“You’ll never guess!”
That was obvious.
“Oh, the front door was open and I saw the light on in here when I came up the sidewalk. I assumed you were working.” She gave them both a reproving look.
“Such wonderful news!”
Faith didn’t mind playing along. It had to be pretty important for Millicent to come barging in like this.
“What is it?”
“We own Beecher’s Bog! That is, the town owns it, always has!”
“But why didn’t we know before?” Tom asked.
“I’ll start from the beginning. Apparently, the town only leased the land to the Turners. Originally, it was going to be the site for the Poor Farm, which was why the town didn’t want to sell it all. The Turner family could build a farmhouse on the small lot they did own and would retain ownership of that, but the rest was to revert back to the town after Roland Turner’s death.
He could leave his house to his heirs, but not Beecher’s Bog and the surrounding fields. He was farming it in those days and getting cranberries from the bog. Later descendants made quite a profitable business of it.”
“How could it have taken so long to discover this?” Faith was extremely disappointed in Millicent—Millicent, who had ferreted out virtually every detail of Aleford life since the town was incorporated in 1713.
“Roland lived to be a very, very old man. Ninety-eight or ninety-nine. By then, the Poor Farm was located elsewhere. Anyway, during his life, neither he nor anyone else in his family brought up the life-tenancy question, in the hope that the town would forget about it, which it did. During the war, many papers were destroyed and there must have been a great deal of confusion.” When Millicent said “the war,” it was not WW II, the Big One, or the Vietnam War, but the one and only one as far as she was concerned—the War of Independence.
This was all very interesting, but Faith was still in the dark.
“It would certainly have changed things if we’d known about this sooner,” she said bitterly.
“But they only found the papers today!” Millicent protested.
“Who found what papers, where?” Tom asked.
“The Turners were too honest, or too nervous, to destroy the papers detailing the agreement. They hid them in the house, in one of the kitchen walls. You know the restoration work has been continuing. Today they were replacing some of the plaster and found the tin box with the documents.”
“You mean the men working for the Deanes?” Faith was astonished.
“I mean Eddie Deane himself. Gus just called.” There was a Bronze Musket plaque in here for somebody, maybe the whole family.
“Now, I have a million more people to tell. Isn’t it thrilling?” And she was off into the night to spread the news, not unlike her illustrious ancestor.
Faith and Tom went back to what they had been doing. After a while, Faith observed, “That does it, then.
The bog has been saved. The identity of the poison-pen writer and murderer revealed. The mystery of Lora’s double life solved. The only thing we’ll probably never know is what was in Millicent’s letter, her guilty secret.”
“I think I can help solve this one, if you promise not to get mad at me for not telling you sooner. Believe it or not, the whole thing completely slipped my mind.”
“I believe it. Now tell! I knew Charley was giving you all sorts of inside information!”
“The letter contained no words, only a number, Seventy-four.”
“Of course. I should have known. Her age! Seventy-four. Her guilty secret! She should be shouting it from the top of her gabled rooftop. Besides, these days it’s nothing. Millicent will still be Millicent twenty years from now.”
Faith paused a moment to reflect on this daunting thought—with the happy realization also that Millicent’s secret was hers. No more vague allusions to the 1940s as dark ages.
She settled back into Tom’s arms, another thought uppermost in her mind.
“You know, we made a very good team, darling, although you tended to be a little too cautious—and forgetful.”
“A team?”
“As in Nick and Nora Charles, for instance.” Tom made a face. “I could never drink that many martinis and still function, but now that the kids are older, we might consider getting a dog—say a wire-haired terrier?”
Faith smiled. Definitely a very good team.
Author’s Note
Next to eating good dinners, a healthy man with a benevolent turn of mind, must like, I think, to read about them.
—W. M. THACKERAY
Faith and I would add “and woman” to the sentence, but Thackeray was definitely onto something. We enjoy reading about food. And for many of us, reading about food and murder is the real frosting on the cake. Why is the pairing of gastronomy and crime so seductive?
Dorothy L. Sayers delights us with her descriptions of Lord Peter Wimsey’s meals, with perhaps the best title in the annals of culinary crime: “The Bibulous Business of the Matter of Taste.” That short story describes a six-course dinner, with the emphasis on the identification of the wines accompanying each course.
Only the real Lord Peter is able to correctly name all of them. I like the breakfasts best and entertain fantasies of Bunter appearing at the door of my bedchamber, tray laden with tea, kippers, coddled eggs, and a rack of toast.
Meanwhile, across the Channel, Madame Maigret is taking excellent care of her husband, preparing traditional French dishes that Simenon writes about in mouthwatering detail. It is no wonder Maigret tries to get home for lunch so often. I would, too, if someone was whipping up coq au vin and a tarte à la frangi-pane (a particularly sinful custard pastry) for me.
On our own shores, we have Nero Wolfe, whose attention to food is as obsessive as his devotion to his orchids. He and Fritz Brenner, his chef, range over a number of cuisines in the pursuit of their art. Fritz is so gifted that he even makes milk toast “superbly.” Why on earth would Archie ever look for his own apartment? Would you?
It would be simple to say that each author uses food as a way of characterizing each sleuth, a way of extending our knowledge of the kinds of people they are, and leave it at that. An idiosyncrasy perhaps? But it’s more.
We get hungry when we read these books, and I’m sure the authors did, too, as they wrote. How could it be otherwise, given the emphasis they place on the joys of the table? Food is important. It makes a statement on its own. Whodunit is irrevocably joined to whoateit.
Faith doesn’t have a cook, nor do I. If we want something tasty, we have to make it ourselves—something, fortunately, both of us like to do. We hope you will enjoy these recipes, and when you’re ready to sit down to the fruits of your labor, prop a good mystery up in front of your plate!
EXCERPTS FROM
HAVE FAITH
IN YOUR KITCHEN
BY Faith Sibley Fairchild
A WORK IN PROGRESS
FAITH’S YANKEE POT ROAST
23/ pounds beef bottom
3 cloves of garlic
4
round, tied
1/ teaspoon thyme, more if 2
1/ cup olive oil
using fresh
3
3 large carrots
Salt and pepper
4 medium potatoes (Faith
1 bottle Samuel Adams likes Yukon Golds)
lager, cream stout, or the 3 medium onions