Body In The Belfry

grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren, too, would watch her and inherit the legacy of this graciousness. Her two children, Rob and Jenny, had. Cindy hadn't.

Faith's small apartment in New York had been the last word in stripped-down High Tech. The only color had been the flowers delivered by Madderlake each week. Yet she coveted every square inch of Patricia's house, from the patchwork quilts on the spool and four-poster beds to the china closets crammed with export porcelain, and set after set of Limoges wedding china.

They sat down in the living room and Faith stopped her usual envious inventory to listen.

Patricia started right in with plans for the funeral. 'We would have wanted things to be simple in any case, Tom, and the fact that it was murder makes that seem all the more important somehow,' she said.

“Not that it 's something to be ashamed of, my dear,' Robert interjected.

“Oh, no,' Patricia responded, 'It's just that there will probably be a lot of newspaper reporters and people who don 't even know us. So we thought a brief service now and a memorial service sometime in the spring.”

Patricia looked very tired and drawn. So did Robert. Faith was used to seeing them hale and hearty. The Moores looked remarkably alike. Or perhaps, Faith mused, it was true that married people grew to look like each other. She darted a quick glance at Tom and felt reassured.

Both Robert and Patricia were tall, fair-haired Yankees with slightly equine faces and well-shaped feet and hands. Capable hands.

Patricia was an avid and knowledgeable gardener, president of the local garden club, The Evergreens. Robert was some kind of lawyer. Faith never heard him talk about his work. Only sailing. The Moores had a summer house on the coast of New Hampshire and Robert sailed every chance he could get. They were still tan from all this outdoor activity, but the tan seemed to have faded overnight, like one of the countless watercolor landscapes done by Patricia's forebears that hung on the walls, bleached from years of sun.

Even Patricia's normally crisp white round-collared blouse looked wilted. Faith always wondered where on earth Patricia found her clothes and had decided that she must have a stockpile of vintage Villager shirtwaists in Liberty cottons, John Meyer A-line wool skirts, matching sweaters, and blouses. Patricia also wore those Pappagallo pumps that look like bedroom slippers and she had on the discreet diamond and sapphire circle pin Robert had given her when they got married. Aside fromher gold wedding band and diamond solitaire from Shreve's, it was the only jewelry Faith had ever seen her wear. And the diamond was usually in a dish by the sink, since Patricia's hands were usually in the soil.

“Did Cindy have a favorite poet or piece of music that would be appropriate to the service ? ' Tom was asking.

Faith thought for a moment that a look of irritation crossed Robert 's face before he replied, 'None of which we are aware, Tom. Why don't you choose something?'

“Maybe Wordsworth? A slumber did my spirit seal'? Or part of Tintern Abbey'?' Patricia offered.

Patricia had been an English major at Wellesley, Faith recalled.

Reaching back to her own British Poets 101, she thought 'I travell'd among unknown men' would have been more appropriate, but she kept her mouth shut.

“Wordsworth has always been a family favorite,' Patricia said and stopped abruptly. She started again before Tom could say anything, 'And to be perfectly honest, if Cindy had a favorite, it would undoubtedly be inappropriate if not blasphemous.”

Faith decided it was time for someone to do something about the situation. These people were simply too good to be allowed to suffer like this.

“Patricia, Cindy was not Tom's favorite youth group member and although I am appalled and angry at what has happened, she was not someone I found easy to like either.”

The Moores breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“That's it exactly, Faith. Thank you. We have to make the service a decent one, but not ludicrous. Cindy hurt a great many people in this town. It was our fault, really, for allowing her to get so out of hand, but we can't be hypocrites. The last few years with her have been very difficult ones and enough people, which is to say all of Aleford, know, so any pretentious show of mourning would be a lie,' Robert spoke bitterly. 'We are to blame,' said Patricia, 'but I don't know what we could have done differently. The person I feel sorriest for is Dave. He's lost his fiancee and the police suspect him of murder, which is, of course, absurd. Apparently Cindy and Dave had a fight Thursday night and the police believe her murder was a crime of passion.' She gave a somewhat crooked smile.

Tom spoke. 'We We can't believe it was Dave either, and I'm hoping he'll get in touch with me.' Faith noticed he didn 't say 'again.' He was learning, or maybe already knew. 'I wouldn't be surprised if he came to you, Patricia, you've always been so close.'

“ Yes, I keep looking out at the garden, half expecting to see him there.”

Dave had started helping Patricia in the garden when he was a little boy and it had grown into a labor of love for the two of them.

The door opened and thirteen-year-old Jenny Moore walked into the room. She looked a good deal worse than her parents, genuinely distraught. Either that or, Faith quickly conjectured, like a person with something to hide.

“Jenny, why don't you show Mrs. Fairchild the garden while we finish up in here ? ' her mother asked. 'Sure,' muttered Jenny, a terse monosyllable from this normally bouncy kid.

Definitely hiding something, Faith concluded.

They walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. The garden was filled with mums—not stiffly in pots nor those funny football pompoms, but cascades of white, lavender, and gold—all sizes and shapes. Here and there a rosebush was still in bloom. Patricia was famous for her roses. Some were very old ; varieties mostly vanished from the seed catalogs, with names like ' Old Blush 'and 'Rosa Mundi.' They filled the air with a sweet fragrance that mingled with the bitter smell of the mums. Someone was burning leaves. Maybe autumn in Aleford wasn't so bad.

Faith sat down on a bench under one of the rose trellises and stretched her legs out to the sun. Jenny sat next to her. Clearly the girl was miserable. Her eyes were filled with tears. Could Cindy and Jenny have been close ? Somehow Faith automatically assumed that anyone she liked couldn't like Cindy, but Jenny was virtually her sister and she had lived with her all these years.

“Jenny, is there anything you want to talk about with me ? Anything you want to ask ? I know this has been a terrible shock for you.”

Faith put her arm around Jenny 's shoulders and Jenny began to sob.

“It's Mom and Dad ! This is so awful for them and it's just like Cindy to do it. She caused them so much trouble when she was alive and now she's dead and it's worse than ever ! The phone rings all the time and all the newspapers have stories about us. It's even on TV ! Robby called from college and some reporter had gotten into his dorm.' She stopped a moment and grinned through her tears.

“His buddies helped him throw the guy out the window.' She gave Faith a reassuring look. 'Not a very high window.”

So much for grief, Faith thought.

“Jenny, I know that at the moment things must be terrible for you and your parents, but they will calm down soon. The police will find the murderer and the public will find something else to talk about. You'll see.”

Here was a chance to practice. Was this what a minister 's wife would say ? What would her mother say ? Actually she found it impossible to imagine her mother in this situation. The idea of one of her father's parishioners getting murdered was just too crazy.

The idea of one of Tom 's was as bizarre, but here they were.

Jenny had stopped crying and, impelled by her promise to Dave and by native curiosity, Faith started to probe.

“Jenny, this may sound strange, but do you think Cindy was seeing anyone else besides Dave?”

Faith was sure there was another man involved in this business somewhere. She was banking on sex. Tom thought it was money. They had bet each other a dinner at a restaurant of their own choosing once the mystery was solved. Faith had something like Le Cirque in mind and Tom, she was sure, would opt for Durgin Park. Remembering the giant slabs of beef hanging over thick china plates unceremoniously banged down on the table by a waitress whose surliness was supposed to be some kind of treasured Bostonian tradition, Faith felt she had to