The Body in the Gazebo (5 page)

“Phil needed to go golfing—and I wasn’t in the mood to read
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie
forty times in a row.”

“Sit down, and as soon as I finish this,
I’ll
give you a cookie. You look tired. Out late clubbing? Make some coffee. I wouldn’t mind a cup.”

Niki had refused to give up her lifestyle as a freewheeling twenty-seven-year-old and Phil was happy to go along.

When Niki didn’t respond—unheard of—and instead slumped into a chair without removing her jacket, Faith hastily wrapped the packets of dough, crossed the room to the freezer, and set them inside. With all that butter, they had to go in immediately. She stood in front of her friend and said, “How about
I
make the coffee and
you
tell me what’s going on.”

Niki sat up a little straighter.

“No coffee.”

Faith began to get very worried. Niki loved coffee, delightedly bringing ever more unusual blends to Faith’s attention—the latest was Malabar Monsooned from India, its special taste indeed acquired from exposure to monsoons. Niki wasn’t just a connoisseur. The stuff ran in her veins, and she joked that one of her ancestors’ ships must have gone radically off course, ending up in Scandinavia instead of Macedonia.

Pulling a chair close to Niki’s, Faith sat down and took Niki’s hand.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said quietly.

“Oh Faith,” Niki said, bursting into tears. “I’m pregnant!”

“But that’s wonderful!”

Niki had been regaling Faith and Pix for months with the various folk remedies her mother and aunts had advised to speed conception. Niki had told them she was sure plain old trying would eventually work, and meanwhile it wasn’t “trying” at all, but more fun than should be legal—her words.

Faith added, “This is the news you’ve been waiting for . . .” before her voice trailed off. The woman sobbing in front of her wasn’t shedding tears of joy. There must be something wrong with the baby. But it was so soon. She couldn’t be far along. Faith would have noticed and Niki wouldn’t have been able to keep it to herself, although she had told both Faith and Pix that no one was to tell Mrs. Constantine until Niki was at least eight months along. Niki didn’t want to be wrapped in cotton wool and subjected to endless advice about what to eat, what not to look at—her mother had already advised against any movie scarier than
The Sound of Music
lest it affect her future grandchild’s psyche.

“Is it the baby? Did they find something—”

Niki interrupted, rubbing her eyes with her hands in what looked like an angry gesture.

“No, I’m sure nothing’s wrong. I haven’t been to the doctor. Just did the test at home because I missed my period—and I’m never late. But you know me. Healthy as a horse. Phil, too, so the baby should be doing fine. That’s not it.”

She started to cry again. Faith got a box of tissues from under the counter. The only other time she could remember seeing Niki in tears was when the Constantines’ dog died, a chocolate Lab they’d had all Niki’s life. She swore that his coat was what inspired her to turn to truffles and the other sweets she loved to create.

Suddenly what Niki had said when she arrived came back to Faith, “Phil needed to go golfing.” The ground was still hard and it was cold. Phil enjoyed the occasional round, but he wasn’t a fanatic. Why did he “need” to golf today? In his corporate world, there was only one reason Faith could think of—networking. Big-time.

“Is something going on at work for Phil?”

Niki blew her nose.

“Just that he lost his job yesterday.”

“Damn!”

There wasn’t anything else to say. Faith put her arms around Niki. She was crying harder. This should have been one of the happiest days of her life. Phil had been steadily working his way up the ladder, but he’d only been with this firm for three years. There were a lot of occupied rungs above his.

Niki took another tissue and wiped her eyes.

“Yup. Handed him a carton and took back the key to the men’s room. He started dialing as soon as he walked out into Post Office Square, and the only nibble he’s gotten is this golf game with someone who knows someone who was at Yale with him.”

The days when job hunting consisted of scanning the want ads in the
Boston Globe
and mailing out résumés were totally foreign to Phil and Niki’s generation. Now it was all about networking, the golf kind, and the Internet kind.

“He’s lined up interviews with some headhunters. The most immediate problem is his parachute. It wasn’t golden. More like cheesecloth. A month’s pay and three months’ health insurance.”

There it was. Health insurance, the policy had covered Niki, too, and now it was good for only three more months.

“But surely he’ll find something before it runs out.”

Niki shook her head. “He has friends who have been out of work for much longer than that. We have some savings and he can cash in his 401(k) . . .”

“Don’t even think about it. I’ll cover you and Phil, as an employee spouse, here,” Faith said.

“You have no idea how much money that’s going to cost you, especially with my preexisting condition.”

“Expecting a baby isn’t like cancer or heart disease. I’ll talk to Ralph and we’ll get it ready to go immediately in case you need it. And that’s final.” Faith could see that Niki was getting ready to argue some more. On Monday morning she’d call Ralph, her insurance agent, who handled Have Faith’s business coverage, and tell him what was going on.

“Coffee now? I’ve got decaf beans,” Faith offered, mindful of avoiding caffeine during pregnancy.

“I don’t think so,” Niki said, graphically gesturing—finger pointed down her throat. “That’s how I first knew. About a week ago the smell started making me want to barf. I haven’t actually been losing lunch, but feel like it a lot. Weird.” Niki seemed to be considering the situation.

“Okay, how about a glass of milk and some cookies, then?”

Niki’s responses—verbal and physical—meant she was edging back toward her normal self and Faith was relieved. Phil would find a job in due course and meanwhile Niki could enjoy her pregnancy, although there was an oxymoron in there someplace if Faith’s experiences were anything to go by. Mostly she recalled having to pee constantly and panicking when she wasn’t near a bathroom. Pix had told her it was one of the main reasons for joining a club in Boston. You could go downtown when pregnant without fear.

“And once little beanbag or whatever nauseatingly cute name you guys come up with for him or her in utero arrives, we’re all set up here for you to bring the baby to work,” Faith said.

When she had purchased Yankee Doodle Dandy Dining, the catering firm that had previously occupied the space, she had completely remodeled the facility. During the process, she created an area where her kids could safely play from the time they were toddlers well into elementary school. Amy still liked to come hang out when her busy schedule permitted it.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Niki said, “but not having to pay for day care will save a lot. It also gives me an excuse to keep my mother from taking over.”

Niki’s mother indeed was a force of nature, but Faith liked and admired her, even while she understood how hard it was for Niki to have such a controlling individual hovering over her life. “Smother Love” might have been coined for Mrs. Constantine. Which was why Faith doubted Niki could keep her condition secret. However, Niki’s brother was engaged and this could possibly deflect attention from Niki for a while, as his fiancée was only half Greek and her future mother-in-law was busy teaching her how to make all her future husband’s favorite dishes. The situation had caused Niki to mention recently that there really
were
gods up there on Mount Olympus.

“Phil must be over the moon,” Faith said, relaxing into their usual companionable mode.

Niki dipped her molasses sugar cookie into her milk and took a bite.

“I haven’t told him yet,” she mumbled.

The mode switched back.

“You haven’t told him! Niki, eventually he’s going to notice the patter of little feet.”

“I know, I know. The stick only turned blue yesterday, and yes, I was really, really happy. Then he called with his news, and by the time he got home, I’d decided this was not the time to lay it on the guy that he’d better be out there hustling up some bread because there was going to be an extra place at the table for a bunch of years. Besides, I have a job, which brings me to the reason I came by. Oh hell, I came to tell you, you know that, but I also came to ask you a favor.”

“Anything,” Faith said.

“First, I don’t want you to tell anyone I’m pregnant.”

“Not even Pix?”

“Especially not Pix.”

Ursula and now Niki. What was up with this? Poor Pix. Life was getting even stranger than usual.

“You know she can’t keep a secret. The first time she saw Phil, she wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye, would get all red, and he’d know something was going on.”

“Sweetie! Pix is away for almost two more weeks. You can’t keep this from him that long.”

“I’ll keep it from him as long as I want.” Niki jutted her chin out, all traces of tears gone. “I don’t want him to be distracted. He has enough on his plate without piling on a helping of fatherhood.” Niki seemed to be favoring meal metaphors.

“Okay.” Faith backed off. Niki didn’t need Faith adding to her stress. “Anything else?”

“It’s a biggie. And if you think it will affect the business at all, you
have
to say so straight-out.”

Faith was mystified. Niki continued. “Could I use the kitchen here when we’re not doing a job? I thought maybe I could set up a dessert-catering Web site to bring in more money. Get Mom to spread the word about my cheesecakes at her bingo nights.”

Niki’s cheesecakes
were
truly delectable. Poetry even. Besides the traditional New York and strawberry-covered cakes in a variety of sizes, Niki also did praline, Amaretto, chocolate macadamia, and a new to-die-for pomegranate with a raspberry liqueur glaze. She was working on one for spring featuring Madagascar vanilla beans and toasted coconut.

“You didn’t even have to ask—and don’t worry about hurting business. Our customers almost always want full-service catering for dessert buffets—servers and people to clean up. This will be fun. I’ll help.”

“No you won’t. I’ll get Tricia. She wants to learn more about desserts. And of course I’ll use my own ingredients.”

“Look, it will all work out. You know me. I’m not Little Mary Sunshine, but we’ll get through this. And now, just for a little minute, can we shout for joy? You and Phil will be such wonderful parents.”

“You’re going to make me cry again. I’m doing that a lot lately. Better than throwing up, though.”

Faith decided not to tell her that this would in all likelihood start soon. Hair-trigger emotions first, sore nipples, and then morning sickness, which often stretched into the afternoon in Faith’s case. Plus, it seemed she had just recovered when the infant she’d produced started what the books termed with scientific precision “projectile vomiting.”

“I
am
happy,” Niki said. “Very, very happy.”

“Me, too.” Faith smiled. “How about we call your business ‘Little Mary Cheesecake’?”

“Don’t push it, boss,” Niki said. “I’m more the Suzy Creamcheese type.”

I
t was close to five o’clock by the time Faith got home and she was surprised to see that Tom’s car was gone. Where could her family be? But there were lights on in the parsonage kitchen. It was a mystery.

Faith went in the back door and found her daughter making chocolate chip cookies.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to turn on the oven until you came home, Mom,” Amy said.

Faith gave her conscientious little girl a hug, praying that she stayed that way, especially during her teen years.

“Where is everybody else? Dad’s car is gone.”

“He had to go to some meeting. He left you a note, and Ben’s doing homework in Dad’s study.”

After a series of incidents last fall, Ben’s computer was now out of his room and in a more public part of the house. Faith and Tom had followed the suggestion of many educators that with this simple act, they could control their child’s behavior without constantly looking over his or her shoulder. Just the presence of an adult helped kids think twice—or more—about their conversations in cyberspace, particularly ones about other kids. You might think you’re chatting to one or two others, but in reality it could be one or two billion, a fact few kids absorbed fully.

What kind of meeting could be held on a Saturday night? Faith wondered. That time was sacrosanct for the clergy who were preparing for a Sunday service. Presumably they were getting in an even holier mood than usual, and perhaps adding a comma or two to the following day’s sermon. In reality there might be ministers who wrote their sermons early in the week, but Faith didn’t know any and her husband was definitely not in that club. Most Saturday nights Tom Fairchild was frantically rewriting what he had decided before was just fine.

His note was written on the dry-erase family bulletin board.

“Sherman Munroe has called an emergency meeting of the vestry. No idea why. Back soon, I hope. Love, Tom.”

Sherman—and don’t ever call him “Sherm”—was one of Faith’s least favorite parishioners. He was a relatively new arrival to Aleford. He’d lived in town for only five years, but as he was fond of saying, “My people started the place.” There were some Munroes in the Old Burial Ground, so they
had
been around at the time of the town’s incorporation, but as for starting anything, if they had, they hadn’t stuck around to finish—the ones aboveground, that is. One and all had absented themselves until Sherman turned up after retiring from, according to him, a highly lucrative manufacturing business in Pennsylvania. Millicent Revere McKinley, whose frontal lobe was a veritable Rolodex of Alefordiana, conceded that he was descended from “those early Munroes,” her tone suggesting that some other Munroes would have been preferable. She had followed it up with a few tart sentences expressing her opinion about locating businesses not simply out of state, but out of Aleford.