The Body in the Kelp ff-2

by Katherine Hall Page

  Mr. Warner lifted his head, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. "I feel so foolish. Please forgive me. Since I got the news I don't seem to be able to stop."

  “Please, don't apologize. This has been such a shock for you."

  “I have to see the police again. I've made plans to leave tomorrow morning. I want to take Bird home. She'll be next to her mother.”

  A tiny cry drifted down to the kitchen. Faith smiled. "That's Zoë. She's a slow waker.”

  They went upstairs, and Mr. Warner took his granddaughter in his arms. She stopped crying immediately and burrowed down against his suit jacket with obvious pleasure.

  “She's a sweetheart," Faith told him. "Your daughter must have been a very fine mother. Zoë has such a lovely disposition. We're going to miss her.”

  Mr. Warner was gently stroking Zoë's cheek. "Don't worry about her. I come from a big family, and she has more relatives than she'll know what to do with and they're all standing ready to give me all the advice I want and some I don't."

  “What about tonight? Would you like to leave her here? You could stay too. There's plenty of room," Faith offered.

  “Thank you for offering, but I think we'll stay at the Holiday Inn. I already ordered a crib, and it's nearer the police and the airport. I stopped at the Shop and Save on my way down, and the car is loaded with everything from diapers to toys, so we'll be fine.”

  Faith took Zoë and changed her, then put on a warm sleeper. Arlene had appeared on Saturday with a bag of baby clothes from her mother's stockpile. Faith added a sweater and handed the little girl over to Mr. Warner. Ben had been running around waving toys at her. When they got to the front door and it became apparent that this big man was taking Zoë away, Ben started to howl. Faith felt much the same way.

  Mr. Warner looked upset.

  “Don't worry, he'll be fine," Faith assured him.

  He managed a smile. "How can I thank you for all you've done, Mrs. Fairchild?”

  He looked out toward the cove. From there it wasn't possible to see the water, but the sound of the steady pulse of the waves was plain. "I don't know why she came to Maine.

  Bird hated cold weather and she never liked to be near the water. I couldn't even get her to learn to swim when she was a kid. She probably never did learn." He gazed into the fog again.

  Faith gave Zoë a last kiss and picked up Ben, who had attached himself to her leg like a suction cup and was still crying. Mr. Warner shook her hand awkwardly, both of them encumbered. "We'll be in touch. I'll let you know how things are."

  “That would be nice," Faith answered. She knew she would never hear from him again. She waved good-bye and bundled Ben back into the house for an intensive dose of quality time. He wasn't fooled and cried off and on for an hour for the baby to come back. Faith was exhausted and it was only two o'clock. It always seemed to be only two o'clock when she felt this way.

  She dug out some homemade playdough and installed Ben at the kitchen table with a garlic press and a small rolling pin. Soon he was happily making "sketties" and she was thinking of food too. She had a few quarts of fresh tomatoes, and she ought to make sauce before they went bad.

  She had just finished seeding and skinning them when Pix called.

  “Are you feeling as out of sorts as I am? Whenever I think about Bill, I sit and cry. The poor Fraziers have completely broken down. Their daughter and her husband arrived from Boston, and I left them to it."

  “My news is not going to make you—or the two nannies—feel any better. Bird's father just left with Zoë."

  “Oh no! I was beginning to think you would keep her!"

  “Maybe I was too. It was quite a wrench to see her go, but Mr. Warner is a lovely man and he was so happy to have her. He didn't even know he was a grandfather. You should have seen him, Pix—he was grieving terribly for Bird. She'll never be back, but he has a part of her in Zoë."

  “Bill and Bird gave her an appropriate name."

  “Yes, and by the way, Bird's real name was Laura Sue. I don't blame her for changing. It sounds as though `Tips for Teens' or ‘Original Recipe Brownies' should follow, but I would have picked something with fewer comedic possibilities to replace it."

  “Like what?"

  “Oh, I don't know. Portia or Deirdre. Something, anything."

  “I disagree. Bird was Bird. It suited her."

  “That's only because you were used to it being her name, and is this conversation going anywhere or are we just bored?"

  “Just bored." Pix agreed.

  “Well, I'm going to finish my spaghetti sauce, then read a million stories to Ben. It's too foggy to take a walk. We'd tumble into the sea. But if it lifts later, we'll come your way if that's all right."

  “Of course. And just be happy you don't live on Whitehead Island. It's the foggiest place in Maine. They have eleven weeks of it a year."

  “How many do we have?" Faith was slightly startled by her own use of "we." Had she said good-bye to the Hamptons and civilized life as she knew it forever? She hoped not.

  “About five weeks—and sometimes all in a row, or it seems that way."

  “Don't worry, it will lift before Hope and Quentin arrive. There isn't a fog that creeps on little cat or any other feet that would dare to obscure their well-regulated horizons.”

  Pix laughed again. "While you're creating culinary masterpieces, I'll go to work on the quilt. We've got to find out what those last two squares are."

  “Call me if you have any luck. It would be fun to take Hope and Quentin on a treasure hunt when they arrive on Wednesday. And Quentin could probably figure out how to write the whole thing off as a tax loss. I think that's what he does, although I've never been too certain. One of those legally illegal things anyway."

  “Good cooking, Faith."

  “Good hunting, Pix. Oh wait! I must be losing my mind. I almost forgot to tell you the rest about Bird! She and Roger were from the same town in Iowa. They grew up together and, from the sound of it, Bird had been in love with himsince she was a little girl. And the police told Mr. Warner that she was pregnant at the time of her death."

  “By Roger, do you think? Oh, Faith, it just gets sadder and sadder."

  “I know. Roger does seem the likeliest—or it could have been Andy? Her father didn't say how far along she was."

  “This is almost too much to take in. Do you think Bill knew?"

  “There are lots of things I'm afraid we're never going to know and that's one."

  “Well, I'll try to find these squares and at least we'll know something. Talk to you later."

  “Okay, good-bye.”

  Faith hung up and turned back to her tomatoes. She decided to give Pix some of the sauce. The Millers definitely needed some real food. The quilt photos were being hidden in a half-empty can of bread crumbs with Italian seasoning. Pix had told Faith she used this convenience all the time and that they were particularly good on chicken. Faith had asked Pix if she ever thought about where those bread crumbs had been. She used the same tone her mother employed years ago when Faith picked up a penny from a New York City sidewalk. It was impossible to be too stern about fresh bread crumbs.

  The fog did not lift, and as the afternoon wore on, Faith began to feel suffocated by it. She was tempted to jump in the car and drive to the Millers', but it would take too much energy. Besides, once there she'd have to come back again. Her sauce was made and she was contemplating an early dinner, long bath, and bed—Benjamin permitting—when the phone rang. It was Pix again. A very excited Pix.

  “I've got number fifteen! It's White House Steps and that's got to be it. Somewhere on that road there must be a white house, and the treasure is under the steps!"

  “Pix, that's fantastic! If only the fog would lift, we could go hunt! But if the treasure was under the steps, why would Matilda put all those other squares after it?”

  Pix sighed. "You're right. I didn't think of that. I was so excited to have found it. But it must be another directional clue.
Starting from the steps you look for some fern berries, then number seventeen and a shady pine. If we could find the steps, we could look for large pines. It must be buried under one of them."

  “Let's go back to Prescott Point first thing in the morning," Faith proposed. "But now I have to finish reading The Three Little Pigs to Ben. I don't know why he likes it so much. I've always thought it was such a prissy book. And what do you suppose would have happened if the wolf had gone to the third little pig's house first? Before he was finished with all his brickwork? He'd have been singing a different tune."

  “You've been cooped up too long, Faith. See you in the morning.”

  Faith hung up and felt happier than she had in days. At least one mystery was becoming clearer.

  The weather was not, however. When she awoke the next morning, the fog was thicker, if that was possible. She called Pix and they commiserated, resolving to go exploring the moment it lifted.

  “It'll burn off," Pix promised.

  Faith, thinking of those five weeks, was less sanguine. "How much fog has there been to date? Maybe we can approach this scientifically."

  “There's nothing scientific about fog and I prefer to trust Arlene. When she called Samantha this morning, she told her it would burn off by tomorrow, so no doubt it will.”

  Faith faced another long, housebound day squarely in the face and found it wanting. She decided to get ahead in cooking some treats for Hope and Quentin; then even if she had to bring a stick to feel her way, she'd take Ben to the Millers', one step at a time.

  The morning passed quickly, and after making more bread and a large Basque salad with shrimp, sausage, prosciutto, peppers, onions, and rice for Quentin and Hope's arrival, she called Pix to tell her she was bringing lunch. Pix, who had stoutly averred she welcomed a few foggy days, agreed with more than a suggestion of cabin fever in her voice.

  Faith took the path through the woods. It was quite clearin patches, impenetrable in others. Ben ran ahead, undeterred by frequent falls over tree roots and happily scaling small stones. He was chanting to himself, "See Samantha, Ben see Samantha," until it all ran together like a name from The Arabian Nights.

  Pix and Samantha welcomed them eagerly. The quilt books and magazines were strewn about the living room, and they had been ardently pursuing square number seventeen. They seemed happy for a break. Samantha took charge of Ben with an obvious display of bliss on both their parts—Ben's perhaps a bit more obvious since he jumped up and down and whooped.

  “Why don't you stop and have lunch?" Faith suggested. "We won't fuss. I'll just put everything on the table. It's fresh curried pea soup—appropriate for a pea souper—and there's plenty to go with it. This weather has given me an enormous appetite. All I've done is eat.”

  She went into the kitchen and unpacked her basket. A moment later Pix was shaken from a last contemplation of four-patches by a shriek from the kitchen.

  “Damn! I forgot to bring the bread." Faith emerged and grabbed her sweater. "I'll have to go back. It won't take me long without Ben. Keep an eye on the soup and make sure it doesn't boil."

  “Why don't you take my car?"

  “No, thanks. I'd rather feel terra firma directly under my feet. I'd be liable to end up making a left turn into the cove or something. The kids can start on the soup if they get hungry. You too.”

  And she ran out the front door. She was annoyed with herself. She didn't usually forget things, especially anything to do with food. Could it be the first harrowing harbinger of her dotage? She hurried on purposefully. Halfway back to her cottage she slowed down and began to appreciate the sensation of walking through the dense fog. Sound seemed magnified. She could hear an occasional bird's cry and the rustle of the light wind through the leaves and brush. The tide was out and there was no noise from the sea. It was very quiet.

  Until she heard footsteps behind her.

  At first she thought she must be mistaken, that it was an animal scurrying about. But these were slow and deliberate steps. A branch cracked when he or she stepped on it. Whoever it was couldn't be far behind.

  “Hello?" she called, and the steps stopped abruptly. She kept walking, increasing her pace. She decided not to call out again. It couldn't be Pix or Samantha, and who else would be coming from the direction of the Millers' cottage? It could be a clammer, but why would he be so far away from shore?

  She must have imagined it, she told herself. Then the footsteps started again, faint and faintly closer.

  “Who's there? Who are you?" She tried to inject irritation into her voice and keep the mounting fear out.

  There was no reply. Absolute and total silence.

  She walked on hurriedly and realized that she was now very frightened. Bird had been murdered not too far away or too long ago, and she had no intention of joining her. She started to run and tripped, falling flat on her face. She had cut her cheek on something sharp and started to cry out in pain. She scrambled to her feet and realized there was no way she could get away quickly. And where could she go?

  There was only one thing to do. Climb a tree.

  She crept as noiselessly as she could off the path and looked for the nearest tall spruce. A gigantic one rose out of the fog. She couldn't even see the top as she started up. The inner branches were like the rungs of a ladder, and she began to make headway slowly. She didn't dare to climb fast for fear of the noise the branches made as parts snapped off. She didn't hear anything below. Her pursuer had paused—or gone away. Twigs caught in her hair, and she was forced to take her sweater off when it caught in the needles. Her cheek was throbbing, and when she touched it she could see the blood on her palm. Fresh red blood. Not like Bird's had been when Faith found her, but like Bird's had been once. Without her sweater Faith was cold, and what she was thinking chilled her more than the cool air about her. She was shivering.

  At last she was high up in the tree, clinging to the trunk and trying to keep her full weight from the fragile branch on which she stood.

  She looked down. She couldn't see a thing.

  And no one could see her.

  Tears filled her eyes and her arms were already aching. She was afraid she was in for a long stay. She wanted to scream, but screaming was the last thing she should do. She clamped a hand over her mouth for a second to steady herself.

  After what seemed like hours, she heard the footsteps again. He or she had not gone away. The steps came close to the tree and stopped. Then walked on. Then returned again. Softly, slowly, deliberately.

  Whoever it was was not just passing by. He was looking for someone. Looking for Faith.

  After several more forays the stalker moved down to the beach; filled with dread, Faith heard the footsteps squish into the sand. Her heart was beating fast and she felt sick. There was no way her hiding place could be discovered unless the fog lifted or blew away from the tree. Dread kept its steady grip on her. Please stay by the shore. Don't come back, she prayed.

  The steps continued their slow, deliberate quest—systematically covering the beach. The sound echoed obscenely in her ears—squish, squash. Then the noise stopped. The hull of a boat scraped across the sand and rocks as it was pushed into the water; then came the steady lapping of oars. He or she was gone. Weak from relief, she started to climb down.

  She had loosened her grip and put one foot on the next branch before she realized she was doing exactly what her pursuer wanted. What was to prevent the stalker from landing in another spot and waiting for her at the cottage, or along the path? She clung to the tree again and prepared to wait. Surely Pix would begin to worry.

  She was so cold. She tried to concentrate on other things to keep her mind off the rapid loss of feeling in her fingers and toes. The fog felt like a blanket of snow on her bare arms. She cautiously loosened her grip to rub her left arm with her right. It helped a bit. She could catch glimpses of her sweater stuck several branches below when the fog moved. It had been a birthday present from Tom—a bulky Stewart Ross cardigan. She pract
ically lived in it. Should she try to get it and climb back up? Lived in it, lived in it—the phrase had a reassuring sound as she repeated it to herself. She was safe so long as she didn't move. She would still live in it. Just don't move. She closed her eyes. She had no fear of falling asleep in her precarious position. She just wanted to get away for a moment.

  There was no sound, except the sounds of the sea and forest. Nothing to threaten her, but nothing to save her either. Pix must have assumed Faith had gotten a phone call or held up some other way. But by now surely even unsuspicious Pix would have begun to wonder and come after her.

  Faith leaned her uninjured cheek against the trunk of the tree, gave her arms a good rub, and settled down to wait. But it wasn't Pix who rescued her.

  “Mrs. Fairchild? Mrs. Fairchild? Are you all right? Faith? Where are you?" It was Nan Hamilton, and never had a voice sounded so welcome.

  “I'm up here—in a tree.”

  If Nan thought that was odd, her voice did not betray it. "Well, deah, just keep talkin', and I'll follow your voice. We were afraid you were hurt in the fog.”

  Faith shuddered as she started to climb down, thinking of what Nan might have stumbled across if it hadn't been for the pine.

  “Can you tell where I am?" she said loudly, and kept talking. "Someone was following me and wouldn't answer when I called out, so I climbed a tree until they went away.”

  Nan was close enough for Faith to see her now.

  “Now I call that real smart," she said, and much to Faith's surprise folded her in an ample hug. "We'd better keep going to your house and call Pix. She was in quite a dither. Why, you're about frozen! Put this on and let's get you home." Nan wrapped Faith in a huge sweater that smelled pleasantly of pancakes, wood smoke, and balsam. She hadn't forgotten to retrieve her own sweater in her climb down, and she flung that on too. She was still cold.

  Faith felt so relieved to be both alive and out of the tree that it didn't occur to her to ask what Nan was doing at the Millers' until they got to porch. The door was shut, and if someone was waiting for them inside, he'd have to deal with both of them. It was a reassuring idea.