"It's not impossible. It's certainly complicated things, and if I were a murderer, that's what I would want to do."

"Any victims in mind?" her husband asked, sc.r.a.ping the last of the soup from his bowl.

"Well, you know what they say," Faith replied.

"What do they say?"

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"You're much more likely to be done in by your spouse than by a random stranger."

"I've already been done in by mine. Now let's go to bed. The dishes can wait."

The decision was made even easier. Outside, there was a sharp crack of thunder and the wind howled. All the lights went out and the parsonage fell silent. Hand in hand, they groped their way out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and didn't even bother with the flashlight prudently placed by the side of the bed.

There was no question that Wednesday night's selectmen's meeting would make history as the highest-rated television show in Aleford's history, and as the most heavily attended. People stood several rows deep in the hall, craning their necks for a view. Faith and Fix had arrived early and had managed to snare seats.

The meeting room looked like the partners' conference room at an old established law firm: dark wood paneling and a gleaming semicircular mahogany table facing the audience. The selectmen sat in dark red leather wing chairs, the backs of which tended to rise thronelike above the members' heads. Faith noted that Bea Hoffman's feet didn't touch the floor, but dangled, even though the small woman was perched as far forward as possible. The audience sat on folding chairs and whiled away the time before the meeting started by studying several framed prints celebrating Aleford's glorious past and one photo enlargement of President Ford's Bicentennial visit. Though there were bookcases filled with bound copies of town annual reports, they looked untouched.

Flanked by the state and American flags, Penny called the meeting to order sternly. Pix had heard that Penny had phoned Millicent earlier in the day and told her in no uncertain terms that the board would not tolerate a circus atmosphere. Millicent had been extremely offended, and it would probably be a while before the two friends shared mugs and m.u.f.fins at the Minuteman Cafe.

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"The first order of business is the presentation of an"- Penny paused searching for the right word-"alternative view of the proposal Mr. Madsen has submitted to the board for the development of the area known as Beecher's Bog. I understand that Miss McKinley will represent her group."

Millicent was sitting in the front row, flanked not by flags but by Brad Hallowell and Louise Scott. She was wearing her red suit again. Faith gave a thought to the appropriateness of the color with Patriots' Day almost upon them. It did make one stand out-just as it had the British officers, whose coats were more scarlet than the foot soldiers' and made excellent targets for the militia who sensibly aimed at them first. But Millicent wasn't a target, not tonight, anyway. She was the projectile. Brad followed her to the front of the room, carrying a number of oaktag sheets that appeared to be POWFs visual aids. He sat down and Millicent began to speak.

It was a repet.i.tion of Friday night's meeting, except she had brought examples of all the places Aleford had lost. It was pretty impressive. She'd put up a picture of an old farm, a house in the center, woodlands, or some other open s.p.a.ce, then show a picture of what was there today. The small strip mall at the Byford border. A housing development. With a flourish, she produced a map of Aleford from 1960 with all the open s.p.a.ce colored green, then set a current one next to it. The audience gasped. The green s.p.a.ces had shrunk by at least two thirds.

"We were a milk town, a farming community. There's precious little left of that, but we must preserve some of the character of this bygone era for future generations. Unless we act now, I foresee a time in the not-so-distant future when our children won't hear songbirds or be able to go on nature walks. The only plants they'll know will be the ones cultivated in their own backyards. The only wildlife they'll see will be in sanctuaries and they'll have no idea that Aleford was once a green and pleasant land."

Faith thought the reference to Blake stretching things a

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bit, although his "dark Satanic mills" might be invoked. But she agreed with the rest and hoped the board would. Millicent was building up steam.

"They'll think the only old houses Aleford ever had are the ones surrounding the green, protected by the Historic Commission," Millicent continued, emphasizing the word "protected:' "What of Civil War Aleford? What of Victorian Aleford? What of-"

"This is all very interesting, Miss McKinley," Sanborn Harrington interrupted, "But what exactly would you have the board do? Mr. Madsen owns Beecher's Bog and as an owner it is his right to do with it as he pleases if he meets the town's requirements for development, which he has."

Someone hissed. Faith thought it might be Brad. Millicent did not appear perturbed-of course.

"I'm glad you asked that question, Sanbom. POW!- Preserve Our Wetlands!-which organized around this issue, has collected almost enough signatures to reconvene Town Meeting, where we intend to place two motions on the floor. Rather than take up the board's valuable time, I've made copies for everyone of the motions involved and would respectfully refer members to the cited precedents, available at the library and in town hall."

Millicent handed each board member a sheet of paper. She was smart enough to know that any proposal involving turning a page already had one strike against it.

Several members scanned the motions and looked up stunned. Sanborn looked angry. "I repeat, Miss McKinley, your research is an admirable foray into the town's past, but as for the present-what is it you are proposing to the board?"

"What we are asking the board to do is"-She paused, and Faith thought what the stage had lost when Millicent had opted for lanterns instead of footlights-"nothing."

"Nothing?" Penny asked.

"Nothing," Millicent replied firmly. "We'd like you to postpone your decision on Mr. Madsen's proposal until Town Meeting has considered the motions I've described.

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I do not think this slight delay places an undue hardship on the pet.i.tioner in question." Her voice dripped with scorn. "The bog isn't going to vanish overnight."

That did it. Whether it was the reference to one of the Deane properties vanishing overnight, as in houses burning down, or Millicent's apparently successful blocking of a member of his family's plans, Gus Deane had had quite enough. He came marching down the center of the room, pushing his way through the crowded seating like Moses parting the Red Sea. He shook his fist at Millicent.

"I've had just about enough of you and the rest of your group. You may think you can destroy property and threaten innocent girls without anyone stopping you, but not while there's a breath in my body."

Gus was not a tall man, yet there was clearly a great deal of breath in his ma.s.sive body. His hah" was completely white and the thick curls created a halo effect. He did indeed look biblical-if not Moses, then one of the more wrathful prophets.

Penny was banging the gavel for all she was worth. The room was going wild.

"Mr. Deane! Mr. Deane! I must ask you to resume your seat!"

"No, I will not. I have something to say. We've listened to her. Now you'll have to listen to me."

Charley Maclsaac moved from the back of the room and stood to one side of the selectmen. Penny gulped down an entire gla.s.s of water and glanced from side to side at her fellow board members. Morris Phyfe broke the silence. "Let the man speak. Everyone else has had a say, and I expect we'll be throwing out Robert's Rules quite a bit in the next few hours."

Penny nodded at Gus and he stood and faced the room.

"Some of you are my friends. Some of you don't know me at all. And some of you are my enemies. Not that I give a d.a.m.n." This last word was bleeped to those watching breathlessly at home but he might as well have said "read my lips," so clear was the word.

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"I want to clear the air; then we can get back to business-namely, approving a perfectly reasonable construction plan that will bring new taxpayers to town, to say nothing of jobs.

"Number one." Gus held up his hand. Like Joey's, they were huge-calloused, with fingers like knockwurst. The room waited. He raised his index finger. "Number one. Don't think we haven't been hearing all day that we set the fire ourselves for the insurance money and that Mrs. Batch-eldor got herself killed when she wandered in on us. Now this is bulls.h.i.t"-another bleep-"and you all know it. There's no way the insurance is going to cover our loss. And as for the poor woman, why not ask what in G.o.d's name she was doing there? And who put her up to it? So, number one, I don't want to hear any more about the Deanes setting fires or knocking people off. If the police were doing their job, they'd have figured out the facts by now. I have."

Charley's expression didn't change a bit as the camera panned slowly over his face.

"Number two." Gus raised his index and middle fingers. Somehow it seemed as if only one was up. "Whatever sc.u.m is bothering my granddaughter-and you know who you are-is going to answer to me, and I will find you." No one watching doubted otherwise. "Until I do, I am holding the Aleford Police Department and the Ma.s.sachusetts State Police responsible for her safety and for the safety of her property.

"Now." He seemed to be winding up for a big finish. His broad forehead was so furrowed that the white bristles of his eyebrows jutted out toward the group in one defiant straight line. ' 'None of these things happened until the formation of this c.o.c.kamamy POW! group. It seems to me"- he turned to address Charley-"this is no coincidence. They've got it in for us and we're not going to turn tail. We have as much right to be here as they do, even if we didn't step onto Plymouth Rock or whatever."

Brad Hallowell jumped up from the front row. Millicent,

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to her credit, futilely grabbed at the back of his sweatshirt. "But you don't have the right to rape the land! You don't have the right to destroy the earth for a few bucks! You don't-"

It wasn't clear what Gus roared out. Some said it was "You little swine"; others opted for a more colorful expression. What was clear was that Gus lunged at Brad, who met him, fists raised. Charley moved rapidly toward the pair, surprising those who thought Chief Maclsaac was less nimble man he used to be. Nimble or not, it was all over before he reached them. Millicent placed her skinny but resilient frame between the two men and Penny pounded the gavel so hard, the handle broke and went flying across the room, missing Cheryl Hardy by a few inches. Cheryl looked stunned, got up, and left, vowing to watch the meetings on TV in the future-at home, where she would be safe and might even finish the elaborate argyle sweater she had started for her husband when they were courting ten years earlier.

"This meeting is adjourned. Please clear the room," Penny shouted above the din. "Clear the room immediately!"

Several people had come to Charley and Millicent's aid. Gus was being pushed out one door, still yelling at Brad. Brad was being detained in his seat.

"I guess he's blown any chance he might have had with Lora," Pix commented to Faith. They were staying put.

"I think those chances went out the window long ago, but if I were he, I'd make that visit to Nepal or somewhere farther away about now."

"He can't. Millicent's got him so busy doing things for Patriots' Day that it would take more than Gus Deane to convince her to let Brad leave town. And he's the only one the Minutemen have at the moment who can drum the call to arms."

"But Gus Deane plays Captain Sewall! And isn't he the current company commander?"

"Yes, but don't worry. They really do become the fig-

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ures they play. And Captain Sewall has no quarrel with young Tom Havers. It's 1775 for a brief moment. You'll see. Nothing will happen."

Looking at the glowering youth sitting with his arms stiff at his sides, clenching the chair, eyes straight ahead, apparently oblivious to Millicent's soothing words, Faith sincerely hoped Fix was right. Patriots' Day was less than a week away. Not much time to cool off.

Margaret's funeral was held Friday morning. Nelson had spent time with Tom the day before going over the service. It was surprising, he told Faith, how many references to birds there were in the Bible. They had settled on Psalm 104, some appropriate hymns, and Margaret's favorite poem, Sh.e.l.ley's "To a Skylark," to be read at the graveside. This had been the only request her husband remembered that she'd ever made about her funeral.

Faith took out her funeral dress, a black Ralph Lauren wool knit she'd bought when she'd first arrived in Aleford and a.s.sumed the duties of a ministerial spouse. Before they were married, Tom had been insistent that she would be able to go her own way. "It's my job, not yours," he'd told her. So sweet, so naive. She'd kissed him and gone out to buy the dress. It had since witnessed so many obsequies that she could never wear it anyplace else without instinctively looking about for a casket.

She slipped the dress over her head and stood by the window. It was pouring-not a drizzle, not a sun shower, but a steady curtain of solid precipitation that obliterated the landscape, turning the early spring into a monochrome. There had been so much rain this year after a curiously snowless winter. So much rain, but not on Monday night. Not on the fire.

Ben was at school and Amy was at a friend's house. There would be the funeral, the interment, then back to the house for thimbles of sherry and lots and lots of those triangle sandwiches.

Was this what Margaret would have liked? It was going

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to be pretty sedate, although not without tears. What would Faith herself want? Faith pictured her own funeral and wished for some serious wailing and gnashing of teeth. Tom had promised to go at the same time, so presumably the kids, elderly people themselves by then, would be pretty broken up. Faith wanted a funeral where people would feel free to throw themselves on the thin red carpet that went up the center aisle of the church. Maybe roll around a little. She wanted hymns that could be belted out. She wanted "Amazing Grace" the way it ought to be sung.

It wasn't very likely, particularly if her sister, Hope, outlived her, as she no doubt planned. Hope would not be scandalized by such a display of raw emotion; she would simply say it wouldn't do, and that would be that. At least Faith could leave instructions about the food. Maybe champagne and caviar. We die as we live. Or was it the other way around?

As she searched for some dark hose, she realized she hadn't known Margaret very well. Such different interests. Such different schedules. Margaret, a murder victim. So unlikely. This friend of feathered friends. Tom had mentioned that neither Nelson nor Margaret had any family to speak of. She wondered why they hadn't had children. Margaret had spoken of her mother with obvious affection, a mother who set those feet, so sensibly clad in st.u.r.dy brown Oxfords, on the path through hill and dale in search of birdsongs. A pretty picture. Wouldn't Margaret have liked to perform the same role? She remembered seeing Nelson installing some shelves at the preschool one morning. Miss Lora and the children were at his side. Faith had never seen the man so animated, so obviously happy.

There was always something a bit wistful about the Batcheldors. Margaret had not had a career, but she'd been born in that sliver of time between the a.s.sumption that a woman's place was in the home and the exodus into the workforce. She would have had a foot in each era, and that must have been confusing, as indeed such a picture presented. Faith tried to think about what Margaret actually

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had done. Nelson was more active in the church than she'd been, although she was a member of the Alliance. She'd done some volunteer work and was prominent in the Ale-ford Conservation Commission. She'd definitely had organizational skills, but seemed content with her life outdoors, field guide in hand. Tom had told Faith that a signed photo of Roger Tory Peterson was hanging on the wall in Margaret's room. Maybe Nelson didn't want her to work. Fortunately, Faith wasn't married to someone with this problem.

She was going to the funeral with Fix. Fix would have a hat. So would Millicent and most of the other women. Faith looked in her closet. A large Virginia Woolf straw was certainly not suitable, nor a floppy velvet beret, even though it was black. Besides, it was raining. She got out her umbrella, raincoat, and a pair of gloves. Fix would appreciate the effort and Aleford would have to lump the hat.

"Poor Margaret! Such a terrible day," Fix remarked after they had shaken the water from their coats like spaniels and a.s.sumed their seats in one of the First Parish pews.