Body in the Bookcase ff-9 Read online

  The street the show house was on was lined with cars. Marian found a parking place and they joined several other women walking up the slight hill toward the large Victorian house, site of this year’s event. Faith felt oddly like a pilgrim.

  Thoughts of cockleshells and the Wife of Bath crossed her mind. Marian had stayed focused. “I think this one is to raise money for hunger. Not for hunger—you know what I mean. Each room is supposed to represent a different historical period, although I don’t know why they just didn’t stick to Victorian to match the exterior. It’s a gorgeous house.”

  The perfectly restored stately Victorian had been painted a soft purple, with white trim and black shutters. A large porch wrapped around the front and it was filled with wicker furniture and flowering plants. The front garden was equally spectacular. A hedge of white lilacs separated it from the street and the fragrance brought Faith back to Winslow Street and the day Sarah died.

  She reached over and looped her arm through Marian’s. Her mother-in-law smiled.

  “They totally redid the gardens for this. The house belongs to a young couple. They moved to a condominium for several months while the decorators took over. They don’t get to keep anything except the window treatments—and of course the floors have all been redone, walls painted and papered. And the garden. They keep that. I wish they’d do my house.”

  Faith thought of the mountain of objects filling the large Norwell Dutch Colonial. It was not exactly a decorator’s dream; more like a phantasm appearing after too much rich food at bedtime.

  They had their tickets. A woman standing beside the front door and dressed exactly like Marian but in different hues took them, dropping the stubs into a beribboned basket.

  “Welcome, ladies. You can tour the house in any way you wish, but we think if you start here in the foyer, moving to the dining room, then the living room and kitchen before going upstairs, you’ll get the best effect. Plan to spend a lot of time on the third floor. It’s an old-fashioned girl’s bower. The committee has a few gift items for sale there, which I’m sure you won’t want to miss.” She handed them each a booklet listing the names of the decorators for the various rooms, sponsors, and advertisers. Faith looked at the number of women roaming about on a weekday and realized that show houses meant big money.

  “Oh, look, Faith, don’t you like the way they’ve stenciled the floor? For a moment, I thought it was parquet, but it’s paint. Now, that wouldn’t be hard. It’s merely a series of diamond shapes. All you need is masking tape and paint.”

  “And someone to do it,” Faith commented. Her idea of do-it-yourself was dialing the phone.

  The foyer, which was almost as large as Faith’s dining room, was lovely. The tall windows let in the light and the decorator had wisely left them almost bare, looping some sheer muslin across the top and letting it hang down to the floor on each side. In one corner, there was a small fireplace surrounded by the original Minton tiles in teal blue and white. The walls had been lacquered and glazed in the same blue.

  Marian had a little notebook out and was busily jotting down ideas. She was a great one for gluing pinecones she’d sprayed gold onto Styro-foam forms and putting up potpourri from her garden, but Faith had yet to see her mother-in-law carry out anything more complicated. To be fair, it would be hard to find the time. Marian’s volunteer work alone constituted at least two full-time jobs. Then, she was always pitching in at the office, or rushing to help one of her brood.

  Dick Fairchild had recently taken a partner, Sheila Harding, acknowledging at long last the unlikeli-hood that any of his children would take over the business. Sheila was a “crackerjack,” according to Dick: “Keeps her ear so close to the ground, I swear she’ll grow roots one of these days!” But Marian still liked to keep her hand in. Faith suspected it was more that she liked to view people’s houses, especially in her own town.

  Marian leaned over and lowered her voice.

  “Pier 1 pots, but they look expensive here. Besides, put anything on a sconce on the wall and people assume it’s worth a lot.”

  Faith filed this tip away for much-future reference. She’d be in a parsonage of some sort for most of her life and these usually did not offer up much scope for the imagination. The Fairchilds had built a small house on Sanpere Island in Maine last summer and as far as decorating went, she was thinking IKEA.

  “What a wonderful dining room. So big!” Marian exclaimed. “People had larger families in those days; even though the table is set for twelve, it could hold more.”

  Here the decorator had stuck to traditional Vic-toriana—huge mirrors reflected the ornately carved dark furniture. A Boston fern the size of a small shrub stood in the bow window. Heavy fringed damask drapes in the hue known as ashes of roses—Faith had gleaned this from Marian—

  framed the windows. The tassels of the tiebacks fell in carefully arranged silken heaps on the deep blue and ivory Oriental carpet.

  Marian was standing transfixed by the place settings. Faith was glad she had found the time to be with her mother-in-law; she was obviously having such a good time.

  Just as Faith was about to trot out her own abundant store of knowledge—the plates were early Spode—she was stunned to see Marian grab one of the crisp white napkins from the table, sending the Tiffany Audubon sterling forks clang-ing against the fruit-laden epergne centerpiece.

  Stripping the ring off, Marian Fairchild flung the serviette to the ground and exclaimed, “This napkin ring! It’s Tom’s! As if I wouldn’t know it anywhere. His initials are as plain as day. And here are Ben’s and little Amy’s!” Napkins were flying every which way.

  The hostess whose job it was to prevent overfa-miliarity with the decor was moving swiftly from her chair by the door to the rescue. Marian put up her hand. The woman froze, stunned by both the gesture and Mrs. Fairchild’s words: “Somebody call the police! These are stolen goods!”

  Six

  Faith was slightly miffed. Especially since her own napkin ring was staring her in the face. It wasn’t as distinctive as Tom’s—a large sterling re-poussé ring, originally his great-grandfather’s—

  but there were her initials in an elegant script and the slight dent from the time she’d heaved it at Hope and missed, hitting the dining room wall instead.

  Yes, she was miffed. She’d spent most of Saturday fruitlessly chasing all over New England; Marian simply walked into a house barely a five-minute drive from Faith’s own and came up a winner.

  “Please! What are you doing!” The volunteer had come unstuck and was frantically picking up the napkins.

  “tFp, Thomas Preston Fairchild. It was his great-grandfather’s name and it’s his. I’ll thank you to call the police immediately or at the least show me to a phone,” Marian said.

  By now, a crowd of very interested bystanders had gathered and others were trying to squeeze through the door. Word of the ruckus was spreading quickly throughout the house: Some woman was running amok with the table settings in the dining room!

  Marian Fairchild was not paying the slightest attention to anyone except the hostess, who was beginning to strike her as slightly stupid. She’d recited the names and birth dates on each ring without looking—what further proof could the woman want? Faith, meanwhile, was taking the opportunity to scrutinize the rest of the room for a Fairchild gravy ladle or the odd butter knife.

  The onlookers were parted by a small, very determined figure. She took Marian by the elbow and said, “I’m sure we can straighten this all out.

  These are such lovely things, aren’t they? Of course it’s a great temptation to pick them up, but why don’t I just put them back where they belong and we can have a little talk?”

  Faith moved quickly next to her mother-in-law, who was ready to blow a gasket, although mo-mentarily speechless. “I’m Faith Fairchild and this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Richard Fairchild.

  It may be hard to believe, but these do belong to us. Our home was burglarized recently and somehow th
ese, and perhaps other items, have ended up here at your show house.” She gently but firmly detached the woman’s hand from Marian’s elbow. “Is there someplace we can talk? We need to know where these napkin rings came from, and the police should be informed.” The woman was not quite ready to give up.

  These little terrier types never do, Faith reminded herself. Fixing Faith with a stern eye, the woman asked. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “We’re absolutely sure,” Faith replied.

  Marian had found her voice. “Faith, dear, she thinks I was trying to steal them! She thinks I’m a thief—or a lunatic!” Marian’s tone made it clear who, of the two of them, had the mental defi-ciency.

  The crowd of ladies began to buzz. They would have paid twice the admission price! Conversations with those unlucky enough to have missed all this were rapidly being mentally rehearsed:

  “Did you hear what happened at the Byford show house? I mean, she looked like such a nice woman, well dressed . . .”

  Hearing the whispered undercurrents and needing no translation after her years in Aleford, Faith addressed the group. “I’m sure all of you have heard about the recent rash of burglaries in the area, and our house was hit. My mother-in-law recognized the napkin rings as soon as she looked at the table, and she did what any of us would do—took them back. Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .” She led the way, she knew not where, through the nearest door. It was a large butler’s pantry and she was happy to see a phone. It hung on the wall and wasn’t disguised in any cutesy, decorative way. Just a plain—she picked up the receiver—working phone. Before she dialed, she turned to the hostess, who was dogging their heels, keeping the napkin rings in sight. “I’d like to call the Aleford police and let them know about this. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” She was excessively polite.

  “It’s Mrs. Eleanor Barnett. Yes, I think the police should be notified. Nothing like this has ever happened at one of my houses before.” Clearly, it was Faith’s and Marian’s fault.

  While she punched in the numbers, Faith was aware that Marian and Mrs. Barnett were having a heated discussion sotto voce. She listened as best she could while the phone at the police station rang—and rang.

  “I can’t let you take these! Even if they are yours,” the woman corrected herself hastily. “I mean, they are obviously yours, but all our antiques have been supplied by Nan Howell. She owns Tymely Treasures here in town. I have to get in touch with her.”

  “Never mind.” Faith had a sudden premoni-tion. If this Nan Howell was honest, fine, but if she wasn’t, calling would mean any other things of theirs the woman might have in her possession would promptly disappear. “We’ll let the Aleford police handle this and finish looking at the beautiful job you’ve done here. Marian, we know where the napkin rings are, so let’s leave them for now.”

  Marian looked as if she was about to protest, but Faith caught her eye and she got the message.

  She handed the napkin rings over without another word.

  Faith was speaking into the phone. “Yes, we’re positive they’re ours, Dale. They have our initials on them and our birth dates.” Charley wasn’t at the station, which accounted for the delay in answering the phone, and Patrolman Warren was having a hard time believing they had found some of their stolen items—giving a lie to Charley’s well-meant reassurances that the Fairchilds’ goods might never be recovered.

  “Golly, Mrs. Fairchild! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anybody getting their stuff back!” He promised to get the message to the chief as quickly as possible and Faith said she’d be in touch.

  “The police have been informed,” Faith said emphatically. “Marian, shall we see the rest of the house?” She walked from the pantry into the large kitchen. Clutching the napkin rings, Eleanor Barnett went in the opposite direction to restore the table settings, leaving the Fairchild women with obvious reluctance. She glanced around the kitchen. Aside from some small potted herbs on the windowsill, there was nothing pilferable.

  Marian spoke loudly and distinctly: “I think granite counters are getting slightly old hat, don’t you, Faith, but putting a hinged window seat along those back windows was terribly clever.” The show was over—or one of them.

  As soon as the woman left, Faith said softly,

  “There must be a back door. We’ve got to get to that antique shop before anyone—the police or someone from here—calls the owner. They’ll be so busy talking about all this among themselves that we may get lucky and no one will think to call the antiques store. Besides, they think we’re still here. Afterward, I want to come back and search the rest of the house.”

  Marian nodded and said brightly, again in her crisp New England voice, a voice with great carrying power, “I wonder if there’s a mudroom. So handy if you have small children. And look at the garden! Did you ever see such roses? Such early blooms!” She had Faith outside and walking down the street toward the car before you could say Mario Buatta.

  While Marian drove, Faith found the address of Tymely Treasures in the show house program booklet. It was on Route 62, which was nearby.

  She watched the numbers, and they were almost in Carlisle before they found it—next to a dry cleaners and, from the look of the brick, dating back in “tyme” to the mid-1970s.

  A bell rang merrily as Faith pushed open the door. The store was deep and narrow. Every surface was covered—paintings and prints on the walls, rugs of various descriptions on the floor, most of which was taken up by chests, chairs, tables, and whatnots—layers upon layers. One side of the room was lined with bookcases and china closets, each appropriately crammed. The other side contained several showcases filled with silver, jewelry, and small objets d’art—tchotchkes.

  The afternoon sun caught a tabletop filled with cut glass. It also glinted off a group of offerings from the thirties—shiny cocktail shakers, blue etched glass mirrors, slender nymphs draped in impossible poses around clock faces. Fringed silk and paisley shawls had been draped over a row of late-nineteenth-century love seats and it wasn’t until one of the shawls moved, revealing a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman with a Dutch bob, that the Fairchilds were sure that someone was indeed minding the store.

  “Hi, welcome to Tymely Treasures. I’m Nan.

  Are you looking for anything special?” She was wearing a long, loose caftan and, in addition to the shawl, had adorned herself with strings of amber and cinnabar beads, several inches of brightly colored Bakelite bracelets on both wrists, and a large cameo on her ample breast.

  “We’re looking for a gift—silver, or maybe a piece of jewelry.” Faith had no intention of saying anything about the napkin rings until she’d thoroughly cased the joint and formed an impression of Nan Howell.

  “Over there.” She pointed to her left. “I’ll be happy to show you anything you want to see.

  Take your time.” She resumed her position on the love seat and took up the book she’d been reading. It was a mystery— At Death’s Door by Robert Barnard.

  Twenty minutes later, Faith realized dejectedly that while Nan Howell had lovely things, none of them belonged to the Fairchilds. The woman had gotten up twice, once to answer the phone and once to unlock one of the showcases and pull out a box of serving pieces so they could have a closer look. Marian had drifted off toward some Ben-nington pottery and Faith was trying to decide what to do next, when she was startled by Nan’s voice. She’d gotten up and was walking toward Faith.

  “I bought the napkin rings. I didn’t steal them.

  You are Faith Fairchild, right?” Was the woman clairvoyant? Faith remembered the phone ringing. Charley must have gotten the message. But it wasn’t Charley.

  “Ellie Barnett, the woman in charge of the show house, is an old friend. She called me right away. ‘A blonde,’ she said, ‘about five six, very well dressed, accompanied by an older woman,’

  so I figured it must be you.” All this had been delivered in a sympathetic but also slightly amused manner. Faith had the feel
ing that Nan was picturing the scene in the show house dining room.

  She’d also clearly enjoyed letting the two

  “sleuths” search her store, all the while knowing exactly who they were and what they were up to.

  Momentarily diverted by trying to analyze the owner of Tymely Treasures—and by the flattering description of her own wardrobe—Faith was soon back on track. “Where did you get the napkin rings—and when?”

  “Let’s sit down. Do you want a cup of tea?” Nan locked the front door and turned the sign around so it read closed.

  She led the way to the rear of the store, which had been curtained off. Behind the curtain, there was a table with a hot plate, several chairs, and more stock. Nan put the kettle on.

  “It’s a horrible experience—being broken into.

  I’ve had things taken from the shop or at shows, but never from my home. It always bothers me to lose something. You know that someone you took on good faith as a customer wasn’t really, but it would be much, much worse to have it happen in one’s abode. The old ‘Your house is your castle’ thing—impregnable, safe.”

  Nan was a talker, something that had not been apparent at first. She knew enough to keep her mouth shut while people were browsing, but now there was no need. This was all fine with Faith. She simply needed to steer the conversation in the right direction.

  Marian had taken over making the tea. She automatically assumed tasks like this.

  “You still haven’t told us where our napkin rings came from. How did they end up with you?

  They were stolen last Tuesday.”

  “I got them from the Old Oaken Bucket Antiques Mart near Peterborough, New Hampshire, last Friday. The receipt may have the case number on it. Anyway, it’s the first large one you come to on the right behind the front counter. Oaken Bucket rents space to dealers, most of whom don’t have, or don’t want, shops. There are lots of places like this all over New England now. Antiques supermarkets. The small, owner-operated shop may become a thing of the past. Kind of like all those chains putting the old-fashioned drugstores—you know, with the soda fountains—and small independent bookstores out of business.