In the kitchen, the staff was in full gear. Instead of a first course, they were serving heartier-than-usual fare for hors d’oeuvres: crab cakes with a spicy remoulade, asparagus wrapped in paper-thin slices of smoked salmon, zucchini pancakes with salsa and sour cream, wild-mushroom tartlets, two kinds of crostini—one with a duck pate, the other with tapenade—and cherry tomatoes stuffed with chevre. There wasn’t anything particularly patriotic about the choices, although all were made with native products. Faith had decided enough was enough after determining the main course, dessert, and decor. Her hostess had wanted the catering staff to wear period dress, but Faith had politely but firmly declined, explaining this would seriously hamper their performance. She had no intention of getting stuck in the swinging door—or roasting to death in all those layers. She wore her black-and- white chef’s pants, tailored to fit, and a tuxedo-front white shirt with a black rosette instead of a tie. The rest of the staff was similarly attired, except they wore plain black pants, and Scott, the bartender, wore a tie. Faith had met Scott Phelan and Tricia, who was now his wife, five years ago. Scott had played a role in solving Cindy Shepherd’s murder. It was as hard now as it had been then for Faith to keep her mind on track. If anything, he was better- looking. Take-your-breath-away looks.
Old-fashioned movie-star good looks, Gregory Peck as opposed to Brad Pitt. Tricia was a beautiful girl herself and the two were very happy together. They were teasing Niki, who was frantically washing lettuce, a hateful task. She’d suddenly decided they didn’t have enough for the salad—mixed greens topped with pome-granate seeds and a blueberry vinaigrette dressing.
“You’re going to be an old maid if you don’t watch out,” Scott warned.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Better than ending up with some jerk.”
“Not all men are like Scott, you know, Niki. I happen to
“A jerk, huh?” He kissed her anyway—carefully.
“I’m only making sure you don’t take me for granted,” she said.
This would have gone on—and had—but it was time for the party. Niki spoke before Faith could.
“Okay, okay. Enough foreplay. Get out there and do your jobs. Faith and I have real work to do here,” she ordered.
When the two had gone, Tricia with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Scott to take drink orders, Faith and Niki laughed. “Better than TV,” Niki said.
“Much better,” Faith agreed, “And wait until they have kids!”
Scott returned. “It’s not a white-wine crowd. Mrs.
Fletcher was right about ordering a lot of scotch. And of course I have one order for a flintlock; it’s a good thing we brought rum. They’re starving, too. Went for Tricia like locusts.”
“I’d better take another tray out right away,” Faith said. This sometimes happened. People knew they were going to a dinner party, so they skipped lunch or ate lightly, then arrived ravenous. Well, there was plenty. She headed into the living room.
“And he has such a temper, my dear. No control at all. Remember when he turned his desk over in second grade!” A silver-haired lady was having a good time raking somebody over past and present coals.
Faith wondered who was the object of this conversation, and moved unobtrusively a little closer.
“That’s where Joseph got it from, no doubt,” another woman commented, mouth pursed in disapproval.
“Joseph who?” a red-faced, rotund man asked, his drink—scotch, no ice—in one hand, a well-laden small plate in the other. He was wearing the modern equivalent of patriotic patrician dress: red chinos from Brooks, the same provenance for the navy sports jacket and striped tie.
“Joseph Madsen, the contractor who got himself killed yesterday,” the first speaker answered. “We’re speaking of the way certain mannerisms run through the generations in that kind of family. He’s exactly like Gus.”
“He may be like Gus, but he’s not related to him.
Not that I ever heard of. Married the old man’s granddaughter.”
“Oh, that’s right, of course. But it’s all the same.
They simply don’t know how to behave.”
“Made themselves a bundle, though.” The man took a healthy swallow. “Misbehavior has its rewards, if you know what I mean.”
Both women nodded. That they were above such things—well above—was written all over their faces, suffused with the sherry they were sipping—and their own blue blood.
Faith turned to another group and offered the hors d’oeuvres.
Gus had been right.
The conversation was hard to swallow—from the notion that Joey had gotten himself killed, and this was taking “blame the victim” to a new height—to the idea that these “newcomers” to our shores were unable to control their passions. A prospect not without titillation for some in the room, she was sure. The whole thing made her sick. These were not the Alefordians she knew. When she’d mentioned the job to Pix, she’d made a face. “Pretty snooty bunch. I’m surprised she’s hiring you. They always use the same people from Cambridge or entertain at the club.” Aleford boasted its own country club, but the Fairchilds didn’t know anyone who belonged, except the Scotts, who were avid golfers and regularly apologized for their membership: “The club’s so close to our house.” Faith moved to another group and offered the tray.
They, too, were discussing the murder. It had been naive to think it would be otherwise. This was a more savvy bunch, more circumspect.
“We understand you discovered the body of poor Mr. Madsen,” one woman said, “It must have been quite a shock.”
“Yes, it was,” Faith answered. “Try one of the crab cakes, an old family recipe.” It was. Faith had created it when the firm was just starting in New York.
“And the police have no idea who could have done such a thing?” the woman persisted.
“Not to my knowledge,” Faith answered.
“Probably a business deal gone sour. You hear about these things all the time. Of course, not in Aleford. Shame he had to be here when it happened,” the man next to her said. Faith had the impression that he wouldn’t have minded if Joey had been killed elsewhere. It was the venue that bothered him. “Not in my backyard” joined “blame the victim.” Faith left the room, her mind filled with murder-ous thoughts, and they had nothing to do with Joey Madsen.
Back in the kitchen, Niki was arranging the slices of Yankee pot roast on a hot platter, with the vegetables and potatoes grouped at one end. The gravy was keeping warm on the stove. The sight of the meat, prime beef shoulder from Savenor’s Market on Charles Street, suddenly made Faith hungry. It was a delicious dish. She took baskets of corn-bread sticks and nut bread out to the table. But the party mood had vanished. Pix had told her once when Faith had first moved to Aleford that the town was like a patchwork quilt, all sorts of patterns and colors sewn into a usable whole. The bits and pieces of its fabric didn’t look like much until it was assembled; then you could see how one square complemented another. Faith liked thinking about the town this way, but tonight’s gossipmongers didn’t belong. Second grade! And she was damn sure that if Gus had indeed overturned a desk, he’d had a good reason.
By the time Have Faith’s crew was wearily washing the last streaks of sorbet from the dessert plates, Faith had decided she would try to stick to her rule more strictly in the future and stay in the kitchen during events, emerging solely for her bow at the end. Then she could pretend that only the most sophisticated, intelligent, broad-minded people were enjoying her fare. It would keep her fantasies in place.
The Phelans followed her back to Have Faith and helped her unload the small amount of leftovers. She pressed some of the pot roast on them for the next day; then Scott walked her to her car after they had locked up.
“I know the twins, Terry and Eddie Deane. They used to race dirt bikes up in Pepperell with me. Good guys. I still take care of their cars.” Scott had recently started his own auto-body business after working for someone else for years. “The Deanes will get to the bottom of all this, and, Faith, Joey wasn’t the nicest guy in the world—or the most honest. I’m not saying he deserved what he got, but there’s a lot you don’t know.”
Faith had told them in the kitchen what she’d over-heard at the party.
“It could be somebody settling an old score, even a very old score. And it may not have anything to do with
