The Body In The Basement ff-6

by Katherine Hall Page

  I think Mitchel even lived with the Marshal s one winter.

  Maybe Seth can repair the latticework. I hadn't thought of him."

  “Not until he finishes the Fairchilds' house," Pix said firmly. "The latticework has needed repair for several years and it can hold out a little longer.”

  She took another cup of tea, turned down her mother's offer of sherry as sunset drew nigh, and set off for home to make her phone cal s.

  The Pines was across a causeway connecting Sanpere and Little Sanpere. It was a short road, but it twisted and turned precariously above the rocky shoreline.

  It was another favorite place for the local kids to drag and had witnessed several tragedies over the years. There were no guardrails. Large rocks had been set on either side and this year they were painted with bright white luminous paint to help keep drivers on track. It wasn't a road she liked to think of Samantha negotiating at night.

  She passed through Sanpere Vil age with its lovely old ship captains' houses, some with widow's walks, facing the sea. Her friends El iot and Louise Frazier lived in one, and Louise was planting geraniums in a huge old blue-and-white stoneware crock in the fading daylight. Pix waved and continued on. The Fraziers belonged to the same group that Pix fancied her family did—people not orginal y from Sanpere who either now lived here year-round or had been coming in the summer for so long that the line between native-born and "summer person" had blurred. They weren't islanders, but they were close to it. El iot Frazier had been the postmaster for years and both he and Louise had served on many of the town's boards. They were even further across the line than the Mil ers and Rowes, although if there had been an honorary islander award, Pix's mother would have won it years ago. Being admitted to the Sewing Circle amounted to the same thing.

  As Pix drove across the island on one of the three roads that connected the loop Route 17 made around the circumference, she thought about al these distinctions and wondered why people always found it so necessary to put other people in neat little categories, and why indeed she prided herself so much on her own label.

  Many of the summer people actively fought the moniker—buying their clothes at the fishermen's supply, driving beat-up old trucks, and studiously avoiding the vacation community on the island. These same people tended to count how often they received the traditional island road greeting—a few fingers casual y raised from the top of the steering wheel and maybe a slight nod as vehicles passed.

  The rusticators, families who had been coming for generations, had always hired local people to work for them as caretakers and cooks, and they didn't pretend—or in some cases want—to blend in. Their ways had been set by a grandmother or grandfather in '02 and successive generations found no reason for change. They sailed. They took vigorous walks. They picnicked—with the same immense wicker hampers outfitted with thermos bottles, china, utensils, a rug to spread on the ground, and a folding camp stool if required by an elderly member. They wore squashed salt-encrusted, white canvas sun hats that did not prevent their faces from turning a ruddy bronze, complete with peeling nose, by August.

  Where did Mitchel Pierce fit into the social scheme?

  Pix wondered. He wasn't a summer person, but he was from away. He was more intimate with the native population of Sanpere, since he'd boarded in various island homes at times. These people general y spoke approvingly of him, even after some major disaster when a foundation he had finished crumbled because there was too much sand in the concrete. He loved to listen to the old-timers' stories and could recount the history of the island better than most who had grown up here. He played the mandolin passably and was a popular addition for musical evenings, where he was sure to be asked for "Rainbow" and "The Girl I Left Behind Me" Yet his last series of misadventures had left an unpleasant taste even in the mouths of these supporters.

  He'd been working on a large Victorian mansion original y constructed by a shipyard owner in Sanpere Vil age. The current owners, wealthy summer people, lived in Chicago during the winter. Mitch had charged not only building supplies at Barton's but also food at the IGA and bread and other baked goods at Louel a Prescott's. Louel a ran a smal bakery from her kitchen and had learned the same delectable recipes from her mother that her sister, Gert, had. Both women were noted especial y for their pies, and in Louel a's case, the best anadama bread in Maine, or perhaps anywhere.

  Mitch had disappeared midwinter and was sighted up in Northeast Harbor with a booth at an antiques show. He told someone there that he planned to return to Sanpere to finish the job and settle his accounts, but he never again crossed the bridge to anyone's knowledge—and there were plenty of people looking for him. Bar-ton's was a big outfit, and in any case, the owners of the house he was working on would be forced to cover the bil , since they'd given Mitch carte blanche. But Louel a, and Vincent at the IGA, had trouble absorbing the loss. Mitch had run up quite a tab. His habit of turning up on your doorstep with a pie in one hand and a few pints of the expensive ice cream Vince stocked as a luxury item didn't seem the generous and kindhearted gesture it once had. Local opinion was that Mitch should come back and face the music.

  Pix could almost hear what people were no doubt saying now. Wel , old Mitchel is back, but the only music he's facing is harp music, and that might be doubtful.

  She added another category for people like Mitch.

  The Fairchilds were clearly going to be summer people, arriving for a vacation, pure and simple, leaving only their footsteps behind.

  Samantha's employers were a blend, since Jim's family had been coming for such a long time, plus they were now living here year-round. But Valerie's southern accent alone would keep them at arm's length as outsiders for years.

  Jil Merriwether drove past Pix on the opposite side of the road. They'd reached the two steep up and down hil s that were so much fun to drive, like a rol er coaster. Jil gave more than the laconic salute—a big smile and a wave. Had she heard about Mitch?

  Pix suddenly remembered that Jil had added antiques to her shop. She'd talked about it during the Memorial Day weekend and mentioned that Mitch was one of her suppliers, so she must have known how to get in touch with him. Pix made a note to herself to talk to Jil and try to find out where Mitch had been living.

  Jil 's shop was close to the Sanpere Inn, lovingly restored six years ago by its new owners and saved from certain ruin. Mitch had worked on that, too, she recal ed.

  The inn sat next to the mil pond, facing the harbor across another smal causeway. In a short time, it had become wel known for its picturesque location and fine cuisine. Jil had quickly noted that its clientele was more interested in nineteenth-century marine paintings and pine chests than in mugs decorated with lobsters or jars of blueberry jam.

  She'd been excited about getting into the antiques business and had told Pix she was reading everything she could get her hands on. Pix reminded her not to overlook finds at the dump. A previous enterprise in Sanpere had obtained most of its stock that way when various local people traded up for a matching living room set from Sears, complete with his and her recliners, leaving the old rickety stuff off to one side by the household trash.

  Pix turned down the long dirt road to their house. No matter how often she did this, she always felt an immediate sense of wel -being. The first cove she passed had been posted for red tide this summer and no clamming or worming was al owed. But the cove at the foot of the meadow by their house had always tested out fine. It was il egal to cross private property to get to the shore, though anyone could come by boat and did. She'd see them bent over the mud with their short handled rakes. Clamming and worming were backbreaking work. Digging in the mud for sea worms and bloodworms, freshwater bait, wasn't any better. Eking out a living on Sanpere had never been easy, but it was especial y hard during the current recession. Men and women had to be Jacks and Jilts of al trades. And that brought her back to Mitch again.

  Which of his enterprises had led to the grave in the basement? Who had wanted
him dead? Someone left with a half-finished or botched job? But they'd be more likely to sue or at least try to get him to complete the work, wouldn't they? She also couldn't see Louel a working herself up to a murderous frenzy over unpaid bil s for baked goods. But then there were people on the island who might get pretty steamed on her behalf, particularly after a night fil ed with too many beers.

  Someone had had a reason. When they could figure that out, they'd have the murderer. This was the way she understood it usual y worked in books. Look for a motive.

  Who inherits? Who had been scorned? Some event in his past? Something to do with his family? Maybe the whole thing was total y divorced from his shady occupations.

  The newspapers played up random craziness, serial kil ers selecting victims at whim. But altogether too much thought had gone into the planning of Mitchel Pierce's death—the location, the timing, maybe even the quilt, Drunkard's Path. Had he been kil ed because he drank too much? Maybe it was insanity, some crazed temperance fanatic?

  She pul ed the car to the side of her house. The simple Cape wasn't an old one, but the seasons had worn the cedar shingles so that it looked as if it had been in place for centuries. Pix's garden added to the image. It was fil ed with old-fashioned flowers: delphinium, cosmos, phlox, oxeye daisies, and coreopsis. A combination of fragrances from the old varieties of peonies and the rosa rugosa bushes welcomed her home.

  Inside, the cottage had been furnished with castoffs from The Pines, yard-sale finds, and a gem or two from local auctions. These embel ished the myth that it was an old house, as did the Boston rocker needing some new paint and the gently faded chintz slipcovers on the down-cushioned sofa. The braided rugs scattered across the pine floorboards had been made by Pix's grandmother in shades of muted rose, blue, and green. Field guides, knitting projects, sailing charts, and Samantha's tennis shoes were strewn around the living room.

  Other than the shoes, there was no sign of Samantha.

  She was stil at the movies. Pix decided it was now or never. She had to cal Faith. Having refused Ursula's sherry, she felt justified in pouring herself a scotch, dropped an ice cube in it, and dialed Sam.

  He answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hi, honey, I was going to cal you two tonight. I was just out in the backyard in the hammock. You wouldn't believe how hot it is here!"

  “That's

  nice,"

  Pix

  said,

  then

  realized

  the

  inappropriateness of her remark. "I mean, that must be terrible.”

  “Al right, what's wrong?"

  “Samantha and I walked out to the end of the Point today to check on how the house was coming along.... "

  “Is Seth doing a good job?"

  “He hasn't done much of any job so far, but that's—”

  Sam was as indignant as Pix had been earlier and she decided to let him have his say before final y interrupting.

  "Darling, we found a dead body on the site. In the excavation, actual y."

  “What!”

  Pix told him the whole story. It was turning out to be a much-needed dress rehearsal for her star turn with the Fairchilds. Sam agreed to give her fifteen minutes before he went over.

  “I know they're both home. I just saw Tom pul in and Faith has been in the yard with the kids al afternoon. They went inside about an hour ago.”

  Baths, supper, stories, Faith would be pretty busy. But not too busy to answer the phone.

  “Pix! This is great. I didn't think we'd get a report so soon”

  Pix took a deep breath and a large mouthful of scotch.

  "Is Tom around?"

  “Yes, he's reading to the kids in the living room. Why do you ask? Don't tel me. They've screwed something up.

  Put something in upside down or left us with no doors!"

  Faith was attempting to speak lightly.

  “Samantha and I went over this morning to see how things were progressing and one of the dogs dug up a dead body in your basement—or rather, the hand. The police uncovered the rest."

  “I can't believe it!" Faith turned away from the phone.

  "Tom, get on the extension. Quick!"

  “We had trouble believing it ourselves, but ..

  “This is going to put us terribly . behind schedule,"

  Faith wailed.

  From the extension, Tom asked, "What is?"

  “Pix found a body buried in our future basement, and I know how the police work. It wil be weeks before they'l let us continue. We may have to get al sorts of new permits and getting the ones we have was like something out of Dickens.”

  Pix graciously decided Faith must be in shock. She also decided she needed to get back into the conversation.

  “The man who was kil ed was Mitchel Pierce. I don't think your paths ever crossed. He never had a permanent place on the island." Until now, she added silently. "He restored old houses, sold antiques, and tended to move around a lot."

  “Isn't he the one who left Louel a Prescott holding the bag?" Faith had become friendly with the baker. "Yes, that was Mitch."

  “I can't see Louel a committing murder over a few crul ers, though.”

  This time, Tom interrupted.

  “How are you and Samantha? It must have been terrifying for you”

  Pix felt a warm glow, a combination of Tom and Johnnie Walker.

  “It was at first, but we're al right now. Fortunately, the dog only unearthed a hand."

  “Oh, Pix"—now it was Faith's turn—"I've been such a jerk, thinking of my own petty concerns when you and Samantha have been through a horrendous day. What can we do? Should I come up?"

  “No," Pix and Tom said in unison, Pix adding, "There real y isn't anything you could do, and I know how busy you are getting ready for al those Fourth of July parties.”

  The Fairchilds' doorbel rang audibly in the background.

  “That's probably Sam," Pix told them.

  “Why don't you get it, sweetheart," Faith said. Tom said good-bye and hung up the phone.

  “Now, Pix," Faith said sternly, "I know you've seen me get involved in a number of murder cases, but it's not something I recommend, and I think you should stay out of al this as much as possible.”

  Pix found herself feeling somewhat annoyed. Who had located Penny Bartlett missing in Boston last year? It hadn't been Faith, but none other than her faithful friend and neighbor. Surely this same friend and neighbor should be able to ferret out a few salient details about Mitchel Pierce's death here on Sanpere, where she knew not only the names and characteristics of al the flora and fauna but the two-legged inhabitants and their habits and habitats, as wel .

  “Please, Pix, listen to me. It could be dangerous. I'm sure it's a total coincidence that someone picked our particular cel ar hole, but you can't be too careful.”

  It was al Pix could do to refrain from comment, something referring to Faith's possible reactions upon hearing these same words. But Faith had become her dearest friend, and if she was a bit insensitive, a bit self-absorbed, a bit like a steam rol er, other sterling qualities more than made up for it.

  So she said, "Yes, Faith" as meekly as she could muster and hung up with promises to stay in touch with everyone on the hour every hour if necessary. Sam had picked up the extension and both he and Tom were exhorting her along the same lines Faith had.

  She hung up, drained her glass, and then remembered: She had total y forgotten to tel Faith that Seth hadn't done any work since Memorial Day.

  It would just have to wait.

  Three

  No one claimed the body.

  After the medical examiner finished the autopsy and established that the cause of death was most certainly due to multiple stab wounds, the state police let it be known that whoever wanted to was free to take Mitchel and hold whatever last rites deemed fitting and proper. The remains were transported to the back room of Durgen's Funeral Home in Granvil e, pending the wishes of the near and
dear.

  Those wishes were stil pending at the end of the week, by which time Donald Durgen had sensibly opted for cremation. Aside from the obvious reason, Donald told his brother and partner, Marvin, "We don't know how long we're going to have Mitch's company. Could be quite a while, and you know we need the space." He conscientiously labeled the cardboard box and placed it next to their tax receipts from 1980 to 1985. If someone wanted to come along and pay for an urn, why then they'd be only too happy, but for the moment, 'Mitch would stay filed.

  That Mitchel Pierce had been stabbed to death with a hunting knife did not make the investigation any easier. On Sanpere, hunting was not merely a sport but a passion, and in many cases, a necessity. Finding a household without a hunting knife would be as surprising as the use to which this particular one had been put. Far in advance of opening day, knives and guns were honed and oiled, stories told and stretched. The winners of the state moose lottery, those fortunate individuals who got the chance to track a real y big creature, were targets of envy for weeks.

  But the fact remained: No one seemed to be in a hurry to claim any kinship with Mitch. He seemed destined to remain at Durgen's, not even perched by the one window in the room where his spirit would have had an unobstructed bird's-eye view across the harbor to the old granite quarries on Crandal Island and straight out to Isle au Haut, rising from the sea in the distance—with its Mount Champlain resembling some sort of Down East version of Bali Hai.

  Durgen's was one of the best vantage points in Granvil e.

  Pix was expressing her surprise at Mitchel 's lack of earthly ties to Louise Frazier who had cal ed to remind the Mil ers about the Fraziers' annual Independence Day clambake on Sunday.

  “The police have tried to track down a relative or even a close friend, but so far no luck. There's got to be somebody. It's real y very sad. I told Sam we ought to bury him and hold a smal service. There's plenty of room in the plot, and I don't imagine mother would mind. I can't stand thinking of him on some shelf at Durgen's for eternity, but Sam is sure someone wil turn up. He told me to wait.”