The Body in the Boudoir (10 page)

“Oh no.” Faith jumped up much later. “It's almost one o'clock! Whatever will the Millers think?”

“Not to worry. Pix said anytime. They're very easy people.”

Faith was grabbing her coat and the small bag she'd packed in her suitcase with her overnight things. She'd come back to change for church in the morning. She couldn't take everything over now.

Not the impression she'd hoped to make. They'd be asleep, and she hoped soundly. She recalled with dismay that Sam was on the vestry.

She gave Tom a quick kiss. “See you in the morning, darling.”

“Here, take this. I'll show you where you can get through the hedge to their backyard.” He handed her a flashlight and took one from a number on the shelf in the hall closet for himself. She had a fleeting thought about the possible reasons for so many flashlights—power failures?—and followed him out. The night air was freezing, and when he held back the Canadian hemlock branches, she sprinted to the Millers' kitchen door. It was unlocked and she crept in quietly.

The barking began the moment she took a step inside and she was pinned against the door frame by a large animal that she judged was friendly since it was trying to lick her face. Faith froze. The noise was deafening. Besides the Millers, she was sure all Aleford could hear it. Except this time it wasn't the British who were coming, just one lone New Yorker.

An overhead light snapped on and a tall woman wearing a man's flannel bathrobe strode into the room.

“Dogs! Be quiet! Down, Dusty! Stop it right now! I'm so sorry!”

The barks became whimpers then ceased. The light had revealed three large golden retrievers.

Faith put out her hand. “I'm Faith Sibley.” She was sure this was
not
a situation Miss Manners covered.

Her hostess shook it heartily. “Of course you are, dear, and I'm Pix. Pix Miller. These bad children are Dusty, Arthur, and Henry—Miller, of course. My other children and my husband are sound asleep upstairs. It takes more than the dogs barking to wake them. I was afraid Tom, whom we all adore—we're so lucky to have him here—might not have gotten the hint. Go back to the parsonage. Everyone knows you're staying here, so you don't need to, and just in case, I left the light on in the guest room until eleven and the shade is down.” The words came tumbling out matter-of-factly.

Faith didn't know what to say or do.

“Go on now,” Pix said. “A nice surprise for your fiancé. Breakfast is at eight, but come over earlier if you want.”

One of the dogs—Arthur?—was nuzzling Faith's knee. She picked up the case she'd dropped and prepared to retrace her steps.

“Everyone is delighted that Tom is getting married. Well, possibly one or two mothers harbored hopes for their daughters, but nothing serious. We're going to be friends, as well as neighbors. I can always tell with people.”

“Me, too,” Faith said.

I
t was a pancake weekend. Pix had made blueberry ones with berries she'd picked in Maine and frozen last summer.

“These are the last,” she told Faith as they sat over more coffee after Tom left. “We have a cottage on Sanpere Island, in Penobscot Bay. It's wonderful there. You'll have to come.”

Faith did not wish to mention that her idea of an island vacation was Aruba. Pix Miller had indeed in a very short time become a dear friend, a bit like one of her beloved dogs in human form—affectionate, loyal, and obviously intelligent. You had only to look into their eyes.

Faith liked the rest of the family, too, and appreciated the way they all carried on in what was obviously their normal Sunday-morning fashion, complaints about someone hogging the sports section; a plea from Samantha, the tween daughter, for help in locating the scrunchie she just
had
to wear; and mild bickering over whose turn it was to clear the table. And since it was April 1, there were a series of benign tricks, besides greeting each family member as they came into the kitchen with “Rabbit, Rabbit.” Tom explained that this did not mean the Miller family was any more eccentric than any other New England family—which Faith was beginning to think might be more than a bit—but saying “Rabbit, Rabbit” on the first day of the month meant you and the recipient of your greeting would have good luck for the duration. A conversation ensued as to the origin of the custom, which no one knew. They had just done it. Always.

“And,” Sam added, “if you forget, you can say it to yourself backward before you go to sleep, ‘Tibbar, Tibbar.' ”

This was greeted with some skepticism on his children's part, but Pix said it was true. Her mother had told her the same thing. That seemed to settle everything.

An hour later Faith was sitting between Pix and Sam, waiting for the service to begin. Faith had never been inside one of these picturesque white-steepled eighteenth-century churches, but the interior of First Parish was as she had imagined. Its simplicity was beautiful, not austere, and the strong morning light flooded the sanctuary through the tall windows. The altar was graced with spring flowers. She turned to look behind her. The pews were filling up and she felt pleased on Tom's account.

Sam Miller turned, too. “Tom draws people from many of the surrounding communities, but I think we may have a few more worshippers today because of you,” he said.

Pix nodded. “Millicent is here and she's not even a member of the church. You'll meet her at coffee hour. Millicent Revere McKinley, keeper of the Revere family flame, and the person who knows everything that's going on in Aleford even before it happens.”

Faith moved slightly, trying to find a comfortable spot on what were rather thinly padded pew cushions. Nice crimson damask, though. Coffee hour! She had forgotten about that ritual.

And soon she forgot about everything except listening to the Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild.

Aptly the Psalm for the day was seventy-eight, the one about the Lord furnishing a table in the wilderness, and Tom took the notion of providing for a hungry people in body and soul as his sermon topic. This was a Tom she had never heard or seen before, the pastor challenging his flock to praise God not only with their lips but with their lives, dedicating their actions to Him in whose service lay perfect freedom. By the time they came to the last hymn, “The Voice of God Is Calling,” Faith was filled with pride—and a little bit of trepidation.

Coffee hour brought her down to earth as she walked into the room filled with that familiar smell of the fresh brew mixed with the floor polish that seemed to be used in every parish hall she'd ever been in. Someone must have cornered the market shortly after Moses descended from the Mount.

“Faith, I'd like you meet Cindy Shephard. She's one of our most active youth group members.”

The girl was standing slightly too close to Tom, and Faith had the feeling that the youth group was not the only place where Cindy was active. She was dressed appropriately for church, but managed to convey an air of sexuality that definitely wasn't.

“I'm looking forward to getting to know everyone in the group,” Faith said.

Cindy answered, still with her gaze on Tom, “Great. We'll have to have a party. Celebrate the wedding.” Her tone was nonchalant bordering on indifferent.

“Cindy's a great little organizer,” Tom said.

I'll bet she is, Faith thought.

A small, energetic-looking woman with Mamie Eisenhower bangs—when you've found your style stick to it—came bustling over.

“I'm Millicent Revere McKinley. Run along, Cindy, I want to have a word with Miss Sibley.”

Faith was impressed. The woman knew her name. Although she shouldn't be surprised. If Pix was correct, Millicent probably knew Tom was going to propose before he did.

“Once you're settled, I'll give you a tour of the town. You're so fortunate. This is a very historic place, as you know. But most people's knowledge stops after the battle on the green.”

It was clear she was putting Faith in this group.

“I'll be able to acquaint you with what happened afterward, right up to the present,” she said.

“That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much. I'm looking forward to learning all I can about Aleford.”

Pix came over.

“I hate to drag you away, but I know you have a train to catch and you need to pick up your things from the house.”

Millicent nodded approvingly and Faith almost burst out laughing at the twinkle in Pix's eye.

“Sam is getting Tom.”

They got their coats and walked through the burial ground that separated the parsonage from the church. On a sunny day like this, it was a cheerful place unless one stopped to read the epitaphs on the headstones—the “Remember me as you pass by / As you are now so once was I / As I am now so you must be / Prepare for death and follow me” kind with the angel-winged skulls and weeping willows to match.

All too soon Faith was on the train, looking out the window and seeing only one figure in her mind. And only this man, this dear man, could make her move to Millicent Revere McKinley's bailiwick.

It wasn't going to be easy.

A
t her apartment the red light on the answering machine was blinking and Faith ran to check her messages without bothering to take off her coat. It wouldn't be Tom, because she was supposed to call him as soon as she got home, but maybe he'd called anyway. She wanted to hear his voice.

The first message from her uncle Sky. She smiled as she listened. Part of what would make getting married at The Cliff so special was the chance to spend time with him, and this was why he was calling.

“Hate these things. Call me back. Need to get you out here to do some planning. Cut down any trees you don't like. See if any of the rocks on the beach need to be rearranged. Bring your mother, but not my bossy sister. She'll take over. Oh, I know what you're thinking, not your sweet nana. Iron hand in the velvet glove, Faith.” There was a pause. Faith imagined him in the library, probably with some sort of libation close at hand. “Call me. Good-bye, my dear. Such a lark. The wedding and all.”

She
did
need to get out to Long Island, and perhaps her mother could get away next week. They should really spend the night and do the tasting. It was odd to be in the position of hiring a caterer rather than being the caterer.

The next message was from Hope.

“Fay! I need your help! This time I've lost a client I was in the process of signing. It was a done deal! Her secretary called, and what's weird is that she said the same thing about hoping I felt better. Phelps can't figure it out either. Call me. Immediately. Oh, and hope you had a good time up there.”

Hope made it sound as if Faith had embarked on a trip to the Pole. She'd call her, just as soon as she'd spoken to Tom. If Phelps didn't know what was going on, Faith didn't see what she could contribute. And the loss of two accounts didn't strike her as extreme. Except there was that business about feeling better.

There was one more message. Francesca's voice.

“If it's all right, I'll come later tomorrow afternoon. We don't have anything until the luncheon on Wednesday, so it should be okay?
Ciao!
”

Monday. Faith knew exactly where Francesca was going to be.

She'd be there, too.

Chapter 5

F
aith didn't have a plan. Or to be more precise, she didn't have a plan past sitting in the last booth in the coffee shop and waiting to see whether Francesca would come in. The booth had a good view of the door, but was in the shadows, so anyone entering the restaurant would have to be looking straight at it to see its occupant. She'd arrived earlier than she had last week, well after the lunch rush and forty-five minutes before the time Francesca had appeared. Faith had immediately ordered a Greek omelet and settled back with coffee to read the newspaper, which could also serve as a screen if Francesca came back this way to use the restroom.

The omelet arrived—golden brown and oozing with feta. The chef used the traditional spinach and tomato mixture, but added a few sautéed onions, black olives, and a pinch of oregano. Some places added bacon, but Faith and Demetrious were purists. Although this recipe had no doubt been created in some long-ago Greek diner in Queens, since a more typical Greek breakfast consisted of yogurt and honey with some fruit, and maybe a slice of
psomi,
their crusty bread.

As Faith mopped up the last bits of egg with her wheat toast, she thought about what she would do if Francesca saw her, as well as what she would do if she saw Francesca. The first was easier. One of the life lessons Faith had stumbled on early was to use as few words as possible when called on to explain, or fib. Embellishing with details, however cleverly concocted, was not only unnecessary but usually unbelievable. It was how she could always tell when someone was fabricating. If you don't want to go out with someone, or do something, say no thank you. Don't add that you have to help an aged relative catalog a stamp collection or go visit a friend in the hospital. Invariably that will lead to more questions, “What kind of stamps—just American?” and “Which hospital? What's wrong?” until you've dug yourself in so deep, there's no way to get out except by capitulating. If Francesca spotted her, she'd say hello, period. It
was
a place Faith frequented, although Francesca might not know that.

The trickier part was finding out what the woman was up to and who her companion was. Again, the direct approach might be best. Faith had paid her bill as soon as the food arrived in case she needed to leave quickly. Once Francesca was seated, Faith could walk up to the table, ostensibly on her way out, and pause to greet her employee. Be obnoxious and sit down. Ask Demetrious for more coffee.

Francesca walked in the door at three o'clock sharp. She gave a look around and sat at the same table as before. She didn't see Faith. When the waitress approached she ordered something and soon a cup of coffee appeared. She kept her coat on. It didn't seem as if she planned to stay long. Five minutes later, the man walked in and sat down. He passed her an envelope, waving away the waitress. He was apparently not planning to linger either. Francesca passed
him
some cash—Faith saw Ben Franklin's face—and it was barely in his hand before he was out the door. Running. Francesca stood up, knocking over her chair as she ripped her envelope open, glanced at the contents, and dropped them both on the floor as she took off after him. Faith followed just as swiftly, but without yelling whatever Francesca was shouting at the top of her voice. Faith made out the word “
bastardo,
” but that was all.

She took a second to retrieve what Francesca had dropped. All that had been in the envelope was a blank sheet of paper. Whatever the transaction's goal had been, this wasn't it and it was obviously why the girl had exploded. Outside on the sidewalk, Faith saw that Francesca was gaining on her quarry, who was heading for an uptown bus that had just pulled over at the end of the block. “Francesca!” Faith shouted and the girl turned her head, still sprinting toward the man, who had now boarded the bus. It was hard to read the look on her face. Anger, dismay, and yes, fear.

“Francesca! Stop! What's going on? I want to help,” Faith called to her again.

This time Francesca didn't look back and made a final dash toward the bus before the doors closed. It pulled away from the curb. Faith looked frantically around for a cab. They were all headed downtown, and soon the bus was lumbering out of sight. There was no way she could catch up with it. She went back inside and paid Demetrious for Francesca's coffee, reassuring him that everything was all right.

Even if it wasn't.

F
aith didn't expect Francesca to be at work, but she hoped that she would call, although the hope was a slight one. She left a message on the phone at Francesca's apartment, choosing her words carefully. One of the roommates might hear it first.

“Francesca. Hi, it's Faith. Could you give me a call when you get this? I want to finalize Wednesday's menu. In any case, see you tomorrow morning.”

She debated calling Josie to enlist her aid in figuring this all out, but Josie was not only far away but swamped with everything opening a restaurant entails. And most important, Faith didn't want to upset her. If Francesca
was
involved in something shady, Josie would feel responsible for having vouched for her both to Have Faith and to her former roommates.

When the phone finally did ring, it wasn't Francesca, but the police—Sergeant Grady from the NYPD's 24th Precinct. After establishing who Faith was and that Miss Francesca Rossi was in the catering company's employ, he told Faith that the young woman had asked them to call her and he would personally appreciate it if she could come to the station and help them straighten things out. Miss Rossi was not under arrest at the moment, nor was the man who was the object of her rage, so extreme on the bus that the driver had called for the police to remove them both.

“We'd have let them both go, but she's insisting we charge him with theft. That's all we've been able to get out of her. She's boiling mad one minute and crying her eyes out the next. All Mr. Rinaldi has given us is his name and address. We've asked him to wait while we clear this up.”

Faith told him she'd be there as soon as possible and headed for the precinct, which was on West 100th Street.

It looked like a school from the outside, a school with a great many police cars parked in front and a fire station next door. Inside she was directed to a large waiting room filled with an array of New York's population—some looked homeless, some looked as if they had several. Francesca was sitting on a chair in one corner, her hair escaping from the clip she'd pulled it back with and her arms folded across her chest. It wasn't hard to read the body language. She wasn't crying now, but she did look “boiling mad.” The man from the restaurant was at the other end of the room, trying to appear as though he had no business being there and mostly succeeding.

“Faith!” Francesca jumped up and threw her arms around her employer.

Faith gave her a swift hug back and said, “What's going on? Who is that man?”

Francesca took a deep breath. “He's a cheater. He took my money. I want the
carabinieri
to put him in jail!”

“What were you giving him money for?”

“To do something for me.”

The girl was obviously well trained in Faith's own nonembellishment tactics.

“Look, Francesca, you've just been ejected from a city bus for causing a disturbance. I saw you give him an envelope today and one last week.”

Francesca interrupted. “I wondered why you were there!”

Faith pressed on. “Either tell me or don't, but I can't continue to employ you without knowing what this is all about. And the police obviously can't arrest someone just because you want them to.”

Francesca considered this.

“Okay. He's a private detective. Only now I'm not so sure he really is. I hired him to find someone. Someone who lived in my village. I made a promise to find this person. Salvatore was supposed to give me an address, a phone number, all the information today. Instead, nothing!” Francesca shook her fist at the man. “And he won't give me my money back.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“Five hundred dollars. Half in the beginning, half just now.”

“How did you come to hire him, and did you both sign a contract?”

She shook her head. “No contract, and he had a card up in the
lavanderia,
the what do you call it?”

“Laundromat.” Francesca's English had been flowing smoothly before this more obscure word stopped her cold.

“I thought I could trust him because he had an Italian name.”

Faith was suddenly reminded how young the girl was, although people much older had been known to use similar dubious criteria for all sorts of decisions, even choosing a mate. As that thought crossed her mind, she was pierced with a sudden longing for Tom. If not beside her in the flesh, at least at the other end of a very long phone line.

“Do you still have the card?”

Francesca fished her wallet out of the large bag she carried, an expensive-looking leather one that she had brought with her from home, she'd said.

SALVATORE
A. RINALDI,
PRIVATE
DETECTIVE
SERVICES
was written in elegant script above a phone number and an address in Brooklyn.
ALL
INQUIRIES
CONFIDENTIAL
it said and across the bottom some of his services were listed, including
MISSING PERSONS
.

Faith went over to the desk and asked the officer there if she could speak to Sergeant Grady. He appeared almost at once.

Faith introduced herself.

“From what I understand, Miss Rossi, who has been in my employ for some months and whom I value and trust, hired Mr. Rinaldi to locate an individual from her town in Italy who is now living here. She paid him a substantial amount. All he gave her in return was an envelope containing a blank sheet of paper. I witnessed the exchange. I'm sure Mr. Rinaldi”—Faith raised her voice so the man who was listening intently wouldn't miss a word—“wants to avoid a lawsuit for false representation. Miss Rossi will most definitely be pursuing one. If he returns the money and agrees to no further contact with her, I believe Miss Rossi will be content to leave him alone in turn.”

With the man's address and phone number, Faith realized that they could go after him easily. The police had it as well.

“Mr. Rinaldi?” Sergeant Grady said.

“I just want to get out of here. She's crazy!”

“How much money are we talking about here?”

Francesca held up five fingers and pushed her hand in Mr. Rinaldi's direction. “Five hundred dollars!”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “Got it on you?”

“He must have half, because Francesca just gave him that. I saw the whole thing. We'd be happy to accompany him to the nearest ATM for the rest,” Faith said.

“I got it. I got it,” snarled Rinaldi. Until Faith spoke up he'd looked as if he was going to deny the whole thing. His body language was saying he was out of there, but instead he pulled out a wallet with a wad of cash that sparked definite interest in the sergeant's eyes, and peeled off five hundred dollars. Francesca reached for the money and stuck it deep in her bag.

“You're free to go, Miss Rossi, and please remember in the future that New York is a quiet little town. No more yelling on the bus.”

Francesca dropped her head and whispered, “I will.” She was looking very pretty.

The officer smiled. “And thank your boss here.”

All three started for the door.

“Mr. Rinaldi,” Sergeant Grady said. “Could you give me a minute? There are a few more questions I'd like to ask about your agency. Who knows, maybe you can give me some pointers to pass on to the detective squad here?”

Salvatore Rinaldi didn't look happy. Maybe he wasn't good at sharing.

Out on the sidewalk, Faith said, “Let's walk for a while. It's not cold, and you can tell me the roughly several hundred things you didn't tell me inside. Who you're looking for, to start—and why.”

A
nother of Faith's learned life lessons was to be in a public place if you were going to have an uncomfortable, or possibly explosive, conversation with someone. And you choose the place. After they'd started walking, Faith changed her mind and hailed a cab.

“Come on,” she said to Francesca. “Let's head down to Santa Fe. They make a mean margarita and I'm betting you haven't eaten today.”

“Santa Fe?”

“It's a great Mexican restaurant on West Seventy-First.”

As always, the warm terra-cotta of the restaurant's walls cheered Faith up. So did the first sip of her margarita.

“Okay, start at the beginning. Who are you looking for?” She'd ordered the masa-crusted shrimp, succulent jumbo ones dredged in corn flour and quickly fried. They came with a dipping sauce, but she liked them plain. She also ordered a wild mushroom quesadilla for Francesca, knowing she would share, and asked for some guacamole and chips right away. Although she'd had the omelet not all that long ago, she was starving.

“His name is Gus Oliver.”

Faith was surprised. “That doesn't sound like a typical Italian name, unless it was changed.”

“Maybe it was. I never thought about that. He's an American, not Italian, but lived in my village after the war.”

“The Second World War? Then he's a very old man.”

“Yes. Maybe ninety.”

“Are you sure he's still alive?”

“That was one of the things that
bastardo,
excuse me, was supposed to find out.”

“I'm assuming you have something besides the man's name?”

“Yes, an address in Brooklyn. It's why I came . . .”

Francesca got very busy with the guacamole and popped a loaded tortilla chip into her mouth.

“Why you came here. To New York. Except your family, or some of them, think you're in London.”