The Body in the Snowdrift (16 page)

Faith shook his hand. It was warm and smooth. He wasn't wearing any rings. As in the skoaling tradition of his countrymen, he was looking straight into her eyes. She reached up to pat a loose hair into place and realized she was still holding his hand. Dropping it, she said, “I'm pleased to meet you, too. I know Glenda has been very happy with her lessons. And thank you. I didn't have much notice for tonight, so there's a lot missing—herring, lingonberries, Jarlsberg cheese, reindeer steaks.”

She was babbling; saying dopey things, but he was having a dopey effect on her. I'm tired, thought Faith. Time to go home. But she stayed.

“Roy is from Norway,” Glenda said, happily stating the obvious.

“A friend of ours and her mother had a wonderful trip there several years ago, mostly on the west coast.” Pix Miller and her mother, Ursula, had gone to Norway to help an old friend of Ursula's locate her missing granddaughter. The trip
had
been wonderful, if you consider finding a body in a fjord and getting locked in a sauna with the heat cranked up to a murderous level wonderful. But Pix kept talking about going back. The people were so nice and the scenery was gorgeous. And the food, especially breakfast! Faith decided not to go into all this with Roy.

“I am from the west coast myself. A place called ?

Alesund. You would like it very much. It is very beautiful, and many tourists come to us in the summer. Winters are not so nice.”

He spoke English with a faint British accent—Scandinavian children learned British English in school—and a slight lilt softened his vowels, making even this simple statement lyrical.

Glenda had had enough time away from center stage. “I'd love to go to Norway. Maybe next summer. If Craig can't get away, I'll go by myself. Roy says there are all these awesome places to hike to, and you stay in little cabins. All I'd need is a backpack.”

And a steamer trunk for your cosmetics, Faith added silently.

“I have to get back to the kitchen. It was a pleasure meeting you, Roy.”

“You, too, Faith.” Once more, he reached out his hand, and once more she took it.

“It wasn't any fun down at the Sports Center,” Glenda said defiantly. “A smelly sleigh ride, then watching Craig lift weights. I told him I might end up here.”

Faith was positive that was a lie—what about the tennis match?—but she smiled at Glenda and said, “Maybe he'll join you later.”

“Maybe he will,” Glenda said, pouting. “He hasn't met Roy yet, and I'm sure the two will hit it off.”

Hit
was the operative word here. Faith pulled her hand away from Roy's and went back to help close the kitchen. It would be an early night for once.

 

After regrets had been expressed on both sides, she left, promising to have breakfast with the kitchen staff before the new chef arrived. Outside, it was another clear night, and warmer than usual. She walked quickly toward the condo, eager for some time alone with Tom. If Ben had come back, he'd be in bed, and the Parkers would still be occupied with their various activities. Betsey was a killer Scrabble player and had memorized all those lists of obscure two-and three-letter words you needed to know to score a gazillion points by laying down one tile. With luck, Faith could scoot up to their bedroom, join Tom, and firmly close the door.

There must have been another killer player. Betsey Fairchild Parker did not look as if she'd won anything. She was stomping up the stairs to the condo alone, obviously put out. Faith hung back. Luck was not with her, but she could improve the odds by waiting a little before she went in.

It was warm, but not that warm, so she opened their car door, sat in the driver's seat, got out her keys, and turned on the heat. This is really childish, she told herself. But she didn't move. Lights went on downstairs. Tom must have gone to bed, Faith realized. She'd wait until Betsey did, too. Faith hoped her sister-in-law was tired after expending so much emotional energy. It hadn't been a good day for Bets. Losing the ring was terrible, but she'd get another one. Bigger, even. It was the scene with Scott—that was far, far worse. Had she lost her son, as well? Faith thought about suggesting to Marian that she talk to her daughter. Generally, Tom's parents didn't interfere in their children's lives—as Faith's hadn't, either. Maybe it's a generational thing, Faith mused. She couldn't imagine keeping her mouth as tightly shut as the Fairchilds had during some of Craig's misadventures. But she also couldn't imagine opening it the way Betsey did each and every day. She'd clearly crossed the line from normally interested/involved parent to paranoid/obsessive—and Faith was the last person who could point this out, however tactfully. Marian was the embodiment of tact. She could do it. Faith looked at the kitchen window and saw that the lights were still on. What was Betsey doing? Drowning her sorrows in chai? Why didn't the woman go up to bed, already!

A car came down the road from the woods. Faith sat up and looked in the rearview mirror. It was Gertrude Stafford's hippie mobile. There was no mistaking that paint job, the Eugene McCarthy daisies, and the various “Make Love, Not War” genre bumper stickers.
Ophelia was driving, and Gertrude herself was in the passenger seat.

Without thinking twice, Faith backed up and followed them down the mountain. It beat waiting for the lights to go out in the condo.

At the bottom, where the road to Pine Slopes connected with the main road, they turned right. Ophelia was a good driver, used turn signals, and obeyed the speed limit—or perhaps this was as fast as the aging van could go. It was easy to keep her quarry in sight. They passed through Richmond. Faith turned on the radio. Randy Newman was singing “Baltimore.” She was a long way from Baltimore—a great crab-cake town—and this thought produced another. The two ladies might be planning more than a night out. Something of a longer duration. The head housekeeper, Candy, had said that Gertrude left for many months at a time. This might be one of those times. Ophelia seizing the chance to run away? “Ain't nowhere to run to…” Newman's distinctive gravelly voice sang. But he was wrong in this case. The Canadian border was only a few hours north.

Ophelia had said she wasn't a Stafford, but had Naomi had Joanie's name changed to match hers once she married Freddy, or had Ophelia kept her father's? Having the same surname would make it easier at the border—and they were sure to be stopped. Then again, Gertrude struck Faith as the kind of person who would know all sorts of ways of getting from Vermont's Northeast Kingdom straight into Canada without encountering the fuzz. From the glimpses she'd had of life chez Stafford, Faith was surprised
Ophelia hadn't split long ago. Once again, she felt angry that Naomi was either consciously or unconsciously ignoring the cries for help her daughter was broadcasting so loudly and clearly. Faith thought wearily of the chain of events that would follow if indeed the two were about to make their own buddy movie. She'd have to get Scott to find out whether Ophelia returned home tonight, and then tell the Staffords. Or should she call the Staffords now? She was loath to sound the alarm, in case this turned out to be just a pizza run to Mr. Mike's in Burlington. The van turned onto the interstate, and Faith decided to follow them only long enough to confirm things one way or the other.

The car was warm, the song suited her mood, and she let her mind drift back over the day's events. The big question was who had broken into the condo, and when. Ophelia's night flight could be a reaction to the suspicion—loudly voiced, Faith guessed, by Freddy—that had fallen upon the girl. Scott had been so passionate in his defense of his friend. His was a passionate age.

Nothing made sense. If the computer hadn't also been missing, Faith would have been tempted to believe that the ring had fallen down the garbage disposal. Things like that happened. They could pinpoint the time, since Candy definitely would have noticed a sparkler like that when she came in. And Pete before her. Then the kids said Dennis had been there. And what about the kids? Easy enough to have knocked it into the drain and then been afraid to fess up. It made the most sense, in fact. Then give the computer to
Ophelia for cover. Andy and Scott were smart boys. Just ask their mother.

The van had its blinker on. They were getting off the interstate. Faith quickly changed lanes and followed suit, feeling greatly relieved. No Montreal or other Canadian port of call tonight. They were on the Williston Road, heading into Burlington. Maybe it
was
a pizza run. They passed the motel where Faith had seen Dennis's car on Saturday. She noticed now that the motel had a coffee shop attached to it. Anxious to get out of walkie-talkie range, he might have pulled in for some apple pie and a cup of joe.

They were coming into Burlington. Williston Road turned into Main Street, and Faith sped up. There was more traffic, and she didn't want to lose them. They were in the “Hill” section of town. Burlington, on the shores of Lake Champlain, had been an important port in the 1800s. In the latter part of the century, wealthy businessmen and industrialists had covered the Hill with grand Italianate, Queen Anne, and Colonial-style mansions. Now these were UVM fraternity and sorority houses, as well as campus buildings used by the university and by Champlain College. The van's blinker went on again, and it appeared that one of these architectural grande dames was their destination. Faith pulled over to the side of the street and watched as the women came to a stop. A few seconds later, they got out of the van. Under the street lights, she could see that Ophelia was carrying a guitar case and Gertrude was taking a hit. She carefully stubbed the roach out in a snowbank and put it in her pocket. Ready to rock 'n' roll.

A frat party? Wasn't Gertrude a little old—and
Ophelia a little young? Well, maybe not Ophelia. A townie as hot-looking as she was would be more than welcome. Every maternal alarm bell in Faith's body went off at once. Naomi Stafford had to know that Ophelia was virtually living at Gertrude's—Gertrude, that terrific role model. Again, Faith asked herself, Could Naomi be so dense—or uncaring?

There was a steady stream of people going into the large house. It was as imposing now as the man who built it must have been. Faith pictured him in his top hat and swallow-tailed coat, standing on the broad veranda in front of his symbol of success, the symbol of his power. Ego incarnate overlooking the wide waters of the lake. Tonight, Faith could see lights from the New York side shining far across the expanse. It would have been a black void in those earlier days, but a generation of like-minded entrepreneurs had taken care of that.

It was time to go back to Pine Slopes and bed. She now knew where Ophelia went some of the time, not, as Faith had supposed, to hang out with her Burlington friends, but to chauffer Gertrude to gigs. Faith wondered if the folkie had updated her Joni Mitchell/Joan Baez repertoire to techno or rap. A foursome passed on the sidewalk and turned to go into the house. Oldies. Not as old as Gertrude, but the men's beards were flecked with white, as if it were snowing, and the skin on the women's faces was poised between the tautness of youth and the soft lines of middle age. For the second time that night, Faith did not bother to pause between thought and action. She got out of the car and slipped in behind them. They were through the door. She had passed.

Passed into a time warp. Although, she reflected, what could possibly have changed in that college ritual known as “getting wasted”? The music was loud, the room was stifling, dancers who could find a spare inch of space in which to move were gyrating wildly, and major amounts of alcohol were being consumed. Another kind of Nordic Night.

There was no sign of Gertrude and Ophelia. It seemed an unlikely venue for a hootenanny. But Faith had seen them enter. Initially, curiosity had drawn her in, but the more she looked about, the more she wanted to make sure Ophelia was all right. Gertrude was not the chaperone Faith would have selected for the girl, or for anyone else. She wiggled her way out into the hall, dodged a few gropes—not even slightly flattering, as the gropers, feeling no pain, wouldn't have known Faith from Grandma Moses—and went upstairs. A couple of the doors were locked, but one room wasn't, and she backed out hastily after ascertaining that the individuals hunched over a desk, doing lines, were neither Gertrude nor, thank God, Ophelia. After walking in on a couple who had obviously been studying the
Kama Sutra
more religiously than their college texts, she decided to forgo the living quarters and head for the basement, retracing her steps until she found another set of stairs.

She heard her before she saw her. Gertrude's voice wasn't bad. It wasn't good, either. But she was pushing it for all it was worth, wailing out a Janis Joplin number, which was going over big. Whether this was because her audience was totally stoned or totally unacquainted with the real thing, Faith didn't know.

The frat house had turned the space into a coffee-house. A few people were even drinking coffee—or something from mugs. The air was filled with smoke, the lights low, and Gertrude was perched on a high stool, a single blue spot above picking up the gold threads of her elaborately embroidered caftan. She cradled the mike, holding it close to her mouth—in a close approximation of what Faith had walked in on upstairs. Ophelia, carved in stone, sat at her idol's feet, holding a bottle of Poland Spring water—not Southern Comfort—her hand on the cap, ready to offer succor at a moment's notice. Two more bottles stood at the ready. Faith didn't have to worry about being spotted. The girl was gazing at the singer with total devotion. It would have taken a major calamity to distract her, and even then Faith imagined the two figures, one singing, one listening, continuing on, oblivious to the flames, falling beams, or other disasters surrounding them. The guitar was off to one side. Faith had missed the opening number. “If I Had a Hammer”?