The Body In the Belfry (10 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body In the Belfry
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She was the person you called in Aleford if you were looking for another driver for the scouts overnight to Harold Parker State Forest or if someone needed a volunteer to help at the Senior Center kitchen. Pix drove a Land Rover, bred gorgeous golden retrievers, was an expert white water canoer, and had three kids, the middle of which was Faith's trusty babysitter, Samantha. Sam Miller was a lawyer. They had both grown up in Aleford—a high school romance that endured.
Pix welcomed Faith in, automatically gave her some coffee, which Faith had learned they did in suburbia, and took Benjamin lovingly on her lap. Pix adored babies.
“You look full of secrets, Faith,” she said, making horrible grimaces at Benjamin, which he regarded with great amusement.
“I wish I were,” Faith responded, “This whole thing is a complete mystery.”
“Murders usually are—for a while, anyway. But I agree this one is especially deep and dark. The kids are very upset about Dave and everyone is wracking his or her brains for some kind of alternative. We all know he didn't do it, but who else is there?”
“Exactly what I tried to find out this morning. Millicent knows something, but she's not telling. Or rather she's not telling me. Maybe she would talk to you?”
“Not likely, Faith. She's never forgiven my mother for refusing to join the DAR. I think she thinks we are some sort of pinkos and you know what she thinks of Redcoats.”
They laughed.
“I'll bet there is a Tory or two in her closet,” Faith said, “Maybe we can find out and blackmail her into telling us what she knows.”
“Faith! My word! You have been taking this more seriously than I thought. What would Tom say?” Pix chided mockingly.
“What he always says, ‘Faith, Faith, Faith,' slowly shaking his head and looking at me with those cocker spaniel eyes. Oh, pardon, golden retriever eyes.”
“That's better,” Pix propped Benjamin up against one shoulder with a practiced arm and gave a whiff, “Faith, sweetie, give me a diaper—you've got a messy boy here—and while I change him why don't you heat up the lentil soup in the fridge and add anything that comes to mind? Maybe if we eat something we'll think more logically.”
The soup was good. Pix could be counted on for certain things, Faith had learned—a terrific chili for a Boston bean and great soups. But then there had been that dinner of chicken covered with pineapple chunks and maraschino cherries. Pix had a fatal tendency to be swayed by the pictures in some women's magazines.
While they ate, Faith told her about her visit to Eleanor and the dry well it turned out to be. Pix wasn't surprised.
“I don't think Eleanor would notice a crime even if it were occurring in her own living room. She'd just straighten the antimacassars and put a blanket over the body, presuming whoever it was was taking a short nap.”
“Come on, she can't be that out of it,” Faith protested.
“Believe me, she is,” replied Pix, “and somehow I hope she stays that way. Something unchanging in this wicked whirling world of ours. You know her skirts will
never go up or down and if she's not sitting straight as a ramrod in the third pew from the pulpit on the left-hand side of the church at ten forty-five every Sunday then she's either gone to her Maker on her own or the whole town has been wiped out by an atom bomb or the bubonic plague. I look at her and it gives me strength to cope with my hectic life. At least one person isn't as crazy as the rest of us.”
Pix was what could be euphemistically referred to as “overextended,” Faith reflected. In one month she probably put on the equivalent of a cross country journey chauffering the kids and doing errands. She was unbelievably organized, though. There were lists and notes taped to every surface in the house: “Samantha, don't forget your flute” and “Danny, there are cookies in the cupboard, enjoy them while you do your spelling words,” and so on. Her laundry room had five separate baskets each labeled with someone's name and standing ready for the clothes as they came out of the dryer. What Faith, and others, did not know was that all this planning and list-making was a cover for Pix's fundamentally disorganized mind. She was the type of woman who asks herself out loud, “Why did I open this drawer?” in order to jog her memory to say, “Scotch tape.” She knew that without the mnemonics, life would be hopeless. Where her thoughts wandered was not altogether clear; she could certainly call them back when she needed them, but basically she was a dreamer—night and day. It amused her, and caused an occasional pang of guilt at the deception, that people thought she was so practical and organized. Her husband, Sam, was amused too, but that was because he had observed that over the years she really had become practical and well organized without knowing it. He knew he'd never be able to convince her of that and didn't try. There wasn't any point.
While Faith and Pix finished the soup, they discussed
the contents of the tin box. Its existence was not yet common knowledge, but Jenny had immediately called Samantha, her best friend, with news of the find.
“Not the easiest identifications to make,” Pix commented. “Can you imagine Charley knocking on doors and asking the man of the house to please drop his drawers?”
They laughed and turned to talk about domestic trials. Samantha wasn't talking to Pix, because said mother had humiliated her by picking up Willy Stergis, a sixth-grade boy, on the way to school.
“Honestly, Faith, you should have seen her!” Pix laughed. “Her entire seventh-grade body was hunched down in the seat and she wouldn't get out of the car at school until poor Willy had gone in the door. I mean who knows what social suicide she would have committed if any of her friends had seen her. And of course, the fact that I had on my flannel nightgown under my trench coat made matters even worse. All I wanted to do was give Willy a ride. It was chilly last week.”
They went back to the murder and the various blackmail possibilities, but didn't get any further in their speculations. Faith arrived home to put Benjamin down for a nap with no clearer idea of who could possibly have killed Cindy Shepherd than when she started.
Tom came home late in the afternoon. Wednesday was his day at the VA hospital as chaplain. He was always tired after this and sometimes a little depressed. Today was no exception. Faith fed Benjamin, who rewarded her efforts by giving her the raspberry with most of his meal. Then she made an early dinner for Tom and herself. Afterward they sat in front of the first fire of the season to read.
At nine o'clock Faith realized that she was nodding off and Tom was sound asleep. Rousing him and sending him up to bed, she went into the kitchen and made herself
a strong cup of tea. She could get some sleep when the case was closed.
She went upstairs and whispered in Tom's unconscious ear that she was going out for some ice cream, a statement that would have astounded him had he been awake, since they had a freezer full of Faith's own glacés and sorbets.
She eased the car out of the driveway, knowing full well that it would take several belfry bells, or Benjamin's cry, to awaken Tom, but she thought a little bit of stealth was appropriate to the scene. She wasn't driving a sleek, fully equipped Aston Martin, but a dull, gray, very dependable Honda. It would have to do.
As Faith suspected, the parking lot at Friendly's was filled with kids. Some were inside their cars, but, despite the nippy weather, more were sitting on the hoods, the tips of their cigarettes flickering in the dark. Marlboros and Mocha Chip. Great combination.
Faith sauntered over to the take-out window and ordered a small chocolate cone. It was like eating chicken feet in Chinese restaurants. One had to establish one's credentials in order to get the good stuff.
She recognized one of the church youth group members, Becky Sullivan, perched with a couple of other kids on the hood of a car. Faith walked over to them and they instantly ditched their smokes. It was things like this that forcibly reminded Faith she was indeed the minister's wife.
“Hi,” she said, “I got a sudden craving for ice cream. How are things?”
The kids eyed her with unabashed curiosity. The person who had actually discovered the body!
Faith knew it was no good trying to bullshit seventeen-year-olds, not that she had had much luck with any age group. Even if they bought the ice cream story, they would find it hard to believe a conversation in which
Mrs. Fairchild first asked them how school was, then wanted to know by the way who killed Cindy. So she decided to be direct.
“Look, you all know that Reverend Fairchild and I are very close to Dave. We're trying to help him. Dave didn't kill Cindy, but obviously somebody did.”
“You found her, didn't you, Mrs. Fairchild?” one of the girls said.
Faith had expected someone would ask for an eyewitness account, and she went quickly through it all again. She was rewarded by their rapt attention, and while their eyes were still shining and directed at her, she moved smoothly to the matter at hand.
“What I want to ask you is if you ever saw Cindy with someone other than Dave, especially lately. Or maybe she talked about someone with one of you.”
Suddenly everyone was looking at the stars, the thin sliver of a moon, each other, everywhere but at her.
After a long moment, Becky spoke, “Well, Mrs. Fairchild, Cindy didn't have, like a best friend. I mean, like Karen and I tell each other everything.” Pause while Karen giggled and some of the other kids said, “Everything?” etc., etc.
“Anyway, Cindy had sort of friends. We were kind of her friends.” Becky seemed at a loss for words.
Faith helped her out. “I don't think she would have been my best friend when I was your age. She always seemed to me like someone who was more concerned for herself than she would be for a friend.”
“A back-stabbing bitch,” called an anonymous voice from the next car hood.
Nobody denied it. Becky looked uncomfortable and one of the kids slid silently off the car into the darkness.
“So none of you really know anything?” Faith was sure they knew a lot.
One of the boys spoke, “She was older than we are,
Mrs. Fairchild, although she did hang out here, but she was usually in a car or with Dave.” He stopped, embarrassed at the obvious implications.
Faith nodded and persisted, “When she was in a car was it with somebody in particular?”
A pretty, brown-haired girl spoke bluntly in an angry voice. “Mrs. Fairchild, she was scum. She'd go off just to get Dave upset. It wasn't that she cared about the person and it didn't matter who. Even,” she added bitterly, “if it was somebody else's boyfriend.”
“So you really don't have any theories about who killed her or why?” Faith sighed. Could it have been a tramp after all?
The kids mumbled vague denials and Faith left them to light up again in peace. She really hadn't expected to get much. It was just another lead to follow. Maybe it was true that they hadn't known her that well, but more likely if they were onto something they might assume she would tell the police. Which she would, wouldn't she?
As she was leaving, she thought of one more thing and turned around. Everyone sat up a little straighter again.
“At the time Cindy was killed, Dave was walking by the railroad tracks and he saw one person, a guy riding a dirt bike. It would help if we could find him.”
“I know someone with a bike and he rides down there a lot. He might know who it was.” It was the girl with the brown hair.
Faith smiled at her. “That would be terrific, thank you. Would you let me know if you find out anything?”
It wasn't much, but it was the first something she had turned up all day.
She climbed into her car and sat reflecting. They were all trying to help Dave, and the territories were defined. So let the kids do whatever they were doing and she would try to think of something she might have missed.
Not now, though. She was tired and couldn't have investigated her way out of a cardboard box at the moment.
Friendly's was out in a mini-mall near the edge of town and the roads were deserted as she drove back. The darkness surrounded the car and she felt as though she had switched on automatic pilot and the machine was driving her. Gradually she became aware of the sound of another engine. She peered in the rearview mirror. Another car had appeared from nowhere behind her. They were close to the straight stretch of road bordering the Long Meadow conservation land. Faith pressed down on the accelerator. It was a totally irrational impulse.
Faith, she told herself, don't be ridiculous! It's probably some of the kids from the parking lot.
The car behind her speeded up, too.
Don't tell me they think I want to drag! She tried to laugh. Mrs. Fairchild burns rubber on local road.
She slowed down and whoever it was seemed content to follow her lead. She looked into the mirror again and could only make out the driver. If there were any passengers, they were out of sight in the backseat. At this point Faith hoped they were there, no matter what that might suggest. It was infinitely better than being followed by a solitary stranger.

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