“The way I see it, we have two choices here. We can get the hell out and if the cops nail us, it will look bad. Or we can report the crime and when the cops arrive, it will look bad.” Scott was pacing up and down, running his hand through his hair, talking loudly. They had moved simultaneously to the front door as soon as Faith’s Penlite had illuminated George’s gory corpse.
Scott made a decision. “There’s nothing to connect us to this. Let’s go. Now!” He pushed her toward the door.
“Maybe not you, but certainly me,” Faith protested. “They’ll find out that MacIsaac had Stackpole in for questioning at my insistence. I don’t think I can tell that many lies to cover up going to his house and coming here.” She was speaking in a dull, leaden voice. Nobody deserved to die this way. She’d been having nightmares about George Stackpole when he was alive. Dead, he would become a permanent fixture of horror in her worst dreams—and for the near future, her waking moments, as well.
“If we call,” she continued, “at least we can try to explain why we’re here. And what kind of murderer phones the police, anyway?”
“A very clever one?” Scott was not convinced, though. Every bone in his body was telling him to get in his car and put as much distance as possible between himself and the Old Oaken Bucket. He’d seen death before, but never like this. And he was scared. He knew a whole lot more than Faith did about the kind of assumptions the police would make—especially about him.
“There’s a pay phone in the parking lot. We can call, then wait for them there. There really is no other choice.”
He knew she was right, but he wished he didn’t.
She made the call, then said in a sudden burst of excitement, “Wait a minute. There’s no reason you have to be involved. I didn’t tell them anyone was with me. We should have thought of this right away. You’ll have to leave the car; otherwise, how would I have gotten here? Certainly not with George.” The dealer’s Mercedes was parked in front. “You start walking. Maybe somebody will give you a ride. Make up something about your car dying.” Poor choice of words, she thought instantly.
“Slow down.” Scott put his hand on Faith’s shoulder. Now that they’d called, he wished the police would get here soon. She was obviously in shock. “I’d never leave you here alone, for starters, and when they begin investigating this thing, don’t you think a lone hitchhiker in the middle of the boonies in New Hampshire would arouse suspicion? We’re seeing this through together, Faith.”
“I’d better call home while I can. I have the feeling this is going to be a late night,” Faith said ruefully. She was glad Scott wasn’t leaving. Under the lone lamppost, she could see his tense, serious face. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
He smiled. “Next time you need transportation, call a cab.”
“If you’ll just get in touch with Detective Lt. John Dunne of the Massachusetts State Police, he’ll vouch for us.”
She had expected an equivalent of Chief MacIsaac in rural New Hampshire and was surprised by the age and demeanor of the cops—young and ultraprofessional, complete with state-of-the-art cars and equipment that arrived in a screaming tumult of flashing blue lights the moment she hung up the phone with Samantha. The kids were asleep and Tom wasn’t back yet. Maybe she could get home without revealing any of tonight’s escapade. Maybe she’d win Mass Millions. The odds were about the same.
“Let me see if I have this straight.” Scott was being questioned separately and Faith hoped he was having better luck making his interrogator believe him. So far, the police had a body and two people on the scene, ready-made perps. It was enough for them, but Faith was persisting. After all, the lack of blood on their clothes, when you would have had to have been laminated to avoid being splattered, was a major drawback in their case.
The cop was going over what she’d told him again—and again. “The victim’s name was George Stackpole, an antiques dealer. You think he either broke into your house or had somebody else break in for him. So you follow him here—”
Faith interrupted. “No, we arrived first. We had no idea he was coming here tonight. He came right afterward and opened the door. That’s how we got in without setting off the alarm. Either it wasn’t set to begin with or he knew the code.”
The man sighed. “You followed him inside to see if he had any more of your stolen items in the case he rented. Exactly how did you think you were going to do this in the dark?”
“I wasn’t really thinking too clearly,” Faith admitted. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had anything stolen from you, but you can do some pretty crazy things trying to recover what you lost.”
He looked at her across the desk. Something as crazy as murder? Minister’s wife, suburban lady with kids, catering business, big blue eyes—plus, she’d made the call; but generally speaking, murderers fit any profile. Girl next door, boy next door, head lying on the pillow next to you at night. They weren’t drooling maniacs with eyes too close together. Yet, he knew what she meant about getting ripped off. He’d had a rowboat stolen from his parents’ place up on Winnipesaukee and he was a raving maniac trying to track it down, checking every inlet, every dock for weeks.
She was speaking to his thoughts. “Obsessive things, not something insane like killing someone. I never wanted to do that. I just wanted to catch him, make him pay for what he did.” She told him about Sarah Winslow.
This was a whole lot more complicated than somebody surprising a B and E, which was how he’d pegged it in the beginning. Stackpole comes along and finds these two. They ice him. Then phone the police?
He sighed again. “All right, I’ll call this guy Dunne. Since Stackpole is from Massachusetts, they’re going to be involved anyway.” He knew exactly who John Dunne was, yet he wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Fairchild that.
It took John Dunne less than an hour to get there. Scott and Faith were in the waiting room, eating cardboard sandwiches and drinking weak coffee; at least Scott was.
“I thought you were just going to check out some pawnshops!” Dunne exploded.
Faith was tired, definitely frightened—and cranky.
“This was not exactly the kind of thing anyone could have predicted. First our carving set is stolen and now it’s a murder weapon. Not my idea!”
“Hi, Phelan,” the detective said. He had told the New Hampshire police on the phone that the two could be ruled out as suspects, but he’d still wanted to question them. He had no doubt that Faith had inveigled Scott into all this, whatever this was.
“Come on, let’s find a room. You can tell me all about it; then they should let you go home.”
With John Dunne’s arrival, the waiting room was suddenly packed with police. Local, state, men, women—they had all responded to the homicide and now they all wanted to see the detective lieutenant, who’d become famous in law-enforcement circles over the years. He was as tall as they’d heard, and his face was as homely—scary until you got used to it. Whether to make up for it or just because it was his taste, he dressed impeccably and wore his curly salt-and-pepper hair a little longer than regulations might dictate. He’d grown up in the Bronx and had never lost the accent. It made Faith feel right at home. She was inordinately glad to see him.
It took until midnight to go over everything—and it seemed longer. Earlier, Faith had reached Tom, and Scott had gotten his wife, Tricia. Both spouses were incredulous and frantic with worry all at once.
One of the cops had driven Scott’s car to the station and Dunne ushered them out. “I know the New Hampshire state motto is Live Free or Die, but I wouldn’t take the first part seriously. Don’t plan any trips in the near future. I’ll be in touch. And, Faith, stay in the kitchen.”
She was too exhausted to put up even a token protest. She planned to avoid the second part of the state motto, too. A man had been killed and his killer was on the loose.
The cop who had driven the Mustang had adjusted the seat and mirror. Scott’s vociferous complaints were the last thing she heard before falling into an uneasy sleep. The next thing she knew, he was shaking her on the shoulder. “Wake up, boss. You’re home.”
Her head was pounding and she felt hungover. Faith reached for the clock and jumped out of bed. It was past ten.
“Tom!” she hurried down the hall and called again. “Tom, are you home?” Obviously, he’d let her sleep, but she couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard her spouse or her children as they got ready. She slipped on her robe and went down to the kitchen. There was a note in the middle of the table with some wilted dandelions next to it. “FEL BEDER LUV BEN.” Miss Lora, the nursery school teacher, had started a writing program with the older kids, using the new craze in education—invented spelling. Pix had warned Faith that cracking Axis codes during World War II had been child’s play compared to figuring out what your son or daughter would be writing for the next ten years. Faith assumed the scribbles underneath in bright red crayon were Amy’s contribution. Tom’s was brief and to the point: “Call me as soon as you’re up! I love you! T.”
As usual, he’d been so relieved that she was all right, he hadn’t been angry. Not so far. Just very, very shaken. Arriving home late and finding his wife was in a New Hampshire police station under suspicion of murder had been unsettling, and only her entreaty that he stay put with the kids, that Dunne would straighten it all out, kept him from driving up there at once.
She called his office and he picked the phone up himself. Either Ms. Dawson was out or he was sitting by the phone waiting. Faith suspected the latter. It was lovely to be adored, and when she thought of women whose husbands never called, never talked to them much, never cared, she felt guilty. But Tom’s Valentine card had said it all: a drawing of the earth and a female next to it on the cover; inside: “My whole world revolves around you! Happy Valentine’s Day.” It made her think of Niki’s lightbulb joke about Stephanie. It also made her think her position in this marriage was quite a job to maintain.
“I told the kids you weren’t feeling well. That you were tired. Which was true. You were out like a light. How do you feel now?”
“Groggy, confused, hungry.”
“Why don’t I take you out for some breakfast? We’ll go down to the Minuteman Café and you can have some corned beef hash and eggs.”
“You mean you can have some.” This was Tom’s favorite breakfast. The idea of going out and sitting in a familiar—safe—spot was appealing, though. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and dress.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
Faith turned the spray on full force and stood under it, her eyes closed. When she’d gotten home, she’d noticed some spots of blood on the soles of her shoes and the toe of one. She put them in a plastic bag and started to carry them out to the trash, then reminded herself she hadn’t been definitively eliminated as a suspect and the police might regard throwing away bloody accessories with some suspicion. Instead, she took the package down into the basement and put it on the top shelf over the workbench. Cleaning and polishing the leather might erase the traces of the scene of the crime, but not the memory. Dunne had told her that whoever cut Stackpole’s throat had done so expertly, slicing through the trachea to the carotid artery. Tom, like most men, was ritualistic about keeping every knife in the house honed to a fare-thee-well. Arkansas stones, special oil, porcelain knife sharpeners—his cherished tools of the trade. The murderer had been lucky.
Or—Faith opened her eyes and reached for her shampoo—knew the weapon beforehand. The Henna Gold shampoo quickly produced a thick lather. Faith rinsed and rinsed again. She turned off the water reluctantly. She often did her best thinking in the shower, and she still didn’t have an answer to the question that had plagued her since she and Scott had stumbled upon last night’s grisly sight.
Who killed George Stackpole?
Chief MacIsaac was having lunch and looked askance when the Fairchilds’ breakfast food arrived. They’d joined him in his booth, a permanent indentation on the side where he habitually sat. Occasionally, an out-of-towner would try to claim it during the chief’s well-known meal hours. Leo, the owner and cook, would get out a battered hand-lettered RESERVED sign and plunk it ceremoniously on the table.
“Have you heard anything from the New Hampshire police or John Dunne this morning?” Faith asked.
“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” Charley said, spooning up a last mouthful of cream of tomato soup and turning to a heaping plate of macaroni and cheese. “For starters, what were you and Phelan doing up there?”
Faith felt weariness descend like an old piece of clothing you don’t want to wear anymore but is still good and cost too much to give away.
“Never mind. Enjoy your meal,” he said. “I know the answer. As soon as you heard Stackpole had a list of your missing things, you hotfooted it up there to try to get some back. You took Phelan because he’d know how to get in if it was closed.”
“We didn’t break in—and besides, he wouldn’t,” Faith protested. Tom looked startled and put his loaded fork back down on his plate. Before he could say anything, though, Charley continued.
“Good for him—but Stackpole had left the door open anyway.”
Obviously, Charley had read the full report.
Tom quickly cleaned his plate and signaled for more coffee. “We know who didn’t kill the man, so who do you think did?” he asked, happy to have his wife out of the running for one crime at least.
Bless you, Faith thought. Charley tended to readily share information with Tom that she would have had to spend hours coaxing out of him.
“The woman Stackpole lives with is missing. Cleaned out their joint account at an ATM late last night, and the safe in the basement of his house in Framingham was wide open. Bought a one-way ticket to Montreal earlier in the week—turns out she’s Canadian. Late flight, last night, and it was used. The travel information was in the house, but obviously not the lady. We’ve alerted the RCMP and are looking for her as a prime suspect, to start with.”
“Gloria?” This didn’t make any sense at all to Faith. She’d just seen the couple working together, apparently companionable. Sure, he’d spoken rudely to her at the show at the Copley, but Gloria took it in stride. “George’s bark is worse than his bite”—that’s what she had said. Why would Gloria kill George and why now? And why at the Old Oaken Bucket?
Charley’s mug had also been refilled. “The owners of the Old Oaken Bucket, Jack and Sharon Fielding, have had various skirmishes with the law, mostly tax evasion. Jack even did some time. They were at home watching TV. Not the best alibi, which is in their favor. An airtight one often means you need it. There’s not a whole lot to do in that part of New Hampshire, especially on a week night and especially this time of year—mud and blackflies—so if they weren’t watching the tube, I’d wonder.”
Faith got a question in. “Did Stackpole have the code or wasn’t the alarm set?”
“The alarm was set, the Fieldings claim. They also claim he didn’t have the code, but that I don’t believe. Several of the dealers there have had ‘robberies,’ and I’ll bet a lot of them have the code.”
“What about James Green? Have you found him?” Tom again.
“Not yet.” Charley sounded discouraged.
“I told the New Hampshire police about him and what happened at the auction,” Faith said. “Maybe he killed George, because he didn’t want George to finger him for all these break-ins, especially Sarah Winslow’s. Except”—Faith was thinking out loud—“if I’m right, George was as involved as Green. Now if it had been Green who was murdered, then George would be the obvious suspect. He’d want to shut him up before the police found him.”
“I’ve got to get back to work, honey.” Tom had had enough and his wife’s speculations—a sign that she was back to normal—were starting to make him nervous. It was much easier to grapple with the Almighty—and even the vestry.
“I’ve got to get going, too.” Charley stood up.
Faith looked at her watch. The kids would have to be picked up soon. She might as well stay where she was and think things through a bit more.
“Abandon me, go ahead. See you later.” She waved good-bye and asked the waitress for a glass of orange juice. The café squeezed their own, and Faith couldn’t drink another cup of coffee, especially the Minuteman’s.
The Fieldings had no reason to kill George, nor did James Green. Gloria might have, and it was suspicious that she’d withdrawn all that money and made travel plans. Faith took out a pad and pen, making a note: “How much money in the account? Who is Gloria?”
She thought about calling Nan Howell to find out more about Gloria. Nan would probably know about George by now—the world of antiques dealers was very small—and she also might have caught it on the news. The news! The police had assured her that neither her name nor Scott’s would be released, but she’d better give her in-laws a much-abbreviated version just in case. She jotted down a reminder. Marian would be sure to pick up on the name—the Old Oaken Bucket was pretty distinctive, and Faith couldn’t remember whether she’d mentioned George Stackpole’s name to Marian, as well.
But who had killed him? Gloria couldn’t make very much selling her little trinkets. Why would she want to get rid of her means of support, unless she was due to come in to a whole lot of insurance money or George had a lot socked away, leaving Gloria sole beneficiary? But the moment the woman tried to claim it, she’d be arrested. Maybe he was cheating on her. A woman scorned? But George Stackpole struck Faith as someone who was extremely lucky to find even one woman who would put up with his temperament—and appearance. The possibility of another in thrall to his charms seemed slim.
Who else? Faith was pretty sure she knew—even with a cast of characters who offered so many alternatives. She wasn’t ruling out Rhoda Dawson in all this. It might be a coincidence that James Green was from Revere and that’s where Ms. Dawson’s post office box was—or it might not.
Nan with her clinking beads, Gloria in spandex, Rhoda in Joan Crawford shoulder pads. No, none of these women, nor Green, made as much sense as the man in the Savile Row suit. Julian Bullock. Father of the bride.
Ben was at a friend’s house and Amy was happily banging pots and pans while Faith brought Niki up-to-date later that afternoon at work.
“I can’t believe the things that happen to you. Does your mother know? Mine would have locked you in her attic by now.”
The one thing Faith had not shared with Niki was her suspicion of Julian. Not yet. She needed to think about it herself some more. She decided to change the subject.
“We only need Scott and Tricia as staff for the rehearsal dinner. The flowers will be ready in the morning and we can take everything out in the afternoon. Thank goodness Courtney wanted a ‘family feel’ to the evening—no menus. The calligrapher would have gone crazy.” It suddenly dawned on Faith that this was why Stephanie had fooled around with changing the rehearsal dinner so much. She couldn’t alter the reception menus, not after Courtney’s fancy calligrapher had hand-lettered them two months ago. The woman was in such demand that even Courtney Cabot Bullock had to bow to her schedule.
“The lobster bisque would have been my choice, or your yummy wild mushroom consommé, but other than that, it’s a perfect menu,” Niki commented.
It was perfect, Faith agreed. The guests would sip champagne and nibble their hors d’oeuvres on the terrace, weather permitting, or in Julian’s library if it didn’t. The formal dinner would begin with the cold avocado bisque, accompanied by caviar toasts, followed by a salad of field greens with warm rounds of Crottin de Chavignol chèvre, then Muscovy duck with onion confit, wild rice timbales, and steamed miniature vegetables in a beurre blanc. Stephanie had nixed fresh asparagus with hazelnut butter a few weeks ago after noticing how “gross my pee smelled” after consuming some for dinner one night. “I mean, I’m going to be married the next day. I don’t need any kind of nasty odors the night before!” Garlic was of course out from the beginning, and only when she tasted the sweet onion relish did she approve of that potential offender.
Faith could visualize the whole evening. A night bathed in candlelight—so kind to everyone—but then, these were people who didn’t need it. Money might not buy happiness, but it did buy straight teeth, beautiful skin, contact lenses, great haircuts, and whatever cosmetic surgery one’s stage of life called for—a nose job in adolescence, tummy tuck and eye tucks later on. Her mind wandered back to Julian, as it had all afternoon. This was his world—and his livelihood. Protecting his assets and his reputation was a powerful motive.
By the time she’d finished the puff pastry for the seafood napoleons that were Saturday’s first course, Faith had worked it all out. And it went something like this: Contrary to his denial of more than a passing acquaintance with Stackpole, Julian is, in fact, still buying the best of George’s goods, stolen or not. Faith’s mentions of George’s name and recovery of items, plus her proximity to Julian’s life have made him nervous. He decides it’s time to sever his ties with the picker. But George doesn’t agree. He’s been doing very well in the partnership. He tries to reassure Julian that he can provide some phony receipts and make the police happy. But Julian still wants out. George reminds him that it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him. He knows Julian doesn’t want to jeopardize his standing—way on top of the pyramid. His connections to the rich and famous, to museums all over the world, his PBS commentaries will all go down the drain once George reveals that Julian has been part of a burglary ring for many years—and maybe knowingly selling fakes, as well. George himself, being at the bottom, has nothing to lose. Except his life. Faith pictured Julian at his gracious estate, contemplating his fate, contemplating the objects surrounding him, objects that, according to his daughter, he valued more than people. Perhaps not such a difficult choice. Get rid of George and Gloria and effectively erase that part of your life.
It made perfect sense and it was the only theory that did. Nan had described George as “volatile.” Julian would be well aware of this and know the man wouldn’t hesitate for an instant before spreading the word about the high-and-mighty Mr. Bullock.
“You have been standing in front of the refrigerator for about an hour,” Niki remarked, exaggerating. “Earth to Faith—what’s going on?”
“Trying to sort this all out.” Faith scooped Amy up into the air. They had to get Ben soon. The toddler laughed delightedly.
“That’s going to take more than staring at a Sub-Zero,” Niki said.
“I know,” Faith agreed ruefully. “Believe me, I know.” It was going to take a plan. A very good plan.
The police would never act on her conjectures. John Dunne habitually regarded her theories as far-fetched at best, even if the theories later proved correct. Somehow she had to search Bullock’s house—Dunster Weald. There had to be some kind of paperwork tying Julian to George: receipts, canceled checks. A massive partner’s desk sat in the library—a remnant of the time when Courtney and Julian conversed other than primarily through lawyers, Stephanie said when showing Faith through the house. In one of the desk drawers—maybe a hidden one—there had to be something. All she needed was time to look. Alone.
By Thursday morning, Faith was ready. Granted, the scheme depended on things falling into place neatly, but it was time something did. On Thursdays, nursery school parents had the option of an extended day, and Faith often took it. Ben thought it was a great treat to eat lunch at school and play games all afternoon. He didn’t even balk at the rest time. His adored Miss Lora, that sweet siren, sang them to sleep. Amy’s morning day-care provider could sometimes be persuaded to keep her for the afternoon, and today was one of those days. Faith might finish at Dunster Weald in time to pick her daughter up, but she didn’t want to stop what she was doing to speed home, perhaps just missing the clue she was seeking. She felt better than she had in days. Things were falling into place, and last night when she turned the light off, she hadn’t even thought of George’s corpse, or anything else to do with the murder.
There were any number of excuses that she could think of to be out in Concord the day before the rehearsal dinner, but she wanted the run of the place. The first step was to call there. On the fourth ring, Julian’s plummy voice announced, “So tiresome, I’m missing your call. Do leave word.” Faith didn’t.
Stephanie, happily, was home.
“Nothing’s wrong, I hope?” she said crisply as soon as she heard Faith’s voice. Forget “Hello, how are you?” Miss Manners was not on Miss Bullock’s bookshelf.
“Not yet, but I’m terribly concerned about the oven at your father’s house. I should have thought of it before.” Faith was prepared to debase herself in any number of ways. “It must be cleaned before the dinner, and there won’t be time tomorrow.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting I do it!” Stephanie said in horror.
“No, of course not,” Faith reassured her. “I’ll do it myself, but it must be done or what’s been burned onto the oven walls will impart a distinct aroma to the duck, and I don’t even want to think what it will do to the chèvre for the salads.”
Julian Bullock’s oven was filthy—and tiny. Faith was sure it had not been used since the divorce several years ago. It would stink if lighted and probably set off the smoke alarms. She’d be bringing a portable convection oven, but Stephanie didn’t need to know that.
“I’ve called your father, but there’s no answer.”
“Daddy went to an auction in Maine. We’d better hope there isn’t one he wants to go to on Saturday. Otherwise, I’ll be walking down the aisle alone. He wouldn’t think twice about skipping the wedding if he thought somebody else was going to get a stupid piece of furniture away from him.”
“What can we do?” Faith asked plaintively.
“You’ll have to come in here and get the key—and the alarm code. Can’t you take that girl who works with you along to do the scrubbing?”
Vowing never to reveal Cinderella’s stepsister’s suggestion to Niki, Faith replied, “She’s taking a course in Cambridge and isn’t free.”
“Whatever.” Stephanie was ready to hang up. “You’d better come soon. I have to go over to Mummy’s. She picked up some more bathing suits for the honeymoon. In fact, why don’t you go straight there? Then you can see them, too, and you won’t hold me up.”
Faith had very little interest in Stephanie’s honeymoon garb. The blissful couple intended to cruise the coast of Turkey—“everybody does Greece”—on a seventy-foot yacht complete with crew of six to see to their every whim. But she didn’t care where she picked up the key—just so she got it.
“Fine, see you at your mother’s.”
Courtney Cabot Bullock had returned to her roots on Beacon Hill, presently living on Chestnut Street, a cobblestone’s throw away from her childhood home. The first meeting about the wedding had been at the town house and it took Faith no time to get there. The problem was parking. She finally circled around to the Boston Common garage, left the car, and walked rapidly down the brick sidewalks on Charles Street to Chestnut.
A servant showed Faith into Courtney’s office. She was sitting at a small Victorian ladies’ desk placed squarely in the center of the bow window, some of the panes amethyst, that overlooked the street. Unlike Julian’s house, the room was not crowded with furniture, but each piece was perfect. The walls had been painted a deep apricot and the trim glossy white. Faith recognized a Childe Hassam over the small marble fireplace. She was sure it wasn’t a reproduction.
“Stephanie’s upstairs trying a few things on,” Courtney said. “I’m grateful you thought of the oven before it was too late.” The criticism implied—You should have thought of this earlier—was scarcely veiled.
“I am, too. We would have worked something out tomorrow, but it would have rushed other things.”
They spent a few minutes talking about the flowers. Faith was anxious to be on her way, but Courtney was in a chatty mood.
“A daughter’s wedding. Every mother dreams of the day, plans for it. I may not have a chance to speak to you after it’s over.” No more jobs here, Faith thought. The door would be closing. “But you’ve done a superb job. Stephanie’s nuptials will be everything I’ve hoped and more. I’ve been telling all my friends, and you must be sure to mail me plenty of cards.” Maybe not. This was a pleasant surprise. “You’ve handled things so discreetly, too. I know my ex has been a bit of a bore about the money.” Any more scorn in her voice and there would have been spontaneous combustion.
What about Stephanie’s dreams? Faith thought fleetingly, but then mother and daughter were so in sync, one pronoun could serve for both.
“Thank you, I’m glad you’ve been pleased.” She decided to avoid any mention of Julian. “It’s going to be wonderful.”
“Well, of course it is!” Stephanie walked into the room wearing two wisps of shocking pink fabric that Faith knew for sure cost more than the average family of four’s food bill for a week. She pirouetted. “Like it?”
“Divine—and better than the other one, I think. Navy blue is so neither here nor there.”
This was all getting to be a bit much, and just as Faith was trying to think of a way to ask for the key and alarm code to a house worth millions, Stephanie walked over to her mother’s desk and picked up an envelope. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders.
“This opens the kitchen door and the alarm keypad is in the first closet.” Faith had seen it. “Punch in the code, and when you leave, do the same thing, but don’t do it until you’re absolutely sure you’re leaving. I set it off all the time, and Daddy’s tired of paying the false-alarm fines to the police.”
“It won’t take long. I use an industrial-strength cleaner.”
“You know the trash is out in the barn, right? There are some old rags, too, if you need more,” Courtney said, “but don’t touch anything that looks like a mover’s quilt. Julian hides his best pieces out there under the rattiest ones until he’s ready to sell to some poor unsuspecting soul. Waits for the value to go up.”
Or the piece to cool off, Faith thought as she walked back to the parking garage.
It took only thirty minutes to get out to Concord from Boston, since it wasn’t rush hour. Faith put on a Mary Chapin Carpenter tape and consciously willed herself to relax. Stephanie and Binky were both getting massages Saturday morning to ease any prematrimonial stress. Faith wouldn’t mind someone working on the knots in the back of her neck that had taken up permanent residence since she’d found Sarah Winslow’s body. Unlike that morning, today was gray and the sky threatened rain. She pulled into the curved drive to Dunster Weald. The Bullocks had never even considered an outdoor wedding, although Julian’s house was made for one. Depend on meteorology? Absurd. Besides, Binky’s family had the perfect spot, with a more dramatic view than horses and trees, according to Stephanie. Nature girl, she was not, unless the nature included someone to bring her a strawberry daiquiri or wrap her in seaweed. Faith would have opted for Concord, though. The drive up to the house was lined with copper beeches, planted as a gift for future generations by someone who saw them only in his mind’s eye. The formal English garden, white wisteria cascading from a long trellis in the center, would have been perfect for the ceremony. But then, Faith thought as she parked the car and scooted into the house, clutching her cleaning supplies, it might have rained. Like now.
She found the alarm and punched the code in. The high-pitched signal stopped. Quickly, she preheated the oven, turned it off, and coated it with the cleaner, leaving it to do its magic. She couldn’t not clean the oven now that she was here. Courtney might check up on the quality of the job. Not Stephanie. Too, too disgusting—opening the door, looking in.
Faith stripped off her gloves, washed her hands, and set off down the hallway to the library at the far end of the house. Her footsteps were soundless on the series of Oriental runners that lay on the floor. Outside, the pelting rain rattled the windows. She turned on a switch by the library door and the room was flooded with soft light.
Forty minutes later, she was forced to admit defeat. She’d been through every ledger—Julian was doing extremely well, much better than his ex-wife thought—and had carefully gone through all the correspondence she could find. One drawer held stacks of elegant writing paper, all engraved with the name Dunster Weald, the address, and a small crest. Julian’s old neighborhood in Southie didn’t run to logos of this sort—brand names were the rule of thumb—and Faith wondered idly whose escutcheon Julian had pinched. Besides the stationery, there were Mont Blanc pens, ink bottles, even some lowly paper clips and a stapler, but not a word about George, to George, or from George. She’d pushed and pulled at the fixed portions of the desk, but if there was a secret drawer, it would remain so. Julian either did not use a computer or kept it elsewhere. She suspected the former. The desk hadn’t yielded any disks. There was a fax and answering machine behind a row of faux books on one of the shelves, however, a concession to this century. Faith tapped at the other rows, but they were all the leather-bound volumes they appeared to be. Could Julian have another workplace? Yet, Stephanie had referred to the library as “Daddy’s office.” It was Courtney who termed it the library when they were discussing where to serve.
Daddy might keep records, especially records he wasn’t eager to share, in other places. Faith looked behind the prints and paintings for a wall safe—although she would have been hard put to crack it if she found one, possessing skills with neither tumblers nor dynamite.
She was soon forced to concede that if this room held any secrets, it wasn’t going to yield them to her. She turned off the lights and directed her attention to the rest of the downstairs rooms. After a cursory glance in each, Faith ruled them out. They weren’t rooms Julian used; they were showrooms. He wouldn’t keep documents, particularly incriminating ones, in furniture that he was trying to sell, discriminating buyers pulling drawers open, lifting lids. She was happy to see a new table in place in the dining room. It was the same size as the one Julian had sold to the Averys, although not so stunning. She also paused a moment in appreciation at what she already thought of as “their sideboard.”
Moving upstairs, she carefully looked in each bedroom, every closet, even peering into the hampers in the baths. Some of the rooms were being used for storage, and it was hard to move about among the chests, tables, and chairs. She opened drawers, wardrobes, and cupboards, finding nothing more than creased tissue paper, empty hangers, and dust. None of the rooms contained file cabinets, not even old wooden ones.
It wasn’t hard to spot Julian’s room. The bed was hung with deep crimson silk damask draperies, neatly tied to each post with gold tassels. A kilim carpet covered the uneven floorboards. Dunster Weald might have started out life as a farmhouse, but it was a manor house now. Unlike the other rooms, this one had little furniture. Beside the bed was a large round table covered with stacks of books, catalogs, a framed picture of Stephanie as a little girl, a lamp, and a phone. A banjo wall clock eliminated the need for a Westclox. Julian must have an internal alarm, like Napoleon, waking himself up at the self-appointed hour each day, or night. An armoire, a comfortable-looking chaise, and two ladderback chairs, one by each window, completed the inventory.
Searching the pile next to the bed was impossible without toppling everything over, yet there didn’t seem to be any personal correspondence or a receipt book of any kind. Faith turned her attention to the armoire. It had been fitted out with drawers on one side, the other with a small television, VCR, and stereo. So Julian had a weakness for Leno or Letterman, besides Lowestoft.
Julian Bullock was obsessively neat about his personal effects. Socks were sorted by color in ordered rows. Piles of crisply ironed pajamas from Brooks Brothers, and boxers from the same source, filled two more drawers. Another held sweaters, folded so expertly that Julian could always get a job at the Gap if this antiques thing didn’t work out. The only scrap of paper Faith found was a price tag on a yet-unworn cardigan.
The drawer beneath the entertainment system held a few tapes—Chariots of Fire, multiple Merchant Ivorys, and one lone Mel Brooks—The Twelve Chairs. The closet held clothes. Period. No safe. Not even a shoe box. Julian’s footwear, in trees, was lined up on a shelf beneath a row of sports and suit jackets. A hatbox revealed—a hat.
Discouraged, she returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning the oven, first checking the pantry. Julian didn’t have any canisters. Or much food of any kind, except packages of Pepperidge Farm cookies, tea, and a shelf stacked with canned soups. The few drawers and cupboards, as well as the Hoosier kitchen, were a bust also.
As she scrubbed at the grime, trying not to inhale the noxious fumes, she tried to think what to do next. She’d been so sure she could find some sort of evidence that would link the two men, which she’d present to John Dunne, leaving the police to do the rest. Everything had been falling into place, and now it was all falling apart. She’d identified James Green and his prints had matched the ones in both the Fairchild and Winslow houses. Then he disappeared. He could be out of the country, too, by now, like Gloria. Gloria Farnum. Why would she go to Canada if she wasn’t guilty? Was it possible that she was the person who entered the antiques mart, flashed the lights to pinpoint the quarry, then lunged with deadly accuracy? Gloria didn’t seem to possess that much energy, or acumen; yet, appearances were so often misleading. Look at Julian. Faith was back to him. It felt right and she had learned to trust her snap judgments most of all.
The oven sparkled and Faith stuffed the paper towels, sponges, rubber gloves, and empty oven cleaner can into a trash bag she’d brought along for the purpose. It was white, not green. She was avoiding those particular Hefty bags for the moment. Body bags were green, too.
The rain had stopped and there were puddles in the back of the house on the flagstone walk. Fragrant deep pink and white peonies lined the walk, the blossoms bowed low by the storm. She’d reset the alarm and locked the door behind her. She’d leave the trash bag in the barn and that way she’d know where to leave the trash from tomorrow night, as well. There was a small shed attached to the large post-and-beam barn and it occurred to Faith that Julian might have another office out there—or store his more sensitive records in the hayloft or one of the horse stalls. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? The barn was a much better hiding place than the house. Her heart beat a little faster and she quickened her steps. There was still a chance that she’d be able to prove her hunch.
Stuffing the bag in one of the trash cans just inside the door, Faith switched on the light. A ladder reached to the loft, which was filled with hay. For the picturesque horses, she presumed. An open door led into the shed. It housed a complete workshop, much sawdust, and piles of wood. Julian the handyman, the restorer, the faker? Back in the main part of the barn, the stalls were filled with strange creatures—the quilt-covered articles described by Courtney. Faith picked up the edge of the first one. It proved to be two layers of mover’s quilts and indeed very ratty. She pulled them up and a lovely tilt-top table with a piecrust edge came to light. Soon she’d exposed all sorts of pieces—a bedroom set of painted cottage furniture, a Shaker sewing cabinet, a carved pine blanket chest, and an enormous maple secretary. The dim light and clouds of dust from the hay added to the sensation that she had stepped into another world, Pandora’s world, where the lifting of a lid, or the opening of a drawer, might release all manner of ills. She found herself moving slowly, carefully.
There were several more stalls. In the one nearest the workshop, a number of items, most the same size, stood—queer shapes under wraps. She started at the rear, crouching low, looking underneath each cover. It was a set of lyre-backed dining room chairs. But the front item was long and low. She tugged gingerly at the quilt tucked over and around it. A corner was revealed. She fell back on her heels and pulled furiously at the rest of the covering, throwing it to one side. It was a drawer, a sideboard drawer.
Her sideboard drawer.
She didn’t need any further documentation. Julian Bullock was guilty. Guilty of receiving stolen goods—arranging for goods to be stolen no doubt—and guilty of murder. She had him. She had him at last!
“Might one inquire as to the nature of your business here?” Julian’s menacing voice had shed every vestige of charm.