kinds of cheese melted over a thick slice from one of his crusty baguettes.

“The pâte de maison is so good, too, though. But you're right, the soup is perfect for tonight. Are you in the mood for meat or fish?"

“Definitely meat. I want to discuss something with you. It seems crazy, only I can't put it out of my mind, and I need hearty, chewable food."

“Ah, Mistress Fairchild. I thought something ailed thee." Tom had been rereading Hawthorne, too.

The kir and the glowing copper colors of the pleasant country French decor in the room were making Faith feel quite mellow.

“Not as bad as all that. Just an idea. How about going all out and splitting the Chateaubriand?"

“But then we'll miss the duck à l'orange."

“Tom. We live in Aleford. We can come back.”

“Béarnaise sauce it is and a bottle of Côtes du Rhône.”

I should be thinking quite creatively before the night is out, Faith said to herself.

The steaming soup arrived and as Tom stuck his spoon in eagerly, he said, "All right, let's have it. It was partly to give you a chance to talk that I engineered this whole thing. What's been going on lately has been strictly pas devant les enfants.”

An undergraduate year in France had left him permanently in love with the country and prone to French phrases and Franglais—all of which had increased due to their recent sojourn in Lyon. A sojourn that did have its rocky moments, but by concentrating on memories of certain meals, certain people, and the light on the hills in Provence, those other moments had taken on pebblelike proportions—most of the time.

“And partly by a lust for Claude's cooking," Faith added.

“Certainement, mon petit chou. So, what's up?"

“I can't stop thinking about Sandra Wilson. I know it's irrational, but I feel responsible. I owe it to her to find out who did it."

“It's not irrational to wish you could have saved her, but it is to think you have to track down her killer. Be sensible, Faith."

“But none of this has been sensible. Since I started this job, I've felt as if I've been watching a movie of a movie. Even before Sandra was killed. It's been a very strange, sort of disassociated sensation. Today, especially, I began thinking how blurred the boundaries between life and art are. I know I'm beginning to sound like a sophomore who's just discovered Joyce, but where it's led me is to wonder if the answer lies in the fact that some of the people in the film are forgetting to put aside their characters when they wipe off their makeup”

Tom reached for Faith's hand. His bowl was empty. He was contemplative. "Many actors and actresses find themselves living their parts after the camera stops—particularly in roles that require great intensity. It's got to be confusing, and maybe after a while it is hard to remember which face is the mask. Do you have anyone special in mind?”

Faith's answer was vinous stream of consciousness.

“There are, or were, two Hesters, and at first I thought it was Hester/Evelyn he was obsessed by. There was the way he looked at her—at them—at the dinner party, and there's no question that he's enormously protective of her. It's Max—or rather Roger Chillingworth. Sometimes I can't tell where one leaves off and the other begins."

“What do you think this means?"

“It's all confused, because now I'm beginning to think the cup was meant for Evelyn. Max didn't ask her to the screening the other night. He seemed entranced by Hester/Sandra. Except he still seems very jealous of Cappy. When he saw him with Evelyn at the dinner table, Max made her move. Then when they walked in together after Sandra had passed out, he looked unbelievably angry. Of course, he was upset at the situation and at me for suggesting the call to the police. Evelyn went over to him immediately, almost as if she was afraid. She immediately assumed the poison was meant for her."

“So you think Max or Roger, whatever, put the chloral hydrate in the cup?"

“He stopped the shooting just before Sandra took a drink. That way he could have been sure Evelyn would drink it. Or thought he was.”

Trudy Miguel appeared and showed them the succulent piece of meat, beaming as she presented the platter for their approval. It was done to a turn, a very short turn. They oohed and aahed appropriately. After she left, they resumed their conversation.

“What you're suggesting is that Max wanted to replace Evelyn with Sandra, both because he was jealous of Cappy and because he was besotted with Sandra."

“I know it sounds farfetched. But I think the two women are merged into one Hester in his director's mind—and he's in love with both. Two aspects of one character. And he's split, too. The director wants the best for the role, which might be Sandra. The actorChillingworth, the jealous husband—wants to get even with his wife for her adultery. The result is the same. A potion—remember it wasn't normally a lethal dose."

“It's not impossible. Jealousy and ambition are powerful motives, yet why would he sabotage his own movie?"

“Maybe he merely intended to scare Evelyn. Give her a warning. Or make her just ill enough so Sandra would have to take her place. Or maybe he can't help himself. And there's another thing”

The food arrived, postponing further speculation. The moment the waitress left, Faith took a sip of wine and said, "What if Cordelia isn't Max's child? What if she's Cappy's and Max has just found out? It really would be like The Scarlet Letter." She waited for her husband to stop chewing and put a dollop of the béarnaise sauce, redolent with tarragon, on her plate.

“Do you know that Cappy and Evelyn even knew. each other before? Other than as box-office draws?" Clearly Tom thought the whole thing was extremely speculative.

“No, but Cappy spent a lot of time at the party playing with the baby, and the baby doesn't resemble Max in the slightest. Then there was that time I saw them together at The Dandy Lion, right after Evelyn got out of the hospital. And she held hands with both Cappy and Max at the screening." As she listed her evidence, she had to admit it was far from an airtight case.

Tom was shaking his head. "One lunch does not an affair make—usually. Nor does holding hands qualify as foreplay, especially in the presence of a room full of people." He poured himself some more wine. "It would make a good novel—Max could film it instead and poor Nathaniel could stop spinning in his grave. Sometimes life does imitate art—how's that for sophomoric?—but I can't believe that Maxwell Reed is this crazy. He stands to lose too much: his movie, the love of his life, and the clincher—possibly many, many years in prison."

“I suppose you're right, although think of the contrasts between the two men. Cappy is closer to Evelyn's age and certainly more conventionally good-looking. Much more."

“Maybe Evelyn is interested in other than a pretty face."

“Other than hers?"

“Maybe not," Tom conceded. "And it is an extraordinarily pretty face. I didn't see the footage, but I can't imagine that Sandra Wilson could hold a candle to Evelyn O'Clair. Both ladies, I might add, completely outclassed by my own wife. My own overly inquisitive wife.”

It might be time to move on to another subject, although Faith knew this one would continue to claim front row center. But for the moment, Tom's last remark had been happily diverting. She sighed and soaked up the last bit of sauce from her plate with a piece of bread.

“Now, what shall we have for dessert?”

Cappy Camson had opened the drapes in his Marriott room, but what moonlight there was did not penetrate the night fog and his windows were well above the lights on Cambridge Street. Unable to sleep, he'd rolled out of bed and deliberately hadn't turned on the lamp by his side. He slumped in the room's one armchair, the darkness suiting his mood.

He stretched his feet out on the small table in front of him and wondered how he had ever gotten into this mess.

Stardom was something that had happened to him. He hadn't pursued it and, he told himself, he wouldn't miss it. But she was attracted by all the phonycharisma. He didn't kid himself She would never have been interested in Caleb Camson from Oklahoma City. And was she even that interested in Caleb Camson from Laurel Canyon?

He stood up, walked across the room, and opened the small refrigerator the hotel kept stocked with whatever he might want day or night. The light shone weakly and he stared at his bare feet with sudden repugnance. His tan was almost gone. He took a can of V8 juice and went back to the window He was obsessed. And this had never happened before. All these years. All those women. He'd always been able to erase his current favorite from his mind and concentrate on his work. Until now. Now all he could think of was how her incredibly smooth flesh would feel pressed close to his. He was haunted by the smell she exuded, the perfume of her hair and something else, something that didn't come in a bottle. How was he going to finish the film without exploding? He rested the half-empty can on his thigh and noted without surprise that he had a hard-on.

At times, he wished he had turned Max's offer down. He had been flattered and excited by the idea of playing against type. But he knew he'd do the same thing all over again. Cappy was nothing but honest—with himself

Seven

I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature!

In church Sunday morning, Alden Spaulding appeared decked out in a campaign button the size of a turkey platter, which Faith thought was in very poor taste. If Alden wanted a bully pulpit, let him get one of his own. She was sure the Lord agreed with her.

After the service, Alden worked the crowd at coffee hour: pressing the flesh, mixing and mingling. In contrast, Penny left after a scant cup. Alden appeared to find her departure telling and was quick to point it out to several of those around him.

“I'm afraid my dear sister doesn't seem to have much time to talk about the burning issues that confront Aleford. Perhaps," he said sarcastically, "she has another engagement.”

Faith pulled Tom away from an earnest discussion of who really wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. "You've got to do something about Alden! Or at least make him pay for airtime."

“Darling, I can't ask a man to leave his own church, whatever I may feel about his uncharitable behavior."

“At least go over there. Maybe your ministerial presence will shame him into going, or at least behaving better."

“I doubt it, but I guess it's worth a try.”

Faith watched Tom's black-gowned figure move through the crowd. "f he can't do it .. ." ran through her mind and she seriously contemplated a cartwheel or two in front of the astonished congregation. She was ready for a sabbatical. f the clergy could take them, surely spouses qualified, as well.

After half an hour, she went downstairs and collected Ben and Amy from Sunday school day care. It was freezing out again and she had no trouble convincing Ben to race. Encumbered by Amy, she lost, much to her son's delight. He crowed, "I won! I won!" over and over in a typical almost-four-year-old manner as she struggled with her keys and finally opened the door to the warm kitchen. She stripped off their snowsuits quickly and turned her attention to the stove.

In a moment of brotherly love, Ben was teaching Amy to bang on pots, and when the phone rang, Faith had to divert them with raisins and Cheerios, respectively, so she could hear.

“Hello, Faith. It's John. Did you pray for me?"

“Yes, I think you were covered in the collect for grace. But surely this is not the sole reason for your call?"

“No, and I may be sorry—a phrase I seem to say a lot around you—but I'd like you to look at the footage of the scene they shot just before Sandra drank from the cup."

“I'd love to! When do you want me to come?" Faith had been thinking about the scene. She knew the cameras had been rolling when they were checking the lighting. It was unlikely that they had recorded a mysterious hand pouring something into the cup, yet they might have caught something in the room that would trigger an idea.

“We've got the film, of course, so it can be anytime. I don't want to take you away from Tom and the kids today, so how about tomorrow morning?”

Oh, take me away, Faith wanted to beg. She was dying to see the shots, but with Tom plus three parishioners due for Sunday dinner any moment and the rest of tomorrow's food for the shoot to prepare, she had to agree. They arranged to meet around 7:30 A.M. at state police headquarters, which would still give Faith time to get to the set before lunch. She quickly called Pix and Niki, then turned her attention to the "chicken every Sunday" type of meal she was preparing, this version a nicely browning roaster with slices of garlic tucked under the skin and stuffed with chopped red peppers, onions, golden raisins, and bulgur moistened with butter and a little vermouth.

The following morning, Faith was ushered into a darkened room by a stalwart young state police officer who bore a vague resemblance to Dudley Do-Right about the chin. John Dunne and Charley MacIsaac were both waiting for her. No popcorn, but Charley had a bag of Munchkins that he offered around. John took four and Faith politely declined.

Dunne got up and stood by the projector. "There isn't any sound. They weren't recording."

“It was to test for lighting," Faith said, "but they did say their lines."

“Yeah, you can see that." He flicked a switch and first there was a long black leader, then the Pingree dining room sprang onto the screen, only it wasn't the dining room at all. It was a room out of a dream, totally a creation of the imagination. There was no suggestion that the white fabric floating about the walls was held on by pins or that about twenty people were just out of the frame. A soft light suffused the interior, leaving the periphery in shadows. After lingering on the room as a whole, the camera moved in for a close-up of Hester/Sandra. She looked absolutely terrified. Her eyes were abnormally large and fixed straight ahead on Roger Chillingworth, whose back was to the camera. Slowly he turned, revealing a small table that held his bag and the cup into which he had poured his healing draft. Either Greg was no actor or the role specified that Chillingworth's face be devoid of expression. As Faith gazed transfixed once more by the film, she suspected the latter. The doctor's lack of expression as he encouraged Hester to drink was particularly menacing. Hester/Sandra seemed to shrink inside herself and, trembling, took the cup. Her husband reached out and traced the scarlet letter on her bosom. She flinched, then stood up with an almost defiant look, raising the cup to her lips. The scene ended abruptly and once more they were looking at a dark screen.

It had been horrible watching Sandra Wilson's last moments in what it now appeared was almost a snuff film. Faith felt ill.

“Anything?" Dunne's voice asked quietly. He must have seen the film before, probably many times, but there was sadness and shock in his tone.

There was no question. Without the distraction of sound, it was her face, her presence that dominated. As Faith had realized at the Marriott screening, the camera was enamored of Sandra. She was destined for stardom, and the same subjective camera had almost recorded her death.

Faith closed her eyes and thought. Nothing came. Nothing she could put in words. She had to see it again.

They ended up watching it three more times—and repetition did not lessen the impact—before Faith said, "Enough."

“Let's go to my office," Dunne suggested, and the three left the room.

“You got any coffee?" Charley asked. It was the first time he'd spoken since offering the doughnuts.

“Sure—not so good as Mrs. Fairchild's, but it does the job.”

They settled into Dunne's cramped office, which was filled with file cabinets; a few chairs, not of the same period; and a battered wooden desk, conspicuous for the absence of any pictures, memorabilia, or personal items save a Gary Larson calendar. The coffee did indeed do the job, if the job was to unclog a drainpipe. Faith hastily put hers down after one exploratory swallow. Charley was made of sterner stuff and determinedly made his way through the cup.

“What did you see?"

“Something I didn't pick up on when I was actually in the room. There were so many people and so much going on that I didn't really focus on Sandra's face, just on the overall effect of the scene, which is both terrifying and very sensual.”

Charley and Dunne both nodded.

“When I saw it today, it seemed that she looked more frightened than I remembered. Her pupils were enormous—and when I was holding her, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, they were like pinpoints. Which must have been from the chloral. Also, in the film, you can see she was shaking all over. When the camera moved in for that tight close-up, I even thought I could see goose bumps on her arm. It seemed more than the part called for and I wonder if she was afraid for real—or it could have been something else"

“Like what?"

“Like drugs?"

“Same thing struck us. Nothing turned up in the autopsy, but she may have been experiencing some kind of withdrawal. Or, as you say, she could have been afraid of something."

“Or someone," Charley contributed, crumpling up his cup and making a shot into the wastebasket that Larry Bird would have admired.

“I'm wondering why she drank from the cup. From the look on her face, the most natural thing would have been to get the hell out of there. Unless it wasn't someone on the set upsetting her, but an incident that had happened before the scene."

“Did you see her come in?" John said.

“No, I was there earlier, watching from the butler's pantry, and she was already in the room with Evelyn and Max. I remember thinking that she seemed to be trying to stay out of their way. She was in costume and stood by one of the front windows. It was a contrast to her usual spot—at Max's elbow, ready, willing, and able. The rest of the crew was bustling about putting up the fabric and doing whatever. Then Cappy Camson came in and asked Max if he had time to stretch his legs. Max told him to check back in an hour and Evelyn said in that case, she'd go for a walk, too." As she recounted this, Faith debated whether to tell them her Maxwell Reed/Roger Chillingworth theory, but she decided now was not the time. She needed to work on it some more.

“You've been a help, Faith." Dunne leaned back in his chair, taxing the frame to its limits with his own. "I don't see how," she replied.

“You confirmed my own initial impression. That the gIrl was afraid. This means that someone may have been threatening her, subtly or not so subtly. She may have stumbled onto something that someone wanted kept secret."

“And from her reaction, the threat occurred close to the time she died. When I'd seen her before—when she was standing by the window, there wasn't much of any expression on her face. Maybe she was wiping the slate clean to prepare for her role."

“Great. We're beginning to narrow things down. We've been able to piece together most of her last morning and we'll concentrate even more now on anyone she was seen in conversation with during the time immediately before the camera started rolling. Starting with the other stand-in. He would have been there the whole time and she might have mentioned something to him."

“Let me know what you find out."

“Maybe." Dunne smiled. It always reminded Faith of a child's drawing, lopsided and raggedy. Not a pretty sight.

She was only slightly miffed. "Well, I have to get to work, if you two gentlemen will excuse me." She'd learnmore about Sandra Wilson's death on the set than by sticking around police headquarters not drinking their coffee and not consuming the cardboard sandwiches from the machines in the hall that would comprise lunch.

“Thank you" Dunne stood up and both he and Charley followed her out into the corridor. "I mean it. And, Faith, keep in touch.”

Maybe he'd give her a badge someday, Faith thought as she started up the Honda and drove toward Aleford. A tin one.

While Faith did not assume a deerstalker and magnifying glass, she nevertheless felt vetted by Dunne and arrived at the set shortly before the morning break, ready to detect whatever might come her way. It didn't take long. Cornelia was one of the first to seek sustenance from the canteen truck, and during the few moments they were alone, she uncharacteristically told Faith how afraid she was.

“You've been pretty chummy with the police. What do they think? Is it some crazed serial killer going after PAs?" Her voice shook and, from the bags under her eyes, it was clear she hadn't been sleeping soundly.

“That seems very unlikely," Faith reassured her, although the whole thing was extremely unlikely--a thought she kept to herself. "I can't imagine you are in any danger." Trying to make light of the situation and alleviate Corny's fears, she added, "Just stay away from pewter cups.”

Cornelia stiffened. "I've been watching what I eat and drink for quite a while," she said pointedly, and Faith flushed. The black bean soup incident had been eclipsed by recent events to the point where Faith had almost forgotten it.

“Or it could have been that someone was after Evelyn. At least this is what Evelyn thinks. She's been in constant hysterics since Friday. Max had to call her shrink in L.A. to see if he could calm her down. Of course she won't drink any Perrier and diet Coke.”

This didn't surprise Faith. Evelyn would probably avoid the mixture for the rest of her life, for much the same reason that Janet Leigh didn't take showers after Psycho.

Cornelia continued to whine on. "But why anyone would want to kill her, especially before the movie is finished, I can't imagine.”

Practicality—and loyalty to the project—were firmly intact and Cornelia's words reassured Faith that Ms. Stuyvesant might hate Ms. O'Clair passionately but was not a murderer. Hope had been correct in her assessment of Cornelia's personality. She wouldn't even jaywalk when they had been kids, let alone commit a major felony.

“What does Max think?" Faith asked quickly as she saw some of the rest of the crew approaching. She suspected Corny's tell-all mood wouldn't carry over to another occasion.

“It's been devastating for him, of course. He is so sensitive, and for Sandra to do something like this ..." It was clear that despite any fears Cornelia may have expressed, deep down she was sure it was all the dead woman's own fault. "He called a meeting at the Marriott when we got back and announced he would do everything in his power to keep the movie on schedule—and you see he has. Other than that, he simply won't talk about it. Too, too traumatic.”

Faith wondered whether Max had said anything at the meeting about the person who had been killed.

Watching the laughing crew reach for muffins and put in coffee orders, it was beginning to seem as if the earth had swallowed up Sandra without a trace. Faith also tucked away a thought that something other than trauma might be responsible for Max's reluctance to discuss Sandra's death—something like guilt.

Faith had felt distinctly superfluous when she'd first arrived from police headquarters. Niki, Pix, and the others had preparations well in hand. Now with lunch in full swing, it was clear how capable those hands had been. Everything was going beautifully. Normally on shoots, the talent ate first, but on A, everyone ate together. Maybe because it was a relatively small company, many of whom had worked together before. Whatever it was, they were amiably consuming large bowls of Italian vegetable soup with several varieties of crusty focaccia. The meat entrée was Swedish meatballs (see recipe on page 325) served over egg noodles, a prized recipe from a friend's Norwegian mother. When Faith called them Norwegian meatballs, no one knew what she meant, so with a silent apology for ignoring what she understood were time-honored national differences, she bowed to custom. Whatever they were called, they were fantastic.

The crowd was thinning out and she noticed Greg Bradley sitting by himself at a table, nursing a cup of coffee. She quickly poured one for herself and went over.

“Do you mind if I join you?" she asked disingenuously. "I have to get off my feet for a moment."

“Sure. It must be quite a job, feeding all of us. I can't even boil an egg—and I don't want to learn. I'm happy to let people like you do the work, and you certainly do a great job." His plate was conspicuously empty.

“Thank you." Faith was touched by his appreciation. She tried to figure out how to direct the conversation toward Sandra Wilson in a tactful manner.

Greg Bradley was roughly the same shape as Max, even down to the paunch, and his coloring was similar. But his face did not display the quixotic changes of temper that were Max's stock-in-trade. The grip/standin had been invariably easygoing every time Faith had seen him, except during the frantic moments before the ambulance had arrived to take Sandra away.

Before he could leave, Faith plunged in. The direct approach was often best, she found. "It's hard not to think about Friday. I felt so helpless."

“Me, too." His voice dropped.

“Was Sandra a close friend?"

“Almost" A shadow crossed his face. "This was the first time she'd worked with Max, and I've been around for several pictures. She was totally star-struck on our great director. Don't get me wrong. I think the man's a genius myself, but let's say I was waiting for the effect to wear off a little. Waiting in the wings."

“It must be hard for you to go about your business now."

“A little. Although work keeps me from thinking too much. The whole thing just doesn't make any sense. Who would have wanted to harm Sandra? I was going to take her into town next week. It would have been her twenty-first birthday.”

Faith hadn't realized the girl had been so young.

“She came from here. Born in Boston—bred in the USA, she'd say. Her mom moved around a lot and I don't know what the story was with her dad."

“Did she want to act?"

“Not in the beginning. She'd talk to me for hoursabout all the technical aspects of filming. She wanted to go to school and make her own movies. Like a lot of us. Then after Max asked her to be Evelyn's stand-in, she began to talk about acting. You saw the footage. She was a natural, something that doesn't come along too often in this business.”

Faith had another question she had to ask. "Do you think Max returned her affection?" She couldn't think of the right way to express her thought, but he understood.

“Was he sleeping with her, you mean? Maybe. You have to understand that during a shoot, a lot of everyday rules get turned upside down. Maybe it's true all the time in this business. Anyway, if he did, it didn't mean anything to him, but a hell of a lot to her. Now, I have to get back or Max will have my hide. Let's talk some more another time. I miss her very much.”

It had been more than she expected. Much more. It was difficult to turn her attention to work when she kept hearing Greg's words, "I miss her ...”

Faith had nothing to report to Dunne, except her brief conversation with Greg. The police no doubt knew how old Sandra was and where she was born, and probably that Greg had been interested in her. Still, it was something. No one else had even mentioned Sandra's name. She could tell him about Cornelia's fears, only Faith wasn't entirely sure she wanted to introduce the subject—although she was sure Corny had had nothing to do with it. if Faith wanted to maintain credibility with Dunne and be the recipient of whatever tidbits of information he might fling her way, she couldn't very well say she'd had certain suspicions of her old classmate but now didn't. It was to maintain this tenuous position that she decided to call him after she got back to the kitchens. He told her they had known Sandra's age and birthplace but not that Greg hoped for a relationship with her. Dunne then said Faith needn't bother to call again unless she had something to tell him, quashing her hopes of code names and check-in times but leaving her free to chart her own course.

The phone rang as Faith was leaving to pick up Amy and Ben. It was Alan Moms. No chance for any discussion of Friday's tragedy, however. It seemed it was business as usual.

“Max wants to shoot the town hall scene tomorrow night—and it could go all night. We'll start as soon as it's dark, so we'll need supper and then stuff to eat for the duration.”

Faith said, "No problem." Aleford would be elated. This was the last scene for the extras and it was a cast of thousands, not to be confused with Mark Antony's welcome party for the queen in Cleopatra.

The Aleford Town Hall was what had sold Alan Morris on Aleford as a location, even before he'd seen the Pingree house. It didn't remotely resemble the architecture of Hester Prynne's day. It didn't remotely resemble the architecture of any day. It was a conglomerate, or, as some liked to put it, a "bastardization," if only to have the chance to say the word out loud, Faith suspected. The central portion was a basic Federalist domed red brick building with columns rising from several flights of treacherous stairs, now happily supplemented by a ramp. Another generation had added neo-Gothic wings to either side, complete with turrets and stained glass. The coup de grace was a Bauhaus addition, or "Bow wowhaus"—same people as "bastardization"—extend- ing out the rear toward the parking lot. It took the form of a long, low building with plate-glass windows that was supposed to function as the police station, only neither Charley nor his predecessor would budge from their present quarters. They shared space with the town clerk, who had also refused to move, and if it was cramped, it was preferred for the privacy it availed. The "new addition," as it was still called, served as space for various town activities, most recently the Gentle Gymnastics class for senior citizens led by Poppy Wagner, a remarkably limber septuagenarian.

It was Dada. It was Nouveau. It was retro and, above all, Alan Morris had known immediately, it was Maxwell Reed. The large hall with its 1920s Maxfield Parrish-like murals of important events in United States history, site of Town Meeting for well over a century, would be perfect for the tribunal scene Max had extrapolated from the original book.

When the stagestruck extras took their seats the following night, no one was thinking how hard and uncomfortable they were or that they might get hungry. They were too intent on Alan's words as he described the scene for them against a backdrop of cast and crew finishing preparations. Cornelia was very much in evidence, standing by with her script and, for some reason, a stopwatch around her neck. She was Morris's Greek chorus, nodding vigorously as he spoke, an occasional "Yes, exactly" escaping from her lips.

Once again, Alan explained, Reed planned to mix past and present events, dissolving from one to the other until time itself became completely obscured.

“All of you are gathered to hear a proposal for a new youth center, spearheaded by Reverend Dimmesdale, Cappy Camson. Evelyn O'Clair—that is, Hester—un- able to resist seeing him, creeps into a seat in the rear of the hall. She's wearing a long black hooded cloak as a disguise. On no account is anyone to turn around or pay any attention to her, even those next to her. It's as if she wasn't here, remember. But Dimmesdale sees her immediately, knows who it is, of course, and memories of their shared passion befuddle his presentation. He is meeting her for the first time. They are making love.”

Alan was going off into some private screening room of his own.

“Finally, he imagines that she is coming toward him as he pulls down a flowchart. She will actually be walking down the aisle at this point, but again only Dimmesdale can see her. He blinks and she vanishes. Roger Chillingworth gets up on the stage. He announces he will donate ten thousand dollars to the fund in honor of `men like Arthur Dimmesdale.' Now you react. Clap, whistle, stomp, whatever, until you see this light go out"—he pointed off camera—"then stop immediately. We're going to run through all of it a couple of times before we shoot, so don't worry. After the applause, Dimmesdale tries to refuse the honor, then Hester reappears and walks back to her seat. This time, she is visible to everyone. As she goes by the stage, Chillingworth looks from the minister to his wife and realizes with full force what he has suspected all along—that Dimmesdale is Hester's lover. When Hester passes each row, you will stand up in turn and silently point at her—like this, with your right arms.”

He stretched his arm out full length and pointed his finger. "As she passes, you turn slightly to keep pointing at her, still without saying a word. When she reaches the door, Pearl—Caresse Carroll—rises from one of the chairs and stands behind her mother. Hesterkneels and Pearl silently puts her hands over her mother's eyes, then you'll hear the director say `Cut.' That's it. Any questions?”

Millicent raised her hand, her right arm stretched out full length.

“Yes?"

“Are you sure you don't mean that those of us seated on the left side of the aisle should point with our right hands and those on the right side with our lefts? f you're striving for symmetry, as I understand Mr. Reed often does.”

Alan Morris looked terribly flustered.

“I'll have to ask the director." He left hastily, pointing in the air first with one hand, then with the other.

Millicent sat down to general, unspoken acclaim. The pride of Aleford. Gave those movie people something to think about, bet your boots.

Alan returned after a few minutes.

“Mr. Reed likes the concept and we'll go with it. Does everyone understand the change?”

Of course they did. They all knew their rights from their lefts and especially which side they were on.

“All right, let's break for ten minutes, then come back and try it out.”

Millicent Revere McKinley made for the rear of the hall swiftly, decisively slicing through the crowd shuffling to its feet like McCormick's reaper through a field of ripe wheat. Seconds later, she was in the basement of the building, swinging open the kitchen door.

The town hall's basement was legendary, even for Aleford. Some swore that there were tunnels from Civil War days, used as part of the Underground Railroad. Others said the tunnels were a legacy from a Prohibition-era board of unsavory selectmen, but this was thought to be sour grapes on the part of the descendants of those not elected to said board. There was always some desultory talk at Town Meeting time about hiring someone to break through the backs of a few closets and rooms to find these tunnels, but nothing had ever come of it. Others doubted the existence of these tunnels, period, and thought both uses apocryphal, yet they did not deny the Byzantine nature of the existing hallways and rooms, many without any electricity. There was also a smaller hall, Asterbrook Hall, with a stage that was often used for the less ambitious productions of the Aleford Thespians; several bathrooms of varying vintages; and a large kitchen. Have Faith had received permission to use this facility, and the entire staff was busy preparing the buffet to be served in the cavernous marble-tiled first-floor entry, the scene of other soirees, Faith surmised after discovering an ancient, and nonfunctional, dumbwaiter.

It was into a frenzy of steaming pots and piles of freshly cut sandwiches that Millicent sailed, blithely disregarding all agenda save one.

“Faith, where's your husband?" she demanded, implying both that Faith was amazingly lucky to have a husband and that said husband was dangerously close to being stricken from Millicent's Christmas card list.

“Why, he's home. With his children, our children." One had to be precise with Millicent. "Is anything wrong?"

“I thought he was going to talk to Penny, and just now upstairs I asked her if she'd seen Tom Fairchild lately and she said she had in church, which sounds to me as if Tom is forgetting our Agreement!”

Your agreement, Faith amended to herself, saying out loud, "Tom has tried to talk to Penny. He called her on Saturday, but she put him off. She told him she couldn't discuss anything relating to Alden's charges with him or anyone else because they involved things that happened a long time ago and were private. She didn't accept our invitation to Sunday dinner, either—not that we wanted her to say anything more. We just wanted to show our support." This should satisfy Millicent, although Faith was sure it wouldn't. It didn't.

“I expected more from Tom," she said sadly. "He has such a good reputation around town.”

For what? Faith wondered. Wringing confessions out of unwilling parishioners? Getting people to do things they didn't want to do? Maybe this last was partly true. When the church needed volunteers, people tended to cross the street if they saw him approaching with that disarming smile of his.

“Well, it can't be helped. I must go back upstairs. Such a lot of fuss over standing up and sitting down. You would think we were imbeciles."

“I'm sorry." Faith found herself apologizing. Millicent had that effect. "Perhaps Penny is right and the town will simply have to trust her. In any case, we'll find out in less than a week from tonight. Right here again."

“He's up there, of course." Faith was a beat behind and realized Millicent meant Alden, not the Almighty, when she added, "Couldn't wear the foolish buttons on his suit, but it's written all over his face, and there are some stupid enough to listen to him. Pushing one another out of the way to be near him. Like a boy with a new toy they want. Fair-weather friends. I don't know what they're doing living here.”

For Millicent, Aleford was the land of the brave, the true, milk and honey all in one.

“I'll see you at supper. Break a leg.”

Either Miss McKinley had never heard the old stage adage or she chose to take it literally. Scowling, she went out the swinging door marked IN.

“Phew," said Niki. "You'd better call Tom and tell him to sleep with a pistol near his pillow."

“He usually does," Faith said sweetly.

It was a very long night. Max wasn't happy with anything and they did the whole scene and then parts of the scene over and over and over again. He tried having them all point with their lefts, then their rights, then every other person left and right, then randomly. After that, he was upset with Cappy's reaction to Dimmesdale's offer and had the young actor do take after take. Marta Haree was on the set, although not in the scene, and Max spent time between takes talking to her and to Nils. Marta was draped in her trademark scarves and wearing several large crystals on a chain around her neck.

During one of the breaks, Faith saw Penny in the milling crowd in the entryway and asked her how things were going. The candidate looked startled. "Oh, you mean the film?" She laughed at herself. "It's rather nice just to have to sit down, stand up, and point."

“I see what you mean," Faith commented. "You don't have to think about much"

“Exactly—and these days, that's a relief.”

Faith seized the opening. "Penny, I know Tom talked to you, and probably the whole town has by now, but I'm very worried Alden might win. Don't you think you would improve your chance's if you could at least give a hint about his allegations?"

“I'm sure it would improve my chances, and I know how important this election is, especially to young people like yourselves with children in, or almost in, the school system. But I would be betraying a trust, and there's no way I can ask the individual for permission. He's dead. In any case, I didn't mention it when he was alive and I certainly won't now. I'm sorry, my dear, we'll just have to take whatever comes. Perhaps James will win."

“What's that?" The candidate, accompanied by his wife, wandered over. "Talking about the election?" James did not seem overly interested and took several sandwiches from the stack of smoked turkey, chutney, and thinly sliced sharp cheddar they'd prepared. From the crumbs on his plate, Faith guessed he'd also been sampling the lox and scallion cheese spread on dark rye. With a glance at Penny, Faith hastily replied, "Not really.”

Penny's words had convinced her. Apparently, whatever this involved concerned the late Francis Bartlett, and it was certainly wrong to try to persuade a widow to violate her late husband's trust—however curious one might be. As she moved a bowl of curried coleslaw within James's reach—it went particularly well with the turkey—Faith puzzled briefly over Penny's reference to not saying anything while he was alive. This sounded as if she knew something that Francis hadn't known she knew. Faith was a bit in awe of women like Penny. They seemed mostly to be in books. She herself was hopeless at keeping big things from Tom. Little things were another matter, of course, but something major—and this had all the earmarks—was another issue entirely.

Nobody had said anything for several minutes, although Audrey Heuneman looked as though she might.

Faith, uncomfortable with lengthy silences, however short, filled the gap, "We were merely talking about the voters deciding what they will—and in less than one week.”

That unleashed Audrey's thought. "He thinks he's going to win, you know." From her venomous tone, it was clear she did not mean her husband, James. "But he's wrong. Dead wrong.”

They heard the buzzer to return to the set. Faith was left to clear away the crusts and empty the dregs. The crowd had already consumed the vats of creamy New England clam chowder she'd prepared—though a fiercely loyal daughter of Manhattan, she drew the line at chowder: no tomatoes. But there was plenty of everything else. It was two o'clock in the morning.

At 3:00 A.M., the legs on one of the tables decided to give way. While Pix, Niki, Scott and Tricia Phelan, and the rest mopped up the debris, Faith went in search of another table. When she had been in the basement previously to check out the facilities, the custodian had told her there was a supply room filled with folding chairs and tables if they needed them, behind Aster-brook Hall.

She opened the door of the first room leading from Asterbrook Hall and found it filled with old scenery and props. Another door proved to be a large walk-in closet, the repository of everything from Bicentennial souvenir mugs, "Aleford Then, Now, and Always," to what appeared to be some sort of truss. It was time for a town hall tag sale. Probably make a fortune. Mulling over what at this late hour seemed like a phenomenal idea, Faith turned a corner and 'entered a hallway that led back toward the new addition and a stairway to the main floor. It was dark, and groping for a light switchwas proving fruitless. She could, however, see a dim glow around another corner. f she remembered correctly, it was the location of a bathroom—something that at the moment assumed priority over finding a new table, as she realized it had been many hours since the last pit stop. She walked rapidly toward the light, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. There was a door just before the corner. f her memory served her, it was the door to the bathroom.

It didn't. It was the fabled storage room, and as she entered for a better look, she tripped on a rolled-up carpet next to a pile of scrap lumber, probably left when the addition was built, and almost landed flat on her face. Her hands broke her fall, but her shoe went flying. She stood up. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

She turned back to retrieve her shoe, flicking on the lights, and realized that what she had stumbled over wasn't a carpet at all.

It was a body. The body of Alden Spaulding, with the back of his head caved in.

The cast on his left wrist was a dead giveaway.

Eight

By thy first step awry thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since that moment, it has all been a dark necessity.

Faith's first impulse was to run as fast and as far away as she could, but after several deep breaths, she knelt down to check for Alden's pulse. Her heart was beating so loudly and rapidly that it took a moment to confirm her initial impression. Anyone suffering a blow to the head like this would most certainly be dead.

Alden Spaulding was no exception.

She stood up and took a couple of shaky steps farther into the room. What to do? The moment word got out upstairs, the entire town would stream down, hopelessly obliterating any clues for the police. Clues. She looked around.

There were the tables, plenty of them, and stacks of folding chairs. Two of them were opened in the middleof the room, next to a table with a slide projector that faced a blank wall. Faith held her hand above the projector, careful not to touch it. It was still giving off some heat. Alden and company had apparently been watching slides. It was an odd time for such entertainment. She was willing to bet the show hadn't been "My Trip to Parrot Jungle," but she hadn't a clue as to what it could have been. The only thing on the table was the projector. Unless the box of slides was in one of Alden's pockets, it had been taken by his assailant.

Nothing else in the room seemed out of place and there was no sign of a blunt instrument or other weapon lying by Spaulding's side—she assiduously kept her eyes off the region at the back of the head. His hands were not clutching a torn garment or strands of hair. No crumpled slips of paper. No sign of any struggle at all.

She turned off the lights—her prints were already on the switch—and closed the door. It was unlikely that anyone else would happen by until she could get to the police, but then, three people had already been in this out-of-the-way spot in the last half hour.

As she walked toward the stairs, she noted that the door to the parking lot, a bit farther down the hall, was shut. But the button in the middle of the knob was out. It was unlocked, which could mean that someone had exited very recently. Unfortunately, this being Aleford, it could also mean that it hadn't been locked in the first place.

It was while Faith was contemplating the door that the lights went out. Just one sound: click.

The basement was totally dark—and totally silent. The only noise was the pounding of her own blood in her ears. There wasn't even a slight rustle to indicate that another human being stood a few feet away.

She stiffened in terror and cautiously backed toward the wall as quietly as she could. Her flattened palms pushed hard against the rough concrete. f someone was going to rush out in attack, at least her position would be changed. She forced herself to think coherently, to think rapidly. She had three choices: she could run back the way she'd come and chance getting waylaid in the labyrinthine corridors; she could bolt for the door and race outside to the front of the building; or she could make a try for the stairs, possibly encountering the murderer. The only light switch she knew of for sure was around the corner by the stairwell. She cursed herself for not having gotten away at once. The whole thing had seemed so improbable, she hadn't felt in any danger, just sickened at the sight of the corpse.

There was the barest suggestion of movement. Faith was not sure she'd even heard anything. Alternative number four—staying where she was and being killed—moved prominently to the top of the list. It was madness to hesitate for even a moment more when someone was stalking her, armed with whatever had killed Alden and ready to repeat the act—this time in darkness.

The lights in the parking lot decided her. Whoever it was must have seen her, but she had seen nothing—so far.

She sprinted across the hall and threw open the door. The bitter cold night air was as welcome as a day in June, and she did not stop to look over her shoulder, running as fast as she could to the front of the building and tearing up the stairs.

Inside the front entryway, she stopped, panting slightly. She was safe. She'd made it.

The mess from the collapsed table had been cleanedup and her staff was presumably downstairs preparing replacements. It still didn't make sense to alert everyone. Instead, Faith went into the corridor circling the auditorium and soundlessly opened a door. She had to get in touch with the police.

Patrolman Dale Warren was having the time of his life despite the late hour. Normally, he had trouble staying awake for the ten o'clock news, let alone "The Tonight Show." They'd needed an officer of the law on the set in order to use the town hall, and to Dale's surprise, the chief hadn't wanted the plum assignment for himself. All night, the young policeman had watched in fascination as Maxwell Reed shot take after take after take. And they were going to shoot again tomorrow night. He'd never been so close to even one movie star, and to top it all off, he'd been addressed by Cappy Camson, who'd asked him if the time on the large Roman numeral clock facing the stage was correct. The patrolman was able to answer in the affIrmative without hesitation. His own second cousin, Norman Warren, was responsible for winding it and seeing to its inner workings. He couldn't wait to tell Norm that none other than Caleb Camson had been asking about what Norm thought of as "his" clock.

It was this dream of glory that Faith abruptly dispelled, tiptoeing over to his post and grabbing him by the arm. "You've got to come with me right away!" she whispered urgently in his ear. "Do you have your gun with you?”

Dale Warren was one of Faith Fairchild's devoted partisans, yet as he looked into her agitated face, he had but one thought: The woman was nuts. Out in the corridor, when she breathlessly told him that Alden Spaulding's dead body was lying in the basement below and they had to hurry before the murderer got away, the patrolman was actually a bit afraid of her. So it took a moment to readjust his never swiftly running thoughts when they went down the stairs into the hallway, lighted once again, opened the storeroom door, and were presented with the fact.

“It's Mr. Spaulding. He's dead!”

Faith nodded. She'd known Dale since she moved to Aleford. "Yes," she said patiently, with only a slight impulse to scream, "that's what I've been telling you." She continued to spell it out for him. "The lights were off when I left. I mean, someone turned them off after I found the body, so whoever it is must have escaped when I did and is long gone. You'd better stay here while I call Charley. He'll probably call the state police, too.”

Dale straightened his uniform and swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed like a Macintosh in a washtub on Halloween. What a night! The movie—and now this!

Faith had to borrow change from Dale and went back upstairs to the front of the building to the phone booth. As she dialed Maclsaac's number, she marveled at the detachment she felt. It was as if some other Faith was doing all these things and the real Faith was watching, too shocked to react. The real Faith's hair was still standing up on end with fright, and if she started to shake, she'd never stop.

Charley answered on the ninth ring.

“Charley, it's Faith. You have to get down here! I'm at the Town Hall and I'm afraid Alden Spaulding has been murdered. His body is in the basement in the new addition, near the door to the parking lot."

“f this is a joke, I'm not laughing. Do you know what time it is?"

“Charley! It's no joke. The back of his head is all bashed in and the man is dead! Dale is standing guard"

“Don't let anyone near the body. In fact, don't say anything to anyone until I get there." Chief MacIsaac spoke quickly, and from the way his voice changed volume, Faith imagined he was already struggling into his clothes while cradling the phone beneath his chin.

“Okay. And, Charley, hurry up!”

Convincing the chief had convinced her. The two Faiths slid back together and the situation smacked her full in the face. There was a corpse downstairs, still warm. She had been minutes, maybe seconds, away from witnessing the crime. Fear elbowed its way back center stage and she had to force herself to go back down the corridor, descending the rear stairs to wait for Charley.

It wasn't long before the chief appeared and took charge.

“Poor Alden," he said sadly as he surveyed the remains. "Not too many people liked him, but I didn't think even his worst enemy would have done something like this.”

But his worst enemy apparently had, Faith thought. The question now was, Who out of the many contenders qualified for this dubious distinction?

“I called John," Charley added. "He's on his way with the CPAC crew from the DA's office" The Crime Prevention and Control unit, the first sifting and recording. "Are you going to announce it upstairs?" Faith both wanted to watch the crowd's reactions and to be on the scene when Detective Lieutenant Dunne arrived. If Charley got moving, she might be able to manage it.

“Better do that now. Don't want them going home to bed.”

Faith followed Charley into the auditorium. The interruption brought a stream of angry shouts and a few obscenities from Max, Nils Svenquist, and the crew until they saw it was the police chief. The audience looked puzzled. Charley walked onto the stage and stood next to the director and Cappy Camson.

“I want everybody to stay calm and stay put. There's been an accident, a very bad accident, and Alden Spaulding is dead.”

A buzz went through the crowd and they weren't mumbling "apples and oranges." Several people half-rose in their seats. One woman yanked at her husband's coattails and he hit the back of the chair with a loud crack.

“We're waiting for the state police, then we'll figure out what we need from you. Believe me, I'm just as eager to go home as you are.”

Millicent stood up. Not for her the mere rules of mortal men.

“Chief MacIsaac, do you suspect foul play?" Charley looked resigned, "Yes, Millie, we do.”

She nodded, making clear her unspoken, "I thought as much."

“Then I think you will find your task made easier by the fact that the time is recorded when each take is shot. You will also be able to eliminate some of us as suspects." Here Millicent paused and raked her fellow citizens with a glance, making even the innocent feel guilty as charged. "When you view the rushes, it should be possible to determine who was here and who was not at any given moment." She sat down.

Despite the cinematic jargon, Charley got the idea. Millicent was right—of course. Faith was standing near the director of photography and heard him murmur toan obviously upset Alan Morris, "Once again the camera records a tragedy. I think we are shooting the wrong film, my friend.”

Once again. But what possible connection could the deaths of Sandra Wilson and Alden Spaulding have? It was apples and oranges.

She left Charley to deal with more questions and reactions, including a plea from Max that they be allowed to continue shooting, since they had to stay there anyway, and went back down to what was becoming an increasingly familiar spot. She'd check in with her staff after talking to Dunne.

The detective was already there and it was hard to read his expression. It wasn't surprise, since Charley must have told him she'd called. It was more like resignation. He turned to Ted Sullivan, who, like his boss, appeared to be able to leap from his bed into his clothes without a wrinkle or a yawn. Whereas Faith was pretty sure Chief MacIsaac still had his pajamas on underneath his rumpled tan corduroys and well-worn parka—not for him the kind of blade-sharp creases in Dunne's navy pinstriped suit trousers.

“We don't need to take Mrs. Fairchild's prints. They're on file from the last time, and the time before that."

“They'll be on the doorknob of the storeroom, on the floor where I fell, and on the light switch in the room. Oh, and on the knob of the outside door. I had to get out quickly," Faith offered. "I didn't touch anything else except his right wrist—I was trying to find a pulse.”

Sully had been bending over the body and was now watching while the pile of lumber was photographed.

“Not too difficult to grab one of these as you follow the guy to the door and bean him.”

The detective lieutenant agreed. "We'll know for sure when we get the lab report. Now, Mrs. Fairchild, why don't we sit down and you can tell me all about it?" A flash went off and Dunne winced. Maybe he was more tired than he looked.

Faith's own adrenaline was beginning to ebb. "There's coffee in the kitchen and I'd like to check in. My staff may not know what's going on, since they're in the basement at the other end."

“Sounds good. Lead the way.”

Again, Faith went back upstairs to the passageway skirting the auditorium. Dunne stopped and looked in the open door from the rear. It was controlled bedlam: lots of noise but little movement. Charley was engaged in a heated discussion with the director and his assistant. People in the audience were shouting to neighbors across the room. A stringer for the Aleford Chronicle was desperately begging Patrolman Warren to let him use a phone. The scoop of the century and he couldn't report in.

“Jesus." Dunne looked amazed. "The whole town's here!"

“Didn't Charley tell you?"

“He said they'd been shooting a scene, but no, he did not say that every man, woman, and child in Aleford was in it. I've got to call and get more help.”

On the way, Faith told him about Millicent's suggestion. It would have been safe to pass it off as Faith's own idea—and it would have been eventually—except this was the kind of lie she didn't tell.

The kitchen with its warmth and deep-seated associations welcomed her like a mother with a glass of milk and plate of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies after school. Not her mother, but some mother.

From their lack of concern, it was clear that word had not filtered down to the Have Faith staff. She filled them in while Dunne helped himself to coffee and several dozen sandwiches.

“I don't believe it," Pix stated firmly. "I just don't believe it! How could he!”

This was a new slant on the matter and redefined the whole concept of blaming the victim. Pix was treating the murder as Alden's ultimate campaign tactic—"He would do anything to get elected," her unspoken conviction.

The detective brushed the crumbs from his hands. He had come in wearing soft gray suede gloves, carefully removing them when he ate. Faith always thought he looked like a wedding guest who had taken a wrong turn when he appeared at an investigation.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask all of you except Faith to come with me upstairs. We're going to need everybody in one place. She'll be joining you as soon as I finish talking to her.”

Oh, so no special treatment, Faith surmised while he was gone. She was to provide her information, then meekly join the rest of the herd. He was back soon.

“Now, Faith, for the love of God—and I know you do—will you please explain to me how it is you have managed to turn up with another body?" John perched on one of the high kitchen stools, creating an impossible balance that threatened at any moment to spill its top-heavy load onto the linoleum.

“One of our tables broke and I remembered the janitor had told me there were some others in a supply room behind Asterbrook Hall, so I went to look. I didn't find the right closet and so I kept going down toward the new addition. Then"—no maidenly blushes for Faith—"I had to go to the bathroom, and I remembered there was one there near the stairs. I opened a door, but it wasn't the bathroom; it was the storage room. I didn't notice Alden until I tripped over him. I thought he was a carpet.”

Dunne was writing it all down in his Filofax. It was a new one, Faith noticed—brown instead of black calf.

“Did you hear anything while you were looking for this room?"

“No" Faith thought hard. "The old part of the building makes a lot of noises—creaks and groans—but nothing out of the ordinary. No cars pulling up or raised voices."

“And obviously you didn't see anything."

“No, not until I found Alden. But somebody was there. The lights in the hall went out shortly after I found the body.”

Dunne looked up, startled. "Jesus, Faith! You might have been killed.”

The thought had crossed her mind.

“Whoever it was was more intent on avoiding recognition. Lucky for me."

“Lucky!" John seemed about to say more, then picked up his gold Cross pen again and said evenly, "Charley tells me Spaulding was running for the Board of Selectmen. You're not crying, so he wasn't a friend, but you must have known who he was”

Dunne lived in a much larger town. Despite his years in the area—far away from his beloved Bronx—he still had not caught on to the nuances of places like Aleford. Of course she would know Alden Spaulding.

“He was a parishioner—which reminds me, I haven't called Tom—and even though this was the only time Alden had run for selectman, he was involved in allsorts of Aleford institutions: Town Meeting, Chamber of Commerce."

“What did he do?"

“He owns ... owned COPYCOPY.”

Dunne let out a soft whistle, just like the cops on TV. "So he was worth a pretty penny."

“Nothing was pretty about Alden, at least so far as I'm concerned, but yes, he was extremely wealthy.”

“We'll get back to your biases in a minute. First, who do you think will get the money? Wife? Kids?”

Faith hadn't thought about who would benefit. She did so now, aloud.

“He never married, and if he had any kids, someone, probably Millicent, would have spread the word. The only relative I know of is his half sister, Penelope Bartlett. His father remarried after his mother died and they had Penny. She's about seven years younger. But the two didn't get along, so Alden may have left his estate to charity.”

She stopped short at visions of a new roof for First Parish. She had been forcing herself not to think how relieved she was that Spaulding was very definitely out of the race for selectman. This happy new prospect was testing all her powers of restraint. One didn't jump up and shout for joy when someone died, particularly in such a manner. No matter how one might feel deep down inside. Faith's conscience shook its finger sternly. She was glad it was on the job.

“Penny is upstairs, if you want to question her. She is one of the extras. It's possible she may know the provisions of his will. Some of the property may have been in trust from her father and goes to the next of kin"

“I'll speak with her," he said, then moved on to another subject. "What do you make of the slide projec- tor? Was the guy some kind of photography buff? The slides are missing, by the way, so unless this Spaulding was demonstrating the art of hand shadows, we can assume the murderer took them."

“I've never seen him with a camera or heard him talk about an interest in photography.”

Dunne wrote it down. "Now, before I go, tell me quickly why you disliked him so much. Aside from your comment, it's written all over your face every time you say his name."

“Well, to start, he was selfish, mean-spirited, and extremely aggravating." All those endless calls to Tom complaining about picayune things—a sentence in the sermon, a wrinkled choir robe, a charity being supported by the Ladies Alliance. This last was actually not a small matter and had had the congregation in an uproar. He'd objected to their fund-raising for safe houses for battered women; said they should have the houses for men. He was really totally crazy. Here was a new thought.

“You know, he may possibly have been more than a little crazy. He used to have furious temper tantrums and was extremely paranoid."

“All very helpful," Dunne said, "and I want to talk more, only I've got to get upstairs." He got off the stool and walked toward the door. Just before opening it, he turned around and faced her with a look close to the old parental "Can you look me straight in the eye and say that?" one.

“Faith, I like to think you would have told me right away, but I'll ask just to make sure. Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill him?"

“No, not kill him in fact. Figuratively, more than half the town, especially during this election. His personalattacks on his sister's character were beginning to get to people. But bash his head in? No, I can't think of anyone.”

And it was true. Tempting as it was to think that someone had killed Spaulding to prevent his election, no one in either opposing camp filled the bill. Not Penny and not Millicent. Pistols at dawn on the green would be more Millicent's style. She'd never sneak up behind him. She'd want him to know what hit him. And the Heunemans—impossible. James looked to be one of those New Englanders whose reverence for life was such that he even eschewed ant traps. No doubt Audrey was the same, or was she? What about her remark—was it only a few hours ago?—that if Alden thought he was going to win, he was wrong? Dead wrong. And what about knocking over the coffee urn the day they were shooting on the green? What was it Freud said about there being no such thing as accidents? No, it was impossible. Besides, tonight the people around her would know right away she was missing from the scene. Still, when they looked at the film, they'd have to check every empty seat. Besides Alden's.

On the way upstairs, she mentioned this again to John. "They've been shooting steadily since the break. It should be possible to tell who's missing by comparing the frames, as well as to estimate the time of death.”

John agreed. "Very handy—we don't usually have someone with a camera around before the crime.”

This reminded Faith of one of many unanswered questions. "I wonder why Alden left for his slide show during the shoot?"

“Maybe he was looking for the little boys' room, opened the wrong door like you did, and just happened to have some slides in his pocket."

“Or he'd arranged to meet someone." Faith was exploring all avenues.

“On second thought, why don't you go home now?" Dunne suggested pointedly.

Sure, run along and miss everything.

“That's all right. I'm really not tired. I'll give Tom a call and join you inside."

“Whatever." Dunne was walking rapidly away toward the auditorium, leaving his aspiring partner in the dust. She phoned home, told a barely conscious and totally astounded Tom what had happened, then followed Dunne's footsteps, carefully positioning herself just behind his line of vision. She'd decided not to inform Tom about the lights going out until she could tell him in person. It might have disturbed his rest.

Cornelia got up from the folding chair near the stage, where she'd been sitting clutching her clipboard, when she saw Faith and walked over to her side. She was visibly upset. "What kind of place do you live in! Every time we turn around, somebody else is getting killed!"

“Believe me, it's not an everyday occurrence." An everyweek occurrence lately, however. Faith was tempted to be more cutting with her old classmate. Oddly enough, it seemed important to defend the honor of what was now her hometown, except Corny was so uncharacteristically rattled that Faith decided to exercise tact. It was due for a workout, anyway.

“I know how upsetting this must be for all of you," she told Corny, "and everyone here feels the same way. It's totally inexplicable. But both Detective Lieutenant Dunne and Chief MacIsaac are extremely capable and I'm sure things will be straightened out soon. Why don't you sit down again? I think Detective Dunne may have something to tell us.”

Corny was only partially placated. "I still say this is a very weird place. I'd feel a whole lot safer in Central Park all by myself, wearing Mother's jewels at midnight!" It was hard to disagree when there was a corpse literally below their feet.

Dunne and Charley were deep in conversation. Maxwell Reed kept trying to interrupt and the detective was waving him away like an unwanted puppy. Finally, Dunne turned to the director and said, "Look. We know you have a movie to shoot. We know how much money you're losing. We know you're famous. But we have a very dead person downstairs. The second cadaver to appear in connection with your endeavor, and it's my show at the moment, so sit down and shut up. Please:' he added with one of his monstrous smiles.

The director did. Next to Alan Morris, who proceeded to meet Max's furious remarks with what Faith presumed were sympathetic murmurs, guaranteed to calm Reed down while remaining in total agreement. It was a gift.

Caresse and her mother were at the end of the row. It was hard to establish who was comforting whom. Caresse's head was on Jacqueline's shoulder and she was patting her mother's hand. Both looked fearful and close to tears.

Faith was surprised when Marta Haree approached her. "You are the one who found him, yes?”

Was it a guess or had she overheard Dunne and MacIsaac talking?

“Yes, I did."

“It is a horrible thing, murder. Cutting off a life before the appointed time. To find the victim must have been terrible also. I'm sorry, although perhaps he was not a close friend?”

Faith found herself answering, despite her surprise at the question. "No, he was not really a friend at all, although I have known him some time.”

Marta looked into Faith's eyes. "Then it's not necessary for you to become involved, which is fortunate. Sometimes people become involved in journeys better not taken." She spoke firmly, each word distinct.

For an instant, Faith was tempted to ask to the woman where her crystal ball was. It was definitely strange.

Marta turned to go back to her seat, her crystals clinking faintly. She smelled slightly of sandalwood. "You are a wonderful cook, my dear," she said with a smile.

Faith didn't know whether to break out in the chorus of "Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo" or whistle the theme from the "Twilight Zone”

Just then, John spotted Faith. She wondered whether he was going to make her go home, but, to her surprise, he crooked a finger and beckoned her closer.

“Charley can't find Spaulding's sister. Take a walk around and see if you can spot her. f not, I'll make an announcement.”

Faith surveyed the hall carefully. Everyone was clad in the same kind of monochromatic clothing they'd worn for the scaffold scene. She looked down each row. Penny had softly curling short hair—brown mixed with a substantial amount of gray. For the shoot, she might have removed the glasses she normally wore, and her ruddy complexion, the result of walking her Irish terrier, was shared by most of the hale and hearty Alefordians in the audience. The hair was the best bet, but it was nowhere in sight.

Millicent was sitting next to an empty seat, an aisle seat, and Faith was sure that must have been where Penny had been sitting, but Dunne had said he would make the announcement, so she didn't ask Millicent whether she'd seen Penny.

“She doesn't appear to be here," Faith reported, ardently wishing it could be otherwise. Why would Penny leave after Charley's explicit directions?

Dunne got up onstage and everyone quieted instantly.

“Would Penelope Bartlett come forward, please?" The only movement was that of people craning their necks to look for Penny.

Millicent stood up. She and Dunne were old friends.

“She's not here, Detective Lieutenant Dunne." Millicent believed in using full titles. "The victim was her half brother, so naturally she was very upset. She's gone home."

“Thank you, Miss McKinley.”

John Dunne would have leapt off the stage if he had been seventy or eighty pounds lighter and a few feet shorter. He got off as rapidly as possible and told Chief MacIsaac to get over to Penelope Bartlett's house posthaste.

He noticed Faith again and this time he did tell her to go home.

“All we're doing is taking names and asking if anyone saw Alden leave the room. So go home. Straight home.”

Dawn was beginning to streak across the horizon as Faith pulled into the parsonage driveway. She was very, very tired, and she endangered several of the Canadian hemlocks that made up the hedge separating the Fairchilds from the Millers before she stopped the car in front of the garage door. She was too exhausted to open it.

Upstairs, Tom awoke as soon as she came in the room. Normally, it took the alarm and his wife's gentle shaking to rouse him.

“Stay where you are. I'll be right there," Faith told him. She was soon resting in his arms beneath the duvet, incredibly happy to be where she was. Incredibly happy to be alive. As she told Tom what had happened, she allowed herself to feel the full impact. There had been a death. Another death. The violence of the crime and her own brush with danger jolted her into wakefulness.

“What do you do when someone you don't like gets killed? It's been horrible all night." She'd been glad the dimly lighted room had obscured the full extent of Alden's injury. It wasn't Technicolor; it was black and white.

“We do the same thing we do when anyone dies. We pray for them. We may not mourn them in the same way. That's only natural, darling, but we pray.”

Tom's words were comforting. There were times when it was very handy to have a minister for a husband, and Faith began to get drowsy again.

“I'll take care of everything. You try to fall asleep," Tom told her. She already was.

When Faith opened her eyes, it was almost noon. The phone was ringing. She jumped out of bed, forgetting for the moment that Tom must be home. It was answered on the fourth ring, which proved he was indeed downstairs and the children must be nearby, hence the delay. She grabbed her robe and went nobly to his rescue.

“Mommee!" Ben shrieked, "Amy keeps bothering me!”

It was hard to figure out how, since the baby was in her infant seat, peacefully batting at a toy bar with pastel-colored bunnies and other mutants of nature.

Child Number Two occupied for the moment, Faith turned her full attention to Child Number One. It was the ever-present threat to this position that she suspected was really bothering him. She picked him up and kissed the top of his head. His hair smelled like baby shampoo. Tom must have bathed him. Ben hugged her tightly and she hugged him back. She'd been missing both kids terribly.

“Honey, she's so little. She doesn't even know what bothering is." But she'll find out, assured a voice from within. "Show me what you've been doing. Have you had lunch yet?”

Ben wasn't sure. Tom shook his head from his position by the phone, where he was engaged in a remarkably one-sided conversation.

“Do you want to help Mommy make toasted cheezers?" The chance to reduce a slab of cheddar to crumbs with the cheese slicer was always a winner, and Ben nodded enthusiastically. "Amy can't do it. Amy can't do anything," he happily explained to his mother, who was getting out some sliced ham and tomatoes to add to the sandwiches.

Tom hung up and came over. He wrapped his arms around his wife and said, `Boy, am I glad you're awake. The phone has been ringing all morning. That was Millicent." He raised his eyebrows. "Our friend regards last night's incident as some kind of divine retribution. Her first words were, in fact, `Isn't it wonderful for the town' "

“I don't think it's that she's insensitive—well, maybe she is—but in this case, it's simply the old McKinley tunnel vision at work. She sees the goal, her goal, and nothing else."

“You may be right. At the moment, she's looking for Penny"

“What! You mean she didn't go home after leaving last night?"

“She may have gone home, but she wasn't there by the time Charley got there."

“Maybe she decided not to answer the door."

“They thought of that. Charley knew Millicent had Penny's spare key and went back to the Town Hall to get it. Millie insisted on going back with them to make sure Penny was all right, but she was gone. Millicent had some idea we knew Penny's whereabouts, and you know how Millie is. The more I said I didn't have a clue, the more she seemed to think I had secreted Penny in the attic."

“There's certain to be a lot of publicity. Maybe Penny wanted to avoid it. She's definitely of the `a lady only appears in the newspaper three times: birth, marriage, and death' school. Given the way she felt about Alden, it doesn't seem as if this is a crazed grief reaction."

“It's troubling, whatever her reasons. And speaking of publicity, you're in great demand—we've heard from every newspaper, TV, and radio station on the East Coast. Charley's holding a press conference at three o'clock, so maybe you can'get away with a statement there."

“Good idea." Faith removed the nicely browned sandwiches, slightly oozing with the melted cheese, from a large cast-iron frying pan, cut them in half, andarranged them on a platter. She poured milk in a pitcher and set both on the table. All this publicity wouldn't hurt business. Her conscience immediately snapped to attention. What kind of person could even think of something like that!

When she got back from delivering her brief statement about finding the body, it was almost five. Amy was up from her nap. Ben had stoutly refused one, Tom reported. Both Fairchild men looked beat.

“Why don't you lie down before supper and I'll read to Ben?" Faith suggested. "There's some chili and I'll make a salad. Nothing much."

“Sounds wonderful. All of it. Don't let me sleep too long, though. I have a ton of work to do. Nobody mentioned anything about when they would release the body for the funeral, did they?"

“No, but Alden's lawyer from Boston was there. You could call him.”

Tom nodded.

“Oh, I almost forgot, two other things," Faith told him. "They've issued a description of Penny statewide and asked that anyone seeing her contact the police."

“The poor woman. What can be going on?"

“Everyone is as puzzled as we are"

“And what's the second thing?"

“Alden was killed with a piece of wood from the pile of old lumber in the storeroom, so it may not have been premeditated—unless the murderer was extremely familiar with the Town Hall's basement.”

Tom, his eyes drooping, was clearly not as fascinated by all this as she was.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart, and we'll talk later when the kids are in bed.”

After they had finished eating, it was time to tuck Ben and Amy in. When Faith came back downstairs, Tom had started working. She decided to leave him to it. She had work of her own. She got one of his yellow legal pads and sat down at the kitchen table.

Alan Morris had been at the press conference, representing the movie company, and Faith had feared he would avoid her. In a way, she had once more brought the production to a screeching halt. Instead, when the press left, he had greeted her warmly, expressing concern over her gruesome discovery and asking whether she was all right. She'd thanked him, then wondered if she should ask him about plans for the shoot. Were they going to continue—and, if so, would her services be required? The police hadn't said anything and Alan's own statement to the press had been a short expression of sympathy for the victim's family. Just as she started to say something, he did. She let him go first.

“Evidently, the police have decided there is nothing to be gained by keeping us captive in our hotel rooms, so we're going to be shooting again tomorrow night. With that area in the basement roped off and an officer at every door, I'm told. Will you be able to supply the same sort of provisions?”

Faith had assented emphatically. And she'd be sure they brought their own extra tables this time.

They would have all day tomorrow to get ready and maybe even sneak in a nap, since it would be a late night again, she thought as she began to make a list on the paper in front of her.

It wasn't a shopping list.

Somewhere, somehow, there had to be a connection between the two deaths besides their occurrence during the shooting of A. f she wrote down everything she knew, that connection might become clear.

She folded a sheet in half and neatly labeled one column "Death One" and the other "Death Two." Approaching the whole thing as a kind of social studies report helped. These were events, not people. The first thing to determine was who was present at both times. This neatly enabled her to eliminate all of Aleford save her own catering staff and self. The day Sandra died, there had been no extras around. She had to assume the cast and crew were the same at both, except for Caresse. She hadn't been on the set during the prison cell scene. But everyone else who was at the Town Hall had been.

So where did that leave things? Plenty of suspects, yet no apparent motives. She let her imagination roam free over the landscape of her mind. What possible connection could Sandra have to Alden? They were an unlikely couple, although Alden might have harbored certain fantasies. Besides, Sandra was so besotted with Max that she wouldn't look at Greg Bradley, certainly a more suitable choice than portly, pretentious Alden. Maybe Sandra was Alden's long-lost illegitimate daughter and she was blackmailing him. But Alden hadn't been anywhere near the set of A when she died. His presence, even before, to doctor the drink, would have been noted. And, if he'd killed her, then who'd killed him? Sandra's mother, a possible avenger, was already dead. According to the police, Sandra's closest connection had been her roommate, who was in California at the time, and Greg Bradley had not given Faith the impression of an impassioned lover. His relationship to Sandra had been mostly wishful thinking.

But was it so improbable to assume that Alden had been on the set when she died? He'd certainly been there, lurking in the woods, during the shooting of the forest scene. Alden with his binoculars. Faith hadn't ac- tually seen them, and she suddenly realized she'd been barking up the wrong tree. It wasn't a pair of binoculars that Alden had been trying to hide, but a camera. Alden had had an interest in photography—"art" photography. Now where did this take her?

f the slides he was showing at the Town Hall were nude shots of Sandra, who would have been there watching with him? The most logical choice was Sandra. He might have tried to blackmail her in some way with them. But she was dead.

Faith decided to approach the subject from another angle: timing. She scribbled away. The neat columns had long gone by the board. Alden had not been killed during a general break, which meant it couldn't have been anyone actively involved in the scene being shot. One of the townspeople would have been able to slip away, but this didn't link up with Sandra's death. Were there any cast members peripheral to the scene? She made a note on a separate page to ask Dunne, who was no doubt going over the footage and might let her have another peek.

She started to gnaw on the pencil eraser, then got herself a large ruby comice pear instead. It was a juicy one and she stood up to eat it over the sink. Her meanderings had touched upon Sandra's mother, which reminded Faith that neither victim had had many family ties. This was invariably the first place to look for a perpetrator, since every third grader knew from constant repetition on TV and in the press that you were much more likely to be bumped off by blood than water.

The pear finished, she rinsed her sticky fingers and sat down again, the sensation that she wasn't getting anywhere increasing steadily. Her interesting but admittedly tenuous theory about Max/Chillingworth did not apply to Death Two, unless—going back to the purported photos—Max was enraged by Alden's voyeurism. Yet unless Max had some well-concealed reason for wanting to sabotage his own film, she was forced to eliminate him from her suspects. But it could be someone else wanting to sabotage the film. Someone who had it in for Max or one of the other actors?

She thought of Alan Morris, the ever-present, loyal assistant director. He seemed devoted to the movie, and especially its director; however, it was possible he was secretly jealous of Max and resented all the credit Reed got. Certainly, Alan worked incredibly hard. Maybe the one line he got on the screen wasn't enough. Maybe he wanted to move up. He'd been in medical school and might have known Sandra was asthmatic.

She went back to Alden and Sandra. What in their past lives could have connected the two? They lived a continent apart, but she had been born in Boston. Or was it something completely separate in their pasts that led to their deaths happening coincidentally close together? Was Alden's a copycat crime? The two methods were so different: one quite subtle and obviously premeditated; the other brutal and impulsive.

She wrote "Find out more about Alden and Sandra's past" on the page with "View footage." Her head was starting to swim. She had two possible leads. It wasn't much.

Then she added: "Alden on set last Friday? Saw something? Blackmail?" f this was true, she could put Max, Alan, and virtually everyone else at the Pingrees' back in the running. She thought about what Greg Bradley had said: "... a lot of everyday rules get turned upside down." Maybe a lot of those rules got broken, as well.

What else? There was the question of the soup. It had never been answered. Was it safe to assume Caresse added the Chocolax in a moment of pique, or was it some kind of rehearsal for Sandra's poisoning? She made a note to suggest to Dunne that he press the little girl—oh so gently, of course—to confess to her prank.

She tried to picture a piece of blank paper. Someone had once told her this was a way to cure yourself of insomnia—or trigger something you were trying to remember. It seldom worked for Faith in either case, not that she'd had much trouble sleeping since Ben was born. The problem was staying awake.

The sheet stayed snowy white, then a single word appeared: suicide. "Suicide," she wrote down. Not Alden. That would have been quite a feat, but Sandra. There was the slim possibility she had been despondent enough over her hopeless crush on Max to want to kill herself. Or drugs may have been involved. Faith needed to think it through some more.

Tom came out to the kitchen in search of nourishment.

“What are you up to, honey?" he asked.

“I thought if I got something down on paper, I might be able to make more sense out of all of this."

“And have you?"

“I've written a lot, but it's mostly gibberish." Faith was disgusted.

“Well, you can't expect to solve a crime sitting at your kitchen table." Tom was sorry the moment the words left his mouth. "Not that you're involved in solving these." He had been understandably very upset about Faith's near tête-à-tête with Alden's murderer.

“Why don't I make you a big sloppy sandwich with the entire fridge in it and we can talk.”

“Swell," said Tom. "I know when I'm being sidetracked. But be sensible, Faith—and haven't I said this before recently?—you have two kids to think of, and me, by the way."

“Don't worry, love, you won't be stuck with them.”

“That's not what I mean and you know it." Tom was clearly not in a jovial mood.

He seemed to feel better after starting to consume a bottle of Samuel Adams Boston Lager and the sandwich of roast beef, red onion, broiled peppers, tomato, lettuce, Swiss cheese, and mayo on sourdough bread his wife set before him. They talked over the various possibilities on Faith's list, but the combined Fairchild forces didn't get much further than she had alone. They were about to give up and go to bed when the phone rang.

“I'll toss you for it," Tom suggested.

“No, I'll get it. You had to deal with all those calls this morning. Besides, I'm curious to find out who could possibly be calling at such an unfashionably late hour. What is it? Almost ten o'clock? It can't be anyone from Aleford.”

Faith wasn't to know where the call came from. "Faith Fairchild?”

She didn't recognize the voice. Whoever it was had a heavy cold.

“Yes," she replied, ready for a fund appeal.

“Keep your fucking nose out of other people's business."

“Who is this! Hello! Hello!”

The line went dead.

She hung up and immediately dialed the police. Charley was on duty. She realized she was shaking. The voice—she couldn't be absolutely sure whether it had been a man or a woman—had sounded so venomous. The warning was clear.

Charley said he'd be right over and would get in touch with Dunne. Faith went back to the kitchen. It seemed as if she had been gone for an hour. Tom was still contentedly munching.

“Who was it, honey?”

Faith's call to Chief MacIsaac had calmed her down. The last thing she wanted was to upset Tom, but it was inevitable in this particular situation.

“It was a crank, an obscene phone call. Whoever it was told me to mind my own business, essentially."

“Faith! I knew it! We have to call the police!" Tom looked stricken, the remains of the sandwich in his hand suspended between his plate and mouth.

“I've already called and Charley is on his way. Honey, don't worry. Nothing is going to happen to me." Faith knew she could take care of herself. It was harder to convince her husband.

Charley was more agitated than usual, and as they sat debating the ways someone could disguise his or her voice, Faith realized the chief's mind was elsewhere.

“Charley, is something more bothering you? Because if it's just the call, please trust me. I know it was a warning and I'll be careful. Very careful."

“I hope so. You're right. The call was the last straw, but frankly, I'm worried sick about Penny. No one's seen hide nor hair of her since last night after I announced that Alden was dead."

“I wish we could help you, except we haven't heard a thing, either. Millicent's been calling, too. She thinks Tom is hiding Penny.”

There was a short pause.

“And of course he's not." MacIsaac's expression turned the statement into a question.

Faith hastened to defend her husband, who appeared startled.

“Charley! First of all, Tom is a man of a very high quality of cloth, and they don't do things like that, unless the Nazis or whatever are at the door. And second of all, why on earth would he—we—hide Penny? And why would she need to hide? Do you think she's in some kind of danger?"

“You tell me. We searched the house from top to bottom today. Every time I opened a closet, I got the willies, the way things have been happening around here." Faith thought she detected a sigh. More garrulous than was his wont, Charley kept talking.

“Nothing's going right. All those people, and not one saw Alden leave. Too busy stargazing. And he's the only person missing from the audience on the film"

“This is a really tough time for you. I hope you'll drop by whenever you want," Tom offered.

“Thanks, I will. Oh, and you can have the funeral on Friday. I told the Chronicle and they managed to get it into tomorrow's edition. Maybe Penny will show up.”

The chief was not the only one in Aleford who had the willies. Ever since Alden's body had been discovered, the entire town was looking over its shoulder. Doors that had been kept on the latch for centuries acquired shiny new dead bolts. Children were cautioned to come straight home from school, and hosts and hostesses of social gatherings planned for the weekend found themselves facing a night of TV. No one wanted to be out after dark. Penelope Bartlett was the constant topic of conversation.

The woman had simply vanished from the known world.

The baby was crying. Why didn't that woman shut her up? She was certainly getting paid enough, and with her English accent and starched uniforms, she looked like the real thing. A costume. You could be anybody with the right costume. No one knew this better than Evelyn O'Clair did. Makeup and costumes; smoke and mirrors. It was all an illusion. Her whole life.

Why couldn't the damned nanny keep the baby quiet! Probably didn't want to spoil the kid, but she'd been told more than once that when Evelyn was home, she didn't want to hear a thing.

She reached forward and turned on the gold-plated hot-water tap. It wasn't like her bathroom at home. That was made up of three rooms, one opening into another, culminating in the largest, which had a pool-sized tub made of marble, with malachite inlays, overlooking the ocean through dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows. But this setup wasn't bad. At least it had a Jacuzzi, and the rose carpeting gave the room a warm glow She leaned back on the inflatable pillow and let her thoughts drift. The perfumed water steamed slightly.

For a moment, she recaptured the calm she'd felt before the baby started screaming. It was quiet. Then the noise started up again. She stood up in annoyance and got out. The water splashed onto the carpet and she reached for her robe, ready to tell the nanny off Where the hell was Max? It was late. He'd said he'd be home hours ago. He would have taken care of it. Would have picked up the baby himself. He adored her. Had named her. Such a funny name, Cordelia. Evelyn had wanted something more modern like Tiffany. But she didn'tcare. One name was as good as another.

The crying stopped suddenly, like an alarm turned off She debated getting back in the tub, but it required too much effort. Night shooting was a strain. She had to get some sleep or it would begin to show on her face.

She wished Max had never started the film or that she had been committed to another project. Except he would have just waited for her. She hated her part. Hester Prynne. It didn't do too much for her image. Hester Prynne, an adulteress.

She hated being in this house, in this town. She hated the whole thing.

Naked, she walked over to the wall of mirrors lighted softly from above, dragging her robe behind her and unpinning her hair from the top of her head. Not bad. She'd exercised constantly and all through the pregnancy had rubbed cocoa butter on her disgusting belly. The doctor was amazed at how little weight she'd gained, she remembered proudly. She looked at herself closely. Unless you were as familiar with her body as she was, you'd never have noticed the difference. But there was one tiny wrinkle that would not go away and a slight slackness around her navel. When Max had discovered she was pregnant, she'd agreed to have it. Only no more. And there wouldn't be any more. She'd see to that. She couldn't plead exhaustion forever, but she could be careful—very, very careful.

She slipped on the thick, very soft terry-cloth robe and let it slide down over one shoulder, revealing one perfectly formed breast. She struck a pose, tossing her head, moistening her lips. Not bad for her age.

And what that was, not even Max knew for sure.

Nine

But the past was not dead.

The Fairchilds were midway through their daily breakfast ritual. The baby was covered with cereal, its consistency suggesting Faith should quickly cut a strip of wallpaper and decorate her daughter. Ben was complaining that there were pictures of basketball players on the box but no cards inside. "No basketball players, either," his mother told him. "Now, please finish eating." He hadn't liked the answer and was staring off into space. Tom was doing whatever grown men did in the morning to get ready for work, which took roughly twice as long as most women. Faith had already poured and discarded two cups of hot coffee for him. When the phone rang, she reached for it as eagerly as a teenager.

“Good morning, Faith. Have 'you got a pencil and paper?”

It seemed an odd reason for Millicent to call, but it was always better to humor the woman.

“Why, yes. Right here." She reached for the pad and pencil from last night.

“Good, because I don't want you to forget to check any of these places."

“What places?" Faith was willing to play along. Anything beat chipping encrusted food from Amy, and she needed changing, too.

Millicent ignored the question. An agenda was an agenda.

“The problem is, I can't go into town myself, because—and this is quite shocking—the police are watching my house.”

It was quite shocking and also quite unbelievable. Why would the police be staking out Millicent's Colonial? Surely they had come up with more likely suspects. Then it dawned on Faith. Of course. Dunne shot up a notch in her estimation. Follow Millicent to find Penny. He couldn't know that Millicent really didn't know where Penny was. And "places" meant places Penny might be. The game was getting better and better.

“So, you want me to go into Boston to look for Penny"

“Not you," Millicent corrected, "Pix and you. You need someone local to help you get around.”

Faith didn't mind having Pix along at any time. And in this instance, she could be helpful negotiating the one-way streets all in the same direction that made up Boston proper, but it hurt not to he trusted to go it alone. She wondered why Millicent was bothering with her services at all and was about to ask when Millicent handily supplied the answer.

“You seem to be so much closer to the police force than dear Pix." It was not a compliment.

Still, Faith was more than happy to take on the task. f she could find Penny, she might be able to find out more about Alden, and then there was the whole issue of why Penny had run away. Faith did not believe it was grief. Penelope Bartlett must know something.

She had one more question, mostly because she was curious.

“Why are you so sure Penny is in Boston?"

“Besides the fact that I immediately saw the dog was in his run outside and had food for a day or two, just her overnight case is gone. She wasn't planning to go far. I took the liberty of noting what was gone when Charley and I were going over the house—her toothbrush, night cream.... Obviously, she planned to stay somewhere. But from what I could tell, only her blue suit is missing from her closet. Remember, she was wearing a brown wool dress and a navy quilted down coat from Bean's?”

Faith had not remembered; had not even noticed, which tended to be the case with Penny's wardrobe. Millicent was a marvel. However, you wouldn't hear that from Faith's lips.

“She was carrying her brown purse, too. I hope you're getting this all down. When we're finished, I'll call Pix while you're getting ready. Perhaps it would be best to wear something, shall we say, discreet—to blend in”

Was Millicent suggesting that Faith's normal attire set her apart from the madding crowd? She certainly hoped so. Yet it was a good idea and she'd leave her modish large-checked blanket coat at home and wear the preppy little black Lauren she saved for funerals instead.

“Here are the places Penny would be apt to go. Start at her club, the Chilton Club. Pix knows where it is. Her mother's a member. Penny might be having lunch there. But she isn't staying at the club, because I already checked.”

Faith interrupted her. "But Millicent, would she go someplace so familiar? Someplace where she would be recognized?”

Millicent was indignant. "You don't think a member of our club would call the police about another member!”

Enough said.

“Shall we continue? f she's not eating there, she might be at the Museum of Fine Arts. In the restaurant, not in that little café with those spindly chairs outside the gift shop and certainly not in the cafeteria. You should also check the members' room. f it was Friday, our job would be simple, because Penny would never miss symphony. The only other thing I can think of is the flower show—in Horticultural Hall on Mass. Avenue. She never misses it and bought her ticket a month ago."

“Where do you think she might be staying? Does she have a favorite hotel—or friends in town?"

“Of course she has friends in town and I've already called them. And she assuredly would never have had an occasion to stay in a Boston hotel" Millicent's inflection made the two words sound decidedly seamy. "She has taken tea at the Copley, though. Add it to the list. Now you had best get yourself organized. That sounds like your child in the background, so I'll say good-bye." Millicent hung up and Faith was left to cope with her child, the crying one, as opposed to Tom's, who clearly never did.

As she took Amy upstairs to clean her, Faith made another list in her head. A "How Am I Going to Cater Tonight's Shoot and Take Care of My Children?" list. She started with Tom, who, surprisingly, thought going to look for Penny was an excellent idea. It would take his wife out of Aleford, away from further phone threats. Although Faith was pretty sure he wouldn't have been so keen if she was going by herself, but she'd take what she could get. She had been thinking about the call off and on since receiving it and had almost convinced herself it was Marta. The actress would have no trouble disguising her voice, and she might have decided her cryptic remarks at the Town Hall were not direct enough. Tom's voice broke into her thoughts.

“If Arlene can watch Amy this morning and give both kids lunch, I can work at home this afternoon. And today young Benjamin will take a nap. I'm working on the eulogy for Alden and it doesn't matter where I write—it's a mighty task.”

Faith was sympathetic. "You couldn't get someone else to do it? Like Dan Garrison? He was a friend of Alden's."

“Alden specifically mentioned me in the funeral arrangements he outlined in his will, the lawyer said. Perhaps I was supposed to feel honored."

“You never know, he may rise from his grave and correct your grammar. That may have been the intent.”

She moved on to other things. "Could you call Arlene while I change my clothes?" She didn't have any round-collared blouses, but she'd assemble something demure. It was a challenge.

“Sure, give me the baby.”

A squeaky-clean Amy gave her father a toothless grin. Daddy's little girl. It started early.

Before Tom could call Arlene, the phone rang. It was Pix. She told him to tell Faith to meet her in the driveway in fifteen minutes and to wear a hat and gloves. There was nothing like Pix for marshaling forces.

Faith threw on some clothes, enough makeup to maintain the natural look she cultivated, and searched for a hat. Since she was not a member of the Royal Family, the choices were meager: a broad-brimmed straw, a vintage fawn-colored man's fedora, or a large black velvet beret. She also had a light beige stocking cap, purchased when "grunge" meant grunge, and she wasn't wearing it until the fad passed and the word reverted to what it, and these fashions, were. She doubted any of the hats would meet with Pix's approval, but she chose the beret as the best bet. It matched her coat. Gloves were no problem. Now all she had to do was get ahold of Niki. The time had come to delegate with a vengeance.

“No problem," Niki said with obvious enthusiasm. What she had been waiting for day after day, maybe the lead would twist an ankle.

“Are you sure? We'll be back in plenty of time to set up tonight and you know what's in the freezer ..."

“Boss, just go. Tricia doesn't have classes today. I'll get her to come in to help. We'll be fine."

“All right. And thank you!"

“You do pay me, remember. But I am also glad in my own tiny way to help further the cause of justice, or whatever it is you two are doing. Happy hunting.”

Faith hung up. She would call them later.

Pix's Range Rover stopped at the end of the Fairchild driveway exactly on time. Faith climbed in. A spirit of adventure pervaded. Sitting high up in the car, she had the feeling they might be on the road to the Serengeti instead of Route 2 into Boston.

“Chilton, MFA, Horticultural Hall, and the Copley," Pix chanted, "and I've added another one—the YWCA."

“The Y? That doesn't strike me as Penny's style at all."

“After my father died, if my mother went to the theater or a concert and the club was full, she always stayed at the Pioneer rather than drive back to Aleford in the dark. Now, of course, she's not driving anywhere, thank goodness." Pix's mother was an indomitable eighty-year-old who had reluctantly turned in her goggles and duster the year before after backing over a favorite lilac bush.

“The Pioneer Y has been converted into apartments, but the Berkeley Street branch has rooms. Mother always says it made her feel safe to have so many women around, and I imagine Penny would think the same way. I know I would."

“But wouldn't someone be apt to recognize her? Millicent was adamant her fellow club women would never turn her in, but these loyalties don't apply to the other places we're looking—or the streets."

“I'm sure that's why Penny went to Boston, if that's where she is. No one is going to notice her. Think about it. Sad but true, women of Penny's age are not studied with great care, and besides, she looks like a generic New England lady—somebody's mother, somebody's aunt. Around here, she'd stick out because everybody knows her. In the city, she's anonymous.”

Pix was right. It was what Faith had recalled during her conversation with Millicent. Penny did not exactly stand out in a crowd.

The entrance to the Chilton Club was on Common- wealth Avenue, and since they didn't have a prayer of finding a parking space nearby at lunchtime, they went straight to the garage at the Prudential Center and walked over. For once in her life, Faith did not have a plan. Fortunately, Pix did.

“I'm not a member, but Mother is, so I'll say we're meeting her for lunch. You can be searching for a bathroom if anyone asks, which no one will, especially since you left that hat in the car. I'll stay at the reception desk and make a show of peering out the door and so forth, asking for a message and wondering where can mater be. This should give you enough time to look into the dining room. I can show you where it is from outside. It's got beautiful long windows.”

Faith was impressed. Maybe she should give up catering and start a detective agency with Pix. John Dunne's worst nightmare come true.

The Chilton Club exuded a quiet elegance suggestive of monogrammed china and silver bowls of cut flowers atop a Chippendale chest. It was unmistakably a women's club. The large living room just off the hall from the reception desk had butter yellow walls that picked up the background of the long chintz drapes. Comfortable sofas and chairs with needlepoint seats were arranged with a view toward both conversation and silent escape. The room was empty save for one lone lady deeply immersed in the Wall Street Journal.

In another direction, the buzz of conversation drifting from the dining room was definitely higher-pitched than that occurring some blocks away at the Somerset. Faith looked into the room hoping for first time luck. The windows were beautiful and there was a nice Welsh rabbit sort of smell in the air, although she did not actually spot the dish. She did not spot Penny, ei- the. There were several Penny look-alikes, and Faith realized this would be happening all day in the venues they'd be casing. No one came over to ask her what she was doing there—too well-bred—so she double-checked the room.

She rejoined Pix, who was embellishing the story considerably and had obviously whipped her audience of the two desk attendants into a state of advanced concern for the elderly Mrs. Rowe.

When Pix saw Faith shake her head in a silent no, she suddenly looked at her watch—a watch so fully equipped as to tell the time and rate of exchange in Istanbul, among other things—and exclaimed, "Goodness, something must be wrong with my watch. It says it's the twenty-second today." She tapped it speculatively.

“Pix," said Faith, catching on immediately, "It is the twenty-second."

“Oh, you're all going to hate me. I thought it was the twenty-third. That's when Mother's asked us for lunch!”

f anyone hated her, they were too polite to say so, or perhaps it was relief that Mrs. Rowe was not prone nearby in one of those Boston oxymorons, a pedestrian crossing.

They got out quickly and hastened down the stairs to the sidewalk. "You were brilliant," Faith congratulated her friend.

“Thank you. We can cross the Chilton off our list. After you left, I steered the conversation around to Penny. How Mother was so worried about her good friend and so on. They'd all heard about Mrs. Bartlett's disappearance and said no one had seen her."

“Car or MBTA to the Fine Arts?"

“Let's leave the car where it is and take the subway. If we don't find her at the museum, Horticultural Hallis two stops away. I have tickets for the show, by the way. Mine and the one I got for my sister-in-law, but this is more important. Besides, she's always saying she kills every plant she touches, and the sight of all those blooming successes might be too much for her.”

A thorough search of not only the upstairs restaurant but the café and cafeteria at the Museum of Fine Arts—despite Millicent's imprecations, they had checked to be sure—yielded nothing. It had been the old "having lunch with Mother" routine again for the restaurant. This time, Faith went solo while Pix checked the members' room. Back at the entrance, they agreed their search had done nothing except make them incredibly hungry. Just as they were about to leave, Pix said, "We never checked outside! You know how nuts Penny is about fresh air. She might have taken a sandwich into the Garden Court to eat”

It was a sunny and surprisingly warm day for March. Not what Faith would call warm, but what all her neighbors, coats open, hats off, called warm.

“I suppose you may be right," she agreed, the idea of a picnic on a par with eating chilled vichyssoise in an igloo.

They retraced their steps across the museum's marble floors and down the stairs to the cafeteria. The door to the courtyard was shut but unlocked, and, sure enough, there were people eating lunch at the wrought-iron tables surrounded by leafless branches and brittle ivy. A woman in a navy down coat similar to Penny's sent them racing across the garden. Halfway there, they realized she had a toddler in tow, and even if Penny thought the ploy would help her avoid detection, it was hard to think where she could obtain a child at such short notice. There were days when Faith could have helped her out, but this was not one of them.

Out on Huntington Avenue at the trolley stop, Pix wondered aloud whether the whole thing wasn't a waste of time.

“I'm beginning to think Penny hopped a plane for parts unknown. Disappearing from Aleford was such a strange thing to do that looking in her familiar haunts doesn't match up. At the least, we should be canvassing X-rated movie theaters or Frederick's of Hollywood."

“You may have a point," said Faith, moving from foot to foot, regarding her frosty breath and wondering where the train was. It was a peculiarity of Boston to take you from underground, above ground, and back down all in a matter of a few stops. "However, I am not going to be the one to tell Millicent we skipped some of the places on her list."

“Oh, I'm not suggesting we give up. I just don't think we're going to find her.”

The train arrived, plunged underground, and deposited them at their spot.

They emerged from beneath the streets to face the turn-of-the-century facade of Horticultural Hall. It was a stately grandame of a building, brick, with a great deal of exterior decoration in the form of elaborate ornamental iron balconies and stonework. Over the entrances, three fruit-garlanded roundels in the style of Della Robbia welcomed those in search of flora. The middle one sported a nymph clad in trailing diaphanous garments, hands clutching bouquets, who floated high above the top of the globe, peeking through a blanket of clouds. Faith had never really looked at the building before and was impressed.

Inside, they could smell that ineffable combination of good soil and fresh flowers. The air was moist. It wastempting simply to wander through the hall, feasting their eyes on the beds of perfect posies, so far removed from the results of one's own backbreaking attempts.

At the center of the room, an entrant had re-created a Victorian-style conservatory with a glassed-in gazebo, suggestive of Kew Gardens, surrounded by flowering shrubs and masses of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths. A wrought-iron courting bench had been placed beneath a weeping birch, and it was in this spot of romantic repose that, much to their surprise, Pix and Faith found Penelope Bartlett. All three stared at one another for an instant—Penny, eyes widening, assuming the characteristics of the startled doe, a period lawn decoration next to her. Had the deer been real, it would then have fled, and that's exactly what Penny did, plunging into the crowded aisles of gardening enthusiasts.

Faith and Pix followed in hot pursuit, but a garden club group, dressed by Smith & Hawken, momentarily blocked their way. "Some clematis like to be cut down each year. Some don't. It's important, ladies, to find out which variety you have.”

Penny was moving right along. Walking her dog had indeed kept her in good shape. Faith and Pix shoved their way through disapproving stares and managed to keep their quarry in sight until they were once again thwarted by the sudden appearance of what looked like most of Boston's elementary-aged school population dead ahead. "Teddy, if I have to tell you once more not to touch the flowers, you're sitting in the bus!”

After that, it was hopeless. They completely lost sight of her. The navy blue coat was engulfed by the crowd waiting in the lobby to buy tickets.

Faith and Pix finally gained the sidewalk and looked up and down the street.

“She probably went straight down to the subway," Pix said.

“Damn, damn, damn," said Faith.

“I know. We almost had her. She must be terribly upset if she's running away from us."

“Or frightened."

“What now?"

“How far are we from the Y? After being spotted, she'll certainly go to ground, and this is the only possibility we have left. I doubt Penny would go have tea, knowing we were searching likely haunts"

“It's a bit far to walk to the Y," Pix said, which meant it must be several miles, Faith interpreted. "But we can take the subway to Copley and walk from there. f that's where she is, that's what she must have done, too.”

Waiting for the train, Faith realized she should have stuffed some snacks in her bag. Even a granola bar would have been welcome.

Unlike her venerable sister, the Pioneer, the Berkeley YWCA was a modern building in the South End of Boston. The large lobby was attractive and warm; the security impressive. The woman at the desk greeted them pleasantly but firmly. What did they want?

“My aunt is staying here. She's expecting us and told us to come right up. Her name is ..." Faith had a sudden inspiration. "Mrs. Millicent McKinley."

“I can tell Mrs. McKinley you are here, but I cannot send you up without calling. Why don't you have a seat?”

There couldn't be two. Millicent McKinley aka Penelope Bartlett was at the Y Faith shot Pix a triumphant look.

Five minutes later, Penny walked into the lobby. She did not look triumphant. She looked tired and extremely troubled.

“How did you know where to find me? No, don't bother. I've heard all about Faith's abilities. I suppose you're going to call the police now.”

Faith had not really given much thought to what they would do once they found Penny. It had seemed so remote. But she certainly didn't intend to call the police, particularly not before she'd had a chance to talk to the woman. And first, she had to correct Penny's false impression.

“Looking for you in Boston was Millicent's idea. It was Pix's idea that you might be here, because her mother used to stay here." But mine that you'd be using your best friend's name, she thought, silently taking credit.

“Your mother's staying here is what gave me the idea, too," Penny admitted.

“Look, Penny, we've come because we've all been very worried about you. Why don't we go upstairs to your room and talk, then we can figure out what to do next.”

Penny nodded. "All right, but the room is ... well, a bit small. Two of us would have to sit on the bed. There's a coffee shop across the street where I've been taking my meals, although I could have them here. Why don't we go there?" Faith noticed Penny still had her coat on. She must have come in minutes before they had.

“Fine." Coffee sounded great. Food sounded better. Maybe it was some diamond-in-the-rough place where they baked everything themselves.

What it was was a perfectly adequate sub shop with a Greek accent. The three of them settled around one of the square Formica tables at the window, beneath a dramatic travel poster of the Acropolis at night. Penny chose a chair that placed her back to the street. She had only wanted a cup of tea. Pix ordered a Greek salad and Faith the same, with a slight glance at the large cheese steak another patron was enjoying. But this was not Philadelphia, and besides, it would be difficult to maintain the necessary investigative decorum required by the situation while dripping grease.

“I suppose you want to know why I left Tuesday night." Penny sounded vaguely hopeful that Pix and Faith might be there for another reason. Say, her recipe for mincemeat bars.

“Why did you leave?" Faith asked.

“This is not easy for me to talk about and it's something I have never told anyone, not even Francis. Not even Millicent." Penny said the latter as if surprised at herself—or at Millicent for not getting it out of her. "However, after I saw you at Horticultural Hall, I decided if you found me here, I'd tell you. But, I will not go back to Aleford until Alden's murderer is arrested. You'll see why.”

Pix reached across the table and took Penny's hand. "You know that you can trust us. It's you we're concerned about, not anybody else.”

Faith nodded vehemently. She wanted to hear what Penny had to say.

“Pix, you were young at the time, but you may remember I nursed my husband, Francis, at home the year before he died. There was nothing that any doctor could do for him and we wanted to be together until the end. I hoped he could die with dignity, as they say, but there is no dignity in the kind of, pain he suffered. The end was a blessing." She looked down at the tepid liquid in her teacup and took a swallow.

“He went to bed in August. It's funny ... I remem- ber it so clearly. There was a day when he just didn't get up. The day before he had. One day so different from the next. And I knew he would never get up again. I'm sorry to be rambling. Anyway, that fall a young woman who worked in his firm—I think she was a secretary, but not Francis's secretary. That was Mrs. Phillips. She used to bring him books to read and flowers until he didn't want to see anyone. But this other secretary called me and said she had something very important to discuss with me and would I meet her in town the following day. I explained Francis was seriously ill and couldn't be left. She said she knew and that was why she was approaching me. She didn't want to bother him, but she would if I didn't come"

“Did it sound like a threat?" Faith asked.

“It sounded as though she meant it, not exactly a threat. I arranged for a neighbor to come sit with Francis and went into town. We met at a restaurant on Newbury Street. When I walked in, she came over and greeted me by name. I'd never seen her before. She was quite pregnant, and after we sat down at a table, she told me she was carrying Francis's child.”

Faith was stunned. "But wasn't that impossible?" she blurted out before thinking.

Penny allowed a shadow of amusement to cross her face. "Millicent told you, I presume. In fact, it was not a big secret, though we didn't announce it from the rooftops. We felt one's biological destiny or what have you is nothing of which to be ashamed. Yes, it was impossible. Francis was sterile. He'd contracted mumps in the army. I knew it when I married him and never regretted the decision for a single moment:'

“Certainly you told this blackmailer that!" Pix was indignant.

“I did tell her, but she was very insistent. And you're right—she did want money. As she spoke, I began to realize that although the baby was not Francis's, he may have had a few foolish meetings with her. She knew so much about him, about us. I don't think it's uncommon for people, when they know they have very little time left in this world, to want to try things they've never done. Francis had been diagnosed the winter before. It's highly possible this woman was his way of assuring himself he remained alive and able to have an adventure of sorts.”

Faith had always admired Penelope Bartlett. Never more than now. Still, it would have been better for all concerned if her husband had taken up skydiving.

“So, you paid her to leave Francis alone." It was very clear. What was not was what any of this had to do with the matter at hand.

“Yes, I did. I didn't want the time Francis had left to be complicated by ugly rumors. As I said, she was a very fIrm person and I have no doubt she would have continued to insist on the paternity of her child until Francis submitted to some sort of test. It was all too unpleasant to consider."

“But this was almost twenty years ago," Pix said, anticipating Faith's question.

“Yes, I know, except I have not been allowed to forget it. You see, Alden found out certain things.”

Of course, Pix and Faith read each other's minds.

“I couldn't take such a large sum of money from the bank without Francis's knowledge. We were a traditional couple by today's standards," she commented wryly. "He gave me plenty of money for the household accounts and clothing, but he controlled the rest. There was only one way for me to get it without telling him,and telling him was out of the question. That was to sell some shares in a family business in New Hampshire my father had left to me. Unfortunately, one of the conditions of the bequest was that they had to be offered to family members first, several cousins and Alden. I tried my cousins. They were not interested, so I was forced to go to Alden, who was. He never asked me why I needed the money and I thought all would be well."

“Surely this is not what he and Dan Garrison have been alluding to during the campaign? They kept talking about your taxes." Faith realized there must be more. There was.

“I did a very stupid thing. I didn't declare the income from the sale of those shares that year. Francis was still well enough in February to go over our taxes with Barry Lacey, who helped him prepare them. I never intended to cheat the government. I just couldn't let Francis be worried.”

Faith understood completely. She would have done the same thing herself.

“Francis died in early September, a little more than a year after he had become bedridden. When I was settling the estate, I told our lawyer that, in the stress of Francis's illness, I had neglected to declare the sale of the shares to my brother and asked if he and Barry would straighten it out. I said I would pay the penalties. And they did. But during the course of all this, Alden must have discovered what I had done. He never said a word. Not until the debate the other night."

“Oh, Penny! What a terrible shock that must have been for you," Pix empathized.

“It was. Alden knew there had to be some reason out of the ordinary that I was selling my shares. He was just biding his time. But I was darned if I was going to drag all this past history out into the open when it had nothing to do with the campaign. And, in fact, I had made amends and paid the fine. But hearing this alone without the whole story would have caused a ruckus. You know what sticklers people around here are about their—and more especially your—taxes. And I'm glad I didn't say anything. Especially since Francis can't be here to defend himself. I know this town, and there would have been more than one sly comment at his expense.”

Something more was puzzling Faith. f Penny hadn't known until recently that Alden knew about the tax return, why didn't she speak to him?

“But what was it that led to the coolness between you and Alden? You haven't spoken to him for years.”