The Body In The Bog Part 13

She returned to peer out the window like Sister Anne, but it wasn't her brothers she saw. It was Miss Lora. Miss Lora was getting out of a very new, very jazzy bright red Miata convertible-a car Faith herself coveted. Miss Lora? Sports cars? She was carrying a carton and called something back over her shoulder to the driver. Faith strained to see who it 109.

was, but he was too far away and the top was up. She quickly grabbed her purse, got out the keys to the extremely practical familial Honda, and prayed for Tom to return quickly. Maybe not prayed as such, but wished hard. It worked. As soon as he was in earshot, halfway across the cemetery, she opened the door and called out, ' Tom, could you hurry up? The kids are really eager to get going." It was true. It was also true that so was she-eager to follow Miss Lora and see who was behind the wheel of the car.

Reverend Fairchild walked through the door, expecting a hug and a kiss. Instead, Faith pulled him to one side. "Did you see Lora?"

"Lora? No. Why? Was I supposed to?"

"No, no," Faith said impatiently. "But she just got out of that sports car in the church driveway and went inside. Did you recognize who was driving the car?''

Tom had finished his sermon. While not a cloudless blue sky, it was a washed-out watercolor approximation. He was on his way home to spend a pleasant afternoon with his wife and children. There was a spring in his step. He'd had a good run that morning. He hadn't, in short, seen the driver-or the car.

"Car?"

"Look out the window! That red sports car-you didn't notice it?"

"Not really. Is this important?" He loved his wife, yet there were definitely times when their worldviews diverged, and this was one of them.

"Lora got out of the car, carrying a cardboard box, said something I couldn't hear, and went into the church."

"So long as she wasn't taking things out of the church in a box, I'd say there's nothing here to be concerned about. Why don't we get going? I just need to go-"

"She's back! Tom, come on, we've got to find out whose car it is. She seemed so edgy yesterday when I picked Ben up, and she looked terrible. You haven't forgotten how frightened she was that night in the study? I just want to know what's going on."

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Tom hadn't forgotten how terrified the young woman was and he became infected with Faith's sense of urgency.

"You're right. Let's go."

They strapped the kids in their car seats. Tom backed out of the garage and drove down the street to a spot with a clear view of the church.

"Why are we stopping? I thought we were going to the museum? I want to climb on that big phone and make bubbles. Why-" Ben was puzzled.

"Hush, sweetie. We need to stay here for a minute and think. Maybe you could think of some other things you want to do in the museum."

' 'I want to play with that computer and-''

"Think, Ben. Think. Quietly," Faith said, then patted his sleek blond head affectionately. She was trying very hard to save him a fortune in future therapists' fees. Amy was taking her shoes and socks off. No problems there.

Tom started the car.

"She's coming out. Good girl. She's locking up,"

The Miata pulled out of the church driveway and turned right along the north side of the green, then left onto Main Street. Tom followed. The Honda was a silver-gray one and he hoped it would be inconspicuous. He'd never done anything like this before, but he'd seen enough movies. He let two cars get between him and the very conspicuous sports car ,as they pa.s.sed the library. The Miata was traveling at an overly respectable twenty miles an hour.

"Not speeding through town. Think that means it's someone who knows Charley usually has a car on Parker Place?" Chief Maclsaac was proud of this extremely lucrative source of revenue for the town, revenue from nonresidents, of course. Everyone local slowed to a crawl.

"Lora's with him, so we can't a.s.sume anything."

"True."

As soon as the posted speed limit went to 40 mph, the Miata jumped forward. With one car between them, Tom followed suit. They were heading straight down Main 111.

Street, away from Aleford and toward Arlington, Cambridge, and Boston.

"I'll bet he turns toward Route Two."

"Too easy." Faith only bet when she knew she would win. "Lora lives in the opposite direction, so they're not going to her place. Why would they be going to Arlington? The car has bright lights, big city written all over it, and the fastest way to get there is on the highway."

At the small, treacherous traffic circle down by the Wood-rows' farm stand-a family operation that had mushroomed from bins of tomatoes, lettuce, and corn in season to arugula and jicama-the small red car made a sharp right. The Fair-childs were slowed down by their attempt to enter the circle, something akin to Russian roulette, except with cars, when all the Sat.u.r.day shoppers were leaving the stand.

"Don't worry. We won't lose them. We were right. They have to be going to Route Two."

Tom turned down the ramp and they spotted the car farther along the highway, not too far ahead of them. He speeded up.

"Hey, Dad, this is fun. Go faster!" Ben called out. Tom grinned. He had no idea anymore why he was doing this, but it was fun.

The highway stopped and they followed the car around two more traffic circles, less lethal because of the perpetual construction occurring outside the Alewife Transit Station and Fresh Pond Parkway. It slowed everyone to a crawl. Finally, at the Charles River, the road divided definitively. The left would take them down Memorial Drive past Harvard; the right led to Storrow Drive and Boston.

"Don't lose them. Don't lose them!" Faith cried.

"Don't lose them, Daddy!" Ben echoed.

Tom could just see a patch of red that he a.s.sumed was their quarry. Traffic was heavy on this Sat.u.r.day afternoon and there was no way to stay closer to the car. He tried pulling into the next lane and was rewarded with both an obscene gesture and the blast of a horn. He wished he'd worn his work clothes.

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The light changed and he pulled forward. It was no good. He couldn't see which way they'd turned.

"We have a fifty-fifty chance. Quick, tell me what to do," he said to Faith.

"Take Storrow. We're going that way, anyway."

The red car was stopped at the next light. Tom grinned triumphantly and pulled up behind them. There were so many cars now that looked like the Fairchilds' that he felt safe. Besides, he didn't want to lose them again. Faith put on her dark gla.s.ses. She wished she had a scarf to tie around her hair like Garbo or Madonna, but Faith wasn't the type to tie scarves around her hair. The sungla.s.ses would have to do.

The light changed and Tom trailed the car to Copley Square.

"It's a clear day. Maybe we should take the kids to the top of the John Hanc.o.c.k Building," Tom suggested as they pa.s.sed the tallest building in the city, sheer gla.s.s jutting up to the sky, and now that the windows had stopped popping out, perfectly safe. He liked going up there. You got a great view of the city, and while you couldn't see as far down the South Sh.o.r.e as Norwell, where he grew up, he could point in the right direction for the kids.

South Sh.o.r.e childhood memories receded rapidly, replaced by Boston's South End. They drove down Clarendon, across Columbus, and then the Miata turned left and pulled into a parking place on Chandler Street, a legal one-something of a minor miracle.

"Over there! Across the street!" Faith gestured in front of Tom's nose, causing him to step on the brakes.

"Honey, there's a hydrant. We can't-"

"We're not getting out. If we see a-" She had started to say the word cop, then recalled Ben had unhappily reached that age where you could say virtually nothing in front of him-had reached it a long time ago.

"If we see a person with a notebook in hand, we'll leave. We're not getting out of the car. At least not all of us."

"This isn't the museum." Ben offered the observation as a flat statement of fact.

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"We know that, but we need some more thinking time. You do that, too, sweetheart, and we'll be at the museum soon."-Amy was attempting to remove her sweater and overalls.

"Are they waiting for someone, do you think?" Tom asked. No one had moved from the Miata.

"Possibly."

They sat in silence for a few minutes more. A young man dressed in black jeans with an A/X T-s.h.i.+rt, spotlessly white except for the logo, came strolling down the block. He paused at the car. Faith rolled her window down. He looked at his watch, glanced at the sports car, and moved on.

"Some kind of code?" Tom asked.

Faith reminded herself that Tom read a great many more mysteries than she did. She'd like to humor him, but years of sleuthing, amateur though she was, told her the guy was probably merely stopping to check the time.

She shook her head, then put her hand on Tom's arm. The door was opening. She turned around to face the backseat and put her finger to her lips. "It's a game," she whispered. "Quiet as mice."

The driver got out, closed his door, and walked around the front of the car to put money in the meter. He was a total stranger. She looked over at Tom. He shook his head.

Whoever it was matched the car well. The look was Louis, not Brooks. This was someone who paid attention to labels. Someone who thought clothes were important and a reflection of self. Someone not unlike Faith herself. For this spring Sat.u.r.day afternoon, he was wearing a soft cream-colored silk s.h.i.+rt, light brown cotton slacks, tight, but not too tight in the rear-enough to show, not show off-and a cotton sweater the color of perfectly poached salmon, flung casually around his shoulders. No gold chains or an earring, just a simple watch that Faith was pretty sure even at this distance was a Piaget and ta.s.seled loafers for decoration. He was fairly tall, lean, and his blond hair was at a length about halfway between Fabio and Macaulay Culkin.

Miss Lora with this guyl Faith and Tom didn't have to 114.

speak. Each face mirrored the other's surprise.

Then Lora got out, on her own steam. Whoever he was, he was either too conscious of women's rights to open the door for her or did not have any manners. Faith reminded herself that Lora had struggled with her carton unaided.

She wasn't carrying anything now, except one of those funny little knapsacks made of clear vinyl. Faith focused on the bag. It confused her. The whole thing confused her. Where was Lora Deane? Whoever had gotten out of the car did not look anything like the person who had gotten in. Had some sort of switch been made? During the brief time they had lost track of the Miata? But why? And with whom?

Tom was quicker, although apparently equally stunned. "Just like Betty Grable." He was smiling. "You know, 'Why, Miss Jones!' "

And Faith did know. The old "take off your gla.s.ses, remove the bobby pins, shake out your hair, perch on the desk, and cross your shapely legs" number.

Like Miss Jones, Lora had ditched her gla.s.ses-contacts? She'd also pulled her hair from its habitual ponytail, applied makeup-skillfully-and taken off the loose-fitting jacket she'd had on earlier. Underneath it, she'd been wearing a very short plum-colored jersey dress that showed what the jumpers and overalls had been hiding all this time. Miss Lora had a great body. She was wearing fishnet stockings, and Faith would have been happy to take the bet that they weren't panty hose. Respect might be the watchword at school, but today's word was more like garter belt.

Faith quickly turned around, ready to clamp her hand over Ben's mouth, yet he very obviously did not recognize the woman who had taught him to make macaroni necklaces and sing "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt." It appeared to Faith that as far as Ben was concerned, the Miss Lora across the street had nothing to do with his beloved teacher. This other Miss Lora might just as well be from another planet.

The second Miss Lora, the faux Miss Lora-or was it the real Lora?-had looped her arm through the driver of 115.

the car's and the two of them walked down the block, turning into one of the old redbrick apartment buildings that lined the street. This part of the South End had gentrified early, so the neighborhoods looked much as they had originally. Trees and other plantings had grown up. The renovations weren't sparkling with newness. There was a slight patina of age.

"I'm going to see where they went," Faith told Tom as she slipped out of the car.

She walked past the building to make sure they weren't lingering in the vestibule, but they had apparently gone straight in. It must be where the Miata owner lived. Faith dug in her purse, a large Longchamp drawstring bag whose French styling masked its contents. These ranged from small toys, boxes of raisins, crayons, Handi Wipes, and other necessities for child rearing to blush and lip gloss. She pulled out a pen and her own Filofax-John Dunne's was a little less scratched, but he wasn't packing granola bars-then walked purposefully down the short walk to the entrance of the apartment building.

The outer door was unlocked. It wasn't a large building. There were only five mailboxes and five buzzers. She started to write down the names: Carlson, Macomber, Smith/Pearson, Bridey Murphy-Bridey Murphy? Obviously, someone with an interesting sense of humor and a desire not to be found. Deane. Deane!

Was the man with Lora one of her half brothers? One to whom she was very close? Very, very close. Or maybe the outfit was meant for someone else, someone who was meeting them here? Brothers and sisters did sometimes walk arm in arm, though this seemed unlikely.

Deane. But which Deane? She was tempted to ring the buzzer, or another one, to try to figure out which apartment it was, but if Lora saw her, even Faith could think of no plausible excuse for being there.

Reluctantly, she returned to the car and told Tom.

"I don't know where the other Deanes live. I guess I a.s.sumed it was Aleford, since Bonnie lives there, Lora her- 116.

self, and, of course, Gus. It's possible one or more of the brothers isn't married and could well live in town. I'll have to ask Fix." Faith was thinking out loud. To herself, she added, Before I come back here to check things out. Lora Deane's transformation from country mouse to city vixen had been amazing. It was one thing to whip together a batch of play dough with numbers of children trying to help; quite another to put on makeup in a moving vehicle. What other tricks did the young woman have up her sleeve?

The noise level at the Children's Museum always left Faith with a headache, and her own kids were so wired when they emerged that all she could think of was home, food, and bed. After enough time had pa.s.sed, she'd be eager to take them again. The place was wonderful, but all those cries of delight...

Back at the house, Faith was preparing dinner while Tom was giving Amy hers. As soon as Faith's headache had disappeared, on Storrow Drive somewhere around the Harvard Business School, she'd gotten hungry and told Tom they needed a good supper. Nourishment to try to make sense out of the day, out of all the days recently. They'd stopped at Bread and Circus in Fresh Pond for some striped ba.s.s. Not that she particularly subscribed to the theory that fish was brain food. All food was brain food.

Now Faith was quickly making polenta, which she poured into a pan to stiffen. When it did, she'd cut it into wedges and fry it in olive oil. She had a pan of sliced onions, garlic, tomatoes, and red and yellow peppers sau-te"ing on a low flame. She gave it a quick stir before checking the fish she was poaching in some stock and a little vermouth. Ben had been trained to eat anything and did- so long as Faith remembered to call rabbit lapin and mushrooms champignons.

"Pour us a gla.s.s of the Puligny-Montrachet that's in the fridge, would you, honey, and slice some bread. There's a baguette on the counter," she called to Tom, who was enjoying the sight of his daughter's attempts to feed herself 117.

string beans. They kept slipping from her fingers. He popped the last one in Amy's mouth and went to the fridge. Soon they were sitting down to the fish that Faith had placed on top of the polenta, the sauce covering both.

"Aaah." Tom rubbed his hands together, noting there was plenty more. There was always plenty more.

The phone rang.

"d.a.m.n-I mean darn." He corrected himself for the benefit of his children and to avoid the annoyance of being imitated-something that always managed to occur in the presence of one or more of his paris.h.i.+oners.

Faith was up. She hated it when people had to eat her food cold. "You start. I'll get it." She shoved her plate in the oven and picked up the kitchen phone.

It was Fix. But from the sound of her voice, Faith knew immediately it wasn't about where Samantha was going to college.

"What's happened?" Faith asked. The phone had a long cord and she walked as far away as she could.

"More of those letters. Only this time, they're all the same." Fix stopped. Faith was tempted to run next door. This could take forever. But she waited.

"What did they say?"

"We all got them again." Fix was answering another question. "Same post office. Today's mail. Millicent called me to see if I had one. She'd already talked to the others."

"And they said ..." Faith prodded.

"They said, 'Be careful on Patriots' Day.' "

"That's all, nothing about place or time?"

"That's all, just 'Be careful on Patriots' Day.' And not signed 'A friend' like the last one. I'm frightened, Faith- and mad. Who could be doing this!"

"I wish I knew."

Faith hung up and went back into the kitchen. Tom looked at her quizzically.

"More of those letters. I'm going next door."