The Body in the Sleigh (3 page)

Ben interrupted. “Had a heart attack. I bet that's what hap
pened. Like maybe she had this thing wrong since she was born and nobody knew it.”

“Possibly.” Faith could read her daughter's mind, though. “But usually people with congenital—that's what it's called if you have something from birth—conditions are aware they have them. Every year you go to Dr. Kane for your checkups. He knows what's going on in your bodies inside and out.”

Faith could feel the muscles in Amy's little hand relax. Just the mention of the pediatrician's name had been enough. Amy adored him.

“But people on the island don't have good health care. You've said that yourself. Even with the Island Medical Center. Maybe she didn't get checkups. She could have had a heart condition and not known it.” Ben was nothing if not stubborn. He always had been and adolescence was making it much worse. Faith feared the years to come would be a test of wills, particularly hers.

“It's possible, Ben.” She turned back around and started the car. “Now what should we make Dad for dinner? Sonny told me he had brought in the shrimp and crab we bought at the market, so we know it's going to be especially tasty. Risotto? You can help me stir.”

Both children were comfortable in the kitchen and catholic in their tastes. They'd gobble down a seafood risotto with as much pleasure as they'd inhaled the cupcakes. The tiny Maine shrimp and peekytoe crabmeat would make for a delicious risotto and, paired with some steamed broccoli with a squeeze of Meyer lemon, would meet everyone's dietary needs. Plus risotto was comfort food for Faith; the creamy Arborio rice served the same purpose for her that mac 'n' cheese did for others.

They'd gone to bed early. This whole time on Sanpere had seen increasingly early lights-out. The kids hadn't whined once; tired from their days outdoors, they'd fallen into their parents' laid-back
rhythm. Unlike in Aleford at the parsonage, the phone never rang interrupting meals—or sleep. It hadn't even rung the evening after Faith had discovered the body. She wasn't needed at present.

But the next morning there was a knock on the door.

It was Nan and Freeman Marshall, their nearest neighbors on the Point. Nan held a casserole and Freeman something wrapped in aluminum foil that looked very much like a pie. Older than the Fairchilds with children and grandchildren scattered across the island and several states, they'd nevertheless become close over the years. Refusing the job of caretaker, as he did for others, Freeman “kept his eye on things” when the Fairchilds weren't there, and they'd never had a problem with clammers tearing up the small meadow in the front of the house with their pickups or hunters breaking in looking for shelter—and a bottle or six-pack.

As she greeted them, Faith saw at once it was a more formal visit than usual. She called for Tom, who was upstairs reading. The kids were making yet another snow fort—this time back in the woods away from the shore. She knew it was a formal visit, because Freeman's hair was slicked back and he was wearing one of his Carhartt jackets that didn't smell like bait, over several flannel shirts. The top one was pressed. Nan had a bright blue fleece on that matched her eyes and the slight sheen in her white hair. Faith remembered that their daughter was working at Hair Extrordinaire across the bridge in Sedgwick and Nan had obviously been there recently—getting ready for the holidays. Faith was happy to see them. She was always happy to see them, but a little uneasy too. Freeman was one of the few fishermen who still had his boat in the water. Why wasn't he working today? It was sunny and milder than it had been the day before. The icicles hanging from the roof had been dripping steadily all morning.

Faith led the way toward the seating area, Tom came down, and everyone exchanged pleasantries. The casserole (scalloped potatoes and ham) and the pie (lemon meringue, Tom's favorite) had been
handed over and Faith's thanks were genuine. Nan was one of the best cooks on Sanpere.

Then they came to the point.

“The girl you found; it was Norah Taft. Thought you might not have heard and that you'd want to know,” Freeman said.

Faith realized that the girl's identity, or lack thereof, had indeed never been far from her thoughts. Taft wasn't an island name. Yet, from his tone of voice, it sounded as if Freeman had known her.

Tom reached over and took her hand.

“Her mother was a Prescott,” Freeman continued. “Married someone from away and came back here after the divorce when Norah was fourteen or so. But we all knew her. She used to spend summers with her grandparents. Tiny little thing. No brothers or sisters, which is why Darlene—that's her mother—used to send her home. Plenty of cousins.”

Nan's eyes were filled with tears. “She was a real favorite and the apple of her grandparents' eye. They were gone when she came back to live for good and maybe they could have helped. She wasn't the Norah we'd known. Angry at the world, especially her mom. Changed her name last year. We had to call her ‘Zara.' Don't know where that came from. She started running away when she was fifteen, but she always came back. Until last summer, that is. No one's seen or heard from her since August. Never even started her senior year.”

The only reference Faith knew to “Zara” was the Spanish-owned clothing outfit that had come under fire in 2007 for marketing a handbag with swastikas on it, then again several months later for a T-shirt with an update of the racist late-nineteenth, early-twentieth-century golliwog figures. Either Norah Taft had come in contact with fashionistas or she'd simply liked the sound of the name.

“You were close to her,” Tom said.

Freeman nodded, reached in his pocket for his red bandanna kerchief, and blew his nose loudly.

“As I say, we all knew her since she was born. She'd come to our house and make cookies with Nan and our grandkids. Took her out on the boat with me more than once. There wasn't an evil bone in her body. I don't know what happened between her and her dad, but she never mentioned him when she came back and we never asked.”

“What were people saying? About the divorce? About why her mother came home?” Faith asked. She was sure they knew.

“The same old saw.” Nan threw an apologetic look at Tom, indicating she wasn't lumping him in with this sorry group. “He'd found another woman and left them flat is what people said. To my knowledge, Norah never was in touch with him again.”

A hard time to lose a parent under any circumstances, Faith thought. Norah would have been around Ben's age. With a foot in childhood and the other stepping toward adulthood, kids entering adolescence could easily slip into any number of crevasses—ones that could become permanent dwelling places.

“Where did she live?” Faith asked. “I don't remember ever running across her.”

“Darlene's parents had a camp on Little Sanpere and they moved in there,” Nan said. “It isn't much, but it has heat and plumbing.”

Little Sanpere was a small island that was connected by a causeway to Sanpere, many times larger. The bridge that spanned Eggemoggin Reach stretched from Sedgwick to Little Sanpere, and people who lived on Sanpere, including the Fairchilds, generally thought of Little Sanpere as a place they quickly passed through on their way home. In turn, those who lived on Little Sanpere were a tight community, the same families occupying their land for generations.

“She worked at the day camp one, maybe two summers. You probably saw her there when you dropped the kids off or picked them up,” Freeman continued.

Faith shook her head. “I don't remember seeing anyone that blond. She looks…looked Scandinavian.”

“That was another new thing. 'Bout a year ago she did it herself with peroxide. Before that she was a redhead. Like a copper penny,” Nan said.

A copper penny brightly shining in the morning or afternoon sun. Faith
had
seen her before. Seen her smiling face and watched the campers vie for her attention; try to stand next to her as they waited for a parent. She felt her own eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, Tom, you must remember her too. It was when Ben first started going.”

“Is there anything we can do? Would it help if we went to see her mother?” Tom asked. He was squeezing Faith's hand harder now.

“Early days. Maybe in a while. Darlene's not in great shape. Blames herself,” Freeman said.

Faith nodded. She'd blame herself too.

“Have the police determined the cause of death?” Tom asked.

There it was. The question that Faith had been both wanting and not wanting an answer to since she'd found the body, muffled against the cold, in the sleigh. The body, so cold that no carriage robe would ever warm it again.

Freeman stood up and walked over to the large windows.

“Been a funny winter so far. Plenty of snow, but not even the cove froze yet.”

“It was drugs,” Nan told them. “An overdose.” She broke down completely and sobbed. “She had tracks up and down both arms. The syringe was right there in a bag. A heroin addict. That's what they're saying. Not even eighteen and hooked.”

Faith got up and put her arms around her friend.

“I don't know what this world is coming to when children—she was still a child in my book—are in this much misery that they have to escape that way,” Freeman said, turning away from the winter scene in front of him. “Come on now, mother, let's go home. We'll call you if there's anything new. Imagine there'll be a service. Darlene's a regular churchgoer.”

At the door, Nan said, “We thought you'd want to know and better to hear it from us. You know what this island is like for gossip. But you put it out of your minds now. It was a tragedy just waiting to happen for a long time. We all knew that. You concentrate on getting better, Tom, and everybody having a good holiday. Remember, you're invited for Christmas dinner.”

Faith smiled. After hearing about this festive gathering for years, being here for it was a lovely bonus. “We wouldn't miss it for the world. And you still haven't told me what to bring.”

“Just yourselves is—” Nan started to speak, when Freeman interrupted.

“Some of that chocolate bread pudding stuff you gave us last summer would go down a treat,” he said, rubbing his hands together and obviously picturing the groaning table. As they left, everyone brightened visibly at the prospect of being together for a happy occasion.

 

The empty mug in Faith's hand was stone-cold and she realized with a start that the room was cold too. Outside, the Christmas sky was still as bright as day. It was very late. Accidental death, or maybe suicide. That's what the coroner had ruled. In the end, Norah's mother had decided she couldn't take a large funeral—the entire island had been in shock at Norah's death, especially the kids her age, and they would all turn out. A fund had been established in Norah's memory for more drug abuse prevention and
awareness in the schools. Darlene had been quoted in the island paper and the
Ellsworth American
—“I don't want any parent to ever go through what I am going through and will for the rest of my life. I would have traded it for my Norah's if God had let me.”

God hadn't, and Faith was reminded of what the late Reverend William Sloane Coffin had said after the accidental death of his twenty-four-year-old son: “God's heart was the first of all our hearts to break.” As she trudged up the stairs to bed, Faith knew that when Norah slipped away, God's was the first of all those broken hearts Daisy Sanford mentioned.

 

Miraculously the kids slept until six thirty before jumping on their parents' bed and urging them to wake up to see what Santa had brought. Ben had managed to keep the secret of the jolly old fellow's true identity, whether out of real regard for his sister or to save as a weapon for when she did something really outrageous such as entering his room without permission; Faith didn't care—just let Amy keep believing a while longer. Last night in a whisper before sleep, her daughter had confessed her fear that Santa might not know they were in Maine. He might think they were in their house in Aleford as usual. Faith had reassured her of Saint Nick's omniscience; he'd always find them.

They'd had juice, coffee for Tom and especially Faith, plus the cardamom raisin bread that Faith always made for Christmas morning. They were due at the Marshalls' at noon, so they skipped a big breakfast, just eating some yogurt and fruit, with a sprinkling of granola, after the stockings had been emptied and the gifts beneath the tree opened. The phone rang at nine.

“It must be Granny and Grandpa!” Ben was up like a flash. It would be Tom's parents; Faith's would be involved with church services.

“Just a minute,” she heard him say. It must not be her in-laws. “I'll get her. Oh, Merry Christmas.”

Ben handed her the phone and said, “It's for you, Mom.” He hunched his shoulders and raised his arms. Not somebody whose voice he recognized.

“It's Mary Bethany, Faith.”

“I'm so sorry to bother you. You must be in the midst of celebrating with your family.”

“With children my children's ages, the celebrating was hours ago and we're not doing anything special now, Mary.”

It wasn't a bother, but as Faith spoke, she was wondering why Mary was calling—and on Christmas morning of all times. They weren't close friends. In fact, it was her impression that Mary didn't have many—or any—close friends. The woman was probably alone today, on Christmas, and Faith promptly decided to invite her to join them. There was always room for one more at the Marshalls' table.

“We're going to Nan and Freeman's for Christmas dinner. Won't you come with us? I know for a fact that there's enough food to feed the entire island and then some.”

“That's very kind of you, but I'm afraid I can't get away.”

“Oh, Mary, the goats will be all right for a few hours,” Faith said. It suddenly seemed important that she come. Faith didn't like the idea of Mary all by herself in that isolated house on Christmas—or any day, for that matter, Mary had told Faith that Nubian
goats were very needy and got upset if they were left for too long. It apparently affected their milk. “I should really have started with a Swiss breed, something like White Saanens, much more placid,” she'd told Faith. “But my first two were Nubians and here I am.”

“We'd be happy to come get you,” Faith urged and asked about the only thing she could think of that would keep Mary away. “Is there a problem with one of the herd?”

“It's not the goats,” Mary said. “It's, well, it's something else. Faith. I know this is a lot to ask, but is there any way you could come over here for a little while?”

Startled by the unusual request, Faith heard herself answer, “Of course. When would you like me?”

“As soon as possible,” Mary said, hanging up.

Faith stood a moment with the receiver still in her hand, thinking about Mary. The older woman lived by herself on her family farm, raising the goats, growing some vegetables, and making superlative goat cheese. The cheese had been their initial point of contact. Tasting some at a friend's house, Faith had tracked Mary down—that in itself hadn't been easy. Then it had taken a while to exchange more than a brief hello, thank you, and good-bye with Mary. Faith had felt as if she were befriending a woodland creature, luring a doe into the open. But Mary was proud of her cheese—and her herd. That was what drew her out. Over the last few summers, Faith had helped her with some new recipes—herbed chèvre, chèvre with sundried tomatoes, and a delectable cranberry-honey mixture. Noting the state of Mary's finances—the woman had once confided she couldn't afford to keep her house as warm as the barn and might start sleeping there in the winter—Faith had encouraged her to sell her cheeses more widely than at the weekly summer farmers' markets on the island and in Blue Hill. Mary was now shipping cheese down to the Portland Public Market and a few closer to home most of the year.

When they'd arrived last week, one of the first things Faith
had done was drive to the farm to get some cheese. Tom was on a low-fat diet, but Faith had gone online and discovered that there was some evidence that goat's milk actually reduced cholesterol and had all sorts of other healthy properties. Even if this wasn't true, salad with
chèvre chaud
—warm rounds of the cheese—was so tasty, his spirits would soar. Tom had confessed early on that he'd taken his health for granted and at times this betrayal by what he referred to as his “well-oiled machine” caused some depression.

Mary had been very sympathetic when she'd heard about Tom's illness—and comforting. “One of the Sanfords had the very same thing and was back fishing before the season ended.” She'd also pressed various rose-hip concoctions on Faith, swearing that, in addition to any and all goat products, they could cure everything from “a sprained ankle to a broken heart.” This was the way Mary spoke—slightly quirky and always direct. She was a reader. Books were stacked all over the parts of the house Faith had seen—the kitchen and a peep into the adjoining parlor. She was sure the rest looked the same. The two women often exchanged titles and sometimes the books themselves. It was another bond. Over the years, Faith had become very fond of Mary and wondered what her story was. The woman never talked about her personal life, and what little Faith knew had been gleaned from remarks others had made.

Certainly there was an underlying sadness to Mary Bethany's life. Didn't she need something, or rather someone, besides her books and her goats? Had she had it and lost it?

Faith replaced the receiver, thinking how human the goat in the background had sounded. Almost like a baby crying.

 

Mary Bethany had not slept since she'd found Christopher in her barn. At first, she'd determinedly blocked out all thoughts of what to do except take care of his immediate needs. She changed his wet
diaper and burst out laughing as he sprayed her before she could get the new one on. His skin was softer than any kid's fleece. Soft—everything about him was soft from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. How could finger-and toenails be so small, so perfect? He curled his fist around her finger and made that soft mewling sound again. So different from her demanding nannies. So different from the cries of enraged infants she'd occasionally heard in the aisles of the Granville Market.

Lacking any alternative, she had filled one of the bottles with goat's milk, warmed it, and watched in delight as he greedily sucked it dry. Mary prided herself not only on her cheese but her milk. It was always sweet and fresh. Two lactose-intolerant customers swore they couldn't tell the difference from cow's milk, as if that were the standard. Cow's milk—Mary thought it should be the other way around. She would never have taken up with cows. Much too bovine. No personality. She'd known cows.

It was only when Christopher had once again fallen asleep—as she rocked him gently in the chair her mother may have rocked her in—that Mary began to consider her alternatives. Happily, calling the authorities was not a choice. There were no authorities to call. She doubted the Staties would be down patrolling Sanpere on Christmas Eve.

She was happy about this for several reasons, first and foremost being an innate disinclination to “open up a can of worms.” They'd bring in social workers, put Christopher in a foster home, everything his mother was clearly trying to avoid by leaving him in Mary's barn. Mary had no idea who the woman could possibly be, but she did know one thing. Christopher's mother had chosen Mary, and she had chosen her because she thought Christopher was in danger. “Keep him safe,” she'd written. The baby was a trust, a sacred trust, and Mary Bethany was not going to betray that. Let it be according to her wish.

But what to do? Even though she rarely saw other people—
only at the bank, the market, or if she happened to be in the shed when they came to buy cheese or milk—there was no way she could pass the baby off as her own. Besides her age and the lack of any physical evidence—Mary had always been as slender as a reed—the notion of Mary with a lover would be greeted not only with skepticism but derision. She could hear them now: “Mary Bethany pregnant? Maybe by one of the goats.”

Mary was born on the island, but the Bethanys were from away. Her parents had come to Sanpere when her father got a job as a welder at the shipyard after the war. Her mother's family had come from Italy and endowed Mary with the dark hair and Mediterranean features that she shared with others on Sanpere. But their looks had come down from the Italian stonecutters who had arrived in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to work in the now abandoned granite quarries. Mary's grandparents had landed in New York and worked in the garment business—the wrong kind of Italians for Sanpere. True, Mary's father's family were Mainers, but from the north, Aroostook County—potato farmers. They weren't fishermen. Her father had learned his trade in the service, met her mother, Anne, at a USO dance, and when the war was over, they'd ended up on Sanpere not for any particular reason, but because people have to end up somewhere. Without the kinship network that was as essential and basic to Sanpere as the aquifer and ledges the entire island rested on, Mary and her older sister, Martha, were always viewed as outsiders.