The Body in the Ivy (11 page)

Faith was alone in the garden, but Brent's hard work was in evidence everywhere. She didn't see a single weed in the raised vegetable beds, in the rows of flowers in the cutting garden, among the herbs, or in the borders surrounding the house that mixed sedums, lupine, ferns, daisies, and other native plants with their cultivated cousins—mallow, astilbes, hostas, lilies, peonies, delphinium. There was plenty of lettuce, some rainbow chard, and spinach. Too soon for much else, but plenty of promise. The peas were doing nicely, twining gracefully up the strings Brent had rigged up, and runner beans were beginning their ascent on rustic twig tepees. Several of the beds had arched twig trellises. One lone lush purple clematis was already in bloom, more buds ready to burst, in abundance.

Putting the laden trugs down, she went to the strawberry beds and soon filled her basket with the
fraises des bois
, a process that might have taken less time if she hadn't eaten so many as she picked. They were irresistible. The day was filled with promise. Already the sun had warmed the fruit and the top of Faith's head. She'd have to remember to unpack the squishable straw hat she'd brought and leave it in the kitchen by the door. The sky had changed from watercolor blue to deep robin's egg, with plenty of cumulus clouds that looked as if a child had cut them out of construction paper and pasted them in the sky.

It was quiet. Only an occasional seagull's cry or the screech of a tern interrupted the stillness. Faith had
come to relish any time alone, a rare commodity in her always too busy life. She'd heard an echo of that in Phoebe's voice last night as she spoke of wanting to stay for the whole week. To have time alone, time just for herself.

The captive reunion, as Faith had come to think of it, might work, after all. Gorgeous weather, good food, and this extraordinarily beautiful place might smooth over any initial annoyance at having been tricked into coming. Chris and Phoebe had reconnected. Perhaps the rest would, too. Maybe not Gwen, but everyone else.

Mint, thyme, rosemary, chives—she snipped some herbs and reluctantly went back inside the kitchen to set up the early risers' buffet. It was going to be hard to stay inside on a day like this.

Rachel Gold was sitting on a stool at the counter.

“I'm so sorry,” Faith said. “I got carried away in the garden. There's coffee and I was just about to set out juice and muffins. Or I can make you a nice omelet with the fresh herbs I just picked.”

“That sounds wonderful. I was too upset to eat last night and I'm starving.”

“Then let me get you some coffee and a muffin right now. Or there's tea—English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Lapsang souchong, Darjeeling, chai, herbal, you get the idea.”

“I do—Elaine has provided for every possible taste. She was always very thorough. Coffee is fine. Black.”

As she placed the food in front of the musician, Faith was struck again by how much younger some of the women looked than others. Rachel was in the first group.
Her dark hair showed only a few strands of gray and was cut short, fitting her head like a sleek cap of feathers—like a cormorant's. Her oval face was unlined; she wasn't wearing any makeup and still her skin glowed. Faith tried to remember what she knew about Ms. Gold. The covers of Tom's treasured early albums pictured her with a serious expression on her face, her long hair spilling over her shoulders as she held her guitar, poised to play. The liner notes on these or the CDs that replaced them never mentioned a husband—or a lover. Rachel Gold was apparently totally devoted to her music. Faith also recalled that Rachel, like herself, had been born and raised in Manhattan. Unlike Faith, Rachel still lived there.

As she whisked the eggs, Faith said, “My husband and I have always loved listening to you—several times in concert and over and over again at home.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said, smiling. Faith hadn't wanted to sound like a sycophant, but did want to convey their appreciation of the woman's extraordinary talent.

“I grew up in the city, too, but I live outside Boston now, lured away by my husband who still can't quite believe that people are born and raised in the Big Apple. He thinks of it as a stopover, not a point of arrival—let alone the end of the journey.” She placed the fragrant omelet on the counter, accompanied by brioche toast and a mound of the fresh strawberries. “Jam, jelly—or perhaps chèvre? I have some from Sunset Acres farm that's sweetened with a little honey, cranberries, and a hint of orange.”

“This is fine, thank you. I never have more than
coffee, yogurt, and fruit normally.” She began to eat with obvious relish.

“You made a great sacrifice for your husband—am I wrong or was there a bit of longing in your voice?”

“There's
always
a bit of longing in my voice when I talk to a fellow New Yorker, especially one who's probably living in a great apartment—West Side, pre-war, and don't tell me rent-controlled.”

“Okay, I won't tell you. Suffice it to say you're three for three.”

Relaxed by the food, Rachel stretched, got up, and poured herself another cup of coffee.

“Is this your cup? Would you like some?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Faith, “but I should be waiting on you.”

Rachel resumed her perch by the counter. “I'm not good at being waited on. I didn't grow up with servants, unlike some of the ladies upstairs asleep. Not that we were poor. Not by any means. My mother didn't clean and still hasn't plugged in an iron in her life. But she loved to cook. That particular gene missed me, much to her chagrin. She's sure it's why I never married.”

“We should trade. My mother is still mystified by my profession, although she would never call it that. A profession is what she and my sister do—things for which you need briefcases.”

“What did Elaine tell you about this week?”

The question was an abrupt change of topic, and tone.

Faith sat down. “I never spoke to her. Her assistant called and said Ms. Bishop was having a small reunion of Pelham classmates. I had a company in the city before I was married and she remembered attend
ing some of the events I catered. My sister is a Pelham alum and I was in a photo with her in the alumnae magazine that Ms. Bishop saw. That's how she tracked me down. I was flattered, and curious to meet her, of course, although the first time I ever read anything by her was on the train coming here.”

“So you're the only one of us who knew what was going on, or rather, that we would all be here.” Rachel seemed to be talking to herself.

“But it's okay now, isn't it?” Faith said, trying to keep the end of the conversation she overheard last night from her mind. “You were friends at Pelham and now you have time to reconnect in this beautiful spot. My sister's closest friends are her Pelham classmates. They see each other often; even the ones who have scattered come to the city when there's something going on.” There must have been at least ten Pelham friends at the christening, Faith remembered, and more at Hope's wedding.

Rachel pushed her empty cup away. “I haven't seen any of these women since graduation. And I don't have fond memories of Pelham. The opposite. I couldn't wait to leave.”

“Then you won't be staying on here,” Faith said.

“No, I won't be staying.”

The words hung in the air, stale smoke after a party.

Faith picked up the dishes and moved toward the sink.

“I think I'll take a walk,” Rachel said.

“The gardens are lovely and there seems to be a path into the woods back by the greenhouse.”

Out the window the sun was shining brightly.

“I probably won't need this, but I'll take it anyway—more quotations from Chairman Mom: ‘Take a sweater just in case.'” Rachel was obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Faith wasn't playing; Rachel had dropped a bomb, so she could, too.

“Who was Prin? And do
you
know what's going on here?”

Rachel stood still and took her hand from the doorknob. She looked straight at Faith.

“Prin was Elaine's twin sister. She took a swan dive off Foster Tower in the center of campus into the ivy many, many feet below just before graduation. She was beautiful—for whatever reason, Elaine has made herself over to look a lot like her sister. Prin's eyes were the first feature anyone noticed. Violet, and without lenses, which must be how Elaine is achieving the effect. Besides being beautiful, Prin was, well, clever, very clever. Everyone here knew her.” She paused and seemed to be deep in thought. “As to what's going on, I think Elaine has convinced herself that Prin's death wasn't an accident or suicide, but murder.”

“Murder!”

Rachel nodded. “Yes, murder—and one of us the murderer.”

Before Faith could ask her what could possibly have led her to this startling, even bizarre, supposition, Rachel Gold opened the door and left.

 

Faith watched the group emerge from the woods and stand still, struck by the view as she had been earlier when she'd come out with Brent and the cart. The path
through the woods was lovely, winding past stately pines and the occasional hardwood, a large black oak that begged for a child's tree house, birch groves, swaying poplars. Rocky ledges were covered with various carpets—deep green velvet moss, grizzled gray lichens like old men's beards, mountain cranberries, the fruit still pale and small, low junipers, and bunchberries. The path was studded with granite outcroppings and gnarled roots. The cart bounced along. Brent, who had obviously been this way many times before, had cushioned the hampers with the picnic spreads they'd be sitting on.

The view had stopped her in her tracks, too. It wasn't the change from the scant, filtered sunlight to the brilliant day, although that was arresting. It was the view—straight out to sea from the top of a high bluff. Faith had crossed the small meadow, and looked over the edge. Far below, the surf surged up over the rocks. There was a thunder hole, and the echo from the pounding waves reached all the way to the top of the cliff. This was not a sandy beach, a beach to stroll upon, peering into tide pools, but one composed of rocky slabs tossed up by an angry sea. It was wild—and very beautiful.

Now the group was moving toward the edge, the way she had. Elaine was in the lead. Faith had set out the picnic at the start of the meadow where there was some shade. The writer strode over. Faith, adept at reading the body language of employers, tried to prepare herself for what was sure to be a complaint. But what? The spread could be photographed for
Gourmet
or
H&G
without a single addition or alteration. Besides the col
orful Pierre Deux Provençal spreads, there were cushions upon which one might sit or recline against. Low folding tables held the food and drink. Faith had set out a salad of roasted vegetables in a rosemary vinaigrette, another of field greens. She'd grouped bowls of red and yellow grape tomatoes, tiny new carrots, and sugar snap peas around a lemon dill hummus dip, light on the garlic. There were tea sandwiches: cucumber, watercress, smoked salmon, crab, and egg salad with caviar. She'd also provided heartier fare—focaccia with layers of provolone, slivered marinated artichoke hearts, and prosciutto; another with smoked turkey, farmhouse cheddar, and chutney. There were old-fashioned brownies, oatmeal-raisin cookies, and lemon squares to go with a fruit salad—nectarines, melon, grapes, fresh mint, and of course strawberries—for dessert. A quick trip to the garden yielded a bouquet of lady's mantle, delphinium, Shasta daisies, and lilacs, which Faith had placed in a galvanized metal watering can she'd found in one of the kitchen closets. The watering can—that must be it! Too plebeian?

“Mrs. Fairchild, why have you set up so far back from the cliff? Surely you must have seen that the view out to sea and to the shore below is magnificent.”

So this was it.

“Yes, it's absolutely gorgeous, but I thought some of your guests could want a bit of shade and it's better for the food, too. Plus you might have some acrophobiacs.” Faith smiled as she offered the last, lighthearted, she hoped, remark.

“None of my guests have phobias of any sort.”

Now what to say? Faith wondered. Hasten to assure
her that Faith had not meant to imply anything, that of course her classmates had all their marbles and then some. But before she could say anything, inane or otherwise, Ms. Bishop continued.

“Impossible to move all this now. We'll just have to make do. Tonight we'll dine at the house, and then gather at the shore for a bonfire. Brent will see to that. All you have to do is provide some sort of refreshments.”

Something told Faith that s'mores would be out, although they were being featured in some of New York City's trendy restaurants, along with milk 'n' cookies.

Margaret Howard, the college president, was the first to arrive at the picnic table.

“Thank God you didn't set up any closer to the edge of the cliff,” she said, piling her plate with food. “I can't stand heights. Just looking at it from here gives me vertigo.”

So much for phobia-free guests, Ms. Bishop, Faith thought with more than a touch of smugness. With the thought came another—working for the famous author wasn't going to be the piece of cake Hope had promised and Faith herself envisioned.

All the women, even Gwen Mansfield, had trekked out to the picnic. Faith had been surprised to see her. She'd appeared in the kitchen at nine o'clock and asked that a carafe of coffee, pitcher of skim milk, and some fruit be brought to her room. Faith made up a tray, adding a basket of muffins, scones, and whole-grain toast plus jam and butter. When she checked an hour later, the tray was in the hall—the carbs, even the toast, untouched. A picnic didn't seem to be Ms. Mansfield's thing, but perhaps she didn't want to be left alone in the
house. Although, given the increasingly tense atmosphere, Faith wouldn't have blamed her. The mood was at great odds with the weather and the setting, but it was there. The women had divided into three groups, physically close but conversationally separate. Chris, Phoebe, Rachel, and Bobbi made up one; Gwen and Lucy another; Elaine and Margaret the third. The college president had mentioned Barbara Bailey Bishop's generous offer to the college when she'd come down for breakfast, and Faith was sure the administrator wouldn't let her patron out of her sight until the deal was signed, sealed, and delivered. From the snippets of conversation coming her way, Margaret Howard seemed to be laying it on thick, enumerating the benefits that would accrue to generations of Pelham women from the writer's gifts. The writer herself was looking extremely bored, not even bothering to reply. She had been picking at some salad and put her plate to one side. Glancing at her companion, she said, “Care to take a stroll, Maggie?”