The Body in the Moonlight Read Free

cushions had been replaced, to Faith’s delight—and surprise. Talking with friend and fellow parishioner Pix Miller, she’d voiced her fears that the congregation would opt for the hard, unadorned wood as more conducive to penitence. But First Parish had had pew cushions for as long as anyone could remember, so, with a bow to tradition, pew cushions it had been.
    â€œYou’re right. I would like the crypt to be restored—not only for services but also because the memorial stones need cleaning. They’re a significant part of the church’s history, and if we don’t take care of them, they’ll disintegrate. The steeple is certainly more visible and it does need repair and new paint, but it can wait.”
    â€œSo, what’s going to happen?”
    â€œThis is an incredible sandwich. What’s in it, anyway?” Tom had inhaled it in a few bites, and the beer was almost gone, too.
    â€œChèvre, roasted peppers, and red onion. I’ll make you another, but I don’t have any more of that bread. It will have to be focaccia.”
    â€œMy tough luck.” Tom grinned. He was feeling better, much better. He followed his wife into the kitchen.
    â€œTo answer your question. I have no idea. It could go either way, but they’re going to start the fund drive immediately.”
    Faith nodded. This was the maddening thing about the congregation—and probably about any congregation. They could be at each other tooth and nail, irrevocably divided one minute, then in complete accord the next. They’d conduct the campaign in total equanimity while thrashing out the object of the effort behind closed doors.
    â€œWhat’s the plan? Or is it another committee?”
    â€œA subcommittee. Specifically to plan a kickoffevent for sometime in October, raise a moderate bundle that way, then pledge cards in the mail the next morning, before the rosy glow of a good time had by all has had a chance to wear off.”
    â€œThat doesn’t give them much time. Do they have any idea what this event is going to be?”
    â€œPaula Pringle proposed one of those mystery dinners—as in solving a crime, not what’s being served. She wants to hold it at Ballou House, very ‘swish,’ with ‘luscious food’—her words—and ‘fun people.’ Again—”
    â€œHer words,” Faith interjected, finishing the sentence for her husband, then handing him another sandwich. “Are you sure that’s her real name? ‘Paula Pringle Parties’ has such a made-up ring to it.”
    â€œI don’t know how she started out, but she is definitely married to a Mr. Pringle, although I have never met the man. He’s ‘not a spiritual being.’ Again…”
    Neither of them bothered to finish.
    Faith laughed. “Oh dear, this wasn’t what you signed on for, was it? Was there ever a time when you believed you would be simply practicing theology with a pastoral call or two?”
    â€œSome nasty types at the Div School used to spread it about that all was not to be loaves and fishes, but I didn’t listen. Such is youth.”
    â€œWell, Paula Pringle is a professional party planner—I’ll bet you can’t say that six times—so you won’t have to be involved in this part at any rate.”
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    The phone rang the next morning precisely as Faith closed the front door, having put her son on the kindergarten bus and waved good-bye to her husband and daughter, who were setting off for a morning of work and day care at the church.
    â€œMrs. Fairchild—Faith dear—it’s Paula. Paula Pringle from church.”
    A deep sense of foreboding swept over Faith.
    â€œYes?” Then hastily remembering her manners, she added, “How are you?”
    â€œFine, and you, too, I hope.” The woman had not called to waste time in exchanging pleasantries. “Perhaps Reverend Fairchild