Authors: Katherine Hall Page

The Body In the Belfry (11 page)

BOOK: The Body In the Belfry

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This part of town certainly needs some streetlights, she thought as she drove cautiously in the pitch dark. There was evidently some old Yankee prejudice that if you were not home in bed where you belonged at this hour, you could take your chances. She resolved to call one of the town meeting members about it tomorrow and felt better thinking of that word,
tomorrow.

Because, she admitted, she was more than a little nervous. She was inching through fright and close to panic.

Why didn't the car pass her? It was right on her tail. She accelerated. Behind her the driver did the same.

Faith was sure now. She was definitely being followed.

She turned left on Liberty Lane.

So did the car behind her.

She glanced out the side window. The passenger side door was unlocked and she quickly reached across to lock it. As she did so, she realized the back was unlocked too. It was just out of her reach. She'd have to stop to lock it. And she didn't want to stop.

All the
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
she and Hope had watched when their parents weren't around to tell them not to crowded into her consciousness. Was there somebody actually in her backseat?

Of course not. And there wouldn't be.

She was crossing the river and would soon be out of these dark, lifeless streets. The lights burning at the parsonage blinked a welcome to her. Faith was almost home.

She started to pull into the driveway, then abruptly turned the wheel in the other direction. Whoever it was could pull right in behind her and she would be trapped!

Calm down, Faith. What do they tell you to do in situations like this? What was it she used to urge those poor defenseless people on TV to do? Drive to the police station, of course.

Her pursuer either didn't know the town or he was a lunatic. He followed her right up to the station.

Faith pulled as close to the station door as she could and the car stopped right behind her. She reached back and locked the rear doors and had started to lean on the horn to attract attention, when someone tapped on the window. After an instant of motionless terror, she slowly rolled it down.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fairchild, out for a little drive?”

It was John Dunne.

Faith was furious.

“Do you have any idea how much you frightened me?
What the hell were you doing out there following me that way?”

“I was driving to work, and might one ask what the hell you were doing on Byford Road at eleven o'clock at night all by your lonesome? Parish work?”

“As it happens, I was.” Faith thought talking to Becky could qualify and certainly helping Dave was, although Tom might not agree with the definition. “In any case, Detective Dunne, I really don't see that any of this is your business.”

He looked at her in mingled concern and exasperation. “Until this thing is wrapped up, you are very much my business, Mrs. Fairchild, and I'll be following you home now, too, if you would be so kind as to start your car and get out of here.”

Quick as a flash, Faith asked, “So you don't think Dave did it?”

“That's not what I said. I said it's not âwrapped up.'”

“Same thing,” said Faith smugly as she started to turn her key in the ignition. “Good night, Detective.”

“Wait a minute, Mrs. Fairchild. So what did the kids there at the mall tell you?” he asked conversationally.

Faith was momentarily taken aback by this sudden reversion to good cop and decided to tell Dunne the night's events, meager as they were.

“Well, fine, Mrs. Fairchild. Now isn't it time you went to bed?”

“Absolutely. Good night again, Detective.”

Dunne got in his car and pulled out behind her. Faith eased into her driveway and got out to open the garage doors. They weighed a ton and swung outward with surprising swiftness. She dodged them nimbly and waved a cheerful good-bye to the detective before driving in. He was still at the end of the drive when she got out to close
them. Evidently he was going to wait until she was actually in the house and evidently he wasn't going to help her with the damn doors. She slammed them shut and waved a little less cheerily.

Once inside, Faith took a quick look at Benjamin and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was a relief to know that the police weren't convinced that Dave did it. As she drifted off, her restless brain continued to send annoying messages. There was something they were all overlooking. Well, at least now she knew that Dunne knew it, too.

The phone rang late the next afternoon. It had been a particularly frustrating day. Faith was tired after her late-night rambles and Benjamin did not seem to want to eat, sleep, play, or anything else. She grabbed the phone, well aware that whoever it was would hear his screams in the background and she could kiss away her Mrs. America nomination forever.

“Mrs. Fairchild?”

It was the girl from last night.

“I'm, um, Trishia. The one you talked to about the dirt bike last night.”

“Yes, I recognized your voice. Did you have any luck?” Faith asked eagerly.

“It was a guy from Byford, but he doesn't want to talk to the police. He said he would talk to you, though.”

Faith was surprised. “Okay, how do I reach him?”

“He has supper at the Willow Tree Kitchen every night. It's on the way to Concord.”

Faith had seen it, a weathered, gray-shingled roadhouse that looked like a cross between a speakeasy and a farmhouse. There were only a few tiny windows, but they had checkered Priscilla curtains.

“Yes, I know where it is, but how will I know him? What's his name?”

“Oh, don't worry, he knows you.” Trishia laughed and hung up.

The goldfish bowl again.

It was four-thirty. Dinner in New England, Faith had learned, could be anytime from five to six o'clock, possibly six-thirty. The first time she gave a dinner party inviting the guests for eight, she discovered later from Pix that they had all eaten before, and assumed they had been asked for dessert and coffee. She shook her head. How would she ever be able to cope with all this?

Of course, she had to talk to this mysterious biker right away. An eyewitness alibi would strengthen Dave's case immeasurably. Besides, if she didn't, she would die of curiosity.

She quickly called Pix, who was always happy to watch Benjamin, and Samantha was there, too. Somehow a rendezvous with a secret informer lost some of its excitement and romance if one arrived with a fussy baby on one's hip.

Benjamin had thankfully stopped crying and was preparing himself for an hour of cuteness. Well, Pix would get to enjoy it this time, thought Faith, as she hastily stuffed enough baby things into the diaper bag for a month-long expedition to the Amazon. She left a vague note for Tom on the kitchen table about running an errand and was off.

Willow Tree was packed to its low rafters with people stopping off for a quick one on the way home or, in some cases, it appeared they were home. Faith looked around the smoke-filled room for some hint of Mr. Motorcycle like a helmet, or a red carnation in his black leather lapel, but all she saw was a crowd intent on which letter Vanna White was going to turn over next or catching the eye of one of the waitresses who were hustling around at the speed of light. True to the Willow Tree's contradictory appearance, the waitresses balancing the
oversized mugs of beer looked as if they would be more comfortable at Schrafft's with starched, pleated pastel handkerchiefs coyly peeking out of their uniform pockets. They were all of some indeterminate age and wore sensible shoes. Faith wouldn't have been surprised to see one hand a tract to a customer along with his Budweiser.

There was a smaller room off to the right, which was separated from the bar and booths of the main room by a low divider decorated with wildlife. Real wildlife. Stuffed, slightly worn, patched bobcats, snarls intact and repellent; molting owls; and a stag's head on the wall with just a few antler branches missing. Muskets and other weaponry festooned the rafters. A pair of old snowshoes were crossed above the door, presumably for the pacifists and animal rights advocates who might patronize the place, but somehow, looking around, Faith didn't think there were too many of those. She gazed into the darker, smaller room as the more likely place for a clandestine meeting, if in fact that was what she was having. It appeared to be empty.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around.

“You get to like them after a while.”

“Get to like them?”

“All the animals. They've been here forever. This little guy is my favorite,” he continued, pointing to a dusty red squirrel,“I guess it's because I remember him from when I was a kid. He was the only one who looked like he wasn't going to come to life and rip your guts out.”

It wasn't the way Faith imagined the dialogue would go, but it got them to the booth where he had been waiting and they sat down and looked at each other appraisingly.

“By the way, I'm Scott Phelan and if I'm right and
you're Mrs. Fairchild, then I'm going to have to start going to church more often.”

Faith in turn was stunned. First of all, Scott was not a teenager. More like mid-twenties. And second, or rather first and foremost, he was gorgeous. Looking at him purely from a connoisseur's point of view, of course, and nothing personal. He was dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a sleeveless blue jean jacket over it. His leather one was on the seat. If from the neck down, he was James Dean, the neck up could only be described as one of Ozzie and Harriet's kids, the boy next door. If you should get so lucky. Dark brown curls, big brown eyes with flecks of gold and a generous mouth curved at the moment in a slightly quizzical smile. What were they doing here anyway?

Faith reeled herself in and got down to business.

“I understand from Trishia that you are the person who was riding down by the tracks last Friday. Do you remember seeing Dave?”

“Yeah, I saw him. Almost clipped him. Not too many people stroll there in the daytime.” He waited for her to ask another question and nodded casually to one of the waitresses. Two of them arrived simultaneously.

“Another of these,” he pointed to his empty mug, “and a bowl of chili.” Then he turned to Faith. “I recommend the chili, the chowder, and the beef stew. Starting in the spring, the lobster and clams are good too.” He smiled. A girl could get dizzy from that smile. “And I ought to know. I eat here every night.” He smiled at the waitress. She dropped her pencil.

“I'll have a cup of chowder,” Faith said.

“And to drink?” asked the waitress.

“It's whatever you want, or tonic if you don't drink. But not fancy,” Scott told her matter-of-factly. He had obviously brought too many women here who wanted Black Russians or Strawberry Daiquiris. There was
nothing elaborate about Willow Tree and if they wanted the other stuff they could get a frappÃ© at Friendly's and pour a nip in it, which is what they usually did.

“A glass of white wine then, thank you,” said Faith and smiled. Faith's smile was pretty dazzling, too, but the waitress was apparently looking elsewhere. She returned almost immediately with the drinks, the chili, the chowder, and a huge plate of baking soda biscuits the size of baseball gloves. Faith was momentarily diverted by the horror of the wine, which came in a small bottle with a twist-off cap instead of a cork. After one sip, which left an aftertaste reminiscent of Dalton's chem lab at the end of a long, sulfurous day, she gently pushed the glass to one side and took a spoonful of chowder. It was delicious. Faith sighed. All these contradictions. It was odd that they had produced such a solid citizenry. Then she recalled that she was here investigating a murder.

“That's why I stick to beer,” Scott remarked, “That stuff always gives me a headache.”

“It's not exactly grand cru. There are many better wines that I am sure you'd like.” Roughly every other growth ever produced.

They were straying again and before she found herself inviting him to the parsonage for a little wine tasting to the accompaniment of Tom's raised eyebrows, she continued the questioning.

“About Dave. Do you know what time it was when you saw him?”

“It must have been about noon, because I get off work for lunch at eleven-thirty. I work at a body shop in Byford. It probably took me ten minutes to drive to Aleford, then another ten to unload the bike from my pickup and eat my sub. I had ridden a ways up the tracks when I saw him. I turned to go to the hills by the power lines after that. My boss is pretty strict about
being on time, so I only rode for about a half an hour. I usually wait to ride until after work, but it was too nice a day to waste.”

Except in Cindy's case.

“But I don't understand. You saw Dave and can even pinpoint the time. Why can't you tell the police?”

BOOK: The Body In the Belfry

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