The Body In the Belfry (6 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body In the Belfry
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Faith decided it was time for someone to do something about the situation. These people were simply too good to be allowed to suffer like this.
“Patricia, Cindy was not Tom's favorite youth group member and although I am appalled and angry at what has happened, she was not someone I found easy to like either.”
The Moores breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“That's it exactly, Faith. Thank you. We have to make the service a decent one, but not ludicrous. Cindy hurt a great many people in this town. It was our fault, really, for allowing her to get so out of hand, but we can't be hypocrites. The last few years with her have been very difficult ones and enough people, which is to
say all of Aleford, know, so any pretentious show of mourning would be a lie,” Robert spoke bitterly.
“We
are
to blame,” said Patricia, “but I don't know what we could have done differently. The person I feel sorriest for is Dave. He's lost his fiancée and the police suspect him of murder, which is, of course, absurd. Apparently Cindy and Dave had a fight Thursday night and the police believe her murder was a crime of passion.” She gave a somewhat crooked smile.
Tom spoke. “We can't believe it was Dave either, and I'm hoping he'll get in touch with me.” Faith noticed he didn't say “again.” He was learning, or maybe already knew. “I wouldn't be surprised if he came to you, Patricia, you've always been so close.”
“Yes, I keep looking out at the garden, half expecting to see him there.”
Dave had started helping Patricia in the garden when he was a little boy and it had grown into a labor of love for the two of them.
The door opened and thirteen-year-old Jenny Moore walked into the room. She looked a good deal worse than her parents, genuinely distraught. Either that or, Faith quickly conjectured, like a person with something to hide.
“Jenny, why don't you show Mrs. Fairchild the garden while we finish up in here?” her mother asked.
“Sure,” muttered Jenny, a terse monosyllable from this normally bouncy kid.
Definitely hiding something, Faith concluded.
They walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. The garden was filled with mums—not stiffly in pots nor those funny football pompoms, but cascades of white, lavender, and gold—all sizes and shapes. Here and there a rosebush was still in bloom. Patricia was famous for her roses. Some were very old; varieties mostly vanished from the seed catalogs, with names like “Old Blush”
and “Rosa Mundi.” They filled the air with a sweet fragrance that mingled with the bitter smell of the mums. Someone was burning leaves. Maybe autumn in Aleford wasn't so bad.
Faith sat down on a bench under one of the rose trellises and stretched her legs out to the sun. Jenny sat next to her. Clearly the girl was miserable. Her eyes were filled with tears. Could Cindy and Jenny have been close? Somehow Faith automatically assumed that anyone she liked couldn't like Cindy, but Jenny was virtually her sister and she
had
lived with her all these years.
“Jenny, is there anything you want to talk about with me? Anything you want to ask? I know this has been a terrible shock for you.”
Faith put her arm around Jenny's shoulders and Jenny began to sob.
“It's Mom and Dad! This is so awful for them and it's just like Cindy to do it. She caused them so much trouble when she was alive and now she's dead and it's worse than ever! The phone rings all the time and all the newspapers have stories about us. It's even on TV! Robby called from college and some reporter had gotten into his dorm.” She stopped a moment and grinned through her tears.
“His buddies helped him throw the guy out the window.” She gave Faith a reassuring look. “Not a very high window.”
So much for grief, Faith thought.
“Jenny, I know that at the moment things must be terrible for you and your parents, but they will calm down soon. The police will find the murderer and the public will find something else to talk about. You'll see.”
Here was a chance to practice. Was this what a minister's wife would say? What would her mother say? Actually she found it impossible to imagine her mother in
this situation. The idea of one of her father's parishioners getting murdered was just too crazy.
The idea of one of Tom's was as bizarre, but here they were.
Jenny had stopped crying and, impelled by her promise to Dave and by native curiosity, Faith started to probe.
“Jenny, this may sound strange, but do you think Cindy was seeing anyone else besides Dave?”
Faith was sure there was another man involved in this business somewhere. She was banking on sex. Tom thought it was money. They had bet each other a dinner at a restaurant of their own choosing once the mystery was solved. Faith had something like Le Cirque in mind and Tom, she was sure, would opt for Durgin Park. Remembering the giant slabs of beef hanging over thick china plates unceremoniously banged down on the table by a waitress whose surliness was supposed to be some kind of treasured Bostonian tradition, Faith felt she had to win. For Dave, for herself, and for
la qualité de vie.
“One! Try twelve or thirteen,” snorted Jenny, “Cindy thought she was Scarlett O'Hara or something.”
The movie had been on TV recently. Faith nodded sagely.
“But was there someone particular?” she asked.
Jenny looked evasive and didn't answer right away.
“I think there might have been. But she didn't talk to me about that stuff much,” she said finally.
I'll bet she didn't, Faith thought, conjuring up a distasteful image of Cindy boasting to little Jenny about her sexual conquests. But why was the girl lying?
“You know it's not all Cindys and Scarlett O'Haras,” Faith said.
“Oh, you mean sex, Mrs. Fairchild? I know that. Look at Mom and Dad,” replied Jenny.
Faith was surprised. The Moores had always suggested
cozy comfort rather than Alex Comfort, but then one never knew. In any case, Jenny was okay and apparently not soured on men, women, and relationships for life despite her close association with Cindy.
“So how did she look anyway?” Jenny asked after a moment.
“You mean Cindy?”
“Yes. That is, if you don't mind talking about it.”
Absolutely no need to worry about Jenny, Faith thought again, and proceeded to give her what she hoped was a satisfactory description of the scene in the belfry. Although Jenny did seem a bit disappointed that there hadn't been more blood.
As they strolled back toward the house, Jenny looked up with a bright face. “They're going to bury her in her wedding gown, just like in the books, only Cindy didn't go mad with unspeakable horror on her wedding night.”
What kind of books was this child reading? Then Faith remembered the rows of turn-of-the-century ladies' novels that lined the Moores' bookshelves mixed in with first editions of T. S. Eliot and Henry James.
“You don't think that it's too weird, do you?” Cindy wanted to know. “The wedding dress?”
Faith did think it was a little weird. She supposed they had to bury her in something, but a Priscilla of Boston wedding gown did not seem much like a winding sheet, which was what Faith vaguely imagined most people were buried in.
“haven't decided whether I want to be buried or cremated,” continued Jenny, “How about you?”
Faith reached for Jenny's hand. She was reassured. Jenny was definitely fine. Whatever it was that Faith sensed was bothering her had not dulled her normal adolescent ghoulishness.
“Neither, dear,” she answered her, “I plan to float gently into the sky at the moment of dissolution only to
return to earth as an unforgetable meteor shower.” Faith had read this in a novel recently and it sounded good to her.
Jenny giggled. “Does Reverend Fairchild know about this?”
“Absolutely,” assured Faith, “But he doesn't like to talk about it, so don't mention it, please.”
The girl giggled some more and they went into the house.
Jenny seemed okay, but Faith, returning to the living room, wasn't so sure about her parents. Maybe they were just tired. It was a strain, after all, and, as Jenny had pointed out, they were constantly being bombarded by the media, the police, and everybody else in Aleford with good and bad intentions.
But would that totally account for the deep circles under Patricia's eyes and the new furrows on Robert's forehead? Robert Moore had been brutally honest about his feelings for Cindy. But was there something he wasn't saying? Faith felt more puzzled than ever. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination unimaginable, the Moores had killed Cindy, why now? They were getting rid of her in December. Somehow Faith didn't see Cindy running home for marital advice or tips on how to make good pie crust. Once she was married, she would have been gone.
The arrangements for the funeral service were complete and the Fairchilds got ready to leave. Faith stood in the large hall looking at some ship paintings on the walls while Tom went with Robert to find their coats.
“Grandfather Martin's ships,” Patricia said affectionately, “I've always loved these paintings. They were the last ships under sail that the family had. When we were children, we always called them the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, much to my grandmother's annoyance. I'm afraid we have always been a bit too
caught up in the past in this family—we were all raised with a heavy dose of quite sinful pride.”
“I don't think it's a sin to be proud of the accomplishments and personalities of another generation. We are their inheritors, after all—and the fruit on my own family tree makes quite an assortment,” Faith commented. She studied the ships again. “We had some seafarers, too, and I wish I had paintings of their vessels. These really are treasures.”
“Oh, Faith, as you can see, this is an acquisitive family. Not much ever goes out of here.” Patricia was smiling at her genetic foibles. A shadow crossed her face. “I had planned to give Cindy some family things as a wedding present. Now they won't be leaving.”
And a good thing, too, thought Faith.
 
The next morning Faith sat in church with anticipation.
Tom had been up late the night before writing his sermon, having abandoned the one he had worked on all week. She liked Tom's sermons, and not just because he was her husband. They were a mixture of good sense, eloquence, devotion, and almost never were boring.
She looked about. Sunday had dawned fair and bright, but no one seemed to have skipped church to rake leaves or go for a drive to see the foliage. The sanctuary was full.
Tom had selected “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” for the opening hymn, and the congregation did it full justice, then worked its way through the service to the responsive reading of Psalm 22. Faith began to have some idea of where Tom was heading when she heard him intone, “The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee”; and the congregation's response, “Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.”
It was a time of trouble. The worshipers had entered
the church in relative silence, without the usual cheerful Sunday buzz of greetings. There had been a few uneasy glances toward the Moores as well as at other fellow parishioners. It was clear that nobody knew what to do.
The Old Testament lesson was from Job, chapter 24. Faith had predicted that book, and now she congratulated herself on how well she knew her husband.
The New Testament lesson was Matthew 12. “A house divided against itself shall not stand.” Tom spoke the words slowly, with precision, and a note of warning in his voice.
At last it was the sermon. He climbed the stairs to the pulpit, which was raised above the congregation. All eyes were drawn upward. He didn't waste any time.
“Murder is an abomination against the Lord.
“The murder of one is a murder of all. We have lost a young person of this parish, slain before her maturity and we are slain with her. The task we face now is to comfort the grieving and look to this house. Not with suspicion, but with strength. Not with the gossip that inevitably accompanies such a tragedy and has been such an affliction for her family, but with words of care and concern.
“It is a time that bewilders us. Which, like Job, tests our faith and poses fundamental questions.
“But like Job we must arrive at the same answer. He cries out, ‘And if it be not so now, who will make me a liar, and make my speech nothing worth?'
“Job knew the answer. We know the answer. It is here with us in this place and in all the other places we inhabit. It is God who makes Job a liar and liars of all of us who curse him for the random events of this earthly life.
“Fear walks among us. I can feel it coming from you today, but our fears must take us closer to God, not away. We must walk with our fears toward God the fortress and make our house endure in his love and justice.

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