The Body in the Lighthouse (22 page)

She had never felt less like living on Sanpere.

What would Tom say if she suggested selling? After all, it was a ridiculously long drive from Aleford. They could never pop up for a weekend. And then there was the weather; Maine seasons: fall, winter, mud, and July. Why not look on the North Shore or in New Hampshire? Some nice lake. Someplace with no lighthouses.

Linda had refused to talk to anyone; refused a lawyer. She appeared to be resigned to whatever might happen to her. The story was splashed all
over the papers as far as Boston. Linda's prints were the only ones on the knife. Like Harold, Persis had been trying to get Linda to sell her cabin, people speculated. It was well known that Harold had offered her twice what it was assessed at. Linda was a thorn in the side of Sanpere Shores.

Tom crumpled the instructions and threw them across the room.

“Get on the other side and let's turn this baby over,” he instructed. “Jussi is finished—or Swedished.”

Faith smiled wanly.

They turned the table over. It seemed steady and fit into the space in front of the window perfectly.

“You brought dinner, right?” Tom asked, looking at his wife with a worried expression on his face. Normally, a pun of the sort he had just made would have evoked a more dramatic response. But there had been too much drama lately.

“Yes, the leftover smoked chicken and vegetable pasta.”

“Yum, yum, right, kids?”

“Yum,” said Amy.

“Leftovers?” said Ben, then grinned mischievously. “Double yum.”

Sitting down to eat, Faith almost recaptured her equilibrium as they joined hands and Tom said a blessing. It was their first meal in the new house. She
was
blessed. Then all the thoughts came crowding back again. Kenny had returned to work that morning. Faith saw him in the after
noon. He looked terrible. Pale under his tan—a description Faith had read in books with skepticism until now, actually seeing it. It was as if the tan were a body stocking peeled on for appearance' sake. She had tried to find some words to comfort him. What was there to say? “I'm sorry I found your mother's body”? “I'm sorry your mother was killed”? Instead, she settled for just “I'm sorry,” and he nodded, then blew his nose on a raggedy red handkerchief.

 

With both his stage manager and one of the leads lost to the production, Roland Hayes was distraught, although not in complete despair. He called a special meeting of the cast Wednesday evening. Faith thought she'd skip the meeting and go over to the house and put some Billy bookcases together, but Ursula's “You're not going to Roland's meeting?” sent her scurrying for her car keys. Duty first.

“Some of us talked about canceling the play,” Roland said. “I know the joy has gone out of it, but there are two things to consider. The pool project is an important one. We're sold out Saturday night and are close to it for the other two. That's a lot of money, and we have an angel who is matching whatever we make, remember.” Faith looked at the sober faces gathered around the director. Becky and Ted, Romeo and Juliet, looked so young, so innocent. This would be a summer they would never forget, a summer filled with too much tragedy.

“Then the other consideration is what Persis
herself would have wanted, and I have no doubt she would have wanted us to go on.”

“Maybe we can dedicate the performance to her,” Becky suggested tentatively.

“What a splendid idea,” Roland said. “It would mean a lot to Kenny, too. I asked him how he felt about having us do the play without his mother, and he said as far as he was concerned, it was the best thing to do in her memory.”

People relaxed a bit. It was settled. Roland continued.

“Fortunately, the sets are almost finished and the crew knows what needs doing.” He shook his head, and the message was as clear as if a cartoonist had drawn a bubble from his mouth: Linda Forsythe, artist, stage manager, murderer?

“And Persis's understudy has indicated her willingness to play the role.”

Lady Capulet—Sharon McDonald—stepped forward. She'd need more than a little padding, but Faith knew that Sharon had all the lines memorized. She'd fed them to Persis when the older woman had been at a loss. If this had been a question of a broken leg, theatrical history would be about to be made, a star born. But the circumstances did not allow for any pleasure, although pleasure was what Sharon was probably feeling in her heart of hearts. She had thrown herself into the other role with passion. Her husband's misgivings about the bank clerk and the boards may have been prophetic. Sharon had been waiting for her shot at playacting all her life.

It felt right to rehearse after Roland's talk, and it went smoothly. They were doing it for Persis.

 

“Faith, it's Earl. I wonder if I could ask you to do us a favor?”

“Anything,” Faith replied. “More allergic relatives? Need some new hors d'oeuvre ideas?”

“Not that ‘us.'” He cleared his throat. “The police. I'm in Ellsworth.”

Oh, that “us,” Faith thought, and replied slightly less enthusiastically, “Of course. What do you need?”

She'd gone over Monday's events, starting with her visit to the Town Hall, several times with several different “uses.”

“It's Jill's idea. She said you'd gotten close to Linda Forsythe while working with her on the play.”

“I wouldn't exactly say ‘close.'” Faith was beginning to wonder where this was going, and the choices were not great.

“Closer than anyone else on the island, except for the Osborns and others in that group, and they're not exactly what we have in mind right now. The problem isn't just that the woman won't talk. She won't eat, either, and we're on the point of having to hospitalize her. She's getting dehydrated, for one thing. She sleeps. That's about all she does.”

Faith wondered what she could do about the situation. Force-feed Linda one of Louella's pies?

This, as it turned out, was very close to what
Earl had in mind. They wanted Faith to come with a basket of goodies and try to get Linda to eat some of them, thereby loosening her tongue for a full confession.

Faith felt uncomfortable with the role, to say the least. “Doesn't Linda have any family members?” she asked Earl.

“Apparently not. Parents dead. Only child. A few cousins in New Jersey. We contacted them, and the ones who remembered her didn't want anything to do with this. Not sure they know where Maine is anyway.”

Now was the time for a New Jersey joke, but Faith wasn't in the mood. Besides, Jersey girls are tough, she reminded herself again, and Linda is a Jersey girl. She'd need all that toughness now.

“I'll put together some food and talk with her, but she has to understand that anything she tells me isn't in confidence. I don't want to trick her.”

“We generally frown on things like that in the law-enforcement business,” Earl said dryly. “Entrapment, First Amendment. You know.”

Faith was feeling feisty. “Alst I know, Earl Dickinson, is that for you guys, it's fish-or-cut-bait time.”

She was going pretty native herself.

 

Faith ended up taking two baskets and a cooler. The pie basket held one of Louella's strawberry rhubarb pies. Faith didn't tell Louella where it was going, although there had been a surprising amount of sympathy for Linda, and the island
had not exploded as Faith had feared. Smoldered, but no pyrotechnics. The general opinion was that the woman was stark raving mad and needed to be locked up for a very, very long time. The other basket held blueberry muffins, still warm and fragrant, fresh from the oven; some baguettes from Lily's; two dozen Comfort Cookies; brownies; and a small zucchini bread. Remembering Linda's garden, Faith had gone to the house and harvested several varieties of tomatoes, sugar snap peas, peppers, lettuce, carrots, raspberries, strawberries—wild and tame—plus pungent basil. She had a hunch that Linda would find it difficult to resist the fruits of her own labor. The fruit and vegetables were in the cooler along with dressing, tarragon chicken salad, hardboiled eggs, chutney-cheese spread, a chunk of rat cheese—the sharp Cheddar the IGA sold—tabbouleh—Linda seemed the type—iced tea, and lemonade. At the last minute, she'd sacrificed some of the Côte d'Or dark chocolate bars she'd brought for her family's picnics. Struggling under the weight of the feast, Faith entered Linda's cell. This was by far the most unusual event she'd ever catered. Linda was sitting on the narrow bed. She had refused to bathe, but fortunately she was not too ripe, although her hair had taken on an unpleasant oily sheen. It was scraped back from her face in a tight ponytail. The orange prison jump-suit was definitely not Linda's color. She looked up as Faith entered, then down again.

Faith had been rehearsing all the way to
Ellsworth. Tom had wanted to drive her. She'd refused his offer, preferring to be by herself. And besides, she had no idea how long she'd be. Linda might be in a secure facility, but Faith still wanted one of them with the kids whenever they weren't at camp.

“Linda? Oh, Linda! This is all so crazy. I have no idea what to say to you, but you have to eat something. They'll take you to the hospital if you don't, and that will be horrible, even more horrible.” It wasn't what she'd thought to say, yet it would have to do. Methodically, she began to unpack what she'd brought. When she took out the bowl of Sweet One Hundred cherry tomatoes, Linda burst into tears.

Faith put one in her hand and Linda popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly, tears continuing to irrigate her cheeks.

Faith gave her another. She'd asked Earl to find out what might be the dangers if Linda did decide to eat and stuffed herself. He'd gotten back to her and said to try moderation and liquids first. Linda wasn't in danger of starving and she had been incarcerated only since Monday. Dehydration was the main concern.

“Lemonade?” Faith offered her a cup. “I hope you don't mind, but I made it with some of the lemons from the trees on your deck.”

Linda shook her head and between sobs told Faith that she did the same thing herself.

They sat like this for a time. Faith made Linda a chicken-salad sandwich. Linda ate it. Faith
passed her the strawberries and the brownies. She inhaled those too.

“I didn't do it,” Linda whispered after the strawberries were gone.

Faith
had
worked this one out. She'd figured if Linda did talk to her, this would be what she'd say. It was what she'd said at the lighthouse. The only thing to do was go with it.

“Okay. Then why were you there?”

“Persis left a note for me, telling me to meet her. She had a client who wanted to commission two paintings. One of the lighthouse and another of the view from the top. She said we'd split the sale.”

“Where is the note now?”

“I left it on the kitchen table. It was stuck in my screen door.”

Faith hadn't heard anything about a note. Linda's cabin had been searched thoroughly. One thing to tell Earl, anyway.

“And she didn't phone you, because…”

“As you know, I don't have a phone.”

Exactly.

“So, she told you to meet her at the lighthouse. Had she ever asked you to do this sort of thing before? Do a painting and split the proceeds?”

“No, but I thought it was very nice of her to throw some work my way.”

“I thought you two didn't get along!”

“That's what's funny. I thought so, too. I mean, she practically accused me of trying to murder her when she drank the turpentine.” Linda's face flamed as red as the berries she'd eaten.

“Still, you went.”

“There was no reason not to.”

Faith wished everything Linda had said didn't make so much sense.

“Did you know that Persis was buying most of Harold's property from his widow, including Sanpere Shores?”

Linda looked totally aghast. “I didn't even know he was married, and I certainly didn't know Persis was going to buy the property! How would I?”

Obviously, Linda was not part of the island grapevine, but then again, she wouldn't be—especially not this particular vintage.

Faith reached in the cooler and poured more lemonade for Linda, grabbing a few cherry tomatoes for herself.

“What was your relationship with Harold like?” A new scenario was taking shape, but Linda quickly erased it.

“I knew who he was, but we never had much to do with each other until he bought the land. At first, he told everyone it was just an investment and he was going to leave it the way it was; then he began buying up everything he didn't already own. It was terrible. I'd even had him to dinner once; then he made it so Adelaide—my nearest neighbor—had to move. She was worried about her medical bills, and so instead of staying in the farmhouse where she'd been born, she moved in with her daughter and her husband, plus their three kids. They all live in the house they bought
with the money from the farmhouse. It's no palace, no Sanpere Shores.” Linda bit into a carrot vehemently.

“But you didn't sell.”

“No, and I never will—or I guess that's
would
now. I'm going to prison, aren't I, Faith?”

“I think you need to get yourself a lawyer,” Faith said. She ate some more of Linda's food. “So was Harold putting a lot of pressure on you to sell, too?”

“Absolutely. Offered me another shore lot over near Granville—tidal. Not that I don't like the tides, but it was nothing compared to my place. He got pretty ugly. I think he had somebody who wanted a big piece but would only buy if it included mine.”

And presumably Persis knew about the somebody, too. Faith pictured her going through Harold's papers with the grieving widow and planning how to make all their dreams come true.

But none of these things added up to a motive for Linda to kill Persis; more likely, one for Persis to get rid of Linda.