The Body In the Belfry (22 page)
Read The Body In the Belfry Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
There were no sherry and sandwiches this time. Those who had to hurried off to work and others went home. A few gravitated toward the parsonage and Faith found herself sitting in the living room with Sam, Pix and a few other parishioners. The Svensons, she knew, were going to see Dave. They were spending as much time as possible with him, trying to share his unshareable nightmare. Tom was at the Moores for much the same reason.
Faith had made some coffee and put out an assortment of things from the refrigerator: cheeses, some smoky Virginia ham, chutney, and duck rillettes. She had baked bread the day before and kept some of the baguettes out of the freezer, thinking at least the Millers would come back after the funeral. Pix brought over a huge pot of thick pea soup. There was plenty to eat, but so far no one had touched a thing. They were drinking a lot of coffee, though, and Faith was just about to get another pot when the doorbell rang.
“Pix, could you get the door?” she called. A moment later John Dunne and Charley entered the kitchen. Somehow she wasn't surprised to see them. They were so much a part of this whole cast of characters that any gathering seemed odd without them.
“Hello, Faith,” Detective Dunne said, “Could I have a cup?”
“Of course, and please help yourself to some lunch. It's on the table in the dining room.”
“It was a beautiful service, Faith,” Charley said. He
still had a catch in his voice and looked very, very tired. Faith remembered trying to pump him for information after Cindy's funeral. Dave had been the chief suspect then, too. She had the feeling she was repeating virtually the same words. “You can't honestly believe that Dave killed Patriciaâor Cindy either.” Faith faced them both squarely. “I really don't understand what's going on. Are you trying to smoke somebody else out? Is that why he's been charged? If so, it's a cruel and immoral thing to do.”
still had a catch in his voice and looked very, very tired. Faith remembered trying to pump him for information after Cindy's funeral. Dave had been the chief suspect then, too. She had the feeling she was repeating virtually the same words. “You can't honestly believe that Dave killed Patriciaâor Cindy either.” Faith faced them both squarely. “I really don't understand what's going on. Are you trying to smoke somebody else out? Is that why he's been charged? If so, it's a cruel and immoral thing to do.”
Charley didn't say anything. Dunne looked at her sadly, “Faith, you must understand there's a great deal of evidence against Dave. In Cindy's case, he had a powerful motive; she was certainly driving him close to insanity and his alibi for the time in question is dependent on someone the police do not regard as a reliable witness. In the case of Patricia Moore, we are assuming that he overheard her call and knew he faced exposure. He was at the house at the time of death and had access to the poison used. Perhaps he couldn't bear for her to know that he had killed Cindy, but that's getting very speculative.”
“I'm sorry. I'm not buying it at all.” Then, as she caught a glance between the two, she hastily added, “Oh, don't worry, I'm not getting my magnifying glass and fingerprint kit out. You can do the job yourselves.” She moved toward the door into the living room with the pot of fresh coffee. “Just do it, is all I ask,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Let's have a sandwich, Charley,” Dunne said.
“Good idea, then I suppose we'd better get back to work before Faith reports us.”
John Dunne smiled. He had heard about Faith's cooking and if the coffee was anything to go by, what was in the dining room should be pretty tasty.
Charley returned to the living room first and took a
seat next to old Daniel Eliot, who had settled into the wing chair for the winter. Charley wasn't surprised to see him. Dan never missed a funeral. He was close to ninety and lived at the Peabody Home near the center of town. You had to be somewhat hale and hearty to stay there. It wasn't a nursing home so much as a residence for elderly people who didn't want to cope with a house. Daniel had never liked his house much and was only too happy to move his pared-down possessions into a bed/sitting room and let somebody else worry about what to cook. This had been twenty years ago and he'd been worrying about what to cook for a good twenty before that after his mother died. Daniel had never married and he was proud of his misogyny.
seat next to old Daniel Eliot, who had settled into the wing chair for the winter. Charley wasn't surprised to see him. Dan never missed a funeral. He was close to ninety and lived at the Peabody Home near the center of town. You had to be somewhat hale and hearty to stay there. It wasn't a nursing home so much as a residence for elderly people who didn't want to cope with a house. Daniel had never liked his house much and was only too happy to move his pared-down possessions into a bed/sitting room and let somebody else worry about what to cook. This had been twenty years ago and he'd been worrying about what to cook for a good twenty before that after his mother died. Daniel had never married and he was proud of his misogyny.
“How are you doing, Dan?” Charley asked.
“About as good as you, I expect,” he replied.
Charley tried a different tack. “A very sad business.” He sighed.
“Yup, the women in this family are going like flies. Her motherâshe was my cousin, you knowâjust the other day and now Patty. Well, they always did want things their way. It's a lesson, Charley.” Daniel nodded emphatically.
MacIsaac had no idea what the old geezer was talking about, but he nodded in return. Patricia's mother had died over ten years ago, which was not exactly last week. Might be an opening at the Peabody House soon.
He spotted Dunne with an empty plate motioning to him and he excused himself. They said good-bye to Faith and slipped out under her gimlet eye.
When Faith tumbled into bed that night, the last thing she would have thought was that she would have trouble falling asleep, but she did. Normally she carefully arranged herself in a fetal position under the duvet, put her head on a big square down pillow and was instantly asleep. Now she tried reading, got some warm
milk, which she loathed even with nutmeg in it, and was still wide awake. She wandered around the house, checked Benjamin an unnecessary number of times, and finally settled onto the couch in front of a lifeless fireplace.
milk, which she loathed even with nutmeg in it, and was still wide awake. She wandered around the house, checked Benjamin an unnecessary number of times, and finally settled onto the couch in front of a lifeless fireplace.
They had done some good thinking there, as well as other less cerebral things, for she knew why she couldn't sleep. There was something she had said or someone else had that she was sure was important, but she couldn't remember. She had driven Tom crazy all evening trying to dredge it up, but now perhaps if she just closed her eyes and let her mind drift it would come of its own accord. She thought of all the people, the scenesâfunerâals, kitchen table confidences, the sail in New Hampshire, the Moores' house.
All right, it was something to do with the Moores' house. She went room by room, then suddenly clear as a bell she heard Rob say, “Dad was an only child and now there's no one left in Mom's family.”
Faith sat up with a start and ran upstairs to shake Tom's peacefully sleeping shoulder.
“Tom, Tom, I've got it. What we've been missing!”
“Oh, Faith, can't it wait until morning?”
Well, it could have, Faith thought guiltily. She had been so elated she had forgotten how exhausted Tom was.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart.” She looked so crestfallen that Tom reached out and pulled her under the covers.
“Come on, tell me, otherwise I know I won't be able to sleep.”
“
family
, Tom, it has to have something to do with family. We've been concentrating on sex and money, admittedly more interesting in most cases than family, but we've lost sight of the fact that Cindy and Patricia were members of the same family. There's got to be a tie-in that way, not through Dave, Robert, and company.”
family
, Tom, it has to have something to do with family. We've been concentrating on sex and money, admittedly more interesting in most cases than family, but we've lost sight of the fact that Cindy and Patricia were members of the same family. There's got to be a tie-in that way, not through Dave, Robert, and company.”
“I'm not sure I get you, honey. Don't you think the police have explored this angle?”
“I'm not sure I get me either, Tom. It's a hunch, but it feels right. Maybe I have been living in New England too long, but it seems more in keeping with both crimesâroses and poisoned teapots instead of love nests and murder for hire like in the
Daily News.
”
Daily News.
”
“Okay, I see your point, but don't be too quick to stereotype Aleford. I'm sure there are plenty of love nests around.”
“That's a relief,” Faith said, curling up into her own.
Just as Faith dropped off to sleep at last, she remembered the book Millicent McKinley had mentioned, a family history by one of Patricia's ancestors. She resolved to go to the library as soon as possible to get it. She also had to figure out a way to get a look at Patricia's willâand Cindy's, if one existed.
Accordingly, the next afternoon after Benjamin's nap, she strapped him into his Snugli for the short walk, dropped a goodly supply of zwiebacks into his diaper bag and set off for the Aleford Public Library, or rather the Turner Memorial Library, named after Ezra Turner who had given it a much needed boost around 1910 by leaving his extensive private library to Aleford rather than Harvard. After stocking the hitherto sparse
shelves, the town sold off some of the more valuable works, most of them to Harvard, and everybody was happy. Well, maybe not Harvard, which did not like to buy what it could have received for nothing, not to mention tacitly acknowledging the foolhardy practice of non-Harvardian bequests.
shelves, the town sold off some of the more valuable works, most of them to Harvard, and everybody was happy. Well, maybe not Harvard, which did not like to buy what it could have received for nothing, not to mention tacitly acknowledging the foolhardy practice of non-Harvardian bequests.
At the moment, Faith was standing under the imposing portrait of Ezra that dominated the reading room, talking to Peg Bartlett, the head librarian. Ezra looked like Thomas Carlyle with more neatly combed hair and Peg looked like a Scottish farmer's wife who has just come in after delivering a calf with not a wisp of hair out of place or a wrinkle in her tweeds. She was a terrifically enthusiastic person who took her vocation, the dovetailing of person to book, with the utmost seriousness. Whenever Faith asked her to recommend something to read, Peg would cock her head to one side and eye Faith reflectively as if measuring her for a dress and murmur, “Maybe the Iris Murdoch, no wait, there's a new Anne Tyler,” until she would suddenly straighten up and lead Faith to the exact book she wanted. Faith thought she was rather extraordinary, although a little intimidating. When Faith wanted to read a Judith Krantz, she would slink surreptitiously to the counter and slide it to one of the high school kids to check out.
Peg was replying to Faith's query about the book Millicent mentioned.
“Certainly I know the book,
A Ship Captain's Daughter,
by Harriet Cox Eliot. She was Patricia's grandmother and the literary one of the family. She wrote quite a few books, mostly about her family and local history. Harriet was the oldest of the Cox girls, as they were called all their lives. Captain Cox used to take his family with him on board his ships whenever he could. He wasn't at all superstitious and never had a ship go down. Harriet's book is all about her travels and includes
a great deal of family history. Her mother was Persis Dudley, you know.”
A Ship Captain's Daughter,
by Harriet Cox Eliot. She was Patricia's grandmother and the literary one of the family. She wrote quite a few books, mostly about her family and local history. Harriet was the oldest of the Cox girls, as they were called all their lives. Captain Cox used to take his family with him on board his ships whenever he could. He wasn't at all superstitious and never had a ship go down. Harriet's book is all about her travels and includes
a great deal of family history. Her mother was Persis Dudley, you know.”
Faith didn't know but somehow with a librarian she found it easier to admit ignorance than with other people. They were so used to answering questions.
“I'm sorry, Peg, who was Persis Dudley?”
“No,
I'm
sorry, Faith, I keep assuming you've lived here all your life.”
I'm
sorry, Faith, I keep assuming you've lived here all your life.”
My God, thought Faith, momentarily panicked, has the Big Apple bloom rubbed off already?
“Not that anyone would mistake you for a New Englander,” added Peg with an eye on Faith's agnès b. outfit, “But it just seems you belong here.”
“Thank you,” said Faith, she knew not for what.
“Anyway, as a young woman, Persis Dudley was a close friend of Lucy Stone's and an ardent worker for women's rights. I'm sure she would have been terribly annoyed at Harriet's choice of title had she lived to see the book. But Harriet also wrote a reminiscence of her mother,
A Daughter Remembers,
which reprinted many of her mother's speeches. Persis was quite in demand as an orator and was evidently quite effective in stirring up an audience. She was also a Lucy Stoner.”
A Daughter Remembers,
which reprinted many of her mother's speeches. Persis was quite in demand as an orator and was evidently quite effective in stirring up an audience. She was also a Lucy Stoner.”
This was something Faith did know. “Oh, so she kept her maiden name?”
“Yes, she was always known as Persis Dudley, never Persis Cox, although the children were named Cox.
“And of course there was her will. Really she was quite advanced for her time. The money was left in trust to the women in the family for five generations. She thought men could make their own money and by leaving money to the women of the family she would give them some independence. She hoped that after five generations women would have the same opportunities as men and the stipulation wouldn't be necessary.”
“So when she died the estate passed to her daughters and not her sons?”
“Well, there weren't any sons and I have the feeling that if there had been, Captain Cox might not have agreed to have his hard-earned money left the way it was, but yes, it went to the eldest daughter. He did insist that the estate not be split up. He made provisions for each, but the bulk went to Harriet, lucky girl. There's a chapter on the will and its meaning for women in her book. She was, of course, pretty enthusiastic about the idea.”
“I'd like to read the books, Peg, could you tell me where they are?”
“Of course,” and she led Faith to a shelf set aside for local history.
“Now that's odd. I saw them both just the other day when I was shelving some other books and now it seems they're out. Let me just double-check that, Faith.”
Peg went to the desk and Faith sat down to wait, quite disappointed. This had been her big brainstorm and she wasn't sure what she would do next. Although aside from the will, there didn't seem to be much more to mine in stories about ocean voyages or reprints of women's rights speeches.
Peg was back in minutes, “I'm afraid you're out of luck. They have both been checked out, but I can put a reserve on them for you.”
“Thank you very much, Peg, I'd appreciate that.”
Faith left the library and slowly walked down the wide front stairs to the street. So somebody else was interested in Patricia and Cindy's roots. Who could it possibly be?
She walked along Main Street toward the green and thought about begging Millicent to lend her her copies, but she knew just what would happen. She, Faith, would grovel all over the threadbare Orientals and Millicent
would find a way to say “No” with the suggestion in her voice that it was because Faith would break the bindings or spill jam all over the pages.
would find a way to say “No” with the suggestion in her voice that it was because Faith would break the bindings or spill jam all over the pages.
Faith looked across the Green and tried to decide what to do next. As if in reply, Eleanor Whipple's house snapped into focus and Faith realized she could ask her if she had copies of the books. Eleanor was related to Patricia somehow and perhaps it was on the Cox-Dudley side. And if that didn't work out, she would have to go into town to the Massachusetts Historical Society or Boston Public Library.
It was a beautiful day and Faith strolled across the green basking in the late afternoon sun. She took a deep breath of Aleford fresh air as she crossed the street to Eleanor's. Missing the crunch of people on the crowded sidewalks of Manhattanâand the store windows everyone was trying to look atâshe still felt a surge of well-being. She would have to be careful, she realized. Aleford was growing on her. Like some tenacious lichen.
She walked down the front path and climbed the stairs to Eleanor's porch. In the summer, one pot of red geraniums stood neatly at the end of each step with two Bar Harbor rockers facing each other in unvarying positions on either side of the front door. All these things were presumably spending the winter in Eleanor's potting shed to appear like clockwork on the first of May.
Faith didn't doubt that Eleanor was home, probably working on one of her projects for the church fair. She didn't go out much, just to church and occasionally to a friend's. Eleanor didn't drive, but then Faith knew quite a few New Yorkers who had never learned either. The reason was the sameâthey didn't need to. Eleanor walked to the center every day or so and bought her groceries at the Shop and Save. Faith had never heard her talk about buying clothes. They looked like they had grown on her and Faith imagined she just replenished
them with similar ones from the trunks in her attic, adding a little of her own tatted lace here and there, those “touches of white at the throat and cuffs” so beloved of ladies of a certain class and age. Every few months someone drove her to the hairdresser's for the permanent that kept her short white hair in soft ringlets. Faith thought of her as a very old lady, but as she rang the bell, she realized Eleanor might not be that old, probably not much older than Aunt Chat. It was all in the way one dressed. Faith gave a small interior nod as one of her most basic beliefs was yet again confirmed.
them with similar ones from the trunks in her attic, adding a little of her own tatted lace here and there, those “touches of white at the throat and cuffs” so beloved of ladies of a certain class and age. Every few months someone drove her to the hairdresser's for the permanent that kept her short white hair in soft ringlets. Faith thought of her as a very old lady, but as she rang the bell, she realized Eleanor might not be that old, probably not much older than Aunt Chat. It was all in the way one dressed. Faith gave a small interior nod as one of her most basic beliefs was yet again confirmed.
Eleanor answered the door immediately.
“Faithâand Benjaminâthis is a nice surprise! Come in and have a cup of tea with me.”
Eleanor was so glad to see them that Faith felt a twinge of guilt at not coming more often.
Poor soul, she's probably very lonely, she thought as she followed her down the hall.
Eleanor brushed aside Faith's offer to help and told her to make herself comfortable in the parlor instead.
“I won't be a moment, dear.”
Faith sat down, glad to loosen the Snugli. She suspected Benjamin might be getting ready to cut his first tooth. He had been drooling a little more than usual lately and was apt to get fussy if moved from one comfortable position to another not immediately rewarding, so she kept him on her lap and let her eyes wander around the room. Eleanor's parlor was a little like the Moores' in that you felt nothing that entered the house had ever gone out again. The big difference was in the kinds of things that came in. Where Patricia's sideboard held a well-rubbed and often used Georgian silver tea service, Rose Medallion bowls, and a bevy of Battersea boxes, Eleanor's Victorian veneer table set in front of the bay window held a few large pieces of cut glass and a small case of what looked like some souvenir spoons from
vacations long past. An intricate arrangement of wax flowers and stuffed birds in gravity-defying poses beneath a huge glass dome stood in solitary splendor on a marble-topped sideboard. There was a slightly pathetic dignity to the room. It tried very hard and sought to cover up any mistakes with antimacassars and embroidered centerpieces.
vacations long past. An intricate arrangement of wax flowers and stuffed birds in gravity-defying poses beneath a huge glass dome stood in solitary splendor on a marble-topped sideboard. There was a slightly pathetic dignity to the room. It tried very hard and sought to cover up any mistakes with antimacassars and embroidered centerpieces.
A bookcase that looked to be the major repository of the Whipple book collection stood against one wall. Advice on gardening elbowed Hawthorne and Thoreau. There was an exhaustive edition of Joseph C. Lincoln, which looked well read, and scores of old children's books. Between
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
and
Lad, a Dog,
was
The Ship Captain's Daughter.
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
and
Lad, a Dog,
was
The Ship Captain's Daughter.
Faith felt a little thrill of discovery. She called out to Eleanor, “May I look at one of your books?”
“Certainly,” she replied, “help yourself. We're almost ready. I don't know why it should be true that a watched pot won't boil, but it is. I hope Lapsang Souchong is all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered, shivering slightly, because it wasn't. She knew she would never be able to drink the tea without thinking of Patricia.
While she was waiting, Faith stood up and took the book from the shelf. She was just opening it when Eleanor appeared carrying a tray with the tea things. By now Faith had mastered the art of managing the tea strainer, hot water pitcher and all the accoutrements that accompanied tea in Aleford. At first she had tended to make a cup that was either hot water or pure tannic acid.
Eleanor put the tray on the table in front of Faith.
“Would you like me to hold Benjamin while you pour yourself a cup? That way you can make it the way you like it.”
“Thank you.” Faith smiled and started to close the
book she had been holding when her gaze was pulled down sharply by the frontispiece. It was a reproduction of the three ship paintings that hung in the hallway at the Moores'. The
Niña,
the
Pinta,
and the
Santa Maria,
Patricia had said they called them when they were children. But that wasn't what they were called at all. No, they were the
Harriet,
the
Elnora,
and the
Rose.
Another rose. And
Elnora.
Another Eleanor?
book she had been holding when her gaze was pulled down sharply by the frontispiece. It was a reproduction of the three ship paintings that hung in the hallway at the Moores'. The
Niña,
the
Pinta,
and the
Santa Maria,
Patricia had said they called them when they were children. But that wasn't what they were called at all. No, they were the
Harriet,
the
Elnora,
and the
Rose.
Another rose. And
Elnora.
Another Eleanor?
Eleanor Whipple was looking at her speculatively. Faith felt suddenly uneasy. This wasn't Peg Bartlett's genial musing, but more like the look a poker player casts across the table before asking for a card.
She's wondering what I have in my hand, Faith thought in surprise.
“I see you've been looking at Aunt Hattie's book,” Eleanor said carefully.
“Aunt Hattie's book?” Faith countered.
“Why, yes. Harriet Cox Eliot was my aunt.”
The whole thing is going to be clear in a moment, Faith thought, but I'm not sure that I want it to be. And with the feeling of a person who finds himself alone in an unfamiliar bog at midnight, tentatively squelching along trying to avoid the holes that will engulf him, Faith stood up slowly and tightened the straps of the Snugli around her shoulders.
“Eleanor, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a raincheck on the tea. I'm suddenly feeling a little tired and I think I'd better go home.”
“I'm terribly sorry, Faith,” Eleanor replied gently, “but I think you had better sit down again. You see, I'm afraid I can't let you go now.”
Other books
Nighthawk Blues by Peter Guralnick
Fury's Kiss by Karen Chance
Devil's Peak by Deon Meyer
By the Rivers of Brooklyn by Trudy Morgan-Cole
Season of Blessing by Beverly LaHaye
Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands by Bleichert, Peter von
Blown Away by Sharon Sala
Rex Stout by The Sound of Murder
The Burning Sword by Emily Williams
