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she said. The encounter with the Batcheldors had been the prime topic of lunch conversation, introduced by Ben as soon as he saw his father emerge from the study. Faith had endeavored to downplay the whole event, while punctuating the salient details with various dramatic facial expressions whenever the kids became distracted by the tricolored fusili with Gorgonzola sauce she’d made, Ben’s totally unaccountable favorite.
    â€œAre you sure they were ski masks, not woolen hats pulled down low?” Tom asked.
    â€œOf course I’m sure. I thought we had stumbled into the middle of some crazed neo-Nazi maneuvers. When they got close, I could see they weren’t wearing fatigues, but they were all in green. Now knowing how nuts Margaret is, I wouldn’t put it past her to dress up like a particular bird she was hoping to add to her list, the olive-colored, black-capped bog sucker or some such thing. But given the mood of the meeting last night, I don’t think they were birding today.”
    â€œBut what?” Tom looked extremely troubled. Nelson Batcheldor was a member of the Vestry.
    â€œMaybe they’re planning some way to blow up the bog if Joey goes ahead with his plans.”
    â€œHow would that help them?”
    â€œI don’t know, Tom. This is all supposition, and as far as I could tell, the only thing resembling a weapon was Margaret’s heavy set of binoculars. Unless Nelson’s camera is one of those James Bond types.”
    â€œYou were in the woods, so they were coming from the bog itself. Maybe they’re stockpiling things. Oh, this is too crazy. We know they’re a little eccentric.” Tom looked at Faith and amended his words, “Well, very eccentric, and they probably dress like that for bird-watching all the time. We’ve just never seen them before. And it was cold early this morning. I would have worn a ski mask, too, if I’d been out.”
    â€œYou don’t have a mask like that. Only robbers do. In fact, I wonder where you’d even get one.” Faith was getting sidetracked into a realm of speculation she’d explored before. You’re about to engage in criminal activity. Where do you shop? Walk into house-wares at Jordan Marsh and ask for a good, long, sharp kitchen knife? And these masks. Soldier of Fortune mail order? For those necessities not covered by the Victoria’s Secret catalog? She was about to expound on all this when the phone rang.
    Faith answered it, and whatever she had planned to say about the Batcheldors’ proclivities went clear out of her mind.
    It was Pix and she was definitely agitated.
    â€œFaith, is Tom home? I’ve got to talk to you both right away! You know Sam’s in California; otherwise I wouldn’t bother you.”
    This didn’t sound either college-or middle school–related.
    â€œWhat is it? What’s happened?” Faith asked anxiously.
    â€œI’ve just gotten a poison-pen letter,” Pix answered, and burst into tears.

Three
    Pix Miller was not a woman who cried without provocation—funerals, illnesses, seeing The Yearling once again. As soon as Pix had arrived, Faith put her arm around her friend and led her to the couch with only a fleeting thought to the number of females who seemed to be drenching the parsonage with their tears lately.
    â€œIt’s the shock, I suppose.” Pix reached around in her pocket, produced a crumpled handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes. “I was opening the mail and there was this thin envelope, and at first I thought, Oh dear, Samantha’s been rejected. Then I noticed there wasn’t a return address, and I opened it and…well, here it is.”
    She handed the envelope, which she had clutched in her other hand, to Faith. Tom leaned over the back of the couch, reading over his wife’s shoulder. It was a plain white business envelope addressed in ballpoint pen, block letters, to “Mrs. Samuel