Faith Sibley Fairchild
The sidekick who immediately springs to mind is my friend and next door neighbor, Pix Miller. I do not wish to slight my husband, the Reverend Thomas P. Fairchild, but he tends to worry too much about my proclivity for crime--solving it, that is. Pix is a more willing accomplice. My children, five-year-old Bejamin and his almost two-year-old sister, Amy, are happily inevitable, but occasionally inconvenient sidekicks too.
Born and bred in Manhattan--the Big Apple, I currently reside in the midst of the more bucolic orchards of Aleford, Massachusetts, a little village west of Boston.
I have been in my early thirties for quite a while now. Time passes very slowly in Aleford. Being a figment of someone else's imagination has definite advantages.
I am an amateur sleuth, wife, mother, professional caterer, and clerical spouse. "Clerical spouse" and "wife" involve totally different job descriptions, as those of you who have read the books know--also all those clerical spouses who drop me a line. As for "amateur," I use it in the best sense of the word--doing that which you love, a self selected profession, although in my case, the job found me!
As mentioned, this was not an occupation I sought out. The first instance occurred before I met Tom and the circumstances will be revealed in 1999's The Body in the Big Apple. The next was described in the first book in the series, The Body in Belfry. I had climbed up Belfry Hill overlooking Aleford Green with Ben--then in a Snugli--planning to rest a moment on one of the benches inside the old belfry. No sooner did I sit down when I noticed Cindy Shepherd, the president of First Parish's Young People's Club, slumped over in sleep. Except she wasn't asleep. As soon as I realized she was dead--and the corpse still warm--I rang the bell. (The're still talking about that in Aleford, by the way.) Since that Kodacolor, crisp autumn day, Pix and I have managed to stumble across bodies all the way from Massachusetts and the Maine coast to Southern France and the fjords of Norway.
This is so high school, but here goes. Synthetic fabrics; men who spit in public; men who spit in public when they think they're somewhere no one will recognize them; meals in boxes with "helper" somewhere on the front; Martha Stewart; blue M&Ms, so unnatural and let's throw in canned fruit cocktail while we're at it--who thinks of these things? Nose rings; ancestor worship (remember I live in Aleford now); plaster gnomes--sorry, the line must be drawn--and above all, evil. All forms from the malicious aside to murder. Especially murder.
Harriet Vane, Audrey Hepburn, and Julia Child.
I've never really had time for these, but fully intend to someday. Pix is always trying to get me to weave baskets, piece quilts, or glue pictures on trays. These could be in my future. Then, again, perhaps not. Reading doesn't count as a hobby, since both Tom and I consider it an involuntary reflex like breathing.
This is really not for me to say, especially the location of a certain mole. My driver's license lists me as 5'6", blonde, and blue-eyed.
"Bad taste lead to crime" (Not original with me, sadly. See The Body in the Vestibule.)
Katherine Hall Page