He'd also told her that there was no way Ursula was going to let a nonfamily member eavesdrop on their conversations in the next life, particularly when they had been careful to avoid revealing more than where to replace a two-by-four in this. Pix was sure her mother would be more accepting, but Sam convinced her to let things lie for the moment.
“It is odd," Louise agreed, "but Mitchel was a loner. He seemed to know everybody—and he certainly knew a lot about everybody; he was a wonderful gossip—but I can't ever remember his having a good friend. Nobody lived with him whenever he was on the island, although he lived with plenty of people.”
It sounded il ogical, but Pix knew what Louise meant.
“He was certainly adept at mooching a place to stay when he needed one, but when he was working on a house and living on the premises, you're right: He was always alone. He lived with other people only when he couldn't live in the house. The time he was restoring that barn in Little Harbor, he lived with one of the Prescotts"
“And didn't he board with John Eggleston once?"
“Very briefly. I don't think he was there a week before they quarreled and John threw him out. I'd forgotten that."
Pix made a mental note to talk to John. A former Episcopal priest, now a wood sculptor, he might have evoked some revelations of a confessional nature from Mitch before things went awry. It would be interesting to discover what had happened to cause the heave ho, although it would no doubt turn out to have been something like Mitch's using John's towel or drinking milk from the carton. In Pix's experience, this was usual y why roommates parted ways—
nothing dramatic, just irritating little everyday things that piled up to actionable proportions.
Pix continued: "Jil told me that Earl told her the state police have been trying to find out about Mitch's past from his tax returns and Social Security. It seems everybody has a paper trail. He was born in Rhode Island, but his parents are dead and there were no siblings. His permanent address was a post office box in Camden. They got al excited when they went over the court records—you know, he's been sued a number of times. They found a lawyer's name and got in touch with him, but he says Mitch never told him anything personal, just hired him by the case.
Never, apparently, made a wil , either—at least not with this guy. Now they're going over his bank records, seeing whom he may have written checks to and if he had a safety-deposit box anywhere. The last place he was living was a rented room in a house in Sul ivan, and there wasn't much in it except a few clothes and a whole lot of paperback mysteries."
“It does seem amazing to us. We're so embedded in our families, our relationships, and yes, our legal affairs"
Louise laughed. "What I'm saying is, people like us don't often think of people like Mitch—someone with no roots.”
Louise came from a large South Carolinian family, bringing with her to Maine softened speech, a penchant for drinking iced tea al year long, and an endless supply of stories about various family members. She had a tendency to talk of the living and the dead in the same tense, so Pix was never sure whether Aunt Sister, who dressed al in white and spent fifteen minutes every day of her life with slightly dampened bags—which she fashioned herself from silk and rose petals—on her closed eyes, was stil alive or had passed on. Surely, however, Cousin Fancy, who saved the sterling from the Yankees by burying it in the family plot, moving Grandaddy's stone to mark the spot—merely for the duration, you understand—was no longer rustling along the sidewalks of Charleston in her hoop skirts.
Pix accepted Louise's invitation, hoping that Sam would be able to be there with her. He liked to help El iot prepare the pit. It was an old-fashioned clambake always held in Sylvester Cove, with half the island in attendance.
She offered to bring her usual vat of fish chowder, her grandmother's cherished, but not particularly closely guarded, recipe—unlike some she could name, she told Louise, both women having tried unsuccessful y for years to get Adelaide Bainbridge's recipe for sherry-nutmeg cake.
Pix had tried not so much because she wanted to make it, but because of the principle of the thing, and besides, her mother would like it. Louise wanted it because it was a favorite of El iot's.
Pix always thought of the Fraziers as ospreys, the large fish hawks that were once more returning to the islands, building their enormous nests on rocky ledges, high atop spruce trees, and occasional y even balanced on a channel marker. Ospreys were birds who mated for life.
She'd told her theory to Sam, who agreed, commenting that El iot was actual y beginning to look a little beaky as he got older. Whatever the name or the comparison, the Fraziers were a devoted couple.
Louise accepted Pix's offer of the chowder grateful y.
"Timing at clambakes is so unpredictable, and people always get hungry before we uncover the pit.”
After she hung up, Pix thought she'd better put in a quick cal to Faith before Sunday to ask her advice about making a large quantity of chowder. Usual y, she simply quadrupled or quintupled the recipe, but working at the catering company had heightened her sensibilities. Maybe there was some special proportion known only to dedicated cooks or foodies. She wished the Fairchilds could come up for the Fourth of July festivities on Sanpere, which actual y started the weekend before. The day itself would begin with a parade in Sanpere Vil age, fol owed by children's games in the elementary school playground, before moving to Granvil e for first the Odd Fel ows Lobster Picnic, then later the Fish and Fritter Fry run by the Fishermen's Wives Association on the wharf. The day ended back in Sanpere Vil age, with fireworks over the harbor at nightfal . But Faith was catering four different functions and couldn't get away.
Pix would miss the Fairchilds, but it might be best if they weren't around until the whole business with Mitchel Pierce was cleared up. She reminded herself to cal Earl and see when Seth could start work again. She presumed they'd been over the site with magnifying glasses, tweezers, fingerprint powder, and whatever else it was they used to find clues. They'd taken both her and Samantha's sneakers away on Sunday, so examining footprints was one activity, although it had been so dry that the slightest breeze would have long since blown away any traces in a cloud of dust.
Al right, she told herself briskly. Cal Earl, cal Faith, get out chowder recipe, make shopping list, pick up Mother at the Bainbridge's, where she is lunching, stake tomato plants, set out beer-fil ed tuna cans to kil slugs, pick up Samantha at work ... She got a pencil and made a list. Pix had lists everywhere—in her purse, in her pockets, on the wal , on the fridge, tucked into books. She'd told a friend once, "My life is one long list," and the friend had replied, "I know—and the list is never done." It had depressed Pix at the time and it depressed her now. She decided to take the dogs outside and do the tomatoes first.
The exercise and the fresh air lifted her spirits immediately and she stood up and stretched. It was a long one. Pix was not her given name, but an abbreviation of the childhood nickname "Pixie," bestowed by her doting parents when she was a wee mite of two. At four, she had shot up to the size of a six-year-old, but the name persisted.
And as she grew older, she was thankful to whatever fate had been responsible for that brief petite moment. As a name, Pix was vastly preferable to what was on her birth certificate, Myrtle—for her father's favorite aunt and her horticulturist mother's favorite ground cover. In retrospect, Pix was grateful Mother hadn't opted for the Latin and chosen Vinca Minor instead of little Myrtle. When Aunt Myrtle died, she left her namesake a cameo, a diamond brooch, and some nice coupons to clip. Everything but the cameo had long since been converted into a hot-water heater, braces for the kids, and, one particularly tight winter, antibiotics for the dogs, the cost of which had led Pix seriously close to fraud as she considered listing them under their given names of Dustin, Arthur, and Henry Mil er on the family's health insurance.
After al , what was in a name? Pix, like most people, seldom remembered she even had another one, unless she received a notice for
jury duty or her mother was particularly annoyed with her. Her mother! She dropped her tools, ran into the house, hastily washed, and dashed out to pick Ursula up. It wouldn't do to be late.
* * *
Samantha, on another part of the island, stopped for a moment to look about. It was bright and sunny—a little too warm for Maine. They stil hadn't had any rain. She'd been working for several days and was beginning to get the lay of the land.
Maine Sail Camp consisted of a number of smal rustic wooden cabins plus a large dining hal that doubled as a recreation center scattered over a sloping hil ending at the shore with a large dock and boathouse. When not actual y on the water, campers could stil see it and the sailboats that were the focus of each encampment. In addition to the sailing lessons, campers were instructed in nature lore, swimming, and the al -important crafts of lariat making and pot-holder weaving. The oldest campers were thirteen; the youngest, seven. An invisible but impenetrable wal ran down the middle of the hil separating the boys' from the girls' cabins. There were campers whose parents and even grandparents had attended Maine Sail. Reunions were nostalgic affairs and camp spirit was actively encouraged.
A tear in the eye when singing "O Thou Maine Sail of My Life" was not viewed amiss. Jim Atherton, the director, was the embodiment of a Maine Sail camper. He lived, breathed, and now ran Maine Sail.
He had told Samantha her first day the camp wasn't just a camp but a state of mind. Kids returned year after year, not simply for the sailing and al the rest but for the
"experience." Samantha had noted that he seemed to be too choked up to put it into words. Final y, he'd told her,
"You'l have to feel it for yourself.”
Mostly what Samantha was feeling was tired. She was responsible for teaching ten of the youngest children beginning sailing, which was going to involve everything from knot tying, to reading the water, and final y to putting a tiny hand to the til er. Then she had to race up to the kitchen and help serve lunch, cleaning up afterward. She'd thought it would be fun to work with Arlene, but so far, they were much too rushed to do more than exchange a quick greeting in passing. Arlene stayed on with the crew to prepare dinner and clean the cabins. She told Samantha that if last year was anything to go on, the counselors would be much worse pigs than the kids. The kids had to keep their own bunks tidy. There were no such rules for the staff.
Today was as busy as the earlier part of the week had been. Samantha raced up the hil to the dining hal , swinging open the screen door, then letting it close behind her with a bang when she saw the kitchen crew surrounding Jim, al talking at once.
“Now, now, let's not get hysterical," he said. "There are mice al over the place. You know that. We'l put out some more traps”
Mabel Hamilton, Freeman's sister-in-law and the cook at the camp for so many years that local people thought of Maine Sail as "Mabel's Place," spoke above the din.
Everyone quieted down.
“We've al had mice in our kitchens. I found one poor little fel ow suffocated in a sack of flour once, but what we have not had until now are three mice with their heads cut off laid out on the counter alongside a carving knife.”
Samantha had moved next to Arlene. "Did you see them?" she whispered.
“Yeah, it is so gross."
“I think we should cal Earl." Dot Prescott's voice was firm. Everyone nodded. Dot was in charge of housekeeping and, like Mabel, had been at the camp forever.
Jim tried a jocular approach. "The police! Over a few dead rodents!" He laughed. It didn't work. A sea of tightly shut lips faced him. Mabel and Dot stood directly in front of him, feet planted solidly on the worn pine floorboards, arms folded tightly across their ample bosoms.
“Al right, al right, I'l tel Earl. Now, can we clean the mess up and feed the hoard of hungry kids who wil be streaming through that door in less than thirty minutes?”
Everyone returned to the kitchen. Mabel scrubbed the counter, muttering angrily to herself. "I don't like it. Not one little bit. Have half a mind to .. " No one learned what Mabel was going to do with half of her mind, although al hoped it wouldn't be the lobe with the recipe file. She was far and away the best cook on the island. She suddenly stopped and addressed them in a louder and determinedly cheerful voice. "Let's forget about this now. It doesn't do any good to think about such foolishness. Probably a prank somebody thought would be funny.”
Samantha wasn't sure. She also didn't think it should have been cleared away until Earl had had a chance to look at it, but no one was asking her, and she didn't feel she knew anyone except Arlene wel enough to offer an unsolicited opinion. Besides, she was a kid and they were mostly grown-ups.
She had been unable to keep herself from looking at the gruesome sight. The tiny creatures were neatly laid side by side in a row, with their gory heads tidily set above each carcass. Samantha had seen dead mice before, even a mouse who had met its demise in a trap, but this precise carnage was worse than al the rest put together.
She watched as Mabel scoured the carving knife.
Mitchel Pierce had been kil ed with a hunting knife.
Carving knives. Hunting knives. It suddenly seemed that there were an awful lot of knives in the news on Sanpere.
She felt a bit dizzy and shook her head.
“Sam, are you okay?" Arlene was loading bread into baskets. The diet at Maine Sail leaned toward a carbohydrate overload. Today's entrée was macaroni and cheese. Dessert was bread pudding. There was a salad, though, lemon Jel -O with shredded carrots and mayonnaise dressing on an iceberg lettuce leaf.
Samantha nodded. "I'm fine. It's just creepy, especial y after Sunday.”
Arlene nodded knowingly and put an arm around Sam's shoulder. Since she'd started going steady, she'd begun to adopt a kind of big-sister attitude that Sam wasn't sure she total y liked.
“It is creepy, but I know who did it, and he's a harmless creep, believe me."
“You know who did it!"
“Wel , I'm almost positive. It's got to be Duncan, of course. He's like stuck in the third grade or something, and I bet he thought this would be a real y great joke on us and Jim. He hates it here. Maybe he thinks if he does enough weird stuff, they'l send him away. They should send him away al right—to the loony bin. It would serve him right.”
Samantha hadn't given much thought to Duncan Cowley, whom she had yet to meet. Given everything she'd heard, though, Arlene's theory made sense. Samantha was wil ing to bet this had occurred to her employer, too. It certainly would explain why he wanted to make light of the incident.
She was about to ask Arlene to tel her some more about Duncan when one of the doors to the kitchen opened and a woman walked in. It wasn't the way her mother walked, Sam immediately observed—those purposeful strides meant to get you someplace. This walk was more like a glide. A dancer's walk. A beautiful walk.
The woman had very short, very fair hair that hugged her head in a silken helmet. Her eyes, or her contact lenses, were turquoise blue.
“It's Valerie," Arlene said in a low voice. "She's so awesome. Dunc had to have been switched at birth. He just can't be her son.”
Valerie Atherton was speaking to Mabel Hamilton, then came over to the counter where the two girls were working.
“You must be Samantha Mil er. I'm Valerie Atherton."
Her voice was as smooth as the sea on a dead-calm day when you sat in the boat anxiously watching the drooping sail for a hint of tautness. Nothing was taut about Valerie, except her trim body and unlined face, shadowed by a large straw hat with a big red poppy pinned to the brim.
Sam's mother had three hats: a floppy white sun hat with something that was paint or rust on it, a black hat for funerals, and a yel ow rubber rain hat that made her look like the old salt on the package of Gorton's fish sticks.
“Hi." Samantha, star of the debate team, lead in the junior class play, searched for some other words, something that would make an impression on this witty and urbane woman, a woman Arlene worshiped.
Sam had heard so much about Mrs. Atherton, she felt she already knew her—her clothes, her car, her cat, Rhett Butler.
Valerie hailed from the South and what was a hint in Louise Frazier's speech was a ful -blown answer in Valerie's.
“Hi," Samantha said again, now ready with a remark.
"I'm Samantha Mil er.”
She met Arlene's eyes and turned scarlet with embarrassment. Someone else might have said, "I know. I said that, stupid," but Valerie appeared to find it new and delightful.
“I just adore your grandmother and your parents. It's lovely of you to be helping us out this summer. I hope you'l come by the house real soon. We can't show it off enough.
It was in such bad taste to build such a big place and we have no excuse, except we al seem to take up so much space and if the house was any smal er, Jim and I would probably end up getting a divorce, so real y we're helping to change those terrible statistics about failed marriages.”
Mabel Hamilton, who'd been beaming since Valerie came into the kitchen, burst out laughing. "I have to remember this. Maybe if I tel Wilbur it's to save our marriage and set a good example for folks, he wil final y winterize the porch so I can have my sewing room.”
Samantha's cheeks were back to their normal color.
She didn't know anyone who blushed as much as she did; it was annoying, so immature. She realized Valerie had entirely changed the mood of the kitchen and gotten everyone thinking of something else in a very short time.
Valerie perched on one of the stools and asked Mabel if she could have a bowl of the macaroni and cheese. "It's my ultimate comfort food" She was looking at Samantha, so Sam nodded and final y found some words. "Mine, too, along with chocolate pudding and whipped cream."
“And warm applesauce," Arlene suggested. Soon everyone was listing their favorites—mashed potatoes, cinnamon toast, tapioca—until Mabel brought the reverie to a halt with her own candidate—sardine sandwiches.
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