The Body in the Bonfire (14 page)

They didn't get the allusion, but that was all right. They got the drift.

“I have a cousin Robert who was always called Rabbit, until a couple of years ago he did the same thing and just said it wasn't his name anymore,” Brian said. It was the most Faith had heard him say since she'd seen him the first day in class. Friendship is a wonderful thing.

“See you guys in class and perhaps over the weekend. Dan, Mansfield is having their bonfire on Sunday night and we're going. Why don't you come with us?”

“I think I'm grounded until my fortieth birthday, but I'll ask my mom.” The other two laughed. Dan didn't.

She walked away, her thoughts focused on what had been on the screen that they didn't want her to see. The most obvious possibility was porn of some kind. She knew it was ludicrously easy to access just about anything sexual two—or more—human beings might engage in. Make that animals, too. Given the state of their hormones, porn was the most likely. But could it have been something else? Something violent? Something
forbidden? She tried to erase the notion of the three boys hacking into some sort of missile-control system or even the system at Aleford High to boost Dan's GPA from her mind. “Cyberite”—that was the nom de plume used to disguise her correspondent's identity. It sounded like something these guys would pick, but why? No, it had to be Sloane.

It didn't take long to empty the canisters, clean them out, and replace the contents. She was almost finished when Paul Boothe entered with a package of frozen enchiladas from Trader Joe's. He was quite surprised to see her.

“Mrs. Fairchild! This
is
devotion. And on a Friday. I've just decided to forgo dinner and have my own little TGIF celebration in my rooms with this and a goodly amount of scotch.”

It seemed that he had already imbibed a goodly amount of said liquor.

“Mrs. Mallory is taking the class tomorrow and I had to get some things ready for her. No gathering at the headmaster's?” Faith realized she hadn't received an invitation. Perhaps it had been a onetime courtesy.

“Canceled. Our beautiful, magnificent, outrageous Zoë is not permitting anyone to enter her abode until she has her trinkets back. But I speak too lightly. It was a major theft and I can well understand why she's furious.”

“But she couldn't possibly suspect one of the faculty!” Faith exclaimed.

He grinned slightly lopsidedly from the liquor. His pockmarked face assumed an altogether different look—rakish, roguish, and definitely leering. She was glad to hear the
click, click
sound of the keyboards coming from the room next door.

“The faculty,” he answered her, “are no better than the boys, and in some cases, quite a bit worse. Plus, we don't make very much money and the Harcourts' missing items would go a long way toward raising one's quality of life—if not now, then in the not-too-distant future.” He stared pointedly at his frozen entree.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Faith intended to take full advantage of the man's loose lips.

“That would be telling, but I will say it is not I. Too déclassé, and it's up to us superior beings to keep standards high. I reveal myself as a social Darwinist, but then, you are probably not familiar with the concept, its having no culinary implications except in relation to food-gathering techniques.”

He popped his dinner in the microwave and pushed some buttons. Faith thought little of his food-gathering skills, but, ignoring the put-down, she said mildly, “Yes, I know what a social Darwinist is and am glad not to be so self-described.” His reference to scotch and now social Darwinism, that intellectual exercise to justify the superiority of one's own gene pool—just what Mansfield kids
needed—reminded her of Sloane Buxton. Sloane's room wasn't far from the teacher's. Was he, even now, sitting in front of the fire in Boothe's room with his Mark Cross travel bar open, waiting to resume their mutual-admiration society? Sloane, the perfect specimen, seemed tailor-made to be one of Boothe's followers.

“Have you ever had Sloane Buxton in class?”

“Our own Adonis. No, I'm afraid little Sloane has never made the cut. Smart boy, just not intelligent. He's in a kind of discussion club I run, though. An informal grouping. We meet in my rooms to talk about various things. Our last topic was the roots of Aquinas's
Summa theologica
in Abelard's and Anselm's thought.”

That must have had them on the edge of their seats, Faith said to herself as she left the room. There must be more to this select little club than medieval philosophy. What else was Boothe passing on—or out? She left the teacher to his dinner preparations, and stepping into the next room to get to the front door, she noted Brian, Dan, and Zach were just in front of her. She debated offering Dan a ride again, but let it go. Clearly, the boy wanted no part of the adult world—or at least the one he associated with his parents.

It was quite dark and she was hurrying along the path, her head down as the biting wind blew straight into her face.

“Whoops! Sorry, Mrs. Fairchild. I wasn't looking where I was going.”

“Neither was I.” It was Sloane and they had collided. His laptop case had fallen to the ground, as had Faith's pocketbook. For a moment, they were occupied gathering up their belongings and repeating apologies. In his Nautica jacket, school scarf wound around his neck, and earmuffs, he could have stepped from the pages of Mansfield's glossy brochure—the picture of healthy young manliness. A sound mind in a sound body indeed. The school's motto was
Veritas et Bonitas
—Truth (and a nod to Harvard) and Goodness. At the moment, Sloane seemed to embody it. But it was all on the surface. She was sure of that. The temptation to bundle the boy into her car and drive straight to the Averys' house for questioning was almost overwhelming. Monday. They were going to wait until Monday.

“I've been enjoying your class. What's on for tomorrow?” he asked politely, both of them with teeth almost visibly chattering, wishing to be on their way.

“Mrs. Mallory will be imparting some of her baking secrets to all of you—old favorites, I gather. But don't let me keep you out in the cold. See you Monday, or Sunday at the bonfire.”

“Ah yes, the bonfire. My last one. Would you like me to walk you to your car? It's so dark now, and what with Mrs. Harcourt's recent experience, there's no telling who might be lurking about.” He seemed to relish the thought.

“That's quite all right,” Faith said crisply.
“Thank you, but I'm just over there.” She pointed to the lot by the main building. She couldn't leave without trying to get some information from him, though.

“The argument—the one you were having with Daryl Martin before class today—what was it about?”

If he was startled by the abruptness of her question, he didn't show it.

“I wasn't arguing with Daryl. You must have received a mistaken impression. My friends and I were fooling around, kidding each other. Possibly he misinterpreted something. But I have nothing against Martin. Diversity is the cornerstone of our democracy.”

Faith felt herself gag and vowed to make regular meetings with Patsy or someone very much like Patsy part of whatever was going to happen to Sloane Buxton.

There was a second or two of silence. “Well then,” he said, “I'll take my leave.” And he did.

What was it about this place? Sloane, Paul Boothe, Winston Freer, Zoë—they all talked and acted like caricatures of themselves. Puzzling about the school, Dan Miller, and whether Tom would remember to preheat the oven for their pizza took her all the way home.

 

Tom's parents had beamed all through the service, and while Faith thought the sermon topic, “Commitment, Not Confinement,” was a bit
pointed, even that went over well. As usual, Dick Fairchild repeated that he was darned if he knew how he had ended up with a preacher for a son to any number of parishioners at coffee hour and Marian sought out the women she knew, sitting as far away as possible. Faith rushed home with the kids, fed them, and put the finishing touches to the traditional Sunday dinner she'd prepared: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, green beans almondine, and Parker House rolls, along with cups of potato-leek soup to start and a mile-high apple pie to finish. Her hope was for profound postprandial drowsiness to settle over the men as they watched some sort of sporting event on TV, while she pumped Marian, who ate like a bird, for information during the washing up. Her mother-in-law would insist, and this time Faith wouldn't refuse her offer of help. Ben would enjoy sitting with his father and grandfather. Amy, who would probably awaken from her nap just as the pie was served, could make Play-Doh food at the kitchen table. Unlike Ben at this age, she would drift into her own world and the adults around her could speak freely.

Dick Fairchild scraped the last morsel of his second piece of pie from his plate. “You'd be the death of me if we lived any closer, Faith. I am well and truly satisfied.” He stood up and pushed in his chair. “Son, why don't we men-folk watch the pregame show and leave the ladies to enjoy each other's company?”

It was well and truly embarrassing.

“Sure, Dad, you go on in. I'll just help get these dishes off the table.”

“Now, now, I'm sure Faith doesn't need any help about the kitchen.” He frowned. Didn't Tom get it?

“Your dad's right, honey. You watch the game. There isn't that much to do here,” she lied.

Marian stood to one side, smiling slightly during the exchange. She helped Faith clear, then when her daughter-in-law voiced her token protest—“Oh really, you don't need to help”—Marian replied, “That's sweet of you, dear. It's nice not to have to clean up every once in a while. What I'd love to do is sit with my granddaughter and read to her. How about that, Amy? Do you want to go to your room with Granny and pick out some books?”

Amy, of course, squealed with delight, and after they left the room hand in hand, Faith wanted to squeal in dismay. It wasn't that she felt driven to have this little heart-to-heart with Marian. It was facing Tom and his father with the news that she was as clueless as they were. No, that was wrong. She wasn't clueless. She knew exactly what Marian was doing and why, but she hadn't actually heard her say anything.

Maybe there would be time later.

But there wasn't. Faith walked into the den, to find only Ben awake, watching clips from Ravens and Giants games so intently, he didn't hear her.
Dick Fairchild had nixed the bonfire because he had previous plans to watch the Super Bowl with his brother, Ed (Fairchild Ford in nearby Duxbury). Marian and Dick would be leaving at five. It was getting to be “now or never” time for Faith's talk with her mother-in-law. Faith went upstairs. Amy and Granny had moved from books to dolls and were having a grand old time.

“Such a treat for me,” Marian said. “I can never get enough of this special little girl.” The special little girl threw herself into her grandmother's arms. Faith didn't have the heart to intrude on this lovefest, and besides, there could well be a special circle in hell for mothers who would.

She went back to the kitchen and made chicken soup with chickpeas, onion, tomato, ditalini, and rosemary for supper. She'd send some home with her in-laws, along with some baguettes and some cheeses from Formaggio Kitchen—Cheddar for Dick, Camembert for Marian. They'd have the same themselves. No matter how much they'd eaten at dinner, they'd still need something before they went to the bonfire.

The bonfire. Ben was tremendously excited to be staying up this late on a school night. There had been a break in the recent cold spell and the sun had shone all day. The moon had been the merest hint of a smile last night; it would be a grin tonight in the clear, star-speckled sky. Faith was excited, too. She planned to slip away and give John MacKenzie's room, as well as those of
Sloane's friends, who were also in Carleton House, a quick once-over. They were pretty sure it was Sloane, yet they didn't know if anyone else was involved or not. She thought about Paul Boothe's little club. She'd like to get into his room and look around. Check his linens, for example. Make sure the only white sheets were on his bed.

Things were strangely silent next door at the Millers'. Pix's car hadn't left the driveway. They'd been in church—Dan, too—but hadn't stayed for coffee hour. Pix had given a little wave and smiled. One of those only-with-your-mouth smiles. Faith had told Tom all about the situation yesterday morning before they went off to the New England Aquarium with the kids. He was understandably concerned, but he agreed with Faith that she should try not to get between Dan and his parents. Dan was in the church youth group and Tom thought the best place to start would be for him to have a talk with the boy. They'd always gotten along well together. Then, with Dan's permission, Tom could speak with Sam and Pix or all three of them.

“It's about time he told them not to call him Danny. All his friends call him Dan, and Danny is a little kid's name,” Tom had said.

And he's not a little kid anymore, Faith had thought, flashing back to the hidden computer monitor at Mansfield.

Marian and Amy came into the kitchen.

“Do you think we should wake our boys up?” Marian asked. “They look so peaceful, but it's getting late.”

“I think this is a job for Amy. Be gentle, sweetheart. Don't jump on Daddy and Grandpa. Just give them a kiss or a little tap on the shoulder.”

The three-year-old raced off gleefully.

Marian, not a demonstrative woman, give Faith a slight squeeze.

“I know you probably wanted to talk to me today—or rather, that your husband and my husband wanted you to talk to me today—but there really isn't anything to say. I'm not a young woman, nor would I want to be. I've enjoyed my life so far. I simply want to do a few things I've never been able to fit in. I'm sorry Dick is upset, but he'll get used to it.”