This did cause Pix an occasional twinge. “You don’t think he wants to be president, do you?” she’d asked Faith once. “I would make such a dreadful campaigner. All those speeches and dinners. I don’t know how Rose Kennedy ever did it.” Pix had no doubt that if Mark did aspire to the Oval Office, it was his for the asking. No, today Pix was not worried about finding a pair of pumps that matched her purse in a wardrobe consisting mainly of clogs and denim wraparound skirts. It was Samantha, a high school senior, and Danny, a seventh grader, who were on her mind today.
The Millers’ kitchen had been remodeled when they moved into the Federal brick house many years ago.
The spacious room was geared more to the family’s various pursuits than to food preparation. Faith correctly assumed the stove, refrigerator, and so on were categorized more as “things that go in a kitchen” than “things we want to use.” There was plenty of room to sit and chat—if you removed the hockey skates or quilt Pix was piecing. Pix now worked part-time for Faith, keeping the books and handling the ordering. She had agreed to this employment with the strict understanding that she would not be expected to do any food preparation whatsoever. “I could possibly peel carrots or potatoes,” she’d said, “but then I might do them wrong.” Pix’s kitchen cabinets tended to be stocked with things that had the word Helper in the title. Yet the house always smelled of freshly baked bread—and, of course, coffee. The coffee, Faith could see. The bread smell mystified her. Pix offered her a steaming mug, pretty much a reflex action, cleared a pile of magazines she’d been meaning to read since last year, and the two of them sunk into the comfortable old sofa that overlooked the yard. One of the dogs immediately lumbered over to join them. Pix made more room.
Faith correctly guessed that any conversation about Samantha must involve college. She was right.
“Has Samantha heard from all her schools yet?” Faith had already been through the application process, during which Samantha had winnowed her choices from sixty down to fifteen at her father’s insistence. “We could pay her freshman tuition with what it would cost in application fees if I let her apply everywhere she wants,” he’d told the Fairchilds.
“That’s the problem. She’s heard from every place except Brown and Wellesley.” Samantha was not only an extremely good student, but also something of a softball legend at Aleford High. Little kids asked her to sign autographs after games.
“And?”
“She’s gotten into all of them.” Pix sounded as if she’d just heard that one of the Miller family’s golden retrievers had heartworm—and it didn’t get much worse than that.
“But that’s terrific! Congratulations!”
“Oh well, yes, but how is she going to make up her mind? Coaches are calling her. Her friends keep giving her advice. One day, she’s definitely going to Stanford—which is too far away—the next it’s Bowdoin, because of marine biology.” Unlike her politically minded brother, Samantha’s future constituency consisted of the inhabitants of tide pools.
“I thought she wanted to go to Brown, continue the family tradition.” Pix had gone to Pembroke and her husband, Sam, to Brown. They’d also grown up together in Aleford. Thinking of this, Faith consoled her friend. “At least she’s not involved with anybody, so she can make an independent choice. You and Sam are unique. Most people I know who went to the same schools as their high school honeys had broken up by the end of Orientation Week.”
“Sam and I don’t want to say too much, or too little.
It would be nice if she went to Brown, but only if it’s what she wants.”
“Knowing Samantha, I don’t think you have to worry about that. Now tell me quickly what’s going on with Danny, because I want you to tell me everything you know about Brad Hallowell.” Pix was immediately diverted, as Faith hoped she might be.
“Brad Hallowell? Why do you want to know about him? What’s going on, Faith?”
Pix looked her friend squarely in the eye. If Faith had ferreted out some new intrigue in Aleford, Pix didn’t want to be left out. Faith had been far away when Pix had solved a murder up on Sanpere Island, off the coast of Maine, last summer. She felt that she had proved herself. If only her family would take up less time and mental energy!
“I can’t go into it yet. It was told to us in confidence. As soon as I can, I will.”
“Hmmm, ‘us,’ you and Tom, I assume. A parishioner? Well, all right. I understand, but I’m afraid I can’t help you too much. You really should be talking to Millicent.”
“Millicent!”
“Yes, Brad Hallowell is POW!’s most loyal follower. You do know what POW! is, right?”
“Preserve Our Wetlands!—I got the leaflet last night as I was leaving the selectmen’s meeting.”
“I thought I saw the back of your head on TV. I wish I had been there in person, but Danny had so much homework, and if I don’t sit with him, it doesn’t get done. I just caught the tail end. Maybe next week.”
Before Faith lost her advantage, she pressed Pix further. “But don’t you know any more about Brad?”
“His parents seem nice. His mother is an Evergreen.” Faith knew this meant a member of the Aleford Garden Club and did not refer to a possibly more exotic pedigree. “I do have the feeling that they regard Brad as someone from another planet. She’s often said things like, ‘I don’t know where he came from.’
Of course, many parents feel this way,” Pix added.
“Then what do you think she means? Has he ever been in trouble—with the police, for instance?”
“Not to my knowledge, but they haven’t lived here all that long, and he was in college until he moved home last year.” Children were doing that with distressing frequency these days, Faith noted. Pix, on the other hand, would greet a returning nestling with a brass band. She still occasionally forgot and set a place for Mark at dinner.
“I think she’s referring to his interest in computers,” Pix commented. “He’s always been some kind of whiz kid, and his company sends him all over the world as a consultant. She told us once that he’s had an eight hundred number since he was nineteen and carries a beeper so if someone needs help with a program they can reach him day or night. He spends all his free time cruising the Internet. Samantha explained it to me.”
Faith did know all about the Internet. Her sister had tried to convince her to hook up and get recipes that way. When Faith had discovered how much it would cost her to learn the secret of foolproof marshmallow rainbow Jell-O, that particular moment’s offering, she politely declined. Although she’d heard a rumor that Julia might be posting her secrets.
So Brad was a hacker. He would certainly know about phones, but then whoever was threatening Lora only had to know how to dial.
“Besides computers, he’s very, very ecologically minded. When Millicent found that out, she also probably figured he could do all their bulletins. You know Millicent.”
Faith did.
Pix continued to talk. As Faith had expected, she had quite a bit of information. “He was seeing Lora Deane, but she broke it off. His mother was very upset. For one thing, it had been an interest in something that did not have a keyboard. But, even more, she was outraged that anyone would reject her perfect son.
She had a few tight-lipped things to say about Lora.”
“Did she indicate how Brad was taking it?”
“Very hard—and angry. ‘I hate to see the boy like this,’ she told us. He was taking long walks in Beecher’s Bog; maybe that’s what got him started with POW! And Maureen Farmer told me he put his fist through his bedroom wall, or at least made a hole in it.”
“How on earth did she find that out?” Maureen lived on the opposite side of town.
“Same cleaners. They were there when it happened, and they arrived at Maureen’s house pretty shaken.” This act, coupled with the destruction of the cold frames, indicated the kind of temper that could goad him into making the calls. Faith was beginning to form a picture of an adored child
who was also used to praise and success in his adult life. A volatile nature. Someone who became passionately committed to various causes. She remembered Lora’s remark about the field mice.
“He is good-looking. Samantha had quite a crush on him in the beginning of the year. He was helping out in the computer lab at school.”
Faith didn’t want to hear about Brad’s good looks or good works. She decided she’d try to sit next to him at Friday’s POW! meeting and gently plumb his depths. She’d mention Lora, as Ben’s teacher, and watch his reaction. If all went according to plan, Brad Hallowell could be in Tom’s study Saturday morning having the fear of God and Charley MacIsaac in-stilled, and then Lora’s troubles would be over.
“Now what’s going on with Danny?” Fair was fair.
As Faith crossed the Millers’ yard back to the parsonage, she wondered if she might be able to get a moment alone with Miss Lora. She doubted it. Pickup time at the nursery school was chaotic at best. If Ben wasn’t waving a dripping-wet finger painting, he’d have a fragile toothpick construction that would demand more care than a Fabergé egg. Lora would be in the thick of things as every mother sought a word. The two questions Faith wanted to ask—“Have you received any more threatening calls?” and “Did your boyfriend ever hit you?”—would not go unnoticed among “How was Bryant at circle time?” and “Does Katie have her blankie?”
She was right. Miss Lora was surrounded by a swarm of children and mothers, yet she did manage to give Faith a knowing look and say, “I’m on my way to my sister’s. You know, the one with the new baby.” If the other mothers noticed that the last few words were enunciated rather precisely, as if they were the day’s password to get past the guard, they did not let on.
Faith nodded and replied in kind, “Let me know how the baby’s doing. Tom and I are eager to hear.” Feeling vaguely like the spy about to go out into the cold, Faith scooped up Ben and today’s project—a chalk drawing that had already left telling smudges all over his face, hands, and clothes and would soon, no doubt, on hers. They would just be on time to pick up Amy. Some of the mothers in the play group were more relaxed about hours than others. Today’s was not one of them. Early in the fall, Ben had started calling her “The Grouchy Ladybug,” after the character in the book, and Faith had given up correcting him. It had become shortened to Ladybug and she’d adopted it herself. “We’d better hurry, or the Ladybug will be annoyed,” she told him.
Both Faith and Tom were in attendance at POW!’s first meeting on Friday night. In fact, much of Aleford was there. Asterbrook Hall was packed. People were standing at the rear and along the sides of the basement in the town hall.
“How many people do you think are here to save the bog and how many to see what’s going on?” Faith asked Tom.
“About fifty-fifty. You have noticed that the Deanes are conspicuously absent.”
“Well, of course, but someone will report back, I’m sure.”
Tom nodded. “Look, Millicent is going up onstage.” The room quieted instantly. “Thank God she tends to use her power for good,” Faith whispered to her husband. He crossed his fingers in reply.
Millicent was wearing the red Pendleton suit she normally reserved for special occasions, so Faith knew how serious the moment was. The brass buttons had lost a bit of their luster and the seat had bagged out long ago, but as raiment went, it was perfect.
“You all know why we’re here.” Millicent didn’t need a microphone. Her voice reverberated out the door and up onto Main Street.
“If we don’t put a stop to these developers, Aleford might just as well be Boston. They’ll be putting up high-rises on the green next!”
There were rumblings of agreement.
“Unfortunately, Town Meeting has never passed an ordinance limiting the size of a house in relation to the square footage of the land it sits on or the number of houses in a subdivision. We’d have had a possible out if they had. Mr. Madsen has to build quite a large number of these houses in order to turn a profit.” Faith couldn’t help but remember that when this had come up the last time, Millicent had been on the side of individual freedom and opposed the restriction along with virtually everyone else. But then, who could predict the future?
“Madsen is entirely within his rights. His plans are up-to-code and there is no way to stop him on those grounds.”
The audience looked glum.
“Nor do I think we can appeal to the man’s better nature.”
Nobody needed subtitles on this one. The implication was made clear by her scornful tone of voice. For one swift moment, Faith actually felt sorry for Joey.
He wasn’t even here to defend himself.
“Fortunately, I was able to devise a strategy that may circumvent all this. But it will take hard work on all our parts. Are you willing?”
She had them eating out of the palm of her hand and there were several yesses shouted out, a most unusual display of spontaneity for Aleford.
“First of all, we have to reconvene Town Meeting.
The easiest way would be to get the board of selectmen to do it, but I don’t think we can count on that.” Penny Bartlett was the only member of the board in the audience, and from the look on her face, she was clearly sorry she hadn’t stayed home and deadheaded her African violets.
“Which means we have to collect signatures.
Sheets and clipboards with instructions are on the table at the back of the room for you to take as you leave. I don’t have to tell you speed is of the absolute essence here! The timing is particularly bad, since Patriots’ Day is less than two weeks away. I don’t want to point a finger . . .”
Clearly, however, she did, and there wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t believe that Joey Madsen was trying to slip his plan through at Aleford’s busiest time of year, thinking everyone would be sufficiently occupied elsewhere to organize any opposition. It hadn’t occurred to Faith, but if this was what he was doing, it was pretty smart. Only, he might not have sufficiently gauged the enemy, like the poor British retreating from Concord. Millicent could run any number of things at once.
“But what do you expect Town Meeting to do?” It was the Town Meeting moderator, Susan Waters, and certainly a reasonable query.
Millicent frowned. “I was about to get to that, Susan dear.”
Susan sat down, somewhat paler than she’d been upon rising. Maybe it was the way Millicent had uttered the word dear.
“Going over town records in the library recently, I came across an account of the passage of two ordinances that will help us. One involves the Historic Commission. It can vote to delay, and I quote, ‘the significant alteration in character,’ unquote, of any property falling within the Historic District until Town Meeting is satisfied that said alterations will not, and I quote again, ‘significantly impact the district.’ Now”—she turned a beady eye on poor Susan, impaling her in her seat—“I know Beecher’s Bog is not in the Historic District, but the proposed access road between First Parish and the parsonage is.” This last word was uttered triumphantly. Faith found her spirits rising.
“Once we have the special session of Town Meeting, it can vote on this and the next ordinance I uncovered. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting these introduced and voted upon.” Millicent was herself a Town Meeting member, so no trouble at all. She paused for effect. The whole room waited breathlessly. “In 1842, our ancestors had the prescience to pass an article that gives Town Meeting the power to block any proposal it feels would be, and I quote,
‘detrimental to the quality of life in Aleford.’ ” There it was again, Faith thought, “quality of life.” It was obviously an article—someone’s whim, or worse—that had been forgotten as soon as it passed, only to surface some 150 years later to feed the flames of what was going to be one of the biggest battles Aleford had witnessed since the long-ago events on the green.
A man in a dark business suit got up and left. It was Joey Madsen’s wan-faced lawyer. He was reaching in his
pocket—for his cellular phone, no doubt. Joey and Millicent were cut from the same cloth: Forewarned is forearmed.
Faith was both relieved and distressed. The bog would probably get saved, but it was not going to be a pleasant spring in Aleford.
“Now, I’m going to introduce some of my fellow committee members, who will be circulating sign-up sheets. Please indicate when you are available to leaflet, collect signatures, and don’t forget your phone numbers.” Millicent had several people rise from the audience as she called their names.
“And Brad Hallowell, who has graciously donated his time and expertise with computers to print the campaign literature.”
Brad stood up. Faith took a good hard look at him.
She had not been able to sit next to him. He was in the middle of a row, surrounded, when the Fairchilds came in. She’d have to figure out another way to talk with him. Computer advice? As Pix had said, he was attractive and definitely crush material for teenage girls—and their older sisters, too. He had thick black hair, pulled to the nape of his neck in a small ponytail.
His eyes were deep brown. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a flannel shirt over a T-shirt and jeans. He didn’t look like a stalker or like someone who might physically abuse his girlfriend. But then, the whole point was that such people seldom did. It was the boy next door, or the husband lying beside one in bed—not a crazed lunatic. She suddenly felt cold and realized someone had opened a window.
“Can we go now?”
Tom was getting restless. She tried to remember if there was a Celtics game on tonight. She had trouble keeping the sports seasons straight. Everything seemed to continue year-round.
“Wait, I don’t want to be the only ones leaving.” Millicent wasn’t finished. “The last two POW!
members I’d like you to meet are welcome for their dedication to the cause and also for their extensive knowledge of the area in question. Come on, Margaret and Nelson, stand up. Margaret and Nelson Batcheldor!” It crossed Faith’s mind that Millicent could have made a career for herself as a game-show hostess.
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