Katherine Page - Body In The Belfry

“Not ' boy,' dear," Millicent said archly, "More like 'man,' but that would be telling and I do not believe in spreading idle gossip.”

The hell you don't, thought Faith bitterly. This is just to get back at me for the bell again.

Millicent stubbornly continued on her way and was talking about the Coxes again. It had been madness, Faith thought, to think that she could actually direct the conversation.

“Of course the Captain, as Martin was always called, did make a fortune, but I believe Harriet's husband added to it considerably. The Captain's money had all gone to Harriet. She was the oldest. It was some whim of his to keep it all intact. The whole will was distinctly original. The Coxes always were. In this generation Patricia got the house because her sister Polly didn 't want it. Polly took the money, though, and it passed to Cindy, or would have."

“Who will get the money now, then ? " Faith asked boldly.

“Oh, it will go to Patricia, of course. And just in time, if you ask me.”

Which Faith did to no avail. Millicent Revere McKinley was more than willing to drop hints, but as for spreading around any real information of the specific "The British are coming" nature of her illustrious forebear, the answer was "Ride on." So Faith did.

Millicent walked her to the door and continued out down the brick path in front of her house. Faith said good-bye and thanked her nicely for the coffee. She wondered if it was worth it to come back and try again or if Millicent would continue to dangle clues in front of her cat-and-mouse style. Probably the latter. She glanced back over her shoulder. Millicent was picking a few late-blooming roses.

A few pink Sweetheart roses.

Faith 's next stop was Eleanor Whipple's pretty white Victorian house. She didn't expect much information here. Eleanor was the soul of innocence and even if she had seen something would probably not know what it meant. Still, her house was at the foot of Belfry Hill and she just might have noticed something, or rather someone.

Eleanor welcomed her warmly and ushered Faith into her cozy parlor. Faith managed to avoid the horsehair loveseat, which always threatened to land her on the carpet, and chose a low-slung sort of folding chair covered with blue and white striped velvet.

“Father always called that the “Egyptian chair,' whether because it folds in that interesting way or because of the material, I never remembered to ask him and of course now it is too late.”

Considering that Miss Whipple's father had been dead for some thirty years, Faith thought it was much too late.

Faith got some nice digestive biscuits with her coffee this time and she was able to set it on a little découpage table in front of her.

“This looks much too fragile to use," Faith protested. "Oh, that's just an old piece of clutter that Mother made," Miss Eleanor said. "Don't worry about it." Faith knew it wasn't at all, and managed to find a doily to slip under her cup and saucer. In Aleford, it was usually possible to find a doily someplace—or in certain homes it was, anyway.

She took a sip of coffee; it was good and strong. She thought of the first time she had visited Eleanor and fought to stifle the giggles that always threatened at the memory. It had been teatime and Eleanor had entered the parlor with a heavily laden tray, announcing proudly, "You'll never taste tea like this anywhere else. I make it with my own water," and proceeded to pour a pale, slightly golden stream into Faith 's cup. Was she insane ? Faith wondered as she eyed the brew. Too much tatting? "Yes," Eleanor continued, "When we modernized the kitchen, Mother made them leave the old pump by the sink. The well is right underneath, in the basement. She didn 't like the taste of town water. It's all right for washing, but you don 't know what could have fallen in the reservoir and we never drank it." Faith drained her cup and had to admit the jasmine tea did taste delicious. Afterward Eleanor took her to see the pump. She insisted Faith give it a try, although the whole idea, quaint as it was, filled her with repugnance, raising the possibility of blisters and unsightly muscular development.

Faith took another sip of coffee and glanced about the room. It was a shrine to Eleanor 's ancestors. There were daguerreotypes perched on the tables and portraits of various sizes hung on the walls. Thick albums covered with velvet attested to still more. Just over Eleanor's head was a faded enlargement of three little girls with fluffy hair, their dresses covered with Fourth of July bunting. Who were they and where were they now ? Faith shivered slightly, pondering the probable answer.

Eleanor had noticed her apparent interest.

“I like to be surrounded by my family," she commented, "Of course I didn 't know all these people, but I am proud of them nonetheless. Nothing is more important than your family. This was one of my mother's lessons, Faith, and I'm sure you'd agree.”

Faith gave what she hoped was an enthusiastic response and managed to work the conversation around to the murder, "Cindy Shepherd was distantly related to you, I understand. What do you think about all this?"

“ I think it is terrifically inconvenient for Robert and Patricia," she commented emphatically. That seemed to be the extent of her thinking, although she was willing to talk as much as Faith wanted.

When Faith asked if Eleanor had seen anyone go up the hill on Friday, or noticed Cindy going up on other days, she looked up from the detailed bit of petit point she was working on, " You know, my eyes are not what they used to be, dear, and in any case, I'm afraid even if I had seen someone, I wouldn 't have known who it was. I don 't know the names of all the young people anymore. Of course I knew Cindy." There was a noticeably acerbic tinge to her voice, "But not her friends.”

She returned to her handwork. It was easy to see why her eyes were going.

Faith was forced to concede she wasn 't going to get anything from Eleanor, and after some delightful minutes spent with Eleanor admiring Benjamin, she firmly refused lunch—Welsh rarebit—and set off for her third and final stop.

As she sat down at Pix Miller's big kitchen table, Faith had to admit she was there as much for some cheering up as information. Certainly morale was important in any murder investigation.

It wasn't that Pix was little Mary Sunshine exactly and thank goodness. What she radiated was solid common sense mixed with a very funny sense of humor.

She had been a tiny child and her parents had whimsically called her "Pixie"—why do people do these things, Faith wondered, resolving that she would stop calling Benjamin " Punkin" immediately lest it stick with him unto old age. Pixie had solved the problem by shooting up alarmingly in her teens so that at close to six feet, "Pixie" was not only ludicrous, but obscene. Still, old habits die hard and she became "Pix," which seemed to suit her. When Faith finally remembered to ask her what her "real" name was, it turned out to be "Myrtle." After the ground cover with the pretty little purple flowers. Who were these people'? So "Pix" it was.

She was the person you called in Aleford if you were looking for another driver for the scouts overnight to Harold Parker State Forest or if someone needed a volunteer to help at the Senior Center kitchen. Pix drove a Land Rover, bred gorgeous golden retrievers, was an expert white water canoer, and had three kids, the middle of which was Faith's trusty babysitter, Samantha. Sam Miller was a lawyer. They had both grown up in Aleford—a high school romance that endured.

Pix welcomed Faith in, automatically gave her some coffee, which Faith had learned they did in suburbia, and took Benjamin lovingly on her lap. Pix adored babies.

“You look full of secrets, Faith," she said, making horrible grimaces at Benjamin, which he regarded with great amusement.