The Body in the Ivy (6 page)

 

Two hours later Faith heard voices in the front room. Brent was leading another group of guests to the stairs that curved up from the dining room. She realized he'd taken her the back way, so she could see the kitchen. She'd noticed that there was another staircase joining the kitchen stairs, but hadn't thought about where it started. Both ended at the same landing.

It was a little after six. She hoped this new group was the rest of the women; she hated to think of the boat having to make another long round trip—but then the skipper must be used to it. How else would the papers
get here, unless Bishop arranged a helicopter drop for such essentials? Three in the first group, four in this one, their hostess, Faith, and Brent—she ticked them off on her fingers. Just as Owen had said, ten in all. Ten little Indians. She shook her head and mentally replaced the old nursery rhyme with the one her children had loved instead: “Ten little monkeys jumping on the bed…” The one where mama calls the doctor, who makes everything okay, but “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” She could hear Amy and Ben chanting the last line and smiled to herself.

At a quarter to seven Faith stood in the middle of the porch. The weather had cooperated beautifully and the early evening air was almost balmy. It was so still an unseen hand seemed to have brought the landscape into sharp focus. Several bottles of champagne were chilling in the ice buckets Faith had discovered in the china closet; each one was a different style, a different period. She'd put out the caviar, also on ice, with a mother-of-pearl spoon, toast points, lemon, chopped hard-boiled egg whites and yolks, and minced shallots, although she preferred hers au naturel when it was of this quality. There were smoked mussels and shrimp, a seafood pâté, as well as a multilayered vegetable one. She'd scattered brightly colored dishes of olives about, with receptacles nearby for the pits. A token platter of crudités—she found that while these looked wonderful, people usually only picked at them conscientiously before heading for the good stuff—sat on a glass-topped table next to the caviar. There was a small brass gong near the stairs in the dining room. She'd sound it at seven.
With her attention to detail, Bishop had, no doubt, outlined the night's schedule in a letter of welcome to each alum, but with the hostess still absent, Faith thought it wouldn't hurt to gather the guests promptly. They must be hungry after their respective journeys. Her sandwich seemed days away; she knew
she
was starving. She wasn't the kind of cook who ate while she worked. A taste here and there to correct seasonings was all she took. She eyed the Dom Pérignon and the crystal flutes with anticipation. She hoped the ladies would come down soon—and also that they wouldn't want pink drinks. She could mix up whatever anyone desired, but the champagne was both festive and perfect for the evening's menu, starting with these appetizers through the desserts. What had they drunk in the sixties? She laughed to herself—perhaps these Pelham girls hadn't been drinkers but smokers.

She sounded the gong; the pleasant tone was loud enough to be heard upstairs, but not too loud, not too intrusive. She noticed something she had missed before—a series of small glass cylinders in a row across the mantel. Each held a single, perfect rose. Not beach roses, but hybrids. She recognized Peace. Were they all French Meilland roses? Her eyes swept across the weathered wood. Ten, there were ten vases, ten roses.

The dining room stairs weren't carpeted, and she turned swiftly at the sound of footsteps.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Faith Fairchild. I'll be cooking for you this week.”

The woman looked as if she was in her forties, even late thirties, not fifties. She was slim and dressed in a simple coral linen sheath. Her dark hair was free
of gray whether from luck or design, Faith couldn't tell. She couldn't read the woman's expression, either. The good cheer Faith would have expected at a reunion like this was eclipsed by what could only be described as wariness. Poised on the bottom stair, the woman was looking toward the living room as if trying to decide if she should enter it. She took the last step.

“I must be the first,” she murmured almost to herself, then seemed to remember Faith and said, “Oh, sorry, I'm Rachel Gold. The note said cocktails would be served on the porch. Is that where Barbara Bishop is?”

“Ms. Bishop is finishing up some work and has asked me to act as hostess until she gets here. I'm sure it won't be long.”

Rachel nodded and looked somewhat relieved. “Good. I need to find out what the schedule is. Her assistant wasn't very clear. Have the other musicians arrived? There was a masseuse on the boat out with me; I gather there is a spa. I'm not sure who the other person was. I think she said something about finance, and she wasn't carrying an instrument of any kind, unless it was shipped ahead. I didn't catch either of their names.”

“Musicians?” Faith said, then realized who was standing next to her—Rachel Gold, the famous classical guitarist. Tom, who had worked his way up from “If I Had a Hammer” to Villa-Lobos, would be thrilled to hear Faith had met her. She put out her hand. “My husband and I are great fans of yours. It's an honor to meet you.”

Rachel blushed. “Thank you. If you are a music
lover, then this week should be a treat for you. I had no idea Ms. Bishop was so interested. I've been thinking of it as a kind of very small Tanglewood or Marlboro, playing all day in this magnificent setting.”

A musical Pelham group. They must have come together through their shared interest back during their undergraduate years.

“I know Pelham has a fine music department. How special for you all to get together. My sister is an alum, a later class.”

“Pelham?” Rachel said, and seemed about to add more, but her attention, and Faith's, was directed to the stairs where a group of four women was descending in silence.

This is not the party I imagined,
Faith said to herself as she welcomed the group and steered everybody out to the porch. They were followed almost immediately by two more. Seven, Faith counted. They were all here—except for the hostess, and Brent, of course. It wasn't his cup of tea, or Moxie, or whatever his preferred beverage was. Knowing the ungodly hour at which most New Englanders ate, Faith had left dinner for him in the kitchen. Now she eased the cork out of one of the champagne bottles and started pouring.

“Please, everyone, help yourselves. Ms. Bishop should be here shortly and I'm pinch-hitting until then.” The women's uneasiness was contagious. Faith never used sports metaphors. She wasn't sure she even knew what pinch-hitting was.

She continued nervously, “I'm Faith Fairchild and I'll be your caterer for the week.” She had launched herself into flight attendant mode and could barely
keep herself from saying, “Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night.”

A tall woman in a bright Lilly Pulitzer took one of the flutes and drained it. Faith promptly refilled it, and watched as she strode to the center of the porch and addressed the group.

“All right, let's go around the room. I'm Gwen and”—she pointed to a slight woman, who looked tired, as if she'd been ill, with long hair pulled carelessly into a scrunchie—“you're Chris Barker, a little grayer, but amazingly the same. You too, Lucy, except your hair is shorter.”

“You too, Gwen, except yours is blonder,” Lucy—Talbots from head to toe—shot back.

“And we know you from your pictures in the
Times,
Rachel. Would know you anyway.”

“But you were supposed to be musicians,” Rachel said, taking a glass from the tray Faith was passing, since no one was moving. “I was hired to lead a musical retreat.”

“And I was hired to conduct a financial seminar,” Gwen said. “Ms. Bishop, whoever she is, has been very clever.” Faith noted that anger and admiration seemed to be vying for first place.

“It's all of us, isn't it,” said a woman who was waging a possibly hopeless battle with the years. She needed to drop twenty pounds and get rid of her dated Jane Fonda shag cut. After two cherry tomatoes, she'd gone straight for the sesame breadsticks. “I'm sure we all recognize Maggie, or I should say, Madam President—we've seen your picture often enough in the alumnae magazine. Congratulations, by the way. And I'm Phoebe. Phoebe
James now. I live in New Jersey with my adoring husband, perfect sixteen-year-old twin daughters, an adorable thirteen-year-old son, and two darling Irish terriers.” How many glasses of champagne had the woman gulped down? Faith wondered. The irony was obvious—and very sad. “I thought I was coming to some sort of fancy book group retreat,” she finished in a softer tone of voice and sat down abruptly.

“And that leaves?” Gwen said.

“Me. Or I? Bobbi Dolan—and I know I look different. I headed straight for California after graduation, literally got in my car that afternoon and turned left. After a few summers of love, I made two bad marriages, studied massage working my way up and down the coast. It was in L.A., of course, that I got the lenses, the work, and the hair. Clients don't want you to look better than they do, but they do want you to look good.”

“So what the hell are we all doing here?”

Faith recognized the voice and the question posed earlier when some of the women had been walking from the boat to the house; the speaker had been Gwen. She was apparently a very take-charge lady. Faith wondered what her last name was. A financial seminar? Could she be Gwen Mansfield, her own sister Hope's personal idol? Faith knew that Mansfield had gone to Pelham—Hope had mentioned it often enough. And the age was right. But surely she was far above giving financial seminars no matter how much money Bishop may have offered. There must be another reason for Mansfield's presence.

“Please,” Faith said, thinking she should take charge herself. “Enjoy the sunset and have something more to
eat. Dinner will be a buffet in the next room at eight and I'm sure Ms. Bishop will be here by then.”

Her words were brave. At this point, she was as confused as they were and not sure about anything.

“I was told she was endowing a chair and going to fund a renovation of our writing center,” Maggie said. She sounded mournful.

“Don't worry, Prez,” Gwen assured her. “You'll get your money. If not, you can always sue. Probably we all can.”

Bobbi spoke up. “Do you mean we might not be getting paid? That is, I was supposed to give massages; I'm really very skilled.”

“I'm sure you are, pumpkin,” Gwen said. “And you can start with me. There should be time before we leave in the morning.”

“Leave?” Chris said in a puzzled voice. The thought of retracing her steps so soon was exhausting.

“What were you told?” Phoebe asked.

“That I was to prepare a series of lectures for garden devotees.”

“Of course! I've seen your byline. And you write that wonderful column. Stupid of me. I never thought Christine Barker was our Chris,” Phoebe enthused.

Chris brightened. “Then you're a gardener?”

“A vicarious one. That is, I read about other people's gardens. My husband likes lawns and shrubs; he's not much for flowers. When I suggested patio tomatoes in tubs, he told me that Jersey might be the Garden State, but he for one didn't want a truck farm in his backyard.”

The adoring husband, Faith reminded herself.

One woman had remained silent during the discussion. The one Gwen had pointed out as “Lucy.” She had refused the champagne and gone to the drinks table and made a stiff scotch rocks, Faith had noticed.

The food and drink were helping, but the air of unease that was so palpable from the onset had not lifted much. Everyone had been lured here under false pretenses, except for her, Faith realized. She was a cook and she was cooking. But then she wasn't a Pelham grad. It was a reunion, just as Owen had described, but apparently she was the only one who knew it ahead of time. Judging from the lack of recognition in most cases, and the lack of knowledge about what had been going on with each other's lives since college, this was not a group that had stayed in touch. So why had Bishop gathered them together and in such a devious way? If she had told them it was going to be a Pelham reunion, would they have turned her down? Certainly not the president—Margaret Howard, another of Hope's role models.

Gwen's glass was empty. Faith opened the second bottle and filled it. Gwen sat down and looked at her watch—very thin and very expensive.

“It's a quarter to eight. What do you say we help Faith—sorry, your last name escaped me—move the food and drink into the other room while we wait for our hostess to make an appearance. And answer a few questions.”

“Faith is fine, and if you'll all go inside, I really can handle this myself.”

Gwen nodded—she was obviously more used to being waited on, than helping the help—and the group
moved toward the door. Faith was interested to see that several were finally talking among themselves. There was a smile here and there. Perhaps it would be all right, after all. It was clear they had all known each other, what, almost forty years ago? A surprise party. A surprise reunion, engineered by Bishop.

Faith brought some of the food into the kitchen and some into the living room where they'd be joined by the warm entrees. There was a buzz of conversation now and she was about to announce that dinner was served, when a noise at the fireplace end of the living room cut sentences off midair. All eyes were trained toward a slowly opening door. The woman coming into view was beautiful, startlingly beautiful, Faith thought, and certainly couldn't be the same age as those gathered below, even the ones who looked great. This woman belonged in an entirely different category. A deep purple silk caftan did not hide her body's curves, but flowed against them, accentuating each asset. Faith recognized the thick, shoulder-length curling dark hair from the author's book jackets, but now she could see her face. Violet eyes and high cheekbones. Flawless skin. Her lips, turned upward in a smile of welcome, were deep crimson. One small dimple deepened as the smile broadened.