The Body In The Basement ff-6

by Katherine Hall Page

  Pix could not shake the feeling there was something that didn't quite ring true about Norman. She was trying hard to be objective about him and knew that a good part of her mistrust had to do with his Big Apple shine. Then too there were few strangers on the island. There were tourists and people who rented cottages for a week or so, but Norman—someone from away—had managed to insinuate himself into everyday island life to an alarming degree.

  Why, he'd even been at the Fraziers' clambake! Things, especial y social y, moved slowly on Sanpere and people waited a decent interval, say ten years, before expecting invitations.

  Why was Norman here? She knew what was purported. There was that word again. It reminded her of Mitch. "Purported" activities. Norman and Mitch. Dealers in antiques. Norman had arrived on the island wel before the murder. Where was he at the time?

  There was a lot to work into a conversation.

  Driving down Route 17 past the turnoff for Little Harbor, she wished Faith were around and resolved to cal her later to talk about these misgivings. Pix turned into the Bainbridges' drive, stopped the car, and got out. The property had once included many acres to the rear and on both sides, but the land had been sold long ago, leaving the farmhouse and barn. The first thing to greet her was the sound of hammering. Curious, she fol owed the noise and sound of hammering. Curious, she fol owed the noise and discovered Seth Marshal and someone obviously working for him inside the barn, replacing a beam.

  “Seth!" He dropped his hammer in surprise.

  “Now, Pix, I have to keep busy. The police won't let me out there yet"

  “But it could be tomorrow. Wel , not the Fourth, but maybe the next day, and you'l be al tied up here!" She was livid. The Fairchild house was becoming a dream one, literal y.

  “I told Aunt Addie I would have to stop once I got the go-ahead on another project. Don't worry." Seth spoke soothingly and tried flashing an ingratiating grin. It made him look more like Peck's Bad Boy than ever and Pix was not mol ified.

  “I'l give Earl a cal and see if we can get some idea of how much longer they need. Goodness knows, they should be finished by now. I think you had better plan to start Thursday at the latest."

  “Which means working here tomorrow," the other man muttered angrily, stopping the rest of his complaint after a glance from the boss.

  “Thursday wil be fine. Now, please, remember I want to get started as much as you do.”

  Pix certainly hoped so, said as much and good-bye, then walked out into the sunshine and over to the house.

  "Aunt Addie" indeed, although she could real y be his aunt, or more likely, great-aunt. The whole island was connected by ties of varying degrees of kinship.

  Rebecca answered the door—the back door, of course. A bed of ferns had grown up over the front steps and Pix thought it unlikely that the door with its shiny brass knocker in the shape of an anchor had been opened since James Bainbridge had been carried out in his coffin. It would never have done to take him the back way through the kitchen.

  “Who is it?" a querulous voice cal ed out. "Don't just leave whoever it is standing with their chin hanging out!

  Invite them in!”

  Rebecca ignored Addie's remarks and reached for the Tupperware bowl.

  “Oh, Pix, am I glad to see this. I couldn't remember where I had mislaid it, but I knew I had it at the clambake, because I'd fil ed it with butterscotch shortbread* that morning.”

  She had missed something good, Pix thought, stepping into the room. The Bainbridges' shortbread was another of those secret family recipes.

  “I'm glad I found it. It was in my chowder pot and I might have put it away without opening it until next year, but the top fel off the pot when I was putting it on the shelf."

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways," Rebecca said confidently, then led Pix to the front parlor, where Addie was somehow managing to keep herself poised on the slippery horsehair Bainbridge fainting couch. Pix knew that it was a fainting couch because Adelaide had told her once, adding, perhaps unnecessarily, "not that it has ever been used as one" Oddly enough, today she did seem a bit under the weather. She wore a housecoat that made her look like a large pink-and-orange-flowered tea cozy. Her legs were stretched out and she apologized for wearing her bedroom slippers.

  “The heat is something terrible for my circulation; I can't even get my shoes on this morning. I told Rebecca to order the next-biggest size, but she forgot and got the same as always."

  “We could send them back. It wouldn't be any trouble."

  “Wel , it would be for me. What wil I do for footwear while they're gone, I'd like to know?" She kept right on going: "And there must have been something I et at the clambake that didn't sit right—not that I think for a moment it was your chowder, deah," she added, looking Pix straight in the eye. The intent was clear. Now was the moment for Pix to confess to buying suspect fish and last year's potatoes. Pix stared right back. Nobody else had suffered from the chowder in the slightest and Addie's indisposition was more than likely a case of overindulgence. Addie was starting to catalog her major symptoms, such as severe diarrhea and stomach cramps, rather graphical y when Rebecca tactful y broke in.

  “Fix brought our Tupperware bowl back, the one we thought was lost at the clambake. It was in her chowder pot.”

  Adelaide beamed as if she'd recovered the family jewels instead of an airtight storage container. "It's hard to get good Tupperware nowadays and I won that at one of Dot Prescott's parties when she was sel ing Tupperware. I don't know who's doing it now.”

  Pix tried to steer the conversation away from plastics to antiques and Norman.

  “It must be interesting having an antiques dealer like Norman Osgood as a guest" The Bainbridges always cal ed their bed-and-breakfast customers "guests."

  “Oh my, yes, he's been a treat. The stories that man can tel . We sit and laugh for hours.”

  Rebecca didn't look quite so merry, and Pix wondered whether she was included in these funfests.

  “Is he around now? I had a question I wanted to ask him."

  “No, he's off on one of his jaunts today. Be back in time for the parade tomorrow, he said. What's your question? I'l ask him for you.”

  Pix had been afraid Addie would say this and was now thankful she'd prepared a mythical inquiry about the best way to take care of an old Sheraton dresser her mother was giving her.

  “Just keep it clean with a dust cloth," Rebecca advised, "if the wood is not too dry and the finish stil good."

  “And what do you know about the care of valuable antiques, Rebecca Bainbridge? I don't recal too many down in that shack you grew up in.: No, Pix. I swear by Olde English and plenty of it. You can't go wrong there.”

  Faith could smel it had been put to good use in the parlor. She looked anxiously at Rebecca. It might have been that Addie had gone too far.

  “Your own husband was raised in that `shack,' Addie, and you're lying on Grandmother's couch this very moment.

  I guess we had just as many nice things as you did out at the lighthouse.”

  Pix was glad to hear Rebecca answering back. It didn't happen very often.

  “You couldn't have had many, then," Addie one-upped her. "I slept on a cot in the kitchen and there wasn't a decent piece of furniture in the place. The only thing worth any money at al was the light, and that belonged to the government. Now where are my regular glasses? You've gone and fetched the wrong ones, as usual! Can't see a thing with these"

  “Those are the right ones. Remember, you put a piece of tape on the frame so we wouldn't get mixed up. There it is, plain as the nose on your face.”

  Addie pul ed her glasses off. "Can't see a danged thing. You must have put tape on both.”

  Before the fur could fly any faster, Pix made her farewel s with promises to sit together at the parade the next day. The Bainbridges' lawn sloped agreeably down to Main Street and was a perfect viewing stand.

  “And don't forget your mother!" Addie cal ed after her.
/>
  As if I would—or could, Pix thought.

  After leaving the Bainbridges, she felt a little betwixt and between. Sam was on a long cruise to Swans Island with a sailing buddy and Samantha was stil at work. She thought she might pop in to Jil 's store and pick up a baby sweater made by one of the women on the island that The Blueberry Patch stocked. One of Pix's cousin's children was having a baby, which would make Ursula a great-great-aunt and make Pix a what, a cousin some number of times removed?

  Removed. She realized Mitchel Pierce's death had removed her from her normal embedded island feelings.

  She had the constant sense that she was on the outside looking in, not because she was from away but because there were things going on she couldn't quite make out.

  She had the il usion that if she could only squint hard enough, she'd be able to make out the shapes.

  Jil was at the register. The store was empty.

  “Hi, Pix," she said. She had been working on her accounts evidently and now shoved a large ledger under the counter. The cash register was an antique—and not for sale. It had been a fixture in the previous store to occupy the space, a cobbler's shop owned by Jil 's grandfather.

  “My cousin's daughter is having a baby soon and I want to send a sweater."

  “Do they know what they are having? I always think that sounds so odd, but you know what I mean?"

  “Yes, I do, and they don't, so the sweater had better be white or yel ow.”

  After taking a pleasurable amount of time, Pix took her purchase to the front of the shop. It was always fun to buy baby gifts. A few years earlier, she used to toy with the idea of another bundle of joy herself, then remembered al the homework supervision that would entail and opted to wait for grandchildren—a wait she fervently prayed would be a long one.

  Earl had come in while she'd been in the back and was buying a paper.

  “How are you, Pix?" he asked. "Quite a business yesterday at the camp. Samantha was great with the kids.

  Real y kept them calmed down."

  “Fine, thank you, and thank you for saying that about Samantha. I'l tel her. She's always wanted to go into science, marine biology, but she's so good with people."

  “Maybe she'l figure out a way to combine the two. Now I've got to go pick up something to eat at the IGA or I'l start to get malnutriated.”

  Earl looked anything but. Pix smiled. Jil didn't. Hadn't they patched things up yet?

  The next exchange made it clear they hadn't. "So, I'l see you about eight?" Earl asked.

  “I'm afraid I can't make it tonight. Maybe another time,"

  Jil answered. The time, from her expression and tone, could possibly be wel into the new century.

  “Okay" Earl flushed and left quickly.

  Pix was tempted to ask what was going on, but Jil did not look as if she'd welcome inquiries into her personal life at the moment. She rang up the purchase and Pix was soon out on the walk planning a dinner party with a few friends, mainly Earl and Jil —soon.

  She got into her car and noticed Earl was parked next to her. It was the perfect time to tel him about the mark on the quilt, if he was not too distracted by his own affairs of the heart. But Pix doubted it. Work was work. The notebook would be out in no time, just the way it had the day before at the camp. When they'd arrived, it was the first thing she had noticed. There was Earl standing before the bloody red sails, calmly writing down each and every word.

  He was at his car soon, carrying what she knew to be one of the IGA's Italian sandwiches—bologna, salami, and cheese on some sort of large hot dog rol . It also had green peppers and onions if those were to hand and a drizzle of Italian dressing, hence the appel ation.

  “Earl, have you got a minute? There's something I've been meaning to tel you. It's probably nothing, yet I thought you should know.”

  The notebook came out. He clicked his pen.

  Merciful y, they were parked behind the post office.

  They might be news, but not big news, particularly if she spoke fast. She explained about finding the mark on the quilt she'd bought—a mark identical to the one on the red-and-white quilt.

  “I know you told me. It's a blue cross, right? Like this?"

  He drew one on the pad.

  “Yes, maybe a bit smal er. I wouldn't have noticed it on the one around the body if the quilt had had more colors.

  Then in the one I bought, it just seemed to jump out at me"

  “Do you have any idea what it could stand for?"

  “It could be some kind of family laundry mark. Both quilts may have come from Sul ivan. I mean, that's where the antiques dealer said the quilt was from, and Mitch was living in Sul ivan when he died. The red-and white one may have been taken from his room.”

  Earl agreed. "That makes sense. Although I'm not sure what kind of link there could be. He hadn't been in his room for some days before he was kil ed, according to his landlady, but she admitted he could have been there one of the times she was out doing errands."

  “There's another possibility. Much as it pains me to realize I may have been duped, I think the quilt I bought could be a fake. The price was suspiciously low. I have a book about dating quilts and I'm going to go through it to try to establish when mine was made. If it's a modern one, as I suspect, the mark could be a way whoever was faking the quilts kept track of which were real and which weren't.”

  Earl looked at Pix admiringly. "Good thinking.

  Obviously, we don't want it spread around, but we're pretty sure Mitch was involved with one or more of the antique scams. Unfortunately, he was also involved in some other tricky businesses, so the field is pretty broad" His face fel a bit.

  He continued: "So that's why you were asking al those questions on Sunday."

  “Yes," Pix admitted.

  “Look, I'd like to photograph the mark and see how it matches with the one that was wrapped around Pierce's body. I've got my camera in the trunk. Al right if I come over and take a picture now? I'l be able to send it to Augusta right away. They may also have something in their files about it."

  “Sure," Pix agreed. She was excited. They were beginning to get somewhere. Maybe.

  As Earl got into his car, he cal ed over to her, "By the way, since you're turning out to be so interested in detective work, how about finding out why my girl is giving me the cold shoulder?”

  Pix was sorry to disappoint him. "I'l try, but I'm sure it's nothing much. You two have been together a long time"

  “ `Nothing much,' " Earl was uncharacteristical y sarcastic. "Do you think the fact that she had dinner with Seth Marshal last night might mean something? The entire island and half the mainland saw them down at the inn.”

  Pix did not have an answer.

  Nor did she have an answer shortly thereafter when she spread out the new quilt on her living room floor.

  "Where is this mark?”

  She looked. Then looked again.

  It was gone.

  * * *

  “I felt like a fool. Fortunately, I thought to get one of Samantha's magnifying glasses and I showed him where the holes were. There had definitely been something sewn there.”

  The first thing Pix had done after the police car had pul ed away from the house was cal Faith. She was at work.

  “But this proves that the marks mean something." Faith was excited. "Why am I stuck down here making blueberry pies and coleslaw, not to mention a cake in the shape of an eagle some patriotic soul has ordered, while you're having al the fun!”

  Pix thought of Mitch and the incidents at the camp. It wasn't exactly what she'd cal fun, but Faith tended to view life a bit differently.

  “I wish you were here, too. Sam has to leave after the parade. He's got a client coming in early Thursday morning.

  It must be someone important, because it's not like Sam to miss the fireworks. Since he's been here, I've realized how nice it is to have another adult around. Samantha is wonderful company, but she's at work or off with her friends
.

  In fact, I think she's doing too much. She looked terrible at breakfast—as if she hadn't slept a wink, but she says she's fine."

  “Wel , what did you used to tel your mother? Speaking of whom, she certainly qualifies as an adult. Why don't you get her to come over for a while? No, that's not right. That's not what you need.”

  Faith knew her so wel , Pix thought. Much as she loved her mother, it would not provide the ease she was seeking.

  “Even before we got here, I asked her to come until my brother arrives. I don't like to think of her alone in that big house, but she wants to be on her own, and when we're her age, we'l be exactly the same."

  “I should hope so. Now, back to the quilt. Obviously, nothing else in the cottage was disturbed or you would have said so."

  “Right, and yes, I did leave the door unlocked as usual.

  There's nothing of value here, and it's such a nuisance for Samantha to carry a key. I have one with my car keys, but I can't remember the last time I used it”

  These New Englanders, Faith thought to herself. The unlocked door represented their trust in humankind and belief in a certain way of life: "Come in; it's off the latch."

  And she knew Pix would stil keep her doors unlocked even now. What would it take? Faith hoped Pix would never find out.

  “I've been doing some detective work for you in between shucking corn for corn pudding and the like. There was an article on quilt making in the paper. You remember that controversy about the Smithsonian's decision to reproduce some of the quilts in their col ection using overseas labor? That's what it's about mainly, however it started me thinking. These new quilts could be made to look old, particularly if they are unmarked. I think the Smithsonian ones have an indelible tag on the back, but a lot of mail-order companies and department stores offer quilts. I doubt they're al labeled so conscientiously. Anyway, I mailed the article to you and you should get it by Thursday."