Body in the Bog ff-7

by Katherine Hall Page

  Martha Fletcher stood in the dining-room doorway, a tall, substantial woman with her gray hair smoothed back into a tidy, at the moment, bun.

  “It looks beautiful!” she gushed. Faith had to agree.

  They’d knocked themselves out creating this Patriots’

  Day buffet. The table was covered with material Faith had found at Fabric Place—a cream background with tiny flags, eagles, and stars stenciled in navy on the heavy glazed cotton. She’d placed groupings of votive candles in various-sized brass balls with star cutouts throughout the room. They gave off a soft glow and matched her hostess’s brass chandelier, suitably dimmed. They’d done a large arrangement of blue delphiniums, Queen Anne’s lace, red and white ranun-culuses, and several colors of anemones for the side-board, where the wine and, later, the coffee would be served. A lower, smaller arrangement sat on the table.

  “And everything smells so good already. I knew I was right to have you!” Mrs. Fletcher rambled on.

  “Thank you.” The aromas from the kitchen were mouthwatering. Faith needed to get back there and see that the hors d’oeuvres were ready to go. She excused herself. Her hostess glanced at her watch and gave a shrill cry. “They’ll be here any minute! I have to make sure Prescott’s ready and get dressed myself!” Prescott Fletcher, her husband, was a distinguished-looking gentleman. He had popped his head into the kitchen earlier, looked about the room with a marked degree of unfamiliarity, asked them if they had everything they needed, and left in obvious relief when they said they had. Prescott had continued to add to the bounty of his family tree as a venture capitalist, Pix had told Faith, who wished she had the time—and nerve—to pin him down and ask him what this actually was.

  In the kitchen, the staff was in full gear. Instead of a first course, they were serving heartier-than-usual fare for hors d’oeuvres: crab cakes with a spicy remoulade, asparagus wrapped in paper-thin slices of smoked salmon, zucchini pancakes with salsa and sour cream, wild-mushroom tartlets, two kinds of crostini—one with a duck pâté, the other with tapenade—and cherry tomatoes stuffed with chèvre. There wasn’t anything particularly patriotic about the choices, although all were made with native products. Faith had decided enough was enough after determining the main course, dessert, and decor. Her hostess had wanted the catering staff to wear period dress, but Faith had politely but firmly declined, explaining this would seriously hamper their performance. She had no intention of getting stuck in the swinging door—or roasting to death in all those layers. She wore her black-and-white chef’s pants, tailored to fit, and a tuxedo-front white shirt with a black rosette instead of a tie. The rest of the staff was similarly attired, except they wore plain black pants, and Scott, the bartender, wore a tie. Faith had met Scott Phelan and Tricia, who was now his wife, five years ago. Scott had played a role in solving Cindy Shepherd’s murder. It was as hard now as it had been then for Faith to keep her mind on track. If anything, he was better-looking. Take-your-breath-away looks.

  Old-fashioned movie-star good looks, Gregory Peck as opposed to Brad Pitt. Tricia was a beautiful girl herself and the two were very happy together. They were teasing Niki, who was frantically washing lettuce, a hateful task. She’d suddenly decided they didn’t have enough for the salad—mixed greens topped with pome-granate seeds and a blueberry vinaigrette dressing.

  “You’re going to be an old maid if you don’t watch out,” Scott warned.

  “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Better than ending up with some jerk.”

  “Not all men are like Scott, you know, Niki. I happen to like jerks,” Tricia said, quickly moving out of her husband’s reach. “Don’t mess me up! I just did my hair.” She held up one arm to push him off.

  “A jerk, huh?” He kissed her anyway—carefully.

  “I’m only making sure you don’t take me for granted,” she said.

  This would have gone on—and had—but it was time for the party. Niki spoke before Faith could.

  “Okay, okay. Enough foreplay. Get out there and do your jobs. Faith and I have real work to do here,” she ordered.

  When the two had gone, Tricia with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Scott to take drink orders, Faith and Niki laughed. “Better than TV,” Niki said.

  “Much better,” Faith agreed, “And wait until they have kids!”

  Scott returned. “It’s not a white-wine crowd. Mrs.

  Fletcher was right about ordering a lot of scotch. And of course I have one order for a flintlock; it’s a good thing we brought rum. They’re starving, too. Went for Tricia like locusts.”

  “I’d better take another tray out right away,” Faith said. This sometimes happened. People knew they were going to a dinner party, so they skipped lunch or ate lightly, then arrived ravenous. Well, there was plenty. She headed into the living room.

  “And he has such a temper, my dear. No control at all. Remember when he turned his desk over in second grade!” A silver-haired lady was having a good time raking somebody over past and present coals.

  Faith wondered who was the object of this conversation, and moved unobtrusively a little closer.

  “That’s where Joseph got it from, no doubt,” another woman commented, mouth pursed in disapproval.

  “Joseph who?” a red-faced, rotund man asked, his drink—scotch, no ice—in one hand, a well-laden small plate in the other. He was wearing the modern equivalent of patriotic patrician dress: red chinos from Brooks, the same provenance for the navy sports jacket and striped tie.

  “Joseph Madsen, the contractor who got himself killed yesterday,” the first speaker answered. “We’re speaking of the way certain mannerisms run through the generations in that kind of family. He’s exactly like Gus.”

  “He may be like Gus, but he’s not related to him.

  Not that I ever heard of. Married the old man’s granddaughter.”

  “Oh, that’s right, of course. But it’s all the same.

  They simply don’t know how to behave.”

  “Made themselves a bundle, though.” The man took a healthy swallow. “Misbehavior has its rewards, if you know what I mean.”

  Both women nodded. That they were above such things—well above—was written all over their faces, suffused with the sherry they were sipping—and their own blue blood.

  Faith turned to another group and offered the hors d’oeuvres.

  Gus had been right.

  The conversation was hard to swallow—from the notion that Joey had gotten himself killed, and this was taking “blame the victim” to a new height—to the idea that these “newcomers” to our shores were unable to control their passions. A prospect not without titillation for some in the room, she was sure. The whole thing made her sick. These were not the Alefordians she knew. When she’d mentioned the job to Pix, she’d made a face. “Pretty snooty bunch. I’m surprised she’s hiring you. They always use the same people from Cambridge or entertain at the club.” Aleford boasted its own country club, but the Fairchilds didn’t know anyone who belonged, except the Scotts, who were avid golfers and regularly apologized for their membership: “The club’s so close to our house.” Faith moved to another group and offered the tray.

  They, too, were discussing the murder. It had been naïve to think it would be otherwise. This was a more savvy bunch, more circumspect.

  “We understand you discovered the body of poor Mr. Madsen,” one woman said, “It must have been quite a shock.”

  “Yes, it was,” Faith answered. “Try one of the crab cakes, an old family recipe.” It was. Faith had created it when the firm was just starting in New York.

  “And the police have no idea who could have done such a thing?” the woman persisted.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Faith answered.

  “Probably a business deal gone sour. You hear about these things all the time. Of course, not in Aleford. Shame he had to be here when it happened,” the man next to her said. Faith had the impression that he wouldn’t have minded if Joey had been ki
lled elsewhere. It was the venue that bothered him. “Not in my backyard” joined “blame the victim.” Faith left the room, her mind filled with murder-ous thoughts, and they had nothing to do with Joey Madsen.

  Back in the kitchen, Niki was arranging the slices of Yankee pot roast on a hot platter, with the vegetables and potatoes grouped at one end. The gravy was keeping warm on the stove. The sight of the meat, prime beef shoulder from Savenor’s Market on Charles Street, suddenly made Faith hungry. It was a delicious dish. She took baskets of corn-bread sticks and nut bread out to the table. But the party mood had vanished. Pix had told her once when Faith had first moved to Aleford that the town was like a patchwork quilt, all sorts of patterns and colors sewn into a usable whole. The bits and pieces of its fabric didn’t look like much until it was assembled; then you could see how one square complemented another. Faith liked thinking about the town this way, but tonight’s gossipmongers didn’t belong. Second grade! And she was damn sure that if Gus had indeed overturned a desk, he’d had a good reason.

  By the time Have Faith’s crew was wearily washing the last streaks of sorbet from the dessert plates, Faith had decided she would try to stick to her rule more strictly in the future and stay in the kitchen during events, emerging solely for her bow at the end. Then she could pretend that only the most sophisticated, intelligent, broad-minded people were enjoying her fare. It would keep her fantasies in place.

  The Phelans followed her back to Have Faith and helped her unload the small amount of leftovers. She pressed some of the pot roast on them for the next day; then Scott walked her to her car after they had locked up.

  “I know the twins, Terry and Eddie Deane. They used to race dirt bikes up in Pepperell with me. Good guys. I still take care of their cars.” Scott had recently started his own auto-body business after working for someone else for years. “The Deanes will get to the bottom of all this, and, Faith, Joey wasn’t the nicest guy in the world—or the most honest. I’m not saying he deserved what he got, but there’s a lot you don’t know.”

  Faith had told them in the kitchen what she’d over-heard at the party.

  “It could be somebody settling an old score, even a very old score. And it may not have anything to do with this bog business.” Scott liked to ride his bike on the trails surrounding the bog, which upset the con-servationists, so he’d stopped—not because he was convinced, but because he didn’t want to get in trouble. He hadn’t cared before he was married, but Tricia was not someone you made angry. Besides, he was older now.

  “I know you think you’re pretty good at this detective stuff, but some of the people Joey was involved with wouldn’t think twice about sending you on a very long one-way trip. He’s been borrowing from everybody and his uncle for the Estates thing. Could be that somebody wanted the money back and he didn’t have it. Stay away from this one, Faith.” He grinned at her. “Tricia and I need the work.” She appreciated the intent, but there was no way she could keep out now.

  “Can you find someone to take care of your children?” Faith was used to Millicent’s habit of plunging in directly after a perfunctory “hello, how are you,” but this was more of a dive than usual. She knew if she kept on the line, eventually all would be clear. Millicent also had a way of saying “your children,” which laid any blame squarely at Faith’s door. When she spoke to Tom, it was always “your dear little Ben and Amy.”

  “I can usually turn up someone,” Faith replied. So long as the individual did not have a known criminal record or express intense dislike of anyone under twenty-one, Faith would hire him or her, often in desperation. Baby-sitter lists in Aleford were more closely guarded secrets than the formula for Coca-Cola.

  “Good. I want you and Tom both here for an emergency meeting of some of the members of POW! this morning. We have to figure out whether or not we should go forward with Town Meeting.”

  “But doesn’t that depend—”

  “See you at ten o’clock.” Millicent hung up.

  Faith went into Tom’s study, where he was wrestling with his sermon. The events of the past two weeks had impelled him to write his response to this community rent by fear and distrust. He looked as if he had been on the mat for real, brow sweaty and hair mussed. She told him about the meeting.

  “You don’t have to go just because Millicent has made it a command performance,” she said.

  “But I want to go. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to say—meetings like this make things worse.

  And I intend to tell them. The whole business should be dropped immediately. If the Deanes pursue the project at some later time, we’ll decide what to do then, but my God, a man and a woman are dead because of all this strife.”

  The babysitter appeared with a pile of homework and Faith didn’t dare tell her that both children were not the types to sit quietly at play. Motioning to a note on the kitchen table with instructions and phone numbers, she left quickly, before the girl could change her mind.

  On the way over, Tom told Pix, who had joined them, how he felt.

  “I agree completely. It would be unseemly to keep attacking the poor man now that he’s dead. It’s all become so unimportant, anyway,” Pix said.

  Millicent ushered them into her parlor. It was crowded with people: the Scotts, Brad Hallowell, Ellen Phyfe, and Nelson Batcheldor. He still wore a black armband, but he seemed fully recovered from his own ordeal.

  Millicent took charge. “Now, what is the opinion of this body? I called you as representatives of the larger group and we’ll have to do a telephone tree to confirm whatever we decide, but we should come to a decision today. People are starting to talk.” Tom stated his position eloquently and the Scotts voiced their agreement.

  “There’s no need to reconvene Town Meeting now, when we don’t even know if the project is going forward. It would be extremely disrespectful to the entire Deane family, and particularly his widow,” Louise said.

  Brad Hallowell and Ellen Phyfe disagreed. Faith had expected it from Brad, but she was surprised at Ellen.

  “We’ve worked so hard,” Ellen said. It must have been all those envelopes she’d stuffed. “Don’t you think we should see it through just in case?” Brad seconded her vehemently. “Everything’s in place. We can have this thing nailed down by this time next week, and I wouldn’t put it past the Deanes to use Joey’s death to get everybody on their side—a big play for sympathy. Then zap, we’ve got Alefordiana Estates and the bog is literally history.” Tom stood up. “I, for one, will have no part of any further efforts of POW! I can’t condone taking advantage of a man’s death, even for a cause I may have thought was worthwhile. I strongly advise you to hold off. The town is divided enough—and frightened.”

  “I agree with the Reverend,” Millicent declared.

  “Nothing’s going to happen overnight, and we are ready if something does. As you point out, Ellen, we have worked hard, and much of that is due to the efforts of those in this room.”

  “Margaret wouldn’t have wanted us to stop,” Nelson said in a surprisingly strong, firm voice from the corner of the room where he’d been sitting silently since the meeting began.

  “Are you sure?” Faith asked. “Don’t you think the murders—and the attack on you, her own husband—

  would have led her to the same conclusion most of us have reached? My own feeling is that we have to find out who’s behind all this and solve the crimes before doing anything else. That’s what I intend to concentrate on.”

  “Margaret hated Joey Madsen. I can’t say she would have mourned him too much.”

  Tom was quickly losing patience with the gathering. “Margaret was a member of our church, and as a woman of faith, I would not have expected her to like the man, but I know she would not have taken any pleasure in his death. Particularly in a case where murder was involved.”

  Nelson seemed to come to. He looked chagrined.

  “Of course she wouldn’t. I don’t know what I’ve been saying.”

&nbs
p; Faith felt a stab of pity for the man.

  The meeting ended with a unanimous vote to sus-pend activities for the present, a grudging assent on Brad’s part. Everyone else seemed convinced. There was one amendment. Instead of a telephone tree, Millicent decided it was only fair to hold one more meeting to put the matter before the full membership. Faith thought she probably enjoyed these get-togethers and wanted one last night onstage. It could be a long time before POW! met again.

  She stood up and pulled on the denim Comme des Garçons jacket she had worn. “The sitter is taking the kids to the big playground and I said I’d meet them there, so I have to run.” It was almost noon.

  The room emptied, leaving Millicent, Brad, and the Scotts to set up the agenda for Monday night. Tom was returning to his sermon. He was pleased with the way things were turning out. Faith was pleased, too—plus, she had a plan she was beginning to mull over.

  The quickest way to the playground was on the new bike path. The old tracks from the commuter train that had gone to Boston’s North Station had been taken up and replaced with macadam. It was so new that few Alefordians had started to use it. Any innovation, no matter how useful or pleasurable, took a while to catch on. She went through Depot Square and entered the path. Any bikers, or walkers, were busy eating lunch. She felt hungry herself and began to think what she should make. Croque-monsieurs, the French version of toasted cheese sandwiches, weren’t the most healthy choice—cheese, butter, smoked ham—and if they had croque-madames, a fried egg, too—but it was what she wanted to eat today. They’d have a big salad too.

  She’d come to the part of the bike path she liked best. The trees on either side would be covered with blossoms soon. It was the wildest part of the byway—no houses and no entry on or off the path. It was wooded on both sides; the children liked to explore here and they’d discovered a small pond with ducks one day that had now become a frequent destination.