You were taping me! Forget about ever getting a decent catering job in this town again. You’ll be lucky if they let you make the fries at McDon-ald’s!”
Faith wasn’t worried.
She led Dunne out of the barn back into the house. “And Julian Bullock?” he asked.
“He’s out of this. We worked out the trap together. He had nothing to do with the murders—I’m afraid Gloria is not in Canada—or anywhere else alive—but we didn’t get the details. I think Courtney wanted a backup suspect in case she couldn’t make the charge stick on Julian.” Dunne shook his head. “You were only supposed to go to a few pawnshops.”
“That’s what you said. I never did. How could I let Sarah’s death go by and not do everything possible to find out who killed her?” Dunne opened the back door for her. “Show me this tape and we’ll get Julian to hand it over, since I don’t happen to have a warrant on me; then let’s get you home. You’re going to have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“A wedding, primarily.” Faith grinned. “A very beautiful, very expensive, very unusual wedding.”
Promptly at noon the following day, Stephanie Cabot Bullock marched down the aisle at Trinity Church on the arm of her father. Her white satin gown fit to perfection, scooped low in the front and back, tight over the hips, the full skirt billow-ing out in shimmering folds. Her hair was pulled back in a demure knot, a few artful wisps escaping. Bancroft’s gift, a double string of luminous pearls, and a single white rose in her hair were her only ornamentation. No veil. She carried a small, tight bouquet of more roses—white, ivory, and cream. Julian and Bancroft wore morning coats. The bridesmaids in their honey-colored Caroline Bessette Kennedy slip dresses stood at either side with the ushers. The maid of honor was in a pale green version, an embodiment of the promise spring makes to summer with its first tender shoots and buds. Each young woman carried a spray of white lilacs.
The mother of the bride was wearing orange or olive green at a secure facility. Her absence was impossible to overlook, but it went unmentioned—at the ceremony and the reception. Everyone was much too well bred to do more than exchange a meaningful glance, a glance that promised future revelations entre nous.
Faith had gone to the church, leaving her expanded staff to cope with the preparations for the reception. She had to see the thing through. The frosty look Stephanie gave her as she glided past the pew was what Faith expected. The wink from Julian wasn’t. She sat down and listened to the familiar words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God . . .”
Dearly beloved, two of the most beautiful words in the English language.
Then it was over and the young couple, now joined as husband and wife, came joyfully down the aisle. Stephanie was truly radiant. There were no bags of any size under her clear blue eyes.
Maybe Binky was a safe harbor for someone who had been brought up with very little in the way of mooring lines. Faith hoped so and wished them both well. Then she raced across town to the Wentworth Building and worked feverishly for the rest of the afternoon on what was indeed a perfectly splendid wedding reception.
“I knew you wouldn’t want to cook tonight—and we’re dying of curiosity.” Faith arrived home, to find Patsy and Will Avery in her kitchen, heating up gumbo, dirty rice, collard greens, corn bread, and what looked like several dozen sweet potato and pecan pies. “Comfort food, soul food. My mother sends the sweet potato; Will’s, the pecan.
We always have a freezerful.”
“But I make the corn bread and it’s the best in the world,” Will boasted.
Tom folded Faith in his arms. The Averys had brought plenty of Dixie 45 beer, too, and Tom had started in on it.
“Everything went like clockwork, right? And now we don’t have to hear anything more about the Bullocks, at least not until they hire you for the christening. The Lord be praised!” Faith couldn’t agree more. “How are the kids?”
“Samantha’s got them upstairs in Ben’s room.
She actually claims she’s going to miss them so much next year that she wants to spend all the time she can with them. I wasn’t about to argue.
Charley’s going to try to drop by—and I asked the Millers to come over. There’s enough food here for half of Aleford.”
They were having a party. And she didn’t have to do a thing. Will put a glass of wine in her hand.
“I know you’re not a beer drinker, but we may make one of you yet.”
Suddenly, Faith realized she was happy. It was such a foreign emotion that at first she couldn’t believe the sense of well-being that had settled over her. Friends, family, food. The basic core of existence.
“What did I miss?” asked Pix, who was followed by her husband, Sam.
“Nothing—yet. I’m hoping Charley will be able to fill in the blanks—that is, unless you called John, too.”
Tom looked sheepish. “I did, and he’ll be here with his wife in a few minutes. Turns out he’s a gumbo fan.”
“And what about your sainted Ms. Dawson?
I’m surprised she’s not here.”
Tom pulled his wife into the other room.
“I was going to wait to tell you until tomorrow—so much is going on now—but since you’ve mentioned her—”
“Tell me what? Come on, sweetheart, no holding back!”
“And what about you?” Tom was suddenly righteous.
Faith backtracked rapidly. “I’m sorry. It all got very complicated. We can talk about it later. I want some gumbo.” She was ravenous. Even with all the food today, she hadn’t had much appetite, tasting only when it was necessary. “But first, come on, give—have you found out Rhoda’s guilty secret?”
“In a word, yes—and it’s not so guilty. She didn’t think it was appropriate to reveal, given the nature of her parish job.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shocking pink flyer.
There, she was “Madame Rhoda, Psychic Reader”—picture and all. Except she wasn’t wearing shoulder pads. She was wearing veils, a lot of them wound around her head. Long gold earrings dangled from each lobe; beads and chains of small coins encircled her neck.
“A psychic!” This was the last thing Faith would have predicted, thereby demonstrating her total lack of aptitude for the calling.
“She said she’s been very concerned, ‘very agitated,’ and she came to me late yesterday afternoon. She told me that she was getting very strong vibrations of distrust from you and, to a lesser degree, from me. She thought it might have something to do with the burglaries, and of course she was right. But the main reason she told all was that she sensed a storm was brewing in your life and that you were going to be in great danger.”
Maybe there was more to this than Faith had imagined. Certainly it would have been nice to have this information before she was held at gun-point.
“I reassured her that whatever she did on her own time was her business, and that there is much about heaven and earth we don’t know. I also told her you were off catering a dinner, surrounded by lots of people, and couldn’t possibly be in any danger. That seemed to satisfy her, but she kept repeating she was getting strange vibrations. I called her this morning and told her if she got them again to let me know—pronto.”
“Tom!” Faith was stunned. “This doesn’t sound like you at all—and what would the parish think?”
“If God in his wisdom has sent me a secretary who can let me know when my wife is out on a limb, or whether we’re going to get a nor’easter, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of the gift.” He kissed Faith soundly and whispered in her ear, “But let’s keep Rhoda’s—and my—secret, all right?”
John Dunne’s wife was about five feet tall, but she was putting away gumbo with the best of them and had downed two beers already. Her husband was holding forth and she was listening with the expression of one who has been there, done that—often. “Could someone pass those delicious baked beans?” she asked softly. Pix had brought them. It was one of her few culinary skills.
“Courtney Bullock isn’t saying a word now.
She’s being arraigned on Monday and has about six lawyers, yet I doubt very much that she’s going to get out of this one. If we don’t get her for Stackpole’s murder, we will for Gloria Farnum’s.
Her body turned up in Julian Bullock’s pond.
Talk about the ex-wife from hell.” John laughed heartily and reached for some more corn bread.
“What we figure is, Courtney went to an ATM
machine with George Stackpole sometime to deposit money she owed him, learned his code, then stole his card. What we know for certain is that she flew to Montreal on the last flight late Tuesday night and back the next morning, using Gloria’s ticket and identification. They don’t look at identification that carefully at the gate for flights like this. She probably wore a hat or a scarf. Gloria got dumped in the pond on the way to New Hampshire. Our Courtney is nothing if not efficient.”
Faith thought of Courtney’s bulging wedding notebook with every detail outlined, checked, and double-checked. Excellent practice for murder.
“Courtney Cabot Bullock has been identified by the crew on both flights—and by two taxi drivers. The boys are going over her trunk. It shouldn’t be hard to gather evidence. She was actually very sloppy—or cocky.”
Faith remembered Courtney’s remark about traveling so much. In light of the fact that at the time Faith had been facing a long one-way trip herself, the words hadn’t registered until now.
Dunne continued: “I’m sure she never lowered herself to meet with the guys hired to break into the houses—five hundred dollars a pop—but George trained them well. It was a good little business, and a pattern not unknown to us.
“The safe at Stackpole’s had been cleaned out—again by Courtney, no doubt, to cast more suspicion on Gloria if we didn’t buy Julian. We got a search warrant for her town house and turned up a lot of silver and jewelry in Ziploc bags. Christmas could come early for some recent victims.”
There is hope for Great-Aunt Phoebe’s cameo ring yet, Faith thought optimistically. She also hoped the police would use a metal detector on George’s backyard.
Faith had described the plan she hatched with Julian and now Patsy commented, “In a way, it’s a good thing he left the auction in Maine early. It would have taken much longer to solve all this.
He may have scared the daylights out of you, but you got to eliminate him as a suspect and figure out it was Courtney and then set the trap. My kin do the same for game.”
“But why would she do all this? She had money, a beautiful home, an adored daughter, the position she wanted in society, and a tony job.
Why take the chance?” Pix asked.
Will answered, “People like Courtney Bullock are so filled with their own entitlement that it blinds them to common decency, common morality. The rules don’t apply to her. She’s a free agent in a universe of her own making. I’m sure she will never believe that anything she did was wrong.
Plus, she needed a great deal of money to maintain this lifestyle of hers.”
“Poor Stephanie,” Pix said. “Imagine having a mother like that!”
“I think she’s still mad at me for making Mummy miss the wedding, but she’ll forget about it once she’s snorkeling in the turquoise Turkish waters,” Faith said. She was starting on the pies and the first mouthful of sweet potato was the best she’d ever had. Patsy’s mother was in a class with New Orleans soulful Creole greats like Leah Chase and Tina Dunbar. She finished the pie and looked around the table at the faces in front of her. Once again, she felt dissociated, as if she were watching a film, but a very different one from the other scenes played out over the course of these heartbreaking weeks.
Faith had come to the end of a very long jour-ney. She would never feel completely safe in her house again, nor take any of her valued possessions for granted. She had lost a great deal, but she had answered the most important question. She knew who had killed Sarah Winslow and why.
It brought a measure of peace.
Eleven
Clouds floated across the moon. Houses darkened until only a few lighted windows hung suspended in the night. Most of Aleford was sleeping.
On Maple Street, Patsy Avery was washing the last of the corn bread pans. Will used a generous amount of dripping and the water beaded up on the grease. He was asleep and she would join him soon. She put the clean pan in the dish drainer and turned out the kitchen light. The refrigerator promptly started humming, but that was the only sound she could hear. She opened the back door and went into the yard, craning her neck far back to look up at the sky. The look of the moon with its wisps of trailing black garments made her shiver. Burglaries, violence, deception—murder.
Maybe Mama was right. Maybe not. Aleford wasn’t Stepford. It was no better or worse than any other place once you got to know it, poked beneath the surface.
The air was warm. It was June, and summer, her favorite season, had finally arrived. Each year she took good, deep breaths to store up for the cold, lean months—most of the months here.
So, girl, what was it? Will had said he’d move anywhere she wanted, anyplace that would make her happy. Give up this job for another. But no place was home.
That was it. No place was home. Not even home.
This time, it was Samantha who jerked Pix Miller abruptly from a sound sleep. She rushed into her daughter’s bedroom, to hear her mumble, “Not another lap, Coach.” She shook her and Samantha woke slowly.
“Bad dream, darling.” Pix smoothed her daughter’s long dark hair back from her face, fanning it against the pillow.
Samantha burrowed down in her bed. She always slept almost completely covered up, no matter what the temperature outside.
Pix stayed by her side until Samantha’s deep, regular breathing started again. Even then, Pix didn’t get up, continuing to sit on the edge of the bed, her hand on Samantha’s blanketed shoulder.
Soon she’d be gone. Having been through it with one child, Pix knew how irrevocable the break was. Children came back—too often and for too long, some parents complained. The Millers never did; never would.
“Another lap.” Sam and Pix had tried hard not to put too much pressure on their children, convincing themselves these choices were the kids’
choices, things they wanted to do. One more lap.
Tomorrow she’d talk to Sam, then Samantha. A year off before college might be a good idea. A year off because there had been and would be too many laps. She kissed her daughter on her sweet, smooth cheek and went sorrowfully back to bed.
Charley MacIsaac had approached his empty house with the usual feeling of disbelief. It seemed like only yesterday that his wife, Maddie, had been there to welcome him home, whatever the hour—a pot of tea, a meal, his favorite oat cakes in a tin on top of the refrigerator. In reality, it had been many years—and he sensed it would be many years more before he would join her.
She would have enjoyed tonight. Enjoyed hearing the tale—and, most of all, enjoyed the rightness of it all. “There is justice in this life and you’re making it, my Charley,” she’d have said to him.
He went to bed, not bothering to undress, his eyes wet.
At the First Parish parsonage, much to her surprise, Faith Sibley Fairchild was still awake. After the events of the last two days, she had been sure she would slip into oblivion the moment her head hit the pillow. Finally, she’d gotten up, checked the children, who were fine, and wandered downstairs. She wasn’t hungry, not after the feast the Averys provided.
She didn’t feel like reading, either. She made herself a cup of cocoa—this was what her father used to do for her when she couldn’t sleep as a child—and took it into the den, where the television was. She curled up in the one truly comfortable chair in the house and picked up the remote.
She didn’t want to buy anything, watch classic sitcoms, music videos, or old movies. She was about to switch the power off when Julian Bullock’s face filled the screen.
She sat up straight and increased the volume, the cocoa forgotten.
“I’d say it was the work of an itinerant folk artist, but a talented one. Portraits of this quality are very rare. It’s not signed, yet . . .” She stared at the face, at once so familiar and so foreign. He was offering up various names and speculating as to the value of the painting, a portrait of a young woman. His voice was assured, although not condescending. The host of the show, a PBS rerun, was clearly enjoying his guest. Faith muted the sound and sat watching the picture until the test pattern appeared. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and the dim illumination from the screen peopled the room with odd shapes.
“You weren’t a murderer, but you did get away,” she whispered out loud to the uncomprehending silence.
Author’s Note
The best of times, the worst of times—that’s when we turn to food.
Whether it’s a wake or sitting shivah, at some point someone is bound to say, “Try to eat a little something.” The Aleford casserole brigade springs into action after the Fairchilds are burglarized. We have all done the same thing, bearing lasagna pans, soup tureens, loaves of bread to the bereaved and distressed in body or mind. Offering food allows us to express our concern, our sorrow. We come bearing comfort food: food that goes down easily—whatever that tradition may be. One person’s chicken soup is another’s spicy jambalaya.
Then we have celebratory food—wedding food. Memorable feasts. I’ve written about both kinds in this particular book and thoughts of all the funeral baked meats, as well as festive nuptials, kept me company. The mere mention of these foods is a mnemonic. I thought about the French country wedding we attended that started with rich brioche and champagne immediately following the ceremony, ending almost twenty-four hours and many courses later with onion soup gratinée. There was the wedding reception at the Boston Athenaeum where the bride’s mother and grandmother had made a fabulous many-tiered cake—decorated with words and edible objects that had special significance for the bride and groom. Our own wedding was at the home of the friends to whom this book is dedicated—deep in the woods, a miraculous December day filled with so much sunshine, guests sat outdoors to eat. A nor’easter dumped a foot of snow on the ground a week later. The food was delicious, I’m told. Too nervous and excited to eat, both my husband and I were so ravenous late that night, we scoured the Connecticut countryside for an open sub shop on the way to our honeymoon inn. And what a sandwich it was—roasted peppers, steak, cheese. There was a fire in the room’s fireplace and we ate, sipping champagne—a decidedly non–Faith Fairchild menu, but one we’ll remember forever.
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