The Body in the Moonlight by Katherine Hall Page

simple person. She loved art and music and me,” Jared started to sob. When he’d collected himself, he said, “She was ambitious and she would have had a wonderful gallery of her own someday. I was prepared to back her, but she said she wanted to do it herself. She’d saved quite a bit—I wasamazed, in fact—and was sure she could find some silent partners, besides me. But for now, she felt she still had a lot to learn from Nick. Oh, Faith, it was all going to have been so perfect. I’m sorry. I have to hang up now.”
    â€œWe love you, Jared. Come when you’re ready.” Faith heard him put the phone down and did so herself, feeling inexpressibly sad. Life would never be perfect for Jed, no matter what happened in the future. There would always be Gwen, always that body lying on the floor. The unperfect ending.
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    Suitably, Anson Scott lived at the end of a long, twisting road in the northern part of Aleford, bordering on Byford. The woods came up to the pavement and had been carefully cultivated to remain deep and impenetrable. Branches from towering oaks formed a canopy over the drive and filtered the sunlight. The mystery writer’s house was large and sprawling, designed at the height of the Arts and Crafts movement. The slate roof appeared to have been draped over the brown-shingled outside walls. A long eyebrow window ran across the third story, duplicating the roofline. Faith walked up to the elaborately carved oak front door and rang the bell. The writer himself answered almost immediately.
    â€œMrs. Fairchild, lovely to see you. Come in, come in. My humble abode.” He swept his arm out, an indication of both welcome and proud ownership.
    Faith hadn’t told him why she wanted to see him, afraid he might refuse. Now she thought it appropriateto say something right away, but she was dumbstruck at the home’s interior. There was no entryway or foyer. She’d stepped directly into the living room. The walls were painted red—red with a great deal of gold. They shimmered above the dark wainscoting and were interrupted on two sides by a bank of leaded-glass windows. A stained-glass medallion with a single ruby poppy was centered at the top of each. The floors were covered with brilliant Orientals, azure, crimson, purple, deep orange. True to the period, the furniture consisted of Morris chairs, Stickley tables, and glass-fronted bookcases, in addition to extraordinary single pieces by master craftsmen Faith couldn’t identify. A fireplace large enough to provide shelter for a family of four filled one end of the room. The opening was surrounded by tiles that, taken altogether, formed a forest frieze of green, blue, lavender, ocher, and brown. The tree trunks seemed to recede as she looked, while the cloudlike branches fell forward. She realized that the room forced an awareness of color, perhaps because it was dark, the beamed ceilings low, and the light from outside dimmed by the leaded windowpanes.
    â€œThis is such a beautiful room,” Faith said, aware of the understatement but at a loss for a way to express how exquisite it all was, except in the most clichéd phrases. “These tiles…” She gestured toward the fireplace.
    â€œGruebys. The company was in Boston. You’ve probably run across the tulip ones—a single blossomagainst a dark green background? I’m very fond of this period, both in Britain and in the United States. The notion that everyday items should have as much artistic integrity as paintings or sculptures is a credo of mine, too. Do sit down.”
    Faith was tempted by one of several window seats, covered in Morris’s Strawberry Thief pattern, but she chose the leather couch, nearer to hand. Scott nodded approvingly, murmured, “Original upholstery,” and selected a remarkable-looking oak chair across from it. The chair’s tall back started at the ground and was made up of thin