“Not yet.” Charley sounded discouraged.
“I told the New Hampshire police about him and what happened at the auction,” Faith said.
“Maybe he killed George, because he didn’t want George to finger him for all these break-ins, especially Sarah Winslow’s. Except”—Faith was thinking out loud—“if I’m right, George was as involved as Green. Now if it had been Green who was murdered, then George would be the obvious suspect. He’d want to shut him up before the police found him.”
“I’ve got to get back to work, honey.” Tom had had enough and his wife’s speculations—a sign that she was back to normal—were starting to make him nervous. It was much easier to grapple with the Almighty—and even the vestry.
“I’ve got to get going, too.” Charley stood up.
Faith looked at her watch. The kids would have to be picked up soon. She might as well stay where she was and think things through a bit more.
“Abandon me, go ahead. See you later.” She waved good-bye and asked the waitress for a glass of orange juice. The cafe squeezed their own, and Faith couldn’t drink another cup of coffee, especially the Minuteman’s.
The Fieldings had no reason to kill George, nor did James Green. Gloria might have, and it was suspicious that she’d withdrawn all that money and made travel plans. Faith took out a pad and pen, making a note: “How much money in the account? Who is Gloria?”
She thought about calling Nan Howell to find out more about Gloria. Nan would probably know about George by now—the world of antiques dealers was very small—and she also might have caught it on the news. The news! The police had assured her that neither her name nor Scott’s would be released, but she’d better give her in-laws a much-abbreviated version just in case. She jotted down a reminder. Marian would be sure to pick up on the name— the Old Oaken Bucket was pretty distinctive, and Faith couldn’t remember whether she’d mentioned George Stackpole’s name to Marian, as well.
But who had killed him? Gloria couldn’t make very much selling her little trinkets. Why would she want to get rid of her means of support, unless she was due to come in to a whole lot of insurance money or George had a lot socked away, leaving Gloria sole beneficiary? But the moment the woman tried to claim it, she’d be arrested.
Maybe he was cheating on her. A woman scorned? But George Stackpole struck Faith as someone who was extremely lucky to find even one woman who would put up with his tempera-ment—and appearance. The possibility of another in thrall to his charms seemed slim.
Who else? Faith was pretty sure she knew—even with a cast of characters who offered so many alternatives. She wasn’t ruling out Rhoda Dawson in all this. It might be a coincidence that James Green was from Revere and that’s where Ms. Dawson’s post office box was—or it might not.
Nan with her clinking beads, Gloria in spandex, Rhoda in Joan Crawford shoulder pads. No, none of these women, nor Green, made as much sense as the man in the Savile Row suit. Julian Bullock. Father of the bride.
Ben was at a friend’s house and Amy was happily banging pots and pans while Faith brought Niki up-to-date later that afternoon at work.
“I can’t believe the things that happen to you. Does your mother know? Mine would have locked you in her attic by now.”
The one thing Faith had not shared with Niki was her suspicion of Julian. Not yet. She needed to think about it herself some more. She decided to change the subject.
“We only need Scott and Tricia as staff for the rehearsal dinner. The flowers will be ready in the morning and we can take everything out in the afternoon. Thank goodness Courtney wanted a
‘family feel’ to the evening—no menus. The calligrapher would have gone crazy.” It suddenly dawned on Faith that this was why Stephanie had fooled around with changing the rehearsal dinner so much. She couldn’t alter the reception menus, not after Courtney’s fancy calligrapher had hand-lettered them two months ago. The woman was in such demand that even Courtney Cabot Bullock had to bow to her schedule.
“The lobster bisque would have been my choice, or your yummy wild mushroom con-somme, but other than that, it’s a perfect menu,” Niki commented.
It was perfect, Faith agreed. The guests would sip champagne and nibble their hors d’oeuvres on the terrace, weather permitting, or in Julian’s library if it didn’t. The formal dinner would begin with the cold avocado bisque, accompanied by caviar toasts, followed by a salad of field greens with warm rounds of Crottin de Chavignol chevre, then Muscovy duck with onion confit, wild rice timbales, and steamed miniature vegetables in a beurre blanc. Stephanie had nixed fresh asparagus with hazelnut butter a few weeks ago after noticing how “gross my pee smelled” after consuming some for dinner one night. “I mean, I’m going to be married the next day. I don’t need any kind of nasty odors the night before!” Garlic was of course out from the beginning, and only when she tasted the sweet onion relish did she approve of that potential offender.
Faith could visualize the whole evening. A night bathed in candlelight—so kind to everyone—but then, these were people who didn’t need it. Money might not buy happiness, but it did buy straight teeth, beautiful skin, contact lenses, great haircuts, and whatever cosmetic surgery one’s stage of life called for—a nose job in adolescence, tummy tuck and eye tucks later on.
Her mind wandered back to Julian, as it had all afternoon. This was his world—and his livelihood. Protecting his assets and his reputation was a powerful motive.
By the time she’d finished the puff pastry for the seafood napoleons that were Saturday’s first course, Faith had worked it all out. And it went something like this: Contrary to his denial of more than a passing acquaintance with Stackpole, Julian is, in fact, still buying the best of George’s goods, stolen or not. Faith’s mentions of George’s name and recovery of items, plus her proximity to Julian’s life have made him nervous. He decides it’s time to sever his ties with the picker. But George doesn’t agree. He’s been doing very well in the partnership. He tries to reassure Julian that he can provide some phony receipts and make the police happy. But Julian still wants out.
George reminds him that it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him. He knows Julian doesn’t want to jeopardize his standing—way on top of the pyramid. His connections to the rich and famous, to museums all over the world, his PBS
commentaries will all go down the drain once George reveals that Julian has been part of a burglary ring for many years—and maybe knowingly selling fakes, as well. George himself, being at the bottom, has nothing to lose. Except his life.
Faith pictured Julian at his gracious estate, contemplating his fate, contemplating the objects surrounding him, objects that, according to his daughter, he valued more than people. Perhaps not such a difficult choice. Get rid of George and Gloria and effectively erase that part of your life.
It made perfect sense and it was the only theory that did. Nan had described George as “volatile.” Julian would be well aware of this and know the man wouldn’t hesitate for an instant before spreading the word about the high-and-mighty Mr. Bullock.
“You have been standing in front of the refrigerator for about an hour,” Niki remarked, exaggerating. “Earth to Faith—what’s going on?”
“Trying to sort this all out.” Faith scooped Amy up into the air. They had to get Ben soon. The toddler laughed delightedly.
“That’s going to take more than staring at a Sub-Zero,” Niki said.
“I know,” Faith agreed ruefully. “Believe me, I know.” It was going to take a plan. A very good plan.
The police would never act on her conjectures.
John Dunne habitually regarded her theories as far-fetched at best, even if the theories later proved correct. Somehow she had to search Bullock’s house—Dunster Weald. There had to be some kind of paperwork tying Julian to George: receipts, canceled checks. A massive partner’s desk sat in the library—a remnant of the time when Courtney and Julian conversed other than primarily through lawyers, Stephanie said when showing Faith through the house. In one of the desk drawers—maybe a hidden one—there had to be something. All she needed was time to look.
Alone.
By Thursday morning, Faith was ready. Granted, the scheme depended on things falling into place neatly, but it was time something did. On Thursdays, nursery school parents had the option of an extended day, and Faith often took it. Ben thought it was a great treat to eat lunch at school and play games all afternoon. He didn’t even balk at the rest time. His adored Miss Lora, that sweet siren, sang them to sleep. Amy’s morning day-care provider could sometimes be persuaded to keep her for the afternoon, and today was one of those days. Faith might finish at
