The Body in the Snowdrift (21 page)

Faith closed her eyes. She thought she might be sick. “There's blood on the snow, right?” she said quickly.

“Yes.” Tom didn't go into detail, details that had spilled from Craig's mouth in a messy, almost incoherent, torrent. “I need to go help the staff and ski patrol keep people away until the police get here. Let the kids sleep in, and as soon as we can leave, we will. I have to tell Dennis and Betsey now. Dennis will probably want to go with me.”

Faith got dressed, then almost collided with Betsey at the top of the stairs. Betsey'd pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. She stared angrily at Faith; she didn't have to tell her to get out of the way. Her eyes were saying it for her. Craig must have called them too.

“I need to be next door with Daddy—and Mother!”

“Of course,” Faith said. “I'll give the kids breakfast when they get up and keep them all here.” But Betsey was already halfway out the door, not even stopping for a jacket.

Tom and Dennis were close behind her. Tom kissed Faith hard.

“Until we know what's going on, stay here by the phone. I'll call as soon as I can. Maybe you should start packing. No, that would upset the kids. Maybe—”

“Tom, go. It's all right. No, it's not all right. But we're all right. We'll figure out what to do later.”

Dennis hugged her. “The boys may give you a hard time about staying here.”

“Go!” Faith urged. “I'll take care of things.”

They left, and she realized that she could count the number of times her brother-in-law had hugged her—her wedding, certain Christmases, when there had been the new babies—Scott, Andy, Ben, and Amy—and in the emergency room of the hospital, where Tom had been rushed for what turned out to be acute pancreatitis.

At loose ends—the kids wouldn't be up for some time yet—she made coffee. A lot of coffee. She took the last of the muffins she'd brought out of the freezer to defrost. It was all she could think of to do. Then she sat on the couch, her filled mug on the coffee table. She couldn't swallow any of it, not even one drop.

The window looked toward the slopes, but she couldn't see anything. The main lodge and the snowmaking guns were just out of sight. A figure came dashing by, heading away from the action—heading toward the woods. Faith jumped up and opened the back door. It could only be one person.

“Ophelia! Stop!” she called.

The girl seemed startled and froze for a moment. It was enough time for Faith to catch up to her.

“The boys are still asleep. Come in and let me give you something warm to drink.”

The girl was obviously in shock. Wild-eyed, she remained poised for flight. Faith knew if she reached out and tried to hold on to her, Phelie would be gone in an instant.

“Please. Come in. You must have seen what happened. You need to sit down and get warm. I'll wake Scott up.”

The suggestion seemed, if anything, to terrify Ophelia more. That was what she was seeing on the girl's face, Faith realized. Horror, yes, but also, more strongly, fear.

She reached her arm out tentatively. “Be with us. We all need to be together.”

Ophelia looked at Faith as if taking in who she was for the first time.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she whispered. Her face was as blanched as the snow and her lips still bore traces of the dark red lipstick she used. Lipstick so dark, it was almost black. Lipstick the color of an ancient bloodstain.

It was freezing, and even though she was only a few feet from the door, Faith wanted to be back inside to listen for the phone, and for the kids. Ophelia wasn't wearing a hat of any sort, and Faith let her hand gently stroke the teenager's hair. It was as soft as a feather, the color of midnight, the color of a crow. Ophelia leaned into the caress, and then she was off, running for the
woods as if pursued by demons—the ones she may have created and the ones created for her.

Wearily, Faith trudged back in, picked up her mug, and emptied it into the sink. The room felt colder after the door had been open. She needed to see her children. Look at them from the doorway. Look at them, but not wake them. Sleep, the sweet escape.

The bedroom door wasn't completely closed; she pushed at it and stepped in. Amy had thrown her covers off and was curled in a ball on the bottom bunk. Above her, Ben was sleeping the way he always did, taking up every available inch of space, with his covers, like Amy's, shoved to one side. Fairchild thermostats. Andy had inherited the warm-blooded gene, too, and lay deep in sleep, only a sheet pulled up over his shoulders. And Scott: Scott's bed had been slept in, but he wasn't in it. Quickly, Faith went to check the bathroom. The door was open, the night-light still on. No sign of her nephew. She ran upstairs. Maybe he had wanted to use one of the whirlpool baths. The silent rooms answered her before she checked them out.

Damn! He must have gotten up, seen her talking to Ophelia, and slipped out the front door. Maybe he's next door, she thought, immediately deciding against calling. If he weren't there, Betsey would go nuts. No, he was with Ophelia at Gertrude's, and perhaps this was what both teenagers needed right now: each other—and a haven.

But she wished they had chosen her.

Ophelia must have heard the news when Freddy was called, Faith realized. Why else would she be up so early? And Scott? The adults had talked quietly, but
even Betsey's whispers had a piercing volume, and he must have awakened. She'd try to reach him and tell him to come back, with or without Ophelia, before too long.

Gertrude Stafford's phone number was unlisted. Faith had done everything she could do until someone returned to take over for her. Then she would go to the Gingerbread House. For now, all she could do was wait.

 

She'd made their bed, thought about making the Parkers', then immediately decided that Betsey would take offense at having Faith anywhere near her turf. There was nothing to do except sit by the phone again. She tried to read, but even the latest Valerie Wolzien mystery she'd brought failed to take her to another world. This one was too much with her. She decided she could drink some orange juice and was pouring it when the phone finally ran. The sticky liquid splashed onto the countertop as she put the carton down and sprinted across the room.

“Honey, I'm afraid the news is bad,” Tom said. “They're pretty certain it was John Forest.”

“But how could they tell?” Wouldn't they have to check DNA? Faith thought. Dental records would be out, but maybe not. Maybe a tooth. Or maybe a scrap of clothing. She gagged.

“They found that frying pan charm he always wore around his neck with all those other chains. It must have come off in the…well, in the struggle. They'll have to confirm it, but they're proceeding on the assumption that the victim was John Forest.”

John knew how the machinery at Pine Slopes worked. He wouldn't have taken a swim in that pool. It was murder. John had fought for his life, and the murderer hadn't noticed the small but distinctive piece of jewelry drop to the floor.

“Faith, say something. I wish I could have told you in person, but I knew you'd want to know. I'll get away as soon as I can. People are going crazy, and the police can't let anyone off the mountain yet. I'm still with the ski patrol, trying to keep everyone calm.”

“I think I've known he was dead from the beginning,” Faith said slowly, realizing that John's disappearance had never made any sense. He'd loved his job. Le Sapin had been his life. He'd been planning a feast for the Fairchild clan's last night. But where had he been all this time, and what had brought him back to Pine Slopes last night? Had he, in fact, heard about the Wendell fiasco? But how?

“I need to go, but tell me quickly: How are the kids?”

“Still sleeping, thank goodness. But you stay there. I'm fine. Really.”

She heard voices in the background, people calling Tom.

“I've got to go,” he said. “It's horrible, but we'll leave as soon as the police let us. We have to think of the kids.”

“Okay, but take care of yourself.” Although she hadn't really known John, that wasn't helping Faith. They'd been part of the same world, culinary soul mates.

“When the kids get up, go over to Mom and Dad's. I love you, Faith.”

“I know. I love you, too. Now go. Don't think about us. Bye.”

At 7:20, Amy came tiptoeing out of the bedroom. She was still wearing the footed fleece sleepers that Ben had rejected at her age, demanding “real” pajamas. Faith picked her daughter up and sat back down on the sofa, burrowing her face in Amy's sweet-smelling sleep-tangled hair.

“Should we make some buttermilk waffles for breakfast? There's Vermont maple syrup to go on top.” Dick had included pints of grade-A amber in the adult goody bags.

Amy nodded. “When those sleepy boys smell the waffles, they'll jump right out of bed. But where's Scott, Mom? He's not in his bunk. He'll want some waffles. They're his favorite.”

“Maybe he'll be back in time. He's with a friend. If he doesn't make it, we'll save him some. Now, why don't you run upstairs and get dressed while I get the ingredients ready?”

“Okay,” Amy said.

As Faith reached for the flour and other things they'd need, she resolved to keep everyone here with her. If they went next door, they'd be bound to hear what had happened. Besides, she didn't want to intrude on Betsey's quality time with her parents. Although Dick would be with his boys, she assumed.

Amy appeared at the top of the stairs. “What should I wear? My ski clothes? I won't be going for a while.”

How was she going to tell them? Faith hadn't been able to work anything out. Tell them nothing yet, she decided.

“Why don't you take a bath in our big tub? You can use some of the lavender bath stuff I brought. Those boys won't want to get up yet.”

It would buy a little time.

Amy's face brightened. “I'll just use a tiny drop. Not like last time.” That time, she'd produced enough bubbles for a truckload of pinup calendars.

“And for now, just put on some pants and a turtleneck.”

Faced once more with nothing to do, Faith turned on the TV and switched to one of the local stations.
Wheel of Fortune
was on and judging from Vanna White's gown and hair, it was a vintage rerun.

“I'd like to buy a vowel,” said a perky-looking older woman. “An
e.
”

Vanna turned over the tiles, and the woman, who had obviously been well coached not to hide her excitement, screamed out, “I'd like to solve the puzzle!” Then, stolidly facing the impressive task before her, she said, “Still waters run deep,” enunciating each word precisely.

Before Faith had time to reflect on the unhappy appropriateness of the phrase for more than a few seconds, the show was interrupted by a local news bulletin. She went close to the set and turned the volume way down.

“Skiers at the popular Pine Slopes Resort awoke to a grisly discovery this morning.” Faith leaned her forehead against the screen, tempted to turn it off. She'd heard it all. But not quite all, she realized as the feed switched from the reporter live on the scene to another one standing in front of a motel complex. She sat back on her heels.

“Apparently, this is where John Forest, the man believed to be the victim of the tragedy at Pine Slopes, spent his last hours. Owners Marie and Joe Lafontaine say that Forest was a regular customer and often checked in late for what he called ‘a little R and R.' They would leave a key in the door of the unit for him. They noted his car, a 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee, this morning, but said it had not been there when they closed up at midnight. Hearing the news, they immediately contacted Williston police, who apparently are not revealing any further details. Back to you, Laura.”

Apparently, thought Faith.

The camera panned the scene before switching back to the reporter at Pine Slopes. It was the same place where Faith had seen Dennis's car parked on Saturday. There was no question. She'd passed the motel again Tuesday night on the drive to and from Burlington. She tried to remember whether John's car had been there Saturday, as well. She knew there had been other cars parked near Dennis's, but had one of them been a brand-new Jeep? Faith had only noticed the Prius.

The Parkers had frequently spent weekends at Pine Slopes during ski season, even before the kids were born. Dennis certainly knew John. Another coincidence, another “Still waters run deep”?

Faith planned to talk to her brother-in-law as soon as possible.

“Mom, why are you watching TV? What's going on? Where is everybody? What's for breakfast?”

Faith was used to Ben's habitual Twenty Questions routine; he was the original “Why?” child. For the sev
eral hundredth time, she resolved to break him of it—or face the thought of him still at home at forty.

“Amy's taking a bath, and when she's finished, we're making waffles. Is Andy awake?” She could ask questions, too.

“Kind of. I mean, he said something when I asked him if he was getting up.”

It was far easier to cope with the kids one at a time. “Let him sleep. You go get your stuff and change. Just jeans and a shirt for now.”

“But aren't we going skiing? I told you I need to practice.”

“Now, Benjamin.”

Benjamin went to do as he was told. He didn't have to ask what
now
meant.

Making waffles filled the time. Andy had finally appeared, and the boys were now engaged in snowboard talk. Amy was happy pouring batter into the heart-shaped waffle maker Faith had brought along. Her kids were on seconds and Andy was on thirds when Marian arrived.

“Good morning, all,” she said, and circled the table, giving each grandchild a kiss. “Faith, do you have a minute?”

They moved out of earshot by the back door.

“Has anyone told you that they're almost positive who the victim is?”