The Body in the Gazebo

Chapter 10





Standing at the front window, Faith pulled the drape farther to one side so she could watch Amy get on the bus. Mothers with younger children were gathered at the stop. Faith wished she could join them, but that would only make Amy more of a target—“Kindergarten Baby Amy has to have her mommy walk her to the bus” or some other taunt. The bra had offered an enormous amount of support—psychological, not physical. Amy marched out each morning, chest—what little there was—forward, a smile on her face. If she’d known the song, Faith imagined her daughter would have been belting out “I Am Woman.” Time to teach it to her.

The bus stopped, the children got on, and Faith turned away. Amy had moved and was now sitting in the front seat. She said the teasing had stopped. Faith wasn’t complacent. Mean girls were devious and sometimes smart. They’d find something new, or someone. The school was implementing a more current antibullying curriculum. That would help. And meanwhile, she would continue to ask her daughter how her day had been much more thoroughly.

Amy looked like a child—long, straight fine hair the color of good butter; eyes the color and sheen of wild blueberries. She was growing fast and it was a pleasure to watch her move on the sports field and off. She loved to dance. Yet Amy wasn’t going to stay a child for long, especially not in twenty-first-century America where the media was constantly bombarding kids with messages to grow up fast, inventing a whole new market: “tweens.”

Her appointment with Babs Jessup—Mrs. Schuyler Jessup, she corrected herself, picturing a Beacon Hill grande dame—was not until eleven. She’d drive to the Alewife T, where she could park the car and take the Red Line to the Charles Street stop near Beacon Hill—an impossible place to park.

It was too early to leave, so she put in a wash and changed sheets. At nine the phone rang. It was Tom.

“Albert just called. He’s picked up some sort of bug and won’t be in today. He said it’s not bad. He just needs a day or two. The thing is, I know he meant to take a folder home with him yesterday that has articles he’s collected on how to make the church greener. He’s preparing a report for the congregation’s consideration.”

“I assume by ‘greener,’ you mean a paperless newsletter and toilet paper recycled from grocery bags or what-have-you.”

Tom laughed. It was good to hear.

“Yes. No plans to repaint our pristine white clapboard. Anyway, could you drop it off at his place on your way? I’m sure he’d be very grateful and you know how conscientious he is. He’d hate to waste time even while recuperating. This would give him something to read in bed.”

Faith quickly rearranged her plans. She’d have to leave a little sooner and park in the garage under Boston Common after she dropped off the folder in Cambridge.

“I’ll come and get the folder in a few minutes.”

“Meet you halfway in the cemetery?”

“Oh Reverend Fairchild, you do say the most romantic things!”

It all seemed to be coming to a close. Tomorrow Faith would fly to New York and confront Violet Winthrop. Given the woman’s age, it would have to be done gently, but given the woman’s actions, firmly. Faith had called her sister, Hope, and made a tentative arrangement to meet for coffee in the late afternoon before returning north. This was still Ursula’s story, not hers, so she’d alluded vaguely to having to meet with someone on the Upper East Side. Hope was born with a client-confidentiality gene and never pried—not overtly anyway.

Sam Miller would be back tonight and was coming straight to the parsonage from the airport. Pix was leaving Charleston—reluctantly from the sound of recent conversations—on Friday morning.

The rain had finally stopped.

She was driving down Route 2 toward Cambridge. Magic 106.7 FM was playing Dan Fogelberg’s “To the Morning.” What kind of a day was it going to be? Faith wondered, listening to the words of the lyrics. She felt more optimistic than she had since Tom had come home from the emergency meeting of the vestry called by Sherman Munroe. The man himself, or his name, had been popping up ever since. Was he the “shoulder surfer” or other kind of hacker? Was it all a setup to get rid of a minister he didn’t like? Church politics were never pretty. Yet, why not confront Tom directly if he was dissatisfied? Of course, Faith imagined Sherman was always dissatisfied and probably always devious. She realized that he was a man who enjoyed manipulating others, and reveled in his own power. This may all have been a game to him; one he thought he couldn’t lose. Everything remained unresolved. And Tom would always have the implicit accusation hanging over his head. The vestry had wanted to avoid police involvement from the first—dirty linen and all that. Thank goodness Sam would arrive soon. He might insist the authorities be informed and a proper investigation conducted.

The song was ending. There is really nothing left to say but / Come on morning. A beautiful voice. A beautiful song. Faith hummed the tune and thought, Okay, come on, morning.

Albert had lived off Kirkland Street near Harvard Square since moving to the Boston area. Miraculously Faith found a place to park. She’d never been to his apartment, and when she went up the front steps, she realized that there was no way to leave the folder in an entryway or tucked behind a storm door. Both substantial outer and inner doors were locked. She pushed the buzzer next to his name and waited by the intercom. It was a nice brick building, and obviously secure. She’d never given much thought to where he lived, but was a little surprised at how nice the building was. The rent would have been high for a student, although he was making a decent salary now. Maybe he had roommates, although his was the only name listed. She rang again. He must be asleep. She hated to get him out of bed when he wasn’t feeling well, but Tom had seemed to think Albert wanted the material. She gave it one more try and called Tom.

“Albert’s not answering the bell. Did you call him?”

“I did, but he wasn’t answering the phone, either, so I left a message on his machine. I figured he was asleep, or maybe in the bathroom.”

Faith didn’t want to dwell on the possibility of stomach flu.

“Give me his number and I’ll try.”

“Okay, and if he still doesn’t answer, look and see if his car is there, although I can’t imagine he’d go out. He has a parking place next to his apartment and you know the car.”

Faith did, as did her kids. They wanted a Mini Cooper just like Albert’s, complete with the Union Jack roof.

“All right.”

The phone rang four times before the machine kicked in. Faith told him she was leaving the packet for him propped up against the door. It wouldn’t be seen from the street, and didn’t contain anything of value. Rain wasn’t predicted, and if it did shower, the porch had a roof. She hung up and went around to the side of the building. The only car there was a Honda Civic of a certain age. From the look of the tire pressure, it had been there awhile.

There was a small yard enclosed by wire fencing and the other side of the building was separated from the next by an alleyway. No room for cars. She walked up the street to Broadway. No sign of the Mini Cooper. She walked the other way to Kirkland. Nothing there, either. She called Tom again.

“Are you sure he said he was home?”

“Absolutely. This is very odd. Do you think he had to go to the doctor’s, or even the hospital?”

“I wouldn’t start to worry yet,” Faith said. “He told you it wasn’t serious. Do you have his cell?”

“No,” Tom said slowly. “I’ve asked him several times—in case I need to get him in an emergency—but he’s been kind of funny about it. I’ve had the feeling he didn’t want me to know.”

It was a little past ten o’clock. She had an hour to get to Beacon Hill.

“I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart. Stay by the phone, okay?”

“Faith, what’s going on? Where—”

She switched her phone off and got in her car. Albert was definitely not home and Faith had an idea where he might be instead.

Albert Trumbull’s Mini Cooper was parked on Cameron Street in front of Lily Sinclair’s apartment. Faith didn’t know whether to feel glad that she’d been right or sad that she’d been right. She pulled up next to it and called Tom.

“Honey, I think you should come and have a chat with Albert. I’m at Lily’s apartment in Somerville and his car is parked in front.”

She could hear Tom’s sigh over the phone.

“Maybe he loaned it to her while he was sick?”

A person could drown clutching at straws, Faith thought. She also thought it was time for her too-nice husband to get tough.

“I doubt it and I doubt he’s making some kind of pastoral call. If you want me to check it out, I’ll go see. But Tom, get going now. You need to talk to him. To them. Call it a hunch.”

“But Albert?”

“Tom!”

“Okay. I’m leaving.”

Faith double-parked, deciding to take her chances on getting a ticket. She might get lucky even if the Somerville police did cruise by. The Mini was so small that her Subaru wagon looked like someone had inexpertly parked too far from the curb. She sat for a moment. Faith trusted her hunches, but she realized she might be able to get some confirmation if Zach was available. She dialed his number.

“Hey, what’s up? We’re still on for Saturday, right?”

Zach was coming out to go over the security programs on their computers.

“Saturday is still fine. I was wondering if you could take a quick look at a Facebook page for me? Her name is Lily Sinclair.”

“Sounds like someone working in a gentlemen’s club. It’s real?”

“Oh yes.”

Lily had been enrolled at the Div School. Despite what Zach thought, “Lily Sinclair” couldn’t be an alias.

“Here she is. Not bad. And her face isn’t, either.”

“Zach!”

“Just kidding. Actually she looks very nice. Cool taste in music.”

“Just tell me if there are any photos or comments about a boyfriend.”

“Would his name be Al? And would he be an Anglophile— his Mini Cooper has a British flag painted on the roof?”

“Yes, and yes. You’re a doll. Thank you so much! See you Saturday.”

“I take it you don’t want me to friend her?”

“Absolutely not.”

A hunch had just become a fact. She got out of the car.

Before she rang the bell, she took a look around. The double-decker backed onto another the next street over. It was attached to its neighbor on one side and separated from a single-family dwelling by a narrow driveway on the other. She’d blocked Albert’s car in, but he could still leave from the back door and get to the street down the drive. She pictured herself chasing him into Davis Square and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Not only would she feel ridiculous, but she didn’t have the time.

She rang the bell and heard steps in the hall.

“I’m coming, hon. Silly girl, you left your keys on the table.”

The door opened wide, and while Mr. Trumbull, sometime divinity school student and administrator at the First Parish church in Aleford, was registering extreme surprise at seeing his boss’s wife on the doorstep, said wife stepped across the lintel and closed the door behind her.

“Tom’s on his way. We need to talk. Lily out for coffee? Or something else to cure what ails you? By the way, glad you’re feeling better.”

Albert was wearing pajamas—pale blue cotton ones like the kind Brooks Brothers sold. Faith didn’t think young men wore these, opting instead for more casual nightwear or nothing specific. Albert had frozen in place. The only thing moving was his mouth and this was opening and closing like a fish out of water desperately gasping for air.

“Why don’t we sit down over here while we wait for Tom—and Lily?” Faith wasn’t worried anymore that Albert might try to take off. She was, in fact, wondering if she could get him to move into the living room and sit on what she recognized as an Ikea couch and one of their Poang chairs. She gave him a little nudge and he shuffled into the room, collapsing on the couch.

“I . . .” He stopped and didn’t start again, just rubbed his hand over his eyes and bowed his head. Faith hoped he was praying. He needed to.

She got up, went into the hall, and opened the front door, leaving it ajar. She wasn’t counting on Lily to be as docile as her boyfriend. This way, having forgotten her keys, Lily would think Albert had left the door open for her while he was getting dressed. If Faith answered when Lily rang, she would most likely make a run for it.

Faith returned to the living room and looked at Albert closely. Definitely bed hair. They sat in silence for what seemed like a very long time. Faith didn’t want to start without Tom—or Albert’s significant other.

“Where is Lily?”

“Starbucks,” he whispered.

“What is she getting?”

“Iced mochas and apple fritters.”

Faith nodded. The mocha might be a little sweet, but she’d suffer. No way was Albert getting it. He could have the fritter, though. Unless Tom was peckish. Faith had pretty high standards for fritters.

“Where are you? Why is the door open?”

Lily was home.

“In here,” Albert said hoarsely. Maybe he did have a sore throat. Faith resolved not to get any closer. “Mrs.—” Once more Albert clammed up, but this time it was because Lily interrupted him. For a moment Faith thought the young woman was going to toss the cardboard tray holding the drinks and pastry at her.

“I knew you’d figure it out. Your sanctimonious prig of a husband couldn’t in a month of Sundays! And, you.” She whirled around and took several steps toward Albert. Faith was hoping she’d get close enough for Faith to snatch a coffee. She needed it. “You probably told her everything.”

Albert cowered. Faith had never actually seen anyone do this, but that’s what it was. He put his arms above his head and folded himself into a sitting fetal position.

His behavior had an immediate effect on Lily. She put the tray down on the floor, sat next to Albert, and threw her arms around him.

“My poor baby! Has she been horrible?”

The bell rang and Faith sprinted to the door. She didn’t trust Lily not to disappear with her “baby” into the kitchen or elsewhere, barricading them both in. The woman was in tigress mode. The look she’d shot at Faith bore the promise of much harm, bodily harm.

Tom had his hand raised to ring again. She didn’t want to think how fast he must have been driving, although Aleford wasn’t that far from Somerville, a straight shot out Route 2.

“It’s been Lily and Albert all the time,” Faith said, “and I’ve only got five minutes before I have to leave for my appointment with Mrs. Jessup. Come on.” She pulled him into the living room, skirting the Starbucks tray. The ice in the coffee was no doubt melting, but Faith had changed her mind. She didn’t like mochas that much anyway.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, or rather what’s been going on.” Tom addressed the two of them. He looked very tired and very stern.

Lily released Albert and he sat up straighter.

“It was all my idea. Albert has nothing to do with it.” She looked a lot like Sydney Carton approaching the guillotine.

“I’m assuming you’re talking about taking the money from the church’s account.”

Albert’s face was ashen. He croaked out, “It wasn’t just Lily. I’m equally to blame. More so.” He cleared his throat; his next words came out louder and stronger.

“You shouldn’t have treated Lily the way you did, Tom. Talked to her the way you did. It wasn’t fair. She was just trying to do her job, and in my opinion, she was doing a damn fine one!”

“Wait a minute.” Faith hated to leave, but she had to get going. Before she did, she needed to inject a little reality into the situation.

“The two of you stole ten thousand dollars from the church, cast the blame on an innocent person, and somehow it’s my husband’s fault?”

It was Lily’s turn.

“You bet it is! We wanted to turn the tables on him. See how he felt being treated like a criminal. And aside from what he did to me—I was committed to my calling before he sowed all those seeds of doubt—the parish needed to see that their emperor had no clothes. He’s fooled parents into thinking he’s so in touch with their kids, but he has no idea what’s going on with them and the issues they have. I heard that his own kid was in trouble at school, too. The way Tom is alienating the younger generation, his sainted First Parish is going to find itself without a congregation when all his suck-ups die off. And he had no right to rake me over the coals. I have a father who does that!”

Seeing the look that passed between Tom and Faith, Lily added, “And don’t start with any psychobabble. This has nothing to do with what’s happened between my father and me. It’s all Tom’s fault. Period.”

During Lily’s diatribe, the Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild had turned beet red. Faith had seen him lose his temper a few times. It was scary. When Lily had mentioned Ben’s trouble at school, Faith thought Tom was going to explode, but he’d waited. Steam rising from the center of Vesuvius, but not the main event. That was coming now. He was going to lose it. And he did. For the next few minutes the “sanctimonious prig” let Albert, still cowering, and Lily, suddenly sobbing, have it. About the laws of man, and yes, God, that they had broken. About their self-centeredness. About the betrayal of their calling, and on and on.

“We didn’t spend the money,” Lily interrupted at one point.

Faith had been wondering about this. Starbucks was pricey, but Albert had had the car before the thefts and Lily wasn’t shopping on Newbury Street, except maybe at the Second Time Around. What had they done with the loot?

Albert brightened. “Yes, it’s all here. In an envelope with the withdrawal slips under Lily’s mattress. We’d always intended to give it back.”

Tom blew up again. The lava flow wasn’t quite as monumental as before, but still very impressive, fed by the force of the anguish he and Faith had suffered over the last twelve days. The idea that they had been toying with his life—with the life of his church—was intolerable. Under the mattress, indeed!

Reluctantly Faith took her leave as Tom was calling Sam. It was like skipping out before the last act of a play, a play like The Mousetrap. Tom would tell her about it later. She couldn’t keep Mrs. Jessup waiting. She couldn’t let Ursula down. Not at this point.

Mrs. Schuyler Jessup was wearing a daffodil-yellow nubby wool suit over a delphinium-blue and white striped silk blouse. Faith was immediately reminded of the flowers she’d seen as she walked from the Common to the Mt. Vernon Street address. Everything bloomed earlier in Boston and it had been a nice reminder of what was to come in Aleford.

Introductions were made and Mrs. Jessup instructed Faith to call her “Babs.”

“My family called me ‘Babby’ for many years, but I put a stop to that when I married Scooter. It was bad enough being Babs and Scooter. Will you have coffee or tea?”

Faith hesitated. From the look of the room—the export porcelain, Chippendale and Sheraton furniture, damask upholstery, walls crammed with artwork collected by many generations—she was sure the tray would be loaded down with the appropriate sterling vessels. If she chose coffee and Babs normally had tea, the companion, a pleasant-looking, slight middle-aged woman hovering at the door, would never be able to carry it all.

“If you’re wondering what I take, it’s coffee. I know ‘elevenses’ is a British custom, but I’ve never been a tea drinker. Besides, there’s all that fuss with strainers, lemon slices, and extra hot water pots.”

“Coffee is fine—it’s what I prefer, too.”

Entering the room, Faith had been struck by the thought that ninety really is the new seventy when it came to Ursula and now the woman before her. She recalled that Babs had been described as athletic in her youth and she looked as if she were still scoring below par. Her spine was ramrod straight and the only softness evident were her skin and snowy white curls, kept away from her face by a headband that picked up the blue in her blouse. She was wearing pearls the size of pigeon eggs.

Coffee and a plate of tasty-looking macaroons arrived. The companion poured out and then discreetly disappeared.

“I’m sorry to hear that Ursula has been ill. Our families knew each other, but I’m afraid we lost touch when the Lymans moved out west.”

If Faith hadn’t known Babs was referring to Aleford, a twenty-minute drive, she would have assumed the woman meant the Territories.

“She’s on the mend and I’m sure will make a full recovery.”

“There. We’ve taken care of all the niceties, so why don’t you tell me what she’s sent you to see me about?”

Faith had been afraid she’d have trouble changing gears from larceny to murder. The present to the past. Driving over, she’d been euphoric—and furious. She’d called Tom as she was walking down Charles Street. Sam was sending one of the firm’s associates over. No crime had been reported, so Tom couldn’t call the police in at this point, nor did he want to—however, a crime had been committed. He didn’t know how to proceed. Sam was trying to get on an earlier flight and meanwhile had told Tom to stay put. Lily and Albert were definite flight risks. The associate would be reinforcement, and a witness. Tom told her that Albert had stopped cowering and started crying. He was continuing to break into tears at regular intervals. Lily, however, had regained her composure and had refused to say anything further except to call Tom several names that were not going to help with Saint Peter, should she get that far. The scene was pretty much what Faith had thought it would be.

At the Jessup house, the turmoil of the morning receded the moment she’d stepped into the downstairs hall and walked up the curved stairs, the mahogany banister soft and gleaming after centuries of use. By the time she was ushered into the sun-dappled living room, Faith was imagining herself stepping into a Henry James novel or Marquand’s The Late George Apley.

“It has to do with the death of Ursula’s brother, Theo.”

Babs put her cup down. “We loved Theo. He was my husband’s best friend. Scooter never got over his death. We were so young and this sort of thing had never happened to us—I mean, a tragic accident, a death, illnesses. Those were supposed to come later in life, and at that point we didn’t think past the next week.”

“You do know what happened afterward? About the way Arnold Rowe was cleared?”

“Oh yes. I must confess that I didn’t really notice Ursula much at the Vineyard. She was just Theo’s little sister, although now the age difference scarcely matters. At the time, there was a great deal of talk about the way she marched into the jail and some people were rather scandalized. It all died down quickly. There was other, bigger news during those Depression years and then the war.”

Faith went on to tell her about the letters and handed over the copies she’d made for Babs to read herself. She handed them back, holding the papers in her fingertips as if they were contaminated with something.

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand why you’re here. Pleasant as it is. What does Ursula want?”

“Any information you might have about Violet Winthrop. That’s who she thinks is sending these. She doesn’t know anything about her, or her husband, except that he was transferred to New York some time in the thirties. I’m going to New York tomorrow to speak with her.”

Babs gave a wry smile. “And since, unfortunately, we are related by marriage, I’m the one to fill you in.”

“Yes. We’re trying to figure out why she might be doing this. Ursula thinks it could be boredom. I’m not so sure.”

“And you would be right, knowing Violet. I doubt it’s that simple. Let’s get some hot coffee. I need another cup and it’s time for some sandwiches.” She pressed a spot in the design on the Oriental rug and the companion appeared so quickly she must have been sitting near the door. She said she’d brew some fresh coffee and bring another tray, whisking away the one on the table in front of Babs.

The old lady settled back in her chair. Faith noticed a malacca cane next to it, the only indication that Mrs. Jessup needed help getting around.

“Tell me about yourself while we’re waiting. I know your husband is a minister. I’m afraid I would have been quite inadequate as a clerical spouse. For one thing, I have a tendency to laugh in church.”

Babs was a kindred spirit and Faith soon had her laughing with stories of Faith’s life.

The sandwiches were egg salad, freshly made, with a little chive, on sourdough—not the usual WASP equivalent of Wonder bread with the crusts removed. More coffee was poured and Babs started talking about Violet Winthrop, née Hammond.

“She was quite a piece of work. I disliked her intensely and we were thrown together quite a bit because Theo was madly in love with her, as was Charlie Winthrop. Neither of them would have married her. She was a fling, and common sense, plus family pressure, would have prevailed. I still don’t know how she managed to get Charlie to propose, but he did, very shortly after Theo was killed. Perhaps he was feeling his own mortality. And Violet was extremely beautiful. It was something to walk down the street with her. People, men and women both, would stop to stare at her. And oh, how she loved the attention.

“She had been considered fast at school. I think it was Miss Porter’s, maybe Rosemary Hall. My mother wasn’t happy about my going around with her, but I told her I couldn’t very well not, since Scooter was such good friends with the men she dated. Mother needn’t have worried and I told her so. Violet liked men. Period. She didn’t have, or want, girlfriends. She certainly wouldn’t have had any influence over me. We were both females, yes, but chalk and cheese—you can decide which was which. This doesn’t help you, though. Ancient history.

“They moved to New York soon after they were married. It was a small wedding at her people’s out in Chicago. Charlie wasn’t terribly bright and he was in the way in the office here, according to one of our Winthrop cousins. The New York office had a spot for him where he couldn’t cause much damage. Essentially it was a place to go every day—the family taking care of one of its own. The Winthrops did make rather a lot of money during the war years and he came in for a great deal of it just by being one. There’s a daughter, Marguerite. Charlie wanted Scooter to be her godfather, but I told him absolutely not. I think he said he was an agnostic or something and wouldn’t do a good job. It wouldn’t have fooled anybody else, but probably fooled Charlie, who wouldn’t have paused to consider that at the time Scooter was a junior warden at church. There were no other children and Marguerite never married to my knowledge. Charlie died many years ago and the last I heard mother and daughter were still living in the same town house they’d been living in at his death. On the East Side somewhere. You have to understand, I didn’t just dislike Violet because she was always quite awful to me—made me feel like a kind of freak because I enjoyed sports, terrible catty remarks about my muscular calves. Those things hurt when you’re young and insecure. No, I also disliked her because I thought she was completely amoral. No heart. However you want to put it. She used people. The only person she cared about was herself. Poor Charlie.”

And poor Theo, Faith thought, and said, “This helps a great deal.” They hadn’t known about Marguerite Winthrop. Could she be responsible for the letters?

“Although,” she said, “I still don’t know why she, or perhaps her daughter, would decide to torment Ursula at this point. Malicious mischief? She wants some kind of last thrill?”

“Dear Faith, don’t kid yourself. Violet did a lot of things for thrills, but I doubt this is her object now.”

“Then what?”

“Money, of course.”

“Ursula and I talked about the possibility that it was blackmail of some sort, that the letters were veiled threats to bring the whole thing up again. But she’s a wealthy woman. Why would she need money?”

“Not ‘need,’ ‘want.’ When you go to see her, how about a little wager that she has one of those needlepoint pillows with YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO RICH OR TOO THIN on it.”

It was a sucker bet. Faith politely declined and, after a heartfelt promise to visit again, took her leave. She had a great deal to think about.

There was a time when flying had been fun. That time was long past. First there had been a long wait in the security line, then a further wait when someone’s laptop case strap got caught in the conveyer belt, bringing everything to a halt, and finally a wait by the gate while the plane—late arriving—was serviced. The wad of gum below the window and crumpled napkins at her feet were evidence to the contrary, but Faith didn’t care. She just wanted to get to the city.

With only her handbag, she was out of the terminal quickly and grabbed a cab. Despite her errand, her spirits lifted as soon as she saw the familiar skyline. She was home.

It was odd to drive past her family’s apartment ten blocks north of her destination. Her parents were in Spain, a rare vacation that presaged more, longer ones. For some time now, her father had been urging the congregation to form a search committee and engage an interim. “I may have to actually quit in order to make them realize I can’t keep being their minister forever.” Jane Sibley, a real estate lawyer, had gone part-time some years ago. She was urging her husband to retire, as were his daughters. Faith was happy they were away. The last time she’d seen them her mother looked wonderful, as always, but her father looked extremely tired. He’d never bounced back after a serious heart attack several years ago. While she understood how hard it would be for the church to let go of their longtime leader, she was entertaining thoughts of standing outside a Sunday service leafleting the congregation with a letter begging them to let him leave.

She’d called Hope when the plane had landed and they were meeting at the Viand coffee shop on Madison, not far from the Winthrops’ town house. Faith was in need of an egg cream, that quintessential New York delicacy consisting of U-Bet (and only this brand will do) chocolate syrup, very cold milk, and very fizzy seltzer. No eggs involved. It went very well with Viand’s pastrami sandwich—not to be compared with Katz’s, but that was too far downtown.

As soon as she was finished with Mrs. Winthrop, and perhaps Miss W. would also be there, Faith was to call Hope. She put her number on the screen and activated her iPhone’s GPS tracker, InstaMapper, which Hope had insisted she install and was now insisting she use. It would allow the mistress of time management to schedule her arrival at the coffee shop to coincide with her sister’s arrival there, thus not wasting a minute of Hope’s billable hours.

Faith had called the Winthrop house from Ursula’s on Wednesday and left word on an answering machine that Mrs. Rowe was not able to come herself, but someone else representing her would arrive on Friday morning and to please call back if it was not convenient. There had been no call.

Faith paid the cabdriver and approached the house with some trepidation. Compared to the others on the block, the place looked shabby. The evergreens in the large urns on either side of the front door were dry and most of the needles brown. The brass knocker and door handle needed polishing. The door itself could use a fresh coat of paint.

Noting that she seemed to be arriving unannounced often lately, Faith pushed the bell. She hadn’t given her name when she’d called; she wasn’t sure why, but the whole enterprise seemed to call for anonymity—and even stealth.

She could hear a chime sound faintly within. She waited and pushed again. Nothing. She stepped back and looked at the façade. All the drapes were drawn. Perhaps they were away. Perhaps she should have called from the airport. The house certainly looked unoccupied. As she was considering whether or not to stay, she saw one of the drapes twitch. Someone was peering out a second-floor window. She stepped back and rang again.

The intercom crackled.

“Yes? Who is it?” The voice was firm and clear.

“My name is Faith Fairchild. I’m here on behalf of Ursula Rowe.”

“Her daughter?”

“No, but like one.”

Faith wanted to establish her bona fides.

The door buzzed and she opened it, stepping into a large foyer tiled in black and white marble. It was hard to see the pattern, however, because of all the mail, junk and otherwise, strewn about.

“Well, don’t just stand there. We’ve been expecting you.”

The voice came from the back of the house. Faith walked toward it through a dining room, the furniture covered with dust so thick it would have provided hours of scribbling pleasure for a child. Several botanical prints hung on the wall, which also showed the outlines of other artwork that had been removed. The room smelled musty.

“We’re in here. Come on.” The voice was impatient.

“Here” turned out to be the kitchen and the disorder continued. Empty cans of cat food were piled in one corner and the sink was filled with dirty dishes. There was a small patio beyond a pair of French doors and the only light in the room was coming through the grimy glass. Faith, endowed with the native New Yorker real estate instinct, immediately began to see the place scrubbed clean, staged, and up for sale, calculating the price as she looked about for the house’s owner. It took a moment to distinguish the human occupants from the cats, as both looked gray with tangled coats. In the case of the nonfelines, the coats were layers of sweaters and hair that badly needed cutting—and washing. One of them stood.

“I’m Marguerite Winthrop and this is my mother, Mrs. Charles Winthrop,” she said regally. Faith wasn’t sure whether to extend her hand or curtsy. In the end she did neither, but took the chair Marguerite had indicated.

Apparently, however, it was Violet’s show.

“I knew Ursula would have to respond.” It was the same voice Faith had heard over the intercom. Faith tried to hold her temper. She thought of what the letters had done to Ursula. The crone in front of her suddenly reminded her of Sherman Munroe. Both their voices were filled with smug entitlement. That whatever they did would always have been justified merely by who they were.

“Mrs. Rowe was literally made ill by your letters. If you don’t stop sending them, we intend to seek legal action.”

Violet laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh and Faith thought if she closed her eyes, she might see the beautiful young woman Violet had been. The woman whose voice sounded like money, like Fitzgerald’s Daisy Buchanan. There were also traces of a younger Violet beneath her rather grotesque makeup—a slash of red lipstick, purple eye shadow, powdery white foundation, and dark brows that had been penciled on in thin, surprised half-moons.

“Did you hear that, Marguerite? Little Ursula is threatening me with legal action. I suppose I should be quite terrified.”

Faith stood up. “This is obviously a waste of time. Mine, that is. I don’t know why you sent those hateful letters, but this is not a threat. If you send more, or attempt to contact Mrs. Rowe in any way, we will get a restraining order.”

“I believe the only one being restrained will be you. Now, Marguerite!”

Marguerite grabbed Faith and shoved some kind of cloth over her face. The woman was surprisingly agile and all those sweaters were concealing a strong body. Warm sweaters. Faith was feeling very warm herself. Very, very warm. Her body was on fire. She tried to pull off whatever it was Marguerite was holding over her nose and mouth. It had a sickeningly sweet smell. I have to breathe! I have to get away from these women! From this house! were Faith’s last thoughts for some time.

When she slowly became conscious again, she was indeed restrained—tied securely to the chair with ropes and bungee cords. Her vision cleared. The two women were drinking something from mugs advertising a local blood bank. She hoped the liquid was tea or coffee.

“Ah, you’re back,” Violet said.

After trying to move, Faith discovered her ankles were tied to the front chair legs and her arms, extended straight down, were pinned to the back ones. Her hands were free and she could move her fingers. Not that this did her any good. She had no idea how long she’d been out and she had a foul taste in her mouth. Her head ached.

“As soon as you feel you’ve recovered—it shouldn’t be long, we practiced with the chloroform on each other—you’re going to call Ursula and suggest a trade. What was the amount, Marguerite?”

“We thought a hundred thousand dollars was a nice round number.”

“Of course,” Violet said. “We want it transferred directly into our bank account here. Ursula was so thoughtful sending you on a weekday when all this business can be taken care of quickly. We were afraid it would be a weekend, which would drag things out.”

“Wait a minute. You must be insane! You’re holding me hostage until Ursula pays you?”

“That’s been our plan from the start, although we thought she’d send her actual daughter, or her son.”

They were insane. Faith felt as if she’d been transported to a remake of the film Grey Gardens.

“I’m not calling her,” she said. “And in any case, she doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“Oh, but she does, or she can get it easily. And I think you’ll find it increasingly unpleasant here if you don’t call.”

Faith willed herself not to let the terror she was starting to feel show. This couldn’t be happening. She was in the middle of New York City—on the Upper East Side, for goodness’ sake!

“It’s nothing personal. We’ve been driven to this by that crook Bernie Madoff. We should be tying him up—or that wife of his—but that would have been more complicated, and Bernie, at least, is not reachable. He ruined us! At this point we can’t even pay the electric bill.”

“Wait a minute. You may have lost your money through Madoff, along with a huge number of others”—Faith was tempted to add, Who are not tying people up, yet thought it wise not to dwell on the situation—“but your house is worth many millions.”

Violet looked aghast. “Sell our home! I’d starve to death first. I’ll have you know my husband, Charles Wendell Winthrop, bought this house for me when we first moved to New York City and he intended that I should live here for my entire life, as did he. When I do die, it will of course go to my daughter.”

Faith had the feeling Violet was now regarding her as some sort of malevolent real estate broker who had happened by to try to swindle her further.

“I won’t call Ursula. That’s final.”

Violet’s smile was nasty.

“Marguerite, dear, it’s time for you to practice your piano.” She added, “My daughter is an accomplished pianist who could have had a brilliant career were it not for the petty jealousies and dirty politics of the concert world. ‘Marguerite’ is French for daisy, a name that would have been too common. From birth I had intended her for great things. My husband used to call us his two flowers.”

The younger flower left, disappearing into the gloom of the dining room and thereafter to parts unknown.

“She’s a sensitive girl and I didn’t want her to overhear us.”

Faith could feel sweat start to trickle down various parts of her body.

“I’ve killed once and I will kill again, Mrs. Fairchild,” Violet said matter-of-factly. “If Ursula doesn’t wire the funds within twenty-four hours, you’ll be dead.”

It was the first part of what she said that struck Faith.

“It was you, not your husband—and certainly not Arnold Rowe. You killed Theo.”

Violet nodded. “Such a long time ago that it doesn’t really matter anymore. Not then, either. Theo Lyman was getting to be quite a bore. Every time I’d turn around, there he would be, acting like an idiot, trying to impress me. Oh, they had money, the Lymans, I’ll grant you that, but it was gone soon enough. Thank goodness I had the sense to stick with Charlie. And he with me. But then, he rather had to.” Violet smiled in reminiscence. “He was grateful. Oh yes, very grateful—starting that night—and I made sure he stayed that way. Yes, starting all those years ago on a warm summer night on Martha’s Vineyard . . .”

“What’s happened? You look terrible. Have you been in some kind of fight?”



“Violet, my God! You’ve got to help me. I don’t know what to do. It wasn’t my fault. He wouldn’t give me the money!”



“What are you talking about? Calm down! Here, come into the library. Nobody’s there.”



She stood with her back against the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Charles sat down on one of the couches and put his head in his hands. After a moment he looked up; his face was streaked with tears.



“I killed him. Theo’s dead. I swear it was an accident. He was laughing and wouldn’t listen. I pushed him. Maybe I hit him. I don’t remember. He fell against a bench.” Charles jumped to his feet and came toward her speaking rapidly.



“I never meant to hurt him. Just wanted to scare him a little. Oh God! What am I going to do? I’ll go to prison. No one will believe me!”



“I believe you, Charles. Start at the beginning. Where were you?”



“I need a drink. There must be something to drink in this place. What does he need with all these things?” Charles gestured wildly at the weapons displayed throughout the room.



“I’ll get you a drink in a minute. Tell me what happened from the start.” Violet kept her voice steady and calm. “Sit down again.”



Charles sat on an ottoman closer to Violet and looked up at her.



“I owe some men some money. A lot of money. If I don’t pay them first thing tomorrow morning they’ll go to my father—and they’ll hurt me. Said I wouldn’t be playing tennis for a long time. I kept telling Theo. Out in the gazebo in the woods. I didn’t want anyone to hear us. He was pretty loaded. Just laughed and wanted to go back to the party. Kept saying he didn’t have any money. Everything’s a blur. I got mad. You’ve got to believe me. I never meant to hurt him. He was so still. Didn’t move. I ran back here to find you.”



Violet nodded. “We don’t have much time. First, you were never in the gazebo tonight. Nobody saw you leave, did they?”



Charles shook his head.



“Next, I want you to give me ten minutes and then find a couple of people, people you don’t know—that won’t be hard in this crowd; I have no idea who these crashers are. Tell them Theo wants the Professor out in the gazebo right away. It won’t make sense to them, but they’ll think it’s a game and start shouting for him. Then find Rowe yourself. Keep an eye on him, but don’t let him see you. As soon as you see him leave the house, follow a little ways behind. Get Scooter and some others to go with you. Tell them something’s happened; you don’t know what. Now repeat it all back to me—and don’t have anything more to drink until later. When you leave now, go wash up and pull yourself together.”



Charles repeated what Violet had told him to do and left the room. She walked slowly about. It was her favorite place in the house and she’d often thought she’d like to meet the man who collected all these weapons, bagged the game. A real man. Not like Charles, or Theo. But Charles was going to do just fine. Charles with all that Winthrop money and position. Nobody was going to snigger at Violet Hammond behind her back again. She knew what people said about her. It was coming to a happy ending a bit sooner than she planned—so long as Charles did exactly as he was told. And he would. Tonight, tomorrow, and in the future. After all, a wife couldn’t testify against her husband, could she?



She picked up the stiletto letter opener on the desk with her handkerchief and climbed out the window. It didn’t take long to get to the gazebo.



Theo was unconscious. There was almost no pulse, such a slight flutter that she almost missed it. She shuddered in repulsion—his face already resembled a death mask—but quickly pulled herself together and took his gold watch and his signet ring. They would have to keep the bootleggers—she knew what Charles had been up to—happy for now. If Charles’s father got even a whiff of scandal regarding his son, he’d cut him off for good. And that wouldn’t do at all.



Someone was coming—walking rapidly down the path. She heard Rowe call Theo’s name.



Theo wouldn’t be answering.



She plunged the stiletto into Theo’s chest and slipped out the door into the woods to wait.



It was perfect. She heard the Professor’s anguished cry and Charles’s arrival with the others. When she went back into the gazebo, slipping in with several others, she saw that Arnold had pulled the knife from Theo’s chest and was standing over him. She screamed—and kept on screaming.



Everything was going to be fine.



“My family has always been devoted to music, particularly the piano,” Faith said. “I’d love to hear your daughter play. What kind of piano do you have?”

Violet rose to the bait.

“We have two, of course. A Steinway grand in the living room and a Baldwin in her music room. When she began to show her talents, we converted one of the bedrooms into a studio for her. It’s soundproof, otherwise you could hear the music from here.”

“What a shame I can’t. It would be such a treat.”

Would overweening pride overwhelm Violet’s judgment? It was the only way Faith could think of to get the woman to untie her.

“Oh no you don’t, Miss Smarty-pants. When I get word that the money has been transferred, perhaps Marguerite will give us a brief concert. For now, you’ll be staying right where you are.”

Pride did not go before a fall. They sat in silence for a while and then Violet burst out, “Now are you going to make that call or aren’t you? My patience is wearing thin.”

Faith was about to say no again when she realized that each time Violet had voiced the demand, she’d insisted Faith make the call. Why couldn’t Violet make it herself, or even darling daughter Marguerite? Surely they had the number and they could hold the phone up to Faith so she could speak to prove she was actually here—and in extremis. Maybe, no probably, the phones were landlines and not portable. Violet would have to untie her and she wouldn’t want to risk it.

So, Faith had to make the call using her cell. Violet was isolated from the world, but not completely. She’d assumed whoever came would have one.

It was a glimmer.

“All right. Bring me your phone,” Faith said, feigning defeat.

“Don’t you have your own? It’s a long distance call. I don’t see why I should have to pay for it.”

The illogic was breathtaking—and breath giving.

“My phone is in my purse, which must be somewhere on the floor.” They must have taken it from Faith’s shoulder when she was knocked out. She hated to think of what it rested on. “The phone is in the outside pocket.” She’d placed it there so she could call Hope easily.

Violet got up. She may not have been as athletic in her youth as Babs Jessup, but she still had excellent posture and didn’t seem to require a cane or walker to get about.

“Is this it?” Violet asked dubiously. She held up the iPhone. Clearly cells in all their incarnations were a novelty.

“Yes. I have Ursula on something called ‘speed dial’ so I could get in touch with her once I made contact with you. Just run your finger across the screen and the number will ring. Hold it to my face and I’ll tell her what’s going on.”

Please, Hope, catch on. Please . . .

“Are you there yet?” As always, her sister got right to the point.

Faith interrupted quickly. She couldn’t have asked for a better opening.

“Yes, I’m here with Violet, Mrs. Winthrop, that is. And Ursula, I’m afraid things haven’t gone well. For us, I mean. Mrs. Winthrop and her daughter, Marguerite, had the misfortune to lose a great deal of money with Bernard Madoff. They are demanding a trade. In return for my safety, they want you to immediately transfer a hundred thousand dollars into their bank account.”

Faith could almost see the stunned look on Hope’s face as she rapidly processed the bizarre call.

“I see. Have they harmed you in any way?”

“No, Ursula, but they will if the money isn’t in their account within twenty-four hours. At the moment I’m tied up in their kitchen. Actually, a lovely room with French doors leading to a back patio. The house itself is quite grand, although being on the ground floor, I can’t say what the upstairs is like.”

“Give me that thing.” Violet was almost snarling. “You’d think you were going to move in! Now listen to me, Ursula Rowe, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain, so you’d better start getting the money together if you want to see your precious friend alive.”

There was a pause. “She wants to talk to you again.” Violet held the phone up.

“Keep the phone on. I’m setting all the wheels in motion. Good-bye.”

Hope must have assumed she was on speakerphone. Bless her. She could be counted on to think of everything.

“She’s getting everything started. Just leave the phone on the table and she’ll call back for your account information.”

“All written down in this.” She waved a large ledger—the kind Faith associated with Melville’s Bartleby. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

Faith was sure that’s exactly what Hope was planning, too.

Her sister had friends in high places, so when New York’s finest shortly arrived, some at the front door, which Violet refused to open, but more over the wall and into the back patio, Faith was not surprised. She was, however, understandably enormously relieved. When the police shattered one of the glass doors to get in, Violet threw herself at Faith, knocking the chair to the floor, all the while screaming something about an unholy alliance on the part of Ursula, the Madoffs, and poor Faith herself. Marguerite was discovered deep in Beethoven’s “Moonlight” sonata and the two women were bundled off to the precinct charged with an entire laundry list of felonies, and thence, Faith assumed, soon to Bellevue, where their tattered apparel would be exchanged for more appropriate—and restrained—white jackets. Hope arrived on the heels of the police and accompanied her to the precinct.

“It isn’t that I think you need a lawyer; it’s that you need a sister,” she said. “Aside from wanting to see you safe and sound with my own eyes, I’m aware that the police don’t know you the way I do. I haven’t heard this story yet, but based on the past, I do know it will be a hard one to swallow.”

Faith never did get her egg cream and pastrami on rye, but took a rain check. She spent the night at Hope’s and left early in the morning. She wanted to go home. That home.

Aleford.