It was Niki Constantine, Faith’s assistant. When she had reopened the catering business, Faith had advertised in the greater Boston area and interviewed dozens of applicants. Niki presented the perfect combination of impressive credentials, dedication—“Food is my life,” she often intoned, only half-jokingly—and a sense of humor. This last was essential in an operation like Have Faith. Niki had assumed more responsibility as time had gone on. Faith knew the young woman would leave to start a firm or a restaurant of her own one day, but she hoped that day would be a long way off.
Niki had grown up in a large Greek family in Watertown. Although food might be her life, she was thin and wiry, never eating much, but tasting constantly.
Her short black curls were wiry, too, and sprang out from her head in disarray—a little like one of the metal pot scrubbers they used.
Faith had not been expecting her. “What brings you here? I thought you had a hot and heavy date with the guy from Harvard Law. Weren’t you going off with him this weekend?”
“I was, but I got cold feet. He’s so respectable and perfect I know he must be wrong for me. For one thing, my parents are dying to meet him.”
“And that’s a no-no?” Pix asked worriedly. She’d wanted to meet every one of her children’s acquaintances since sandbox days. Evidently this was not the thing to do.
“Chill, Pix. You’re different. If Samantha brings someone home when she’s my age, you won’t start making a seating chart for the wedding.” They all laughed.
Niki grew serious again. “The worst thing about it is he’s so understanding. He wasn’t even mad at me.
Told me he knows I need my space. What are you going to do with a man like that?”
“Probably marry him,” Faith said.
Niki frowned at her. “Anyway, we’re going dancing tonight. He’s a good dancer. Usually these preppy types look like Pinocchio, too humiliating. Now I’m going to make stock. I’ve been carrying these veal bones on the subway and bus in fear the bags would break and I’d be arrested for trying to dispose of my lover, conveniently chopped up in little pieces. Which takes care of all about me—what’s going on here?” They filled her in and she gave Pix a big hug. “How horrible for you. We had an obscene caller when I was in college and we had to change the number. I remember the first time it happened. It was such a shock, because you’re expecting something so different.
Somebody selling carpet cleaning or wanting to be your broker, and then these other words come out. Of course, you’ve solved it already, right, Faith?”
“Not really. The most obvious suspect is Joey, but the letters don’t seem his style. If anything, he’d write back in the paper for all the world to see.” Joey Madsen was noted for his letters to the editor. They pulled few punches and named names.
“What about his wife?” Niki suggested. “Standing by her man?”
Faith had considered Bonnie, then eliminated her for the same reasons. Bonnie didn’t sneak around. If she was upset about something, Aleford knew it.
“But,” Pix pointed out, “Joey is trying to get his plans approved. He can’t very well attack POW! in public without making himself look bad. He’s got to keep everything legal and aboveboard. Maybe the letters are his way of trying to frighten us into abandon-ing our cause.”
Faith was kneading the rich shortbread that formed the base for her chocolate crunch cookies (see recipe on page 340). There was another reason to believe Joey was behind the letters. It had struck her as soon as she’d heard it in Millicent’s parlor. The wording.
Could it possibly be a coincidence that both Lora Deane and the Batcheldors were being told to do something if they “wanted to stay healthy”—one on the phone; one in writing?
She thought about the other letters as she wrapped the dough for freezing. Why wasn’t Brad’s signed?
Could Joey, in some twisted way, actually consider himself a friend of the others? He’d known them all long enough. Brad was a newcomer. Maybe Joey didn’t want to presume. It was laughable in the face of the act.
“Whoever it is, Joey, Bonnie, Mr. or Ms. X, it’s someone who’s really rather rude.” Pix’s emphatic voice cut into Faith’s thoughts.
“We could all agree with that,” Niki said dryly.
“What I mean is everything in the letters is common knowledge in Aleford. He or she hasn’t revealed something that most people don’t already know. So it’s simply plain bad taste to mention it. None of
It made sense. “Not blackmail material, just reminders of hurtful times. Except for the Batcheldors.
What about them?” Faith asked.
“Think about it. What could you bring up? Margaret has spent her life looking at the world through rose- colored binoculars and Nelson, when he’s not trekking along behind her, has his nose buried in a book. But they signed the letter, so they had to be included.” Faith thought about mentioning her close encounter of the weird kind with the Batcheldors, then decided not to. She wanted to mull this over some more. Did the letter writer know what the Batcheldors were up to in the woods? She resolved to take another stroll there herself, avoiding the bog and definitely not taking the kids. Amy was well on the way to developing ski maskaphobia.
Pix left to get ready for her husband’s late-night return, although Faith was not sure what this entailed.
With kids in residence, it didn’t mean a black lace nightie or, in Pix’s case, a fatted calf of any sort. Most likely, it involved making sure they had a bottle of Laphroaig, his favorite scotch, that Danny wouldn’t have a friend sleeping over, and that Samantha honored her curfew. Peace and calm in the wee hours of the morning—with no mail delivery.
Faith and Niki worked a bit longer and then closed up shop. Niki changed into a tiny silver satin dress before she left. Faith loved it on her. A much more intriguing look than the girl in black about Niki’s age whom Faith had seen on the subway recently with a broken wineglass wired to her bodice.
“Definitely not the corporate-wife image,” she commented as Niki stuffed her work clothes into a bag.
“Maybe what she has on underneath,” Niki said.
“Don’t tell Mom, but this dress is a slip.” Monday morning always comes, and Faith was rushing around tidying up, all the while reflecting on the absurdity of the effort. The toddlers weren’t going to notice whether the parsonage was dusty—or even if it was standing, so long as there was plenty of juice and crackers. Yet their mothers, even in their usual blink-of-an-eye drop-off, would. But play group was a blessing. Normally, the children all went to a lovely woman who had been providing day care for Aleford’s little ones for years. One of the reasons she was able to remain so lovely, and in business, was that she very sensibly took a week off every once in a while, and then the mothers took the children in turn. One’s own turn came infrequently enough to be only a minor inconvenience. Faith had discovered with Ben, however, that some of the mothers went slightly over the edge when it was their morning to shine. One day he’d come home with an enormous cookie shaped like little Ben and decorated in exquisite detail right down to the exact colors of his rainbow sneaker laces. Faith stuck to play dough, two colors, and, weather permitting, a walk across the street to the green, where the children could roll around on the hallowed turf to their heart’s content. This was the plan for this morning, as well.
Hastily buffing some brass candlesticks while Amy occupied herself in picking out all the raisins from her bran muffin, Faith hoped Charley could get Joey to admit that he’d authored, if that was the correct word for the method employed, the “friendly” letters. Madsen was the most obvious suspect.
As they sat in church the day before, it was apparent that the word had been spread—and not the word Tom was preaching. The pleasant buzz of conversation and greetings before the service was missing. It seemed as if everyone had waited until the last minute and then hastily filed in just before the stroke of eleven. What talk there was tended to be furtive and hushed. It was the same at coffee hour. The Millers and the Batcheldors were there, but people were avoiding them, giving them a sympathetic nod in passing, yet unsure of what to say. It wasn’t a death—or a birth. It was perhaps something they weren’t even supposed to know about.
Faith wondered if the letters had stopped. She’d call Charley later and tell him what Pix had said—that whoever it was was writing about things everybody knew, indicating it had to be someone living in town, but maybe somebody who didn’t know its deepest, darkest secrets—or was too polite to mention them. Not that the letters showed an excess of good manners. In exchange, Charley might tell her what he’d been doing.
Had Millicent read Charley her letter? She’d been vague about it. Faith couldn’t think of anything about Millicent that you’d bother cutting up a magazine for.
Overweening pride? Ancestor worship? Maybe she really wasn’t a descendant of the midnight rider through
