The Body in the Snowdrift (4 page)

Animals! Naomi was right! He'd liked to have a
good time when he was their age, hanging around with his friends and enjoying a few pops, but they'd never destroyed property this way, or drunk the way these kids did—not only the boys but girls, too. What was it all about? Were they simply spoiled brats who never had to face the consequences of their actions, or was it something else? Copping an attitude toward an adult world that they didn't regard as particularly worthwhile? Ophelia flashed into his mind and, just as quickly, he forced himself to think of something else.

He was almost at the small A-frame his parents had built as their retirement home. It was tucked away behind the Sports Center, where they could see the entire resort but were hidden from view themselves. It was also near the snowshoe trails. They'd picked up the sport after his mother decided her skiing days were over. His dad at seventy-eight, was still consistently placing first in all the races for those over sixty-five, both here at Pine Slopes and at Stowe, Killington, and the other area resorts—the major resorts. Pine Slopes could have been a contender, just as Harold Stafford could have been an Olympic champion, but he liked his life the way it was, he'd told his son once. He didn't need anything more.

Fred would have liked to give him something more, though. Something—or someone—for both his parents. His first marriage had been a brief one, ending in divorce. They hadn't had children. He and Naomi hadn't been able to have any children together. Her daughter was from her first marriage. Fred had always wanted a whole bunch of kids. He'd imagined them growing up at Pine Slopes, loving the mountain the
way he did, skiing with their grandfather and snowshoeing with their grandmother, hiking with them both in the spring and summer. As beautiful as it was in the winter, late spring—just after mud season—was Fred's favorite time. Wildflowers covered the slopes, and streams as clear as fine crystal cascaded down into the meadows, where the deer gathered at twilight.

The Fairchilds would arrive next week. He couldn't wait to see them all. They were like family, especially Craig. Craig Fairchild—he smiled to himself—the little brother he'd always wanted. Grown up and even married now.

He reached the house, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door.

“Mom? Dad? Are you there? It's Freddy.”

 

“Scott? Andy? Where are you, boys? I'm home.” Betsey Fairchild Parker had been showing a house. Normally, she arranged her schedule so that she was there when her boys came home from school or from practice during soccer and baseball seasons. She'd told them that morning that she would be late, but she said that she'd leave a snack, and then they should get right to their homework. The chart of their assignments for the week was hanging in the kitchen. She'd told them she expected to see some of today's tasks checked off by the time she returned.

Betsey was in a good mood. She was virtually certain the young couple was going to make an offer on the house. She hadn't even needed to dangle the specter of “other interested parties” before them. It was a great house—well maintained, terrific location,
tastefully decorated—no chartreuse walls or outdated wallpaper. Not even officially on the market yet. Sure it would be a Fairchild Realty listing, she had called the sellers directly, telling them it would be a propitious time to take the dogs for a walk. Daddy would be proud of her.

“Boys? Where are you?” She took off her good coat and hung it up on a padded hanger in the front hall closet, then went into the kitchen. From the granite countertops to the gleaming unused copper pots hanging from faux exposed beams, it was her dream kitchen opening into the Great Room, with its cathedral ceiling and imposing stone fireplace (she'd insisted on gas—wood was so messy). “What's supposed to be so great about it?” Dennis, her husband, had asked the first time he saw the room. One of his typical attempts at humor.

Normally, her two sons would have been doing their homework at the long table under the Palladian window overlooking the backyard. She could get dinner ready and make sure that what they were doing on their laptops was work and not surfing the Net or sending instant messages. But the two heads weren't bent over computers or books. She thought of fifteen-year-old Scott's brown curls, too long again—she made a mental note to get him a haircut before next week—and thirteen-year-old Andy's, the same color but straight as a pin. The healthy snack of fruit and sugar-free Jell-O (in the winter, they could pork up if she wasn't careful) remained on the counter, untouched.

She went upstairs. They weren't in their rooms. She checked the answering machine, thinking she should
have done that as soon as she came in. It was blinking. She was relieved. Probably a meeting of one of the after-school clubs they were in, although she kept track of the times by going on-line to check their schools' daily announcements.

The first message was from the young couple. They wanted to make an offer. Would she call them back? they asked. Would she! The next one was from Daddy. He wanted to make sure the boys remembered to bring their cross-country skis. Last time, they'd forgotten them, and he was looking forward to some backcountry trips with them.

The skis were in place in the garage, along with all the other equipment for the trip. And this time, she'd make sure they weren't “forgotten.” The week in Vermont wasn't about them and their snowboards, she'd told Scott and Andy. It was about Grandpa. It was all about him.

 

Robert Fairchild got into his car and popped a Dan Fogelberg CD into the slot. It was
Full Circle,
Robert's favorite. A great day. His personal best. He'd only sold this much a few times before. He sang along with Fogelberg: “Funny how the circle turns around.” It had been a terrific fall, and now the winter was proving even better. He'd been promoted to regional sales rep. And all those commissions and bonuses were adding up to a very tidy sum. He was hot. He was golden. And he had to go away for a week.

It really sucked.

 

“Like it?” Glenda Fairchild twirled around slowly in front of her husband, showing off a new ski outfit
she'd bought. Turquoise to match her eyes—or rather, the turquoise contacts that camouflaged her pale gray irises, so not in keeping with her platinum blond hair, she'd decided years ago.

“It's stunning, honey. You're stunning,” Craig said. He hoped it wasn't too expensive. It wouldn't matter in the future. They'd be sitting pretty in a few months, maybe weeks. It was just now.

“Let me show you the next one. It's exactly like one Paris Hilton wore at Aspen.” She flashed him a big smile.

“Another one?” he said weakly.

“Another two. You're not mad are you, Craigie?”

She walked over to where he was sitting on the edge of their bed and leaned over, unzipping the outfit and shrugging it off. She was naked.

“Mad? How could I be mad at you, sugar?” he mumbled, burying his face in her absolutely perfect breasts.

 

“Marian, are you awake?”

“I am now, dear. What's the matter?”

Dick Fairchild sat up and switched on the lamp on the nightstand by his side of the bed.

“Nothing's the matter. Just think, next week we'll all be together at Pine Slopes. I don't think I've overlooked anything. Craig's been a big help—his idea to start with, you know—and if I have forgotten anything, the Staffords will take care of it.”

“I'm sure you haven't. You've done a marvelous job organizing it all. I'm proud of you.” Marian gave him a kiss and rolled back over. She was almost asleep
before she realized her husband was still talking to her and expected some sort of reply. She reached a hand to her forehead, the better to keep her eyelids from closing.

“Hmm,” she said.

It served.

“I'll tell you one thing,” Dick said.

“Okay.” She was almost awake now.

“It's not every family that gets along the way we do. Not by a long shot. They're all just tickled pink to be going. Hey, that's a good one, considering we'll be there on Valentine's Day. Got to remember that. ‘We're all tickled pink to be here'—I'll use that for the toast Saturday night.”

“Hmm,” Marian said again.

 

Faith was up in time to have breakfast with her father and mother before church. After the service, she'd head down to Penn Station and get a train north. She'd left her car at the Route 128 stop so that Tom wouldn't have to pick her up. As she ate her oatmeal, traditional Sunday-morning fare in the Sibley household, she realized how much she missed Tom and the kids—although not the Sunday routine that went something like, “Are you sure I don't have a clean collar?” “No, you can't wear your tutu to Sunday School,” and “Mom, I was supposed to write a poem about loving your neighbor. Where's a pen?”

The Reverend Lawrence Sibley was subdued. Mrs. Hammond had actually died this time, and recalling the more than slight irritation he'd felt last night on being called out yet again, he resolved in the future to
answer each cry of wolf with total and absolute dedication, no matter from whence the utterance came.

Jane, who, unlike some long-married couples, had not grown to look like her tall, distinguished white-haired husband, had remained a medium height with an unvarying honey blond coif. Instead she had grown quite astute at reading her husband's mind. At the moment, she'd had enough of his unspoken guilt. Slathering an English muffin with Dundee thick-cut marmalade, she said, “Really, Lawrence, let it go. She lived to be a good age, had a husband and children who loved her, plus an extremely attentive pastor. And just think, we'll be able to go to the opera again.”

Faith couldn't help laughing.

“Is this what Tom and I will be like in heaven only knows how many years?”

“If you're lucky.” Her father winked at her and got up to get ready. There were always plenty of clean collars in his drawer—and pressed shirts, robes, and dark socks without holes in them.

“It's been a lovely visit,” Jane said.

“For me, too,” Faith replied.

They started to clear the breakfast dishes.

“Send us a postcard from Vermont,” her mother said as they went into the kitchen. “When is it you're going?”

“Dick was born on Valentine's Day. We're all due at Pine Slopes on Friday the thirteenth.”

At first, Faith thought someone had dropped a glove. It protruded from a snowdrift, a jaunty red-and-blue flag against the crusty white surface. But the angle was wrong. And the fingers too stiff. What could be holding it in place? A branch?

It wasn't a branch; it was a hand.

It was a body.

She struggled to keep her balance, teetering on her narrow cross-country skis, although the trail was flat. If she took her skis off, she'd sink into the powder. Buried in snow. The trees whirled crazily about her and the achingly blue ski seemed to be pressing down on her. She was having trouble breathing and gulped for air.

There had been a good snowfall the night before, and it had covered most of the body—except his hand
and part of his head. It was a man, an older man. His hat had fallen off, revealing gray hair and a face—Faith could hardly bear to look at his face. It was too late to get help, but not too late to see the pain and anguish of his last moments.

Shaking, she started to retrace her path. The ski patrol's command post was next to the main lodge. She'd go there. They would come and take the body away. The dead body. The corpse.

What had happened to him?

When she reached the ski patrol, she had trouble getting the words out at first, but as she did, someone put a mug of hot sweet tea in her hand, urging her to drink it, while another threw a blanket around her shoulders. The third person on duty was making a call. Calling the Staffords, Faith thought. She wished they could call Tom. Tom! She wanted Tom, but he would be skiing by now—out of reach.

“Do you think you could come and show us where he is?”

She knew she had to, and after a few more sips, she went outside, got onto the snowmobile, and shouted directions into the driver's ear.

The body was where she had left it. She had had an unreasonable hope that it had all been a dream, a hallucination induced by the high altitude.

She stayed where she was. Two other snowmobiles pulled up, one with a stretcher.

“Oh shit, it's Boyd!” she heard the young man who had driven her out to this spot, this beautiful, dreadful spot, say once softly, then louder, turning to the others. “It's Boyd! Boyd Harrison!”

He got back on the vehicle, leaving the others to their task. He'd told her he would take her right back. She knew he wanted to stay. To help place this man, Boyd Harrison, on the stretcher. She knew this because he was crying, had started crying as soon as he saw the face. She felt very sorry for him and sorry to be the cause of his having to abandon his friend lying so stiffly in the snow. But not sorry enough to say she would stay and wait. The face had a name. A person, not an inanimate object in the snow. Somewhere there were people who cared for him—family, friends—who didn't know what she knew. She could feel the presence of their grief waiting—what, a half hour, an hour from now? The reality of Boyd Harrison's death hit her, and she couldn't wait to get as far away from his snow-covered body as possible.

 

“He was a very, very sick man. Everyone, most of all Boyd himself, has been expecting this for a long time. And he died doing what he loved most in the place where he was happiest. This mountain was his best friend—that's what he always said. A good death, Faith.”

There was that oxymoron again, Faith thought sleepily. She was in bed, lying under a pile of eider-downs, and Marian was holding her hand, stroking it gently. A good death. Faith knew what it meant, but she wasn't old enough and hadn't been close enough to someone near the end to believe in it.

Marian had been waiting with the Staffords at the ski patrol's hut when she'd returned. They were looking for Tom. Ben and Amy wouldn't be finished with
their ski programs until the late afternoon. She couldn't imagine why she was so tired. Marian had taken her back to the condo and made her drink some more tea—chamomile this time. Maybe she'd slipped a Mickey in it. Faith could barely keep her eyes open. The blankets were so warm, so soft and light, fluffy—like new-fallen snow.

“Close your eyes, dear. You've had quite a shock, but everything's going to be all right. When you wake up, Tom will be here, and I'll still be here, too…. No, don't try to talk, just let your mind drift off.”

Marian had such a soothing voice. Faith could imagine how the little Fairchilds must have felt when they were home from school, sick with the flu or a cold, Marian putting a cold washcloth on a hot forehead, reading stories and bringing ginger ale, saltines, and weak tea as they recuperated.

Drift. Not snowdrifts. She forced her mind away from the image. Let it drift. Drift to last night, she thought as she fell asleep.

 

For once, they'd left the house on time. Knowing how little would be accomplished on a Friday afternoon before a vacation week, Faith had asked that the kids be dismissed at noon. The car was packed and Tom had miraculously not been faced with an ecclesiastical crisis, not even the “We don't have anyone to do coffee hour this week!” kind. They'd picked the kids up and popped Jim Dale reading Harry Potter into the CD player. In what seemed like no time, they were pulling up to the condo; the three-hour trip had flown by under Harry's spell. Plus, eager to see his older cousins and
get to Pine Slopes, Ben had neither whined—“Are we there yet?”—nor encroached on his sister's space, crossing the invisible line in the middle of the rear seat to annoy her.

To Ben's and Amy's delight, they were the first to arrive. Their grandfather handed them each a goody bag he'd filled with things like Chapstick on a string to go around the necks of their parkas, a tiny Skigee to keep their goggles clear, Turtle Fur neck gaiters with the Pine Slopes logo, and Gummy Bears. He'd immediately whisked them away to sign them up for their ski programs—the Seedlings for Amy, the Saplings for Ben. The ski school for kids and teens was consistently rated one of the best in New England. There were goody bags for Tom and Faith, too—sans the Gummy Bears, and with ski passes for the week.

“Dad, this is crazy. Please let us pay for ourselves,” Tom protested.

“No way, youngster. This is my birthday and I can do anything I want.”

“Humor him,” Marian said. “It's easier in the long run.”

“Speaking of which, we have time for a few runs before dinner. What do you say?” Dick proposed.

The Fairchilds were bodies in motion that tended to stay in motion, Faith had noted early in her relationship with Tom. She begged off to get dinner ready, and Marian stayed behind to welcome the others.

There wasn't much to do to get the meal on the table, but Faith thought she'd get it organized and then sneak down to the Sports Center for a quick swim and some time in the sauna. She'd insisted on supplying
dinner the first night. The birthday dinner tomorrow night would be at Le Sapin, the resort's well-known restaurant. Its chef, John Forest, rechristened Jean Forestier many years ago, when he realized a French
nom de cuisine
added to his credibility, had built the restaurant from a small ski lodge bistro into one of the area's top dinning spots, winning rave reviews year after year.

For tonight, Faith had brought her vacation chili, which she'd developed to please a crowd that might span a broad age range, like this one. Chili aficionados would turn their noses up at it. It was a far cry from the real thing, the kind dished up at places like M & J's Sanitary Tortilla Factory in Albuquerque, arguably the best
carne adovada
—red chile with marinated slow-baked pork—in the Southwest, but her vacation chili was an invariable palate pleaser. She used light and dark kidney beans, ground beef, onions, garlic, and catsup spiked with some barbecue sauce for a slightly smoky flavor. Ground pepper, a little salt, and a few flakes of red pepper were all the seasonings she added. But she'd brought along more pepper flakes, several kinds of hot sauce, and chili powder for anyone who wanted to spice it up. She also had sour cream, shredded iceberg lettuce, taco shells, and both yellow and blue tortilla chips to put out. Her sister-in-law Betsey was always on some sort of diet and tended to snatch anything resembling a carbohydrate from her sons' mouths, so Faith had a platter of crudités for hors d'oeuvres especially for them and another of cheese and crackers, plus some stuffed mushrooms she'd heat up for everyone else. Marian had made some of her fa
mous coleslaw—famous in the Fairchild family. Faith had yet to figure out what, if any, secrets it contained other than cabbage, shredded carrots, and Hellmann's—never a bad combination, but not unknown to the general public. For dessert, Faith had brought apple crisp. Pine Slopes had a small general store that sold Ben & Jerry's ice cream, whose headquarters were in nearby Waterbury. The store was also convenient for other things, from juice boxes to Duraflame logs.

When Marian saw Faith take out the apple crisp, she said, “Oh dear. Did I forget to tell you I was bringing one of Aunt Susie's cakes?”

Aunt Susie was not related by blood to the Fairchilds, but by very strong ties of friendship. Marian had met Susan Houston, a warmhearted southern lady, when both were young and the two families had visited back and forth over the years. Besides, being the type of person who looks out for everybody before thinking of herself, Susie was a wonderful cook. Aunt Susie's cake, a delectable concoction that included mandarin oranges and pineapple, was a rare treat.

“You did, but we can save the crisp for another time,” Faith said.

Dick had laid a fire in the fireplace. Faith was tempted to skip the Sports Center, light the fire, and curl up with a book instead. She'd keep Marian company while she waited for the rest of her offspring. Craig, thirty-two, was the youngest, and had recently married. The couple had tied the knot last fall in Hawaii, going straight to the honeymoon, although after meeting her new sister-in-law, Glenda, at Christ
mas, Faith thought the honeymoon had probably started a whole lot earlier. The woman was a knockout, and her mother-in-law's floor had never been so clean, what with every man's tongue dragging on it. Every man, including Tom, who had literally taken a step back when Craig had introduced his bride. It had been left to young Ben to give voice to the testosterone-laced thoughts filling the room: “Wow, Aunt Glenda! Are you a model or a TV star or something?” Aunt Glenda—and contrary to Faith's first cynical thought, Glenda
was
her real name: “After my Daddy, Glen”—gave Ben a hug and said, “Well, I have done a little modeling, but I'm a housewife now.” When Faith had described the scene to her assistant, Niki Constantine, Niki had commented—after she'd stopped laughing—“Save your Saran Wrap coupons for her, although she doesn't sound as if she needs any tricks to keep the sparks flying in her marriage.”

The official Fairchild line was that Craig had done very well for himself, marrying a nice girl, taking that final step into adulthood, an event they'd been waiting for since he graduated from UMass, dropped out of law and med school, and then left two other graduate programs and five jobs. At present, he'd returned to his boyhood home, renting a place in Norwell, not far from his parents, and working with a local property developer. It wasn't clear where or when he'd met Glenda, but she'd quit whatever job she had as soon as the ring was on her finger, then spent most of her days at her health club or shopping. Craig had been adamant that he didn't want his wife to work, the unspoken message being: not like my brother's wife and my sister.

Glenda had never learned to ski. Faith had the idea that she was from the South, or maybe New Jersey. Someplace like that anyway. Jersey girls were tough, and under all that carefully applied soft makeup, Glenda, Faith suspected, was pretty tough indeed. Of course, this went for southern women, as well. Craig was looking forward to taking his wife down the bunny slope, and Dick had booked her a full week of private lessons.

Just as Faith had decided to head to the Sports Center, urged on by her mother-in-law, the Parkers arrived—Betsey and the boys. Betsey's husband, Dennis, a periodontist, would be coming later.

“Hello! Where is everybody?” Betsey called out.

Well, two of us are here, Faith thought to herself, but she knew that at least she wasn't on her sister-in-law's A list, and maybe Marian wasn't, either.

“Dad and Tom are skiing, Ben and Amy are watching a movie at the lodge in the Kids' Club, and the others aren't here yet. Come give me a kiss, you two,” Marian said, holding her arms out toward her grandsons. Scott and Andy had been hanging back, sports bags hugged to their chests like armor. Faith had watched in dismay as the two outgoing youngsters she'd teased and tickled as little ones had turned into mute adolescent strangers. Ben worshiped them, and since he repeated their jokes ad nauseam, they obviously behaved differently around him. Faith wished she knew them better. Maybe this week. She'd organize a trip to Stowe or wherever they wanted to go, prying them away from Betsey, if possible. Her sister-in-law gave new meaning to the expression, “control
freak.” Faith had seen the lists posted in their house on the South Shore—they lived in Hingham, one town over from Norwell. You could open any drawer and not even a pencil would be out of line.

“Don't just stand there. Give Grandma a kiss—and Aunt Faith. Then take the bags upstairs to our rooms.”

“Oh Bets, you know we've rented the Collins's condo for the week. There isn't enough room in ours for everyone. I've put you there with Tom and Faith,” Marian said.

Faith knew she and her family were going to be staying next door in a smaller unit with a galley kitchen. The idea was that everyone would gather at the family unit for dinners, getting their own breakfasts and picking up lunch at the cafeteria or general store. She hadn't thought to ask who would be with them. She'd only thought as far ahead as getting to Vermont, not much further. Obviously, Betsey had.