The Body in the Bonfire (22 page)

She put the yearbook back and started for the door. She'd have to wait to go to the bathroom. It opened just as she put her hand on the knob.

“I see you've discovered my little secret.”

It was Winston Freer, and she realized with a rush of fear that he was completely insane.

Help would arrive soon, but would it be soon enough?

Faith smiled brightly, “I see you're a World War Two buff. A collector,” she said, stepping back into the room.

It was quite possibly the worst thing she could have said.

“A collector!” he exploded, closing the door firmly behind him. “Do you think this is some sort of idle pursuit?” He glanced in apology at a silver-framed photograph of Hitler with several young men that occupied a prominent position on his desk.

“I only meant that you seem to have accumulated a great deal from that time,” Faith said, backtracking.

Freer picked up the photo and sat down on a corner of his desk. “My father and his two brothers. What a day that was for them. Five minutes
with the Führer. A very misunderstood man. A very misunderstood philosophy.”

These were not the words Faith would have chosen, to put it mildly, and “Five Minutes with the Führer” sounded like a production number from Mel Brooks's
The Producers.
She decided not to choose any more words in this particular minefield. They would either antagonize the professor further or make her sick trying to placate him. It was time to steer him back into the living room. They could talk about the weather again, about daffodils. He could gobble up more cookies. Then the people she'd called would arrive and Winston Freer would go away for a long, long rest. He hadn't killed Sloane. That was clear. And despite his catty remarks about Zoë Harcourt in the past, he seemed genuinely grieved by her death. No, Freer wasn't a killer. He just worshiped one.

“The boy understood. And he wasn't the first. What times we had when Gretchen was alive! She'd make schnitzel and strudel; we'd sing and talk until the wee hours of the morning. I must confess”—he gave her a conspiratorial grin—“I occasionally served the students some good German beer!”

Was it seeing themselves as the incarnation of Hitler Youth or the beer that attracted the boys? Faith wondered. She hoped it was the beer.

“We went underground when Harcourt came. Gave me quite a dressing-down—I thought we'd
have to leave—yet in the end, he let us stay. It wasn't easy getting teachers of our caliber.”

Faith took a step forward, the smile on her face still pasted in place and beginning to ache. “We can sit and have another cup of tea, but I really do have to go soon. My mother-in-law will be wondering where I am.”

“But what to do? What to do?” Winston shook his head and his hair puffed out in a small cloud before settling down, the carefully brushed strands untidily rearranged. “It's a matter of trust, you see. Do I trust you? Now, Sloane was the soul of integrity. I even loaned him my car. Always returned it with a full tank of gas. But you. I don't really know you.”

Faith hastened to reassure him. This she could do without lying—or gagging. “Daughter, granddaughter, and wife of clergymen, remember. Surely that convinces you.”

He rubbed his chin. “I suppose so. It's my own fault, of course. Always had this right, left problem. Said ‘right' when I meant ‘left.' The first door on the left. That's the bathroom.”

“Well then, I'll just stop there and be on my way.”

He wasn't showing any inclination to move from his perch on the desk, nestled close to his treasured photo. She walked purposefully toward the door, passing him, hoping he wouldn't change his mind. Unless he suddenly pulled a Luger, or some other Gestapo souvenir, from his pocket, she
didn't feel in any physical danger. She had to stay until the police arrived, and Patsy, so she could explain the situation. But every bone in her body was shrinking from further contact with the man. Simply being in the same room was causing her palms to sweat and her heart to beat faster with fear. The kind of fear being in the presence of madness induces. The kind of fear that should send her running away as fast as possible.

He jumped up, startling her, and followed closely behind. He smelled like 4711—Kölnisch Wasser—and pipe tobacco. They were in the hall when the front door burst open and Connie Reed, looking quite Wagnerian, strode up to them, shook her finger in their faces, and said sternly, “I do not want Dr. Harcourt bothered with any of this nonsense. The man has had enough to deal with this week.”

Faith
had had enough.

“Hate crimes are scarcely nonsense. Professor Freer, Sloane Buxton, and perhaps others at Mansfield have been waging a scurrilous racist campaign against Daryl Martin since last fall.”

Ms. Reed stepped in front of Winston. “You and your wife were told to stop all that. I was there when Robert spoke to you!” She was furious, taking Freer's actions as an affront to her beloved school, her beloved headmaster—and totally missing the point. Fortunately, Charley and Patsy arrived to make it.

Faith left. As fast as she could.

 

It had been a relief yesterday to bake cookies, marinate the game hens, and put together the meal she was now serving. Standing in Sandra Katz's kitchen, Faith could hear the Uppity Women luncheon group's steady buzz of conversation, punctuated by frequent peals of laughter. When she'd put out the soup, a rich wild mushroom broth with translucent strands of Chinese vermicelli, the women had been discussing a new Declaration of the Rights of Women. Toilet seats down was first on the list. Someone suggested guaranteed time alone, preferably somewhere with room service; another called out, “Equal opportunity for men to clean up vomit!” Sandra added, “Permitted to drive with member of the opposite sex in the passenger seat.” Almost at once, someone exclaimed, “Permitted to abrogate household duties and go to bed when sick!”

Faith wished Marian had a group like this, people with whom she could laugh about the foibles and frailties of men, women, and children. The Uppities laughed at themselves, which was perhaps their most endearing quality.

Faith hadn't stuffed the game hens, in deference to the diets all or some of the women were on, accompanying the birds with roasted winter vegetables instead and walnut raisin rolls for those who wished. For dessert, she offered them a choice of raspberries au naturel or the fruit piled on top of a meringue. The group split fifty-fifty,
with much discussion about the body-image baggage they all carried around. “I'm a perfectly respectable size, arteries as clean as a whistle,” an attractive woman with rounded curves said, “but every ad tells me I'm fat. And I believe it.” Faith was pouring coffee. They were right, and it was scary. She worried about what it would be like when Amy was a teenager. Pix had related a number of cautionary tales about Samantha's friends, who couldn't believe what they saw in the mirror and almost starved themselves to death.

“That whole ‘You can't be too rich or too thin' stuff is a crock on both points,” a tall woman with graying hair said. “And consider the source. Other than the duke—and he was no prize—the only love the Duchess of Windsor had was her pug dogs.”

Lonely women and dogs. Faith thought of Connie Reed with her corgis. Why hadn't the woman married or had a partner?

Sandra told Faith to pull up a chair and join them.

“So Niki's in Australia,” one woman said. Niki usually grabbed this job for herself and was a favorite with the group. “Any chance she'll stay there?”

“Bite your tongue,” Faith said. She was missing Niki terribly. “I'd be lost without her. She's due back in a week. The postcard we got yesterday said she wasn't homesick yet, but that she
planned to be so she could leave. It has been pretty spectacular—the card was from the Ningaloo Reef, where she'd been snorkeling—and reentry will be tough.” The card had also said, “No worries,” which sounded like an interesting concept. The Aussie philosophical version of their delectable dessert, pavlova.

They talked about travel, favorite destinations, yet all the while, Faith was aware of an undercurrent, a subject studiously and courteously being avoided. She owed it to them and raised it herself. Or part of it. Not Winston Freer, not the way he'd ranted at her as she was leaving: “I knew I couldn't trust you!” He'd gone from that to Daryl and what was happening to the school and society by encouraging “those people,” people who should be “eliminated” to keep the race pure, to save mankind. She wished she could blot out his voice—and knew she never would.

Patsy had gone straight to Daryl, and, although conflicted about not wanting to make the school look bad, he was going to press charges against Winston Freer. The name Winston had been an attempt by his parents to mask their leanings. Apparently, his near and dear had always called him “Hansie.” When she phoned Faith last night, Patsy had commented that considering the way the school looked at the moment, taking action against this kind of bigotry would, on the contrary, serve to make Mansfield look good. And they needed it.

Harcourt was still sequestered in grief, and Connie had been slightly accusatory, asking why Daryl hadn't reported it all sooner. But Patsy said she had dealt with her. Faith was sure she had.

Now it was the murder and Zoë's death that the women wanted to talk about, Faith was sure.

“You know I've been teaching a cooking course at Mansfield during their Project Term?” She'd told Sandra when they'd finalized the menu and was sure Sandra had passed the news on.

“Could you repeat it for my family?” one woman begged.

Momentarily diverted by the thought of running some cooking classes with Niki at the catering kitchen, Faith tuned out of the conversation. When she quickly shifted her attention back, Sandra was talking.

“Remember when Zoë came to lunch with us? You invited her, didn't you, Sally?”

“Yes, I met her in New York, not here, and the coincidence of our both being from such a small place seemed enough to start a friendship. I was very fond of her, even though she could be totally self-absorbed and outrageous. She was also generous to a fault and never, never boring.”

Not a bad tribute, Faith thought.

“A tragic accident and somehow typical. Zoë wasn't the type to have gone quietly in her sleep,” Sally continued.

“But the student. That's something else. Do the police have any leads?” Sandra asked, her face
filled with a fear reflected on the faces around the table. If it could happen to that boy, it could happen to…

Everyone looked at Faith, her past activities well known.

“If they have, they're not telling me, and I'm puzzled myself.” Noting their expressions, she added, “I do know they're considering it an isolated incident and not the work of a serial killer, or anyone who might strike again, even once.”

The only thing that made sense at the moment was that Sloane's death was related to his drug trafficking. She wasn't about to reveal this, though. She and Lorraine Kennedy had just started what Faith hoped would be a long and beautiful friendship. Leaking privileged information to a group of women who could cover the town in minutes with a few well-placed calls would not be to Faith's advantage.

Talk drifted to other topics as Faith brought more hot coffee and then started back into the kitchen to clean up.

The woman who wanted to be able to go to bed when she was sick was telling everyone that her husband was proposing to start a group of his own.

“He says it's only fair, and I told him I had no problem with it at all. Guys talking to guys except in front of a TV set watching a game sounds like a major breakthrough to me, and I don't mean the Iron John stuff. Just lunch. Like what we do, no real point.”

“I like that,” Sandra said in mock indignation.

“You know what I mean. Anyway, he even has a name—It's Always the Husband.”

The women applauded and Faith got busy packing up.

It's always the husband.

As she drove back to Have Faith, she repeated the words over and over. Yes, Zoë's heel had been caught in the hem of her cloak, but it would have been easy enough to tear out the stitches and push her foot in place. Zoë had been going to pull the plug on his school. Maybe Mansfield could have limped along for a while without her money, but not for long. Robert Harcourt might be a superb fund-raiser, but he wasn't a magician, and even schools with healthy endowments were scrambling these days. And Sloane. Sloane Buxton was a blackmailer. He'd used his affair with his headmaster's wife to get himself into Harvard, if what the Buxtons had said about his acceptance was true. Blackmailers never stopped. Sloane would have continued hitting Robert up for false recommendation letters, ways to get financial aid for years. It was Robert Harcourt who had been in the kitchen. Robert Harcourt who had heard what was on Sloane's laptop. The list with his wife's name
and
the list of drug users at Mansfield. It was Robert Harcourt who had knocked Faith down. The last thing he would have wanted was for the police to get either list. Not when he'd killed his
persecutor and was planning to kill his wife. Without the lists, there was nothing to tie him to Sloane, or a motive for getting rid of Zoë. Acts of passion, both of them. Faith had little doubt that it was the knowledge that his wife was having sex with his nemesis that pushed Harcourt over the edge.

The only problem was that the laptop was gone. Unless Harcourt had transferred the files to his own computer. Even if he hadn't, there could be a glowing recommendation letter to Harvard about Sloane. Confronted by the obvious falsehood—GPAs and SATs don't lie, and Sloane's would have been mediocre—the headmaster might be sufficiently thrown to make some fatal errors: Where had he been when Sloane was killed, for instance?

Faith put everything away quickly from the luncheon and left for home. There was nothing she could do today, but tomorrow morning she planned to be at Mansfield Academy bright and early, slipping into the headmaster's office when everyone was at chapel. She hadn't wanted to ask Mrs. Mallory, or anyone else, to take the Saturday class after seeing the boys this morning. They had all been in varying degrees of shock. The death of their headmaster's wife would have been enough, but the news of Freer's arrest and why topped everything.