The Body in the Gazebo (2 page)

Reading her friend’s thoughts, Faith reached over and covered Pix’s hand with her own, marveling as always at her soft skin treated with nothing more than Bag Balm. Faith felt a momentary pang of guilt at all the expensive creams of Araby that filled her medicine chest, but efficacious or no, Bag Balm was the cosmetic equivalent of a New England boiled dinner—lines she would not cross.

“I’m going to see if Mother’s still sleeping,” Pix said.

“If she isn’t, I’ll say a quick hello. I have to pick Amy up and take her to ballet.” Amy Fairchild, a third grader, and her older brother, Ben, in his first year of middle school, both required a great deal of chauffeuring, and Faith had not taken kindly to this suburban mother’s chore—although the fact that Ben would be driving himself in a little over two years filled her with dread.

“I’m sure she’ll want to see you. She’s been asking for you,” Pix said.

“Tom told me the same thing when he came home last night.”

Faith’s husband, the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, was the minister at Aleford’s First Parish Church. Ursula was a lifelong member, as were the Millers. Faith was a more recent arrival, born and raised in Manhattan. The daughter and granddaughter of men of the cloth, she and her younger sister, Hope, had sworn to avoid that particular fabric and the fishbowl existence that went along with it. Over the years they had observed congregations—composed of ordinarily reticent individuals—who felt perfectly free to comment on the way the minister’s wife was treating her husband and raising her children. At First Parish there were a number of women Faith termed “Tom’s Groupies” who were sure they would do a far better job than Faith at keeping him in clean collars and doing other wifely chores. They regularly dropped off dubious burnt offerings—casseroles featuring canned soups and tuna fish. Faith ceded the collar cleaning—amazing how hard it was to keep track—but stood her ground on the culinary front.

The fact that she succumbed to the Reverend in the first place was due to good old love at first sight. He was in New York to perform the nuptials for his college roommate and Faith was catering the reception. Shedding his ministerial garb, Tom had been in mufti by the time the poached salmon and beef tenderloin appeared on the buffet tables along with Faith bearing pâté en croûte. Whether it was the platter she was carrying or her big blue eyes that attracted him was soon moot. Later that evening in Central Park, during a ride in one of the touristy but undeniably romantic horse-drawn carriages, when she discovered his calling—he’d assumed she knew—it was too late. The heart knows no reason.

She left the Big Apple for the more bucolic orchards of New England and, like Lot’s wife, looked back—often. Faith, however, did not become a pillar of salt, even the delicious French
fleur de sel
from the Camargue kind. What she did become was a frequent traveler back to the city for visits to the three Bs: Barneys, Bloomingdale’s, and the late great Balducci’s, as well as the lox counter at Zabar’s.

“Maybe she wants me to cook her something special,” Faith said, although, she thought, Ursula could have given the message to Tom, or Pix. More likely it was a request that Faith urge Pix not to change her trip plans. Pix was as easy to read as a billboard and Ursula had, no doubt, picked up on her daughter’s reluctance to leave.

As they moved out of the kitchen to go upstairs, the doorbell rang.

“I wonder who that can be?” Pix said. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

She opened the door and Millicent Revere McKinley stepped into the foyer. She was carrying a brown paper bag similar in size and shape to those sported by individuals in New York’s Bowery before it became a fashionable address. Faith knew that Millicent’s did not contain Thunderbird or a fifth of Old Grand-Dad. And it wasn’t because Millicent had joined the Cold Water Army around the time Carry Nation was smashing mirrors in saloons. No, Faith knew because Millicent’s earlier offerings still filled the shelves in Ursula’s refrigerator. The bag contained calf’s foot jelly, the Congregationalist equivalent of Jewish penicillin, chicken soup.

Pix took it from her.

“How kind of you. I know Mother appreciates your thoughtfulness,” she said. “Let me go up and see if she’s awake.”

“She doesn’t need a roomful of company. That’s not why I’m here, but you go check on her and I’ll talk to Faith.”

Pix handed Faith the bag. Millicent led the way back into the kitchen. She knew Ursula’s house as well as her own, a white clapboard Cape perched strategically on one side of Aleford’s Green with a view from the bay window straight down Main Street. Not much got past Millicent, who had been admitting to being seventy for many years now. Her hairstyle was as unvarying as her age. She’d adopted Mamie Eisenhower’s bangs during Ike’s first term and stuck to them. Millicent’s stiff perm was slate gray when Faith met her and it now appeared as if she’d been caught in a heavy snowfall—yet a storm that left every hair in place.

Although not a member of First Parish, Millicent behaved like one, freely offering Faith advice she didn’t want. Their relationship was further complicated by several incidents. The first occurred when Faith, early on in Aleford, had discovered a still-warm corpse in the Old Belfry atop Belfry Hill. With newborn Benjamin strapped to her chest in a Snugli, Faith did what she supposed any sensible person would do. She rang the bell. It produced immediate results, although not the capture of the murderer. That took Faith a while and came later. The most long lasting of these results came from Millicent, who was appalled that Faith had dared to ring the venerable icon—cast by Paul Revere himself, Millicent’s many times removed cousin. It had sounded the alarm on that famous day and year. Subsequent peals were restricted to April 19, Patriot’s Day, that curious Massachusetts and Maine holiday; the death of a President; and the death of a descendent of one of those stalwarts who faced the Redcoats on the green. None of these categories, Millicent was quick to point out, applied in Faith’s case. Rapidly running down the hill screaming loudly would have sufficed.

The other incidents involved Millicent’s saving Faith’s life not once but twice. Since then, Faith had labored in vain to repay this debt, hoping to drag Millicent from the path of an oncoming train—the commuter rail passed through Aleford—or else surprise a desperate burglar intent on purloining Millicent’s collection of Revere McKinley mourning wreaths, intricately woven from bygone tresses.

For the moment, all she could do was follow her savior into the kitchen if not meekly, then obediently, and put the Mason jar of jelly in the fridge.

“I’d like to give you the recipe, Faith, but it’s a treasured family secret.”

Faith could never understand why families that treasured their recipes wouldn’t want to share them with the world, but in this case, she would not expect otherwise. Millicent hoarded information like the Collyer brothers hoarded newspapers—and everything else. Prying anything out of the woman was well nigh impossible. Faith had tried with varying success. As for calf’s foot jelly, she had her own recipe. It called for a lot of boiling and straining, but when you added lemon juice, cinnamon, clove, and some sherry to the gelatin and put it in a nice mold, the result was quite pleasant. She’d recently come across the actor Zero Mostel’s recipe, which was similar. An epicure, he never met a gelatin or—judging by his girth—a pudding, he didn’t like.

Millicent got herself a cup and saucer from the china closet in the butler’s pantry. Miss McKinley—not Ms., thank you very much—didn’t do mugs, and poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting down. Faith had had enough caffeine for the day, but joined her at the table. She didn’t have to pick Amy up for another half hour. In any case, it was a command performance.

“I hope Pix isn’t upsetting her mother about this trip. The last thing Ursula needs is her daughter moaning about having to go away. Why these people want to spend all that time together with people they’ll rarely see after the wedding is another story. In my day you got married and spent one holiday with one set of in-laws and another with the others. None of this bonding business.”

Faith was interested in Millicent’s remarks. The woman had never been married—“never cared to”—but brought her eagle eye to the institution. There was something to what she said, Faith thought. Tom’s parents and her parents liked one another, but contact was limited to things like a grandchild’s christening. They did live far apart, but Faith sensed it would be the same if the Fairchilds were a few blocks away down Madison in Manhattan or the Sibleys on the other side of Norwell, the South Shore town where Tom had grown up and his parents still lived. Their children had bonded to the point where they got married and that was enough for their elders.

“It’s hard for Pix to go away now when her mother isn’t completely recovered, but she’s definitely going,” Faith said.

“Problem is she won’t admit Ursula is getting to the point where she may not be able to stay here. This flu business should be a wake-up call.”

Faith had thought the same thing herself. Pix had a severe case of denial when it came to her mother. Pix’s father had died suddenly in his early sixties, and for most of her adult life, Pix had had only Ursula. The idea that she wouldn’t be in this house forever, frozen at some age between seventy and eighty, was anathema to Pix. Faith had never brought up the subject of Ursula’s future. And Pix herself hadn’t. It was obviously too painful. She was the exception to Faith’s friends who were Pix’s age—in their fifties. The subject of aging parents had replaced aging kids, although Faith had learned some years ago from these same friends that you’re never going to be finished raising your children.

“She won’t be able to do those stairs much longer.” Millicent was complacently going down a list she had certainly reviewed before. “However, the staircase is straight, so they could get one of those chair-elevator things.”

Faith pictured Ursula regally rising up past the newel post. Not a bad idea. Millicent was barreling on.

“The place is big enough for someone to live in, but she’d hate that. Could turn the library into a bedroom, but you’d have to put in a full bath.”

“You seem to have thought this over pretty thoroughly,” Faith couldn’t help commenting.

“One does,” Millicent replied, looking at Faith sternly. “
Semper paratus
.”

Millicent’s bedroom was on the ground floor of her house. Faith doubted it was foresight. More likely just plain “sight,” as in looking out the window past the muslin sheers.

“She has a lot of friends at Brookhaven. She could go there,” Faith suggested, thinking two could play the preparedness game. Brookhaven was a life-care community in nearby Lexington.

“You know she’d never leave Aleford,” Millicent said smugly.

Match to her.

This was true, Faith thought, and a problem for many of Aleford’s older residents. A group had tried to interest Kendal, the retirement and assisted-living communities associated with the Quakers, in coming to Aleford. So far, nothing had happened, and if it did, it would be too late for Ursula. Faith almost gasped as she thought this. Not that Ursula would be gone soon. No! But a decision would have to have been made. She had to admit Millicent was right—an admission she generally tried to avoid. This last illness had shown that Ursula really couldn’t continue as she had. Faith had been shocked to see the change in the woman after she’d come home from the hospital. It was dramatic, especially when Faith looked back at last summer. Ursula had climbed Blue Hill in Maine with them, setting a pace that left several gasping for a second wind.

Blue Hill was close to Sanpere Island in Penobscot Bay, where the Fairchilds had vacationed, at the Millers’ urging, the summer after Ben was born—Pix was a third-generation rusticator. Eventually, enchanted with the island, the Fairchilds built a cottage of their own, an event that a younger Faith would never have predicted. “Vacation” meant the south of France, the Hamptons, Tuscany, and the Caribbean—balmy waters, not the rocky Maine coast’s subzero briny deep.

And Ursula had seemed all right for most of the winter. As usual, she’d participated in the Christmas Audubon Bird Count, snowshoeing deep into the woods to do so. But when Faith saw her when she was discharged from the hospital, Ursula looked years older, her face an unhealthy pallor, her thick white hair limp and lifeless. What was the worst was the change in her eyes—those beautiful deep topaz orbs had acquired a milky film.

“When Pix gets back from gadding about, you’re going to have to talk to her about all this.”

“Why me?” Faith protested. Millicent was the one with all the ideas—and probably brochures.

“It’s not my business,” Millicent said firmly.

Faith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she got up.

“I have to pick Amy up at school.”

Millicent nodded. “Yes, it’s her day for ballet. You’d better get going.”

The woman knew everything.

Pix came into the kitchen. She looked ill herself.

“She was awake, but she’s drifted off again. She seems to be sleeping so much of the day now. But she said to thank you for the jelly, Millicent, and Faith, she wants you to come spend some time with her. ‘A real visit,’ she said. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Faith said. “And Dora can let me know when. She has my cell or she can leave a message at home.”

“I’ll tell her,” Pix said. “But do you really think I ought . . .”

Faith nodded slightly toward Millicent.

“Don’t tell me you still haven’t decided whether to get those sandals we looked at for the trip.”

Momentarily nonplussed, Pix picked up on the signal.

“They were expensive and I’d never wear them in Maine. I don’t think I ought to get them.”

Millicent looked suspicious. She said, “Shoes,” sounding eerily like Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch of the West saying “Slippers,” before Faith cut her off with a “Good-bye” as she left to get her daughter.

T
he parsonage was quiet. Both children were asleep. Faith realized the nights when Ben went to bed before they did were numbered. Even now he’d still be awake except for soccer practice. Nothing like a coach who believed in laps and lengthy practice drills. Bless her.