“Reed said Sandra Wilson was one of his production assistants. Did you see her other than at the party and on the set ... know her at all?'
“Not really. She'd come to request a tray for Max, Evelyn, or one of the other actors at lunch or a snack at other times, and I'd see her when she ate, usually with Max's stand-in, the guy who said she drank from the cup. We'd exchanged pleasantries. That's all. She struck me as somewhat shy, although her performances were anything but. She seemed totally devoted to Max—following him around with her clipboard and watching him starry-eyed when he was busy with someone else, that kind of thing.' Faith was glad she hadn't known Sandra better. It was easier to deal with her death in a vacuum, without the knowledge of parents, sisters, brothers, happy years growing up in wherever.
“What about the male stand-in? Were they romantically involved?'
“I don't know. Though I hope so, because if she was in love with Max, it was pointless.”
Faith saw Sandra's glowing face again as she emerged from kissing Max after the strip. There was no if about the young woman's feelings for the director.
She sighed. Life was monumentally unfair.
Having reduced God's cosmic joke to a single sentence, she debated with herself what to tell Dunne about Cornelia. Cornelia had been on the set, of course. Glowering in the corner during the stand-in shooting and strangely quiet and immobile during its aftermath. Certainly she was jealous of Sandra, but she wouldn't do anything like this. Tamper with one of Max's sacred props! Never!
Dunne eyed her suspiciously. Faith found it almost difficult to meet his gaze.
“Are you sure you've told me everything? Do I have to give you the speech again?”
The speech, Faith knew from experience, consisted of stern reminders that this was a murder investigation, not a Sunday School picnic, etc., etc., etc. Certainly it was a murder investigation, and investigate was exactly what she intended to do.
She crossed her fingers behind her back, something of a reflex, and said, 'Of course I have.”
Anyone peering in the lighted windows of the parsonage later that evening would have been rewarded by a picture as wholesome as apple pie, or, since it was Faith, tarte tatin. Mother was at the sink washing pots. Baby Amy was swaying contently in her wind-up swing and little Ben was drawing pictures across the table from Father, who was reading the newspaper—yesterday's, since it was Tom. He never seemed to have time to catch up and yet could not bring himself to take his wife's suggestion and skip a day. An acute observer might have noticed the slight frown on Mother's face as she attacked the broccoli and orecchiette pan with a scouring pad. And Father seemed to be reading the pa- per uncommonly fast—as if nothing could engage his attention for long. He flung the pages to one side and directed his attention to his son.
“What are you making? It looks like a very nice car. Good job, Ben?' Ben shook his head. 'It's our house, Daddy. See all the bushes in front, and here's Superdog to save the day!' Ben finished his explanation in song. Grown-ups just didn't get it.
Superdog or man, woman, girl, or boy was what they needed about now, Faith reflected. Someone who would go directly to the heart of the matter and solve it in the name of truth and justice. She was so enmeshed in this fantasy that when the doorbell rang, she called out to Tom, 'I'll get it,' half-expecting to throw open the door and see someone of steel in blue tights and a cape.
The cape part was right—and the steel—but the person before her was wearing hose of an indeterminate brown, presumably to blend with the putty tweed suit and olive green Alpine cape she wore against the cold night air. It was Millicent. f not Superwoman, possibly a cousin. Faith felt oddly relieved to see her and wondered why.
“Millicent! Come in. We're all in the kitchen. Have you eaten?”
This last was automatic with Faith, and as she took Millicent's cape, she mentally surveyed the contents of the larder. They'd finished the pasta, but there was some good smoked trout pate and .. .
“Of course.' The idea that, number one, she might arrive unannounced at someone's house for dinner was as preposterous as, number two, that at well past six o'clock she would not already have dined. 'I've come to talk to Tom,' she said, promptly quelling any misconceptions Faith might have had about Millicent's intent.
Faith was puzzled. She had assumed Millicent was there to pump her about the events on the set. Sandra Wilson's death had been old news in Aleford an hour after the fact. The phone had been ringing all afternoon and Faith was keeping an ear cocked for it now. Once again, she didn't know whether she had a job or not. She assumed the filming would be suspended for a while, but what after that? And here was Millicent. If she didn't want to talk about the murder, then what?
Millicent followed Faith into the kitchen and graciously accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Tom cleared some space at the big round table and pulled out a chair for her next to Ben.
“That's a very nice house, Benjamin,' she said with her 'children's smile' firmly pasted into place, 'But why is the dog in the sky?'
“It's Superdog!' Ben chortled. He liked Millicent for some odd reason known only to himself.
“Oh,' she commented, then turned her attention to the Reverend. 'I'd like to pick your brain, Tom.' She looked about the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time and not happy then. 'Perhaps your study?”
Remembering the profusion of papers that had sprouted like mushrooms after a rainy spell, Tom hesitated. Good wife that she was—and she intended to store away the points—Faith immediately said, 'Oh, it's so comfy in here. Stay where you are. I have to put the children to bed now, anyway.'
“So soon?' Millicent's voice rang with insincerity. 'Good night, then, dears.' Amy beamed over Faith's shoulder and Ben gave her a big kiss. Millicent absently waved in their direction. As Faith left, she caughtthe first words: '... a desperate situation and getting worse. We .. .' before the door swung shut.
Upstairs, the Fairchild children were washed, brushed, drained or diapered, and in their sleepers so fast, they barely had time to protest. Faith grabbed Goodnight Moon, which she knew by heart, and got to 'Goodnight noises everywhere' before Ben could put up any token resistance to a 'baby' book. It was short and it was good. She kissed him and sternly asked him what would happen if he didn't go to sleep immediately.
“A bad day tomorrow,' he said promptly.
“You got it. Now go to sleep so you'll have lots of energy for playing.' Sometimes it worked.
Amy was another matter entirely. She needed milk and a few verses of 'Dream a Little Dream of Me,' the Mama Cass version, not the Louis Armstrong one. Tom usually took care of that. Faith tucked the baby into her crib and was not fooled for a moment by the heavy-lidded drowsy smile her daughter gave her. She knew she would be back, but maybe she'd at least have enough time to find out why Millicent was downstairs monopolizing Faith's husband.
As she entered the kitchen, it suddenly occurred to Faith that perhaps Millicent had wanted a confidential chat with Tom as the Reverend Tom. This had not entered her thoughts before, because Millicent was a Congregationalist, as were her mother and father before her and theirs before them and so on and so on—like the catsup bottle's label of a picture of a lady holding a catsup bottle with a label of a picture .. .
Faith shook her head. It had been a long day.
Could it be possible that Millicent had come seeking advice for a personal problem, one she didn't dare con- fess to her own spiritual adviser? A secret sin? A burdened conscience?
Not. The spry elderly woman with the Mamie Eisenhower bangs who smelled discreetly of Dierkiss talc purchased by the boxcar load in 1958 may have had secrets—mainly other people's—but the only sin she would ever admit to was the original one, and that was the serpent's fault.
Millicent paused in what had evidently been a long harangue. Tom looked tired and did not hide the relief from his eyes when he saw Faith.
“Come join us, honey. This concerns you, too.'
“It concerns every man, woman, and child in Ale-ford,' Millicent clarified.
Faith poured hersef a cup of coffee. She wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, anyway. She grabbed the cookie jar and put it in the middle of the table, noticed Millicent's cup was empty, and went back for the pot. She also got Tom a tall glass of milk, although at this point, she was sure he would have preferred something stronger. But scotch didn't go with chocolate macadamia nut cookies, and even if it did, the prospect that Millicent would have him figuratively, if not literally, enrolled in AA by morning thoroughly discouraged the idea. Faith could hear her telling one and all, 'His hands positively shook, my dear. He needed the drink.'
