“paahking her carr in Hahvad Yaad” herself, had been drawn to Dunne immediately—and ever since. In turn, she was growing on him, but how, specifically, varied from time to time, depending on the mood he was in. At the moment, he wished he could tell her to stay in the kitchen and keep baking the cookies he smelled. It had as much chance of working as the possibility of his acquiring a rent-controlled West Side apartment with a view of the park as a pied-à-terre.
“Of course. Tom’s in his study. Go on in and I’ll join you as soon as I get the kids settled. Coffee?
Something to eat?”
“No thanks.” Faith expected as much. Dunne seldom accepted refreshment while on the job. For once, she was glad sustenance had been rejected. She didn’t want to miss anything.
Having quickly opted for that mother’s standby, a video—in this case Winnie the Pooh—Faith walked into the study only a few minutes later.
“I’ve assumed the whole thing was Millicent’s idea,” Tom was saying.
“What whole thing?” Faith asked. With Millicent, Tom could be referring to anything from temperance to changing Aleford’s name back to what Millicent believed was its original one, Haleford.
John Dunne sighed. The papers on Tom’s desk fluttered. She was back. There was no way he was going to get a private chat with the reverend. Once again, he faced the prospect that Faith would get overly involved, get in the way, get in his hair, get . . . He could go on, and did—to his wife.
Yet, he reminded himself, Faith did know more about what was going on in town than Tom, who the detective presumed was busy concentrating on loftier matters.
“I want to know about the POW! group,” Dunne explained. “Who started it, anything that comes to mind.” Faith thought it more judicious to answer his questions before asking her own.
“Tom is right. Millicent started Preserve Our Wetlands! and the core group formed around a letter sent to the Chronicle protesting Joey Madsen’s plans to develop Beecher’s Bog.”
Dunne nodded.
“The people who signed the letter were Pix Miller, Louise and Ted Scott, Margaret and Nelson Batcheldor, Brad Hallowell, and Millicent herself. You know about the poison-pen letters they got afterward?”
“Yes,” Dunne said. “Charley told me. He also described the meeting of POW! that he attended and I understand there’s another one tonight. But what I want to know is whether there have been others you know about, smaller meetings.”
“I’m sure there have been, although I haven’t been invited to any. They would have had to have met to talk about the big meeting and compose the flyer. Although, I suppose Millicent and Brad could have done that themselves. I can find out from Pix if she’s been at any meetings.” Having offered help, Faith felt she could slip in a question.
“Do you think Margaret’s active membership in POW! had something to do with her murder?” Dunne hadn’t rung their doorbell to sell raffle tickets for PAL. The state police would have been called in right away in a town with a police force the size of Aleford’s. The detective might be asking about POW!, but he was definitely investigating Margaret’s death.
He frowned. It was marginally more grotesque than his smile.
“I didn’t say anything about the Batcheldor case,” he spoke sternly. “Back off, Faith. All I want to know about is POW!”
Outwardly chastened, Faith told him everything she knew and described the selectmen’s meetings, as well.
She had been prepared to tell him about meeting the Batcheldors in the bog, but he’d said stick to POW!, so she did.
At the end, he nodded again and addressed Tom. “It would be useful if we had someone who could report what goes on at these meetings. Charley’s there, but some extra eyes and ears would help. Obviously we can’t go.”
“I suppose so,” Tom said. He wasn’t altogether easy with the role of infiltrator, but if Dunne thought there could be a connection between the group and the murder, they had to try to find it.
Faith was not miffed. She was used to John and knew that even though he was specifically asking Tom, he meant her, too—however much it pained him.
“You want us to be moles. No problem. Now, if we could disguise ourselves in Carhartt jackets and get jobs with Deane Properties, we’d be all set.” It was exactly what Dunne had been afraid of—Faith was already on the case, at least in her mind.
“I just want to know about the conservation group. Period.”
If he had known Faith was taking this to mean that she didn’t have to share whatever else she uncovered, he might have phrased it differently. He might not even have walked in the parsonage door in the first place.
He snapped shut the Filofax in which he’d been making notes and stood up, narrowly missing a beam.
The study was in the oldest part of the house.
“I’ll hear from you tomorrow, then.” It was not a question. Tom showed him out and Faith raced to make sure the tape had not finished. Tigger was about to take Roo’s medicine and Ben had not taken Amy out of the playpen. She was in time.
Resisting the impulse to dress up as either Boris Badenov or Natasha—she seemed to have an impulse for disguise lately—Faith arrived at POW!’s second meeting early enough to get a place up front. She draped her jacket on the seat beside her to save it for Tom, who was waiting for Samantha. Softball practice had run late. Samantha had still not heard from her last two colleges and was no closer to a decision about the others than she had been a week ago. The whole episode of the poison-pen letter had been over-shadowed by where Samantha was going to go to school, the main topic of conversation at the Miller house once again. Samantha herself seemed quite calm when Faith had spoken to her about her choices.
It was Pix who was going off the deep end. “I don’t even know what time zone she’s going to be in or how much of a phone bill to expect!” she’d told Faith. The real issue was Samantha’s leaving. Pix was going to miss her terribly, and without a daughter in residence, the whole family constellation would change. “I’ll be outnumbered,” she’d told Faith. “All the blouses in the wash will be mine.” Faith had commiserated without totally understanding. Granted, it was many years away, but she thought it might not be so bad getting back to just the two of them—with lots of visits home, of course. Pix viewed the gradual reduction in size as the loss of limbs from one kind of family tree.
Millicent strode up onstage just as Tom slid into the seat next to his wife. “No envelopes thick or thin today, and she’s sick of talking about it. So don’t say anything about the C word when we get home,” he told her quickly before Millicent began.
“Poor Samantha! It’s horrible to be the center of attention sometimes.”
Millicent didn’t have a gavel. She didn’t need one.
The room, which was even more crowded than last time, instantly grew quiet.
“Before we begin, I’d like to have a moment of silence for our member, Margaret Batcheldor, who died so tragically this week. Most of you knew her and of her devotion to our cause. I would like to dedicate all our future efforts in memory of Margaret.” Millicent bowed her head and the only sound was the ticking of the large clock mounted on the wall next to the stage. Sixty seconds later, Millicent’s head snapped up and she was on to the first order of business.
“We’ll start the meeting with a report from the head of the signature drive, Brad Hallowell. Brad, stand up.”
Brad stood.
“We have submitted more than the required number of signatures to the town clerk and after verification, which should be completed by Tuesday, since Monday is a holiday, a special Town Meeting will be called for the following week.” Someone gave a cheer and everyone clapped. Brad sat down.