Penny was enthusiastic. "I can't thank you enough, and I'm sure they'll find out who did this soon. Maybe they have already. In the meantime, you know where I am. I think I'll stay indoors a bit more and eat at the Y for the time being."
“What about the election?" asked Pix. "I hope you're not thinking of withdrawing?"
“It did cross my mind. James would do a fine job, but it doesn't seem right when so many people have worked so hard.”
She's afraid of Millicent, too, Faith thought.
“Of course, I can't stay at the Y forever," Penny mused. "I do hope the police will be quick.”
The police, with a little help from their friend. Faith was sure she would be able to figure out who had killed Alden. The funeral was the next day. People in medieval times believed that the corpse would bleed again if the murderer walked by. She'd have to keep a sharp eye out for red drops on the blue chancel carpet.
Back in Aleford, Pix dropped Faith off at her front door and slipped Penny's letter in Faith's mailbox. There had been a convenience store across from the Y and Penny had bought some envelopes and a pad. "Such a shame I can't use this time to catch up on my correspondence. I owe so many people letters" She'd brightened at the thought "Why not write them and mail them when I get home?" With that happily decided, Faith and Pix had left her to go home themselves.
Tom was in his study and miraculously both children were sound asleep, judging from the quiet that reigned. Faith thought it a bit suspect to walk in carrying the letter, so she let it lie where it was. Better for Tom to find it when the mail came.
“Any luck?”
On the drive back to Aleford, Faith had agonized over what to say to her husband. Pix had a similar problem with Sam. They had decided to seek refuge in confidentiality.
“Such a funny word, `luck.' " Faith stalled. "So much of the course of our lives is determined by chance encounters, lucky or otherwise.”
Tom didn't mince any words. "So you did find Penny.”
“I can't really talk about all this yet, darling, but the moment I can, you will be the first to know"
“And I'm supposed to take comfort from that?" He regarded his wife closely. "I hope you and Pix know what you're doing. In fact, I'd like to believe it ..."
“Here comes the but," Faith interjected.
“Forget the but—all the buts—and just be careful. Please."
“I promise," Faith swore. This was certainly the most confusing case she'd ever been involved in, yet she truly believed nothing posed any threat to her personally.
However, it was a little difficult to maintain objectivity when Tom came into the kitchen with the mail, the letter from Penny, stamp uncanceled, already opened.
“And what are we supposed to tell Charley about this?"
“About what?" Faith began, but it was her husband, after all. "Oh, Tom. You tell him you don't know how it got there, and you don't."
“I tell him. So that's it. if you're not there in person, there hasn't been any subterfuge."
“Something like that. Now I have to get going. I talked to Niki and everything is ready for tonight, but I want to be there early to check. I hear Amy stirring, and Ben will not be far behind. I'll get the kids up and I've written down what's for dinner. They can watch Winnie-the-Pooh tapes on TV until then, which might not be according to Brazelton, but I'm beginning to think the reach may permanently exceed my grasp."
“Whoa there. I never thought I'd be saying these words to my spouse, but I'm going to give you twenty-four hours, then we go to the police and you and Pix tell all. I'm assuming there's a very, very, very good reason you're not saying where Penny is, because I'm afraid all this more than qualifies as impeding the course of an investigation.”
Privately, Faith thought Tom was being a little highhanded with his time limit and three verys, but she agreed.
“All right, except give us until Saturday. I have the funeral tomorrow, then work. We may need a bit more time."
“For what?"
“I'm not sure," she admitted, "but it's not only time for us to try to figure out what's been going on. It's also to allow the police to track down the killer."
“Very gracious of you.”
The eulogy must be going extremely slowly. Tom was almost never sarcastic. She gave him a big kiss. "Why don't you run the letter over to the chief while I get the kids up? I love you."
“I love you, too," he said ruefully.
One of the occupational hazards of being married to a minister was that one ended up attending a great many funerals. Over time, Faith expected to become inured to 260 the solemn ritual and finality of the service, which always prompted fervent prayers of her own for the wellbeing of everyone she knew, but at the moment she was far from it. Alden Spaulding's obsequies were no exception, and she sat in church the next morning reciting a litany, starting with Tom and the children and extending to Mr. Reilly, who brought fresh eggs from his chickens to the parsonage, along with pumpkins in the fall and pansies in the spring.
The church was filled to capacity, despite the bad weather. It was cold and a light rain was falling. Faith recognized many Alefordians, but there were also strangers, and she doubted if all were loyal workers from COPYCOPY come to pay their last respects. More likely, they were those odd individuals drawn to the spectacle by their own lurid imaginations, fed by the media. It was ghoulish, like those drivers who slowed down to get a really good look at an accident.
The organist was playing. Brahms, Faith thought. She was fairly good at classical music after years of listening to it at church and at home—Tom Petty and other heartbreakers of her adolescence had been relegated strictly to her Walkman.
The slow, sad strains sent her mind wandering pensively to an odd conversation she'd had the night before with Maxwell Reed during one of the breaks in the shooting. She'd been alone in the kitchen, preparing a new tray of sandwiches to take upstairs. He'd come to get a bottle of his Calistoga water. After learning of his penchant from Cornelia, she had stocked plenty for him and anyone else who wanted it. When he'd walked in with his request, Faith had wondered why the PA or someone else wasn't doing the fetching and carrying. He'd answered her unspoken thought.
“Wanted to get away for a minute and it's too damn cold to go outside.”
He'd sat down in one of the chairs at the table and Faith had gone about her business as silently as possible. But it was not solitude he'd sought. It was an audience, a small audience. He was in his ubiquitous corduroy pants and a crew-necked sweater over a turtleneck. The sweater had a hole in the sleeve. He hadn't shaved in a while and Faith could see there was a lot of white coming in. It didn't show so much in his blond hair, standing on end now as if he'd been running his hand through it all night. He looked rumpled but full of energy.
He took off his thick-lensed glasses and polished them on his sleeve. His eyes were fantastic deep pools of blue in which a girl might seriously consider drowning.
“When I'm making a picture, nothing else matters to me. I don't think about anything else. If I could, I'd have everyone live on the set and shoot around the clock. I suppose this seems pretty callous in light of all that has happened.”
Faith made an appropriate noncommittal murmur.
“It will hit me later. When it's in the can. I don't want to think about Sandra now. Or that old guy, whoever he was.”
He'd gone to the fridge and taken another bottle of water, then returned to the table.
“Maybe I'm a hypocrite. Pretending what I'm doing is so God Almighty important that I don't have to think about other things. My wife. My kid.”
The man had clearly been on the couch, and Faith was certain she was a stand-in. She nodded and asked a question. The role called for it."Your wife?"