The Body in the Gazebo (6 page)

By taking on jobs no one else wanted to do, Sherman soon became a player at First Parish and a thorn in Tom’s side. Everything that had occurred before Mr. Munroe’s arrival had been done “bass ackward”—a phrase Faith particularly despised, along with “connect the dots.” And now that he was on the vestry, things were even worse. Faith speculated about what emergency Sherman had dreamed up. Dissatisfaction with the brand of coffee being used for coffee hour? A reiteration of his ongoing objection to the haphazard way Sherman thought the sexton placed the prayer books and hymnals in the pews?

Faith had been looking forward to telling Tom about her conversation with Ursula and all of Niki’s news. Like Ursula, Niki had recognized that the don’t-tell rule excluded spouses and conceded that Faith would have to let Tom know she was pregnant.

Yet, most of all, Faith was annoyed about the stress this Munroe jerk was causing Tom. She was tempted to call his cell and tell him to come home for dinner. It was bad for him to skip meals. His postpancreatitis care had specifically included this warning. Someone occasionally brought cookies to the vestry meetings, but you couldn’t count on it. And the meeting better not go late. Tom needed his sleep.

Faith was working herself into a very righteous snit when she heard the car pull in. Amy’s cookies were in one oven, giving the house a delicious smell, and Faith had optimistically popped the country ham and potato au gratin made with a Gruyère-laden béchamel sauce in the other. She had broccoli crowns, the stems saved for soup, in a pot ready to steam at the last minute. Ben had set the table—it was his turn—and it looked as if the night would be salvaged.

The moment she saw her husband’s face, she told Amy to go join Ben and read while he worked. Faith would watch the cookies, and dinner might be a while.

She didn’t have to ask what was wrong. The words came rushing from Tom’s mouth like an avalanche, each one pushing the next forward with deadly force.

“The independent audit we authorized has uncovered a shortfall. A large shortfall. Over ten thousand dollars is missing. Missing from the Minister’s Discretionary Fund.”

Faith was having trouble taking it in. She stood for a moment with the casserole she’d removed from the oven in her hands. “The Minister’s Discretionary Fund?”

Tom sat down heavily, still in his coat.

“Yes, the Discretionary Fund.”

Faith knew what it was. She’d just been repeating his words, hoping somehow she had heard him wrong. She hadn’t.

The Minister’s Discretionary Fund. Money that the Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild alone had access to and for which he was solely accountable.

Chapter 3

N
ormally Faith liked the Sunday morning service, which was a good thing since she seemed to have been destined to sit through endless numbers of them starting in early childhood. Unlike First Parish, her father’s church didn’t have child care until relatively recently, so her mother had had to tote Faith and Hope with her, settling in the last pew on the right with books, puzzles, and boxes of animal crackers to keep her children occupied and quiet. It must have been nice for Jane Sibley when her daughters were finally old enough for Sunday school and she could enjoy the service without worrying about crumbs on the pew cushions. Faith’s first Sunday after arriving in Aleford as a new bride, she had instinctively zeroed in on the same pew, only to be escorted to the front left by the Senior Warden. “This is where the minister’s wife
always
sits.”

Today she was glad she couldn’t see the faces behind her, although she imagined any number of eyes were boring holes in her back as she prayed for the hour to go quickly. What had happened at last night’s meeting should be only from the vestry to God’s ear, but more likely it was from the vestry to Aleford’s.

She wanted to get Tom back home. He’d been up and out of the house before she’d had breakfast on the table, grabbing an apple cinnamon muffin she had just taken from the oven and resisting her plea to sit down and eat. She’d watched him striding over to the church, his unfastened dark robe billowing behind him. He reminded her of that cartoon character in
Li’l Abner
with a permanent rain cloud over his head.

She struggled to keep her mind on what was going on in the pulpit. The New Testament lesson. Sherman Munroe was the lector this morning. His ruddy, vulpine face shone with righteous well-being and he licked his lips before starting. She suppressed a shudder. It was like watching some sort of animal stalking its prey. Tom, in contrast, was pale and his face was drawn. He looked as if he needed to lie down.

“The Gospel lesson for today is from John, chapter six, verses four through fifteen.”

Sherman read well. It was the familiar story of the loaves and the fishes. Tom was using this reading as the reference point for his sermon. Late last night he’d given it to her to read—something he rarely did. They had been pretending to watch television—a DVD of the British comedy series
The Vicar of Dibley
. When he hadn’t laughed even once—it was the Easter Bunny episode—she’d suggested bed. He’d switched off the set and asked if she’d “look over” what he’d written for the morning. She’d poured herself a glass of merlot and made him a steaming mug of cocoa. She knew he’d wanted to make sure there was nothing in the sermon’s references to the miracle—multiplying much from little—that could be misconstrued. Of course there wasn’t and this reassurance seemed to be what he needed to finally fall asleep. She lay wide awake, shaken by what this accusation, not even made directly yet, was already doing to her husband.

The sermon touched upon the question of what it is that sustains us—those material and nonmaterial things that feed our lives. What goes into our individual loaves and fishes, and how we can use our faith to nourish not just ourselves but others—making those five barley loaves fill twelve, and even more, baskets. Tom was an able and often eloquent preacher. There were people in church every Sunday, not members either of First Parish or the denomination, who came solely for the sermons, which was fine with him. That his words could inspire, comfort, provoke thought, or simply interest someone was gratifying. It was one of the things he’d hoped his ministry might accomplish over the years. His own brand of loaves and fishes.

Today, though, Faith feared his words would be minimized by a delivery that was not up to his usual. He had stumbled during the Call to Worship and again when reading the General Thanksgiving. She only hoped he could get through the entire service.

Sherman was done and stepped down, resuming his seat across the aisle from Faith. Front row right. He glanced her way and lifted an eyebrow.

She hated him.

It had been his idea to hire an independent CPA who specialized in nonprofits to do the annual financial review. It had always been done in house prior to this year. She found herself wondering why he had not merely suggested it, but insisted on it. “Good business practice” was his oft-repeated rationale. But a church wasn’t a business! During those discussions, Tom had come home from vestry meetings alternately furious and exhausted. “It’s a total waste of money! What does the man think? That Mr. Brown has a Swiss bank account?” Mr. Brown was the sexton.

Sherman prevailed. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d been such a successful CEO and now here were the results.

Faith directed her gaze to the early spring flowers—jonquils, tulips, and daffodils in pale yellows and ivories—that graced the altar in memory of Ursula’s late husband, who had died at this time years before Faith had come to Aleford. She was sorry neither Ursula nor Pix could see them. Especially Pix, she thought, feeling a bit selfish. A terrible time to be away. Sam Miller, one of Boston’s most esteemed lawyers, would make quick work of this mess. Well, he’d be back in less than a week and surely nothing would happen that fast. She thought about that raised eyebrow and the smug look on Sherman’s face as he left the pulpit. Maybe Tom should call Sam. But it would spoil the family’s happy time meeting the new in-laws. No, better to wait, unless things took a turn for the worse. The whole business was preposterous. Her emotions seesawed between extreme anger and extreme fear. In her anger mode, she wanted to leap across the aisle and smack that self-satisfied smile off Sherman’s face. The fear mode was keeping her seated. She had no doubt the man was a formidable enemy. He’d be charging her with assault and battery as soon as her hand had left a mark.

Charges. Embezzlement was a crime. It all came down to that. Last night Tom had tried out a number of scenarios to account for the missing money and none of them worked. It all came down to him.

Sherman. Was it mere coincidence that the discrepancy turned up this year after his push for the independent audit? Could he possibly be involved in some way? A move on his part to discredit—and get rid of—the minister?

She began going over everything once more, her mind only partially on Prayers for the People.

Each year the church allocated a certain amount for the Discretionary Fund to be used as the minister saw fit. At the end of the fiscal year, the minister reported what had been dispersed and how much was left to be rolled over. The only other church record kept was a list in the minister’s files of the amounts, but the list did not include to whom funds had been given or for what.

Faith had a pretty good idea of some of the recipients. A phone call would come; Tom would take off for a hospital, sometimes even a police station. Money for medicine and medical emergencies not covered by insurance, a family member who needed bail, a mortgage payment to avoid foreclosure, and money for the basics of life—fuel and even warm clothing during the bitterly cold months, food always. Some of the money came back; some didn’t. All the transactions were completely confidential.

Besides the church’s contribution, individuals made gifts to the fund in memory of a loved one or in celebration of an event. The Discretionary Fund account was separate from all other church accounts at the bank. Only Tom could sign the checks or use the PIN-protected ATM card.

He had no idea what could account for the huge gap between what he reported and what the bank reported as the total in the account for the last fiscal year. At the meeting, the vestry had asked him to go back over his lists of dispersements for five years. More if he was so inclined. They hoped he would be able to report to them in two weeks. It was Sherman who had suggested the deadline. “So this thing doesn’t drag on too long.”

She stood up for the hymn.
“O star of truth, down shining / Thro’ clouds of doubt and fear.”
The music filled the church valiantly, and tunefully—except for the inevitable warbling, off-key sopranos.
“Though angry foes may threaten”
—Faith’s eyes shifted across the aisle. Sherman was adding his alto, that moist red mouth shaped in a perfect oval. Sundays meant three-piece suits from Brooks with a club tie. The few times she’d encountered him on a weekday, he hadn’t strayed far from the fold—khaki pants with knifepoint creases, V-neck sweaters, and casual shirts all with the logo, a plump sheep dangling from a ribbon, the emblem of the Knights of the Golden Fleece, adopted for his store by the first Mr. Brooks in 1818. Sherman Munroe: a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

“I must not faithless be.”
Behind her the organ music swelled as it brought the hymn to a close.

“Faithless.” Not a problem. She sat down and turned her face up toward her husband’s as he started his sermon.

She stopped thinking about the rumors that she had earlier imagined building up steam among those seated behind her, ready to envelop Faith and her family.

She stopped thinking about the odious man across the aisle.

She stopped thinking about Ursula and her story; about Niki and her problems; Pix and her insecurities.

She simply listened.

P
ix was feeling loopy. She wasn’t used to champagne at breakfast, but the resort was renowned for its champagne brunch, so champagne it was. Mimosas. And the food. She was a little drunk on that, too, starting with dinner last night—crab cakes the size of baseballs for starters followed by chateaubriand and ending with Turtle pie for dessert. The chocolate-pecan variety, not box or snapping ones.

Next to her, Sam was making quick work of eggs Benedict with smoked salmon instead of ham and Dan had asked for seconds on his brioche French toast with caramelized bananas, in addition to all sorts of other delicious things. He’d given his mother a bite and she could taste walnuts plus something else, a hint of rum? She’d opted for her favorite—two eggs over easy—but here served with Timms Mill cheese grits and a local hickory-smoked sausage. She loved breakfast food, but usually her meal consisted of hastily consumed yogurt, some fruit, and toast.

The men were all heading for the golf course and the women were due at the spa for a full day of manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages. Pix kept her nails short, and the last time they’d seen polish was for Sam’s sister’s big anniversary party last fall. They were clean, though. She’d never had a massage and wished she could ask Faith what to expect. She assumed she’d have to get fully or partially undressed and she’d hate to make a mistake. What if you were supposed to take only some things off and she was in the buff? At this thought she realized the champagne had definitely gone to her head. A massage mistake? She’d just do whatever Samantha did. Samantha would know. Her glass had been refilled by an unseen hand and she almost drained it before she remembered the alcoholic content of what she was starting to believe was the best orange juice she’d ever had. Fizzy.

The bride and groom—or was that the bride- and groom-to-be?—looked so happy. They’d both ordered huevos rancheros. Obviously they were meant for each other.

She looked at her watch. Twelve-thirty. Faith might be home from church if she’d cut her appearance at coffee hour short as she occasionally gave herself permission to do.

“Will you excuse me a moment? Please don’t get up,” she said.

Southern men had such beautiful manners and it had instantly rubbed off on her own husband and sons as soon as they’d arrived at the resort. Doors were opened, chairs pulled out, and when she or any of the other women rose, they all rose as one. A girl could get used to this stuff, Pix thought.

Heading for the ladies’ room, she ducked instead into an unoccupied hallway leading away from the main dining room and pulled out her phone. Bless Samantha and her insistence on the family calling plan when she’d left for college. Pix couldn’t imagine what she’d done before she had a cell phone. She’d already talked to Dora twice since arriving and was reassured that Mother was doing fine. Faith had called after her visit yesterday to report the same. And it was Faith she speed-dialed now.

But she didn’t want to talk about Ursula. Or what one wears for a massage.

The parsonage answering machine picked up. Drat. Faith must still be at church.

“Hi, um, it’s me. Or I, whichever.” Pix hated leaving messages. She always felt self-conscious. “Anyway, give me a call when you get a chance. Everything’s okay. Just, well, call me.” She realized she’d been whispering. Very Deep Throat.

She returned to the table after going into the ladies’ room and washing her hands. To do otherwise would have been dishonest, and there wasn’t a deceitful bone in Pix’s body. Although, as Faith had told her soon after they realized they were going to be best friends not just forever, but since they lived next door, for every day, “You couldn’t tell a lie to save your face, just the rest of the world’s.”

The men stood up. Dan pulled out his mother’s chair, first picking up the napkin the waiter had refolded and handing it to her.

Yes, a girl could get used to all this, but it could also get to be a little weird. “Weird” didn’t even begin to cover it. She knew the champagne was muddling her thoughts. There were a lot to muddle.

Outside, the view looked as if the South Carolina Tourist Board had ordered it up. The sea and sky had been painted with one brush, a brush dipped in shimmering aquamarine. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Instead it seemed they’d all descended in a blinding white layer on the smooth curve of the beach at the foot of the lawn that stretched out from the resort’s veranda, which was adorned with a long, beckoning row of rocking chairs. Pix thought about the dreary landscape she’d left, when? Just yesterday? Driving past palms and flowering shrubs from the airport, she had relaxed for the first time since the doctor had called with the news about her mother. The Harbour Town Lighthouse, striped like a fat candy cane, looked like a child’s sweet. The Cohens had booked it for a sunset reception for the last night. Friends and family were driving from Charleston and other places to officially toast the betrothed couple. Pix was sure the view would be spectacular. The weather was cooperating and the forecast promised not a drop of rain. She sighed when she thought about all the preparations that were going into this wedding celebration. Maybe Samantha would elope.