Katherine Page - Body in the Bog

“I’d better take another tray out right away,” Faith said. This sometimes happened. People knew they were going to a dinner party, so they skipped lunch or ate lightly, then arrived ravenous. Well, there was plenty. She headed into the living room.

“And he has such a temper, my dear. No control at all. Remember when he turned his desk over in second grade!” A silver-haired lady was having a good time raking somebody over past and present coals.

Faith wondered who was the object of this conversation, and moved unobtrusively a little closer.

“That’s where Joseph got it from, no doubt,” another woman commented, mouth pursed in disapproval.

“Joseph who?” a red-faced, rotund man asked, his drink—scotch, no ice—in one hand, a well-laden small plate in the other. He was wearing the modern equivalent of patriotic patrician dress: red chinos from Brooks, the same provenance for the navy sports jacket and striped tie.

“Joseph Madsen, the contractor who got himself killed yesterday,” the first speaker answered. “We’re speaking of the way certain mannerisms run through the generations in that kind of family. He’s exactly like Gus.”

“He may be like Gus, but he’s not related to him.

Not that I ever heard of. Married the old man’s granddaughter.”

“Oh, that’s right, of course. But it’s all the same.

They simply don’t know how to behave.”

“Made themselves a bundle, though.” The man took a healthy swallow. “Misbehavior has its rewards, if you know what I mean.”

Both women nodded. That they were above such things—well above—was written all over their faces, suffused with the sherry they were sipping—and their own blue blood.

Faith turned to another group and offered the hors d’oeuvres.

Gus had been right.

The conversation was hard to swallow—from the notion that Joey had gotten himself killed, and this was taking “blame the victim” to a new height—to the idea that these “newcomers” to our shores were unable to control their passions. A prospect not without titillation for some in the room, she was sure. The whole thing made her sick. These were not the Alefordians she knew. When she’d mentioned the job to Pix, she’d made a face. “Pretty snooty bunch. I’m surprised she’s hiring you. They always use the same people from Cambridge or entertain at the club.” Aleford boasted its own country club, but the Fairchilds didn’t know anyone who belonged, except the Scotts, who were avid golfers and regularly apologized for their membership: “The club’s so close to our house.” Faith moved to another group and offered the tray.

They, too, were discussing the murder. It had been naïve to think it would be otherwise. This was a more savvy bunch, more circumspect.

“We understand you discovered the body of poor Mr. Madsen,” one woman said, “It must have been quite a shock.”

“Yes, it was,” Faith answered. “Try one of the crab cakes, an old family recipe.” It was. Faith had created it when the firm was just starting in New York.

“And the police have no idea who could have done such a thing?” the woman persisted.

“Not to my knowledge,” Faith answered.

“Probably a business deal gone sour. You hear about these things all the time. Of course, not in Aleford. Shame he had to be here when it happened,” the man next to her said. Faith had the impression that he wouldn’t have minded if Joey had been killed elsewhere. It was the venue that bothered him. “Not in my backyard” joined “blame the victim.” Faith left the room, her mind filled with murder-ous thoughts, and they had nothing to do with Joey Madsen.

Back in the kitchen, Niki was arranging the slices of Yankee pot roast on a hot platter, with the vegetables and potatoes grouped at one end. The gravy was keeping warm on the stove. The sight of the meat, prime beef shoulder from Savenor’s Market on Charles Street, suddenly made Faith hungry. It was a delicious dish. She took baskets of corn-bread sticks and nut bread out to the table. But the party mood had vanished. Pix had told her once when Faith had first moved to Aleford that the town was like a patchwork quilt, all sorts of patterns and colors sewn into a usable whole. The bits and pieces of its fabric didn’t look like much until it was assembled; then you could see how one square complemented another. Faith liked thinking about the town this way, but tonight’s gossipmongers didn’t belong. Second grade! And she was damn sure that if Gus had indeed overturned a desk, he’d had a good reason.

By the time Have Faith’s crew was wearily washing the last streaks of sorbet from the dessert plates, Faith had decided she would try to stick to her rule more strictly in the future and stay in the kitchen during events, emerging solely for her bow at the end. Then she could pretend that only the most sophisticated, intelligent, broad-minded people were enjoying her fare. It would keep her fantasies in place.

The Phelans followed her back to Have Faith and helped her unload the small amount of leftovers. She pressed some of the pot roast on them for the next day; then Scott walked her to her car after they had locked up.

“I know the twins, Terry and Eddie Deane. They used to race dirt bikes up in Pepperell with me. Good guys. I still take care of their cars.” Scott had recently started his own auto-body business after working for someone else for years. “The Deanes will get to the bottom of all this, and, Faith, Joey wasn’t the nicest guy in the world—or the most honest. I’m not saying he deserved what he got, but there’s a lot you don’t know.”

Faith had told them in the kitchen what she’d over-heard at the party.

“It could be somebody settling an old score, even a very old score. And it may not have anything to do with this bog business.” Scott liked to ride his bike on the trails surrounding the bog, which upset the con-servationists, so he’d stopped—not because he was convinced, but because he didn’t want to get in trouble. He hadn’t cared before he was married, but Tricia was not someone you made angry. Besides, he was older now.

“I know you think you’re pretty good at this detective stuff, but some of the people Joey was involved with wouldn’t think twice about sending you on a very long one-way trip. He’s been borrowing from everybody and his uncle for the Estates thing. Could be that somebody wanted the money back and he didn’t have it. Stay away from this one, Faith.” He grinned at her. “Tricia and I need the work.” She appreciated the intent, but there was no way she could keep out now.

“Can you find someone to take care of your children?” Faith was used to Millicent’s habit of plunging in directly after a perfunctory “hello, how are you,” but this was more of a dive than usual. She knew if she kept on the line, eventually all would be clear. Millicent also had a way of saying “your children,” which laid any blame squarely at Faith’s door. When she spoke to Tom, it was always “your dear little Ben and Amy.”

“I can usually turn up someone,” Faith replied. So long as the individual did not have a known criminal record or express intense dislike of anyone under twenty-one, Faith would hire him or her, often in desperation. Baby-sitter lists in Aleford were more closely guarded secrets than the formula for Coca-Cola.

“Good. I want you and Tom both here for an emergency meeting of some of the members of POW! this morning. We have to figure out whether or not we should go forward with Town Meeting.”

“But doesn’t that depend—”

“See you at ten o’clock.” Millicent hung up.

Faith went into Tom’s study, where he was wrestling with his sermon. The events of the past two weeks had impelled him to write his response to this community rent by fear and distrust. He looked as if he had been on the mat for real, brow sweaty and hair mussed. She told him about the meeting.