“I can imagine what he said, or even did."
“They didn't look pleased, but they did seem to be in one piece.”
Pix laughed. "They do look like one piece, joined at the seams.”
Faith had finished her wine. She took Zoë on her lap and Ben ran over to wiggle the baby's toes. "One piggy, two piggy, market."
“That boy is a genius," Pix commented.
Faith smiled. There were these moments.
“Eric left a note at the house inviting us for drinks in the gazebo. He's all moved in," Pix said, "but I'm too tired to go.”
Faith was tired too, but she wanted to see Eric after last night's contretemps at the dance. She'd told Pix about the tight, and she'd been inclined to dismiss it as too much Coors too fast. Faith hadn't told Pix about the bracelet. She wasn't altogether sure her friend Mrs. Miller could keep her mouth shut with Tom around, and she knew they would both worry.
“Come on, Pix, we'll just stay a little while, and it will be a good distraction. Heaven knows we need it."
“You don't usually say things like `heaven knows,' so you must have a reason for wanting me to come. But I want to be in my bed and asleep by eight.”
Faith wasn't sure she had heard correctly.
“Eight o'clock? That sounds obscene. I'm sure all that sleep can't be good for you."
“It is tonight," Pix answered.
“All right, I promise. Do you want to pick me up? And I almost forgot, can Samantha baby-sit?"
“Yes and yes.”
Faith had a momentary pang, followed swiftly by an unwelcome realization that utterance might lend validity to it. She bravely voiced it anyway.
“You don't think I'm asking Samantha and Arlene to watch the children too much, do you?"
“No, my dear, and you don't either. It is your vacation, though I must say it hasn't seemed like one. Besides, you're paying them very well for their labors, and I happen to know Arlene has opened an account at Bar Harbor Trust and all this is going toward college, so she's very pleased."
“College?"
“Yes, Arlene wants to be a biochemist."
“Still waters run deep. I'll see you later. I suppose we should wear our sprigged-lawn afternoon dresses or white muslins with the trim we tatted last winter?"
“Mine need airing, so I'm going for a denim skirt and that striped blouse you made me get. See you soon.”
The fog had started to roll in late in the day, and by the time they got to Eric's, it had stopped coming in wisps across the horizon and settled in a thick blanket that effectively obscured any dramatic sunset that might have glimpsed from the gazebo. Yet there was a cozy, mysterious quality to it.
They followed the red sun faintly piercing the fog as it slipped into the sea while they sipped some wine and nibbled the cheese straws Jill had made. She seemed very much the mistress of the house, and Faith, remembering Eric's words the night before, hoped she would be in name as well as deed soon. Eric appeared none the worse for wear, except for a large bruise on his left cheekbone. Neither Pix nor Faith said anything about it and studiously addressed their remarks to his good side.
“You two are so discreet," he said, laughing. "I really made an ass of myself last night. Faith can bear witness." He grabbed Jill around the waist. "That's what happens when I go anywhere alone.”
Seizing the opening, Faith hastened to ask, "What were you fighting about?"
“You name it. The house, the weather, politics, religion," he replied vaguely, and she had to be satisfied with the response, especially as Jill firmly proceeded to close the subject.
“I don't want to hear any more about it," she said. "Two grown men acting like children." She was angry herself. Bright-red spots rose on her cheeks. Faith was surprised at her intensity, then recalled that Jill, unlike the rest of them, was a true islander, and it must be embarrassing or worse to have the man she was in love with at odds with the Prescotts, a significant percentage of Sanpere's population.
Eric looked sheepish. "Tell us more about what's happening with Bill, Pix. Did you get to see him?"
“No, but he has a lawyer, James Lyman—a friend of Sam's from Blue Hill—who's been with him. When Jim leaves, he'll call Sam and we'll know more—whether Bill will be formally charged or not."
“What the hell are they doing wasting their time on Bill instead of finding out who really did this? It's typical of the way things run around here!" Eric exploded. "He's from away, so he's suspect!”
And they did find the murder weapon in his shed, Faith added mentally. It seemed Eric and Jill hadn't heard that the police had also found a drill and corks in Bill's shed, and she decided not to mention it if Pix didn't.
Pix didn't.
“I've known Bill since he came to the island," Jill said quietly. "It must have been twelve years ago. He was always a bit moody. There would be times when we wouldn't see him for a while. Usually it was when he was between books. When he was writing, he was engrossed but happy. I can't imagine that he would do something like this.”
But somebody had, and it was clear from the expression on each of their faces that that was what they were thinking. Pix stood up.
“This has been lovely, but I really have to go. I hope you'll excuse me, but I am so-o-o tired.”
Eric put his arm around her. "Of course you are, after the day you've had. But at least stay and have a bowl of chowder. You have to eat."
“Thank you, but I've been eating so many of these cheese tidbits, all I want is a cup of Sleepy Time tea and bed.”
Faith was a little worried. The words "unflagging,”
“indefatigable,”
“robust," had all been coined for Pix. "Tired" was something that happened to other people.
“I know what you mean," Jill said. "I'm tired too. Not my body. That can keep going on automatic pilot, but I find myself wanting to sleep so I don't have to think.”
Faith was relieved. Of course that was it. The engine was fine; it had just been flooded.
“We'll have a grand dinner party Labor Day weekend, an end-of-summer party," Eric offered. "Cocktails out here, then we'll retire to the dining room, which should be finished by then."
“Eric is stenciling a frieze around the walls," Jill explained. "Kind of a cross between William Morris and Peter Max."
“Sounds interesting," Faith said.
“Take a peek before you go," Eric urged.
Faith looked at Pix.
“One peek," Pix said, and they started to walk toward the house."Did you grow up in an old house?" Faith asked Eric.
“Anything but. It was a trailer that my father set on concrete blocks and later enclosed in siding. Then when my parents split up, I lived with my mother in an apartment in Houston. But by then I was a teenager and on my way out.”
And up, Faith thought. No wonder he loved the Prescott house so much. It was still the Prescott place, and even when Eric was ninety, it would be known as such. She wondered what he thought of that.
“And where did you live?" Faith turned to Jill. "I know you grew up here, but which part of the island?"
“I'll show you sometime. A relative of mine still lives there. It's a tiny old farmhouse on the shore near the causeway. It faces the Reach. I'll always miss living there. It seemed perfect when I was growing up. This house"—she gestured toward Harbor View, draped in fog and looming larger than life with nothing visible nearby for comparison—"this was like a mansion to us, although the Prescotts weren't snobbish. We just never had much occasion to come here.”
Not exactly on the trick-or-treat circuit. Somehow Faith couldn't see the Matilda she'd heard about dropping Hershey bars into small outstretched hands.
They walked into the dining room and Eric switched on the lights. He had done a great deal in a short time. The walls were painted a warm coral, and across the top stylized Morris leaves and berries in gold joined turquoise geometries. Words in deep green, some in gothic script, some in block letters, ran across
the bottom.
“What does it say?" Faith asked. She stood and looked up at the wall and read aloud. " `Here too in Maine things bend to the wind forever.' That's very beautiful."
“It's Robert Lowell's ‘Soft Wood,' a favorite of Roger's and mine. It seemed to suit the house and Matilda too. It was written for Harriet Winslow, Lowell's older cousin who lived in Castine, not too far from here.”
Faith was deciphering other lines. She liked the sound of "illimitable salt" and decided to look for the poem in the little Sanpere library.
Eric had purchased an Eastlake dining-room set from a dealer in Northeast Harbor, and it looked perfect against the color of the walls. She walked slowly around the room, reading the poem, then stopped abruptly. Over the lintel, by accident or design, two lines stood alone: "This is the season/ when our friends may and will die daily.”
The phone rang. Eric excused himself. He was back quickly, ashen faced and the words spilled out. "That was Louise. Bill Fox has killed himself.”
For the first time in her life, Faith passed out.
9
Whenever Faith recalled that juxtaposition of reading Low-ell's lines and Bill Fox's death, she thought she understood what the phrase "a clashing of the spheres" meant. It was as if two universes had collided, the written and the real—with Faith caught in the middle, one foot resting unsteadily in each.
She didn't believe in portents, but for an instant it seemed the words had killed him, stabbing him with the sharp strokes of painted prophecy.
But he hadn't used a knife. He would not have been allowed that. What he had been permitted was paper, a pencil, and a lamp. Young Officer Gibson, who was on duty, saw no reason to deny his request. Gibson had heard the guy wrote books and figured he probably wanted to work or write to somebody.
Bill did write—a long, incoherent letter addressed to the Fraziers in which he confessed to the crime: "My princess is dead and the guilt is mine." Then he stripped off the end of the lamp cord, wrapped one wire around each leg, plugged the other end into the wall outlet, and electrocuted himself. It was a swift death. They found him, lifeless on the floor, when they came to bring his dinner.
If it had not been that way, it would have been another.
The fog was even thicker on Monday morning than it had been the night before. Faith looked out the window, and only the fact that she had two importunate children to care for kept her from crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her head for a long, long time. She felt numb as she dressed, fed, and even smiled at Zoë and Ben. It was an outof-body experience.
Pix had called. She was on her way to the Fraziers' and Samantha was in her room. Bill had been her idol. She had a complete set of his books, all personally inscribed. She had told her mother there was no way she would ever believe he was a murderer.
Faith was inclined to agree. An ambiguous suicide note written in the throes of intense grief did not exactly amount to an ironclad confession. But if not Bill, who? Andy, her favorite choice for a suspect, was apparently being ruled out. He had been on the boat raided by the antismuggling task force. But the boat was wandering around the islands close to Sanpere. How hard would it have been for him to put ashore? Andy had stated to the police that Bird never intended to marry Bill, that she was in fact at their cabin because she was coming back to Andy—had never really left. He reportedly regarded Bill as a demented old man. But it was his word against Bill's, and now Bill wasn't around to speak for himself. Nor was Bird. Or Roger. Faith felt an instant of panic. Death shrouded the community like the fog lying thickly in the cove.
Bill's mother and brother were flying to the island to take Bill home. He would be buried next to his father in the family plot in a small cemetery near their North Carolina farm. He'd been from away. Like Bird and like Roger. Could there be a connection there?
Faith slogged through the morning and planned on a nap when the children took theirs. She had tucked them in—marveling at the quirkiness of fate that for once had smiled, sending Zoë and Ben to sleep at almost precisely the same moment—and stretched out on her own bed. She was drifting off to sleep when she heard a car drive up.
She ran to the front hall window and looked out. It was too foggy to see the plates, but she could see the driver as he approached the house—a large man about sixty with thickwhite hair. He was alone. He stood on the porch uncertainly, then knocked and called out, "Is anybody home?”
Faith went downstairs and opened the door. As soon as she saw his face, any fears she had quickly vanished. It was a kind face and a tired-looking one. It was also slightly familiar. She knew immediately who he was, and a wave of contradictory emotions swept over her.
“Mrs. Fairchild? I am George Warner, Bird's father. I've come for my granddaughter.”
So, Faith realized, Andy had known Bird's real name and where she came from. "Please come in and sit down. Zoë is taking a nap. We can wake her, but perhaps you'd like to have a cup of coffee and wait. She won't sleep much longer."
“Oh, I don't want to wake her, and a cup of coffee would be wonderful. I drove straight from the airport to the police and then couldn't wait to see her."
“That you can do right away. She won't wake up, and neither will Ben—that's my little boy. They're in his room.”
She led him up the stairs and stood to one side as he looked down at the tiny child asleep in the cradle. He turned to leave and there were tears streaming down his face. In the hallway he said to her, choking on the words, "She looks just like her mother."
“Please, come down and sit in the kitchen while I make some coffee. And I'm sure you must be hungry too." Faith always assumed people were hungry. Especially in times of crisis.
“That would be very kind.”
He sat at the kitchen table in silence and watched Faith as she heated up some scallop bisque. She set a steaming bowl in front of him and quickly spread some thick slices of bread with cheese to run under the broiler. He ate swiftly, and it was not until she had paced a cup of coffee in front of him and sat down herself that he began to talk.
“Her real name was Laura Sue. She never liked it. We took both grandmothers' names." He paused. "Did you know Bird well?"
“No, I'm sorry, I didn't. We have been staying here only since the beginning of the month. I've seen her. She used to gather seaweed on the beach in front of the cottage, but we never actually spoke." Faith did not feel it was necessary to describe the scene in the cemetery or remind Mr. Warner that she had found the body. Perhaps he didn't know.
“We lost her mother when Bird was twelve. Cancer. It was pretty rough on Bird. They had been so close. Rough on me too, but I was more used to death. My parents, a brother. For Bird it was like the world had come to an end. She had always been a little different from the other kids. Always reading books.”
Probably Bill's, Faith thought. This view of Bird's childhood was different from what she had imagined. Lonely. Somehow the self-assurance her beauty had projected had never suggested that.
“She used to hang around with the older kids at school. That's how she knew Roger."
“Knew Roger? You mean Roger Barnett?" Faith was astonished.
Bird's father nodded. "Oh yes, he's from Blakesburg too. Iowa born and bred. Known his family all my life."
“But Roger would have been quite a bit older than Bird," Faith said.
“Only five years. She and Roger were always close. I'd say like brother and sister, and maybe it was for Roger, but not for my daughter. She never looked at any of the boys in her class. If she went to a dance, it was with Roger or not at all. When he went away to college, she was very unhappy. He'd come home from time to time, but it wasn't the same. Then there was a while when his mother didn't know where he was. They'd quarreled. Bird left soon after that.”
He picked up one of the crusty slices of bread. His hands were covered with age spots, which stood out against his smooth, untanned skin. Whatever he had done with his life, it hadn't been outdoors. H
e broke the bread in half with studied care. Faith was torn between wanting him to eat and needing to hear the story.
“I came home and there was a note on the table. Said she had to get away. Find herself. That sort of thing. I guess I wasn't too surprised. There wasn't much in the town for her.
I knew if I tried to go after her, she'd just leave again, so I waited. I didn't want to lose her.”
Did that first step lead to this end? Faith wondered. Oh, why didn't Laura Sue stay at home, get married, and start a health food store! Was she looking for Roger?
“She'd phone every once in a while so I'd know she was all right, and she'd send funny postcards. They came from all over. She started calling herself Bird after living with some people in New Mexico. `I feel free as a bird, Daddy,' she said, so Bird it was.
“Did you know she was going to have a baby? The police told me." His eyes filled, and he stopped speaking. Faith poured some hot coffee into his cup.
“I don't know why she didn't tell me—or about Zoë either. Maybe she was planning on surprising me, turning up with two babies. I'd never pushed her to come back to visit, but she always said she would. She knew how much I wanted to see her.”
Would she have come if he had asked, sent her a ticket? Faith was sure money was never plentiful for Bird. But her father must have been afraid she would stop getting in touch if he made any demands. Maybe he had been right.
“I knew she was in Maine, because I got a postcard with a sea gull on it. It had been mailed from Camden. I looked it up on the map. I always did that. I knew Roger lived in Maine. His mother told me, and I planned to tell Bird the next time she called. But I never got another call." He broke down completely at this point and, putting his face in his hands, sobbed uncontrollably. Faith got a box of tissues from the bathroom and stood with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. There was nothing she could say. All those years of longing and separation. It was the saddest story she'd ever heard. Why did people have children anyway? If Ben had any ideas of cutting out when he was seventeen, he could just forget it right now.
The Body in the Kelp ff-2 Page 18