Faith thrust his dishes into the dishwasher.
“Now, Faith," warned Tom. She motioned for him to be quiet, scooped up the Rolex, and put it in her pocket. "Now, Faith," he said with greater determination. "Let's just see who it is and what they want. Don't worry, Tom, I'll be good."
“That's what I'm afraid of.”
The bell rang.
3
Tom opened the door. It was Chief MacIsaac, all right, and he was not alone.
Charley MacIsaac was a large man—stacks of oatcakes in his youth in Nova Scotia—but he was completely dwarfed by the man at his side. Clad in what Faith noted with surprise to be a rather modish Burberry raincoat, the giant was about six-foot-seven and hefty. His dark hair, streaked with gray, was curly like a perm, but Faith, a specialist in snap judgments, immediately concluded that this wasn't the sort of man who went in for perms. A mother, most likely his, would have described his face as having character ; others equally charitable would call it homely. When he greeted themwith a thin-lipped regulation smile, uncharitable Faith barely repressed a shudder.
“This is Detective Lieutenant John Dunne from the State Police," Charley said, "They've been kind enough to give us a hand in this unfortunate business." Dunne looked at Charley with tolerance bordering on annoyance. The case would have been a whole lot easier if MacIsaac had never had his hand anywhere near it. In their initial excitement, the Aleford Police had trampled Belfry Hill like a pack of puppies not yet housebroken, destroying evidence that might have been there and leaving their tracks all over the place. These small town guys might be likable as hell, but they were a pain in the ass to work with.
Dunne moved into the room, quietly for a man his size. "I hope you don 't mind going over this again, Mrs. Fairchild," he said in a tone of voice that left no alternative. And a tone of voice that revealed other than Yankee roots.
“ Not at all," Faith replied politely as she steered him toward the wing chair, the only one in the room she trusted to hold him safely. There was a superabundance of spindly New England furniture in the parsonage and one of those chairs would fall apart like balsa wood if he sat in it.
Where did they find this guy ? she wondered. He sounds like he comes from the Bronx. And what kind of a name was John Dunne for this decidedly unpoetical creature ?
She was terrifically disconcerted to hear her unspoken thoughts answered.
“ I understand we are fellow New Yorkers, Mrs. Fairchild. I grew up in the Bronx.”
This was probably supposed to make her feel at ease Faith reflected, if such a presence could. Why was it that the police had this effect on her ? She hadn 't murdered Cindy, but she felt as wary as an about-to-be-uncovered serial killer.
“Yes, I'm from Manhattan." That sounded like one upmanship. She hastily added, "Though of course I know the Bronx—the Zoo, the Botanical Gardens, but I must confess I mostly go there for egg creams.”
it was Dunne 's turn to be wary. He looked at her hard. Egg creams were nothing to joke about.
He stood up and took off his tan raincoat. It reminded Faith, as Tom jumped up to take it, of a frost heave—huge boulders suddenly emerging from the earth. Dunne sat down and the terrain settled.
Faith put Ben in the playpen again, showering him with all his favorite toys, Happy Apple and a stuffed clown that never failed to send Ben into gales of laughter. It was doing so now and Charley shot an avuncular smile at the baby, but Dunne never gave him a tumble. This wasn 't going to be easy.
Tom tried to catch Faith 's eye. She deliberately ignored his rather impassioned glance. Subtlety had never been Tom 's strong point.
“ Would anyone like some coffee ? It's already made," Faith offered.
“ I never say no," Charley answered. He could usually be found having a cup at the Minuteman Café every morning at eight and every afternoon at four. When Faith used to roam the town restlessly before Benjamin's arrival, she would see him there and would join him for the Minuteman 's surprisingly good muffins. The café had replaced the old country store as gathering place and information center, not that she had ever seen anyone there engaged in idle chatter or gossip. But somehow they managed to keep on top of things by nods over their coffee mugs and monosyllabic hints.
She looked over at Detective Lieutenant Dunne.
“Thank you, no," John Dunne replied as he took out his Filofax.
Faith was startled. She hadn't seen a Filofax since she'd left the city ; her own was gathering dust in a drawer upstairs. She knew it was simply a matter of time before Dunne would get her to confess the infractions of a lifetime, starting with stealing a bottle of red nail polish from Woolworth's on a dare in sixth grade up to the present suppression of the whereabouts of a key suspect in a murder investigation. She would have found whips and chains easier to resist than calculated organization.
She left, quickly returned with coffee for the rest of them, and sat down next to Tom on the couch.
“Now, Mrs. Fairchild, could you tell me what happened yesterday? I've read the reports, but it would help to hear it in your own words.”
This was something she could do. Faith sat up straight and patiently went through what was beginning to seem like something she had dreamed.
“I started up Belfry Hill just before noon with Benjamin."
“ Excuse me, but how did you know what time it was?" Dunne was looking at her watchless wrist.
“No, I didn't have a watch on," she answered, correctly interpreting his gaze, "I don 't wear one unless I need to. I knew it was near noon, because when I was halfway up the hill, I heard the bells ring at the Congregational church.”
Dunne nodded, "Okay, so it was slightly past noon when you reached the belfry."
“Probably about five after," Faith corrected, recalling her self-pity stop. "I was walking rather slowly. I got to the top, went inside and sat down. I took my sandwich out and put it on the bench and started to loosen the Snugli straps.”
37 Charley interrupted this time, " Sandwich, Faith ? You didn 't mention a sandwich before." He appeared hurt.
“ I'm sorry, Charley. It was tuna, tomato, and egg.”
“And I thought we had something there," he said glumly. "We're having it analyzed."
“Just plain tomato and egg," said Faith, "But the tuna is from Dean and DeLuca in New York. It's imported from Italy.”
Mac Isaac had been eyeing her hopefully as if perhaps she would remember that she had left her particular sandwich on the kitchen counter yesterday, but this last piece of precise information squashed that.
“You still have the rose," said Faith gently. "And the knife.”
Charley paused and cleared his throat, "Yes, we still have the rose and the knife. A rose that grows in pretty near every garden in town and the kind of knife that is used in every kitchen, including mine. And whoever used it was damn lucky or knew a lot about surgery.”
Faith hoped he was not going to turn cynical over this business.
“It looked like a good sandwich. Too bad we didn't know sooner.”
Faith was relieved. Chief MacIsaac was on the job, but he was not off his feed. At least not yet.
John Dunne had clearly had enough of this meandering. It was often helpful to let a witness go off on tangents, but this was getting ridiculous. Imported tuna fish and Snuglis, whatever they were.
“When you entered the belfry, Mrs. Fairchild, can you describe exactly what you saw ? Sometimes it helps if you close your eyes.”
Faith obediently shut her eyes, looked at the mental picture, and carefully began to put it into words. "It was very bright out, so it was a few seconds before I saw that somebody else was there on the other bench. I thought she was asleep because her head was on the bench. It looked like a very awkward way to sleep. Not very comfortable, tumbled over to one side. I stood up to leave, because I thought Benjamin might start to cry and disturb whomever it was. That was when I realized it was Cindy and that she had a knife with a pink rose twisted around it sticking out of her side.