Body in the Bookcase

sister’s sharp intake of breath over the several hundred miles of telephone wire that separated them. Hope had called Tuesday morning to offer the same advice Faith seemed to be getting from every quarter: Let it go.

“When you put it like that—”

“Exactly,” Faith interrupted. “You’d be doing the same things I’m doing.”

“And the police don’t have any leads?”

“If they do, they aren’t sharing them with us, and I very much doubt they do. The town is filled with rumors. Someone saw a man with a duffel bag in a backyard up on Hastings Hill Saturday night and called the police. The man, if he existed, either disappeared—rumor number one—or gave the police a phony address, which they didn’t realize was wrong until they got back to the station and checked a telephone book—rumor number two.”

“The whole thing makes me absolutely sick, Fay.” Hope was happily the only one who ever used this nickname, and for most of her life Faith had been trying to think of a way to tell her sister how much she disliked it. “How are the kids? Not to change the subject.”

“I’m glad to. You’re not the only one who thinks I’m obsessed. The kids are fine. Amy is right on schedule, chugging along toward two.

She gets these sudden fits of wanting something and wanting it now. Ben watches in fascination, and I don’t dare let her get away with anything. It would be the thin end of the wedge for both of them.”

“But that little face! How can you say no?” Hope and Quentin had made it clear that children, unless they came packaged and with a guarantee, would not be forcing them to face down their co-op board for many a moon, if ever.

So she could say silly things like this. Faith didn’t bother to respond.

“I have to go. There’s a show house over in Byford that Marian wants to see and I’m going with her. You were terrific to call. Love you.” The two sisters hung up, each relieved that they weren’t in the other’s shoes. Hope’s Bruno Maglis were ter-rifyingly corporate, as far as Faith was concerned, and her clothes were so boring—a row of dark suits in the closet.

She pulled on an Armani black linen skirt, tucking in a Dana Buchman ivory silk blouse with full sleeves, tight at the cuffs. It had tiny covered buttons, like those on old-fashioned bridal gowns.

Stephanie Bullock had firmly rejected white tulle and lace. She and Courtney had both headed for Vera Wang in New York almost before Binky could struggle up from his knees. Faith had seen Stephanie’s dress and it was gorgeous. What Faith would have selected herself had she not worn her mother’s dress. Courtney’s dress had been described as a column of pearl gray silk, pleated like Fortuny silk—no mauve lace or turquoise chiffon for this mother of the bride. The woman had certainly kept her figure. Hats had been in, then out so many times that Faith wasn’t sure what the Bullock women or attendants would have on their heads come the wedding day.

She was about to get the silver necklace she usually wore with this outfit, a curve of sterling made by the craftsman Ronald Hayes Pearson, when she reminded herself that it was gone. Dis-paru. This happened more times than she would have thought possible. She’d reach for a piece of jewelry, only to come up against the same old wall. She didn’t have any. To speak of, that is. She clasped the gold chain they had bought at the pawnshop in Lowell around her neck. It was very pretty and similar to the one stolen, but it didn’t feel like hers. Not yet anyway. For an instant, she felt a tiny prickling sensation around her neck.

Whose was it? The pins and needles went away as she reminded herself of what Tom had said when they bought it: “It’s here. It’s for sale and you’ll give it a good home. And I mean that literally. Nobody has a more beautiful, exquisitely kissable neck than my wife.” He’d whispered the latter part in what was supposed to be a sexy voice, but given that it was Tom, it sounded more like an Eagle Scout swearing allegiance. He came close to sensual when he adopted a French accent, but this had also been known to cause the object of his desire to burst into gales of laughter.

Faith leaned over and brushed her hair, then stood up and let it fall into place. Well-meaning friends had burbled on about what fun it would be to buy new things once the insurance money came through. She felt immensely sorry for herself. They had no idea what they were talking about. The next person to say something like that was going to get a smack. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe it would be Millicent.

Tom had agreed to pick the kids up and give them lunch so the two women in his life could have this time together. Faith liked her mother-in-law—especially once they’d ironed out the question of what Faith should call her. Mother Fairchild, Marian’s suggestion, had been too reminiscent of a convent, and Faith did not consider herself a novice. The use of Mrs. Fairchild took them through most of the engagement, but then Tom’s Dad had stepped in and announced that it would be Marian and Dick. Much better than all the pussyfooting around he’d observed Faith doing, he’d said, and infinitely preferable to

“Hey, you.” Ben called them Granny and Gramps, which was what they most cared about at this point.

She grabbed her bag. Marian would be here any minute and she wasn’t a woman you kept waiting, particularly when there was a show house in the vicinity.

Some got their kicks from champagne; Marian Fairchild got hers from viewing the latest trends in balloon shades and the newest staple- and glue-gun tricks. She was unabashed about her passion for seeing other people’s houses—after all, what better pastime for a realtor’s wife? The South Shore was filled with Fairchild enterprises— Fairchild’s Ford, Uncle Bob in Duxbury; Fairchild’s Market, like Fairchild’s Real Estate, also in Norwell and originally owned by Tom’s grandparents. There were no Fairchilds associ-ated with the market now, but the name would go on forever. Any change would elicit an outpouring of wrath and sharp decline in custom on the part of the people who had “always” shopped there.

“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”

Faith flew down the stairs, glad she’d left the front door open. Marian was in the dining room, staring at the sideboard in shock.

“I know you said they took the drawer, but I suppose I didn’t believe it until now.” She put her arms around Faith.

Marian Fairchild was in her late fifties and wore outfits that varied only in regard to the fibers—wool or cotton, depending on the season.

The cardigan sweaters with grosgrain ribbon matched the A-line or pleated skirts. Today, her round-collared blouse was a bright Liberty print.

She carried one of those wooden-handled pocket-books that had coverings like slipcovers. They buttoned on and off. The tartans of winter had given way to a bright pink linen that picked up the colors of her blouse. Her sweater and skirt were pale green. Her headband matched. Tall, like all the Fairchilds, Marian had great posture and was very fit. Her hair was thick and so white, she looked like the peroxide blonde she never was. Her bright pink Coty lipstick always appeared slightly smudged, bleeding into the tiny wrinkles around her lips—and except for some laugh lines, the only wrinkles Faith had detected.

“We’ll take my car. It’s out front. Lunch first, then the house—or the other way around?”

“Either way is fine with me.”

“Then let’s eat. I was up early and I’m famished.”

The closest thing to a tearoom—which was what Faith thought of as a mother-in-law type of place for lunch, especially her mother-in-law—was in Byford itself, not far from the show house.

Over three kinds of finger sandwiches—cream cheese on date and nut bread, curried chicken salad on buckwheat walnut, and cucumber on white—and the inevitable garden salads, the two women covered everything from the robbery to what to do about Amy’s new habit of getting out of her crib several times a night: “Put her back.” Marian’s sympathy was balm to Faith’s soul; the only fly in the ointment being the elder Mrs. Fairchild’s disconcerting habit of suddenly asking, “Did they get the mother-of-pearl fish-serving pieces the Conklins gave you as a wedding present?” or “Is Great-Aunt Phoebe’s cameo ring gone? You know, the shell cameo with the head of Plato that had her name inscribed inside?” Each time, feeling masses of guilt wash over her, Faith had to say, “Yes, it’s gone. Everything’s gone. Everything.”

When they’d finished their strawberries and clotted cream, Marian summoned the waitress, who bore a striking resemblance to one of the ones at the Willow Tree, asked for the check, and announced to Faith, “Lunch is on me, dear. You need a little treat after what you’ve been through.

No, I won’t hear of it.” She put up her hand in an imperious gesture, reminding Faith of Tom’s description: “Mom was the tough one. We could never get around her. She’d do this thing with her hand like a traffic cop, and if you knew what was good for you, you just shut up and obeyed.” Faith did.