curiosity—and worse. This, however, had never seriously registered with Faith, and she did not hesitate to call him now.
He was very sympathetic, especially when she told him about Sarah Winslow’s death and breakin exactly a week earlier. This attitude changed abruptly when she started relaying her investigative plans and asking him what else she could do.
“Look, Faith, I don’t know how to put this any other way, but most likely your property is out of state by now and the profits up somebody’s nose.
It’s good you have pictures. They’ll help with the insurance. It’ll be enough of a job for you and Tom to deal with the adjuster and get your house back to normal. Concentrate on that.”
“I intend to, yet I can’t simply let these people get away with this. At least I’m going to have the meeting and see what we might have in common.
For all you know, we could have the same plumber, or new roofs or something.”
Faith was beginning to accumulate what she referred to as “larceny lore”—stories about burglaries. The latest was one relayed by Pix about a ring of thieves whose other job was roofing. They cased houses when repairing or installing a roof.
Then on rainy days, when they couldn’t work, they’d come back and break in. A cop in Byford had noticed the rainy-day pattern and solved the crime. Then there was the obituary felon. He noted the time of the funeral of the deceased, when a house would be empty, and planned his crimes accordingly. The cops staked out a series of houses over time and got lucky. He even dressed in black to pass himself off as a mourner if surprised.
Dunne’s deep voice interrupted Faith’s reverie.
“I would say the probability of all of you in Aleford having the same plumber and virtually every other service person is pretty high, but if it makes you feel better, have a meeting. That’s about all you can expect from it, though.”
“Why are you being so negative?” Faith asked.
“Because I’ve been a cop for a very, very long time. Bad guys are mostly stupid and they get sloppy, especially the druggies, although yours sound like pros, and they stay clean for the job.
Somewhere down the line, someone will get caught and the prints will match up. Then, bingo, you’ve got your guy—or girl.”
Faith was by no means ready to give up, or hang up. “If I was going to look for our belongings, what pawnshops should I go to? I’m not particularly well versed on the locations.” Dunne figured he might as well tell her. She’d either nag at him until he did or go through the Yellow Pages. This way, he’d make her feel she had accomplished something and she might leave him alone—for a little while anyway. “You could try up in Lowell. Bad guys like to get rid of things quickly and easily—zip down the interstate to Aleford, or one of the other western suburbs off Route One Twenty-eight, and then zip back up, stopping on the way to get rid of the stuff. You might also go across the border to Salem, New Hampshire. Easy access, and there’s a track there—that means lots of pawnshops.
Then the ones in town. But, Faith, don’t go alone.
I mean it. You’re not dealing with people who gift wrap. Take Tom.”
Faith was pleased. Now she was getting somewhere, if only as far as Lowell. She’d gotten more information than she’d thought she would, and yes, she would take Tom—if he’d go.
Now she looked across the kitchen table—she didn’t plan to eat in the dining room until the sideboard or its drawer was replaced—and thought about the best way to convince her husband to help her.
“ ‘Bad guys.’ That’s what the police kept saying. Really. Good guys and bad guys. It must make life very simple.” She paused and speared a last stalk of asparagus from the serving dish with her fork. “It’s hard to explain, sweetheart, but I feel like they’ve won. The bad guys. Not just that we were robbed but that somewhere they’re sitting around laughing at how helpless we are. If I don’t do something, that helpless feeling is going to get worse and worse. Even if we look in only a few of the pawnshops and have the meeting, I’ll feel as if I have a little of my own back, that I’ve done something. Does this make any sense?” Tom picked up his bone again. Unfortunately, it did make sense. He felt it, too. When you’re a victim, you have lost control completely. Any steps toward changing their status would feel good, although he sincerely doubted the bad guys, whoever they were, spent their time chortling over their victims. It was a whole lot more impersonal than that. But Faith could have her meeting. Pass out her questionnaire. They’d go to two or three pawnshops. What could be the harm?
If someone had told her a week ago that she would be grateful for Stephanie and the diversion the difficult young woman’s wedding presented, Faith Sibley Fairchild would have made an immediate appointment with the nearest therapist for a reality check. Yet, the next day when Stephanie breezed into the catering kitchen, unannounced, as always, Faith greeted her warmly. At least this was lunacy she could handle.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by to see if there’s anything you wanted to go over. Saves me a trip. Is that fresh coffee?” Stephanie’s requests were always couched this way. She was perennially doing them a favor, while saving herself any bother. “This will save you time later” was one of her ubiquitous, and most dreaded, formulations.
“The Fairchilds’ home was burglarized on Tuesday and they’ve lost almost everything of value—all their silver, jewelry,” Niki said sternly.
Unlike Faith, she was not in the mood—ever—for Stephanie. As Niki was wont to say, it was women like Ms. Bullock who put a hex in Generation X.
“How perfectly awful!”
For an instant, Faith and Niki watched with bated breath. Would the figure on the tightrope topple? Was Stephanie a human being after all?
Not!
“When I was at school, someone stole the diamond tennis bracelet Mummy and Daddy gave me for my Sweet Sixteen, and it was literally sick-making. I had to go to the infirmary. Of course, I haven’t lost anything since then. The one they gave me to make up for it was actually nicer, but that’s not the point. The point is, someone took it, and you can be sure I kept a sharp eye on everyone’s wrists afterward, but she was too smart. I think it was Debbie Putnam. She was new.” Stephanie stopped ruminating over this past in-justice and fixed Faith with a scolding look, as was due someone careless enough to lose not merely a bracelet but absolutely
Ostensibly, the groom’s parents, the Wentworths, were hosting the event, and footing the bill, but the Bullock women were in charge. Faith had not even met Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth, the couple having wisely departed for Palm Beach when the engagement was announced, and pretty much staying there since.
“Are you sure Daddy’s house is going to work?
It was Binky’s idea to have it there, not so stuffy as the Algonquin Club, which was Daddy’s thought.
But maybe that would be easier on you?” Again the pretense of concern when Stephanie was actually thinking about what was easier for her. It could be that she’d suddenly decided she didn’t want to drive out to Concord the night before the big event, or she could simply be in the mood to stir up trouble.
Binky was Stephanie’s fiance, Bancroft “Binky” Wentworth III, stockbroker and scion of another old Boston family, the limbs sufficiently far removed from the Cabots and Bullocks to ensure good breeding stock. After seeing Binky and Stephanie together the first time—both blue-eyed, lean, tall but not ungainly, Stephanie’s long, silky light blond hair matched by Binky’s somewhat darker, slightly wavy locks—Faith was not altogether sure that breeding hadn’t been the whole idea—most certainly, in Stephanie’s case.
Lord help them if they produced an errant throw-back to a myopic or undersized ancestor.
Following the ceremony at Trinity Church in Copley Square, the lavish reception would be held high above Boston in the large private dining room on top of the Wentworth Building.
When she and Niki had gone to check out the premises, Faith’s breath had been taken away by the harbor views. Forget the Skywalk at the Prudential Center. The Wentworths had their own personal nontourist attraction —and no ticket could get you in.
“If you cancel the rehearsal dinner at your father’s, the Wentworths will still have to pay for it, plus another one,” Faith warned. “The Algonquin does their own functions.”
