“Oh no you don't. There won't be enough for the cookies, sweetie." She lifted him off the stool and went to the counter for an apple. She put it in his hand firmly, well aware that it was not the substitute he'd had in mind. He'd heard the magic word, and an apple was definitely not a cookie. But apple it was, and he was soon munching away at it and contentedly opening cupboard doors, dragging out the pots and pans.
Faith had started to roll the dough when there was a knock at the back door. It was Cyle. If you're sick, you're supposed to stay at home, she thought grumpily. He was the last person she wanted to see.
“Hello Cyle. How are you feeling?" She tried in vain to inject some genuine caring into her voice. "Tom's not home right now. May I take a message?" That should be clear enough.
It wasn't.
Cyle walked into the kitchen uninvited and sat down at the table. He looked terrible, although he didn't seem to exhibit any of the traditional cold symptoms—red, drippy nose, watery eyes, balled-up Kleenex in the palm. No, he looked rather as if he hadn't slept in several weeks. His face was pale and pinched with deep circles under his eyes.
“I'll wait," he said morosely.
“He could be quite a while. I can have him call you the moment he returns." Was this apparition going to encamp in her kitchen all afternoon?
“Still, I'll wait. I really need to talk to him." He lifted his eyes pathetically. Faith wasn't affected. She had the feeling that even if Cyle was terminally ill, she'd have trouble wrenching some good old-fashioned charity from her soul. He was that bad. Or she was.
“Ben and I are making cookies. You're welcome to just sit there if you want." She returned to her dough. Oh all right, she said to herself, and the better Faith asked him if he'd like a cup of coffee or tea.
“Tea. Earl Grey if you have it.”
He'd want lemon too.
She brewed him a cup of tea and went about her business. Ben tried to interest Cyle in some parallel play by dumping a bag of Duplos at his feet, but Cyle wasn't interested. Ben began to make a little car with the blocks by himself, and Faith was beginning to think they'd stay fixed in their various attitudes until Tom came when Cyle said bitterly, "Women. It's hard to believe someone you've loved so much could do this.”
An unhappy love affair, which was no surprise. Even though her curiosity was piqued, Faith had no desire to act as Cyle's confidante, so she said in what she hoped was a noncommittal way, "Problems, Cyle?"
“Problems! That's putting it mildly," he said angrily, and sat up straighter.
Well, I haven't done anything, you fool, Faith thought. No need to take it out on me, though this was without question the norm for this young man. Whoever happened to be nearest would get it full blast.
“You found him, didn't you? You were there Friday night."
“Eddie Russell? You mean what happened at Hubbard House?" Faith was surprised.
“Yes, Eddie—Edsel." He sneered. "What have the police been saying about it? Who do they think did it?"
“I don't think they have any idea at this point," Faith replied. This was getting interesting. "Why do you ask? Was he a friend of yours?"
“Friend! Oh yes, my friendly neighborhood blackmailer." The words poured out before he had a chance to stop them, and he looked around the kitchen quickly. Seeing only Ben, he seemed to be reassured. "What I said is in absolute confidence, Mrs. Fairchild. It's why I came to see Tom.”
Faith didn't think the confidentiality of the confessional extended to ministers' wives and Cyle knew that, but she agreed it would go no further. No further than Tom, since Cyle had been planning to tell him anyway.
“Why was Eddie blackmailing you?" she asked. One never knew. He might tell.
“It was Mother."
“Your mother!" Bootsie, the iron-willed Madame Alexander doll!
“I'm afraid mother was, well, indiscreet with Eddie when he first arrived to work at Hubbard House. Oh, he was good, very good. Told her he was leaving soon and how much a moment with a beautiful older woman would mean. Anyway, she tumbled." Cyle was starting to talk like a real per- son, Faith realized. "Of course, he had no intention of leaving. He was probably humping his way through the entire membership of the Pink Ladies and any other females around. Nice little sideline."
“And then he told her that unless she paid up, he'd tell everyone what the head of the Auxiliary was up to," Faith guessed.
“Exactly. Mother told me all about it last night. She's frantic. She thinks the police are going to think she did it.”
Bootsie or one of the other victims. It was getting harder to think of Eddie as the victim, even though he was lying on a mortuary table somewhere.
“Was she paying a lot of money?"
“Fortunately, father left us amply provided for." Stuffy Cyle had returned. "Eddie was smart enough not to bleed her. It was just a nice steady hundred here and there. Mother was actually grateful to him, she told me! Can you believe it?”
Faith could.
“You do know what she has to do, and I'm sure Tom will tell you the same thing."
“Yes, we've got to go to the police. But it's so humiliating.”
Light dawned. It wasn't that Cyle was worried his mother might be up for murder one, but that she had slept with the help.
“I'm sure she won't be a suspect. No one was traveling about much on Friday night. Besides, she has you for an alibi."
“I was in town Friday night. With a friend. Mother was alone, and of course she didn't goanywhere, but there's no one to prove it. And she has a four-wheel drive Bronco for bad weather.”
Leaving the Mercedes in the garage, of course. Well, Bootsie could have driven over to Hubbard House. Must have a key, and blackmail was a possible motive, yet Faith doubted the whole thing. She was pretty certain Dunne would too. Why would Bootsie Brennan jeopardize her social position for a paltry few hundred dollars, give or take? Besides, from the sound of it, she was still more than a little attracted to Edsel.
Faith gave Cyle John Dunne's number and promised that Tom would call him as soon as she had had a chance to fill him in on the perils of Bootsie. She bundled him out the door with what she hoped was not unseemly haste and then finished her cookies. She couldn't wait to tell Tom.
Tom was home in time for supper and, in between bites of the cassoulet, which had been filling the kitchen with fragrant aromas of duck, sausage, and beans since the day before, heard Faith's tale with astonishment and amusement.
“I know I shouldn't be laughing at all this, but when I think of that woman all dressed up in her buttons and bows at the Holly Ball parading around as the queen of Hubbard House being blackmailed for a roll in the hay with the handyman, I can't help it."
“Since when have you started using euphemisms like 'roll in the hay,' Tom?"
“Since people named Bootsie entered my life." Faith conceded the logic of that.
“If Eddie was blackmailing Bootsie, it stands to reason he was doing it to others as well, don't you think?" Tom asked.
“Yes, and it gives me something to go on tomorrow. I'll be on the lookout for furrowed foreheads. John is also going to be happy to have this lead. He seemed convinced that the murderer was someone in Hubbard House at the time, and this gives him a line to follow."
“I think I'll give Cyle a call now," Tom said, soaking up the last trace of sauce from his plate with a piece of crusty French bread. "Although I have no idea what to say. 'Sorry your mother is such a foolish and wanton woman' somehow doesn't sound very compassionate."
“You'll think of something. Just make those sympathetic murmuring noises you ministers are so good at."
“Ah yes, the murmuring noises, soon to be available on tape from your local ecclesiastical mail-order supply house.”