Body in the Bookcase

And by the way, did I ever mention she also believes if you rub a cut potato on a wart and bury it during the full moon, the wart will disappear and end up on the spud? That’s why there are all those things on potatoes we mistakenly call ‘eyes.’ They’re really warts, but people wouldn’t eat them—the potatoes, I mean—if this incontro- vertible fact was widely known. But I digress.

Mom has this effect on me and a whole bunch of other people. So in her best-case scenario, I’m coming down the aisle toward some Prince Charming with letters after his name, as in M.D., LLD, MBA. In yours, I’m over at the reception hall baking the cake.”

“Okay, okay, smart-ass. I won’t ask you again.

But you know you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had, and yes, I can admit it, you even outshine your master at times.”

“I’m having too much fun to think about being ambitious—and that goes for both your and Mom’s visions, although catch me telling her. If she ever found out I ditched someone like Tommy, she’d cross my name off the list in the family Bible.”

Tommy was every mother’s dream. Faith had met him when Niki had brought him to the parsonage Christmas party. Harvard grad, handsome, fun, and up to his ears in profits from a software company he’d started. Plus, he was Greek. Faith had watched the relationship get more and more serious. Tommy was crazy about Niki, and her apartment was beginning to look like a branch of Winston’s florists, she’d quipped.

But Niki never took him home. She’d walked in one blustery March day and announced it was over. Tommy was too right and she’d gotten nervous. “I’m going to stick to bikers for a while, or maybe lawyers. Very similar. I was beginning to lose my edge with Tommy. We had even started staying in and renting videos!” Faith had expressed appropriate horror.

Hearing once more that Niki wasn’t planning on leaving, Faith felt relieved. She’d miss Niki’s expertise as a chef, but she knew she’d miss the daily installment of Niki’s life even more.

The morning passed quickly and it was over a lunch break of some leftover vegetable risotto that the Winslow burglary came up.

“I still don’t understand why they would have bothered breaking into Sarah’s house,” Faith said.

“It’s a tiny Cape. There’s even mold on the gray shingles.”

“You lived such a sheltered life in New York.

Anybody who does this for a living—and you do understand that this is what it is to these guys, right?— assumes there’s going to be something valuable in any house in a place like Aleford. The same for all of the western suburbs. It may not be a PC or whatever, but at the very least, they’ll get some jewelry.”

Niki was right. The Fairchilds had learned from Charley MacIsaac that the Winslow break-in was merely one in a string of recent burglaries.

None of them had had the same tragic results, nor were all the houses so thoroughly searched. In one case, the only thing taken was a silver tea set, and the owner was not even aware it was missing for some days. It had been so much a part of her dining room that it wasn’t until a friend commented on its absence that the owner realized her loss.

“The police won’t tell me anything,” Faith complained. “I don’t know if they even turned up any prints. It makes me furious to think that maybe nobody is doing anything about Sarah’s death—or the break-in.”

Niki nodded and polished off the last grains of rice—just the right amount of garlic and the spiced sun-dried tomatoes had given the risotto an additional zing. “I just had my bike stolen once and I know how pissed off I was. I reported it, and I’m sure the only reason the cop filled out the form was because he was hitting on me at the same time.”

“Well, we’d better get back to work.” Faith stood up, but she couldn’t leave the subject.

“Charley says property crime is the biggest problem he has to deal with, but I wouldn’t say they’re too successful if thieves can enter a home in broad daylight and scare a woman to death.” She picked up their bowls and started toward the sink, then stopped and looked back at Niki. “You know I’m not going to let this go,” Faith said.

“I never thought you would, boss.”

Three

Quite apart from not letting go of the matter, it soon reached out and grabbed Faith, as well.

Tuesday morning after spouse and progeny had departed, Faith left the house herself for a whirlwind round of errands, the repetitive kind, which don’t bring the satisfaction of a job well done, because in the near future, you’ll have to do them again—the dry cleaners, gas station, post office, market. It had gotten to the point where she could almost negotiate the aisles of the Shop ’n Save blindfolded. Familiarity bred speed, though, and before too long, she was back home, pulling into the driveway to put the food away before going to work.

As she got out of the car, Faith congratulated herself on the skill with which she had once again managed to avoid the Canadian hemlock hedge while leaving the parsonage shingles intact. The drive combined the challenge of a ninety-degree turn from the street with the width of a footpath.

Struggling up the back stoop, keys out, she was puzzled to notice that the door was wide open, the storm door, too. She let the grocery bags slide to the ground and stared straight ahead. She’d locked the door only an hour ago. Maybe Tom had come home for something he’d forgotten—

not an unusual occurrence. The Reverend Thomas Fairchild was quite absentminded.

“Honey?” she called. Her voice sounded very loud in the still morning. Mounting anxiety was making her stomach queasy, her skin damp.

“Honey, are you home?”

One of the brown paper bags toppled over, and as she bent to straighten it, further queries died in her throat. There were shards of wood on the mat.

She jerked her head up and saw the marks on the door, the frame. Forced entry. The house had been burglarized. Like Sarah’s.

Apprehension instantly became fury. She kicked the top step over and over, swearing out loud, “Damn! Damn! Damn!” Then she turned and raced next door to the Millers’ to call the police.

Only a few seconds had passed since she’d seen the splintered wood; a minute or two since noting the open doors. It seemed longer. The bright sun, blue sky, and Pix’s front garden full of blooms mocked her as she pounded furiously on her neighbor’s door. “Pix,” she cried, “where are you? Don’t be out, please!” She was starting to run to the next house when Pix Miller came to the door.

“Faith, what on earth is the matter?” “My house has been robbed! I have to call the police!” She pushed past her friend, grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Hurry up! . . . No, I don’t think anyone is still there. There was no car outside and the garage was empty.”

She hung up and stamped her foot on the floor.

She wanted to punch the wall, punch someone.

Pix was staring at her friend open-mouthed.

Faith’s face was red, her eyes glazed. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her hands balled into tight fists.

“The garage was empty! I didn’t close the doors!” she cried. “I could see right in. Anyone could see right in!” She was hardly aware of Pix.

Her thoughts careened wildly. Had she locked the back door? Her mind went blank. She was almost positive she had, but maybe she hadn’t. She simply couldn’t remember. Suddenly, the Millers’ hall looked strange, as if she was seeing it for the first time, as if she was watching a movie. She flashed back to her kitchen door, the deep gouges on the frame.

She felt Pix’s arm around her shoulder and the touch brought her back. “Faith, are you sure about this?” Pix steered her in the direction of the kitchen. “You need to sit down. I’ve got coffee on.” The suburbanite’s panacea.

Faith twisted out from under her friend’s well-meant gesture, not bothering to respond to the question. She was sure, and Pix would see soon enough. Faith didn’t need to sit down. She needed to do things. One thing especially. “I have to call Tom!” she said, picking up the receiver.