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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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And every reason to stay, she thought.
“If I get nervous, I can always go to Pix's.”
She could hear Tom sigh.
“But what about
my
being nervous?” he complained.
“I'll call. You'll call. And you'll be here soon.”
They continued to talk, and Tom finally agreed—grudgingly. His misgivings took another five minutes and Faith hung up. The phone rang immediately and the chaos began.
The girls moved the cradle behind the sofa and Faith and Pix dealt with the onslaught on the porch. The press did not appear to know about the baby yet, and they were careful not to mention her. It was enough that Zoë had lost her mother in this particularly grisly manner without being spread all over the front pages herself.
Sgt. Dickinson stopped by during one of the rare hiatuses and told them the medical examiner and the state police had arrived. He seemed a bit left out, and Faith offered him some cold lemonade, which he gratefully accepted. While he drank, he told them that Bill Fox hadn't known much about Bird. She was from the midwest originally, but never mentioned her family or
real name. The police hoped to find something in the shack. There was also an APB out for Andy. They did know his name, Andrew Collins, and he was from Rockland. Dickinson hinted that the police had been keeping an eye on Andy for some time.
“Drugs?” Faith asked.
“I wouldn't say no,” he answered.
After he left, Pix went back to her house to get the quilt books and magazines. They had decided to fill the time trying to identify some more squares. Faith felt vaguely compelled to solve at least one puzzle.
While Pix was gone, she sat with Ben while he scribbled with crayons on the shelf paper she had taped to the top of the kitchen table. He was making car noises and covering the paper with lines that Faith assumed to be roads. She looked closely for signs of incipient artistic talent, didn't find any, and sank back into her thoughts.
Roger, then Bird.
She told herself that it was only logical to agree with the prevailing opinion that Roger's death was due to misadventure—that one of the Prescotts had meant to frighten but not kill him.
But there was no question about Bird. Whoever killed her meant it. Whoever?
Faith closed her eyes and felt sick. She opened them and was a little surprised to see the tranquil scene in front of her and not the mayhem in her mind.
The likeliest perpetrator was Andy. He was known to be violent. Pix had told her Bird had appeared with bruises and once a black eye in the previous months. He was also known to be jealous, and he might have gone berserk at the news of Bird's departure, especially if he had been on something.
And unlike the cases in fiction, Faith knew from Charley MacIsaac, the likeliest suspect is usually guilty—a husband, wife, someone who benefits financially or psychologically from the death.
But there had been two deaths on Sanpere, and much as she tried to reason with herself, Faith still couldn't squelch the notion that they were connected. After all, Roger and Bird were
connected and had planned to be connected even more closely, it appeared. She tried to think how their deaths could have benefited anyone and came up with nothing. The Prescotts had no connection to Bird. Even if she and Roger had been secretly married, Bird would not have inherited Matilda Prescott's house, because of the way her will had been written. It went to Roger and/or Eric or issue. Faith wondered if Pix knew anything about Roger's will and resolved to ask her.
Ben was tired of drawing and went back to the cradle to gaze at the baby. The two girls—the “nannies,” as Faith had begun to call them in her mind—were happy to have another child in their charge. Faith expected to see the two of them debating the merits of various soothing syrups as they rocked and knit serviceable garments.
Pix came back with lettuce, tomatoes, and some other vegetables from the garden. Faith put together a large salad for dinner, which they could eat with bread and the terrine of smoked mackerel she had made the day before. The nannies would probably want Bovril and toast.
They spread the photographs of the squares, which Faith had retrieved from their hiding place in the diaper bag, on the floor at the end of the living room and started to search for more names.
“Get out your list of the ones we know so far, and let's divide the photographs into two piles,” proposed Pix, ever systematic. As she grew to know Pix better, Faith began to think all these lists and systems might be a hedge against basic absentmindedness, even out-and-out woolgathering. Nevertheless there they were.
“Fine. You read out the names and and numbers, and I'll go through the photographs.”
Pix had identified the tree square as Apple Tree and number nineteen, the chest, as Workbox. There were only five they didn't know.
“You know the island so well. Does any of this make sense, even without all the squares?” Faith asked.
Pix studied the list, glancing over at the photos as she did.
“We really need number four. Obviously she's telling us it's a puzzle since she starts out with Old Maid's Puzzle; then she goes to Harbor View, which must be where the hunt begins. But north on number three—the weather vane could be pointing almost anywhere on this side of the island—or even on the mainland.”
“What about the next group? The Compass is pointing east, and it's the left road on Crossroads that's a different pattern. Does that help?”
“Yes,” mused Pix, “and number six, Odd Fellows Chain, must refer to the Odd Fellows Hall. There's only one on the island. The problem is it's located almost equidistant between the two main crossroads. We still need number four to point us in the right direction. Matilda figured this pretty carefully.”
“It looks like a bull's-eye. Does that suggest anything?” Faith asked hopefully.
“No, but it also looks like the spokes of a wheel, and that's easier. Let's look in the indexes for all the patterns with the word ‘wheel' in the title.”
Pix's strategy worked; fifteen minutes later Faith triumphantly cried out, “Here it is! Millwheel !”
“That's great! It definitely gives us our direction. There was an old mill across from Harborview, and what's left of the wheel is directly opposite the gazebo on the other side of the pond.” She was getting excited. “So if we go north toward the wheel, then east, the Odd Fellows Hall is before the first of the crossroads.”
“Then we turn left,” continued Faith.
“And,” finished Pix, “it's another square we don't know.”
“Well, we have more than a week to figure it out before we go home.”
The phone rang. Again.
“It could be Sam. He was in court when I called before, so we have to get it,” Pix groaned. “Why don't you make us a drink while I find out who it is; then we can feed the kids?”
“Great idea,” Faith replied, looked into the cradle, then moved toward the door.
Zoë was still sound asleep. She had roused briefly, drained a bottle, and immediately closed her eyes again. After a while even the nannies had become a bit bored with gazing at her cherubic, sleeping face and had taken Ben outside to play croquet. This was almost as hard as playing with flamingos and hedgehogs, since he chased all the balls and gleefully tossed them into the air. Between making sure he didn't concuss himself and trying to get their balls through the loops, the girls were getting a fair amount of activity. They were happy to stop and eat. While they ate salad and what Faith had described as sandwich spread in order to make the terrine palatable, the two women sat on the porch.
“Why do we always sit on the steps?” Faith wondered.
“Because wicker is basically uncomfortable and the overhang cuts out the view.”
It was after six o'clock, and everything was still. Hardly a leaf moved, and there was no activity on the water to ripple the surface. The sun hadn't set, but they could see the moon. The day's events seemed very far away.
But not too far.
“Pix, was that Sam who called? Did you get a chance to ask him about Roger's will?”
“Yes, I asked him the last time he called. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Other things on my mind, I suppose. Anyway, it's public knowledge, all probated.” She digressed, as was her habit, and Faith waited patiently for her to get back on the track. “You know it's hard being a lawyer's wife. Sam never tells me anything—and shouldn't—but there's so much I'd like to know. You probably have the same problem. Secrets of the confessional.” She paused, then added hastily lest a whiff of incense escape into the Maine air, “Not that we have confession, of course.
“Anyway, it was as we thought. Everything goes to Eric. The only surprise would have been a small trust set up for Bird. But now we know how he felt about her. He also left a thousand dollars to his sister and two thousand to his mother.”
“He made the will last spring, right?”
“Yes. He must have wanted to provide for Bird. He may not have thought she was going to leave Andy then, and that's why it's a trust and not money outright, which Andy could have taken over.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Faith agreed. “But what happens to it now ? Does it go to Zoë or Eric or even the state of Maine?”
“I have no idea, but Sam will know. If Bird made a will, which I doubt, it would probably go to her beneficiary. But even without a will, I think it might still go to Zoë.”
The day had seemed interminable, and Faith found it hard to believe that it was the same day she and Pix had taken the quilt to the post office. They went inside to eat. Sam called again, and then the phone was blissfully silent. The Fraziers had called earlier to tell them that Bill was at their house. They offered to take Zoe but quickly agreed that it would be better for her to stay where she was. Bill was in shock and refused to take the sedative Dr. Picot had prescribed. He had barely spoken since John had brought him to their house, except to refuse anything to eat or drink. “He seems very confused, almost as if he doesn't know where he is or who we are,” Louise had added.
Pix was getting ready to drive Arlene home, although it hardly seemed worthwhile, since she and Samantha were virtually inseparable. Faith suspected Arlene's mother, who had uncharacteristically refused permission for Arlene to stay the night at the Millers', of wanting inside news of the murder.
The two girls went to take a last look at the sleeping baby. They had been disappointed that she hadn't awakened again while they were there.
“Can't we keep her, Mom?” Samantha pleaded. “She doesn't have any place to go, and you were just saying that the house will be so empty when we're all gone in a few years.”
“Bird must have had a family, and they'll want her. Anyway, maybe I was looking forward to an empty house.” Pix smiled. A fleeting image of time to herself with no car pools or soccer practices, and only Sam across a candlelit table, flickered across her mind.
“Mother!”
“Just kidding, dear. Now we have to get Arlene home.”
“Ma would love to have her, Mrs. Miller. I can ask her tonight.” Passion provoked Arlene to speak at length.
“I'm sure your mother has quite enough little Prescotts of her own underfoot—Arlene is the oldest of six,” she explained to Faith. But Faith was focusing on the first part of her statement.
“Prescott's?” she asked.
“Yes, Arlene's last name is Prescott.”
Faith looked at the pictures of the quilt and the books spread out on the floor where they had been working—right under Arlene's eager gaze.
“Why am I not surprised?” she said to Pix with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Pix clearly had no idea what Faith was talking about, until she followed her vigorous nod. She shook her head slightly and shepherded the girls out the door. Faith looked at them dismally as they climbed into the car.
Maybe the girl hadn't heard about the quilt or wouldn't connect the pictures to it. Maybe she wouldn't mention them to anybody.
Maybe there wouldn't be any tides tomorrow. Or maybe it would snow. Or maybe …
The children were crying. They had come across a baby robin, fallen from its nest, lying dead beneath a large oak.
Princess Ardea came up quietly behind them. They hadn't realized she was near until she spoke. “Come, we will bury it in the garden.” She reached into the pocket of her gown, drew forth a blue silk handkerchief
—
the same blue as the color of the egg the bird had hatched from—and gently wrapped it around the still body.
They walked back toward the castle grounds, and Paul pointed to a bank of day lilies in bloom. “This might be a good spot.” The princess nodded, and he dug a small hole with a stick.
“The bird never had a chance to live. It didn't even know it would have been able to fly someday,” Julie said.
“It isn't fair.” Her brother scowled. “Why do things have to die?”
“To make room for other things,” Prince Herodias answered as he approached from the river, where he had been watching the herons.
“And must
everything
die?” asked Julie.
“Yes, that is the way,” he replied.
“Even you?” she persisted.
“Even us.”
“But not for a long, long time?”
“No, not for a very long time. Time passes very slowly here.”
Then he took her hand, and they went to stand by the others to lay the bird to rest.
Nightfall in Selega,
William H. H. Fox
Zoë slept through the night, which Faith had not expected. She had not expected that she would either, but aside from a brief time of semiconsciousness listening for the baby when she first got into bed, Faith slept too.
Now it was after breakfast and she was sitting on the lawn watching the two children communicate contentedly in a language all their own. She had spread a blanket and put an assortment of Ben's toys on top, but Ben seemed to think Zoë was the best toy of all. He had taken to crawling to keep her company after trying valiantly to pull her to a standing position before toppling over in a heap. Zoë was wearing another of Ben's shirts, which reached her ankles, and one of his hats. Although it was slightly overcast, Faith didn't want her to get too much sun. Ben was brown as a berry, and next to him Zoë reminded Faith of one of those Poor Pitiful Pearl Dolls before the transformation.
Was it just yesterday morning she had heard Zoë crying ? Less than a day since finding the body ? She suddenly felt exhausted and shivered as she contemplated the violence that must have preceded Bird's death. Who could have hated her that much? Faith had been turning this question over and over again in her mind. There was no question of burglary. Poor Bird had had nothing worth stealing. It was hate. Or insanity. Or both.
There had been three phone calls before Faith took the children
outside. First, of course, was Pix. The “nannies” wanted to know if they could come over, and Faith was happy to agree. She asked Pix to stop and get some smaller diapers and another bottle, preferably postwar, to supplement the one from the pantry.
Sgt. Dickinson had called shortly after and asked Faith if she could keep the baby a little longer. They had not found much in the cabin, but the police down the coast had picked up Andy, and they hoped he might be able to tell them who Bird was. Dickinson had spoken rapidly, and Faith had had the impression that he was short of time—or someone who matched a face on the post office wall had just passed by his window.
Finally, Louise Frazier had called. Bill had not slept and was still sitting silently. John Eggleston had come by the night before and tried to talk with him, but Bill had waved him away. John was coming back today. Not whom she would have chosen as a comforter, Faith reflected ; rather like having Captain Ahab offer solace, but they had known each other for a long time. Bill had roused himself only once, to ask about Zoë, and had appeared to be satisfied with the arrangements.
Faith looked at the horizon with what she thought was an increasingly nautical eye. They hadn't had any rain in a long time, and it appeared there might finally be a storm.
By the time the Millers and Arlene arrived, the rain was pelting down and Faith and the children had hastily moved into the living room.
“We certainly need this,” Pix said as she removed her dripping-wet foul-weather gear. “But I hope we don't lose our power. I left the pump on.”
“What do you mean?” Faith wanted to know.
“When the power comes back on after being off, it surges and can destroy the pump.”
“Just another one of the perils of living in the country.”
“Have you ever tasted better water?”
Faith had to admit that if the Millers ever got around to bottling their spring, fifty million Frenchmen would toss their Perrier and Evian bottles out the
fenêtre.
But Pix had more on her mind than water.
“Faith, how about a cup of coffee?” she asked, and seemed barely able to contain herself before they got into the kitchen. She closed the door quickly.
“I didn't want to gossip in front of the girls, but when I stopped to get some of Mrs. Kenney's doughnuts this morning, she told me there was a big drug bust last night! She heard it all on her CB. The Coast Guard seized a boat out beyond Osprey Island, and the hull was loaded with bales of marijuana.
“Mrs. Kenney said they were probably going to land it on Osprey, which is uninhabited, divide it into smaller amounts, and then bring it into Camden and Bucksport on several other boats.”
“So that's why Sgt. Dickinson was in such a rush this morning. He barely said two sentences. But he did tell me they had located Andy. Maybe he was on the boat !”
Pix slumped into a chair. “What an amazing summer! Believe me, Faith, in all the years I've known this island, there hasn't ever been this kind of trouble.”
“I certainly hope not,” Faith said, as she filled the pot with water and set it on the stove. “But I'm beginning to think there was probably a lot going on you didn't know about. And what about the old days—during Prohibition ? Things must have been pretty lively then.”
She sat down next to Pix to wait for the pot to boil and studiously avoided watching it. Her mind was racing. If Andy had been on that boat, where had he boarded it and did his presence mean that he was not a suspect in Bird's murder? And if he wasn't a suspect, who on earth was? Itinerant tramps suddenly gone amok were always possibilities in books, but unheard of on the island. Everybody knew everybody else, and if there had been a stranger around the last few days, they, or rather Pix, would have heard about it by now.
And there was something else. Bird had been attacked face on. The murderer had not crept up behind her. This suggested that they had been talking. It also suggested it was someone she knew.
The whistle blew shrilly, and Faith ground some beans for the Melitta. Nothing was getting any clearer. Except for one thing.
She and Pix had better hurry up and figure out Matilda's clues before word spread too rapidly that she had kept the quilt photos. She doubted that Arlene's branch of the Prescott family had had anything to do with the break-in, or with Roger's death for that matter; but she wasn't going to count on word not leaking out. Anything to do with Matilda's quilt, which might just happen to be a treasure map, was bound to reach the wrong ears at some point. The drug raid might squeeze it off the grapevine today and give them time to name the rest of the squares and find whatever they were seeking. She said as much to Pix, and they spread their things out on the kitchen table.
“Only four more.” Faith put the photos in a row. “What do they look like to you? Number eight could be a spider's web, or a ripple in a pool with concentric circles.”
“And number twelve looks like mountain peaks. Let's try those themes.”
It worked for number twelve. Pix located it in one of the quilt books soon after.
“Hill and Valley. That should be easy—North Star is just before and it's not marked in any way, so presumably it means go north, and Apple Tree is before that, so we look for a tree or orchard.”
“Pix, I think we should go out for a drive when the rain lets up and see what we can figure out with what we have. The children will be fine here, and we could spend weeks at this. We don't even know that they are all in these books.” Faith was also starting to get a little bored with the current approach.
“True. I agree. We can follow the clues to square eight and then see what choice we have. The Schoolhouse square should give us a clue, but again there were quite a few of them when the island population was greater. At the turn of the century there were fifteen hundred residents in Granville alone.”
“Let's give the kids an early lunch, then take off. I want to do some cooking this afternoon. I feel like eating something good tonight, and it also calms the spirit.”
“I know,” Pix responded. “Comfort foods—like shepherd's pie and macaroni and cheese.”
“No, like seafood mousse or maybe lobster en gelée.”
“Whatever.”
It was shortly after noon when Faith turned the Woody around in the driveway at Harborview and said, “Go,” to Pix who sat next to her with the list and the photos discreetly out of sight in her lap.
“Drive back through the village and turn right up the hill. At the top, you're as close to the mill wheel as you can get on the road.”
They drove on, turning east when the road divided, and paused at the Odd Fellows Hall.
“That casserole supper seems like a long time ago,” Pix remarked. “Although it's been less than two weeks.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
And thinking of the way Roger and Bill had looked at Bird when she had come in with Andy.
Faith tried to remember more about what Andy looked like, but she had been so distracted by his outfit that she didn't really remember much about his face, although she had had a general impression that he regarded the world at large in a smug, lordly way. Almost as if he knew what the other men yearned for and only he had. Now no one had her.
“What's next?”
“Go straight and turn left at the crossroads.”
They encountered few other cars. Most people were eating lunch. Traffic on Sanpere was never very heavy, except on the Fourth of July when everyone left the parade at the same time for the chicken barbecue. And then they had two auxilliary policemen, each authorized to wear a special armband and carry a piece.
A blue Ford pickup roared past them going the other way, and the driver raised a few fingers from the wheel in the traditional island wave. Faith was flattered. She might almost live here. But what was she thinking of ? Tom, that's whom she was thinking of. He had noticed the wave the first day and thereafter raised his fingers, getting a response each time. He liked to be at home
wherever he was. She took a deep breath. Labor Day was still a long way off.
“Come on, Pix, right or left?”
The road forked, and each branch beckoned with a claim of its own.
“I can't tell you. It's number eight. The square we don't know.”
“All right, we'll wing it and go down each. Maybe something will suggest itself.” She turned left, and they drove past a series of wood lots, a few trailers, and one or two farmhouses before the road again split.
“think we should try the right-hand one first. Remember, Winding Ways with the upper right section indicated comes next, followed by Apple Tree. If we see any sign of apples, we'll know we're on the right track.”
They weren't, and Faith suggested they go back to the original fork and try that one. Pix agreed. “And I thought I was figuring it out so cleverly.”
“You are. Keep it up.”
The right turn dipped down toward the shore. The rain had not completely stopped, and as Faith looked at it breaking the surface of the water, she was sure this was the correct choice.
“Look at the water. The waves look just like the square. I'm sure of it—took at the way the wind ripples the surface of the waves.” She put her foot down on the pedal, and they shot forward. The road twisted and turned.
“Winding Ways,” Pix muttered.
“Ayup.” They came to a fork that showed the remnants of logging tracks, and they stayed on the road, turning right. When they saw the old apple orchard, Pix grabbed Faith's arm. “It really is like a map !”
“Of course it is, and what's more I'm sure the gold, or what's left of it, is at the end. She must have put it there before she became bedridden, intending to tell someone, but then decided this would be more fun.”
BOOK: The Body in the Kelp
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