Body in the Bog ff-7

by Katherine Hall Page

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

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

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

  “Me, too,” Tom said.

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

  Faith nodded.

  “Tell me how far you went.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Taking a nature walk?” he asked Faith.

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

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

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

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

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

  “You two going to be home today?”

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

  “Did you know him well?”

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

  And even more about him, Faith finished silently.

  She wanted to go home.

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

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

  “Thank you.”

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

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

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

  They walked quickly away from Beecher’s Bog.

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

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

  Ben had finished his and asked for more.

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

  “They will soon.”

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

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

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

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

  The phone was first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It’s all over town,” she told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Even the checkout clerks looked nervous.

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

  Pix had come and gone, jumpy as everyone else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Dunne opened his Filofax and flipped to a blank page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The men, including her husband, nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

  *

  *

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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