Free The Body In the Belfry by Katherine Hall Page Page B

brightly painted chest of drawers full of dress-up clothes in the other.
    The house was big enough for Faith to stand up in. She and Jenny systematically went through everything. Nothing. Faith reached up to feel on top of the wide, exposed ceiling beams.
    Just over the door she found it. A tin box. She
grabbed it and it came tumbling down with a crash. It was an old Louis Sherry candy box that had probably once held someone’s treasured mementos. Cindy’s collection spilled onto the floor. Jenny rushed to her side.
    â€œWhat is it? Do you think that’s what they waned?
    Faith looked down at a bunch of photographs, a couple of joints, some cash, a matchbook or two, and some cocktail napkins. There was also a roll of film.
    â€œYes, Jenny, I think we can safely say this is what everyone is looking for. Could you run back to the house and have your parents tell the police what we’ve found? I’ll stay here. Tell them we haven’t touched a thing.”
    Jenny sped up the hill.
    But looking is not touching. Faith crouched down as close as she could get to the contents without disturbing anything. She was the one who had found it, after all. And John Dunne didn’t seem the type to exchange boyish confidences.
    Obviously it was the pictures. And they were hot enough to have melted the box. Cindy was evidently into porn—with herself as the star. The photos Faith could see completely featured Cindy in bed with different partners. It looked like Cindy had set the timer on the camera and raced back into position, unless there had been a third party to the fun. In some shots, the man was asleep, or exhausted. In others, the man was awake. Faith didn’t recognize them. Some of the shots were close-ups. Unusual to collect snapshots of male organs you have known, but everyone has to have a hobby of some sort, Faith supposed. She didn’t recognize any of those either.
    Another photo was partially covered, but she could make out a city sidewalk, a convenience store, and part of another building. What was it doing mixed in with Cindy’s personal Playgirl gallery?
    The backs of some of the photographs had initials and
dates. One had the name of the Crowne Plaza—Holiday Inn’s answer to the Ritz Carlton—printed below the date. An enchanted evening?
    Then there was the money. Quite a bit of money if all the bills were Ben Franklins, as the top ones were. Was Cindy blackmailing someone? If she had been, why? Cindy had a lot of money of her own, and would have more. She probably demanded and got a generous allowance. Why would she have blackmailed people? Faith knew you were never supposed to be too rich or too thin, but it still didn’t match her image of Cindy.
    Then there were the joints, two small ones, the matches, and the napkins. The matchbook she could see was from a motel in Ogunquit. It didn’t look like the sort of place the Moores would have stopped for a family vacation. It did look like Cindy’s speed—the right cable channels and one of those beds that ate quarters. The other matchbooks and more photographs were under the napkins.
    Faith was trying to decipher the letters and numbers written on a napkin when Dunne arrived. She stood up quickly. He was leaning over the porch and peering in the door. There wasn’t a ghost of a chance that he could get in the tiny building.
    â€œThe next time you have a hunch, would you be so kind as to tell us, Mrs. Fairchild? This isn’t one of your Upper East Side scavenger hunts,” Dunne said in what Faith knew was a controlled voice. He obviously wanted to scream at her.
    â€œWest Side,” she said, pushing it. She knew she should have told them, but how was she going to help Dave at all if she didn’t find things out on her own?
    â€œDid you touch anything?”
    â€œOnly when I reached for the box. It’s open because it fell.”
    Dunne looked at her skeptically. She inched past