The Body in the Kelp (14 page)

Read The Body in the Kelp Online

Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Kelp
5.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“They might have done a little rolling around in here, but nothing else,” he reported to Faith and Pix. “If you catch my meaning,” he added solemnly. They nodded vigorously in unison and Faith felt slightly relieved. The sanctity of the cottage beds had been preserved. It had been plain to her from the start that all those hours of exercise and masochistic dips in the ocean by the previous inhabitants had been to quell certain urges. And as for the current inhabitants—well, they
were
married.
Ben had sensed something was amiss and had clung to Faith since they had entered the house, refusing even Pix's familiar arms. Trying to remember whether she had brought her Hermès scarf with the boat design or not was made more difficult by Ben's anguished cries whenever she tried to set him down for a moment. Pix had told her life was simple on the island, and Faith hadn't brought any good jewelry. Nor, she finally recalled, the scarf. But Pix was wrong. Life on the island was certainly not simple. Yet it wasn't something for which one dressed. She'd been right about that.
An hour's careful inventory revealed only a few items missing: some bottles of scotch, gin, vermouth, and wine Faith kept in the pantry; and a cuff bracelet Tom had bought for her from a silversmith on the island when they had first arrived. The wine in the basement had not been touched. Possibly, the fear of Faith and Ben's arrival had driven the miscreants away before they had had a chance to get to it.
They assembled on the porch to hear Sgt. Dickinson's parting words.
“Looks like kids, Mrs. Fairchild. No tire marks, except yours going out. I expect they were out in a skiff, saw you leave, and decided to have a party. Or at least get the makings of one. This happens a lot in the winter. But they're getting pretty foolish lately. I have an idea or two who they might be, and I'll keep an eye out for that bracelet of yours.”
“It wasn't worth that much, but my husband gave it to me.”
He took a small memo pad out of his pocket and made a note, as he had been doing every time Faith opened her mouth. He was nothing if not thorough.
“I don't think they'll be back to bother you, but I'll make it a point to check by here for the next couple of days.”
“I think you're right, Sergeant. There's really nothing for them to steal. But thank you all the same. It's reassuring to know you're around.” Faith gave him one of her more radiant smiles and he was properly impressed. He blushed and left.
“Do you think this is some sort of record, Pix ? For summer people, especially?”
“What are you talking about, Faith?”
“Making the ‘Police Brief' two weeks in a row, of course.”
Pix patted her on the shoulder and they went in to start cleaning up. Ben had fallen asleep—he hadn't slept long enough earlier—and Faith had put him in his crib. His room was untouched. Evidently these were not teenagers who collected stuffed animals.
“Faith, why don't you come and stay with me until your sister gets here ? There's plenty of room and we'd love to have you,” Pix offered.
“That's very sweet and thank you, but I'm not nervous. Whoever it was has had a look around and won't be back, and I know how to make sure of it.”
They were stripping the sheets off the bed.
“What do you mean? They'll probably watch you the next time you go to the state liquor store. You know there's always that line of teenagers sitting on the stone wall next to it.”
“Oh Pix, don't tell me you think it was kids who broke in here! It wasn't booze and bangles our thief wanted. It was the quilt.”
“The quilt!”
“Of course. Look at the way the beds are messed up and which drawers are open. No small ones, only those big enough to hold the quilt.” Faith stood for a moment, her arms filled with bedding.
“And we have to do something about it as soon as possible, because if we don't he, she, or they will try again.”
Despite her brave words to Pix, Faith spent a sleepless night. She was jolted to full consciousness by each noise outside and inside the cottage.
And it was an extremely noisy night.
Prescott's was loading lobsters, and the trucks seemed to grind every gear. Every floorboard in the house creaked in turn; the glass in every window rattled; and every diurnal creature decided to join his nocturnal cousin for a night of raucous fun. On top of all this, Bird's little chick wailed most of the night on and off. From the sound Faith was convinced that their cabin had suddenly located itself in her yard instead of on the next point of land.
Bird must have gone back to pack things up, Faith thought. She realized they had forgotten to ask Bill when the nuptials were going to be celebrated, but she had the impression it would
be soon. But not soon enough. She yawned and turned over to punch her pillow.
Still, Faith didn't hear the dog bark, and that was something.
Pix had insisted that she keep one of the Millers' three golden retrievers and swore that he would bark if anything human approached. He would not attack—more likely run forward in friendly greeting—but he would sound an alert. He was sleeping on the hooked rug at the foot of the stairs and added a steady adenoidal snoring and occasional doggy nightmare snarl to the cacophony of sound. His name was Dusty; the other two were Henry and Arthur, aka Hanky and Arty. The next generation had fortunately limited to dogs Pix's parents' penchant for whimsy in names, although Samantha, after her father, was getting dangerously close.
Ben was up at the crack of dawn, and for once Faith was glad to get up with him. He came running gleefully into her room, his soaked nighttime diaper swaying between his legs. He had taken his sleeper off. It was probably wet too.
“Mommee, Mommee,” he cried, and stretched out his little arms for Faith to pull him into her warm bed for a cuddle.
“Not a prayer,” she answered as she got up and swooped him into her arms and off for a bath. He laughed in delight. She could do no wrong. At least not for many years to come. She was his own “Mommee” and he loved her passionately. This is why women have sons, Faith reminded herself as she turned on the taps.
It was a brief detour from the all-important task of the morning. She had outlined the plan to Pix the night before and lost no time, once Ben was dressed and fed, in executing it. As she came downstairs with Ben and his Brio Spool Wagon to keep him occupied, she heard the other baby crying again. Faith was a little hazy on when babies were supposed to have things, but she thought Zoë was too old for colic. It could be teething. That was a reasonable answer for a few years when anyone asked why your child was screaming. It sounded better than “bad temper” or “horrible personality.” She turned to the matter at hand,
happy she wasn't the one futilely pacing the floor or rocking in a chair.
First she spread the quilt on the floor in the living room and carefully photographed each square with Samantha's Polaroid Impulse, which Pix had brought over when she had delivered Dusty and the quilt top. Then Faith numbered the pictures, put them in an envelope, and stuffed the envelope in the folds of one of the diapers in Benjamin's diaper bag.
Afterward she wrote a short note to her friend Charley MacIsaac. He also happened to be the chief of police in Aleford, the place she was still startled to call home.
Dear Charley,
 
Please put the enclosed in a safe place. Don't give it or show it to anyone. I'll explain when I get home.
It's nice here and everyone is fine. See you soon.
Love, Faith
The good thing about Charley was that he would do it and not feel he had to call her up and ask a lot of questions. Like Tom.
Next she opened one of the desk drawers, which she had discovered earlier contained enough brown paper and string to send the Queen Mary by parcel post, and took out what she needed. She wrapped the quilt and tied it, taped the letter to it, and wrapped the whole thing again. If Charley didn't know what was in it, it was all the better. She addressed it to “C. MacIsaac, 1776 Revere Street, Aleford, Massachusetts.” Then she called Pix, who she figured should be back after taking Bill Fox home from the garage in Granville.
“Everything's ready. Can you come with me now?”
“No problem, and Samantha wants to take Ben for a walk.”
“Perfect. We wouldn't want to cut things short because of a restless child, and if he's behaving well, he might upstage us.”
A half hour later Pix and Faith were standing in line at the IGA in Sanpere Village. Pix had filled a basket with things she
didn't need and Faith was holding the unwieldy package. Pix went first.
“Faith,” she said, managing to sound genuinely reproachful, “you know Louise and I would have been happy to help you get started. There is really no need to have someone else quilt your top.”
“Oh, Pix, I am very grateful, but you know that I'm hopeless with a needle and thread. You can teach me something else like basket weaving. I really would like to have it finished in my lifetime, and this woman is a fine quilter. I remembered she finished a quilt for a friend of mine, and when I called her, she said she could start right away. That's why I want to get it off this morning.” Faith was deliberately ambiguous as to name and place. Plus she never minded a few fibs in the cause of justice.
“I do understand, Faith, and it's such a lovely quilt, it deserves to be finished quickly. I wonder what color she'll choose for the backing. Did you tell her what color to pick?”
And they were off on a discussion of colors, patterns, and textures which took them through the checkout and into the street.
“Now for Part Two,” Faith said under her breath as they strolled through the village with their packages.
Pix had something more on her mind. “You know, you might enjoy basket weaving. It's fun and very relaxing. I could start you on a melon basket.”
Faith knew where the thought was going. “Pix,” she said gently but firmly, “I don't carry my melons in baskets. At least not in this country.” Some ideas had to be ruthlessly nipped in the bud.
People with post office boxes generally came to get their mail in the late morning, and Sanpere Village bustled with their activity. Even if one's mail was delivered, there was always something to pick up. Something from Prescott's Hardware, the IGA, or The Blueberry Patch.
There were two other enterprises in the village, an art gallery started by an off-islander who now lived on Sanpere year round and an antique shop operated by one of the Sanfords, who purportedly got most of her stock from picking the dump. But these
two shops were strictly for summer people and Faith and Pix walked by them quickly.
Jill stocked newspapers and magazines and had lately added a small section of paperback books. Faith stopped to buy a paper and managed to pass the news to the four or five people in the store, then conveyed it to three more in Prescott's while she picked up some batteries for one of the dozen or so flashlights that had come with the cottage, everything from penlight to searchlight. John Eggleston was busy buying nails, but paused to emit a bark of polite interest before turning back to the infinitely more fascinating display in front of him. Faith filed a thought to pull out later. It was unlikely that he had amassed much in the way of earthly goods as a minister, “poor as church mice” being the rule rather than the exception. Was he a successful enough sculptor to support himself? What did he live on?
By the time they walked up the worn wooden post office stairs, which had once been red like the rest of the building, it was almost pointless to keep talking. Most of the island, from the top of the old serpentine quarry at South Beach to the town wharf at Granville, already knew that Mrs. Fairchild was mailing that quilt of Matilda Prescott's up to Massachusetts to be finished.
There were only two people in the post office, but one of them was Sonny Prescott, and Faith and Pix went through the whole thing again for his benefit. The other was Eric, standing with studied care as far away as possible from Sonny as he could in the tiny room. It was to him that Faith addressed her remarks, with Pix providing backup.
Sonny left after a nod to the ladies. Possibly the conversation was not as riveting as they thought, but when the package, which had already made quite a journey, was finally sent on its way and they emerged into the sunlight, they were pleased to note Sonny earnestly talking into his CB in the cab of his pickup.
“Mission accomplished,
n'est-ce pas
?” Faith murmured to Pix.
“But
oui, mon capitaine,
” she replied.
They both felt terribly smug.
Eric was following closely behind them, and they walked together toward Faith's car.
“I've decided to move into the Prescott house—my house, that is,” he told them. “I think Roger would have wanted it.”
“That's wonderful.” Pix put her hand on his arm. “Of course Roger would have wanted it and we want it. You mustn't be driven away by all this.”
“Jill is going to help me move later this afternoon. There isn't much. This morning I'm going to try to work again. I haven't been in the studio since all this happened, and I can't be a coward anymore.”
“I don't think you're getting graded on this one,” Faith commented. “Nothing on your permanent record.”
Eric grinned. “Thanks, Faith. But it's now or never. Must be all those times my daddy made me get back up on the horse.”
Faith remembered Pix had mentioned Eric was from Texas. Once more she blessed the fates for their wisdom in settling her near the bridle trails of Central Park, not the Panhandle.
He left them at the car and walked toward the causeway. The tide was out, and his house sat up on a knoll in fastidious contrast to the mud, rocks, and tangled seaweed below. Faith hoped he and Jill would get together soon. It seemed like a large and lonely place for just one person. Besides, there was safety in numbers.
She asked Pix if it was all right to take the long way home in order to replenish her liquor supply at Granville. Pix didn't mind, and soon they were on the shore road out of Sanpere Village.
The route provided an informal history of the island. The early settlers' few remaining clapboard houses were scattered among the large arks built by the rusticators at the turn of the century, more recent fishermen's cottages, trailers in varying degrees of repair, and finally sleek nouveau Robert A. M. Stern imitations built by the latest invaders. The gulls, pines, granite outcroppings, and wildflowers were the same in every yard.
On the way, Pix told Faith what Bill had told her when she drove him home earlier that morning. Faith had been right. Bird
had
returned to the cabin the night before to pack and also to leave a note for Andy. Bill and Bird were planning to get married
as soon as they could get a license. It was going to be a simple ceremony in Bill's garden and he hoped they would both come.
“He's so happy, Faith. I don't have any sense of what she's like, but she'd better be good to him.” Pix's voice brooked no opposition.
“I don't think you should worry. She's the embodiment of his imaginary princess and can do no wrong. I wonder what her life was like before she ended up here with Andy ? It may be that the security Bill will provide is just what she needs—and wants.”
“I hope so. It would be devastating for him if she got bored and took off with a younger man in a few years—or months.”
“I'm sure that has occurred to Bill and he's willing to take the chance for the woman of his dreams.”
As Faith said that, in her mind, she heard Eric's voice just the week before talking about the house of his dreams. So many dreams and a nightmare that touched them all. The sadness did not go away and she found herself murmuring “Poor Roger” as she parked in front of the old Opera House, which had once hosted traveling companies with such luminaries as Nellie Melba and now stood empty.
There were no other customers in the state liquor store. It was lunchtime. Native islanders were home and the summer people were picnicking or enjoying the chowder and pie at The School Street Rest. It was one of two places to eat in Granville, three if you counted the Italian sandwiches for sale at Baylor's Market. Bert Hamilton had painted an old bus blue and sold clam rolls and pizza in the parking lot next to the town wharf, but it didn't compare with The School Street. Pix had explained that “Restaurant” hadn't fit on the original sign, and even when a new one was made, no one called it anything else.
Faith replaced what had been stolen from her tantalus. As they walked back to the car, she scrutinized the wrists of the teenagers sitting on the nearby wall. They were spread out silently in a row, unconsciously duplicating the immobile line of gulls perched on the roof behind them. The kids eyed Faith and Pix with expressions ranging from indifference to hostility. One
of them had a face so devoid of affect that Faith suspected it was drug induced. He was definitely gone. She didn't see her bracelet. She didn't expect to.

Other books

B00BKPAH8O EBOK by Winslow, Shannon
Drowned Sprat and Other Stories by Stephanie Johnson
Surviving Paradise by Peter Rudiak-Gould
The Seventh Daughter by Frewin Jones
Nightfall by Jake Halpern
Chasing Sunsets by Karen Kingsbury