The Body in the Bonfire (5 page)

Hard to tell what Mrs. Mallory thought, but Connie was looking at Faith in awe.

“I might.”

The two words turned out to be the sum total of the cook's verbal interaction with Faith. Even
her “good-bye” and “thanks” met with a mere nod.

Back outside, Faith felt a strong kinship with Connie as they let out their breath in unison.

“You were marvelous. However did you think of offering to have her come teach?”

“I have no idea,” replied Faith, who didn't. “What was for dinner, do you know? It really did smell good. I'm sure she's a fine cook.”

“She is—although the beef liver and onions don't usually go over well. I think tonight it's chicken croquettes—‘mystery balls,' the boys call them. They really are naughty.”

They laughed together as they walked toward the headmaster's house, and Faith realized it would be a big mistake to stereotype Connie Reed as a straitlaced old maid. She'd been at a boys' school for over twenty-five years and she knew her students—naughty and nice. The question was whether she knew anything about what was going on with Daryl—and if she did, how would she react?

 

Seeing Tom, sherry glass in hand, standing before the fire in Robert Harcourt's living room had all the appeal of an oasis in a desert, a Saint Bernard with a keg of rum, an island as the life raft's logs split apart. Faith was very glad to see her husband.

The man next to him stepped forward. He was tall and must have been very handsome in his
salad days. He remained attractive, despite a hairline that had receded from what was surely a more rounded face than that of his youth. His eyes were very blue and the hair that was left—still a healthy crop—was blond. When he greeted Faith, his handshake suggested a firm tennis grip. His brightly polished blazer buttons displayed a crest. A quintessential WASP. Robert Harcourt, the headmaster.

“Ah, Mrs. Fairchild. Welcome. I've been having a delightful chat with your husband, and we're all so pleased you could make it.” Every word rang true. Robert Harcourt was always, she suspected, in earnest, dead earnest. It was abundantly clear why Daryl Martin had opted for Patsy—and Faith.

“Lovely to be here,” she replied, taking a glass of sherry from the tray being handed around by Connie Reed and then moving closer to both Tom and the fire. She could be earnest, too.

The warmth of the hearth was short-lived, however, as Robert Harcourt diligently shepherded the Fairchilds around the room, introducing them to the faculty. Hors d'oeuvres of a type Faith was used to from her years in Aleford were set out on various pieces of furniture in the Harcourts' living room. Nice pieces of furniture, Faith noted. Real Sheraton and real Chippendale, not Ethan Allen. Robert must have inherited them. He could never have afforded them on a headmaster's salary. Although, she realized, since he'd
been able to buy the school, he no doubt came from money.

It was quite a beautiful—and luxurious—room. Not at all what she had expected. The floor was covered by an enormous Sarouk, its colors picked up by the heavy rose damask draperies at the windows and subtle Brunschwig & Fils fabric on the couch. The artwork was an eclectic mix of Hudson River School and more modern landscapes. Faith was startled to see an entire wall covered with extraordinary Russian Orthodox icons. The wall itself had been painted a deep crimson, and fiber-optic lighting, partially concealed in the molding, illuminated the jewel-like hues and gold leaf below.

Unfortunately, this exquisite taste had not extended to the cuisine. No caviar. Just the usual Wispride and Triscuits, carrots and celery strips, and, perhaps in Faith's honor, sautéed chopped mushrooms rolled in slices of flattened white bread, then cut into pinwheels. She knew them all. The faculty seemed intent on drinking the sherry as quickly as possible so as to guarantee a refill, while decimating what food there was, perhaps in the hope of skipping the mystery balls on tonight's dinner menu and making do with an egg on toast or something similar later on.

They looked much like teachers everywhere. All sizes and shapes—but not colors in this crowd. There was the intellectual group, the
women still clinging to their long hair, despite a preponderance of gray; the men holding on to their beards—these badges of youthful rebellion and optimism in the sixties. Several green canvas book bags were piled in a corner of the room. If there was singing—and there was a baby grand next to the French doors, which presumably led to a patio—one of them would surely suggest “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”

Then there were quite a number of well-preserved specimens close to retirement age, the men in Harris tweed sports jackets, the women in Lanz wool dresses from Talbot's—attire that had stood the test of time. Some of this group had devoted their lives to teaching for the joy of it; some were putting in their time, due to lack of imagination or energy, until they could reasonably cash in their TIAA-CREFs. Faith wondered how many of the staff had been ousted when Robert Harcourt took over. As he introduced them, it soon became apparent that most of the women in this group were faculty wives, not faculty.

But which one was Mrs. Harcourt? Connie Reed had been passing the drinks—and no doubt counting them. It seemed odd that the headmaster's wife was not doing the honors as hostess—at her husband's side to welcome guests. Perhaps she wasn't even in the room. Out of town—or so fed up with sherry hours that she was having a martini upstairs and watching the news.

“This is Paul Boothe. Paul is in our history department and lives at Carleton House.”

Boothe was one of the young faculty. They formed their own distinct group. No one was dressed in jeans. Mansfield had a strict dress code. The boys wore jackets and ties—with the option of a V-necked sweater or turtleneck underneath in the wintertime—every day except Saturday afternoons, when there were no classes, and Sundays, after a mandatory but, the catalog stressed, nondenominational religious service in the chapel. There was an oxy-moron in there somewhere, Faith had noted when she read the brochure. Paul Boothe looked as if he would have liked to be wearing jeans, pressed jeans, well-cut jeans, but jeans. Jeans with his crisp snowy white oxford-cloth shirt. He'd taken his jacket off. He wore suspenders—red suspenders. His dark black hair curled Byronically at the nape of his neck. But the perhaps coveted image of romantic hero had been blighted by his acne-scarred face and the thinness of his lips. And he was not a muscular hero—slight and not very tall. His face was as white as his shirt. He looked like someone who had avoided natural light for most of his life. He wasn't actually repellent; in fact, there was a strange magnetism in his appearance—Mannerist School. Most of his charismatic appeal—and it was easy to see how susceptible his students might be—came from his eyes, which were al
most violet and put in, as the Irish say, with a muddy finger. They dominated his face.

“I'm not overly interested in food,” he said, shaking her hand with the tips of his fingers.

Faith was tempted to reply that she was not overly interested in history, especially kitsch history, as the title of his course suggested it to be, but she knew that it would make her look like a philistine in present company—and besides, it wasn't true.

Tom jumped in. “My wife's food is the equivalent of the siren's song. You may find yourself looking for wax once the smells start drifting your way.”

Surprisingly, Paul laughed, heartily. “I just might have to at that. Good to meet you both.” His head swung around at the sound of someone entering from the hall. He moved quickly in that direction.

“That was so sweet, darling,” Faith whispered in her husband's ear. It was nice to have someone who would leap to your defense this way. And there was no question about Tom's interest in food. At thirty-three, he was still a big hungry boy and seemed to burn up his calories before they even entered his metabolic system.

“Good. My wife's arrived,” Robert Harcourt commented, looking past the Fairchilds, “She was, uh, unavoidably detained. Good, good, good.” Had Robert picked this up from Connie or vice versa? In any case, Faith was sure that if
she spent much time in their company, she'd hear the repetition a lot. Robert had also rubbed his hands together. These weren't traits she wished to assume.

“Can you forgive me?” A sultry voice, with a slight Russian accent, filled at the moment with deep regret. And there she was—a bird of paradise scattering the drab mud hens, her plumage and song drawing every eye and ear. The headmaster's wife.

“I am Zoë, Zoë Harcourt, and you are, of course, the Fairchilds, since I know everyone else in the room for centuries. The traffic was a nightmare.” She smiled. The fire seemed to burn brighter. Faith was intrigued, not by her grammar, which seemed like an accessory, but by the woman's entire presence. How could Faith have lived in Aleford all this time and not heard about Mrs. Harcourt? Mrs. Harcourt—dressed at the moment in a shocking-pink silk sheath with an immense royal blue pashmina shawl draped around her shoulders, a shawl that she rather dramatically tossed as she walked toward them, revealing a hint of cleavage. She teetered ever so slightly on her Manolo Blahnik slingbacks, and the only jewelry she wore, apart from some impressive stones on her fingers, were heavy gold Tiffany Schlumberger earrings. Sherry hour? Sherry-Netherland hour was more like it, and Faith wondered what on earth this exotic creature was doing sequestered in a staid New England
prep school with Mr. Chips. It was unlikely that Zoë Harcourt had anything to do with the Daryl Martin matter, but Faith resolved to find out all she could about the woman.

It wouldn't be hard. Zoë loved to talk—and, as was soon apparent, loved to talk about herself.

“Normally, I would not be in this cruel climate now, but my plans changed, so here I am.” She tucked one arm through Faith's, the other through Tom's. At least we'll both smell strongly of Shalimar, Faith reflected.

“I am sure Robert has introduced you to everyone.” Zoë lowered her voice and whispered in Faith's ear, “Each and every last boring one. But I am being too mean. They are not all so bad.” She laughed and pulled them toward the wall with the icons. She took her arm away from Faith but kept a firm grasp on Tom, gesturing toward one icon in particular—a Madonna with huge soulful almond-shaped eyes, looking out from a gem-studded frame. “From my mother's family. They fled from the Bolsheviks, carrying only a few of their treasures. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the old days. Visits to Tsarskoye Selo, poor Nicholas. He gave her the Order of Saint Catherine.” Zoë sighed theatrically. “Such a sad end to such a beautiful time.”

It hadn't been very beautiful for most Russians, especially the peasants starving in those so very picturesque villages and the soldiers starving in the nightmare at the front, but Faith kept her
mouth shut. It was a performance, after all. She stepped back and almost collided with one of the elderly faculty members—a tall man with a shock of white hair. He was grinning in a conspiratorial manner.

“Our lovely Zoë. Definitely makes life more interesting here. Always has. But do not be deceived, my dear.”

Noting Faith's surprised expression, he hastened to add, “Oh, the icons are real enough. Some of them superb. Mrs. Harcourt has excellent taste and a good eye, but the only things Zoë's ancestors ever brought to this country were empty pockets. Granted, they filled them quickly enough. My name is Winston Freer, by the way. I teach English. Most particularly Shakespeare, as in ‘It's junior year, so it must be Shakespeare and Freer.'”

He was really very sweet, Faith decided, and his courtly manner was quite appropriate to his subject matter.

Zoë had moved on, Tom in tow, to examine one of the landscapes.

“My name is Faith Fairchild. I'll be teaching a cooking course during your Project Term.”

“Oh, we know all about you. This is a very, very small community. Word gets around. No secrets here.”

But there was a secret. A very big secret, and as Faith listened to Professor Freer's advice about how to be firm with the boys, she gazed about the
room. A number of the faculty had left. It was getting close to dinnertime. Those remaining were standing about in small groups, talking. They did this every week. Surely they must get tired of the command performance, the enforced collegiality. It had made sense to assume that whoever was attacking Daryl was a fellow student, yet there was no reason to make that assumption. It could just as easily be one of the faculty. One of the faculty, a twisted bigot. One of the faculty in this very room.

Faith and Tom were almost the last to leave, much to Faith's embarrassment. Never arrive first or leave last was a credo of hers. But Zoë had spirited Tom away for a “real drink,” some vodka, and a look at more of her treasures in another part of the house.

“Here we are, darlings,” announced Zoë, addressing the remaining stragglers. “Where does the time go?” She flashed a dazzling smile at them. “Call me, Faith, and I'll come teach the boys how to make a fabulous Stroganoff,” she said, then she was gone. No polite excuse or explanation. She simply left the room. But of course, Zoë was the type of woman who never apologized or explained.

As Faith was musing over Mrs. Harcourt's behavior, Connie came bustling up—the flip side of the coin.

“Would you mind quickly filling this form out? I meant to give it to you before we left the office,
but I was eager to squeeze in a visit with our Mrs. Mallory and thought I could give it to you here.”

“Certainly.” Faith reached for the paper and pen Connie proffered. Much more important to placate the cook. She glanced at the form. It was a boilerplate disclaimer: If Faith managed to scald herself with hot water or one of the boys tripped her when she was carrying said pot or anything else untoward happened on the school grounds, it would be no never mind to Mansfield. They also needed her Social Security number.