The Body in the Lighthouse (24 page)

“Guess you know where it went,” Kenny Sanford said, coming into the room. Quiet. He'd always been quiet. His face didn't look particularly vacant now, though—or frightened. He looked thoroughly in command.

It had been staring her in the face all the time. Matricide.

“Why?” she asked.

He smiled and motioned her toward a small rocker next to the table.

“Thought that would be obvious to a smart city woman like you. Hated her. Hated her from before I can remember. And she hated me right back. I was a mistake. The only mistake she ever made. Thought he'd marry her, since she was up a stump, but he wouldn't. How did he know it was his? ‘Get rid of it,' he said, and she tried, but it was too late.”

Faith thought of the album, those two pictures. She thought of the life he'd led with those two women in this house, a life glimpsed only in the public humiliations she'd witnessed. Kenny Sanford had lived in a hell she couldn't begin to imagine.

“Why didn't you leave? Get work on the mainland?” As she spoke, she knew what his answer would be.

“She wouldn't let me. Somebody had to do the chores. And I couldn't leave the island. Didn't know any other place. I guess I was too scared. Scared to stay; scared to leave. It got worse when Gran died, though her tongue was sharper.” He stared out the window, and Faith thought he'd almost forgotten she was there. It was as if he were talking to himself. Thinking out loud. Getting to say what he'd kept in for thirty years or more.

“She started having me do things for her. ‘Take this tonic down to Mary Ellen. She's been poorly. Tell her I made it myself from the dandylions.
Make sure she drinks it.' ‘Take these doughnuts to Helen. Those doctors don't know what they're talking about. She needs a treat now and then.' My mother was an evil woman, Mrs. Fairchild, and the Lord has used me as an instrument to strike her down.”

He laughed.

“Wish I believed that. The Lord had nothing to do with it. I wanted her dead myself. She made me kill my own father, as well as the others.”

“What!” Faith half-rose out of the rocker. Kenny nodded for her to sit down, and she did.

“Mr. Hapswell. She told me he was going to the police. That he'd seen what I was doing. The spray painting. Torching the houses. First time, I'd caught one of those loonies doing it. She left and then I gave it a try. Felt real good. Always did like to set a bonfire. This was a lot like that, and I kept going. No reason to stop. My mother thought it was funny. She found the paint cans in my pickup. I'd forgotten to heave them in the water when I left one night. She said Mr. Hapswell had seen me and was going to have me locked up. I couldn't be locked up now, could I? She told me where to find him, what to do, and I done it. A week later, she got drunk and started laughing fit to kill. She'd finally gotten even with him, she said. Him—‘your father.' ‘Killed by his own bastard,' she said. So I got even with her. She was flying high, buying his land and everything. Wanted me to remodel the lighthouse into a bed-and-breakfast. It was worth it to see her face
when I took out the knife and shoved the photo in her face. I wanted it to be the last thing she saw, and it was, 'cept she grabbed it and I couldn't get it out of her hand in time. I knew Linda was coming and I had to get clear. Took my skiff, just like the other time.”

He looked over at Faith.

“Wish I had that picture. It was the only one. He was a nice enough guy. I did some work for him now and then. My own father, and I never got to know him. He never let on, neither.”

Faith slowly let out the breath she'd been holding.

“I'm so sorry, Kenny—Ken.” She resolved to stop calling him Kenny. It was obscene. The whole situation was.

“That is, you've had a terrible time.” She searched for the words that would get her out of the house and found none to hand. “I just dropped by to ask if you'd build a chest of drawers for us.” Perhaps if she pretended that the man in front of her had not just confessed to being the protagonist in a Greek tragedy, she could slip out.

“I'm some sorry, too—sorry you happened by today,” he said sorrowfully.

She was with him there, Faith said to herself, and tried to stand up again. A look from Ken made her sit down abruptly, rocking back and forth. It reminded her of the hammock on Ursula's porch.

“You were outside the lighthouse that night! You knocked me down!”

“I was afraid you'd see the truck. But I didn't
want to hurt you. What were you doing wandering around at night like that anyway?” he said in an accusatory tone, then kept talking. Ken Sanford was monopolizing a conversation for the first time in his life.

“I've been going out to the lighthouse a lot. Mr. Hapswell gave me a key. He wanted me to do the work, too.” Kenny gave a short laugh at the coincidence. “Always wanted to live in one. I've got quite a bit saved up, and I thought I might be able to buy it from Harold. Told him he wouldn't get his money out of remodeling it, just to lead him astray, you see. I still plan to get it from his widow. Hear she's selling everything fast. It's going to be all built-ins, cherry. Stay here until I get it done; then maybe I'll torch this place.” He smiled in anticipation. The bonfire to end all bonfires, followed by a lighthouse bachelor pad.

“But”—he gazed fiercely at her—“I can't do it with you blabbing about this all over the island.”

Faith hastened to reassure him. “I won't say a word to anyone. Not even my husband, and he's a member of the clergy.”

If she hoped to kindle some feeling of possible remorse by the mention of a man of God, she was mistaken. Kenny went into the kitchen. She followed him, planning to make a run for the door.

He'd opened a drawer and was pulling something out. She ran, but, without moving much at all, he stopped her with one hand, grabbing her elbow and pulling her back. There was no fat on his body; muscle and years of hard work had
produced the same effect as a daily workout with a personal trainer. Kenny was as strong as an ox. He pushed her into one of the kitchen chairs and bound her wrists tightly together with duct tape. Sanpere homes usually had a roll close at hand, and the Sanfords' was no exception. Also like most locals, they had a yard that was a sea of bright blue tarps covering woodpiles, old traps and pot buoys, rusty machinery, and anything else you wanted out of sight, out of mind. Faith began to panic as she realized she could be joining this motley assortment, never to be found.

She tried again. “Kenny, even if someone does find out, you'll never be convicted. There are all kinds of abuse and your mother definitely abused you; maybe your grandmother, too. This wasn't your fault. I'll help you. So will Tom and all your friends on the island.” Convicted, no. Locked up in whatever place Maine had for the criminally insane, yes, yes, yes.

He waited patiently for her to finish.

“Nope, I planned this out perfect. They've got Linda, and not a soul suspects me. I was a little afraid she wouldn't come, though she's the kind of girl who does what people tell her to. Ma and her were never what you'd call friends, but she went. Even picked up the knife, I heard. Nope, this is my chance. Now, let's go.”

“Where?” her voice was shaking. As soon as they were outside, she'd scream her head off.
Sound carries over water, she thought. And she intended to create some very high decibels.

He closed the kitchen door behind them. The house was well off the road, so no one would have seen her car. She wondered what he planned to do with it. Another blue tarp? He was a lot smarter than anyone thought.

“Make one noise and I'll do you right here,” he said matter-of-factly, producing a large Buck knife, exactly like the prop from the play. Faith opened her mouth, willing to take her chances. He couldn't butcher her in his own yard; there was no way he could avoid leaving evidence. Evidence. Her blood. She started screaming. Almost immediately, he wadded one of his red bandanna handkerchiefs into her mouth and tied another over it. He seemed to have an endless supply in the pockets of his work pants, pulling them out the way a magician pulls silk scarves from a top hat. They smelled and tasted of turpentine. She gagged and swallowed the bile rising from her stomach. He pushed her along the small dock in front of the house to his skiff, lifted her in, and pushed off. There were no other boats in sight. The fishermen had gone home long ago, but where were all the summer people? Where were all the sailboats? Especially Arnie Rowe's?

Kenny Sanford rowed easily, smoothly. It was the same skiff he'd been keeping at the Rowes' dock. The same one he'd used to get away after both Harold's and Persis's deaths. Unremarkable. Part of the Maine landscape. She could see they
were headed for open water. Still no other boats. Luck was with him—just as it had been when he killed Harold. Just as it had been when he'd murdered his mother.

He reached into the bottom of the boat and from the mess of Clorox-bottle boat bailers, bits of bait, hooks, and line, he moved a large rock tied to a long line closer to his feet.

Faith was going to “drown.” He started toward her, an oar raised over his head. At least he was doing her the kindness of knocking her out before he tied her to his anchor and cast her overboard. There was only one thing to do. Throwing all her weight to one side of the boat, she dove into the water. It was so cold, she thought she would die. Wanted to die. Every inch of her body ached with pain. The water closed over her head and she started sinking. She shut her eyes and let her body plummet. Somewhere in her numbed brain, she heard Pix's exhortation: “Swim like hell; get your blood going. You'll be warm as toast.” She opened her eyes and looked up at the daylight filtering through the water, then began kicking frantically, using her arms as a kind of piston to get back to the surface. She crashed through and breathed through her nose, coughing into the gag as the salt water seeped into the cloth. A very distant cousin to a sense of warmth and well-being took over; she was alive.

She could hear Kenny shouting behind her. She was about to dive down again, out of his sight, when she realized he was in the water, too. He'd
been standing when she leapt out, and the movement must have sent him over the other side. He was flailing madly, begging her for help.

“I can't swim! I can't swim! Push the boat this way, Mrs. Fairchild! I promise I won't hurt you!”

The boat had been quickly carried by the waves out of his reach and toward Faith.

Faith stopped trying to make any progress away from him and attempted to get to the boat, but it was moving too fast. She didn't know how she could hold on to it even if she did reach it, so she concentrated instead on treading water. The gag loosened and fell off. Kenny's cries continued. She shut her eyes and wished she could put her hands over her ears. He didn't last long.

Mrs. Earl Dickinson had floated out of the Congregational church, the perfect image of love's sweet dream, in a cloud of tulle. She and her groom were gently pelted with rice, followed by their young attendants, who had all marched straight up the aisle without parental assistance. After storm clouds in the morning and a few drops of rain, it was now glorious—a perfect Maine day.

George and Lydia Johnson, old friends of Jill's parents, had offered their large home in a spectacular South Beach site to the young couple for the reception. Wedding guests were consuming the hors d'oeuvres and champagne, happily crowded on the deck, enjoying the view.

Bubbly in hand, Faith walked to the railing, where she was immediately joined by Pix, who had scarcely let her out of sight since she'd ar
rived on Thursday and heard about Faith's first—and last, she averred—swim in Penobscot Bay.

“This is an incredible house,” Faith said, looking down at the rock-strewn beach far below and out across the water to Mount Desert Island rising majestically from the sea many miles to the north.

“Perfect for a party,” Pix agreed. “It was built in the sixties by an architect who did several houses in the area—Scott Day. This is my favorite. The Johnsons commissioned him and got exactly what they wanted. You know there's no electricity in this section?”

Faith did know and wondered what the allure was. It had some sort of cachet on Sanpere—look at Linda—that escaped her. The Johnsons had a generator and solar panels for this, the main house, succumbing to conventional electricity, wires and all, for the guest houses and her studio. She was a potter.

“Jill looks radiant, as well she should,” Pix continued.

“And Earl looks stunned.” Faith laughed. “I think he can't believe he finally got her to say ‘I do.'”

“Are you sure you're not getting tired?” Pix asked anxiously.

“Yes, Mother, I'm sure,” Faith replied emphatically. It was nice to be cosseted, but a little was starting to go a long way.

She had suffered no ill effects from her plunge into the Gulf of Maine. Soon all kinds of boats
had begun passing and she had been able to hail a small speedboat with the improbable name
The Bronx
on its stern. The skipper promptly got in touch with the Coast Guard, and the police were waiting at the Granville wharf, along with Tom, Ursula, and just about everyone else on the island. Kenny's body washed up on Great Spruce Head Island several days later.

It was over.

“Samantha looks beautiful. All your kids look great, but Samantha seems to have changed the most this year,” Faith said.

The Millers' daughter had just finished her sophomore year at Wellesley. Tanned and fit from the “Westward ho” trek, she was wearing a long, simple buttercup yellow silk slip dress.

“Sam's still not used to his little girl as a young woman. As we were leaving for the church, he pulled me aside and asked if that was all she was going to wear. ‘Doesn't it have something that goes on top?'” she said, mimicking him.

“Tom will be exactly the same,” Faith said. “He was at the high school last spring for something and came home wondering how the guys ever got any work done or could pay attention in class with all that female flesh exposed. I told him they were used to it and he told me I was nuts.”

Faith was looking beautiful herself in a soft green Prada sheath, her hair loose. The sun had lightened her hair to a very agreeable shade—somewhere between hollandaise and lemon curd. She'd bought the dress for the wedding the last
time she'd been home—in the city, that is. It had been a gift from her grandmother, and Faith was extremely happy she'd gotten the chance to wear it. There had been moments on Saturday when she'd had her doubts.

Tom was talking to the Osborns inside the house. She could see them through the two-story glass windows, angled together like the prow of a ship. They formed the front of the house, which was really one very large open space, with a fully equipped kitchen at the opposite end from the dramatic windows. Honed black granite counters had been cleared for the trays of hors d'oeuvres, and the rest of the space was taken up by round tables, set for dinner. After dinner, they'd be removed and the same swing band that had played the night of the Fish 'n' Fritter Fry would play for an evening of dancing. The late-afternoon sun eliminated the need for illumination, but Faith had noted the rows of votive candles and oil lamps on narrow shelves on the walls and along the windowsills. The generator was for the kitchen appliances, the pump—and, tonight, the band.

“I said that the play was fantastic,” Pix said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing much—this place, getting some more champagne, eating another of those smoked trout and endive spears. But yes, the play has taken the island by storm. They've sold standing-room tickets tonight, because so many people were disappointed that they weren't going to get to see it.”

They moved inside, joining Tom and the Osborns. They were talking about the play, too.

“I'm so glad it…well, um, worked out, so Linda could take a bow, so to speak.” For once, Don was at a loss for words.

Linda Forsythe had been released immediately on Saturday, and the first thing she did was drive straight over to the Fairchilds' and throw herself into Faith's arms—or rather, across the bottom of Faith's bed, where Faith had been lying, insisting she was fine, really fine, then falling asleep again. Linda had returned on Sunday with a package. Faith, who had graduated to a chaise on the deck, had greeted her warmly.

“I don't know how I can ever thank you,” Linda had said. “But that night when you came to dinner, I kind of thought you liked this.”

When Faith had removed the brown paper from what was obviously a painting, she saw that it wasn't just a painting, but the painting she had indeed wanted—wanted very much. It had reminded her of Gauguin, yet the subject matter was far from Tahiti—pines, rocks, the purple shadows of sunset. She'd been overwhelmed, and very happy to have it.

The shadows were lengthening here at the nuptial feast, too, and everyone was peering at the place cards.

“I'll find out where we are, honey,” Tom offered. Don Osborn hastily told his wife the same thing.

It was the opportunity Faith had been waiting
for. There weren't many loose ends, but there was one that was bothering her the way a sore in your mouth does. Try as you might, you can't keep your tongue from straying to it to see if it still hurts, and it always does.

Terri looked Faith straight in the eye and snagged two more flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. “Let's go out on the deck.”

The air was cool but not cold, and welcome after the body heat inside. Family and friends had added up to an extensive guest list.

“You probably thought it was us—or one of us, right? You don't have to answer. I would have thought so, too. We have been a little crazy since we heard about what Harold was going to do with Butler's Point. We'd have bought it, but things change so slowly here that it never occurred to us that it would all be sold—and developed.”

Faith nodded. “I guess that was true at one time. People held on to what they had, but it's not true now. Not with the kind of prices off-islanders are willing to pay to get deep water and a view.”

“They were friends growing up, you know. Harold and Don. Summer boys. Pretty wild, from what I understand.”

Faith couldn't think of anything appropriate to say.

Terri kept talking. Champagne didn't involve cruelty to anything but grapes, and Mrs. Osborn had clearly taken advantage of the fact. “Don and Persis had a fling. I know all about it. On and off
for a while, but it ended when he went to college. When we came here to live, there were a lot of rumors that Don was Kenny's father. Persis made it worse by totally snubbing Don, acting as if he'd jilted her, left her with a kid to raise alone. But it wasn't Don. He told me it wasn't, and I believed—believe—him. Not just that.” She smiled a little wickedly. “The timing was wrong. Don was an exchange student in Portugal one summer—
the
summer. I checked Kenny's birth date, and unless Persis belonged in the
Guinness Book of World Records
for shortest or longest pregnancy, it would have been impossible.”

“What about Harold?” This was the end Faith was trying to tie up—Kenny's father. Persis had wanted Harold out of the way, and she was abusive enough to tell Kenny a lie later just to torment him.

“Don and Harold only fell out when Harold started buying and selling land. Before that, we saw a lot of him, and he told Don that Kenny wasn't his. There was someone else Persis had met up in Northeast Harbor that summer. Very wealthy. A Rockefeller type. Harold said most of the summer, Persis wouldn't give him the time of day; she was always going up to see the other boy. Persis liked money, even then, and she wanted off the island. Don was going off to college, and Harold…well, Harold was a hippie—not much cash.”

“What's going to happen with KSS?” Faith asked.

Terri gulped down the rest of her drink. “We'll never give up, but we are renaming ourselves, and Don is going to run for the Planning Board. The only way to stop this sprawl is through zoning—and educating the people who live here.”

With her flowing fuchsia print, beads, and hoop earrings, Terri looked an improbable Boadicea. Faith wasn't sure the people who lived here needed the kind of education Terri was talking about, but dinner was being served, and it wouldn't do any good to try to argue with the woman anyway.

“What are you going to do with the land? Give it to the Island Trust?” Faith asked idly as they went back inside.

“Heavens no! We're going to develop it ourselves. Fewer houses, of course. Very tasteful, hidden from sight, and no pools, or tennis courts. Like this one. You can't see it from the water, because of the way they left the trees. You don't have to stick a house out in the open to take advantage of all this.” She waved toward the water and islands fast disappearing into the dusk.

An environmentally friendly Sanpere Shores. They'll make a bundle, Faith thought ruefully. She hoped Linda would get to keep her little slice. And as for Victoria Viceroy Hapswell—they'd tie her up in so many delays for permits if Don got on the Planning Board that she might as well give in now. Perversely, Faith hoped she wouldn't.

Living on Sanpere was as complicated as living anywhere else, despite the claims of the Depart
ment of Tourism brochures. Up and down the coast, the same thing was happening. Communities that had been relatively static for a long period of time were experiencing sudden seismic change. So what to do? Tom, Ursula, Arnie and Claire, Sam and Pix, Nan and Freeman were all waiting at one of the tables, waving at her. For the moment anyway, she'd go with the flow—and did.

 

Faith couldn't believe she was on Sanpere. It was ten o'clock and the party was still going strong. Earl had to be at work the next afternoon—they'd wanted a winter honeymoon anyway—and the newlyweds seemed as loath as anyone else to call it a night. Perhaps because it was such a magical night. The moon was almost full—full enough for Faith to comment on it and be corrected by all the Millers and Ursula in unison. The candles and lamps had been lighted, sending a soft warm glow over the dancers. Faith understood why they had opted for them instead of lightbulbs. The soaring cathedral ceiling was in darkness and the walls shimmered. She wasn't tempted to cancel their account with Bangor Hydro, yet the lack of electricity suited this place, giving it a timeless quality. The Johnsons were dancing together, steps smoothly synchronized, as were many other couples, joyously dipping and swirling to the familiar beat of Ellington's “Take the ‘A' Train.” Faith was dancing with Arnie. The swing dance classes he'd been taking with Claire had
paid off, and Faith was having a great time. The man could dance.

“Did Ursula tell you our news?” he asked.

“I don't think so. What news would this be?” Faith asked.

“We've made Hapswell's widow an offer for the lighthouse and she's accepted.”

“That's wonderful!” Faith was thrilled for them, and she knew that under the Rowes' ownership, the lighthouse would go back to what it had always been, a beacon from the past, an intrinsic part of the landscape.

“The best part of all is that it isn't going to cost us much.”

“What? I can't believe she'd let it go for anything under market value, and you know what that is these days, just for the location alone.”

Arnie chuckled. “I made sure the purchase and sale included the contents. She had no objections, and apparently her lawyer is as eager as she is to make a killing quickly. Oops. Sorry, Faith.”

“Don't worry. I've been saying the same sort of thing myself. But stop being so mysterious and tell me what you did.” Arnie was always very clever when it came to making a profit. Pix had all sorts of tales of lemonade-stand entrepreneurship in their youth.

“The lens. The original Fresnel lens. It's worth a fortune and we're selling it to a maritime museum. A win-win situation.”

That's exactly what it was. “Promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” he said, pulling her back after a very smoothly executed step.

“I never made it to the top.” She shuddered slightly. “I'd like to see it in place before you have it removed.”

“Done. Just let me know when you want to come over. We'll have a party. Make an occasion of it. Mother will like that.”

Looking over his shoulder, Faith saw the side door burst open. Roland and some of the cast appeared, flushed with success. They poured into the room, and Roland, wearing a scarlet-lined cape and top hat, strode over to the band. He waited until the number ended, then grabbed a glass, tapping it with the bandleader's baton.