“I see what you mean,' Faith commented. 'You don't have to think about much'
“Exactly—and these days, that's a relief.”
Faith seized the opening. 'Penny, I know Tom talked to you, and probably the whole town has by now, but I'm very worried Alden might win. Don't you think you would improve your chance's if you could at least give a hint about his allegations?'
“I'm sure it would improve my chances, and I know how important this election is, especially to young people like yourselves with children in, or almost in, the school system. But I would be betraying a trust, and there's no way I can ask the individual for permission. He's dead. In any case, I didn't mention it when he was alive and I certainly won't now. I'm sorry, my dear, we'll just have to take whatever comes. Perhaps James will win.'
“What's that?' The candidate, accompanied by his wife, wandered over. 'Talking about the election?' James did not seem overly interested and took several sandwiches from the stack of smoked turkey, chutney, and thinly sliced sharp cheddar they'd prepared. From the crumbs on his plate, Faith guessed he'd also been sampling the lox and scallion cheese spread on dark rye. With a glance at Penny, Faith hastily replied, 'Not really.”
Penny's words had convinced her. Apparently, whatever this involved concerned the late Francis Bartlett, and it was certainly wrong to try to persuade a widow to violate her late husband's trust—however curious one might be. As she moved a bowl of curried coleslaw within James's reach—it went particularly well with the turkey—Faith puzzled briefly over Penny's reference to not saying anything while he was alive. This sounded as if she knew something that Francis hadn't known she knew. Faith was a bit in awe of women like Penny. They seemed mostly to be in books. She herself was hopeless at keeping big things from Tom. Little things were another matter, of course, but something major—and this had all the earmarks—was another issue entirely.
Nobody had said anything for several minutes, although Audrey Heuneman looked as though she might.
Faith, uncomfortable with lengthy silences, however short, filled the gap, 'We were merely talking about the voters deciding what they will—and in less than one week.”
That unleashed Audrey's thought. 'He thinks he's going to win, you know.' From her venomous tone, it was clear she did not mean her husband, James. 'But he's wrong. Dead wrong.”
They heard the buzzer to return to the set. Faith was left to clear away the crusts and empty the dregs. The crowd had already consumed the vats of creamy New England clam chowder she'd prepared—though a fiercely loyal daughter of Manhattan, she drew the line at chowder: no tomatoes. But there was plenty of everything else. It was two o'clock in the morning.
At 3:00 A.M., the legs on one of the tables decided to give way. While Pix, Niki, Scott and Tricia Phelan, and the rest mopped up the debris, Faith went in search of another table. When she had been in the basement previously to check out the facilities, the custodian had told her there was a supply room filled with folding chairs and tables if they needed them, behind Aster-brook Hall.
She opened the door of the first room leading from Asterbrook Hall and found it filled with old scenery and props. Another door proved to be a large walk-in closet, the repository of everything from Bicentennial souvenir mugs, 'Aleford Then, Now, and Always,' to what appeared to be some sort of truss. It was time for a town hall tag sale. Probably make a fortune. Mulling over what at this late hour seemed like a phenomenal idea, Faith turned a corner and 'entered a hallway that led back toward the new addition and a stairway to the main floor. It was dark, and groping for a light switchwas proving fruitless. She could, however, see a dim glow around another corner. f she remembered correctly, it was the location of a bathroom—something that at the moment assumed priority over finding a new table, as she realized it had been many hours since the last pit stop. She walked rapidly toward the light, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. There was a door just before the corner. f her memory served her, it was the door to the bathroom.
It didn't. It was the fabled storage room, and as she entered for a better look, she tripped on a rolled-up carpet next to a pile of scrap lumber, probably left when the addition was built, and almost landed flat on her face. Her hands broke her fall, but her shoe went flying. She stood up. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
She turned back to retrieve her shoe, flicking on the lights, and realized that what she had stumbled over wasn't a carpet at all.
It was a body. The body of Alden Spaulding, with the back of his head caved in.
The cast on his left wrist was a dead giveaway.
Faith's first impulse was to run as fast and as far away as she could, but after several deep breaths, she knelt down to check for Alden's pulse. Her heart was beating so loudly and rapidly that it took a moment to confirm her initial impression. Anyone suffering a blow to the head like this would most certainly be dead.
She stood up and took a couple of shaky steps farther into the room. What to do? The moment word got out upstairs, the entire town would stream down, hopelessly obliterating any clues for the police. Clues. She looked around.
There were the tables, plenty of them, and stacks of folding chairs. Two of them were opened in the middleof the room, next to a table with a slide projector that faced a blank wall. Faith held her hand above the projector, careful not to touch it. It was still giving off some heat. Alden and company had apparently been watching slides. It was an odd time for such entertainment. She was willing to bet the show hadn't been 'My Trip to Parrot Jungle,' but she hadn't a clue as to what it could have been. The only thing on the table was the projector. Unless the box of slides was in one of Alden's pockets, it had been taken by his assailant.
Nothing else in the room seemed out of place and there was no sign of a blunt instrument or other weapon lying by Spaulding's side—she assiduously kept her eyes off the region at the back of the head. His hands were not clutching a torn garment or strands of hair. No crumpled slips of paper. No sign of any struggle at all.
She turned off the lights—her prints were already on the switch—and closed the door. It was unlikely that anyone else would happen by until she could get to the police, but then, three people had already been in this out- of-the-way spot in the last half hour.
As she walked toward the stairs, she noted that the door to the parking lot, a bit farther down the hall, was shut. But the button in the middle of the knob was out. It was unlocked, which could mean that someone had exited very recently. Unfortunately, this being Aleford, it could also mean that it hadn't been locked in the first place.
It was while Faith was contemplating the door that the lights went out. Just one sound: click.
The basement was totally dark—and totally silent. The only noise was the pounding of her own blood in her ears. There wasn't even a slight rustle to indicate that another human being stood a few feet away.
She stiffened in terror and cautiously backed toward the wall as quietly as she could. Her flattened palms pushed hard against the rough concrete. f someone was going to rush out in attack, at least her position would be changed. She forced herself to think coherently, to think rapidly. She had three choices: she could run back the way she'd come and chance getting waylaid in the labyrinthine corridors; she could bolt for the door and race outside to the front of the building; or she could make a try for the stairs, possibly encountering the murderer. The only light switch she knew of for sure was around the corner by the stairwell. She cursed herself for not having gotten away at once. The whole thing had seemed so improbable, she hadn't felt in any danger, just sickened at the sight of the corpse.
There was the barest suggestion of movement. Faith was not sure she'd even heard anything. Alternative number four—staying where she was and being killed—moved prominently to the top of the list. It was madness to hesitate for even a moment more when someone was stalking her, armed with whatever had killed Alden and ready to repeat the act—this time in darkness.
The lights in the parking lot decided her. Whoever it was must have seen her, but she had seen nothing—so far.
She sprinted across the hall and threw open the door. The bitter cold night air was as welcome as a day in June, and she did not stop to look over her shoulder, running as fast as she could to the front of the building and tearing up the stairs.
Inside the front entryway, she stopped, panting slightly. She was safe. She'd made it.
The mess from the collapsed table had been cleanedup and her staff was presumably downstairs preparing
