Part 5 (1/2)

He had, and they decided to go to the Audubon Society's Drumlin Farm in nearby Lincoln after Amy's nap. Ben brightened up at the prospect of pigs and Faith was able to settle him in his bed with a book after lunch. She went back downstairs and found Tom putting the food away.

”I still can't figure out what Margaret and Nelson were up to,” she said. The encounter with the Batcheldors had been the prime topic of lunch conversation, introduced by Ben as soon as he saw his father emerge from the study. Faith had endeavored to downplay the whole event, while punctuating the salient details with various dramatic facial expressions whenever the kids became distracted by the tri-colored fusili with Gorgonzola sauce she'd made, Ben's totally unaccountable favorite.

”Are you sure they were ski masks, not woolen hats pulled down low?” Tom asked.

”Of course I'm sure. I thought we had stumbled into the middle of some crazed neo-n.a.z.i maneuvers. When they got close, I could see they weren't wearing fatigues, but they were all in green. Now knowing how nuts Margaret is, I wouldn't put it past her to dress up like a particular bird she was hoping to add to her list, the olive-colored, black-capped bog sucker or some such thing. But given the mood of the meeting last night, I don't think they were birding today.”

”But what?” Tom looked extremely troubled. Nelson Batcheldor was a member of the Vestry.

”Maybe they're planning some way to blow up the bog if Joey goes ahead with his plans.”

”How would that help them?”

”I don't know, Tom. This is all supposition, and as far as I could tell, the only thing resembling a weapon was Margaret's heavy set of binoculars. Unless Nelson's camera is one of those James Bond types.”

”You were in the woods, so they were coming from the bog itself. Maybe they're stockpiling things. Oh, this is too crazy. We know they're a little eccentric.” Tom looked at

45.

Faith and amended his words, ”Well, very eccentric, and they probably dress like that for bird-watching all the time. We've just never seen them before. And it was cold early this morning. I would have worn a ski mask, too, if I'd been out.”

”You don't have a mask like that. Only robbers do. In fact, I wonder where you'd even get one.” Faith was getting sidetracked into a realm of speculation she'd explored before. You're about to engage in criminal activity. Where do you shop? Walk into housewares at Jordan Marsh and ask for a good, long, sharp kitchen knife? And these masks. Soldier of Fortune mail order? For those necessities not covered by the Victoria's Secret catalog? She was about to expound on all this when the phone rang.

Faith answered it, and whatever she had planned to say about the Batcheldors' proclivities went clear out of her mind.

It was Fix and she was definitely agitated.

”Faith, is Tom home? I've got to talk to you both right away! You know Sam's in California; otherwise I wouldn't bother you.”

This didn't sound either college- or middle school-related.

”What is it? What's happened?” Faith asked anxiously.

”I've just gotten a poison-pen letter,” Fix answered, and burst into tears.

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Three.

Fix Miller was not a woman who cried without provocation-funerals, illnesses, seeing The Yearling once again. As soon as Fix had arrived, Faith put her arm around her friend and led her to the couch with only a fleeting thought to the number of females who seemed to be drenching the parsonage with their tears lately.

”It's the shock, I suppose.” Fix reached around in her pocket, produced a crumpled handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes. ”I was opening the mail and there was this thin envelope, and at first I thought, Oh dear, Samantha's been rejected. Then I noticed there wasn't a return address, and I opened it and ... well, here it is.”

She handed the envelope, which she had clutched in her other hand, to Faith. Tom leaned over the back of the couch, reading over his wife's shoulder. It was a plain white business envelope addressed in ballpoint pen, block letters, to ”Mrs. Samuel Miller,” with the address.

Faith paused and put the envelope down. ”It's hard to get prints from paper, but I think we should be careful anyway.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a clean dust cloth, which she used to hold the paper by one corner as she eased it out of the envelope.

There was no doubt. It was venomous-a cla.s.sic of its sort, the letters neatly cut from magazines and newspapers.

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Occasionally, the writer had been fortunate enough to find an entire word. A few of the pieces were colored type, producing a collage effect. But it was not a work of art.

”CINDY” 's NOT DEAD. SAM is BETRAYING YOU.

DON'T TRUST YOUR HUSBAND.

A FRIEND.

”I know one thing”-Fix had given her eyes one final swipe and was giving an award-winning performance of her old self-”whoever wrote this horrible letter is certainly not a friend. The idea!”

Faith was staring at the letter.

”It really is strangely worded-'A friend' . .. 'betraying.' As if the person has some sort of quirky Victorian manual on how to write nasty letters-or watches a lot of daytime TV. And of course you don't believe it,” Faith quickly rea.s.sured Fix.

Sam Miller had, in fact, had one brief, disastrous affair during his particularly b.u.mpy ride into middle age, but that had been several years ago. The young woman, Cindy, with whom Sam had chosen to dally had later ended up as a corpse in Aleford's own historic belfry, discovered, in fact, by Faith. The suggestion of current adultery was horrible by itself. Bringing up the murder was particularly loathsome.

”Not for a minute,” Fix said staunchly. ”Still, I wish he was home.” Fix was incapable of lying. Coupled with her tendency to speak her mind, it often resulted in revealing self-confession. Faith did not have this problem.

Tom sat down on Fix's other side and took her hand. ”There's no question that Sam is totally devoted-and faithful-to you. But letters like this are intended to plant seeds of doubt. It's only natural to want him right here. When will he be back?”

”Tomorrow night. But don't worry. Of course I want to look him straight in the eye, but even more, I just want him home. Who would do this to us?”

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