The Body In The Basement ff-6

by Katherine Hall Page

  Seth Marshal , unaware that his name had just been starred under two columns, cal ed to his crew to get back to work.

  “I'd love to chat with you some more, but I wouldn't want you to think we were wasting time." He smiled warmly to soften his sarcasm. It almost worked. He real y was attractive, particularly at the moment, stripped to the waist because of the heat, his skin glistening slightly with sweat.

  Maybe Jil was tired of good old Earl and wanted a fling with bad old Seth.

  “I have to get going, anyway," she said. "If Jil can find someone to cover the store, we're going to drive up to Bar Harbor." She decided not to get too specific about what she intended to do. She needn't have bothered to be circumspect.

  “Yup, so I hear. Going antiquing, right?”

  Pix's mouth dropped. He laughed. "Heard it on the CB

  just before you drove up. Jil 's got one of the Ames kids. I heard her asking her dad if she could do it."

  “There are no secrets on this island," Pix remarked.

  “Oh, I don't know about that," Seth said as he walked toward his crew, the sound of their hammers ricocheting in the stil air. "I'd say there were plenty.”

  Doris Ames was sitting at the register reading the latest issue of the National Inquirer, and from the speed at which she was chewing her gum, Pix suspected the story was more racy than some of the fare: MOM SELLS

  KIDNEY TO BUY FURNITURE or SPACE ALIEN BABY

  FOUND ON MOUNT EVEREST-MEDICAL DR. SAYS

  NOT HUMAN.

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Mil er. Jil has been trying to get a hold of you. She's upstairs."

  “I'l go on up, then. How's everything with you this summer?"

  “I can't complain. Making good money and don't have to work days." Pix remembered that one of the Ames girls was waitressing at the inn, which was only open for dinner, and it must be Doris.

  “I hear the food is even better than last year.”

  Doris made a face. "It's too fancy for me. I like to recognize what's on my plate. I eat at home before I start.”

  Pix laughed. "Wel , maybe some of it is an acquired taste." She decided to take Ursula and Samantha to the inn soon, al three of them having acquired a taste for any and al good food.

  Jil had a snug little apartment over the store. Pix walked up the outside stairs and knocked at the door.

  Hearing no reply, she pushed it open, stepping inside. She could hear water running and Jil had obviously decided to take a quick shower while waiting for Pix.

  “Jil ," she cal ed loudly, not wanting to startle her when she emerged. "It's me, Pix."

  “Oh great," Jil replied above the noise of the spray. "I'l be out in a minute. I just had to cool off.”

  The apartment was divided into two large rooms plus bath. The front room was Jil 's bedroom and the larger back room served as living room, dining room, kitchen, and storage for the overflow from the store. There were several large boxes in the corner by the door, but this wasn't what caught Pix's eye. She was struck by the change in the room's decor since she'd been there last summer. Jil had been buying a great many antiques over the course of the year and the Goodwil finds spruced up with paint and fabric that had previously fil ed the room were mostly gone.

  An Early American cupboard with open shelves on top stood against one wal , behind a trestle table and chairs from the same period. Pix walked over to take a closer look. She wondered whether Jil had gotten the things from Mitch. Spying a pumpkin pine stand that would make a perfect bedside table, she also wondered whether these things were for sale. She tripped on one of the uneven floorboards and her hip bumped into the corner of the cupboard. Jil 's apartment had original y been used for storage by the cobbler's shop below and the floor had never been finished off. One of the cupboard doors flew open. Pix bent down to close it, rubbing her hipbone, which, with little cushioning, smarted sharply.

  She didn't close the door; rather, opened it wider. The shelves were fil ed with various items: some wonderful folk art carvings, especial y one who looked like one of the prophets; miniature furniture—the kind that used to be carried around as samples; and several patchwork quilts.

  The shower was stil running. Pix was sure Jil wouldn't mind if she looked at the quilts. At least that's what she told herself. Her self also wondered what they were doing up here instead of down in the store, where they would certainly attract buyers. For that matter, al the things in the cupboard would. Perhaps Jil was saving these things for herself.

  Pix careful y removed the top quilt and opened it up. It was an appliqué sampler quilt, every square a different wreath or bouquet and intricately quilted. The quilt-maker had used red, green, yel ow, and white. It was museum-quality. The shower stopped and Pix started to cal out her appreciation, but her words froze in her throat as her eyes moved down to the lower corner. Moved down to a tiny, barely perceptible blue cross.

  She folded the quilt up and quickly put it back, latching the cupboard securely. When Jil came out, she found Pix sitting in a low rocker by the window reading this week's Island Crier.

  “The parade pictures are wonderful. Sonny is going to love the shot of him as Burt Dow" she said brightly—too brightly.

  Driving across the bridge to the mainland with Jil at her side, Pix was in a quandary. Should she come right out and ask Jil about the quilt and the other antiques? She probably should have done so immediately, but she wanted to take time to reflect. What could it possibly mean? That Jil had unwittingly bought a fake quilt—or wittingly? It was the latter possibility that was keeping Pix's tongue securely tied. Was Jil somehow connected to an antiques scam? At this point, Pix was certain it had been one of Mitchel Pierce's activities. Had they been in it together? She had certainly gotten antiques from him. This would explain Jil 's recent attitude toward Earl, and perhaps her new al iance with Seth. Supposedly, Seth had learned everything he knew from Mitch. Did that include how to construct old from new?

  The blue crosses were no laundry mark, as she'd speculated to Earl. They must be an indication to those who knew that these quilts were not the real McCoy. Had Jil seen the mark on Pix's quilt when it was spread out on the ground and later come into the house and removed it?

  Jil was talking and Pix realized with a start that she hadn't heard a word the woman had been saying. She forced herself to concentrate. Jil was suggesting where they might go.

  “There's that barn right outside Blue Hil as you head up the hil toward the fairgrounds. I found a wonderful bamboo easel at a very reasonable price last spring. Why don't we stop there first, then go farther up the coast?"

  “Sounds fine to me," Pix answered. Anything was fine at this point, when her main worry was how she was going to get through this trip without coming unglued.

  The barn door was firmly shut and they didn't have much luck in El sworth, either: no quilts to examine and nothing else tempting. Pix knew why nothing appealed to her, but Jil seemed just as restless and disinterested.

  Maybe she had simply needed to get away because of Addie's death and the antiquing was an excuse. Whatever it was, neither had bought anything by eleven and Pix suggested they drive straight to Beal's in Southwest Harbor for an early lunch. A big bowl of their chowder consumed at the pier while looking across the water at Acadia's Mount Cadil ac was exactly what she needed to soothe her troubled mind, and perhaps it would do something for Jil 's too. Pix had noticed that whenever Jil wasn't speaking, her fingers were finding their way to her mouth and her cuticles looked red and sore.

  Many of the tables at Beal's were already ful . In tacit assent, they took their food to the one farthest away from the groups noisily cracking open the lobsters they had picked out of the tank.

  A cool breeze was coming off the harbor and for a while they sat in silence consuming the delicious chowder thick with clams. Pix was in no hurry to get back into the car. Eating gave her something to do and think about other than what was pressing most on her mind.

  “Coffee and pie?" Jil asked. Beal'
s was known for their blueberry pie.

  “Sure, we came al this way. We can't leave without pie.”

  More silent enjoyment fol owed, or rather, Pix thought, more silence. The pie was as good as ever, yet it was beginning to turn to ashes in her mouth. She had to say something to Jil —Jil , who had been a friend for years.

  “Maybe—no, probably—it's none of my business, but you know how much we care about you, both of you. Do you want to talk about what's gone wrong with Earl?" Pix decided to start with this trial bal oon to gauge Jil 's reaction before attempting to discuss such matters as antiques fraud and breaking and entering, although Jil had always been free to walk into the Mil ers' unlocked house whenever she pleased.

  Jil frowned. "I don't know why everyone thinks something's wrong between us. Goodness, if you don't happen to be climbing al over someone every minute of the day, the whole island assumes you've broken up, and of course it's not true. No one's bothered to remember we both have jobs. I've been busy and Earl's been even busier with al that's happened. We haven't had time to see each other.”

  She jammed a large forkful of pie into her mouth.

  Some of the juice dripped onto the front of her gauzy white blouse.

  “Damn," she said, rubbing at it with a paper napkin, which only made it worse. She seemed close to tears. It didn't seem the moment to mention Earl's remarks or the fact that Pix had been there herself when Jil had turned her swain down the day after she was spotted dining with another. Nor was Pix inclined to raise anything else. They finished eating quickly, paid, and got into the car.

  “Are you game for some more or do you want to head back?" Pix asked, hoping Jil , like she, had had enough.

  “Let's keep going. Doris can stay until she has to go to work at the inn." Jil 's chin jutted out. "Besides, I haven't had any luck yet”

  Nor have I, Pix thought dismal y.

  They retraced their steps and went into a large antiques shop in Trenton. It was one Pix had frequented before, but Jil said she had never been there. They walked in and the owner greeted Pix warmly. The shop was free of cobwebs and dust. Everything was shown to its best advantage. It was quite a contrast and at the moment a welcome one. When Pix asked about night-stands, he said he thought he had the very thing and led them into another room. There were several customers browsing and one turned at the sound of their voices to greet them. "Pix, Jil ! I never expected to see you two playing hooky again so soon." It was Valerie, and contrary to her earlier impulses, Pix was delighted to have a third wheel. This day out with Jil had begun to seem like a week.

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I'm stil looking for a table for my guest room and Jil was able to come along.”

  Not wanting to keep the owner waiting, Pix fol owed him to what was in fact "the very thing," except not the very price. Even with some friendly dickering, she knew it would be way out of her range. Valerie and Jil joined them. Pix said she liked it but would have to wait for something less expensive.

  “It is a lovely piece," Valerie commented. "Are you sure you're not going to take it?"

  “Yes. Saying no to this price tag, besides saving my marriage, gives me something to keep looking for this summer.”

  Valerie was on her hands and knees, examining the chest from al angles.

  “Take your time, ladies," the owner said. "I'l be in the front of the store"

  “Do you have any quilts?" Pix asked before he left.

  “I have a crib quilt and a nice quilt top from the thirties but nothing else at the moment. Good ones are getting harder and harder to come by. The market in general has been hurt by the foreign imports that look old—and also by the fakes.”

  Was it her imagination or did Jil give a sudden start?

  “I'm a quilter and very interested in al this," Pix told him. "How do you spot the fakes?" It was too much to hope that he would say they were marked with a little blue cross, but she might learn something.

  “It's very difficult, especial y now that the fabric companies make so many reproduction fabrics. I look at the stitching, examine the material, and mostly consider the source. I get pretty suspicious when someone comes in with an armload of quilts they just happened to find in an old trunk that hasn't been opened since goodness knows when in Grandmother's attic."

  “They aren't marked in any way, then?" Pix felt her investigation was going nowhere and she had to ask.

  He laughed. "That would make it easy, now wouldn't it?

  No, they aren't marked. Do you want to see what little I have?”

  Pix did and so did the others.

  “I think I'l take the stand, if you're absolutely sure you don't want it," Valerie said.

  “Absolutely sure. I can visit it at your house.”

  “Anytime.”

  The crib quilt was precious, Valerie declared, and that was the word for the price, too, Pix thought. She wasn't real y interested in crib quilts—not for a long time to come

  —but she did like the quilt top with its bright 1930s prints. It wasn't particularly unusual. Someone had simply machine-pieced the rectangles together, yet it was someone who had had a good eye for color. Pix figured she could tie it rather than quilt it and have an attractive cover for Samantha's bed in Sanpere. If Samantha didn't want it, Pix would keep it for her own room. The price was reasonable and her spirits lifted.

  “Do you have time to head up to Sul ivan?" she asked Jil . "And can you come with us?" she added to Valerie.

  “That's going to be a little far," Jil said. "I can't cut it too close with Doris or she may not want to help me out again."

  “Why don't you ride back with me?" Valerie suggested.

  "There's only one place I want to check in Surry and it won't take long."

  “Thanks," Jil said. "Then I won't feel like I'm spoiling Pix's fun.”

  Pix felt a major stab of guilt. How could she suspect such a nice person? And instead of talking to her about Addie and Jil 's feelings about the death, Pix had pried into her private life, upsetting her further. Certainly she did not look any better for the outing. If anything, she seemed more perturbed. Pix was tempted to cal it a day herself and drive Jil home.

  But at this point, she was compel ed to keep going, even though she didn't have the slightest idea where Mitchel Pierce had lived in Sul ivan. A quick stop at the post office should take care of that. Mitchel Pierce—it had al started with him, Mitch and antiques. Antiques—and antiques dealers—were cropping up regularly.

  She paid for her quilt top and impulsively asked the owner, "Did you ever have any dealings with Mitchel Pierce?"

  “Everybody in this business had dealings with Mitch and most of us wish we hadn't, however I don't want to speak il of the dead. You do know about that, don't you?"

  “Yes, yes, I know," Pix said. But not enough.

  She waved good-bye to Jil and Valerie and drove north to Sul ivan. Without Jil , her mind raced from subject to subject, trying to figure out a way to link Mitchel , Addie, Jil , Seth, Duncan, and John, plus God knew who else, together in one pat solution. As she pul ed up in front of the Sul ivan post office, she was sure of only one thing: She needed to talk to Faith.

  She had prepared what she hoped was a plausible story on the drive. It was hard enough to pry information from taciturn Mainiacs without the complications of whatever oaths postal employees swore. Not that this ever seemed to bother the ones in Aleford, who considered return addresses and what was written on a postcard public information.

  “Hi," she said in as self-confident a voice as she could muster, and it wasn't half-bad. "I'm looking for someone named Mitchel Pierce. I understand he lives here."

  “Lived" was the laconic reply from the other side of the counter.

  “You mean he's moved?"

  “You might say”

  Pix waited, then, when that appeared to be the ful extent of the reply, asked, "Do you have a forwarding address for him?"

  “I have my ideas, but I'd rather not say.”
/>
  Just as she was beginning to wonder whether she was dealing with yet another would-be "Bert and I," the recording of classic Down East humor, her informant turned inquisitor.

  “Why are you so interested in Mitchel Pierce?”

  The story came out smooth as a new dory down the slip into the water. "Mr. Pierce took some old things my mother wanted to get rid of on consignment. He told her they might be worth something, especial y the quilts." Pix planned to mention quilts whenever possible. "He gave her a receipt and his phone number and said he'd be in touch, but that was over a month ago and she hasn't heard a thing.

  The number must have been wrong, because a recording says it's no longer in service.”

  Maybe it was the word mother or the tale itself, but it unleashed a veritable fountain of information.

  “He's dead. Guess if you want to find out what happened to your stuff, you'd better talk to the police.”

  “Police?"

  “Mitchel got himself planted in somebody's cel ar hole down to Sanpere. It's a police matter. And I wouldn't hold out any great hopes of finding your things."

  “Oh dear, what am I going to tel my mother?" This last bit was genuine enough. "Isn't it possible that they could stil be in his house?"

  “I doubt it. He boarded with the Hardings just up the road. Didn't have a place of his own"

  “Wel , I'm glad I came. At least we know now why we didn't hear from him. Thank you for al your help." He nodded in acknowledgment.

  It was nice to find some humor in al this, Pix thought as she started the Land Rover. Faith was going to love the post office story.

  The Hardings had thoughtful y painted their name in white on their mailbox, which jutted out into the main road. It was a neat little house, the upper story painted bright yel ow, the bottom dark brown, the shutters white. The yard was fil ed with machinery in various states of repair, several pot buoys, and broken traps. Whatever Mr. Harding did, it wasn't fishing. She knocked on the back door, noting the bright pink and purple petunias that grew profusely in the planters made from old tires on either side.