The Body In The Bog Part 11

Faith knew what her friend meant. It was bad enough to have died the way she did; the least G.o.d could have done was to make the sun s.h.i.+neth upon her.

"Not too many people. Maybe the weather has kept some of their older friends away," Fix commented, turning around to scan the mourners. She had the uncanny ability to estimate a crowd, and Faith pictured embedded in Fix's frontal lobe one of those little devices the Museum of Fine Arts had at the entrance to count people. "I'd say there can't be more than twenty-three people, maybe twenty-four."

Faith looked, too. She would have thought more would have come, if only out of ghoulish curiosity. There were people she didn't recognize, but some of them were probably from the library where Nelson worked.

"Her world was pretty small-the bird-watchers, the members of the Conservation Commission. I've never even been inside their house," Fix said. Now this was a surprise.

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Pix under the aegis of one organization or another, or simply for pleasure, had been in and out of most of the homes in Aleford. Her tone of voice indicated she was mildly surprised herself.

"Well, you didn't miss anything." Faith had been there with Tom on parish calls. ' 'Lots of knotty pine, bird things, of course, and that's about it. We had Triscuits and tomato juice." Faith tended to remember what she had been served even more clearly than where.

The organist began to play the first hymn. Everyone stood up. Tom mounted the pulpit and they began to sing, "Where ancient forests widely spread." By the time they got to "Till death the gates of heaven unfold," Faith knew she was depressed. Dear G.o.d, how she hated funerals.

It got better when Tom began to speak and there was comfort in the familiar words of the service. He was reading from John, "In my Father's house are many mansions." To comfort the bereaved-that was the whole point of the service.

Nelson had pulled himself together and was sitting dry-eyed in the front pew, close to the casket. There was a large basket of flowers on top with a few small artificial birds perched on the sprays of inevitable gladioli. Nelson was flanked by the Scotts. Louise's nose was bright red and she seemed closer to breaking down than the next of kin. Nelson squeezed her hand, which only served to start the tears again. Faith thought of Amy's reaction to Nelson in the woods. The poor man seemed to be better at provoking tears than stanching them lately.

They read Psalm 104 responsively. Tom had done a good job, and it was filled with birds. Some ancient progenitor of Margaret's, with a life list in hand, may well have auth.o.r.ed it-at the very least, a kindred spirit: The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon, which he planted. In them the birds make their nests; as for the stork, the fir trees are her house.

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Faith began to feel uneasy. She was having trouble concentrating. Church sometimes had this effect on her. What was Margaret doing in the new house? What was Margaret doing in the woods?

Let the sinners be consumed from the earth, and let the wicked be no more. Bless the Lord, O my soul! Praise the Lord!

She was jolted from her thoughts but not her anxiety. Tom's voice, as he read the last verse, had a.s.sumed a totally different quality. He was not just stern but angry. Suddenly, every one in the church was reminded of the way Margaret died. And the sinner still walked among them.

Tom's homily touched upon Margaret's love of nature and service to the community. He spoke of the deep sorrow that inevitably follows when a life is cut off before its time and the test this presents for one's faith. Faith, his wife, heard him and took the words literally-as a challenge.

The last hymn was one of those that changed key frequently, making it difficult to sing, and by the third verse only Tom and a few other diehards were trying. Everyone else came in for the "Amen" and then trooped out into the rain to the cemetery. x The cemetery next to the church had long since filled up and now it was mostly visited by those interested in Aleford history and earnest souls who found delight in hanging rubbings with pithy epitaphs such as ' 'Death is a debt, to Nature due,/Tve paid the debt, and so must you" on their walls. The new cemetery, dedicated shortly after the Civil War, was across town. As need arose, the grounds had been extended, and it was like a large park, a park with headstones. The heavy carpet of moss and abundance of willows lent a suitably doleful air to the surroundings. On most days it was a pleasant walk from First Parish, but not today. Faith got into Fix's car and they joined the cortege. It wasn't a very long one.

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There were even fewer people than had been at the church and they cl.u.s.tered together, umbrellas overlapping, trying to keep dry. The tree trunks were streaked with black and beneath the leafless branches the ground was a sea of mud. The wind was picking up. The people from the funeral home had quickly gotten back into the hea.r.s.e after depositing the casket. Tom struggled to hold both his prayer book and umbrella until Faith came to his rescue, s.h.i.+elding him from the elements with her large umbrella.

Giving her a grateful look, he started the service with Sh.e.l.ley's poem, and never had "Hail to thee, blithe spirit!" seemed more inappropriate. Tom persevered. Faith had forgotten how long the ode was. By the time he got to: Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Faith's feet were soaked and the arm holding the umbrella had gone to sleep.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.. " Tom dropped a handful of dirt on top of the casket as his deep voice, so well suited to his calling, repeated the familiar words. Familiar words, yet however often Faith heard them, they always produced the same effect on her. A door was being shut. Another one might be opening, but this life was over. When were you ready? Sixty, eighty, a hundred? Never? Margaret hadn't been ready. Margaret had been denied all thought at the end. It was horrible.

Faith heard the mourners start, "Our Father," and she joined in. Margaret Batcheldor's funeral was over.

Fix dropped her off at one o'clock and Faith immediately called Lora to tell her she was on her way over to pick up Ben. Lora ran an extended day program twice a week and this had fortunately been one of the days. As Faith hurried

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down the stairs into the church bas.e.m.e.nt, where the nursery school was located, she realized that of course no one from the Deane family, nor any of their friends, had attended Margaret's funeral. Faith had half-expected Gus to show up. It was the kind of thing he did. Lest anyone have any doubts. What kind of murderer would go to the victim's funeral? she could almost hear him say. But perhaps his wife had encouraged him to stay home. Lillian didn't like the spotlight. Perhaps he hadn't thought to go at all. And it wasn't true, Faith thought. About murderers. They often did go to their victim's funerals-out of bravado, or to make sure the deed was well and truly done. Maybe remorse?

It had been a small group back at the Batcheldors' house. The rain was still coming down hard, and even with all the lights turned on, the atmosphere was gloomy. They lived in a small stone Arts and Crafts-style cottage that had been built in the twenties. Today the stone walls and small-paned windows did not seem cozy. The Scotts were there, acting as hosts, keeping everyone supplied with sherry and, yes, those sandwiches. Millicent grabbed Fix and, as Fix reported later, filled her in on what would be presented at tonight's POW! meeting. Charley Maclsaac 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 repet.i.tive: "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,

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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 masterpiece grace the Fair-child home as soon as possible as Ben had been.

Lora did not look like someone who was resting easy hi 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.

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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 repet.i.tion 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.

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I.

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 gla.s.s 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 Where the Wild Things Are to him again-soon.

"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 ap.r.o.n and went to answer it. When she opened the door, she gasped.

Detective Lieutenant John Dunne of the Ma.s.sachusetts State Police stood without.

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Five.

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 ceilings. In his late forties, the salt was beginning to overpower the pepper on his head. Otherwise, he was unchanged from Faith's first encounter-or, as she liked to think of it, partners.h.i.+p-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 Ma.s.sachusetts 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,

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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.