The Body in the Moonlight by Katherine Hall Page Page B

Faith could see that his hand was trembling. Jared’s full weight was collapsed against his cousin, and from the way his shoulders heaved, Faith could tell he was sobbing. He’d screamed when Gwen fell to the ground, and the sound of his voice, crying, “Gwen! Gwen! Don’t!” had carried above the crowd, following Faith into the kitchen. Gwen. Don’t. Don’t die. Don’t leave me.
    Pix and Ursula were standing near the Gabriels, far enough away so as not to intrude on their grief, but close enough to help if help was needed. Anson Scott was with Janice Mulholland. She seemed about to faint. He had distanced her from any sight of Gwen and was talking to her in an insistent manner, forcing her to focus on him and his words. There were several ornate gold-framed mirrors on the walls, enormous—reaching almost from floor to ceiling and wide enough to reflect any number of bygone ladies intheir full-skirted crinolines. Faith saw Anson’s and Janice’s reflected images mixed with those of the other partygoers. The mirrors gave the illusion of another room, another party, but with the same people. A party where nothing bad had happened. These mirrors had held Anson’s relative—how many years ago? Had she helped serve at a ball? Or had she been in the vast room only to clean the floor, dust? Had she looked at herself in these mirrors? Servants started when they were still children in those days. Had she danced a step or two, singing to herself, twirling around?
    While Faith watched, Scott pulled out a chair from the nearest table and sat Janice down. She looked limp, in sharp contrast to the mystery writer who now loomed large over her, still talking in an animated fashion, as if to keep her conscious.
    Faith went over to them and Anson called out, “Brandy. That’s what everybody needs. Some brandy. No, I’m not asking you for it. Nothing must be touched. But wish I’d thought to put a flask in my pocket.” She had had a fleeting disconnected feeling that she was watching a play—had been for the entire night—and here was Anson Scott playing some role to the hilt.
    And Tom, Tom was stage right, standing alone. Immobile. Staring in disbelief.
    Tom’s voice. The Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild’s voice. It was Sunday morning. Faith was in church.
    â€œDearly beloved, the Scripture moveth us in sundryplaces to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness….” Gwen Lord had been murdered the night before. Wickedness was afoot.
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    The last thing Faith Sibley Fairchild had ever wanted to be was a minister’s wife. She was the daughter and granddaughter of men of the cloth and had sworn to avoid that particular fabric after growing up a preacher’s kid. Her home hadn’t been in a moss-covered manse, but a Manhattan duplex. Her mother hadn’t been the pillar of the Ladies Aid, but a real estate lawyer. Still, both Faith, and her sister, Hope, one year younger, had felt that the eyes of the congregation were on them—always. The family had had very little time together, except for a two-week vacation in the summer. Her father’s busy times had been holidays, not only with the designated services but also with the pastoral calls and crises accompanying these occasions when one is supposed to be feeling great joy. Faith was proud of her father and treasured his ministry, but she’d seen the kind of sacrifices her mother had had to make—the kind they all had. No, she’d decided early on—a godly man, all right, but not a man of God. Then she’d met Tom and fallen hopelessly in love. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, she’d found herself a new bride in Aleford, Massachusetts, a small town west of Boston. Then a year later, a new mother. Three years later, a mother again. Next, she’d revived Have Faith, the highly successful catering company she’d founded in Manhattan