The Body in the Moonlight (19 page)

“So, you didn't leave the house.”

“Only to take Missy and a friend trick-or-treating. We were home by seven. It was a school night. You can check with the Montegnas. I left their daughter at their house shortly before then.” She was answering all the questions crisply and dispassionately, in her best PTA manner.

Dunne reached down to his briefcase. Like his apparel, his accessories were top of the line, and the thin leather envelope with the discreet Longchamps logo seemed more suited to an executive than a cop. He took a sealed evidence bag from it and leaned over, holding it in front of Janice's face.

“Do you recognize this piece of paper?”

Faith did, and for a moment the room whirled around as she recalled where she'd last seen the sheet, but she forced it to stop so she wouldn't miss Janice's reaction—or her answer.

“Why yes, it's a receipt for an order of the wrapping paper we're selling at Winthrop to raise money for the school.” She studied it in detail.

“It's made out to Jared—and that's Missy's name at the bottom.”

Faith knew she was going to piss Dunne off, but she couldn't help it. “Janice, maybe you should call your lawyer before talking much more.”

But it was Janice herself who appeared annoyed. “I don't have anything to hide. What is this all about?
What does the wrapping paper have to do with anything?”

“The receipt was found next to the victim's body, apparently having spilled out from the briefcase he was carrying. Did Missy sell him some wrapping paper? That would explain it,” Charley said kindly. John Dunne and Sully exchanged looks. It was a little more information than they would have given. Actually, a lot more. Small-town cops. You gotta love 'em.

“Not directly, but he must have picked up the form at the church, which was very good of him, although naturally it's invalid now.” Like Paula Pringle's comment about the silent auction after Gwen's death, Janice's revealed a similar mind-set. It must be something about fund-raising that, in the midst of tragedy, still kept those columns of figures firmly in place. Faith vowed to stick to volunteering in the library.

Janice looked about the room with obvious relief. It was all clear now. “I had Missy sign a bunch of order blanks and we made a little display on the table under the notice board at church. We left the sample book and the forms with a poster she made urging people to support the school.”

Faith remembered seeing it—and thinking how Missy had gotten the jump on all the other First Parish kids who attended Winthrop. It had annoyed her at the time, but apparently it hadn't offended Jared—or he'd needed wrapping paper.

“The table is still there. You can go see for yourself. You've seen it, haven't you, Faith?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It's to the left of the church office.”

“So anyone coming into the church would be aware of it?” Dunne queried.

“Yes,” Faith said again, thinking of the number of people at Saturday's and Sunday's services who would have walked past on their way to and from the parking lot.

Janice summed it all up nicely. “So, I really don't see what this has to do with me at all, and I have a very busy morning.”

Faith jumped up—she'd taken the chair nearest the door—and said, “I'm afraid I have to be getting along, as well.” She nodded to the group in general and her good-bye was lost as she raced to the door and shut it behind her. She had no intention of leaving with the rest of them, letting herself in for, at the very least, a stern reprimand from Dunne, Charley, or probably both.

She'd walked over to Janice's. It wasn't far, and now she was so intent on what the woman had and hadn't revealed that she almost collided with Patsy, who was coming from the direction of the parsonage. Anyone who thought Aleford wasn't a busy place had only to track her for a few days, Faith reflected.

“You're not home,” Patsy said.

“I know. Let's not go there, though.” The thought of facing the yellow ribbons was suddenly too much. “How about the Minuteman?”

“Too public. Come to my house.”

Faith agreed. Besides, Charley took his coffee breaks at the Minuteman Café. Even the presence of the state police wouldn't keep him from his blueberry muffins.

“I was planning to call you,” Faith said, feeling slightly guilty. After all, Patsy was her lawyer, and another body had turned up on Faith's watch. This time in her front yard.

“But something came up.” Patsy was smiling broadly as they walked toward her house. She'd been very worried when she'd heard about Jared's death—and the location of the corpse—but she could see that Faith was more like her old self. She unlocked the door and they headed for the kitchen.

“You didn't have breakfast, did you?” It was more like a statement.

Faith shook her head. She'd been too busy trying to get everyone out of the house to do more than drink coffee. Then she'd raced over to Janice's.

Patsy was rummaging around her refrigerator, emerging with eggs, cream, and butter. She reached back in for some cranberry juice and poured Faith a large glass.

“Thank you,” Faith said gratefully. She'd had enough caffeine.

“What we need is some of my grandmother's
pain perdu
. Very stimulating for the brain,” Patsy said as she whisked two eggs and a cup of light cream together with a spoonful of sugar. A lump of butter was melting in a huge cast-iron skillet. Patsy soaked several slices
of thick white bread she cut from a loaf on the counter and put them in to brown.

“It smells heavenly and I'm starving,” Faith said.

Patsy flipped the bread and sprinkled the cooked side with cinnamon sugar.
Pain perdu
—lost bread—a New Orleans way to turn old bread into a banquet of French toast.

Faith cut into her portion hungrily. “You should be the caterer, not me. Or open a restaurant using your family's recipes.”

“I don't want to work that hard. I'd never see Will. Okay, enough small talk. What have you been up to? I told you on Saturday that we had to talk, and we do.”

Faith nodded. “Of course I didn't kill Jared.”

“It never crossed my mind, but you did find the body, right? That's what everyone's saying.”

“Yes. I found him.” Faith gulped some juice and told Patsy about Halloween and also about her conversation with Sandy Hoffmann at Gwen's funeral. And about the conversations with the mystery writers. And about Janice. Patsy made another round of
pain perdu
while Faith talked and talked.

“So Jared was the target all along and Gwen got the wrong dessert. It's the only thing that makes sense,” Faith concluded.

Patsy used the last bite to mop up the sugar on her plate. “My, my, we've been a very busy girl, haven't we?” Faith still hadn't told her what was goading her to all this activity—it wasn't simply concern about the
business—yet after watching Tom at the memorial service, Patsy now had an idea.

“Tom helping you? Talking to people, too?” she asked in a neutral tone of voice.

Faith answered quickly. “No—and I don't want him to know I'm doing any of this.” She tried to smile and attempted a lighter tone. “You know how he is—a big worrywart.” It didn't work. “He does want me to find out who's behind the rumors about George, though.”

“And you think it's Janice?”

“I'm positive it's Janice, and I would have gotten her to admit it—and agree to tell Tom or Charley—if the police hadn't come barging in the way they did.”

“Never a cop when you want one, always one when you don't,” Patsy said, glad that Faith wasn't being charged with obstruction of justice, tampering with a possible suspect, or any number of other things she'd risked by knowingly going to Mrs. Mulholland's before the police had a chance to question the woman.

“Exactly,” Faith said firmly.

“So what's the deal?” Patsy reached for the yellow legal pad never far from her hand. “If it was Jared, then why? If it was both of them, why?”

“Who? That's the question. Who?”

They talked for another hour, going over every possible suspect and motive. Everyone at the table the night of the fund-raiser and everyone they knew who was in any way connected to the victims.

“We need to find out more about the guy who works at the gallery, Sandy Hoffmann. He could have been
blackmailing Gwen about something and she threatened to tell Jared. The story about hearing her fighting with her boss makes a good smoke screen,” Patsy offered.

“I agree, but Gwen had money coming into her account, not going out.”

“Then he was blackmailing Jared.”

Round and round they talked, but it all kept coming back to one person: Nick Gabriel. Who benefits? With his cousin out of the way before his marriage to Gwen Lord, Nick would have stood to be a very wealthy man.

“I'll find out just how solvent Undique is—maybe Sandy Hoffmann is right, maybe not—and you use your not-insubstantial talents to figure out what Gwen might have had on Nick Gabriel. Cheating on his wife?” Patsy suggested.

“He's not married.”

“Okay, then on a jealous lover—and maybe a lover who's got money in the business. And what about the business itself? You know the gallery scene better than I do. What could Nick have been involved in?”

“I know the gallery scene in New York, but I suppose it's not that different here. There's bound to be all sorts of things. A cover for some other activity. Money laundering, for example.” The term always conjured up a clothesline of greenbacks secured with wooden pins, flapping gently in the breeze.

“Certainly a possibility.”

“I have an old friend I can call who knows all about this—been involved in the art world forever, and not just in the city.”

“Good enough. In the meantime, try not to find any more bodies, okay?”

 

There were a bunch of messages on the machine. Most of them from Niki about that night's dinner, urging Faith to stay home. Niki said that she could handle it, with the help of Scott and Tricia Phelan, who often filled in at Have Faith affairs. There was one from Tom, saying he was still tied up, but none from the school, so Ben was fine. She decided to get Amy and pick up Ben, too. This wasn't a time for extended day. She wanted her son home. She checked the messages at work. More from Niki, but happily—and surprisingly—none canceling the job that night. Faith intended to go. She had to. It was the proverbial getting back on the horse. And she had to keep busy. Very busy.

 

Late in the summer, Jim Morton had called Faith about a surprise birthday party for his wife, Daisy. Ursula Rowe had once told Faith that women with flower names were born either before 1940 or during the sixties, and, as with most of Ursula's pronouncements, Faith had found this to be true. Daisy Morton was turning sixty. Jim was an engineer, MIT '59, and had worked everything out precisely. Daisy and some of her lady friends (Jim's term) would be having lunch and going to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the “Pharaohs of the Sun” exhibit, getting back to the house at about six. “It depends on how long they stay at the show—the museum closes at four-forty-five, but
we'll all be in position from five-thirty on.” Faith imagined not a few sore backs after all that crouching behind furniture, but it was Jim's plan, down to knowing that the museum closed at 4:45, not 5:00, not 4:30. “After she comes in, we'll yell, ‘Surprise,' and then you can come in with the champagne and some kind of canapés. I leave it to you.” Which was a good thing, because Faith had a strong hunch that, to Jim, canapés meant pimento cream cheese on Ritz crackers. “Counting us, there'll be fourteen.”

Faith had prepared a menu and made some suggestions about flowers. Jim had dropped by the kitchen, approved it all, given her a deposit, and said he'd see her on November 1.

“Why am I so nervous?” Niki complained as the two women drove to the Mortons' house late in the afternoon. Tom had returned home to watch the kids and it was one of those ships-passing-in-the-night things again. “I left you a note,” Faith had said, brushing his cheek with a kiss and hugging Amy and Ben. After Faith had picked them up, they'd spent a quiet afternoon. Ben took his rest in his parents' big bed, dozing while his mother read “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat” and other deliberately nonsensical rhymes.

“Because Jim Morton didn't call and we didn't call him. I thought about it, but I couldn't think of a way to put it. ‘Are you still sure you want us to cater your wife's birthday dinner? I mean, I have been involved in two murders very recently, one of which was a poisoning.' Something like that.”

“The guy has got to have heard.”

“Not necessarily. The Mortons aren't members of First Parish and they weren't at the Ballou House event. I'm sure Daisy and her friends have been talking of nothing else all day, but even if Jim did hear something about it, he wouldn't connect it to Have Faith. I imagine he's like my dad. They're the same vintage. Even when you tell him a juicy piece of gossip straight to his face, it doesn't register. Jim may have heard something, but his mind is on other matters—like whether Daisy will like the pearl circle pin from Shreve's he got her.”

“You're making that up!” Niki squealed.

“Yes, the circle pin part, not the rest. More likely, he got her something in the shape of the flower. Trust me. I know the man. He's a sweetie.”

They pulled into the driveway, drove to the rear of the house, got out, and rang the bell at the back door. Jim answered right away, rubbing his hands together. “You're here. Good, good, good. Daisy's going to be so surprised!”

He left them to their work, and by 5:30, they were ready. The table was set—Faith had placed a large centerpiece of Michaelmas daisies mixed with deep purple sedum and soft mauve dahlias on the sideboard, opting for several small vases tightly filled with Mon Cheri roses on the table itself. The Mortons lived in a large brick house on several acres, built by Daisy's family in the early twenties. They'd raised three children here and the long table must have seen many family gather
ings. Jim had told Faith proudly that there were three more leaves.