sandwiches. Millicent grabbed Pix and, as Pix reported later, filled her in on what would be presented at tonight’s POW! meeting. Charley MacIsaac sat morosely in a bare wood Stickley-type chair next to Nelson. Charley was not drinking sherry; he had managed to find something quite a different color that filled half a tumbler. He was avoiding the sandwiches, too.
Conversation tended toward the repetitive: “I can’t believe she’s gone.” “She was a very special person.” No one mentioned the fire. No one mentioned the time of night.
“Mom, hey, Mom, look what I made!” Ben tackled her, effectively pulling her into the present tense.
“He is so talented, Faith. I think you may have a real artist here,” Miss Lora said seriously. “He is unusually gifted.” She was holding a dripping-wet painting. It looked like a rainbow done by a nearly five-year-old child. Faith took a chance.
“What a beautiful rainbow, sweetheart. When it dries, we can take it home and put it up on the fridge.”
“Oh, Mom, it’s not a rainbow. See the legs? It’s a zebra from Magic Land and here’s the boy who rides him in the sky and here’s . . .”
Swearing for the ninety-ninth time that she would never guess what a child had drawn until given either an extremely obvious hint or the answer, Faith managed to get Ben away without the painting by explaining the rain might damage it. This made sense to both Ben and Miss Lora, who was as insistent that the mas-terpiece grace the Fairchild home as soon as possible as Ben had been.
Lora did not look like someone who was resting easy in the comfort and security of her grandparents’
home. She had deep circles under her eyes. Faith asked her how things were going as Ben left to get his raincoat and froggy boots.
“Oh, everything’s fine. Well, I mean it’s not great living at Grandma and Grandpa’s, but at least no one’s throwing stuff through my windows.”
“Do you have any idea who it could have been?” Tom had already reported that she did not. He and Charley had been spending quite a lot of time together lately and evidently, as Faith had suspected, covered much ground. Still, maybe Miss Lora would spill the beans to Faith, a sympathetic woman, far removed from an official capacity.
No such luck.
“I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.” It sounded as if she’d said this phrase before—and more than once.
“You don’t think it could have been Brad? You did think he could have made the calls? Or Joey?”
“Definitely not Joey!” Lora’s cheeks flushed in annoyance. “I told you, I was wrong to accuse him.” Ben came back and the conversation ended, but Faith knew it wouldn’t have gone anyplace. Whatever Lora knew or suspected, she was keeping to herself.
No show-and-tell, no sharing circle.
Tom came back around three. He looked wrecked and Faith knew he still had his sermon to finish. She sometimes wished he were a bit less honorable and would either repeat an earlier one or use one of those sermon books—at least as a starting point. But someone in the congregation would be bound to point out the repetition even while vigorously shaking Tom’s hand at the church door at the close of the service. And Tom scorned all aids, the ecclesiastical equivalent of Cliffs Notes, even the computerized Bible, complete with subject search, on CD- ROM, that was being touted by some of his colleagues. Faith thought it sounded great and wondered who did the readings—Charlton Hes-ton? But Tom steadfastly refused, surrounding himself with stacks of books and papers. Whether it was the divinity ordering one’s life or pure chance, somehow he managed to make sense of the chaos, plucking the sources he needed and turning out sermon after sermon each week—intelligent, inspirational, occasionally truly memorable. And never too long.
The kids were making sugar cookies with their mother in the kitchen. She was tired, too, but after Amy woke up from her nap, Faith had felt a need to do something with family and food for comfort. Margaret’s funeral had continued to stay with her like the cold, soaking rain that had worked its way down the back of her coat collar at the cemetery.
“Why don’t you lie down before you start working?
I’ll keep the kids in here with me and maybe you can get a quick nap.”
“It sounds great, but I know I won’t be able to sleep with this hanging over my head. Maybe I’ll work a little, then take a break.”
“We’re going to have dinner early. POW!—remember? Samantha is baby-sitting, but if you want to stay home, I’ll call her.”
“No, I want to go. Who knows what may happen?” Tom attempted a light tone, yet the words were strained.
Faith agreed. She wasn’t offering to stay home.
Everything had started with the formation of POW!
Gus had thundered the other night. And he was right—the letters, the attack on Lora’s apartment, the fire, the murder. The calls had come before, but the calls might be unrelated.
She grabbed the flour canister just before Amy sent it toppling over the edge of the table, and got out a rolling pin for Ben. She set Amy on the floor with the tin of cookie cutters and let her play with the shapes.
“At least let me make you a cup of coffee, or some tea? And I hope you didn’t eat any of those sandwiches, did you? You must need something.” Tom had, in fact, mindlessly consumed quite a few of the bite-sized sandwiches before he realized how foul they tasted. He’d avoided the sherry and had been drinking coffee all afternoon. It was the last thing he wanted now.
“How about a big glass of milk and whatever cookies you guys make?”
“I’m making rainbow zebra cookies, Daddy. Just for you,” Ben said.
Faith eyed him warily. He was getting dangerously close to cute. She’d have to read
“When they’re ready, I’ll bring you some. The first batch is going in now.” Faith gave Tom a big hug.
It was upon this scene of slightly boring domestic tranquillity that the doorbell intruded. Faith wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer it. When she opened the door, she gasped.
Detective Lieutenant John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police stood without.
Familiarity had not diminished the impact of John Dunne’s presence. As Dunne stepped into the hall, Faith marveled anew at the sheer bulk of the man: six foot seven with an ample frame to match, his head grazed the parsonage’s authentically quaint low ceil-ings. In his late forties, the salt was beginning to over-power the pepper on his head. Otherwise, he was unchanged from Faith’s first encounter—or, as she liked to think of it, partnership —with him five years earlier. He still dressed more like a CEO than a cop, and as she took his Burberry—had to be special order—she noted the well-cut suit he was wearing. Her private theory was that Dunne dressed so impeccably, even down to the French cuffs he favored, to draw attention away from the rest of him—especially his face. It was, in a word, homely. When he was growing up, his mother had probably told him it showed character. It got worse when he smiled, which fortunately was not often. He was not smiling now.
“I wonder if I could have a word with you and Tom?”
Detective Lieutenant Dunne had grown up in the Bronx, but his wife was from Maine, and Massachusetts was as far south as she’d go. Fourteen years in New England had not altered his accent. If anything, it had thickened. It was a not-so-subtle statement of regional pride—of egg creams, the Zoo, and Manhattan, a short subway ride away. Faith, who had resisted
“paahking her carr in Hahvad Yaad” herself, had been drawn to Dunne immediately—and ever since. In turn, she was growing on him, but how, specifically, varied from time to time, depending on the mood he was in. At the moment, he wished he could tell her to stay in the kitchen and keep baking the cookies he smelled. It had as much chance of working as the possibility of his acquiring a rent-controlled West Side apartment with a view of the park as a pied-a-terre.
“Of course. Tom’s in his study. Go on in and I’ll join you as soon as I get the kids settled. Coffee?
Something to eat?”
“No thanks.” Faith expected as much. Dunne seldom accepted refreshment while on the job. For once, she was glad sustenance had been rejected. She didn’t want to miss anything.
