The Body In the Belfry (9 page)
Read The Body In the Belfry Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
So Dave stood under the gaily colored tent of leaves that in another time and setting might have been his bridal canopy.
He focused his binoculars on individual faces: his parents, dour and Ibsenesque; the Moores harder to read, a mixture of confusion and something that might have been sadness. Faith looked as if she was thinking of something else and Reverend Fairchild just perfect, serious, but not fake either.
Dave was so intent on the scene before him that he did not hear the branches snapping behind him. He was leaning against a tree trying to figure out what exactly he was feeling besides relief and fear when the biggest hand he had ever seen in his life came down hard on his shoulder. He froze.
“Dave Svenson?” the hand's voice asked quietly.
“Yes,” said Dave, figuring it was pointless to argue or run.
“My name is Detective Lieutenant John Dunne. I've been looking for you.”
Dunne was happy. He was seldom disappointed. They just couldn't stay away. You could count on it. They always turned up for the funeral.
Down in the cemetery, the group had dispersed. Many
of the mourners, or more accurately, attendees, had returned to the Moores' house for the traditional funeral baked meatsâin this case, thimbles of dry sherry and tea sandwiches. Faith eyed the sandwiches suspiciously. Anchovy paste on crustless triangles of white bread and maybe some egg salad spread a tenth of a millimeter thick. Still, people were managing to put away quite a lot of them. What would they do with real food? Faith asked herself. If ever a demand existed, it was here.
of the mourners, or more accurately, attendees, had returned to the Moores' house for the traditional funeral baked meatsâin this case, thimbles of dry sherry and tea sandwiches. Faith eyed the sandwiches suspiciously. Anchovy paste on crustless triangles of white bread and maybe some egg salad spread a tenth of a millimeter thick. Still, people were managing to put away quite a lot of them. What would they do with real food? Faith asked herself. If ever a demand existed, it was here.
She took some sherry in a fragile glass and looked at it appreciatively. Sandwich glass, the exquisite blown-three-mold variety. Just what she would have expected at the Moores. It was lovely not to be disappointed. In a way, the sandwiches matched the setting and occasion, too, but there was such a thing as going too far. She walked over to the window seat, covered with chintz roses, and sat down to think a few wistful thoughts.
It was still a beautiful day and people were strolling in the garden. It was not really a mournful occasion, but there was an undercurrent of tension, not lessened by Charley MacIsaac's presence at the funeral and now back at the house. He joined Faith, balancing a tiny Spode plate heaped with sandwiches and something that was not dry sherry in a tumbler. Faith smiled up at him.
“Hi, Charley, where's your big friend?”
“He does give you a start at first, I'll say that,” Charley replied, “but I don't know what he's up to today. Said he was coming to the funeral.”
“Maybe he's busy tracking down a hot lead,” Faith said. “In any case, what's the talk down at the station? Anything new?”
“Now, Faith, you know I can't discuss it with you.”
“Charley! Is that fair? After all, if I hadn't found her, you wouldn't even have a case,” Faith argued with perfect illogic, which nevertheless seemed to convince MacIsaac.
“Well, you know we're looking for a certain person to question and after that maybe we'll have something to say.”
“Oh, that's as ridiculous as the tramp theory! You've known Dave all his life. You can't honestly believe he would kill anybody!”
Charley looked Faith straight in the eye and drained his tumbler. “Faith, anybody can be a killer given the right place and the right time. Even you would kill to protect that baby of yours, right? Or Tom?”
“Yes, of course, but it's not the same!”
“It's all the same in the end. And I'm not saying Dave did kill Cindy. We just want to know where he was and where he's been.”
Faith had to be satisfied with that and, disgruntled, left MacIsaac. Of course he was keeping something from her. How was she ever going to help clear Dave if she couldn't find out what was going on? She felt it was rather mean of Charley not to share what he knew. It wasn't as if she would snitch to Detective Dunne.
She looked around the room for Tom. How long did they have to stay anyway? She had had enough of the mystery for one day, and the sherry on an empty stomachâno, she would not eat fish paste sandwichesâwas making her slightly queasy. Or maybe it was MacIsaac.
Oswald Pearson was busily jotting down notes and Faith wondered what he could be writing. Descriptions of what everyone was wearing? She noted today he didn't seem the dandy he usually was. Oswald was a round little man in his early forties who had compensated for an early loss of hair by growing a precise Van Dyck beard. The few hairs left on his head were carefully drawn across his scalp and had a tendency to rise together in a solid phalanx whenever a breeze drifted by. Today his pink and white complexion looked gray and white. Faith couldn't imagine that he was upset at
Cindy's death, especially since the headlines it was producing were increasing his circulation beyond the town limits. Maybe he was coming down with the flu. Where was Tom? When she was forced to medical speculation about the inhabitants of Aleford, she knew she had reached boredom's rock bottom.
Cindy's death, especially since the headlines it was producing were increasing his circulation beyond the town limits. Maybe he was coming down with the flu. Where was Tom? When she was forced to medical speculation about the inhabitants of Aleford, she knew she had reached boredom's rock bottom.
Just then Robert Moore came into the living room with Charley MacIsaac and said something to the Svensons. They all went out into the hall and Faith saw Erik Svenson reach for the phone. Eva Svenson clutched his arm. As if a message had been delivered, those who had been outside in the garden came in and the talking stopped.
MacIsaac left the hall, went out to his car, switched on the radio, its blare jarring the silence unpleasantly. No one could make out what was being said. Abruptly, Charley drove off.
Erik put the phone down. With Eva quietly weeping at his side, he came into the room and told them, “Dave is at the police station. That was Detective Dunne. What he said exactly was they're holding him for questioning .”
Eva stood absolutely still, with a bewildered expression on her face. Her eyes were locked on one of the portraits of Patricia's ancestors and she looked as though she wished her family had never heard of the Mooresâor Aleford either. That they could all have stayed on the farm in Sweden and never come across the ocean at all.
Tom stepped forward. “I'll go down with you, Erik, let me get my coat.” He came over to Faith, gave her a kiss, told her he would meet her at home, then left the room. The Svensons waited immobilized, until Tom came back with Robert. Robert took Eva's arm. “I've called another lawyer and he's meeting us there.” That seemed to trigger something and Eva began to sob openly. They hurried out to the cars.
Those left looked stunned and then all began to talk at once. There was a lot of anger, but also a lot of fear. It had been hard to connect the day's events with the murder. It had been a funeral like every other funeral. There had been a sense of security in going through the established motions. Now they all remembered. It wasn't just any funeral. The dead woman was a murder victim. And someone, however unlikely, had been picked up by the police.
Faith went home soon after and sat in Tom's study nursing Benjamin in the big old rocking chair her Aunt Chat had given them when Benjamin was born.
“You'll use it more than any booties or sweater I could knit,” she had said, and it had been true. It was comforting to sit and rock and Faith fell asleep with Benjamin nuzzled close to her breast. When she woke up, it was dark outside and cold. She felt stiff. Tom still wasn't home.
Faith realized she hadn't eaten anything all day and after she changed and bathed Benjamin, she went into the kitchen to make herself an omelet. She had just broken the first egg when Tom walked in. He looked horrible: His face was drawn and there were circles under his eyes that hadn't been there earlier. She broke some more eggs and got out the remnants of last night's
capelli d'angelo
and pesto to make a frittata.
capelli d'angelo
and pesto to make a frittata.
“I can't believe they are putting this kid through all this. They've been at him all afternoon. About Cindy. About the damn photographs. Even the minuscule amount of marijuana they found.”
Faith had never heard Tom sound so depressed and she quickly left the frittata to put her arms around him.
“This is too much, Tom. The funeral and now this.”
She poured him a glass of Puligny-Montrachet.
“I'll admit I'm totally overwhelmed. They really think he did it! MacIsaac and Atlas or whoever he is.
Poetic mother, my foot, more likely straight from Barnum and Bailey's!”
Poetic mother, my foot, more likely straight from Barnum and Bailey's!”
“Now, Tom, he can't help his genes and he's really not so big, he simply looks itâbig bones.”
Tom eyes her in astonishment and began to laugh helplessly. “And what, pray, is the difference?”
“You know what I mean. He's not fat like those before-and-after ads where the man has his whole family standing in a pair of his old trousers. He's just big.”
Faith was drying the lettuce, a thankless task. Tom walked over to the sink. His glass was empty and he was feeling slightly better. He planted several kisses on the back of her neck. She always smelled terrificâif it wasn't the kitchen, it was Guerlain's Mitsouko. He couldn't decide which excited him more. But the day's events crowded in again.
“Oh, Faith, I kept looking at the Svensons and thinking how we would feel if anything like this happened to Benjamin. I felt so useless. At least Robert had the sense to get on to his law firm and they sent their top criminal lawyer. Fortunately Dave had refused to say anything until his parents got there and by that time, the lawyer was on the way, so he didn't incriminate himself. The way he was going on to usâabout being guilty in thought. That's all the police had to hear.”
“What did he know about what was in the box?”
“Nothing. He was pretty amazed, in fact. It's not the behavior one expects of one's betrothed. He did say that they smoked occasionally. Cindy especially liked to smoke before they had sex. Dave didn't.”
“The old impairment theory, no doubt,” Faith interjected.
“Whatever,” Tom continued, “Anyway, Dave insists that dope never did much for him. My guess is a stiff shot of aquavit and a jump in the snow is more in the Svensons' line.”
“The police really don't have much of a motive, aside from the fact that he hated her guts. But they do have the fact that he had a quarrel with her shortly before she was killed, a quarrel in the Burger King on Middlesex Turnpike that was witnessed by most of Aleford's teenagers. He also had an appointment to meet her in the place and at the time she was murdered,” Tom spoke ruefully.
“What's going to happen now?” asked Faith.
“They'll either formally charge him with murder or keep him as long as they can for questioning. If they don't charge him, they'll have to let him go.”
They went to bed early, falling wearily, easily, but not straight, to sleep.
The next morning, Benjamin woke them up at five oâclock, soaked through and hungry. Faith fed and changed him, made a bargain with God that if He would make Benj go back to sleep again, she would try very hard to be a better person, and tumbled gratefully back to bed, God having recognized a good thing when He saw it. Then the phone, not Benjamin, awakened them at seven o'clock. It was Eva Svenson. Dave had been released on personal recognizance the night before, but the police had arrived a few minutes ago to take him in for more questioning. His father had gone with him and they hoped Tom would join them.
Faith went into the bathroom, threw up, washed her face, and decided enough was enough. She had to get busy.
She made a hasty breakfast for Tom while he was shaving and told him that while he was gone she was going to take Benjamin for a walk and pay a few calls. She toyed with the notion of going back up to the belfry to get some kind of inspiration from the scene of the crime, but she decided she wasn't desperate enough yet for what was admittedly a slim possibility. There was a
chance that Cindy's ghost was moving around restlessly until avenged or whatever, but it was more likely to be haunting the parking lot at Friendly's, where her crowd hung out, than the belfry.
chance that Cindy's ghost was moving around restlessly until avenged or whatever, but it was more likely to be haunting the parking lot at Friendly's, where her crowd hung out, than the belfry.
No, best to concentrate on the living and she figured she ought to start bravely at the source.
Millicent Revere McKinley was always home in the mornings, seeing to her garden behind the white picket fence surrounding her small, eighteenth-century clapboard house or crocheting endless doilies in an easy chair poised strategically close to her front living room window. Both activities afforded her every opportunity to keep her eye on Aleford and as it was all absolutely necessary work, no one could ever accuse her of nosiness. Was it her fault that her house was smack in the middle of town? That was where her ancestors had built it, or rather moved it. It seemed as if houses were constantly on the move in those days, presumably as neighborhoods or pastures changed, but Millicent's would stay where it
was now, thank you, if she had anything to say about it and she did.
was now, thank you, if she had anything to say about it and she did.
Faith approached the gate with not a little trepidation. She knew she had never been number one on Millicent's list of favorites and now after the bell-ringing incident, Millicent regarded her as certifiable or worse. Nor was Millicent, who attended the Congregational church as did her fathers before her, a member of the parish, which might have given Faith an opening. No, the only thing to do was throw herself on the floor (uneven pine) and beg for mercy.
Millicent answered the door with an assumed look of surprise, not a particularly nice surprise.
“Why, Mrs. Fairchild! What brings you to my little cottage so bright and early?”
From her expression, one would have thought it was about six o'clock in the morning and Millicent straight from her four-poster. Actually it was after nine and Millicent had been perched in her window as usual. Faith gritted her teeth and leaned down to take Benjamin from his stroller. Wasn't the old witch even going to ask her in?
“I have been wanting to talk with you since last Friday, Mrs. McKinley, and tell you how deeply sorry I am about the whole incident.” Faith assumed correctly that Millicent would know she was referring to the bell and not Cindy.
“I know how upset you have been over the bell ringing and I just wanted you to know that it will never happen again.” Faith felt this was a pretty safe promise to make. Another body in Aleford's belfry was as likely as a Benedict Arnold Fan Club.
“Well, that's very sweet of you, dear, but it has nothing to do with me particularly, you know. Well, perhaps a bit more than some since it was my great-great-great-grandfather
who cast the bell,” Millicent thawed minutely. “Why don't you and your baby (she managed to make the words sound dubious, as though Benjamin might perhaps be someone else's) come in and have some coffee.”
who cast the bell,” Millicent thawed minutely. “Why don't you and your baby (she managed to make the words sound dubious, as though Benjamin might perhaps be someone else's) come in and have some coffee.”
Cups in hand, they settled down in her living room with its multitude of candle stands, tilt-top tables, card tables, and whatnots, for each of which Millicent hastened to say, “Please dear, not on that surface, antique, you know.”
Faith could have sworn not a few were Ethan Allen, but she balanced her cup on her knees nonetheless and ate some more crow. Finally she managed to steer Millicent onto the murder itself and most particularly onto Cindy. Faith had a hunch that the key to the whole murder lay in Cindy's noxious personality. After all, someone had disliked her enough to kill her. If that wasn't bad personality, what was it?
“Mrs. McKinley,” she began.
“Do call me Millicent, everyone does. And I shall call you Faith, or is it Fay?”
“Faith, please, Millicentâor” (She couldn't resist) “is it Millie?”
“Millicent,” she snapped. “And you were saying?”
“Yes, well, having discovered the body and since the Svensons are members of our congregation, of course I've been giving Cindy's murder a lot of thought,” Faith said, all of which did not fool Millicent for a minute as one snooper eyed the other. Still it sounded good.
“What I've been wondering about is Cindy's other âfriends.' I'm sure Dave was not the only one, and perhaps you saw her with someone else?”
Millicent smiled. It was frightening.
“Oh, I saw Cindy all right. With Dave, of course. On their way to the belfry.
And
I knew what they were up to. But you're right. He wasn't the only one. Most of the
others were from the high school or college boys home on vacation. Nobody special. I think they all knew she was going to marry Dave, although for the life of me, I could never figure out what she saw in him.”
And
I knew what they were up to. But you're right. He wasn't the only one. Most of the
others were from the high school or college boys home on vacation. Nobody special. I think they all knew she was going to marry Dave, although for the life of me, I could never figure out what she saw in him.”
“Oh?”
Faith suddenly realized that Millicent was perhaps the sole person in town who had some admiration for Cindy. Millicent looked at her sharply.
“Yes, I thought Cindy could do a lot better. She would never have been happy with Dave. She could have had him on toast for breakfast. Not that I liked her,” and a scowl crossed her face.
Ah, thought Faith, another victim.
“No, she was mean-spirited and selfish, but she was also bright and strong. And what energy! When she organized anything, you knew it would be done correctly.”
Faith remembered that Millicent and Cindy had been the driving, very driving, forces behind that big Patriot's Day pancake breakfast every year that raised funds for the DAR and CAR.
“She was exactly like her great-grandmother Harriet, full of ambition and energy. It's an interesting family, the CoxesâCindy's great-great-grandfather was Captain Martin Cox and everybody always referred to the family as âCox,' even though Patricia's maiden name was Stoddard and they were Eliots before that.” Millicent was quick to grab any and all opportunities to show off. Her mind was a familial pursuit Rolodex.
“Harriet wrote a history of the family, which you might enjoy reading. Of course, I can't lend you my copy, but the library has one.”
“Thank you, and I wouldn't dream of taking your copy. I'll make a point of getting it from the library,” said Faith sweetly. And resolved to add the work to the list of books she would probably never read along with the collected works of Mrs. Humphrey Ward and Sir
Walter Scott that stood in leather-bound glory on the parsonage bookshelves.
Walter Scott that stood in leather-bound glory on the parsonage bookshelves.
Returning to her mission, Faith tried to steer Millicent back on course. “But,” she insisted gently, “there was never any one boy you saw Cindy with other than Dave?”
“Not âboy,' dear,” Millicent said archly, “More like âman,' but that would be telling and I do not believe in spreading idle gossip.”
The hell you don't, thought Faith bitterly. This is just to get back at me for the bell again.
Millicent stubbornly continued on her way and was talking about the Coxes again. It had been madness, Faith thought, to think that she could actually direct the conversation.
“Of course the Captain, as Martin was always called, did make a fortune, but I believe Harriet's husband added to it considerably. The Captain's money had all gone to Harriet. She was the oldest. It was some whim of his to keep it all intact. The whole will was distinctly original. The Coxes always were. In this generation Patricia got the house because her sister Polly didn't want it. Polly took the money, though, and it passed to Cindy, or would have.”
“Who will get the money now, then?” Faith asked boldly.
“Oh, it will go to Patricia, of course. And just in time, if you ask me.”
Which Faith did to no avail. Millicent Revere McKinley was more than willing to drop hints, but as for spreading around any real information of the specific “The British are coming” nature of her illustrious forebear, the answer was “Ride on.” So Faith did.
Millicent walked her to the door and continued out down the brick path in front of her house. Faith said good-bye and thanked her nicely for the coffee. She wondered
if it was worth it to come back and try again or if Millicent would continue to dangle clues in front of her cat-and-mouse style. Probably the latter. She glanced back over her shoulder. Millicent was picking a few late-blooming roses.
if it was worth it to come back and try again or if Millicent would continue to dangle clues in front of her cat-and-mouse style. Probably the latter. She glanced back over her shoulder. Millicent was picking a few late-blooming roses.
A few pink Sweetheart roses.
Faith's next stop was Eleanor Whipple's pretty white Victorian house. She didn't expect much information here. Eleanor was the soul of innocence and even if she had seen something would probably not know what it meant. Still, her house was at the foot of Belfry Hill and she just might have noticed something, or rather someone.
Eleanor welcomed her warmly and ushered Faith into her cozy parlor. Faith managed to avoid the horsehair loveseat, which always threatened to land her on the carpet, and chose a low-slung sort of folding chair covered with blue and white striped velvet.
“Father always called that the âEgyptian chair,' whether because it folds in that interesting way or because of the material, I never remembered to ask him and of course now it is too late.”
Considering that Miss Whipple's father had been dead for some thirty years, Faith thought it was much too late.
Faith got some nice digestive biscuits with her coffee this time and she was able to set it on a little découpage table in front of her.
“This looks much too fragile to use,” Faith protested.
“Oh, that's just an old piece of clutter that Mother made,” Miss Eleanor said. “Don't worry about it.”
Faith knew it wasn't at all, and managed to find a doily to slip under her cup and saucer. In Aleford, it was usually possible to find a doily someplaceâor in certain homes it was, anyway.
She took a sip of coffee; it was good and strong. She
thought of the first time she had visited Eleanor and fought to stifle the giggles that always threatened at the memory. It had been teatime and Eleanor had entered the parlor with a heavily laden tray, announcing proudly, “You'll never taste tea like this anywhere else. I make it with my own water,” and proceeded to pour a pale, slightly golden stream into Faith's cup. Was she insane? Faith wondered as she eyed the brew. Too much tatting? “Yes,” Eleanor continued, “When we modernized the kitchen, Mother made them leave the old pump by the sink. The well is right underneath, in the basement. She didn't like the taste of town water. It's all right for washing, but you don't know what could have fallen in the reservoir and we never drank it.” Faith drained her cup and had to admit the jasmine tea did taste delicious. Afterward Eleanor took her to see the pump. She insisted Faith give it a try, although the whole idea, quaint as it was, filled her with repugnance, raising the possibility of blisters and unsightly muscular development.
thought of the first time she had visited Eleanor and fought to stifle the giggles that always threatened at the memory. It had been teatime and Eleanor had entered the parlor with a heavily laden tray, announcing proudly, “You'll never taste tea like this anywhere else. I make it with my own water,” and proceeded to pour a pale, slightly golden stream into Faith's cup. Was she insane? Faith wondered as she eyed the brew. Too much tatting? “Yes,” Eleanor continued, “When we modernized the kitchen, Mother made them leave the old pump by the sink. The well is right underneath, in the basement. She didn't like the taste of town water. It's all right for washing, but you don't know what could have fallen in the reservoir and we never drank it.” Faith drained her cup and had to admit the jasmine tea did taste delicious. Afterward Eleanor took her to see the pump. She insisted Faith give it a try, although the whole idea, quaint as it was, filled her with repugnance, raising the possibility of blisters and unsightly muscular development.
Faith took another sip of coffee and glanced about the room. It was a shrine to Eleanor's ancestors. There were daguerreotypes perched on the tables and portraits of various sizes hung on the walls. Thick albums covered with velvet attested to still more. Just over Eleanor's head was a faded enlargement of three little girls with fluffy hair, their dresses covered with Fourth of July bunting. Who were they and where were they now? Faith shivered slightly, pondering the probable answer.
Eleanor had noticed her apparent interest.
“I like to be surrounded by my family,” she commented, “Of course I didn't know all these people, but I am proud of them nonetheless. Nothing is more important than your family. This was one of my mother's lessons, Faith, and I'm sure you'd agree.”
Faith gave what she hoped was an enthusiastic response
and managed to work the conversation around to the murder, “Cindy Shepherd was distantly related to you, I understand. What do you think about all this?”
and managed to work the conversation around to the murder, “Cindy Shepherd was distantly related to you, I understand. What do you think about all this?”
“I think it is terrifically inconvenient for Robert and Patricia,” she commented emphatically. That seemed to be the extent of her thinking, although she was willing to talk as much as Faith wanted.
When Faith asked if Eleanor had seen anyone go up the hill on Friday, or noticed Cindy going up on other days, she looked up from the detailed bit of petit point she was working on, “You know, my eyes are not what they used to be, dear, and in any case, I'm afraid even if I had seen someone, I wouldn't have known who it was. I don't know the names of all the young people anymore. Of course I knew Cindy.” There was a noticeably acerbic tinge to her voice, “But not her friends.”
She returned to her handwork. It was easy to see why her eyes were going.
Faith was forced to concede she wasn't going to get anything from Eleanor, and after some delightful minutes spent with Eleanor admiring Benjamin, she firmly refused lunchâWelsh rarebitâand set off for her third and final stop.
As she sat down at Pix Miller's big kitchen table, Faith had to admit she was there as much for some cheering up as information. Certainly morale was important in any murder investigation.
It wasn't that Pix was little Mary Sunshine exactly and thank goodness. What she radiated was solid common sense mixed with a very funny sense of humor.
She had been a tiny child and her parents had whimsically called her “Pixie”âwhy do people do these things, Faith wondered, resolving that she would stop calling Benjamin “Punkin” immediately lest it stick with him unto old age. Pixie had solved the problem by shooting up alarmingly in her teens so that at close to six
feet, “Pixie” was not only ludicrous, but obscene. Still, old habits die hard and she became “Pix,” which seemed to suit her. When Faith finally remembered to ask her what her “real” name was, it turned out to be “Myrtle.” After the ground cover with the pretty little purple flowers. Who were these people? So “Pix” it was.
feet, “Pixie” was not only ludicrous, but obscene. Still, old habits die hard and she became “Pix,” which seemed to suit her. When Faith finally remembered to ask her what her “real” name was, it turned out to be “Myrtle.” After the ground cover with the pretty little purple flowers. Who were these people? So “Pix” it was.
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