The Body in the Ivy (5 page)

Brent Justice had said the writer was working and would be “back later.” Did that mean she wasn't here in the house? He stopped by one of the doors. It had a little brass slot into which a card with “Faith Fairchild,” written in exquisite calligraphy, had been placed. Just like an English country house; but Faith didn't think there would
be any changing cards or tiptoeing in at midnight and out at dawn shenanigans.

“Doesn't Ms. Bishop write here in the house? You said she'd be back later.”

“She has a cabin in the woods. Claims she has to be in a place where she can't be distracted.”

Faith could understand the logic, although it surely must seem ridiculous to a New Englander like Justice that someone would build an enormous house, then have to escape to a cabin to do whatever it was writing people did. Bishop would certainly be distracted, what with looking out the windows and being tempted by the comforts of home. Which reminded Faith, where were the spa and the pool?

“I understand there's a pool and a spa. Not that I'll have time to use them,” she added hastily. She'd be feeding him, too, and didn't want him to think he was in for a week of microwave macaroni and cheese while she was lounging about.

“House is kind of built like steps. Two floors in front, then three in the back. All that stuff and a place to watch movies is on the first floor all the way in the back. Starts under the kitchen.”

He opened the door to her room, and all of Faith's thoughts of upstairs/downstairs disappeared. It was spacious with a view of a different beach in the distance. As you faced the house, this room was on the right side overlooking a meadow, a sea of wildflowers and grasses, and finally the sea itself. She should have known better. It
was
an island after all. They were surrounded by water and none of the rooms would have a bad view.

“I'll leave you to it.” He set her bags down. She'd been
so muddled by everything that she hadn't thought to have him leave the one with her culinary equipment in the kitchen. It didn't matter. She'd bring it down herself.

“Thank you so much.” There was an awkward moment. She didn't know whether he was supposed to help her in the kitchen before dinner or was strictly on cleanup detail. She decided to go with a simple, “See you later.”

He nodded. “All your stuff is here and put away. There's a pantry with another fridge and a freezer on the first floor next to where she keeps her wine.”

Faith nodded back. It was catching. She'd read the note, change, and take a quick tour.

Justice stopped at the door. “Garden's out back. Strawberries are coming in—a few kinds—chard, lettuce, peas.”

And he was gone.

Faith took the note and sat down on the bed. Not too soft, not too hard. She'd sleep well here. The envelope wasn't sealed. The writing was the same as that on the room card. Surely the woman didn't write her books in longhand!

Faith frowned. After all that fine, no doubt laborious calligraphy, Bishop's signature was a mess, indecipherable. Faith knew that this was not uncommon among authors who had to sign thousands of copies of books. Some, and obviously Ms. Bishop was one, had developed a scrawl. She recalled a story a bookseller had told her about an elderly gentleman who, upon being handed the book he had asked a famous mystery author to sign, handed it back and said sternly, “Now, young man, sign it so I can read it. The way your teacher taught you to!” The author, not known for complaisance, instantly complied.

She changed into her work clothes, not bothering to unpack. Ms. Bishop had asked that tonight's dinner be a buffet. Faith had supposed it was to accommodate late arrivals, but now she was assuming it was to create an informal ambience for the group's first night together. That long boat trip would be difficult in the dark even with the fancy GPS and other devices Faith had noticed. The women would surely all be here at sundown. There would be no late arrivals. She'd have the cocktail hour on the front porch, which by chance or design faced
west. As the sun set, everyone could move indoors. The living room had numerous tables besides the Nakashima gem and Faith decided to make it a movable feast. She didn't know how often these alums got together, but if they were anything like Hope's friends, it wouldn't matter. They'd pick up where they left off. Having to graze would facilitate conversations.

She wished she could call Tom—or her neighbor and closest friend, Pix Miller, and of course Hope! Her cell certainly wouldn't get service out here. She turned it on, and the total lack of those annoying little bars confirmed her fear. How did the writer communicate with the outside world? She must have satellite service.

As she was leaving her room, she noticed a small white box tied with sheer silver ribbon on a table that served as a desk beneath the window. She opened it, and inside there was an exquisite necklace. A card from the author, her name engraved on the top, read, “This is the work of my favorite jewelry designer, Sharon Adams, who is based in the Boston area. You may be familiar with her name. A little thank-you for what I know will be a week of culinary delights.” Faith did indeed know of Ms. Adams's work and this was no little thank-you, but a
very
generous gesture. She had always wanted a piece of the jeweler's work, and this choker was a treasure. An insert from Ms. Adams described the piece's materials as chalcedony with almandine garnets. The chalcedony was translucent, and the beveled pieces looked as if they had been carved from moonlight; the tiny garnets flashed red, bits of Mars. She put it away, resolving to wear it tonight.

Back in the kitchen, Faith began the delightful task
of exploring. Few women, and an equal number of men, no doubt, could resist the opportunity to open cupboards, closets, and other doors in someone else's house. Faith's mother-in-law, Marian, was a show-house junkie, and with a husband and daughter in the real estate business, an open house one, as well. “I can give them tips,” she'd told Faith once. “Tell them how to make places more salable.” Possibly, Faith had thought. Her mother-in-law did have good taste and a good eye, but it was really Marian's insatiable curiosity about the way other people lived that motivated her. Faith could recognize the trait, because she had it herself in abundance. Taking a stroll at night and looking into lighted rooms was almost as good as a Broadway show.

Two sinks, one deep for washing vegetables, were placed beneath a window that overlooked the garden. A door leading outside was to the left. The pale green of new leaves and other colors that gleamed against the rich, dark earth drew Faith, but she resisted. She'd go once all the food for this evening was in order. Brent—after reading Bishop's note, this was how Faith thought of him—had said there were strawberries. If she had time, she'd pick some to garnish the individual lemon tarts she'd made for one of tonight's desserts, and see if there were enough for breakfast. Now she needed to locate the wine cellar and the downstairs pantry. Feeling a bit like Alice, she opened doors, discovering a broom closet, a pantry/china closet, a door to the dining room, and finally a door that led to some stairs.

She was going to have to learn that nothing about this house would fit any preconceived notion, as in the present case, “basement.” At the bottom of the stairs, there
was a short hallway to the right. Directly in front of her was the pool. A wall of French doors opened onto a fieldstone patio with the meadow beyond. The pool itself was lined with pale blue tiles, some with the titles of Bishop's books emblazoned in darker blue; others decorated with fanciful sea creatures. Mermaids, Mermen, Kingsley's Water Babies. The water was celadon green, the walls and ceiling sky blue. Instead of chlorine, the air smelled of roses, the beach roses. Faith walked the length of the pool. A large Jacuzzi, its waters a deep aquamarine, was set near the windows. She was beginning to feel like a character in a fairy tale. She was alone in this magnificent house, but she could hear echoes. Someone splashed about in the water, someone else laughed, ice clinked in tall glasses, someone whispered in another's ear. They were all waiting for the prince to come and break the spell.

The spa was through two double doors at the end, and it was as well equipped as the day spa where Faith occasionally treated herself to a facial, manicure, and pedicure. She closed the doors behind her and went in search of the pantry Brent had mentioned, finding it down the short hallway at the bottom of the stairs. The refrigerator was stocked with the author's “treats”: beluga caviar; foie gras; several varieties of smoked fish, including what Faith assumed were local mussels; at least five kinds of mushrooms—from portobellos as large as butter plates to tiny shiitakes. Two of the vegetable drawers were filled with artisanal cheeses. The wine cellar had a glass door. Faith didn't need to open it. Any sommelier worth his or her tastevin would swoon. She went back upstairs to the kitchen to get
ready for the opening party. She understood now why the distance to the mainland didn't matter. Barbara Bailey Bishop had everything you could possibly desire here on the island; you never had to leave, nor would you want to for a long time. Suddenly the week seemed very short…

 

Faith was in the kitchen assembling the last salad, a simple one of field greens. She had a tray of
crottins de Chavignol
ready for the oven if anyone wanted warm goat cheese on top. Inevitably there would be at least one woman, if not more, who was on the Atkins, the South Beach, or a just plain low-calorie diet. She'd done one dish—adapted from the famous version at San Francisco's fabulous Slanted Door restaurant—of cellophane noodles and crab, in this case the East Coast's peeky toe variety, not West Coast's Dungeness (see recipe, p. 317). This was a supplement to the baskets of various kinds of foccacia and other breads she'd prepared. Just as there were the dieters, there was bound to be a carb craver. She'd be better able to plan the rest of the week's meals after meeting the women tonight.

It was time to head out to the garden. There were several trugs conveniently stored near the door and a series of different-sized scissors and clippers, labeled flowers, herbs, and vegetables. Someone was extremely well organized.

She had barely had a chance to take in the herb garden when she heard the boat arriving. She briefly regretted the intrusion. It had been a lovely fantasy while it lasted—a deserted island with the perfect house stocked with her favorite food and drink. Yet there was nothing she liked
better than cooking for a receptive audience, and Bishop, at least, would be one. After all, the woman had remembered Faith's fennel soup roughly thirteen years later. She watched Brent go down to the dock. He was alone and pushing one of those large, two-wheeled garden carts in front of him, presumably for the luggage. The boat's arrival and departure was almost as swift as hers had been. Should she greet the party? The note had asked her to act as hostess for cocktails, but hadn't mentioned filling in to welcome the guests. Faith decided to leave it to the caretaker/gardener/all-purpose factotum that Brent appeared to be. There was still a great deal to do for tonight and she wanted to bake two kinds of muffins for breakfast—something relatively healthy and something like doughnut muffins that decidedly were not.

She filled the trug with a variety of herbs, nasturtiums for the salad, then headed for what she could see were strawberry beds. A quick glance told her that she would need a larger container and that there were an abundance of tiny, ruby-red
fraises des bois
and what looked like Earliglows, the succulent variety of bigger berries that had stood the test of time. She popped one in her mouth. It was warm and delicious. Like the smell of the pines that towered in the distance, essence of strawberry should be bottled, but neither could ever be reproduced. She ate some of the small berries, a completely different taste—sweet as well, but with the underlying flavor of wild berries, truly berries from the
bois,
the forest. She would have to make a coulis for panna cotta or some other dessert. The color of the sauce would complement a number of dishes. Strawberries! Maybe fruit soup; maybe jam. There must be a
greenhouse tucked away someplace; even elves couldn't produce fruit like this before July.

As she walked back to the kitchen, she heard voices and saw the group approaching the front of the house along the same path she had taken a few hours before. Brent was in the lead and three women were following him, one clutching a guitar case. Faith smiled as a mental image leapt to mind, of the old friends gathered in front of the fire listening to their own Joni Mitchell/ Joan Baez. She could almost hear them joining in: “I've looked at life from both sides now.” This was going to be fun. They were too far away for her to make them out clearly, but their silhouettes were sleek, and judging from the pile of suitcases in the cart, their wardrobes extensive. She ducked behind a spirea bush in full bloom and turned to go in the door. One of the women had raised her voice and her words were clearly audible, slicing through the late afternoon air with the same kind of precision Faith used to dice onions: “What on earth are we all doing here?”