The Body in the Boudoir (24 page)

It was a beautiful day and the bright sunshine chased away any shadows that lurked in her mind. The car, with its tinted windows, was cool and dark. It started right up like the luxury vehicle it was and Faith drove around to the front drive, thinking it was a rare treat—the leather seats, fancy dashboard.
Vroom, vroom,
she thought, and laughed to herself.

But the car was beginning to pick up a little too much speed on the sharp incline and Faith tapped the brake. Nothing happened. The car started to go faster, if anything. She hit the brake again. Still nothing. Panicking, she pressed the pedal all the way to the floor, bracing herself for the sudden stop.

Except there was no stop.

She kept her foot on the pedal and pressed harder. Again, nothing happened. Frantically she tried pumping the brakes, except the pedal stayed down—flat to the floor. She quickly downshifted, wishing it were a standard like her parents' Honda. The gears would act as a brake. For a moment Tammy's big black “whale” lost speed, then the driveway dipped down and the car continued its relentless race toward the cliff—and the sea below.

Keep calm, keep calm, Faith said to herself. There's the parking brake. The Range Rover had one right on the console. She pulled—and pulled again. Useless.

The car was out of control. There was no way to stop it, and if she opened the door and tried to jump out now, it would roll over her. Even if she could get clear, she'd be badly injured.

Tammy? Had she sabotaged her own car, making up the story about Sky and the newspaper, planning that Faith would drive it? Maybe it
was
her aunt on the subway platform. A large woman in a beige Burberry, those sunglasses. But why? Was she totally insane?

Except there was the inescapable fact that she didn't know Faith was coming out this morning. Whoever had tampered with the car had done a thorough job—and done it well before Faith arrived. This wasn't a simple removal of a spark plug. Which further eliminated Tammy. Faith was sure her aunt's automotive knowledge was limited to where to put the key in the ignition, how to work the radio, and how to turn on the heat and air-conditioning.

Her thoughts were racing as the speedometer rose. She had two choices. She could try to make the turn onto the road and hope to come to a stop on the flat stretch. The problem was, if she didn't make it, she'd go over the seawall and straight down to the rocky beach. The other possibility was to steer the car across the lawn into the stone wall at the front of the house and hope the air bag would save her. The fieldstone wall, constructed when the house was built, was higher and sturdier than the wall by the road, put up by the town.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. Someone was coming out the front door and starting to run toward the car. She turned the wheel and bumped across the lawn. The turf slowed the car slightly, but not enough. She kept her eyes wide open and said a prayer. Please, God. Not now. Not here! As she headed for the wall, she took her hands from the wheel and covered her face. She didn't want a broken nose. She didn't want a broken anything, but this was all she could think of to do.

The sound of the impact and the whoosh of the air bag were terrifying, but the car crashed to a stop. She was alive. Very sore, but everything seemed to be intact. Someone was yelling and the door opened. She was being pulled out.

“I think I'm all right,” she called. “Something's wrong with Tammy's car. The brakes don't work!”

It was her uncle, and his face was distorted in a twisted mask of rage.

“Damn you! Not again!” He was so angry he was spitting the words out and he wasn't letting go of her arm. His strong grasp was starting to hurt. Her legs were trembling.

“Uncle Sky. What are you talking about? I was almost killed! Tammy's car doesn't have any brakes!”

She tried to free her arm, but he tightened his hold and grabbed her other arm as well.

“Always poking your nose in where you shouldn't! I warned you! But no, you kept going. You've known all along, haven't you!”

She hadn't—but she knew now, Faith realized as she stared into the face of a madman.

“Tammy,” she said. “The stone from the chimney. She was supposed to be the one opening the door. You thought I'd gone. And Danny. That was a terrible mistake on your part. She didn't go to her sister's; she decided to come back to play dress up when she found out Tammy was leaving. The blow that killed her was intended for your wife! And today. Just the same. You didn't know I was here. You sent Tammy out for the paper. A tragic accident and you were going to be a happy widower. AGAIN!”

Faith shouted the last word and tried to break away.

Sky looked at her sorrowfully. “You've always been my favorite. I don't
want
to hurt you—and I almost changed my mind on the subway platform. That's how much I care. But you must see I have no choice.”

Faith didn't see. Not at all. And the deranged look in his eyes told her it would be useless to argue. He tightened his grip and pulled her close to him.

“The Todds had to go. I knew they'd be after me for money. Danny's wouldn't be enough for them. And Tam. It's her own fault. Stupid prenup. ‘Her' money. Supposed to be the husband's. And I need it.” He was speaking rapidly and seemed to be thinking aloud.

“Uncle Sky, don't do this! It's me, Faith! Let go! We'll go back to the house and forget this happened!” she shouted, knowing how false her last words were and dimly registering that whatever the Todds had found in Danny's room had been enough to drive her uncle to arson and murder.

“Your own fault, too.” She hadn't gotten through to him. “But it will be quick. I don't want to hurt you more than I have to,” he said, repeating his earlier sentiment, adding, “I was so looking forward to walking you down the aisle.”

Crazy. He was completely crazy, Faith thought, and once more tried to twist away from him. He let go and moved his hands toward her throat. He'd said they were two peas in a pod. Knew what the other was thinking, and she knew what he was thinking now. Those hands were about to choke her to death. He was wearing gloves; she hadn't taken this in before.

She kicked hard, connecting with his kneecap, and he fell, giving her the precious time she needed. She sprinted toward the opening the car had made in the wall.

All those wives. All wealthy. All murdered?

He bellowed, “You're not getting away from me!” and got up, tearing after her. He was so close; she could hear his labored breathing. She looked wildly at what was in front of her and to either side. It was the same vista. She was at the top of the cliff and the only escape was down its face. She kicked off her shoes and gingerly lowered herself over the edge, searching for a foothold and finding it. She could see that Sky was about to do the same. He tore his bespoke loafers off and one went over the side. Faith watched it fall. It was a long way down. She made a mental note to thank her parents for sending her to those wilderness camps with rock climbing, if she made it out alive, and continued to steadily make her descent.

There was no question that Sky was coming after her. He'd been quite the hiker in his youth. She seemed to remember something about the Matterhorn. Still, that was a long time ago. She reached a small outcropping and edged along it so that she wasn't directly below him. For a moment she flashed on Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint in Hitchcock's
North by Northwest
. At least Sky didn't have a gun.

But he did have rocks and he was throwing them at her with a surprisingly good aim. One struck her face and she felt the blood trickle down her cheek. She didn't dare take a hand away to check, but kept moving. If she couldn't outrun him on the beach, she'd plunge into the water. The thought of how cold it would be numbed her before the blazing fear she'd been feeling since he'd dragged her from the car returned—a fear so real she could taste it. She kept her eyes on the cliff face, inching straight down, but also trying to move farther to the side, away from his reach. Above her, Uncle Sky's face was deadly still, wiped clean of the emotions that had consumed him moments ago. A cold-blooded, cold-hearted killer. Not just
North by Northwest,
but Hitchcock's
Shadow of a Doubt,
too—her own Uncle Charlie.

Those gloves. If the crash hadn't killed his wife, if she hadn't gone over the cliff, but gone into the wall as Faith had, the gloves were to finish her off and blame the air bag's explosive impact. And now those gloves were providing protection and a better purchase on the rock. Faith's hands were ripped and bleeding. She was afraid she'd slip and wiped them, carefully, one at a time, on her shirt, moving lower and lower down the precipice.

The stairs to the beach were to her right. If she could get close enough, she could reach them, pull herself over, and run up them, crossing the road back to the house. Across the road and away from her uncle. She stretched her right foot toward the outcropping below, letting her left foot drop as she swung out. She had to let go with both hands, and when she did her right foot slipped onto—and off—the rock. For an instant she thought she was falling and then managed to grab frantically with one hand, then the other. She was suspended in the air, unable to find a foothold. Sky was getting closer. His face was still expressionless, but it wouldn't be when he reached her. She knew now that he was beyond sanity, that he would take her over the cliff with him.

She heard voices. Tammy's was the loudest, but Faith couldn't make out her words. People were running down the stairs. She thought her arms would come out of their sockets. Hold on! Hold on! Whose voice was she hearing? It was in her own head, she thought dizzily. It sounded like Tom's.

“Hold on! We've got ropes!” Someone with a bullhorn. The police chief, Matt Johnson.

Sky looked in the direction of the voice, but kept moving. Matt called again, “Stay where you are! Don't budge an inch! We're lowering harnesses. Grab hold of the rope and put your legs through the harness. Can you do that?”

Faith shouted, “Yes!”

“Heard you. It's coming.”

Sky didn't say anything.

She watched as a thick rope with a bright red triangular fabric harness swayed in the breeze, coming to rest by her hands. She grasped the rope and was able to loop first one leg and then the other into the seat.

“I'm in.”

Her uncle ignored the apparatus, an arm's length away, and as Faith slowly ascended, she called to him, “Uncle Sky, take the rope. Please!” This was one time an insanity defense would work. He wouldn't be giving parties at The Cliff anymore, though.

He smiled at her. The Uncle Schuyler she knew was back for a split second before he gracefully arched his back and pushed off the cliff with both hands and feet. Faith closed her eyes. She didn't see Schuyler Walfort's last wave.

“ ‘T
ragic Climbing Accident Claims Life of Old New York Scion,' ” Jane Sibley read out loud. The entire family was gathered in the Sibleys' living room, including the soon-to-be newest member, Tom Fairchild. He was sitting on a loveseat in front of the window, holding Faith's hand. He'd arrived yesterday so quickly after Faith called that she was sure he had broken every speed limit in all three states on his way.

“It was Mother's fault,” Great-aunt Frances said. “She indulged his every whim. I suppose we all did. He was the most darling little boy. Golden curls, and such fun.” She sighed.

As an explanation, Faith thought, it was somewhat lacking, but it
was
typically Great-aunt Frances and she almost smiled.

The previous day she had spent many hours with the local police and Detective Willis. It turned out that Schuyler Walfort had not been as clever as he'd thought and they had been steadily investigating him as their prime suspect in the murder of Mabel Danforth, proceeding on the assumption that he had thought it was his wife, as in “it's
always
the husband.” They had sifted through the wood remnants and ashes in the fireplace, finding blood and some hair that matched the housekeeper's. Her assailant was obviously a reader of crime fiction and had gone for the old log trick—burning the rustic weapon up after using it.

Walfort
had
been in Westchester meeting with some potential business partners, but there was plenty of time when they weren't together for him to drive to his home and back. They suspected he'd used his wife's black vanlike car to “break in” to a house he knew was unoccupied in the neighborhood that weekend before staging the break-in at his own.

His grief over Danny's death, however, was very real and pushed him even further over the edge; he began to target Faith, whom he blamed for everything. If she hadn't been the one who'd opened the door—and avoided the falling missile—Tammy would have been crushed, as planned, and then he wouldn't have killed Danny by mistake. Brickwork did occasionally fall from the chimneys at The Cliff and Sky would have been on hand immediately after to remove the telltale rope and filament, while in the depths of sorrow. A grief-stricken widower. A rich widower.

He wanted Faith completely out of the way before his next try, and having learned her work schedule, he stationed himself outside, following her into the crowded subway for a good swift push. Francesca had identified Faith's assailant, just got the gender wrong. Walfort probably removed the coat and put it over his arm, tucking the hat and glasses in a pocket. Francesca had never met him, so would have no idea the elderly gentleman in the subway car was Faith's uncle.

The question was whether Danny had been in on this plot—and others? A kind of Bonnie and Clyde duo that stood the test of time, a lifetime for both? The police in the various parts of the country where Sky had lived when previously married had been informed and a number of natural deaths might be reclassified. Was the piece of paper the Todds had found in the housekeeper's room a confession, or maybe it was a marriage certificate? They loved each other. Had they been lovers, married lovers, all these years?