The Body in the Snowdrift (6 page)

“How could you have known?” Faith said. How could anyone have known? It was such a bizarre occurrence that she was having trouble believing it had happened. “Your mother gave me some tea and tucked me in, just like Mother Rabbit, and I've been sound asleep.” She kissed him, hoping he would feel the reassurance behind the gesture. The last thing Tom needed was to feel guilty on her account.

Settling back in his arms, she asked, “Did you know Boyd Harrison?”

“A little. Mom, Dad, and Craig knew him the best. He was a great guy. Lived in Charlotte, which is near Burlington, and had a law practice. But he grew up with
the Staffords here on the mountain and has always been their principal investor and booster—‘Mr. Pine Slopes,' they called him. Five years ago, he had a major heart attack, and he's had several close calls since then. Everyone knew this was coming, and although they're upset, they know it's how Boyd would have wanted to go.”

It was essentially what Marian had said, but Faith could take it in now.

“The Staffords have posted a simple announcement in the main lodge and a couple of other places about Boyd's death from heart failure. They knew word would get out, and you know how rumors start. If they hadn't, people would be saying that Boyd had met a grizzly or that something was wrong with the trail—things that would send people packing—and that's the last thing Pine Slopes needs.”

Faith did know how rumors started, and she hoped that the announcement would do the trick. People didn't want to think of anything unpleasant while on vacation, and nothing could be more unpleasant than a death on the slopes. As it was, news of a heart attack on Valentine's Day was bad enough.

She sat up straighter, suddenly restless. “What are your plans for the afternoon?”

“My plans are your plans,” Tom said.

“How about the rest of the family?”

“They're all skiing, even Mom and Dad. Betsey's outfitted her guys with walkie-talkies so she can keep track of them, and Ben wants one, too. He's not skiing on his own the way they are—and his parents are not obsessed the way my big sister is, but if we do go off, we might pick some up.”

Faith wished she had had one earlier.

“Why don't we go off to Burlington?” she suggested. “Get the walkie-talkies and some chocolates for tonight? We could have a bowl of soup or something at NECI Commons. I've heard so much about it. The students at the New England Culinary Institute run it. Not fancy like their Inn at Essex—just takeout and a bistro. The only thing I have to do before we leave is check in with Jean, the chef, and make sure he has everything he needs for tonight. I left the cake with him yesterday. He's quite a character.”

“True. I keep forgetting you haven't been here before. It's not every day that you meet a ‘French' chef at a ski resort who wears Hawaiian shirts, hip-hop gold chains, and surfer shorts with his toque. But before we go anywhere, aren't you forgetting something?” He moved his arm down to the covers and pulled them back, sliding in next to her. “It's Valentine's Day, my love.”

 

Jean Forestier didn't have a French accent, but he did have an accent—straight from the Bronx.

“My folks moved to Mt. Vernon—that's in West-chester—when I was a kid, but you know what they say: ‘You can take the boy out of the Bronx, but you can't take the Bronx out of the boy.'”

Faith laughed. She had never heard this variation on the old chestnut.

“How did you end up in Vermont?”

“I've been asking myself that for the last twenty years, and I still don't have a good answer. Maybe it's time I got out, moved someplace warm, like Boston.”

“Really, did you go to the Culinary Institute, or is it the skiing?”

“None of the above. I've never had a cooking lesson in my life—please don't tell my employers that—and I couldn't ski to save my life. In fact, you'd have to if someone strapped the things on my feet. Oh, I'm sorry. That was stupid. You're the lady who found Boyd, right?”

Faith nodded. “I'm okay now. I understand he had a very serious heart condition.”

“Yeah.” Jean, or John—the French name was too incongruous—seemed distracted for the moment. “A couple of conditions. But what brought me to Vermont was what usually brings a man someplace—a dame, of course. My first—and only—wife. Very romantic. She's in the Big Apple, trying to find the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and asks a passerby, me, for directions.”

“And people say New Yorkers aren't friendly,” Faith interjected.

“Total bullshit,” Jean said, nodding his head in agreement. “Anyway, one thing leads to another and I wake up hitched. Plus, her folks have a little inn in Vermont that needs a chef, so I'm a chef.”

Jean looked to be in his mid-to late fifties. He had salt-and-pepper hair as curly as gemelli pasta, and was stocky and low to the ground. His bright red shorts came almost to the top of his black high-tops, revealing a few inches of black-and-white-striped socks. Today's shirt was Meyer lemon yellow and featured hula dancers. It set off the chains nicely. Faith was amused to note that one sported a golden frying pan.

“I like your family. They behave decently. You'd be
amazed at the way some people treat a place like this. It's an honor for me to be cooking Dick's birthday dinner. I'm glad you brought the cake, though. Pastry has never been my thing.”

While pastry was Faith's thing, it
really
was her assistant's. Niki had created a miniature Pine Slopes atop buttercream icing, which in turn covered layers of hazelnut ganache and dark chocolate cake. It was truly a work of art. As for the rest of the meal, Dick was a meat and potatoes man, unless he found himself at the venerable Union Oyster House in downtown Boston, the Hub's oldest restaurant. In that case, he was a clam chowder, Wellfleet oysters, scrod, and potato man—choices that served him well on his first date there with Marian in 1955 and had been serving him well ever since. And he didn't like surprises. He'd called Jean himself and worked out the whole menu: “Shrimp cocktail—everybody likes it—prime rib, hamburgers for any of the kids who can't handle the big beef, cheesy potatoes—call them gratin if you want, but they're still cheesy potatoes—and string beans with almonds—okay, almandine. And no salad. I'm tired of watching all the women in my family eat salad. Plus plenty of rolls. Parker House rolls. And butter. And champagne. Lots of champagne.”

Dick had called Faith early on to run the menu by her. She had wanted to cook the dinner herself, but he'd been firm. It was his party and she was going to be a guest. He was okay with the cake, especially after Faith told him Niki was going to make it.

Jean had everything well in hand for their dinner, which would be served in a private dining room at the
top of the main lodge, as well as for the more eclectic menu he'd be presenting in Le Sapin's main dining room. Faith was getting ready to leave, when a man came bursting through the door the waiters used to enter the kitchen. “Hey, John, I've—” He stopped short when he saw Faith.

“Hey yourself, Tanner. This is Faith, one of the Fairchild gang. She's a caterer, so I have to mind my peas and carrots tonight. Faith, meet Simon Tanner, our awesome Aussie manager.”

“Hi,” Faith said. With more than a passing resemblance to Crocodile Dundee, Simon Tanner towered over the chef. “I was just leaving. And Jean, I'm sure the meal will be perfect.”

“Please, don't go on my account. I don't want to disturb your shop talk,” Tanner said.

“It's fine. I'm late as it is. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise—Faith, is it?”

He had only a trace of a Down Under accent, but he managed to give her name two lilting syllables. She smiled and nodded, turning to say good-bye to the chef.

“I know the plan is for us to come to the restaurant our last night, and I'm looking forward to it very much,” Faith said.

“Me too, fair lady. And maybe I'll have a surprise for you.” He bowed low and kissed her hand.

Unlike her father-in-law, Faith liked surprises.

“I can hardly wait,” she said.

 

Loaded with walkie-talkies and an abundance of Lake Champlain chocolates, Tom and Faith were heading back toward Pine Slopes, listening to “State of the Na
tion” on the local NPR station. Tom was driving and Faith was looking out the window at the not-so-attractive outskirts of Vermont's largest city. Marian had offered to pick the kids up from ski school, but Faith was still anxious to get back. They'd given Ben a snowboard for Christmas, after a multitude of unsubtle hints. He was already an excellent skier and wanted to join his cousins riding goofy or daffy on a board. He'd explained these terms, which had to do with whether your feet were parallel or turned, so thoroughly that Faith had felt both goofy and daffy herself. Amy had been a more reluctant skier than Ben was at her age, and Faith wasn't about to push her. She planned to spend time with her daughter skating at the outdoor rink, which Amy loved, or hanging around the pool at the Sports Center. The complex had been redone recently and the pool was now encased in a dome. When you swam, you were surrounded by the snow-covered landscape outdoors, an enchanting sensation—like a hot-fudge sundae: toasty warmth in the midst of mounds of vanilla ice cream. Which reminded her of the chocolates they'd bought—Heart Throbs, an apt name for the dark chocolate raspberry truffle hearts, and a variation on them, dark and white chocolate cherry hearts. Tom and she had sampled an array of the factory's offerings before making up their minds, while Tom sang, “Nice Work If You Can Get In” when his mouth wasn't full.

They hit a red light and Tom braked to a stop. A strip mall and motel offered little distraction until Faith leaned over, rolling the window down for a better look.

“Hey, what gives?” Tom asked as the light changed and he pulled ahead.

“The car in the motel parking lot. I think it was Dennis's.”

“Impossible. What would he be doing here? And besides, he was going to spend the day skiing with Betsey and the kids. Don't think the walkie-talkies would reach this far.”

Tom had to be right, but Faith knew what she had seen—a white Prius with a Massachusetts vanity plate that read
BY GUM
. How many of those were there in Vermont?

 

Dick had invited Harold and Mary Stafford, plus Fred, Naomi, and Naomi's daughter, Ophelia, to his birthday dinner. The last three had been delayed, but Harold and Mary, more dressed up than anyone had ever seen them, sat quietly. Faith was sure that had tonight's party been for anyone except Dick, they would have bowed out. Even though it had been expected, Boyd Harrison's death had to have been a great shock and tremendous loss for them. Dick and Marian had suggested they put the party off to another night, but the Staffords felt Boyd would have wanted them to have it as scheduled.

The rolls and butter were on the table, and a festive heart-shaped basket filled with pink and red carnations, exactly the same color as the shrimp cocktail, sat in front of the birthday boy's place. Tom was making the first toast. Faith knew what was coming. It was a Fairchild family favorite.

When the laughter died down, Tom grew serious. “First, I'd like to thank Harold and Mary for all the happy times we've had at Pine Slopes. And Dad.” He turned toward his father and held his glass high. “Tonight is the best so far. Happy Birthday.”

He sat down, acknowledging the applause—and the ribbing from his brothers, who sat on either side of him. Faith was struck by the way Marian and Dick's features had been rearranged on all four of the children, and down to the next generation, as well. It was like one of those children's flip books, where you could change the eyes, mouth, nose, hair, and chin to make a different face from the one before. Tom and Craig had the same rusty brown hair, but Tom and Betsey had the same tall, lanky frames—Betsey's only slightly softened by a curve here and there. Robert and Craig were built the same, although Craig was shorter. Marian's eyes looked back from Tom's and Craig's faces, Dick's from the other two. All four had the same broad, generous mouth as their father, the same grin, which crinkled their eyes and was impossible not to return. Glenda would bring some new genes, as had Faith and Dennis, although it was hard to predict what this might mean in the way of hair and eye color. Faith had noticed the contacts and presumed the dye job. Ben and Amy were towheads, like Faith had been at their age, but they had the Fairchild smile and build.
The Fairchild boys—big, hungry guys, who seemed to burn off whatever they ate as soon as it went in—had made short work of the shrimp cocktail and were reaching for more rolls.

The Fairchild boys—and girl: Tom, Robert, Craig—and Betsey. Or “Bets,” “TP” for Thomas Preston, and “Buddy” as in little Buddy for Craig, who was as much of a family mascot to his brothers as he was a family member. It occurred to Faith that Robert didn't have a nickname. Not even “Bob” or “Bobby.” She'd never heard him referred to as anything but Robert. In the rough-and-tumble world that was the Fairchilds' childhood—Tom had broken his arm twice, falling out of a tree and playing touch football; fractured his leg once, jumping from the garage roof; and had managed to collect pale souvenirs of other scrapes all over his body—Robert, although a part of it all, remained, well Robert.

“Before we get to the main event here, I want to make my own toast. Now Marian, don't tell me it's not the proper thing to do.”