“Denise has come for some tea and sympathy," Faith told him.
“Then I'll leave you to it," he said tactfully.
“No, please stay, Reverend Fairchild. I'd like to have you here. I need—" She had trouble finishing her sentence. "I need some spiritual help.”
Faith put the water on, and soon a steaming pot of tea was ready. Denise was too. She sat up and looked better than she had since her arrival at Hubbard House earlier in the day.
“I have a problem with drugs." It was a bald statement and seemed to exhaust her, but she kept going.
“When I was married, my husband was heavily involved with cocaine—the recreational drug, you know," she said caustically. "It was one of the reasons I divorced him. His son, Joel, knew, and it was mainly why he wanted to stay with me, I believe." She took a large sip of tea. "Joel doesn't know about me. But Eddie Russell did. He was my supplier. I'm addicted to diazepam—Valium. My husband used to take it with the coke and there was always plenty around. At first I just took one or two when I felt stressed, and believe me there was a lot to be stressed about in those days. Then my dependency increased, and even after he was gone I couldn't function without it. I'd try to keep myself from taking one; then I'd have terrible anxiety attacks. I couldn't leave the house without my precious vial of pills. I had kept my eyes open at Hubbard House, so I knew Eddie." She looked straight at Faith. "And no, it is not why I went there as a volunteer—to score drugs. I went because I was trying hard to find some meaning in my life—through the temple and through my volunteer work. But things were too out of control. Eddie actually approached me. Maybe I looked like a user. Anyway, he said we could have a good time together and he had ways to make it even better. I wasn't interested in him romantically, but we did have a brief affair. Then the relationship was strictly business.”
Tom and Faith had been listening intently. The shadows were lengthening in the yard, but Faith didn't want to interrupt things by turning on the lights. Instead she reached across the table and put her hand on Denise's.
“Oh, Denise, I'm so sorry. I wish I had known you sooner. You've been in so much pain.”
Denise seemed to falter again, then resumed speaking. "At first it was simple. I'd give him the money and he'd give me the drugs. Then he began to increase the price, and finally he began to really do a number on me by telling me he couldn't get any for a few days before coming through. I knew it was blackmail and I knew he was a liar and a sadist, but there was nothing I could do about it. When I heard he was dead, I went crazy. Fortunately Joel is away on a school ski trip. I haven't slept and I've torn the house apart looking for places I might have stashed some.”
It was now so dark, Faith had to turn on the lights, and she took the teapot to add some hot water. Tom moved his chair closer to Denise.
“I was meeting Charmaine because I always assumed they were in it together. I'm pretty sure he got the stuff from her that night at the Holly Ball.”
Faith remembered the mystery of the missing pocketbook—that big pocketbook, big enough to hold several CVS branches.
“So Eddie had something to do with the lights going off?"
“He liked to be dramatic. Told me to meet him by the main switch, and when he pulled it, he handed me some pills. He was like a kid that way.”
Denise was talked out. She sat with her hands around the cup for warmth. Her face was lined and she looked about fifty years older than usual.
Tom spoke. "You know that Faith and I will do everything to help you. Which means talking to the police and then a treatment program, if that's what you want. The important thing for you to remember is you're not going to be alone.”
Denise put her head down on the table and sobbed like a child. Faith stood behind her and stroked her head.
A few hours later Dunne had left and Tom was driving Denise to McLean's Hospital. Faith was back in the kitchen waiting for her husband's return. She was idly leafing through her recipe file looking for something new to do with squash—squash tortellini in brown butter?—but her mind strayed to Hubbard House, as usual. She'd started to phone Aunt Chat earlier with an update and decided it was too complicated to explain except in person. Instead she'd written on a postcard of the Aleford green:
Think I know some of what was troubling Howard. Tell you all about it at Christmas.
Love and kisses
Faith
Denise's story had been deeply upsetting, but she seemed to sincerely want to end her dependency, and Faith sensed she had the strength to do so. It was impossible to avoid the thought that her relationship to Eddie gave her a strong motive for murdering him, but Faith pushed it from her mind. Denise had been at home on Friday night, no doubt in no condition to drive. Faith wondered when Joel had left for his trip. It would be nice if Denise could have a tidy little alibi.
Since she'd first heard that Eddie was a skilled practitioner in the art of blackmail, Faith had known other victims would surface. The question now was who next? She remembered the assurance with which Julia Cabot had spoken at lunch when she'd mentioned that it wouldn't be easy to solve the crime. What did she know? Faith closed her recipe file and decided to wait for Tom in bed. She was exhausted.
Upstairs she pulled the covers over her shoulders, leaving the light on so Tom could find his way. Just before she dozed off, she thought of what Dunne had said to her at the door away from the others as he was leaving. She'd looked at him quizzically. "So who's your favorite for the attack on Charmaine? Could be a pretty broad field.”
He'd laughed. "You don't really think Charmaine would let someone else mess up her hair, do you? The question is, why does she want us to think so? Now, say good night, Faith.”
And she had.
Down, down, down. Tumbling down until she came to a dead stop in a heap at the bottom.
Eight
Leandra Rhodes was almost late for dinner. Her husband, Merwin, was in town meeting an old classmate at the Harvard Club, and she'd been struggling with the zipper on the back of her dress for ten minutes. She refused to give in and finally pulled it up triumphantly with the aid of a safety pin and a long piece of string. She hurried out of her room and stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs to catch her breath. She put her hand out and stroked the smooth banister. She doubted whether there were many craftspeople left, even in New England, who could carve such a spiral. But it wouldn't do to dilly-dally now, and she looped the pocketbook that never left her side securely over her arm and started down.
Down, Down, Down. Tumbling down until she came to dead stopin a heap at the bottom.
“I don't like it. Sure it's possible that an old lady in a rush to get to dinner could trip over the pocketbook she's dropped, and fall down the stairs all by herself, but it's the timing. Too much going on at that place.”
Faith agreed with Detective Dunne, who had just called to tell her about Leandra's accident the night before.
“Leandra was not the type of lady who trips. She would never put a foot wrong, literally or figuratively. Has she been able to say anything about what happened?"
“No, it's a miracle she's even alive. She's in the intensive care unit over at Mass General and hasn't regained consciousness."
“Of course, if it wasn't an accident, it means she was pushed, which is a horrible thought. And why would anyone want to hurt her?”
Faith imagined Bootsie Brennan might have entertained less than charitable thoughts about Leandra from time to time, but as a sparring partner Leandra was without equal, and on some level Bootsie must have recognized that. Besides, noxious as she was, Bootsie didn't seem like the type of woman who attempts murder—unless it was for a very good reason, like someone maligning her son. All these types. It reminded Faith of those old Peck and Peck ads, "There's a certain kind of woman who ..." She and her friends at Dalton had had fun making up all sorts of lewd and, to eleven-year-olds, hysterical endings contrary to the image presented of the woman who chairs a meeting of the SEC but also bakes the best angel food cake in the neighborhood.