Chapter Four

“Order! Please come to order!”

Sylvia Pemberthy, née Westcraven, swung her gavel in an arc like a blacksmith’s hammer, bringing it down sharply on the burnished surface of the lectern. Heads swiveled toward her, eyes opened in shocked indignation at her temerity in treating society members like squabbling schoolchildren.

Erin suspected Sylvia regretted her decision to accept the position of president three months ago. She had put her name forward because of what she saw as the disintegration of orderly behavior among the members, but it had only grown worse under her tenure.

“Could we please get down to business?” she said, affecting a stern air that wasn’t entirely convincing. “Now then,” she said, turning to the society’s treasurer, Prudence Pettibone. “I believe you have a report for us?”

Prudence stood and cleared her throat officiously, and Erin saw her husband Winton squeeze her hand. He spoke little, but he certainly seemed devoted to his wife, gazing at her with adoration.

“Our fund for the eighteenth-century fancy dress ball is as follows: four hundred pound fifty,” Prudence read from the neatly penned black ledger. She had a voice like a potato peeler, nasal and cutting. “Our total cash reserve …”

Erin surveyed the crowded room. The meeting hall of All Souls was bursting at the seams with people, some of whom she had never seen before. She wondered if they were breaking any fire laws, stuffing so many into the room. In addition to occupying the usual rows of metal folding chairs, people leaned along the walls or slouched in corners, some of them glowering at Sylvia. Unrest was palpable in the air, with people shifting in their chairs and muttering as Prudence droned on in the background.

“… the question of raising membership dues was discussed …”

Erin took a deep breath of musty air, smelling of stale coffee, yellowing hymnals, and week-old croissants, served up to the parishioners following Sunday’s service. Word was that several people were “gunning for Sylvia,” so she studied each face to see which ones bore the clearest signs of malice. Last night’s spat involving Jonathan Alder had been unpleasant, and she noticed he was not present. Could Sylvia have chased him away forever? She felt a sharp pang of disappointment at the thought.

Farnsworth was seated in the front row, wrapped in a shawl sprouting cat hairs and looking up at Sylvia with distaste. Kurt Becker sat with his wife, Suzanne, who was tightly zipped into a leather ensemble and looked like a German dominatrix. Her blonde hair was carefully curled and coiffed, as though she were on a fashion runway instead of in a church basement. Erin noticed that Sylvia avoided making eye contact with Kurt.

“… so the committee decided not to raise membership dues for the time being,” Prudence was saying. Then, with an officious little cough, she added, “That concludes my report,” and plopped down next to her husband, who squeezed her hand.

“Right. Any questions?” said Sylvia.

Erin watched Prudence exchange a little smile with her crony Hetty Miller. No one understood what the two saw in each other. Prudence was a classic dowdy British matron, all cardigans and thick wool skirts, while Hetty Miller was the kind of woman who endeavored to hold back the tide of age by sheer willpower and force of personality. Erin had heard she was north of sixty, but with her dyed red hair (carefully curled, with just the right touch of honey highlights), slim figure, and elegant clothes, she portrayed a much younger woman.

“Now then,” Sylvia said, training her eyes on one face after another. Erin wondered if she had learned that technique in her public speaking class at the community college. “The main order of business tonight is a vote on whether to approve the new rules of conduct.”

“It’s like the bloody Stasi,” someone murmured. Sylvia’s eyes darted across the crowd, landing on Owen Hardacker. Sylvia and Owen’s wife, Carolyn, were quite friendly, often sitting together at village fetes, so his overt animosity toward Sylvia was somewhat puzzling. Owen sat with his long, sinewy arms crossed, wearing his signature red-and-green Harris Tweed cap, his square jaw set, a hard look in his small blue eyes. The crowd tittered nervously. There was a spate of general muttering, and a few people murmured their agreement with Owen.

Erin stood and turned to face the audience. “Shame on you,” she said. “Is it asking too much to behave like civilized people, for Christ’s sake?”

Sylvia twitched at the reference to Jesus—some of the society members were, if not exactly devout, faithful churchgoers on Sundays. A good many attended All Souls weekly, if only for the free coffee and pastries. And the church did have an excellent organist; Sylvia and Farnsworth both sang in the choir.

But Erin’s words had the desired effect: heads were lowered, chastened expressions assumed, and the general aura of belligerence dissipated a little. Sylvia bestowed a grateful smile upon Erin, who gave a little nod and sat back down.

“Now then,” Sylvia said, “if we could just take a vote on the question of the proposed regulations? All in favor?”

A few hands were raised hesitantly, but for the most part remained motionless in laps, hidden behind backs, or folded across chests.

Sylvia sighed. “And the nays?”

Hands shot into the air so quickly Erin had the uncomfortable sensation of being at a Nazi rally.

“Very well,” Sylvia said, “the nays have it.” She rapped the gavel smartly on the lectern. Erin inhaled the scent of lemon cake and ginger spice bread coming from the kitchen in the rear of the hall, where members of the tea committee were busy boiling kettles and setting out steaming pots of Yorkshire tea. The society had a committee for everything. “I think it’s time for our break. Any objections?”

She was met with sighs of relief and, for the first time in the evening, a few smiles. One thing you could count on, Erin thought—people liked their tea.

On her way to the serving table, Erin saw Owen Hardacker approach Sylvia, a contrite look on his lean, sunburned face. In addition to his signature tweed hat, he wore Wellies. He liked to project his image as a farmer, even though he was the wealthiest man in town.

“Sorry fer harsh words,” he told Sylvia in his thick Yorkshire accent. “I’ve nowt against you personal, like; it’s just we’re all fed up with goings-on.”

“I understand,” she said, though Erin thought she still looked put out.

“Carolyn’d throw fit if she heard me, seein’ as how she and you are mates an’ all.”

“Where is she tonight?” Sylvia asked, scanning the crowd.

“She were feeling poorly an’ decided not t’come out.”

“Give her my best,” Sylvia said by way of closing the conversation, walking quickly toward the tea table. Erin looked at the long line and sighed—she was parched and desperately wanted tea. Given the unexpectedly large turnout, she feared the refreshment committee hadn’t prepared enough for everyone.

Erin spied Suzanne Becker approaching Sylvia through the crowd, weaving unsteadily on stilettos that looked like they could cut through concrete. She looked tipsy, though maybe it was just the four-inch heels. Erin saw Sylvia duck behind a column near the back of the room, then slide behind the people serving tea to get in line on the other side. The din of conversation crescendoed as Erin joined the line, waiting her turn. Farnsworth worked alongside the others on the committee, and Erin thought about volunteering to join in, but they seemed to have things in hand.

After collecting her tea, she was joined by Prudence Pettibone, who had detached herself from her husband, who was serving tea. Hetty Miller made her way over to them, perched on heels even higher than Suzanne Becker’s.

“That was sporting of you to go to Sylvia’s rescue,” Prudence said to Erin between bites of shortbread.

“Someone had to,” Erin replied modestly.

Hetty shrugged, her copper curls bobbing. “I agree. The crowd was getting out of hand.”

“I’ve never seen so many people at a meeting,” Pru said, scanning the room.

“They can smell blood,” Hetty remarked, a smile on her lacquered lips. “Speaking of which, looks like Suzanne Becker’s stalking Sylvia again.”

Prudence turned around to see the tall blonde pushing through the crowd. “She looks wobbly—I wonder if she’s drunk.”

“Could just be low blood sugar from all that dieting,” Hetty remarked.

“Why does she hate Sylvia so much?” Prudence asked.

Hetty stared at her. “Seriously—you don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked, obviously,” Pru said crossly.

Hetty wiped a smudge of lipstick from the lip of her teacup. “Everyone knows Sylvia and Kurt Becker are having an affair.”

Erin nodded. “It appears Suzanne knows, too.”

Hetty lowered her voice. “Look at those ridiculous shoes. She could break an ankle.”

Erin thought she detected a note of envy. Hetty loved to wear unreasonably high heels, but being at least twenty years younger, Suzanne Becker looked better in them.

“I’m past worrying about vanity,” Pru declared, which Hetty responded to by clicking her tongue.

“No woman is ever past vanity. My aunt’s last visitor on her deathbed was her hairdresser. Died in full makeup, wearing her best jewelry, bless her soul.”

“What is that horrid perfume you’re wearing?” Prudence asked Hetty.

“I’ll have you know it’s Lily’s Lilies, and it’s very expensive.”

“It smells like bathroom deodorizer.”

“Is that Jonathan Alder over there?” Erin said, looking over her shoulder. Everyone turned to look, but just then a scream came from the other side of the room. All heads turned toward Suzanne Becker as she staggered into the room from the side door that led to an alley.

“Help! Somebody please help!”

Kurt Becker was the first to reach her, grasping an arm to steady her.

“What is it?”

His wife made a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“It’s Sylvia—she’s dead!”