The Body In The Bog (28 page)

“Is this the no-MSG place? Changhai?” Brad asked.

“Of course.” Pix was indignant. The young man was lucky he had even been asked to dinner. There was no need to cast aspersions on her culinary judgment. She had picked up a thing or two from her employer. They had stopped using the place that drenched everything in red dye number two sweet sauce months ago.

Charley and John arrived, creating another round of confusion. Contrary to usual practice, Detective Dunne was ready for food. He and Charley had had to leave a perfectly good meat-loaf dinner, barely touched, on the table at the Café. He grabbed a container of rice, one of pork with black-bean sauce, and dug in, first carefully removing his Sulka tie.

“What have we missed?” Charley asked.

“Nothing,” Faith answered. “We've been waiting for you. Is Nelson conscious?”

“Yes, but he's not making much sense. You hit him good and hard. He seems to think he's getting married on Saturday—to you, Lora.” Charley was sitting across from the Deanes. He added, somberly, “Seems to believe it absolutely. Says he gave you a ring.”

All three Deanes dropped their forks.

“You were getting married and you didn't tell us!” Lillian wailed.

“He's old enough to be your father!” Gus thundered.

“Stop shouting at me! I don't even really know the man!” Lora protested. “Somebody tell me what's going on?”

John had wedged a chair next to Faith's. He was annoyed with her for setting the trap. They'd suspected Nelson Batcheldor for some time and were trying to collect evidence. It was true they hadn't come up with much, but Dunne did not approve of ordinary citizens taking police matters into their own hands, especially at considerable risk. But then, Faith wasn't an ordinary citizen. He reached for another container. He wasn't picky when it came to Chinese food. This one had some kind of chicken with fruit. It tasted like oranges or tangerines.

He and Charley had agreed not to tell the Fairchilds Nelson's other babblings, most of which concerned all the things he planned to do to Faith to get even. John hitched his chair closer to Faith's. With Dunne on one side and Tom just as close on the other, she was beginning to feel as if she'd acquired an extremely mismatched set of bookends.

“Between the two of us, we ought to be able to answer Lora's question, don't you think?” he said to Faith. She'd had a few pot stickers and that was all she felt like eating for now. Her appetite had deserted her when the police arrived and she'd realized they'd be going over the events of the evening.

“Shall I start?” she asked. He nodded. His mouth was full.

“Nelson Batcheldor was deeply unhappy in his
marriage to Margaret. He was also an extremely disturbed person with a distorted view of reality. That meant he didn't do any of the things another man in his position might have—seek counseling, get a divorce. Instead, he developed a rich fantasy life revolving around getting rid of Margaret and replacing her with his ideal mate. I'm afraid that turned out to be you, Lora,” Faith explained.

“Me! Why did he pick me! And how could he possibly have thought I'd be interested in him? He was old and not exactly what I'd call attractive.”

Faith knew what Lora called attractive and she agreed silently. Nelson Batcheldor was not it. Now the old part, that was debatable, especially as the years were passing. The young woman's reaction had chased away any lingering suspicions Faith had had about her involvement in Nelson's schemes. He had sounded so definite about their plans, as if they had been spending every spare moment planning their future together.

“He wanted children,” Lillian Deane informed them. “And wasn't he doing all that carpentry work at the school? He must have seen how gifted you are with them,” Lora's grandmother said with pride. “The only reason I know how much he wanted to be a father was a remark he made many years ago. I was pushing you in your stroller, Lora.” She paused as the irony of the situation was duly registered by everyone present. “He stopped me and told me what a beautiful baby you were, which was true. Such lovely soft curls and big blue eyes. ‘You're a very lucky woman, Lillian,' he
said. ‘I'll never be a father—or a grandfather. It's the tragedy of my life.' I tried to reassure him. Of course, he and Margaret were quite young then. He cut me right off, ‘It's out of my hands.' Those were his very words. He smoothed your hair and tucked the blanket around you and left. I remember thinking what a good father he would have made. It's a shame. I always thought he meant they couldn't have children.”

No one had interrupted Mrs. Deane's lengthy reminiscence. They weren't used to hearing so much from her, especially when Gus was around. Faith resolved to get to know the woman better.

“Always thought it was some sort of plumbing problem,” Gus commented. “Didn't like to pry.”

“Margaret didn't want children. That was one of the things he held against her,” Faith explained. “But that wasn't the only thing wrong—the only thing he held against her.”

Nevertheless, Pix, Lillian, and Lora exchanged meaningful glances. Not want children! Faith felt compelled to come to the defense of friends, relatives, strangers who'd decided otherwise.

“Children are not for everyone.”

“Amen,” said Charley. “Now let me get this straight, Lora. He didn't give you a ring. Didn't approach you in any way?”

“No, he was rather shy. I don't think we ever had a conversation about anything except the size of the bookshelves and the weather. No, wait, he was there when my friend came and acted out some stories with
the children. He was very impressed by her and came over to talk afterward.”

Faith told them about the Story Lady and her transformation of Lora into Lorelei.

“I can never let her know.” Lora was aghast.

“If it hadn't been then, it would have been another time. When you were singing ‘Wheels on the Bus' or reading
Love You Forever
—that's a real tearjerker. Nelson saw his devotion to you as a pure and holy thing. It justified everything else.”

“We had our suspicions that he may have staged his own poisoning, but we weren't sure how,” John said. “We'd found some vodka nips with his fingerprints on them in the men's room trash at St. Theresa's. Alcohol intensifies the effects of chloral hydrate. But we couldn't figure out how and when he'd taken the drug itself. He was lucky he didn't kill himself.”

“It would have been lucky for Joey,” Gus said sternly.

Faith realized she'd have to reveal Joey's blackmail activities to his in-laws. She wasn't sure this was the time or place.

“He'd practiced on himself,” she told them, then described the way he'd brought the chloral into the hall.

“A Minuteman for twenty years. It's hard to fathom,” Gus remarked. Like Millicent, uncharacteristically remaining in the background, Gus believed certain avocations produced unassailable moral fiber.

Before the talk ventured into Joey Madsen's activities, Faith brought up her question.

“Nelson confessed to sending the letters and cutting the hydraulic hoses on the excavator—and the murders—but he didn't say anything about the calls. Did you ask him about them—and the brick through Lora's window?”

Lora flushed and looked at Brad. He sat up and swallowed hastily. Somehow most of the smoky chow foon rice noodles with beef and peppers were finding their way to his end of the table.

“Hey, I didn't call you! You made it perfectly clear that you never wanted to hear from me again. Or made it clear to my answering machine, I should say. And why would I throw a brick through your window? Why would anyone?”

His anger intensified his good looks. A bit of the moors—of Heathcliff—swept into the room.

“That was insensitive of me, I'm sorry. I should have spoken with you in person, but I wasn't sure I'd go through with it then.”

Gus appeared to be fearing the rekindling of a flame he had considered doused, the ashes raked into the ground. “We're wandering here. If Hallowell didn't make the calls, who did?”

Dunne answered. “Nelson again.” He regarded Lora with pity. She was going to have a great deal to work out. “He just wanted to hear your voice.”

 

There wasn't much to say after that—or rather, there was, but no one wanted to voice the sentiments. It was sad, horrible, scary. Millicent broke the mood.

“So, Gus, what are you going to do about the bog?”

Before Gus could reply, Sam intervened. “You don't have to answer that, especially not in my nice, peaceful house.”

Everyone laughed. Gus put the tips of his fingers together. He regarded each face in turn. Faith knew what he thought about the project. She wondered what he would say—if anything.

“The bog. The damned bog, as far as I'm concerned. Joey would still be alive. Probably not poor Margaret, but it gave her crazy husband a way to do her in. I'd just as soon never see the bog again or hear about it. But we own it. It's ours.”

Millicent wasn't one to back down. “I know that, but you don't have to go through with Alefordiana Estates. There are other options.”

Gus nodded. Lillian was poking him in the ribs. “Don't worry, Mother, I'm not going to embarrass you. You're right, Millicent. We have lots of options, but they're
our
options. I don't mind consulting with you, but not with that group you got up. That's got to go. Divides the town into warring factions, and we have enough natural divisions.” Gus reached across the table to shake Sam's hand. “Thank you for your advice and for dinner. This is the first time we've been invited to your house.” Pix turned scarlet. “Now, Pix, don't feel bad. We haven't invited you to ours, either. And all of us have lived in Aleford since we were hatched. We have a lot of work to do.”

Faith knew she was witnessing an occasion as historic as the events celebrated each Patriots' Day. But she was tired. Someone had tried to kill her and come
very close. She wanted to kiss her sleeping children. She wanted to make love with her husband.

“Tom, let's go home.”

 

“I couldn't sleep a wink all night.”

Lora and Faith were having a late lunch at Geoffrey's on Tremont Street in the South End. When Faith considered the local options for their tête-à-tête, none had seemed suitable. A picnic at the bog, and anything reminiscent thereof, was out. So was The Minuteman Café or the inn—too public. The Fairchild kitchen meant constant interruption. And obviously, meeting at the Deanes was impossible. Lora did have two apartments, but Faith wanted the teacher off her own turf, vulnerable, and ready to spill her guts. Geoffrey's had great food and was close to Chandler Street. After meeting with Lora, Faith planned to visit Bridey. She felt she owed the woman an explanation, and besides, she wanted to see her again. With Nelson securely behind bars, Tom was happy to watch the kids and give his wife an afternoon out. Niki was making the bourguignon and meringues, with Pix as
sous
-chef. All bases were covered—a rare occurrence. Faith had driven into town, a little light-headed, and entertained a fleeting thought of keeping on going—that primal urge to run away from home that most women experience at times. “Why, I could just keep on driving.”

Lora had been waiting at the restaurant and started talking before Faith even sat down. They ordered and Lora picked up where she'd left off.

“I kept wondering whether all this would have happened if I had gone to the police in the first place, as you and Reverend Fairchild wanted me to.”

The same thing had suggested itself to Faith—as soon as Detective Dunne had revealed the source of the calls.

Resisting the urge to say, “I think there's a lesson here,” Faith settled with, “I think I understand why you didn't want to go to the police, but the phone calls themselves were a crime and shouldn't have been covered up. Charley would have helped you get the phone company to trace them.”

Behind her glasses, two big tears welled in Lora's eyes. Her hair wasn't pulled back and she did have some makeup on, but otherwise she looked like her everyday self.

“I could have saved Joey's life. I'll never be able to forgive myself.”

There was enough guilt in the world. Lora wasn't a parent yet, but she had a mother. Faith couldn't let her sit there and suffer, weeping into her grilled-vegetable sandwich.

“You should have reported the calls, but remember, you didn't tell us about them until that Wednesday. You went away the following weekend, which we'll get to in a minute, and Nelson must have known that. He didn't make any more calls, so there would have been nothing to trace. Then Margaret's death was Monday night, or, strictly speaking, Tuesday morning. You got a brick through your window, then moved to Gus and Lillian's house.”

“You're right! I never got any more calls. He must have been too nervous to call. I didn't recognize his voice, but I'd never talked to him much, and he may have used a handkerchief. I've seen that on TV. I bet he thought grandfather would, though.”

Or he was too busy cutting up magazines, filling balloons with chloral hydrate, attending his wife's funeral—no idle moments for Nelson, Faith thought.

“But I still don't get it. Why was he threatening me if he was in love with me?” Lora asked.

“It's hard to say. Maybe somewhere deep inside, he was conflicted about his attraction to you and wanted the temptation removed? Or more likely, he hoped if you moved away, he'd be able to see you without the whole town knowing.”

“He probably doesn't know himself. Kind of an approach-avoidance thing.” It seemed Lora was reading more than Dr. Seuss.

Faith took a bite of her southwestern chicken salad. Lora had perked up considerably during their foray into the unconscious. Now was as good a time as any.