The Body in the Moonlight (14 page)

“I've been looking for you. I need to talk to you, but not here.”

Faith thought quickly. “It's Saturday, so there won't be anyone in the child-care center downstairs. We can go there.”

“Tell me where it is and I'll meet you. I'd rather we not be seen leaving together.”

Faith gave him instructions. She didn't think anyone had ever said those particular words to her, even in her footloose single days, but in this instance, the connotation was not the usual. It wasn't that he didn't want them to be seen
leaving
together. It was that he didn't want someone to know he was telling her something. Telling her what? She drank a cup of lukewarm coffee, then went downstairs.

Sandy Hoffmann was sitting in the teacher's rocking chair, moving slowly back and forth and looking pensively out the window. He jumped to his feet as Faith entered the room.

“I've never been to the funeral of someone I knew. I mean, I did go to my grandparents', but they were—”

“Old,” Faith said, finishing for him.

He nodded. His pale, drawn face seemed even paler because of his shock of red hair. His freckles looked
like jimmies on a vanilla ice-cream cone. “I kept thinking of how she looked the last time I saw her; then I'd see the coffin in front of me and think about what was in there.”

He took a deep breath. “Anyway, ever since yesterday when we talked at the gallery, I've been trying to decide what to do. I mean, it could be nothing—or it could be everything.”

Faith waited for him to get to the point. She was nervous. The throng upstairs would start to thin out soon and their absences might be noted—if someone was keeping watch, and obviously Sandy thought someone was.

“Why don't you just tell me about it and we can go on from there.”

He nodded and went back to the rocker. Faith took one of the children's chairs and sat in front of him. Clearly, it was storytime.

“Okay. Right after I was hired, I returned to the gallery unexpectedly. It was a Monday, when we're closed, but we almost always have work to do for part of the day, so we're in and out. That Monday, I was supposed to deliver a painting to one of our clients, take her some flowers, chat her up. She buys a lot from us and likes the personal attention. When I called her that morning to confirm the time, she told me it would have to be another day, so, eager beaver that I was, and wanting to make a good impression, I went in to work.

“The door was locked, of course, but I had a key and went to my desk to do some paperwork for a
show that was coming up. The door to Nick's office in the back was open, and as soon as I walked in, I heard the two of them screaming at each other. I couldn't believe it. Both Gwen and Nick are like the ultimate cool types. Nick kept saying over and over, ‘You fucking bitch! Nobody does this to me!' and she said, ‘You did it to yourself, asshole!' Then he said, ‘I made you! If I hadn't hired you, because of your boyfriend, you'd be checking catalog copy for some two-bit museum!' Then he started again with the bitch stuff. She kept quiet for a while. I was afraid if I tried to leave, they might hear me, but I was getting even more afraid that if I stayed, one or both might come out. He stopped raving and she said, ‘It was a game and you lost. You know what I want. It's all up to you.' He told her to ‘get the fuck out' and I ducked behind the desk—a lot of good that would have done—and she said, ‘Fine, if that's what you want, I'm only too happy to leave.' Then he got mad again and said, ‘No way,' and slammed the door—at least I figure he must have been the one—and I got the hell out of there. The next day when I went in to work, you would never have known there had been a cross word between them. But I remembered what they'd said to each other. I guess because it was so out of character. So not like Gwen. So not like Nick.”

Nick Gabriel. He'd been at Ballou House. He'd been right there at the table. Jared's money from his grandfather's trust would go to second cousin Nick, unless
Jared married and had kids. Faith realized she should have thought of Nick before. But she hadn't thought this murder was about money. Was it?

“Has the gallery been having financial problems? The rent must be pretty high.”

“
Au contraire.
This has been a fantastic year. People are buying art as an investment—and occasionally because they like it,” he added wryly. “Undique is very much in the black. Nick not only has a great eye, he's a good businessman, and that's a rare combination. I've worked in two other galleries. One went under because of poor management. The other, bad taste.”

“Was this the only time you ever heard them quarrel?” Faith asked.

Sandy shook his head. “That's my problem. If it was just what I overheard last spring, I wouldn't give it a second thought. A lost sale, a client pissed off, something like that. But, they had another knock-down-drag-out fight the afternoon before Gwen was killed. I got back early from lunch, unlocked the front door, and went to Nick's office because I heard voices. I thought I should let him and whoever else was there know I was opening up. ‘You can't get blood from a stone,' Nick was saying. They were both really ripping. You could tell. But they shut up as soon as they saw me.”

“‘Blood from a stone'—again, it may have been about a client. Trying to get somebody to settle an account,” Faith offered the possibility. She wanted to hear Sandy knock it down.

“I don't think so. This was different. Personal. They
were glaring at each other and Gwen said she had an appointment and left right away.”

“Why was the gallery closed? I'd think that a Friday lunch hour would be a time when people might drop in.”

“Normally, we would have been open, but when I went to lunch, Gwen said she might close. She had to be someplace and she said if Nick didn't come in on time, she'd lock up. It would just be for a little while. I offered to come back early, but she told me it didn't matter. That most of the lunch-hour crowd were ‘Thinkaboutits,' meaning they say they'll think about it and come back, which they never do.”

“So you were surprised that they were there.”

“Yeah. I guess I was. Not Nick, but Gwen.”

“How did they act when she came back?”

“I never saw her again.”

The words stood in bleak contrast to the bright primary colors surrounding them. Then Sandy said, “I have to go. I came with some other people who knew Gwen through the gallery and they're probably ready to go. It was just a fight about a show or something else minor, right? I don't have to tell the police, do I?” His eyes were begging her to tell him he was right, even though they both knew he was wrong.

Faith wanted some time to think about what this all meant—to think about Nick Gabriel and what Gwen might have had on him. That much was clear. It explained why she'd been able to amass such a substantial nest egg. It wasn't merely a question of wise art
investments and thrift. It was, Faith had a strong feeling, blackmail. But over what?

Sandy left first, and after five minutes, Faith followed.

Upstairs in the Parish Hall, the mourners were indeed dispersing and the tables looked suitably bereft. Only a few forlorn sandwiches remained and the cookies had disappeared. There were, however, several virtually untouched sizable mounds of orange cheese cubes. She looked around. Tom and Jared—and Nick—were gone. She knew where Tom and Jared were. Gwen was being buried beside her parents in Framingham and the graveside service was limited to Jared and the Reverend Thomas Fairchild. Perhaps Jared had asked his cousin to accompany them at the last minute.

There were still people by the coffee urn, though, and Faith saw Janice Mulholland. All thoughts of Gwen and what Sandy had revealed were suddenly edged out of the way by Janice's appearance. Here was a situation she could do something about, and Faith felt a surge of adrenaline. Janice was going to have to go public and clear things up about George Hammond. The woman had probably been miffed about her little darling's role in the school play, a tree, instead of the fairy princess or whatever. Julie Black had said not to do anything until George gave the word, but that didn't mean Faith couldn't employ some very strong innuendoes. As she got closer to Janice, she noticed that Mrs. Mulholland seemed to have lost ten pounds over the
course of the week and gained at least twenty facial wrinkles. She was frowning over her coffee now. Janice wasn't a small woman, yet what had been lean now appeared gaunt and she seemed to have shrunk. She wasn't bad-looking—in an aging cheerleader sort of way—but the streaks in her hair had been gold a week ago. They were a dull bronze now. It gave Faith pause. What was eating Janice? Witnessing Gwen Lord's death, or Janice's own personal smear campaign? Or a combination of both?

“Hello, Janice. How are you?” Faith asked. It was the best opening she could come up with at short notice.

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine, thanks.” Now what? She couldn't ask the question straight out. She'd have to approach the subject sideways.

“I've started volunteering in the school library and I plan to be at the PTA meeting on Tuesday night. Parents really need to get involved with their children's schools, so they can keep an eye on things, don't you think?” This should do the trick.

And it did. “I couldn't agree with you more. I'm sorry to say this, but even with a school system as well respected as Aleford's, you have to monitor what's happening with your child every minute. They just don't seem to get it that nobody knows better than a parent what's best for an individual student.” Color rushed into Janice's face like a riptide and she was off, swept away by the current of her convictions. “You'd
better get used to the fact right away that a parent's relationship with a school is often adversarial. I strongly advise you to take the opportunity to visit both first-grade classes and even the second-grade ones, if you have time during visiting day next month.”

Faith was bewildered. “But I thought this was the time when parents were supposed to visit the classes their kids are in.”

Janice gave a sigh of pity. Clearly, this was one mom who had a lot to learn. “No one spends more than a few minutes in a son's or daughter's class. It's shopping time. How else are you going to know which teacher to pick? The day is called Class Visitation Day, and this means that any parent can go to any class.”

Her voice carried the ring of truth, and Faith knew that when she checked with Pix, she'd find that parents did indeed use the time to scope out next year's prospects—and even further down the line. Janice would probably spend the afternoon at the Middle School. At the moment, though, Janice was right where Faith wanted her.

“Surely we can trust the teachers, and particularly the principal, to do class placement.”

Janice's cup hit the saucer violently and she snorted. “Trust! I wouldn't trust George Hammond as far as I could throw him!”

“Goodness.” Faith opened her eyes wide. “Don't tell me the rumors I've been hearing are true!”

“True and then some, from what
I
hear. It makes me sick to think that a—well, let's not mince words here—
a pedophile has gotten away with being the principal of our elementary school all these years.”

Faith thought she might lose it. How could this woman in her demure deep purple Maggy London jersey dress stand there accusing George of unspeakable acts for which she had no proof? Could she actually believe it? Faith had thought all along that the person who made the calls had an ax to grind. And since apparently Janice was the one who had started the rumor in the first place, she must have been the caller. But now she was talking as if she'd gotten her information from someone else.

“Janice, this is a very serious accusation. I dismissed what I heard until now. Where did you get your information? Was a specific incident mentioned?”

“I can't tell you any more. Not here. It's very upsetting, but believe me, it's true.” Her eyes were the eyes of a fanatic. Faith took a step backward. She'd been feeling sorry for Janice. An abandoned wife with a difficult child. Now she began to think that Missy and her father might be the ones deserving sympathy.

“So hard to believe that only a week ago that young woman was alive,” Janice said, firmly changing the subject.

Faith nodded. But to her, the night of the campaign kickoff at Ballou House seemed several years ago.

“Did you know Gwen?” Faith asked. It wasn't an entirely idle question.

“No, I'd never spoken to her before last Saturday.” Janice paused, then spoke rapidly. “I don't
want to think about what happened. It's all a blank. I can scarcely remember anything about the evening. The police kept asking me questions, but I couldn't remember a thing, except Mr. Scott, the mystery writer. He was so kind. I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't been there to talk to. He made sure I got home safely. He knew how upset I was, so he followed my car. But that's all I remember.”

And all you want to remember, Faith said to herself. Amnesia for Janice. She wasn't the type, yet the shock—or something else—had wiped the slate clean.

“I'd seen Gwen Lord in church once.” Janice's voice switched rpms and almost sounded normal. “And she was at the concert last spring.”

“It will be so hard for Jared to do this year's. I suppose Missy is already rehearsing.” Missy Mulholland was in the youth choir, and Jared started working with them in the early fall to get ready for the annual concert, assigning music and generally getting the basic program down.

“Missy is the star of the choir, as you may recall from their performances—she has perfect pitch, a gift she was born with—although apparently Jared has been persuaded otherwise. I don't want to name names, but there are some parents in the church who have more influence than others, and Missy does not have a solo. Yes, she's rehearsing—Missy is nothing if not a team player. However, I don't think she's getting much enjoyment from it. I know
I'm
not.”