The Body in the Wardrobe (2 page)

As she worked in the catering kitchen alongside the others,
Faith was nagged by the thought that although it had been a good fall for the rest of the family, it hadn't been for her daughter, Amy.

A moment later, Niki seemed to have read her partner's mind. “Are things going better for Amy at school?”

Faith sighed. “Not really. She's still clinging to her old friends and we've had to limit her Skype time with Daisy out in California—the Proctor girl she made friends with last summer.” The Fairchilds had been given sound advice when son Ben was Amy's age to move computers to public spaces like the kitchen. An adult presence made kids pause before hitting the button that would send something into cyberspace—and possibly all over the globe.

“I may be the mother of a toddler,” Niki said, “and a toddler that is adding years to my own every day—Sofia swallowed a paper clip Sunday, and the books do
not
tell you what to do about that; you just wait, by the way—but I am not so far removed from adolescence that I don't recall what hell it was. Even my mother, who as you know is the queen of clichés, didn't dare say they were the best years of my life. We have a no-brainer here. Clinging to her old friends means Amy's surrounded by people who don't want to be her new ones. You know what I'm saying—Mean Girls!”

Faith nodded. “Unfortunately too true. I'm still so mad at the superintendent I don't trust myself to take the shortcut home through the school department parking lot. Her car has a vanity plate that says ‘super
,'
and I've always got keys in my pocketbook.”

At the end of August the Fairchilds had been notified that due to redistricting, Amy would be going to the other middle school in town, not the one where all the kids she'd been with since kindergarten through sixth grade would be attending. Assuming it was a mistake, as Amy was one of the only ones being transferred, and the only girl, Faith had called the school department.
She'd gotten nowhere with anyone—“No exceptions.” Unable to stand her daughter's tears, she'd made an appointment to meet with the superintendent, driving the five hours down to Aleford from Sanpere, sure that she would be able to make the educator see what this kind of change would mean for an almost thirteen-year-old. The superintendent didn't, and Faith grew even angrier when it was pointed out that Amy should have been going to a different school, as should Ben, all these years. The school district boundary ran through the old graveyard between the parsonage and the church. Faith had started to lose her temper at the super's recalcitrance, suggesting pointedly that maybe they should move Amy's bedroom to a spot among the tombstones, which fell in her old district, so she could stay where she was. The superintendent was as firm as the granite markers. “We can't bend the rules for anyone. Amy will get over it. This is a perfect opportunity for your daughter to broaden her friendship pool,” were her parting words. Faith's were muttered out of earshot in the hallway.

The “friendship pool” had proved to be filled with piranhas. Niki was right. “Mean” didn't come close. One day Amy had stormed into the kitchen after school, grabbed her laptop from a shelf, and deleted something on her Facebook timeline. Faith hadn't seen what had been posted, but Ben said it was pretty bad. Stuff about watching Amy salute the flag during assembly, how maybe she needed to move her hand farther up toward her shoulder.

“The worst part,” Faith continued, “is that there isn't anything I can do about it. Thank goodness for Girl Scouts. Most of the troop is from her old school.”

“‘Mean Girls' tend to be interested in things other than merit badges and selling cookies,” Niki said. “Things like stealing each other's boyfriends, shoplifting expensive cosmetics, and nowadays doing as much damage as possible to their prey with social media.”

Tricia joined them after finishing a tray of ham and cheese puff pastry squares. “Do you know who the girls are? Usually there's one queen bee and the others do what she says so they won't end
up targets. I'm not suggesting you call their parents—that would be the kiss of death. But Scott has friends who would be more than happy to help out—nothing extreme, but say a whiff of death?”

It was a welcome touch of humor, and Faith found it an extremely attractive notion for a few seconds. Tricia's husband, Scott, Faith's longtime friend and the person who helped her solve a murder many years ago, owned a body shop in Byford, the next town.

“I'll keep it in mind but will get on your other suggestion—finding out who the ringleader is—right away. Aleford's a small town. And I have my methods.”

Niki shook her head slowly back and forth. “She's screwed until high school. Two more years. Sorry, Faith. Think you might want to go for the graveyard idea you told me about. An igloo is a legal dwelling, right?”

Sophie's father-in-law, Anson, had kept the family law firm's name, Maxwell & Maxwell, after his father died, expecting that Will, who was finishing up at Duke's law school at the time, would be joining him. The firm was good-size, and its excellent reputation was not limited to Savannah and Chatham County. Anson gave his son time, waiting while Will went into the Peace Corps, even bragging on him—“Every family needs a do-gooder.” But when Will came back and announced he was going to be a private investigator, his father was not so understanding. He made his disappointment clear, but as the years went by he'd gotten over it. “Wouldn't have worked out anyway. Too much alike—independent cusses.”

Eventually, Anson's stepson, Randall, joined the firm fresh out of UGA's law school. Randall's reason for choosing the university—undergrad as well—largely centered on being close to the Bulldogs, the school's beloved football team. When he married Carlene, a former cheerleader, no one was surprised at his choice of a red dress shirt under his tux or her bouquet of red roses as big as pom-poms. Team spirit prevailed down to the favors: china replicas of Uga, the
team mascot, with
BULLDOGS, RANDY, AND CARLENE FOREVER
baked into the glaze of the distinctive white English breed.

When Will brought Sophie to meet her future in-laws, Anson had been delighted to learn that she had specialized in intellectual property when she was practicing in New York. He'd placed her on his right at the family dinner to welcome her, which took place at Gloria's family home, Bells Mills, a short drive west of the city. Bells Mills looked to Sophie like something straight from the pages of
Gone with the Wind,
complete with pillars, verandas, and Spanish moss so thick it created a canopy above the long drive leading to the house. The house itself was all that was left of what had been a rice plantation, and although, Will had explained in private, Gloria would have you believe the first bit of tabby—the oyster shell, lime, sand, and water building material—was laid by an ancestor who sailed with Oglethorpe on the
Anne
in 1733, the place dated only to the late 1800s.

Sophie had loved it all. She had reveled in the easy back and forth of conversation around the table and the sense of kinship, something she had never had. And she would try to get used to sweet tea. Will's accent had become noticeably thicker than it had been in Maine, and his endearments were peppered with “shug” and “darlin'” now.

Over dessert (the best banana pudding Sophie had ever tasted) Anson announced that he had double-checked what he'd hoped—that Sophie's New York license to practice law was good in Georgia—and offered her a job. “You'd be doing me a favor—and Gloria. We're spending more time out here and less in town. And the firm really would be Maxwell and Maxwell again.”

Will had warned her that his father had been thinking about all this, so Sophie'd had time to think, too. She knew she wanted to get back to work—she'd missed it—and this seemed ideal. Maxwell & Maxwell didn't currently have anyone with her expertise, so she wouldn't be treading on any toes. She'd said yes.

When they returned from Tybee, Sophie found herself settling into married life with an ease she didn't know she possessed. She knew she'd always miss parts of her Big Apple life and she'd enjoy going back to see her mother. Yet she didn't miss the pressure, the crazy hours, or the crowded subway. The house they were staying in was a short walk to the law firm's offices on Chippewa Square, and both were close to the office Will rented on Drayton Street staffed with a part-time secretary, Coralee Jones. Walking past the houses in the historic district with many plants still blooming, thanks to Savannah's ten-month growing season, was a much better way to start the workday than the litter and cold gray skies that had typically greeted her in New York this time of year.

Sophie was a coffee, yogurt, and fruit quick-breakfast person, so Will returned to his habit of stopping by Clary's for his more ample, leisurely fare. In addition, he said, time spent there was a necessity in his line of work. If they weren't talking about it at the venerable café on Abercorn, it hadn't happened yet. After work, the two met in the middle of Chippewa by Oglethorpe's statue, which Sophie pointed out was the work of New Englander Daniel Chester French, before going to dinner at the Sapphire Grill, the Olde Pink House, the 17Hundred90 Inn and Restaurant, or out of town to Pearl's for hush puppies and seafood. Will had insisted they consider the whole month, or more, a honeymoon.

“I know you're a good cook,” he'd said when Sophie protested, saying she could make dinner for them. “I don't think I've ever eaten as well as I did last summer when you were in charge of The Birches's kitchen. But eating out is part of your initiation into our way of life here.”

Sophie stopped objecting and vowed instead to start running off the biscuit-and-honey, fried-green-tomato-type calories she was happily consuming. Besides, she enjoyed being outside. The whole city was especially festive, decked out for the holidays. Will had been telling her about the Savannah Boat Parade of Lights
since the summer. When the Saturday after Thanksgiving finally arrived and Sophie saw the fifty or so boats trimmed with lights go up and down the river, nautical jewels against the dark night, she oohed and aahed louder than everyone—especially when the sky exploded in fireworks. Savannah was a party every day, all year long.

Most weeks they went out to Bells Mills for Sunday dinner, getting to know yet more relatives, including Will's stepsister Patty Sue. She had left just after the wedding for a long visit to her Agnes Scott roommate. “I'm not sure she would have married Jeff if she'd have known he'd up and take a job so far from home!” she'd told Sophie. “She's perishing, so of course I had to go cheer her up. We had the best time ever at the beach.”

When Sophie asked her where her friend lived, expecting something like San Diego, she was surprised—and not surprised—to learn the place of exile was Jacksonville, about two hours south.

Patty Sue worked at a local art gallery, an employer that seemed extremely lenient when it came to time off, as well as long lunch hours, as Sophie discovered when Patty Sue asked her to meet her “for a bite” at The Collins Quarter. She'd greeted Sophie on the appointed day and led her to a large communal table at the back of the restaurant, which was new and already famed for its Australian coffee. Sophie assumed it was like Mrs. Wilkes Dining Room, where you shared a table with other diners. In fact the choice was to make room for all of Patty Sue's friends who soon drifted in. The “bite” was moving well into the second hour when Sophie left to go back to work. The food had been excellent—Sophie had ordered the smashed avocado on toast with feta, cherry tomatoes, sesame seeds, and see-through radish slices, all of it in a presentation almost too pretty to eat. Nobody else was leaving, drinking more coffee and, in some cases, wine. Patty Sue had been gracious about introducing Sophie, but it was the one place so far where she had distinctly felt like the outsider she was. Judging from their gossip, all the other women had known one another forever, either starting
in kindergarten at St. Vincent's or Country Day and moving on to make their debuts at the Christmas Cotillion. It wasn't that they were rude; they just ignored her.

They were certainly a well-heeled bunch, Sophie observed. Their clothes did not resemble their New York counterparts—not black, for one thing—except in what they had cost. Patty Sue's salary at the gallery surely would not have covered her Longchamp leather bag, or the Tory Burch flats she was wearing. She was living in the carriage house behind her parents' house near Monterey Square, so no worries about rent, but even so she must be getting a nice allowance—or have a very lucrative paper route. Sophie hadn't seen the carriage house, or the main house, but she was sure both were as beautifully decorated as Bells Mills. Gloria definitely had a talent for decor, although she had explained to Sophie that “most of my treasures are family heirlooms.” Anson had overheard the remark and teased her—“Conveniently stored in Mr. Raskin's shop on Bull Street, I believe.”

Sophie was very happy living in Gloria's current project. It would be perfect for them, but they would be looking for something way less expensive. She secretly hoped it would take Gloria many more months to finish the house and put it on the market.

On her way out of the restaurant, she passed a woman who had entered and was waving at the table Sophie had just left. They exchanged smiles—another thing not like New York that Sophie had come to like.

The woman moved quickly toward the short stairs leading to the dining area in the rear. She was beautiful. Her pale blond hair was smoothed back from her flawless ivory skin in a French twist, and she looked like Grace Kelly. Her chic white linen suit didn't have a single wrinkle. The only note of color was a turquoise choker, the beads a perfect match for her eyes.

Sophie stepped aside to let a party of four through the door and heard someone at the table greet the new arrival.