The Body in the Kelp ff-2

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Aren't you forgetting Andy? He's not a spouse, but pretty close.”

  Faith had forgotten Andy. Bird had been afraid of his temper, but would it drive him this far? Suddenly the unreality of sitting in the lovely landscape talking about whodunit while the very bloody corpse lay a few feet away struck Faith and she began to shiver.

  “Faith, this is insane! You're still in shock. I've got to take you home."

  “As soon as the police come. Remember, I've been through this before," she said grimly, "and they don't like you to leave the scene of the crime.”

  Fortunately they didn't have to wait long. Sgt. Dickinson screeched up, asked where the body was, and entered the house. He was out almost immediately and went into his car. They could hear him talking on the two-way radio, but now what he said. Finally he came over and sat down next to them. He looked pale.

  “Gorry." He shook his head. "Somebody must have really hated that girl. " Then he sat up straight, recollected his duty, and asked Faith to tell him what had happened. He pulled his notebook out and licked the tip of his pencil. She told him about hearing the baby crying all night and then coming over with Pix about twenty minutes ago to see if Bird needed some help. She had needed help. They were just too late.

  “She was probably killed last night, if you heard the baby crying like that," Sgt. Dickinson reasoned. "You didn't hear any other sounds. Screams?" he asked hopefully.

  Faith was forced to disappoint him and was tempted to add that although she was only a dumb summer person and a female at that, if she had heard screams she would have done something about it.

  He asked if they knew anything about Bird. Where she was from?

  “I've seen her only a few times," Pix replied. "You probably know more than I do, since she's been living here all winter. Of course Bill Fox can tell you."

  “Fox?" The sergeant seemed puzzled.

  Before Pix could answer, Fox himself arrived, jumping out of John Eggleston's car before it stopped. He raced to the door of the cabin and almost had it open before Sgt. Dickinson reached him.

  “You can't go in there, Mr. Fox. And I don't think you want to.”

  Pix and Faith, who was still carrying Zoë, hastened over. Pix put her arms around Bill, but he pushed her away roughly. He was angry.

  “I have a right to see her! She was going to be my wife!" he shouted.

  If the sergeant was surprised, he didn't show it, but he placed a hand on Bill's arm and led him away from the step.

  “I know you want to do the right thing and that's to wait for the appropriate authorities to come with everything they need to track down who did this. We can't go in and mess things up.”

  Faith was impressed by his approach. It was common sense and, as it turned out, exactly the right thing to say to Bill. "Well, I'm staying right here," he asserted.

  “That's fine. I'm staying myself, and maybe you could tell me a little about your fiancée while we wait," Dickinson said in an even voice. He had appeared completely calm after that initial slip, and given the scene, Faith could hardly blame him. It was a scene she was trying desperately to obliterate from her mind with small success.

  “I wonder if we could leave now, Sergeant? I can take the baby home. She must be starving and she needs changing," Faith said.

  He nodded, and Bill Fox looked at Zoë. "The baby, I'd forgotten about the baby," he said dazedly.

  “Come over here, Bill, and we can talk to the sergeant together." John had been standing off to one side. Now he was taking charge. Faith had trouble reading his expression. There was anger, but not sadness. Something else. Something like disgust.

  She got into the car wearily and they left. The last thing they saw was Bill's face, immobile and uncomprehending.

  The rest of the day was chaotic, but not immediately. Later the phone rang off the hook and they were besieged by reporters from TV and radio stations, The Ellsworth American, The Boston Herald and everything located in between.

  But first it was just two women, two teenagers, and two babies to take care of. Samantha and Arlene immediately took charge of Zoë and fed, bathed, and dressed her in one of Ben's undershirts and an enormous toddler-sized Pampers. Faith fetched the auction cradle from the barn and put it by a sunny window in the living room. She placed some blankets inside and settled the exhausted child on top with a bottle, which she had discovered in the continuously amazing contents of the pantry off the kitchen.

  The two girls immediately sat next to the cradle, Samantha rocking it gently while Arlene held Ben, who peered in delightedly. "Ben's baby?" he asked his mother in a beseeching tone of voice. The tone of voice he usually reserved for animal crackers.

  “No, sweetheart. We're just taking care of her for a little while.”

  While the police scrape what's left of her poor mother off the floor of the shack and set all the wheels in motion that may or may not find her killer, but that will certainly find the baby a home, Faith thought as her insatiable curiosity took hold once again and she began to speculate. Bill had no legal claim, but he might try to get custody. And there must be relatives somewhere. Then there was Andy, but he didn't seem the paternal type.

  Faith and Pix sat down next to each other on the sofa at the opposite end of the room. Faith looked at Pix and nodded at the scene around the cradle.

  “Callous youth," murmured Pix. "They're happy to have a live doll to play with."

  “They didn't know Bird, so it's understandable," Faith pointed out. "It's not like Roger." She realized that she felt sad, but the sadness was totally eclipsed by the horror she had witnessed, and it was hard to connect the blood-stained room and scarcely identifiable corpse with a real person.

  “You have to call Tom, Faith," Pix admonished.

  “I know. I've been avoiding it. But it will be worse if he reads about it in the papers or hears it on the news.”

  She glanced at the cheerful faces by the cradle and went into the kitchen to the phone. It was just after lunchtime and she might catch him. She did.

  It was hard to know how to start. So she plunged in as soon as she heard his voice saying, "Faith, is that you?" He seemed to be chewing something.

  “Yes, darling. Ben and I are fine, but I'm afraid I've found another body.”

  He choked. "What! Faith, you have got to get out of there immediately! I'll be there as soon as I can! What the hell is going on in Sanpere!"

  “Really, Tom, it's not necessary for me to leave. I knowit's hard to believe, but think of it as very bad luck. Ben and I aren't in any danger. If I thought there was even the slightest hint of it, of course we would come."

  “You haven't told me who was killed. The other potter?”

  “No, not Eric. It was Bird—you know, the girl living in the shack on the next point. I only went over with Pix to see why the baby was crying." She hastily decided to omit a description of the body. "And there she was. It had nothing to do with me."

  “Faith, please. You and Ben would have a nice time here.”

  “I'm sure we would, but it is lovely here. Perfect weather and there's really no reason to leave.”

  And every reason to stay, she thought.

  “If I get nervous, I can always go to Pix's.”

  She could hear Tom sigh.

  “But what about my being nervous?" he complained.

  “I'll call. You'll call. And you'll be here soon.”

  They continued to talk, and Tom finally agreed—grudgingly. His misgivings took another five minutes and Faith hung up. The phone rang immediately and the chaos began.

  The girls moved the cradle behind the sofa and Faith and Pix dealt with the onslaught on the porch. The press did not appear to know about the baby yet, and they were careful not to mention her. It was enough that Zoë had lost her mother in this particularly grisly manner without being spread all over the front pages herself.

  Sgt. Dickinson stopped by during one of the rare hiatuses and told them the medical examiner and the state police
had arrived. He seemed a bit left out, and Faith offered him some cold lemonade, which he gratefully accepted. While he drank, he told them that Bill Fox hadn't known much about Bird. She was from the midwest originally, but never mentioned her family or real name. The police hoped to find something in the shack. There was also an APB out for Andy. They did know his name, Andrew Collins, and he was from Rockland. Dickinson hinted that the police had been keeping an eye on Andy for some time.

  “Drugs?" Faith asked.

  “I wouldn't say no," he answered.

  After he left, Pix went back to her house to get the quilt books and magazines. They had decided to fill the time trying to identify some more squares. Faith felt vaguely compelled to solve at least one puzzle.

  While Pix was gone, she sat with Ben while he scribbled with crayons on the shelf paper she had taped to the top of the kitchen table. He was making car noises and covering the paper with lines that Faith assumed to be roads. She looked closely for signs of incipient artistic talent, didn't find any, and sank back into her thoughts.

  Roger, then Bird.

  She told herself that it was only logical to agree with the prevailing opinion that Roger's death was due to misadventure—that one of the Prescotts had meant to frighten but not kill him.

  But there was no question about Bird. Whoever killed her meant it. Whoever?

  Faith closed her eyes and felt sick. She opened them and was a little surprised to see the tranquil scene in front of her and not the mayhem in her mind.

  The likeliest perpetrator was Andy. He was known to be violent. Pix had told her Bird had appeared with bruises and once a black eye in the previous months. He was also known to be jealous, and he might have gone berserk at the news of Bird's departure, especially if he had been on something.

  And unlike the cases in fiction, Faith knew from Charley MacIsaac, the likeliest suspect is usually guilty—a husband, wife, someone who benefits financially or psychologically from the death.

  But there had been two deaths on Sanpere, and much as she tried to reason with herself, Faith still couldn't squelch the notion that they were connected. After all, Roger and Bird were connected and had planned to be connected even more closely, it appeared. She tried to think how their deaths could have benefited anyone and came up with nothing. The Prescotts had no connection to Bird. Even if she and Roger had been secretly married, Bird would not have inherited Matilda Prescott's house, because of the way her will had been written. It went to Roger and/or Eric or issue. Faith wondered if Pix knew anything about Roger's will and resolved to ask her.

  Ben was tired of drawing and went back to the cradle to gaze at the baby. The two girls—the "nannies," as Faith had begun to call them in her mind—were happy to have another child in their charge. Faith expected to see the two of them debating the merits of various soothing syrups as they rocked and knit serviceable garments.

  Pix came back with lettuce, tomatoes, and some other vegetables from the garden. Faith put together a large salad for dinner, which they could eat with bread and the terrine of smoked mackerel she had made the day before. The nannies would probably want Bovril and toast.

  They spread the photographs of the squares, which Faith had retrieved from their hiding place in the diaper bag, on the floor at the end of the living room and started to search for more names.

  “Get out your list of the ones we know so far, and let's divide the photographs into two piles," proposed Pix, ever systematic. As she grew to know Pix better, Faith began to think all these lists and systems might be a hedge against basic absentmindedness, even out-and-out woolgathering. Nevertheless there they were.

  “Fine. You read out the names and numbers, and I'll go through the photographs.”

  Pix had identified the tree square as Apple Tree and number nineteen, the chest, as Workbox. There were only five they didn't know.

  “You know the island so well. Does any of this make sense, even without all the squares?" Faith asked.

  Pix studied the list, glancing over at the photos as she did.

  “We really need number four. Obviously she's telling us it's a puzzle since she starts out with Old Maid's Puzzle; then she goes to Harbor View, which must be where the hunt begins. But north on number three—the weather vane could be pointing almost anywhere on this side of the island—or even on the mainland."

  “What about the next group? The Compass is pointing east, and it's the left road on Crossroads that's a different pattern. Does that help?"

  “Yes," mused Pix, "and number six, Odd Fellows Chain, must refer to the Odd Fellows Hall. There's only one on the island. The problem is it's located almost equidistant between the two main crossroads. We still need number four to point us in the right direction. Matilda figured this pretty carefully."

  “It looks like a bull's-eye. Does that suggest anything?" Faith asked hopefully.

  “No, but it also looks like the spokes of a wheel, and that's easier. Let's look in the indexes for all the patterns with the word `wheel' in the title.”

  Pix's strategy worked: fifteen minutes later Faith triumphantly cried out, "Here it is! Millwheel!"

  “That's great! It definitely gives us our direction. There was an old mill across from Harborview, and what's left of the wheel is directly opposite the gazebo on the other side of the pond." She was getting excited. "So if we go north toward the wheel, then east, the Odd Fellows Hall is before the first of the crossroads."

  “Then we turn left," continued Faith.

  “And," finished Pix, "it's another square we don't know.”

  “Well, we have more than a week to figure it out before we go home.”

  The phone rang. Again.

  “It could be Sam. He was in court when I called before, so we have to get it," Pix groaned. "Why don't you make us a drink while I find out who it is; then we can feed the kids?"

  “Great idea," Faith replied, looked into the cradle, then moved toward the door.

  Zoë was still sound asleep. She had roused briefly, drained a bottle, and immediately closed her eyes again. After a while even the nannies had become a bit bored with gazing at her cherubic, sleeping face and had taken Ben outside to play croquet. This was almost as hard as playing with flamingos and hedgehogs, since he chased all the balls and gleefully tossed them into the air. Between making sure he didn't concuss himself and trying to get their balls through the hoops, the girls were getting a fair amount of activity. They were happy to stop and eat. While they ate salad and what Faith had described as sandwich spread in order to make the terrine palatable, the two women sat on the porch.

  “Why do we always sit on the steps?" Faith wondered. "Because wicker is basically uncomfortable and the overhang cuts out the view.”

  It was after six o'clock, and everything was still. Hardly a leaf moved, and there was no activity on the water to ripple the surface. The sun hadn't set, but they could see the moon. The day's events seemed very far away.

  But not too far.

  “Pix, was that Sam who called? Did you get a chance to ask him about Roger's will?"

  “Yes, I asked him the last time he called. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Other things on my mind, I suppose. Anyway, it's public knowledge, all probated." She digressed, as was her habit, and Faith waited patiently for her to get back on the track. "You know it's hard being a lawyer's wife. Sam never tells me anything—and shouldn't—but there's so much I'd like to know. You probably have the same problem. Secrets of the confessional." She paused, then added hastily lest a whiff of incense escape into the Maine air, "Not that we have confession, of course.

  “Anyway, it was as we thought. Everything goes to Eric. The only surprlse would have been a small trust set up for Bird. But now we know how he felt about her. He also left a thousand dollars to his sister and two thousand to his mother."

  “He made the will last spring, right?"

  “Yes. He must have wanted to provide for Bird. He may not have thought she was going to leave Andy then, and that'
s why it's a trust and not money outright, which Andy could have taken over."

  “Exactly what I was thinking," Faith agreed. "But what happens to it now? Does it go to Zoë or Eric or even the state of Maine?"

  “I have no idea, but Sam will know. If Bird made a will, which I doubt, it would probably go to her beneficiary. But even without a will, I think it might still go to Zoë.”

  The day had seemed interminable, and Faith found it hard to believe that it was the same day she and Pix had taken the quilt to the post office. They went inside to eat. Sam called again, and then the phone was blissfully silent. The Fraziers had called earlier to tell them that Bill was at their house. They offered to take Zoë but quickly agreed that it would be better for her to stay where she was. Bill was in shock and refused to take the sedative Dr. Picot had prescribed. He had barely spoken since John had brought him to their house, except to refuse anything to eat or drink. "He seems very confused, almost as if he doesn't know where he is or who we are," Louise had added.

  Pix was getting ready to drive Arlene home, although it hardly seemed worthwhile, since she and Samantha were virtually inseparable. Faith suspected Arlene's mother, who had uncharacteristically refused permission for Arlene to stay the night at the Millers', of wanting inside news of the murder.

  The two girls went to take a last look at the sleeping baby. They had been disappointed that she hadn't awakened again while they were there.

  “Can't we keep her, Mom?" Samantha pleaded. "She doesn't have any place to go, and you were just saying that the house will be so empty when we're all gone in a few years."

  “Bird must have had a family, and they'll want her. Anyway, maybe I was looking forward to an empty house." Pix smiled. A fleeting image of time to herself with no car pools or soccer practices, and only Sam across a candlelit table, flickered across her mind.

  “Mother!"

  “Just kidding, dear. Now we have to get Arlene home."

  “Ma would love to have her, Mrs. Miller. I can ask her tonight." Passion provoked Arlene to speak at length.

  “I'm sure your mother has quite enough little Prescotts of her own underfoot—Arlene is the oldest of six," she explained to Faith. But Faith was focusing on the first part of her statement."Prescotts?" she asked.