scary until you got used to it. Whether to make up for it or just because it was his taste, he dressed impeccably and wore his curly salt-and-pepper hair a little longer than regulations might dictate. He’d grown up in the Bronx and had never lost the accent. It made Faith feel right at home. She was inordinately glad to see him.
It took until midnight to go over everything—and it seemed longer. Earlier, Faith had reached Tom, and Scott had gotten his wife, Tricia. Both spouses were incredulous and frantic with worry all at once.
One of the cops had driven Scott’s car to the station and Dunne ushered them out. “I know the New Hampshire state motto is Live Free or Die, but I wouldn’t take the first part seriously. Don’t plan any trips in the near future. I’ll be in touch.
And, Faith, stay in the kitchen.”
She was too exhausted to put up even a token protest. She planned to avoid the second part of the state motto, too. A man had been killed and his killer was on the loose.
The cop who had driven the Mustang had adjusted the seat and mirror. Scott’s vociferous com-plaints were the last thing she heard before falling into an uneasy sleep. The next thing she knew, he was shaking her on the shoulder. “Wake up, boss. You’re home.”
Her head was pounding and she felt hungover.
Faith reached for the clock and jumped out of bed. It was past ten.
“Tom!” she hurried down the hall and called again. “Tom, are you home?” Obviously, he’d let her sleep, but she couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard her spouse or her children as they got ready. She slipped on her robe and went down to the kitchen. There was a note in the middle of the table with some wilted dandelions next to it.
“FEL BEDER LUV BEN.” Miss Lora, the nursery school teacher, had started a writing program with the older kids, using the new craze in education—invented spelling. Pix had warned Faith that cracking Axis codes during World War II had been child’s play compared to figuring out what your son or daughter would be writing for the next ten years. Faith assumed the scribbles underneath in bright red crayon were Amy’s contribution. Tom’s was brief and to the point: “Call me as soon as you’re up! I love you! T.”
As usual, he’d been so relieved that she was all right, he hadn’t been angry. Not so far. Just very, very shaken. Arriving home late and finding his wife was in a New Hampshire police station under suspicion of murder had been unsettling, and only her entreaty that he stay put with the kids, that Dunne would straighten it all out, kept him from driving up there at once.
She called his office and he picked the phone up himself. Either Ms. Dawson was out or he was sitting by the phone waiting. Faith suspected the latter. It was lovely to be adored, and when she thought of women whose husbands never called, never talked to them much, never cared, she felt guilty. But Tom’s Valentine card had said it all: a drawing of the earth and a female next to it on the cover; inside: “My whole world revolves around you! Happy Valentine’s Day.” It made her think of Niki’s lightbulb joke about Stephanie. It also made her think her position in this marriage was quite a job to maintain.
“I told the kids you weren’t feeling well. That you were tired. Which was true. You were out like a light. How do you feel now?”
“Groggy, confused, hungry.”
“Why don’t I take you out for some breakfast?
We’ll go down to the Minuteman Cafe and you can have some corned beef hash and eggs.”
“You mean
“Okay, see you soon.”
Faith turned the spray on full force and stood under it, her eyes closed. When she’d gotten home, she’d noticed some spots of blood on the soles of her shoes and the toe of one. She put them in a plastic bag and started to carry them out to the trash, then reminded herself she hadn’t been definitively eliminated as a suspect and the police might regard throwing away bloody acces-sories with some suspicion. Instead, she took the package down into the basement and put it on the top shelf over the workbench. Cleaning and polishing the leather might erase the traces of the scene of the crime, but not the memory. Dunne had told her that whoever cut Stackpole’s throat had done so expertly, slicing through the trachea to the carotid artery. Tom, like most men, was ritualistic about keeping every knife in the house honed to a fare-thee-well. Arkansas stones, special oil, porcelain knife sharpeners—his cherished tools of the trade. The murderer had been lucky.
Or—Faith opened her eyes and reached for her shampoo—knew the weapon beforehand. The Henna Gold shampoo quickly produced a thick lather. Faith rinsed and rinsed again. She turned off the water reluctantly. She often did her best thinking in the shower, and she still didn’t have an answer to the question that had plagued her since she and Scott had stumbled upon last night’s grisly sight.
Who killed George Stackpole?
Chief MacIsaac was having lunch and looked askance when the Fairchilds’ breakfast food arrived. They’d joined him in his booth, a permanent indentation on the side where he habitually sat. Occasionally, an out-of-towner would try to claim it during the chief’s well-known meal hours. Leo, the owner and cook, would get out a battered hand-lettered reserved sign and plunk it ceremoniously on the table.
“Have you heard anything from the New Hampshire police or John Dunne this morning?” Faith asked.
“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” Charley said, spooning up a last mouthful of cream of tomato soup and turning to a heaping plate of macaroni and cheese. “For starters, what were you and Phelan doing up there?”
Faith felt weariness descend like an old piece of clothing you don’t want to wear anymore but is still good and cost too much to give away.
“Never mind. Enjoy your meal,” he said. “I know the answer. As soon as you heard Stackpole had a list of your missing things, you hotfooted it up there to try to get some back. You took Phelan because he’d know how to get in if it was closed.”
“We didn’t break in—and besides, he
wouldn’t,” Faith protested. Tom looked startled and put his loaded fork back down on his plate.
Before he could say anything, though, Charley continued.
“Good for him—but Stackpole had left the door open anyway.”
Obviously, Charley had read the full report.
Tom quickly cleaned his plate and signaled for more coffee. “We know who didn’t kill the man, so who do you think did?” he asked, happy to have his wife out of the running for one crime at least.
Bless you, Faith thought. Charley tended to readily share information with Tom that she would have had to spend hours coaxing out of him.
“The woman Stackpole lives with is missing.
Cleaned out their joint account at an ATM late last night, and the safe in the basement of his house in Framingham was wide open. Bought a one-way ticket to Montreal earlier in the week—turns out she’s Canadian. Late flight, last night, and it was used. The travel information was in the house, but obviously not the lady. We’ve alerted the RCMP and are looking for her as a prime suspect, to start with.”
“Gloria?” This didn’t make any sense at all to Faith. She’d just seen the couple working together, apparently companionable. Sure, he’d spoken rudely to her at the show at the Copley, but Gloria took it in stride. “George’s bark is worse than his bite”—that’s what she had said.
Why would Gloria kill George and why now?
And why at the Old Oaken Bucket?
Charley’s mug had also been refilled. “The owners of the Old Oaken Bucket, Jack and Sharon Fielding, have had various skirmishes with the law, mostly tax evasion. Jack even did some time.
They were at home watching TV. Not the best alibi, which is in their favor. An airtight one often means you need it. There’s not a whole lot to do in that part of New Hampshire, especially on a week night and especially this time of year—mud
Faith got a question in. “Did Stackpole have the code or wasn’t the alarm set?”
“The alarm was set, the Fieldings claim. They also claim he didn’t have the code, but that I don’t believe. Several of the dealers there have had
‘robberies,’ and I’ll bet a lot of them have the code.”
“What about James Green? Have you found him?” Tom again.
