The Body in the Bonfire (18 page)

 

Marian had no problem putting the visit off for a day, and when Tom heard the circumstances, he offered to work at home. Amy was puzzled at the change of clothes, but not overly so. So much of her life seemed to be made up of grown-ups moving her along from one quixotic thing to the next at varying rates of speed.

Charley's directions were good and Faith had no trouble finding Route 62 after turning off 128.
She'd tried listening to “Talk of the Nation,” yet soon realized her mind wasn't simply wandering, but on an extremely long journey. She popped a tape in and contented herself with not listening to Vivaldi instead.

She checked the address, looked at the house, then checked the address again. There had to be some mistake. This wasn't the solid brick center entrance Colonial abode or sprawling cedar-shingled Victorian with wraparound porch—typical dwellings for the area's elite. Come to think of it, shouldn't the likes of Sloane be in Beverly Farms, Manchester-by-the-Sea, or Prides Crossing?

She got out of the car and approached the small Cape. The concrete path leading to the front door was well shoveled and a heavy coating of Halite discouraged any ice formation. The Buxtons were careful people. Their Christmas wreath still hung limply on the aluminum storm door. New Englanders got their trees down fast, but exterior ornaments lingered on until Easter in many cases. Faith had never been sure whether it was to add some cheer to a dismal season or to match it. She rang the bell and the door opened instantly. They must have been watching from the window.

The two parents stood side by side. Mr. Buxton put out his hand and said, “Norm Buxton. Good of you to drive up here, Mrs. Fairchild. This is my wife, Irene.” His voice faltered. “Please, come in and sit down.”

Irene couldn't speak at all and the tears that
she must have been shedding steadily since yesterday streamed down her cheeks, filling the tiny powdery lines of her face. She dabbed at them ineffectually with a handkerchief and motioned toward the adjoining dining area. The table was laden with platters of sandwiches, cookies, bundt cakes, pastries, fruit—the offerings of friends and relatives, when nothing offered can possibly help.

Faith shook her head and sat down.

For an instant, her mind flashed on the Harcourts' living room—the intense colors, the exquisite furniture, the fire crackling in the marble-faced fireplace. Fire. She pushed the thought away. This living room was similar in name only—colorless and truly lifeless. Decor by Levitz and all of it beige. There was a fireplace with fake bricks and a fake fire. It had not been turned on. There was a large TV in an inexpertly stained pine cabinet. The walls were off-white and adorned with two seascapes, probably purchased at one of the open-air art exhibits on a sunny summer's day in Rockport. Faith recognized Pigeon Cove. It wasn't a bad painting, but it wasn't a good one, either. She looked about the room. There wasn't a single item that Sloane could have approved of—except the photographs. Every surface was covered with framed shots of Sloane from birth to his graduation portrait on the mantel, larger than an eight-by-ten, dominating all the others.

It was heartbreaking.

Irene Buxton found her voice.

“Tell us about Friday. Tell us how Joey was.”

“Joey?”

“I mean Sloane. We always called him ‘Joey' at home. He's Joseph Sloane Buxton, but he decided he liked his middle name better when he went off to private school. He was ten, wasn't he?” She looked at her husband.

He nodded. “We wanted the best for our son. Because he was the best.” His throat closed over the last words.

Faith told them everything she could think of, embellishing the encounter on the path, emphasizing his good manners, the way he'd helped her retrieve her fallen bag. She waxed enthusiastic about his culinary skills and enjoyment of the class. She dragged in his popularity, his obvious close friendship with James and Sinclair.

Norm and Irene Buxton sat in rapt attention, nodding every once in a while. But eventually, Faith had no more to say. No more she could tell the devastated parents. No talk of bigotry, of bullying, of sex.

“I'm sorry I don't have more to tell you. I met your son only last Wednesday.” It seemed much longer.

“That's all right. You've made us very happy, coming up here. We just wanted to see you, had to see you.”

“I'm sorry,” Faith repeated. “I'm so sorry.”

“We can't figure out how it happened is all,” Norm said in a dull voice. “A lunatic. It has to be a lunatic.”

Irene began to sob. Faith stood up to go.

“You'll want to see his room.” It wasn't a question. Norm and Irene led the way upstairs. The top floor of the Cape had been converted into one large open bedroom and bath for Sloane—Joey. Here were all the things Faith had expected to see in his dorm room and more. Stereo, TV, athletic trophies, model cars, a Mansfield banner on one wall, one from Harvard on another. Irene followed Faith's eye. “He was so excited about going to Harvard. It was what he'd wanted since he was a very little boy.”

“I didn't realize that he'd gotten in,” Faith said. “I didn't know he was early decision.”

“Oh, it wasn't early decision. He found out two weeks ago. That's why we stopped by on Sunday. To surprise him and take him out to celebrate. Harvard and my birthday.”

Norm's arm, which had been around his wife's shoulders, tightened. “There, there, now, Mother.” He closed the door and they went back down the stairs.

“He never forgot,” Irene said. “The package arrived on Saturday and I decided to wait and open it when we were all together.”

Faith realized there was a large “Happy Birthday, Mom” card on the mantel next to Sloane's picture. What she had also missed seeing was
Sloane's gift. Irene picked it up and held it reverently in her hand. It caught the light and sent tiny rainbows across the dull walls.

“He wrote on the card that he'd found it in a flea market last summer when he was in Maine visiting one of his school friends and saved it for now. He was always so thoughtful. It's beautiful, isn't it?” Irene's fingers closed tightly around the object.

It
was
beautiful.

It was also Zoë Harcourt's missing diamond-studded enamel powder case.

 

Faith sped down Route 128 as fast as she dared. She wanted to get home before the Mansfield students went to dinner. Sloane had stolen Zoë's treasures, and there was only one place the rest of them could be. Only one place that made sense. Sense. Things were beginning to make sense. At least she was beginning to get a sense of how and when. The theft had been well planned. Sloane knew the house, knew what to take, and dropped a button to frame Daryl. He knew the first thing the Harcourts would do was order a room-by-room inspection of student blazers. It was pure chance that Daryl got there first. And the murder. After she saw him, Sloane must have gone to his room and dropped off his laptop before dinner. His bed hadn't been slept in, although the murderer could have made it up if in fact Sloane had been killed on Saturday morning. It was impor
tant that it appear Sloane had been gone for as long as possible. If the maintenance workers hadn't been so diligent, it might have been some days before the school or the Buxtons raised an alarm. But Saturday morning didn't feel right. Nighttime, not daylight. Faith was certain Sloane had been killed on his way to the dining hall. Killed shortly after she'd seen him. And killed after he'd sent her that E-mail. He hadn't liked being questioned about what had happened with Daryl in class, hadn't liked Mrs. Fairchild suggesting he, Sloane Buxton, could be up to anything wrong. Sent a last message through cyberspace, went down the stairs, out the door to his death.

She passed the Burlington Mall. She had yet to enter the place. Just the size of the parking lots was discouragement enough. If she had taught the class on Saturday, she'd have marked Sloane absent and the sheet would have gone to the headmaster's office. Connie Reed would have known and certainly would have hunted the boy down to issue whatever the punishment was for cutting classes. But Mrs. Mallory took the class, and it was a fair assumption that she wouldn't take attendance. Who knew about the substitution? Sloane, and possibly he'd mentioned it to James and Sinclair, but no. They were saving his place at dinner. They hadn't seen him since sometime that afternoon, she recalled. Mrs. Mallory knew, of course, and Mabel, and anyone
going to the kitchen for information the way Daryl did. Then there was Connie Reed and possibly Robert Harcourt, who might have heard about it from her. And one more person. He'd come to prepare his frugal repast Friday evening. Paul Boothe. Paul Boothe knew she wouldn't be teaching Cooking for Idiots the next day. And Paul Boothe hadn't been in the dining hall, either.

 

As soon as she entered the house, Faith said a hasty hello and “Won't be a minute” to her family, then headed to her computer and went on-line. “Be there, Daryl. Be there,” she prayed as she went to instant messaging. He was there.

“Whazzup?”

“I know this sounds weird, but go to your bookshelf and open up Janson and Brinton. Don't touch what you find there, if you do find something,” Faith typed.

“Will do.”

She could see him crossing the room and lifting the other books that had been piled on top of his art history text and the one for History of Western Civilization. It wouldn't take long.

“Holy shit! What am I going to do?” The words flew onto her screen.

“Absolutely nothing. The only other person who knows what's in them is dead. Put the books in your knapsack and bring it to the Carleton House kitchen before chapel and class tomorrow. I'll take care of everything.”

“I am not going to sleep well tonight, I can tell you.”

“Sorry. It's the only safe way to handle it. I can't come on campus now. It's too risky. Delete all this and don't worry!”

“Okay. By the way, you are one smart lady.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

Faith hit delete, closed down, and went to join her family.

Sloane had created a win-win situation for himself. He must have cut the hiding places in the thick books well before the theft, then stashed the three objects inside and switched his books with Daryl's when he cut the button from Daryl's blazer. If the room searches had been more thorough, Daryl would have been exposed as the thief and that would have been okay for Sloane. Since they weren't, he had the goods safely stashed to retrieve sometime during Project Term, before the Western Civ course started again. It was highly unlikely that Daryl would decide to bone up on Masaccio or Donatello during this downtime.

As soon as Faith had seen the birthday gift, she knew the rest of the Russian treasure trove had to be in Daryl's room. She—and the police—had searched Sloane's and she had also gone over his friends' rooms, assuming they were in on it. That left Daryl, and it was all about Daryl. Hollowed-out books make nifty hiding places, and there weren't really any other places Sloane could have used in Daryl's sparse room.

Zoë would get her trinkets back. But not all of them. There was no way Faith was going to expose Sloane as a thief to his grieving parents. Irene could keep her flea-market find, a last gift from a devoted son—and he did seem to have been devoted to his parents, his worshipers. Faith would put on gloves tomorrow, take Grandmother's pillbox and the other things from the gutted books, wrap them in something, and put them in the mailbox in front of the Harcourts' house. A pleasant alternative to junk mail. The only prints they'd find, if they dusted for them, would be Sloane's, and there was no way to compare them now.

She couldn't wait to tell Tom.

 

With an apology to make it up to them another time, Faith ended the Wednesday class early so she could get Amy and make it down to her mother-in-law's in time for lunch. She also had to leave a little parcel for Zoë. Being in possession of stolen goods, even briefly, was making her nervous. And when she saw how tired Daryl looked, she knew he'd meant it when he said he wouldn't sleep. He had left his knapsack under the table by the window and she had taken it upstairs to Sloane's room to make the exchange. The police had unsealed it and his parents had not yet come to pack up his belongings. Once again, she'd been struck by its impersonality. It was like a department store room. For a mo
ment, she'd toyed with the idea of removing the portable bar, then decided to leave it alone. Nothing Sloane had done would have upset his parents. Boys will be boys. Especially their boy. Unconditional love.

But what about a boy who puts a noose on another boy's bed, who sends obscene messages over the Internet, who tries to frame him for a felony? She'd read that teenagers rarely commit crimes alone, especially murder. When a teen kills, or pursues the kind of hate campaign Sloane had, it's almost always in partnership, or with a group. If you want to find out the why, you have to look at the who—friendships, relationships. Hate feeds upon hate. That she knew. Was Sloane an exception, a loner—or, the thought that had plagued her from the beginning, was someone else involved?

She'd taken the two books from Sloane's bookcase and opened them. Daryl's name was in the front of each. When had she searched Sloane's room? Last Thursday. The theft had been discovered Wednesday morning or late Tuesday night. If she had examined the books more carefully and seen Daryl's name, it might have triggered a train of thought that would have identified the real thief. Would it have saved Sloane Buxton's life? Were the thefts and the murder connected? She'd put Sloane's books—no name on the flyleaves—back in place. Let the Buxtons make of them what they would. She'd done what she had to do.

It was raining. So much for a nice walk down by the North River with Granny. She hastened along the path to the parking lot, umbrella up, head down. Smack—once again, she bumped straight into someone. Someone as polite as Sloane, but definitely not Sloane. It was Winston Freer, the English professor, and he was hastily making amends, bending down to retrieve both his briefcase and one of the bags Faith had dropped. Not her pocketbook with those fragile objects, thank goodness. She'd wrapped them in many layers of paper toweling and put them in a brown paper bag, but as soon as she felt her grip loosening, in her mind she heard the splintering of enamel and tightened her grip on her precious cargo.