The Body in the Lighthouse (8 page)

“There isn't any. Oh, she has nieces and nephews. Then there's Freeman and Nan. But Helen never married. She told me once that she was too particular in the beginning; then she got so she liked it. She worked in the cannery for years, and when it closed, she was happy to stay home and tend to her garden. She'd put enough by to get along…. I must get dressed now. Look at the time!”

Faith looked up. It was a little before seven o'clock.

“I'm glad you're here, Faith. Having you, Tom, and the children is nice company for me. I don't know why this is hitting me so hard. At my age, you'd think I'd be used to losing people, but you never do and these last months have been especially bad ones on the island. I can't remember so many going so close together.”

Faith mechanically took eggs and butter from the fridge. She started to cut some thick slices of bread. She'd make French toast. Tom had slept in, and it was his favorite.

“So many going so close together,” Ursula had said. So many deaths. Older people, yes, but death was death, and Faith hoped there wouldn't be any more for a long, long time.

“It's the dog days.” Freeman Marshall was wearing a suit and sweating profusely. He took out a large bandanna handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Well, let's go in and see Helen off.”

“Freeman,” his wife chided him. “What a way to speak, and why ever did you bring one of your work kerchiefs when you have a drawer full of perfectly good white ones?”

“The Lord is mighty pleased to have such good company as Helen always was, and neither of them is commenting on the color of my pocket handkerchief right now.” Freeman stepped aside to let Ursula, Faith, and his wife precede him through the door leading into the small church. With the large turnout, it was hotter inside than it was outside. A ceiling fan was valiantly moving the steamy air around. Ursula reached into her pocketbook and took out three folded paper fans,
handing one to Faith and another to Nan. Feeling like Yum-Yum, Faith was once again impressed by the older woman's resourcefulness.

The Italians who had come to work in the quarries so many years before had brought their religion with them, and after much intermarriage, the congregation of St. Erasmus, named for the patron saint of sailors, had more Marshalls, Prescotts, and Hamiltons than it did the original Espositos, Toccis, and Romanos. The quarries had also supplied the material for the building, and for the simple altar, the baptismal font, and the pulpit. Today, two stiff arrangements of gladioli had been carefully placed on either side of the cross. Below, there was a large wreath of white carnations—“From your family” was inscribed in gold script on a deep purple ribbon. More gladioli, an abundant sheaf, lay on top of the casket.

“Funeral flowers,” whispered Ursula. “I've told Pix. No gladioli, no mums. You be sure she remembers.”

Faith nodded as the priest began to speak. She'd told Tom much the same thing, adding white calla lilies. They were all right for weddings, but too sad for funerals.

It was a sweet service. A few tears were shed when one of Helen's nephews read the Twenty-third Psalm, but whatever other grief was felt was kept hidden. This wasn't the death of a young person or the result of an untimely accident or illness. Helen had lived a good and happy life.
Faith wished they could have gathered whatever was in bloom in Helen's garden and filled the church with the flowers she loved, although, now that Faith thought about it, Helen
had
gone in for glads.

The graveside service was in the same cemetery where Ursula's husband was buried. After they had laid Helen to rest, Faith and Ursula went to Arnold Rowe's grave.

“It doesn't seem long ago at all, yet it's more than twenty years. He would have enjoyed Pix's children so much, and they him. It doesn't seem fair.” Ursula smiled ruefully. “How many times has God heard that, do you suppose? Fair or not, it wasn't God's work. To paraphrase William Sloane Coffin, God's was the first heart to break.”

Faith felt tears start. She'd heard Coffin's words before, spoken after his son's accidental death. He'd been responding to the inevitable question, “How could God do this?” The answer was that God didn't. But she still choked up at the thought of Ursula's husband, Pix's father, who had suddenly dropped dead one sunny autumn day, a massive stroke, after never having been sick a day in his life. Would it have been better if he had been? Her thoughts rambled. People always said this in sorrow, suggesting a little warning in the form of chronic illness would have helped. Which was, of course, absurd. Death was death, no matter what the prelude.

The cemetery was the oldest on the island, and some of the headstones were indecipherable
under the lichens that had grown over names, dates, and the pithy epitaphs so beloved of New Englanders: “As you are now, so once was I” and, even more to the point, “I was drowned, alas! in the deep, deep seases./The blessed Lord does as he pleases.” Some stones had been cleaned, and their white marble stood out against the blanket of moss and grass, crooked teeth compared to the upright, newer granite stones. Ursula's grandparents and parents were here, a sister, and many more from the Lyman clan. Ursula would be here, too—and Pix, her husband, her children, and so on. Faith felt a deep longing for this kind of rootedness. She wondered if there were any plots left.

As if in answer to her unspoken thoughts, Ursula pointed down the row and said, “A nice plot has come up. An end one, so you won't feel hemmed in. I've often wished Grandfather had purchased one on the end, although I'm very partial to the stand of birch that has grown up here.” She motioned toward the trees at the side of the plot; they had sprung from seedlings dropped by gulls or other birds. Ferns grew in lush abundance beneath their branches, spreading out at the foot of the trees. Despite the dry weather and the heat—the dog days—the shaded cemetery was green and cool.

“You girls coming back to the house?” Freeman called. He was standing in another part of the Marshall plot, away from the mound of fresh earth that covered Helen's grave. Freeman was
busy clearing dirt from the incised letters on his mother's headstone with his knife. It was just like Romeo's dagger, and Faith realized a truce had been called for the funeral. There were plenty of representatives from both warring families, Prescotts and Hamiltons kneeling side by side in the church.

“Do you want to go?” Faith asked Ursula. She was worried that the older woman might be tired out from the heat and the emotion of the day, but Ursula had every intention of seeing it through.

“Certainly we'll go. We should pay our respects. See you there,” she said, raising her voice so Freeman would hear. He nodded and waited for them, helping Ursula into Faith's car. Faith was skipping a rehearsal to accompany Ursula, who'd asked that she come with her. Ursula so seldom asked for anything that Faith was glad to do it. Besides, she'd liked Helen, though she hadn't known the woman well, and wanted to say good-bye herself.

Family and friends were gathered at Helen's little house. Jackets and ties were shed and the food was set up in the yard to take advantage of the breeze. Helen had an ideal spot overlooking the thoroughfare, and one of her delights had been to watch the activity on the water, often using the brass spyglass that had belonged to her father, a member on two of the all-Sanpere crews that had defended the America's Cup in the late 1800s.

“Got us an offer already. Gorry, I would never have believed it! Aunt Helen was sitting on a gold
mine all these years,” said a man as he helped himself to punch.

Faith tuned in.

“Persis always does the best. Had a buyer up her sleeve the whole time, I bet,” his companion agreed. “Maybe we can all go in on a time-share or something in Florida. I would dearly love to get away from this island in the winter.”

“Keep your voice down, Sally. The will hasn't even been read yet.”

“We know she left everything to her nieces and nephews! Probably a little to the library and the Garden Club, but Aunt Helen knew what was right.”

The man nodded. Faith was pretending to be very interested in the delphinium just beyond their sight. How could Persis have sold the house if the will hadn't been read yet? Persis had been at the funeral; Kenny, too. She'd been discharged from the hospital on Saturday morning and aside from looking a bit paler than usual—Faith suspected no makeup—Persis looked fine. Helen must have been related to them, as well, or perhaps, since Persis was so involved in the community, she went to every funeral, like a mayoress.

“Sad to think we'll never have any more picnics on this pretty beach,” Sally said. “I remember coming here when I was just a little kid, and you practically grew up on it, you old cuss.” She gave the man, who Faith assumed must be her husband, a pat on the shoulder.

“It'll be off-limits to us, that's for sure. We might break a shell or disturb the seaweed. In a way, I wish we could keep the place….”

Sally looked startled. “Now, Norman, how could we all share it? We'd have to rent it out, which is the same as selling. And what about Florida?”

Persis had reached the table and cut a large slice of devil's food cake. Kenny was behind her, perhaps enjoying the respite from the sun that her large shadow afforded—or perhaps because that's where he always was.

“Florida? You wouldn't want to be there now. Bugs as big as my fist, and so hot, the clothes drip off you. All of them want to be here.” She laughed.

“Helen was very grateful for your help, Kenny,” Norman said. “She could never have managed the garden without you. I believe you must have been one of the last to see her before she passed—when you came to water it. Sally saw your truck.”

Faith was not surprised to see Kenny turn scarlet. Nightclothes, gardens, whatever—it was his first reaction.

“Didn't have anything better to do,” his mother boomed. “Why shouldn't he help out? Could do a whole lot more, if you ask me, 'stead of going off in his skiff all the time. Taking up room at the Rowes' dock right now, and do I ever see any of those mackerel he's supposed to be catching?”

Kenny mumbled something that sounded like
“I'll get you some tonight, Mumma.” He slunk off toward the driveway, where a group was smoking in silence, taking in the view, and getting rid of a few beers.

Ursula came looking for Faith.

“I think we should go. You'll want to pick up the children on the way home.”

“Tom said he would, but I'll call him and tell him not to bother. Do you think it would be all right for me to use the phone?”

“Of course. It's in the kitchen. Just go in through the back door.”

Helen's house was as tidy as her garden. Nan was cutting brownies and putting what she called her “Comfort Cookies” (see recipe on Blueberry Muffins) on a large plate.

“I have to call Tom and tell him not to pick up the kids.”

“Go right ahead. And take some of this home with you.” She gestured toward the goodies.

“Thanks, I'll take a few cookies as a treat. Ben and Amy love them—as do the rest of us.” And well they should. Nan had invented them for her grandchildren, to take the hurt out of a skinned knee or bruised feelings. They literally melted in your mouth, walnuts, butterscotch, and chocolate.

Nan looked sad. “I'll miss Helen. She was Freeman's cousin, but we'd been friends since we were girls. I thought she was doing so well. She was sticking to the diet the new doctor gave her and she told me that her last checkup was A-okay.
That's exactly what she said, ‘A-okay.' Guess she couldn't help herself. They found an empty box of jelly doughnuts beside her. Helen always had a sweet tooth, and it looks like it killed her.”

Nan left, and Faith started to follow, after calling Tom.

“Three hundred thousand. That's what I heard.”

“For this tiny place!”

The voices came from the living room.

“Helen Marshall was a rich woman. Too bad she had to die to cash in.”

Too bad for Helen, that is, Faith silently amended as she left the woman's little house with its garden by the shore.

 

Life on Sanpere soon settled into a pleasant routine. No one tampered with any more of the play's props. Opinion was divided between the belief that one of the crew had used the bottle for turpentine and didn't want to own up to the mistake, and a deliberate act by a party unknown. Persis, of course, continued to tell one and all that it was “K-S-S my you-know-what.” Ursula's shock over Helen's death was fading, and KSS was quiescent—if it was KSS that was responsible for the wave of ecoterrorism on the island. Even the Fairchilds' remodeling job was showing noticeable progress. Faith found herself relaxing into the rhythm of the summer. She took the kids to camp, then went into the auditorium to work on the play. Reversing the process, all three went to the house to see what had been done, ending
the day happily at the Pines. Ben was learning an enormous amount of lighthouse lore and Faith was enjoying Ursula's pleasure at the meals she prepared. Although Gert often left something for her employer's dinner, it was plain fare compared with Faith's offerings.

They had been at Ursula's almost a week and yet it seemed as if they had been there forever. Faith would be glad to get into her own house, but in another corner of her heart, she was grateful to the skunks and the builders. She'd never spent this much time with Pix's mother. Ursula was very different from Faith's own mother. Jane Sibley was quite a bit younger than Ursula and still working more than full-time. Although delighted by Ben and Amy, she dealt with her grand-motherly obligations as efficiently as she handled the rest of her life, taking them to the Central Park Zoo or the Museum of Natural History for a well-planned, educational afternoon when they visited. Tom's mother was more like Ursula. Marian Fairchild would play board games with Ben and read to Amy ad infinitum. She was teaching them to identify birds common to New England. Jane Sibley, like her daughter, could only reliably identify pigeons—enough ornithology to know a nuisance when she saw one.

Mulling over these interesting differences, Faith almost collided with Linda Forsythe backstage. The young woman—Faith had learned Linda was the same age as she was, hence “young”—was bubbling over, as usual.

“My goal is to finish the clambake scenery and Main Street by tomorrow,” she said enthusiastically. “Then we only have to do the tomb, inside and out, plus Juliet's bedchamber. I'm thinking a trailer, with her room open to the stage.”

“What would you use for a balcony?” Faith asked, wondering also if a trailer might not be an affront to some of the islanders. There were trailers and then there were trailers. Juliet's family would have had the top of the line, but Linda might be picturing something out of
The Beans of Egypt Maine
instead. Faith liked Linda, although the occasional ditziness that resulted from the combination of cheerleader and aging hippie could be annoying. While she talked as if she should have a megaphone in one hand and pompoms in the other, Linda wore the shapeless Indian-print bedspread shifts and masses of beads so beloved of yore. Faith still didn't know much about her beyond this; they hadn't had much time to talk except about the production. There was so much to do and they were indeed shorthanded.