Katherine Page - Body in the Bog

The other two didn’t say anything. Dunne stood up.

The kids came running into the room. They adored him. Something about his size, a Barney double. He hastily made for the door. Kids were fine in their place—his own kids at home, for instance—but they tended to make him nervous—those little feet, so easy to trip over, and the never-ending questions.

The Fairchilds ate early and bundled the children off to bed as soon as humanly possible, then went to bed themselves. By mutual consent, they didn’t talk about what had happened. They were exhausted.

*

*

*

Faith pulled the loaded van into the winding driveway of one of Aleford’s older homes—a large mid-nineteenth-century stone house that had grown over the years. It had a glassed-in conservatory and a long porch filled with comfortably cushioned wicker furniture. The porch was on the side of the house and faced gardens so magnificent that they had been included in the Evergreen’s garden tour each year since the tour had started. No expense had been spared on this house and Martha Fletcher, the hostess, had given Faith the same instructions for this evening—although, she had been cautioned, nothing nouveau riche. The client had actually used the term.

It was 3:30 and Faith was glad to see Niki’s car was already parked at the rear of the house. Typically, Mrs. Fletcher had invited people for six o’clock. In New York, that could sometimes mark the end of a long lunch. While not exactly in a party mood, Faith was looking forward to the event. Last night Joey’s face, dead and alive, had punctuated her dreams. She was eager for distraction.

Niki opened the kitchen door. “Our hostess is indulging herself with a long soak in a scented tub. I know because she told me. She made it sound so sinful, I’m going straight out tomorrow and pick up some lavender bath salts myself.”

Faith began to cheer up and told herself that for approximately the next six hours, she wasn’t going to think about anything but food and drink. On the way over, she’d had trouble concentrating on the pot roast to hand; her mind, so cooperative earlier, had turned rogue and persisted in tossing about competing theories about Joey’s murder. Niki helped with the resolution by giving her boss a tight hug and saying firmly,

“I’m doing the fruit; you do the table. We can talk later. Nobody’s going to get killed tonight.” Faith appreciated the sentiment and sincerely hoped Niki was right.

An hour later, Mrs. Fletcher appeared, pink and rosy from her bath. She was wearing her dressing gown, but her makeup was on and she’d already scat-tered the jewelry from the safe-deposit box in various places about her person. Some good pieces, probably Grandmama’s, but the diamonds needed cleaning and Faith noticed that the catch on the gold and sapphire bracelet had been repaired with a small gold safety pin. It would obviously be in bad taste to have anything professional done to one’s heirlooms. Nouveau riche again.

Martha Fletcher stood in the dining-room doorway, a tall, substantial woman with her gray hair smoothed back into a tidy, at the moment, bun.

“It looks beautiful!” she gushed. Faith had to agree.

They’d knocked themselves out creating this Patriots’

Day buffet. The table was covered with material Faith had found at Fabric Place—a cream background with tiny flags, eagles, and stars stenciled in navy on the heavy glazed cotton. She’d placed groupings of votive candles in various-sized brass balls with star cutouts throughout the room. They gave off a soft glow and matched her hostess’s brass chandelier, suitably dimmed. They’d done a large arrangement of blue delphiniums, Queen Anne’s lace, red and white ranun-culuses, and several colors of anemones for the side-board, where the wine and, later, the coffee would be served. A lower, smaller arrangement sat on the table.

“And everything smells so good already. I knew I was right to have you!” Mrs. Fletcher rambled on.

“Thank you.” The aromas from the kitchen were mouthwatering. Faith needed to get back there and see that the hors d’oeuvres were ready to go. She excused herself. Her hostess glanced at her watch and gave a shrill cry. “They’ll be here any minute! I have to make sure Prescott’s ready and get dressed myself!” Prescott Fletcher, her husband, was a distinguished-looking gentleman. He had popped his head into the kitchen earlier, looked about the room with a marked degree of unfamiliarity, asked them if they had everything they needed, and left in obvious relief when they said they had. Prescott had continued to add to the bounty of his family tree as a venture capitalist, Pix had told Faith, who wished she had the time—and nerve—to pin him down and ask him what this actually was.

In the kitchen, the staff was in full gear. Instead of a first course, they were serving heartier-than-usual fare for hors d’oeuvres: crab cakes with a spicy remoulade, asparagus wrapped in paper-thin slices of smoked salmon, zucchini pancakes with salsa and sour cream, wild-mushroom tartlets, two kinds of crostini—one with a duck pâté, the other with tapenade—and cherry tomatoes stuffed with chèvre. There wasn’t anything particularly patriotic about the choices, although all were made with native products. Faith had decided enough was enough after determining the main course, dessert, and decor. Her hostess had wanted the catering staff to wear period dress, but Faith had politely but firmly declined, explaining this would seriously hamper their performance. She had no intention of getting stuck in the swinging door—or roasting to death in all those layers. She wore her black-and-white chef’s pants, tailored to fit, and a tuxedo-front white shirt with a black rosette instead of a tie. The rest of the staff was similarly attired, except they wore plain black pants, and Scott, the bartender, wore a tie. Faith had met Scott Phelan and Tricia, who was now his wife, five years ago. Scott had played a role in solving Cindy Shepherd’s murder. It was as hard now as it had been then for Faith to keep her mind on track. If anything, he was better-looking. Take-your-breath-away looks.

Old-fashioned movie-star good looks, Gregory Peck as opposed to Brad Pitt. Tricia was a beautiful girl herself and the two were very happy together. They were teasing Niki, who was frantically washing lettuce, a hateful task. She’d suddenly decided they didn’t have enough for the salad—mixed greens topped with pome-granate seeds and a blueberry vinaigrette dressing.

“You’re going to be an old maid if you don’t watch out,” Scott warned.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Better than ending up with some jerk.”

“Not all men are like Scott, you know, Niki. I happen to like jerks,” Tricia said, quickly moving out of her husband’s reach. “Don’t mess me up! I just did my hair.” She held up one arm to push him off.

“A jerk, huh?” He kissed her anyway—carefully.

“I’m only making sure you don’t take me for granted,” she said.

This would have gone on—and had—but it was time for the party. Niki spoke before Faith could.

“Okay, okay. Enough foreplay. Get out there and do your jobs. Faith and I have real work to do here,” she ordered.

When the two had gone, Tricia with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Scott to take drink orders, Faith and Niki laughed. “Better than TV,” Niki said.

“Much better,” Faith agreed, “And wait until they have kids!”

Scott returned. “It’s not a white-wine crowd. Mrs.

Fletcher was right about ordering a lot of scotch. And of course I have one order for a flintlock; it’s a good thing we brought rum. They’re starving, too. Went for Tricia like locusts.”