Body in the Bookcase

Ten

“Everyone, including the police, knows exactly where I am,” Faith lied brazenly.

“How nice for you,” Julian commented sarcastically, then stooped down to look at the drawer.

“Where did this come from?”

It was too much. All the pent-up fury and frustration that had been mounting for three weeks—since Faith walked into Sarah Winslow’s book-lined room—erupted.

“You know damn well where it came from! My house! It’s over, Julian! You may have been able to shut up George—and probably Gloria—but you’re not going to stop me!” She dashed out the door, ignoring the startled look on his face, and reached her car—just as he did. He grabbed her arm—hard.

“Now just wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about? Are you insane?”

He was good, very good, although there was more Southie than Sussex in his accent now.

Faith started screaming, “Let me go, you bas-tard!” She tried to twist out of his strong grip, beating at him with her fist, her heavy purse lying useless on the ground, where it had fallen when he’d spun her around.

“How can I make you believe me!” he cried.

“I’m not a murderer!”

“And Sarah, Sarah Winslow!” Faith didn’t pause in her tirade or struggle to break free. “You killed her, too! Not in cold blood, but it amounted to the same thing. Your goons scared her to death!”

“I don’t know anyone named Sarah Winslow—and I don’t have any ‘goons.’ ”

“But you admit you knew George Stackpole.

Knew him very well!”

At this, Julian looked incredibly weary, but he did not relax his hold on Faith.

“I need a drink and so do you. We’re going to go inside, have one, maybe two, and talk. If you still want to call the police after that, you may be my guest.”

Murderers didn’t behave this way, offering hospitality and a chat. Faith looked Julian in the eye. Could she have been wrong? He had seemed genuinely amazed at finding the drawer in the barn. If he was going to bluff his way out, he’d have thought of something better to say—or do, like burning it immediately. She might be making a mistake she’d regret for the rest of her life—a long one, she hoped—yet the desire to hear what he had to reveal was too strong. It was one more mover’s quilt to lift—a colossal one.

“Okay. Let’s go inside, but don’t forget, people know where I am.”

An hour later, Faith stood up. They had been sitting in the library. “I have to get my kids.” Julian nodded. He was behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, still nursing the stiff scotch he’d poured himself after downing a first quickly.

“I really don’t know why I should trust you,” Faith said, pausing at the door to the hall.

“You don’t have any choice,” Julian replied, lifting his glass.

The luck of the Bullocks, or Cabot Bullocks, Courtney would have insisted, held. Friday was as beautiful as a day in June, which it was. The guests were invited for seven and the evening air at Dunster Weald was balmy, filled with the scent of wisteria. Faith had hung Japanese lanterns in the trees, and as twilight fell, their glow deepened in the shadows. She’d covered the table on the terrace with a white cloth, skirting the damask with drapery sheers gathered like a bride’s bouf-fant gown. They’d pass the hot hors d’oeuvres, setting the cold ones and a raw bar on the table.

The only flowers were masses of white roses in some of Julian’s silver wine coolers and garlands of baby’s breath looped about the skirting.

“A champagne crowd for sure,” Scott reported, returning for another tray of flutes filled with Dom Perignon. “Her old man is knocking back the stuff like it’s water. I guess he’s trying to forget how much this shindig is costing him.”

While they were setting up earlier in the afternoon, Faith had taken Scott aside for a quiet moment. They’d talked on the phone since Tuesday night, but hadn’t seen each other, and she needed to chase away the ghosts, mainly one ghost, before she could throw herself into the work ahead.

Thinking about Tuesday night did not exactly put her in a party mood—and she was keyed up to start with anyway after talking with Julian the day before. Scott seemed to have put it all behind him and mostly expressed relief that the police were not interested in him as a suspect. Dressed in a white shirt, slim black pants, and black tuxedo tie—all of which suited him perfectly—Scott was ready for the night’s work. He loved doing parties like this, he’d often told Faith. They were a lot of laughs—and great leftovers. Tonight, he’d finally meet Stephanie, after a year of hearing Faith’s and Niki’s stories about the spoiled young woman.

Wednesday morning, Faith had called another young woman—Tricia Phelan—prepared for her justifiable anger. Borrowing one’s husband for questionable deeds and placing him at the scene of a murder could put a strain on any friendship.

But Tricia was cool. Like Tom, she was so relieved that her spouse was all right, it hadn’t occurred to her to be angry—at anyone. Or at least not yet.

Still, Faith felt guilty, hence the call. “Next time, ask me and leave Scott out of it” was Tricia’s only caveat. “I never even got a detention in high school.”

Tricia came in with an empty tray. “Nobody ate lunch today. These were gone before I could even get to everyone.” The tray had held small crisp zucchini fritters spread with sour cream and salsa (see recipe on page 339). Faith had another ready, these with sour cream, smoked salmon, and a twist of fresh coriander. She handed it to Tricia and got a tray of phyllo triangles filled with ri-cotta and prosciutto for Scott. Niki was basting the duck. The timbales of wild rice only needed warming and the salads were done. They were using Julian’s now spotless oven to bake the chevre, but if they put them in now, they’d end up with puddles of goat cheese on incinerated baguette rounds. Faith wandered into the dining room for another last check on the table. Courtney had come out early in the morning to arrange the cloth, letting the gray silk fall to the floor in soft folds. Faith had placed three low floral arrangements and countless votive candles down the center of the table, so conversation would not be impeded. It was so disconcerting to crane one’s neck to the side in order to speak to the person across the table hidden behind an elaborate bunch of flowers. She’d massed parrot tulips, pale apricot and celadon green; peach-colored ranunculus; pale Ambience roses; white anemones; and tiny white hydrangea in shiny brass containers—from Pier 1. The bowls shone like the gold embroidered stars in the cloth. No strong fragrances to detract from the food, only beauty for the eye. Each napkin held one perfect white spray of sweet peas. It was a wedding, after all. As per Courtney’s suggestion, Faith had spread vases of more parrot tulips in a wide palette of colors throughout the rest of the ground floor of the house.

Returning to the kitchen, Faith announced to Niki, “We’ll serve in fifteen minutes.”

“Isn’t that a little early?” Niki asked.

“No, Stephanie wants her beauty sleep, and my instructions were to have dinner on the table no later than eight-thirty.” New Yorkers would just be starting to think about eating at this time. For Faith, New England continued to be a strange and mysterious land.

As she piped thin concentric circles of creme fraiche on the surface of the avocado bisque, she willed herself not to think about yesterday’s conversation with Julian, willed herself not to think about the sideboard drawer in the barn—or a multitude of other images. She had indeed opened up Pandora’s box. She drew a sharp knife through the circles of cream, creating a web. Creating a web. That’s exactly what she was doing, and please, God, let it work.

“Stephanie wants to know if everything is ready.” Binky Wentworth’s deep voice startled Faith and one of the webs now looked like the work of a spider on acid. She’d have to prepare another serving.

“Yes, give me five minutes to set these on the table. I know she wanted to announce dinner herself.”

He nodded and went back outside. Faith pulled herself together, shuddering. She absolutely would not think about anything else except the rehearsal dinner until it was over. Over.

Let it be over.

She placed a nasturtium blossom in the middle of each bowl of soup. Niki reached for the tray and Faith jumped. “Everything’s going perfectly.

Don’t worry. I’ve never seen you this nervous. Believe me, the Bullocks are not worth it!” Niki said.

Dinner was announced, and as soon as the guests moved into the dining room, Faith started to clear away the hors d’oeuvres with Niki. There was no way to see into the dining room from the kitchen, but as they cleaned,