Free The Body in the Gazebo by Katherine Hall Page Page A

Sundays, whether by prior invitation or as a result of an impulse on Tom’s or Faith’s part, the Fairchilds had guests at their Sunday dinner table. Happily, thought Faith, today was an exception. The other exception was staying at coffee hour until the bitter end. And if the coffee was anything to go by, the bitter dregs. She’d sent Amy home with Ben as soon as Sunday school had let out, ushering them through the side door and watching them cross the cemetery until they disappeared into the parsonage through the back door. Ignoring their disappointment at having to forgo the tomato juice and Ritz crackers offered up for First Parish’s smaller fry (she had not managed to make even the slightest change in coffee hour from this to the choice of Triscuits and orange cheese or Vanilla Wafers for the grown-ups), she resolutely stood by her man and smiled until her mouth hurt.
    At last, Tom and she walked out into the fresh air. She took his hand.
    “For the moment, two choices. After some lunch, we can sit down and start trying to figure this all out. Or we can go off somewhere with the kids and try to forget it for a few hours. Which one?”
    “Door number two,” Tom said, pulling her closer to his side as they made their way between the rows of headstones with their lugubrious epitaphs. She always walked quickly by “As you pass by / And cast an eye / As you are now / So once was I” and slowed to consider what “She did what she could” might have meant to the survivor who commissioned it carved on the plain slate devoid of the angels or ghoulish figures so popular with those who practiced the art of gravestone rubbing. Faith did have a favorite epitaph, a more modern one. Her father had sent it to her after a parishioner had come across it on a trip: “Here lies an Atheist / All dressed up / And no place to go.”
    They’d reached the parsonage and stopped before going in.
    “In any case,” Tom said, “until I talk to the bank, all our speculation is just that. I need to compare my records to theirs.”
    “Okay, where to?” Faith was relieved that Tom had picked what she thought was the better course of action. She intended to get to the bottom of all this, but she needed more information. The first thought that had crossed her mind after Tom’s announcement was that somehow the theft had occurred when Tom was ill. It was where she planned to start, anyway. She was already making a list in her mind. Who had taken over what?
    “It’s a good day for kites. Crane Beach?” he suggested. “Bring Frisbees, too?”
    Crane Beach was a wonderful nature preserve up on the North Shore in Ipswich. The kites would soar with terns and other seabirds. As for the Frisbees, it would be a fun challenge tossing them in the wind and keeping them from the waves.
    “Perfect. I’ll pack snacks while you and the kids have some of the borscht I took out of the freezer last night. We just need to heat it up. There’s still some of that dark rye to go with it.”
    Faith had made vats of borscht last August with the succulent beets from the garden of her Sanpere neighbor Edith Watts. Faith’s secret was using red onions and adding a red bell pepper. The color of the soup was glorious and she’d swirl some low-fat sour cream on top in the spiderweb pattern the kids loved. The Fairchilds had altered their diet somewhat since Tom’s illness and Faith found there were things, like regular sour cream, that could be replaced with low fat or low sodium without a loss in flavor. Not butter, though. Real butter. She was with Julia on that one.
    She noticed the light on the message machine was blinking and she was tempted to ignore it. Her clerical training was too strong, however, and she pushed the button. Being a man or woman of the cloth meant you were always on call.
    It was Pix and she sounded as if she were phoning from the bottom of a well. Faith increased the volume and played the message again. It was typical Pix Miller.