“Not real y. Besides, she and Fred aren't married. She is al owed to go places without him." Samantha cut the sarcasm in her voice and admitted to her mother, "It's true, I miss her, but with her job, we wouldn't see each other that much, and she does like to spend time with her boyfriend.
Otherwise, why bother having one?”
Pix decided to change the subject.
“I bought some beautiful quilts this morning antiquing with Jil and Valerie. One is especial y lovely. It's on the couch. Take a break and go look at it."
“You didn't tel me Valerie was going. I thought it was just Jil ! What did she buy?”
Correctly surmising Samantha meant Valerie and not Jil , Pix gave an account of the morning.
“She has got such perfect taste. We should hire her to do our house."
“But our house is done.”
Samantha raised an eyebrow, clearly indicating that a decorating scheme that had evolved simply because that was where things had happened to land did not represent interior design in her opinion.
“How about my room, then? We could send her pictures. I'm sure she'd have some great ideas."
“Some expensive ideas.”
Pix heard it inside her head before it was said: "Oh, Mother!”
Samantha, happy for an excuse to leave the potatoes, went to look at the quilts.
“The one with the triangles is real y beautiful, Mom. We should hang it on a wal here or at home."
“That's what I was thinking." Pix went into the other room and the two of them held the quilt out.
“What's that blue cross on the bottom?" Samantha moved her thumb to indicate the threads.
“I have no idea," Pix replied truthful y, but something in her voice betrayed her.
Samantha looked her straight in the eye—and where she had picked up this trick, Pix didn't like to think. "Come on, Mom. What aren't you tel ing me? You are such a bad liar."
“And you're a good one?"
“Don't try to change the subject”
Pix realized that the proximity in which they were spending the summer would make keeping secrets difficult.
"I don't know what it means. Probably nothing. It's just that there was a cross like this one on the quilt out on the Point, too."
“Nothing! It could be a major clue!" Samantha was excited, yet after they discussed it some more while finishing the chowder preparations, both women were forced to agree that if it was a clue, they were without one.
The chowder was simmering and Samantha had gone off to the dance at the Legion Hal . It was an island institution, a mixture of ages, groups, and most especial y music—everything from "Like a Virgin" to the Virginia reel, with a stop at "a one and a two and a three" in between.
She'd cal ed Faith, who had then cal ed back to say she'd located the book and placed it in Sam's car just before he left. That was at six o'clock. He'd arrive, like Samantha, before midnight. Pix told Faith about the discovery of the quilt and the second mark.
“Perhaps both quilts belonged to the same family,"
Faith suggested.
“Sul ivan!" Pix was annoyed she hadn't made the connection before. "The man said the linens had come from Sul ivan and that was where Mitch was living before he was kil ed."
“It does seem like more than a coincidence. What you need to do is figure out if your quilt is authentic and talk to Earl.”
Pix was tempted to say she'd already planned this very course of action, but instead she thanked Faith for getting the book and told her she'd be in touch soon.
“I know," her friend said before she hung up.
Pix never minded being in the cottage alone. It was so familiar and felt so safe that she thought of it as a kind of shel . Now she curled up inside, actual y in one of the big overstuffed armchairs in the living room, with a mug of Sleepy time tea and the latest issue of Quilter's Newsletter Magazine.
The first car door slam was her husband's. She'd dozed off but awoke instantly at the welcome sound and was at the door. He dropped his suitcase and held her tightly.
“I wish I could have come up right away. It has to have been a hel ish time for you both.”
After a moment, she leaned away and told him, "It honestly hasn't been too bad. Everyone is more puzzled than alarmed, and it's easier because none of us was real y very close to Mitch."
“He was an interesting son of a gun, though.
Remember the night he came and played the mandolin at the Hamiltons and he and Freeman got to trading stories. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life."
“That was a great night." It had been many years ago, before Danny was born. That reminded her. "Did you stop at Chewonki and see Danny?"
“No, I did not." Seeing the look on her face, Sam took both his wife's hands. "First off, it was late and I would have interrupted the evening program, thereby embarrassing him for the remainder of his summer, and second, he likes, even loves, his old man, but at home. Chewonki is his turf, a parent-free zone for Danny. Don't worry, sweetheart, he'l be back before you know it and expecting you to do everything for him just as usual." It was not entirely a frivolous observation and they'd had this conversation before—many times before, inserting Mark or Samantha for Danny.
“Are you hungry?" Pix asked, hoping Sam would want only a drink and maybe some crackers and cheese. She had some of the chutney spread stil left from Friday's Sewing Circle.
Sam saw the look on her face. He had not stopped to eat, but he couldn't do it to her.
“Not very, how about a drink and maybe a few crackers or whatever you have around.”
Pix beamed. Why wouldn't Jil —or Earl—want to get married?
In bed, Pix found having someone to keep her company while she listened for Samantha to come home did a great deal to diminish the anxiety. Also, they were busy tel ing each other al the things that had happened in their respective worlds since they'd last been together.
Atypical y, more had been going on in Pix's than Sam's.
He did not seem to think the quilt marks meant much.
"It was probably a common way to mark where something else was going to go—the name and date, as you suggested. Or maybe it was part of the basting that didn't get removed." Sam had watched his wife complete several quilts and was quite knowledgeable about how they went together. Sam was the type of man who liked to know the way things worked. This had led him to medical school, but the discovery that he fainted with great regularity at the sight of an abundance of blood curtailed his career, although not his interest. He stil read The New England Journal of Medicine and the Harvard Health Newsletter in between briefs.
Slam—music to the ears of parents of teenagers, just as the cessation of noise was for the parents of toddlers.
Samantha was home safe and sound.
Pix reached up to turn out the light.
“No, I want to say hel o. I'l be right back" Sam threw on his robe, a wel -worn Black Watch plaid flannel one he kept hanging on the back of the door, and went downstairs. He had missed his daughter and wanted to tel her so. He also wanted to tel her that a quarter after midnight was the thin end of the wedge on a twelve o'clock curfew. Pix had enough to cope with this summer without Samantha's coming in just a little bit later every Saturday night.
The weather continued unbroken and the Mil ers awoke to gorgeous blue skies and almost balmy weather.
Too balmy, Pix thought as she got dressed. It wasn't supposed to be this hot on the coast of Maine.
Sam was already gone, having offered as usual to help El iot get the clambake ready, no smal task and one Pix suspected the men relished for its complexity and the opportunity to dig in the sand. After constructing a pit unpleasantly reminiscent of what she and Samantha had stumbled across the previous week, they would line it with rocks and pile driftwood, plus anything else that would burn
—charcoal if there wasn't enough wood—on top. The fire had to heat the rocks for at least five hours. Otherwise, when they
threw the wet seaweed on, there wouldn't be enough steam to cook the lobsters, clams, corn, chicken, and sausage that would be layered on top. The Fraziers'
clambake was famous for its authenticity and had become a Fourth of July tradition. They always seemed to be able to find room for more guests and it had grown each year from humble beginnings to the kind of quintessential red-white-and blue photo opportunity that politicians running for office dream about.
Pix and Samantha were going to church. After last Sunday, Pix was not about to skip it, even though she relished the clambake preparations as much as her husband did. She was not a superstitious person, yet something told her she'd enjoy the day a whole lot more if she'd bent a knee in a pew rather than hauling rocks.
Sam returned before they left. He wanted to get more wood from their cove.
“We'l be back at noon to change," Pix told him, "and then I promised Louise I'd help her bring things to the beach, so I'l see you there." She kissed her husband goodbye. He returned it somewhat absentmindedly and she knew his thoughts were on hot rocks and rockweed, the
"snap, crackle, and pop" seaweed, the kids cal ed it, because of the sound it made beneath your toes and when squeezed between your fingers.
“I'l get rid of this load of wood, then change cars with you, so take both sets of keys." It wasn't that he didn't like her driving his Porsche—he al owed it because he knew he should. It was that he didn't want coleslaw, chowder, and whatever else was going to the clambake to be stowed on his particular leather-covered backseats.
“Don't worry, Daddy, we'l take good care of your baby," Samantha teased him. "Can I drive?"
“Don't even joke," her father replied.
Pix enjoyed the short trip across the island to the smal white clapboard church where they worshiped. It was nice to drive a sleek, jazzy machine that sped forward instantly at the slightest pressure on the gas. Maybe she should trade her Land Rover in. It was such a symbol—Pix, the trucker, the transporter of men, women, children, animals, and al their worldly possessions. It would certainly be nice to have an excuse: "Sorry, I can't pick up twenty watermelons for the school picnic. They won't fit in the car,"
and so on.
“Mom, what are you thinking about? You have the funniest expression on your face."
“Do I? I was thinking maybe I ought to get a new car, something smal er.”
Samantha shook her head. "Your car is always loaded now. If it was any smal er, you'd have to get a trailer. Make Daddy let you drive his more. I wish I could. It must be a blast," she added longingly.
They stopped outside the church and hurried in, sliding next to Ursula just as the bel in the steeple began to tol .
“Such a perfect day for the clambake," Ursula whispered. "I figured Sam would be with El iot, but I was beginning to wonder where you two were.”
At one o'clock, Pix was helping Louise set up. Sam had started a smal er fire, let it burn down, and placed a gril on top for the huge pot of chowder Pix had made. They lugged it over and gingerly set it in place. Sam took off the cover and inhaled. "Sweeter than al the perfumes of Araby.
I believe this is going to be the best ever. Why don't I get a cup and give it a try?"
“You say the same thing every year!"
“That's not true. I don't remember ever comparing your chowder to perfume before."
“Possibly, but the rest. Anyway, by al means get a cup.
You know me—a bottomless sink for reassurance when it comes to cooking.”
Sam got a cup and ladled some out. He took a heaping spoonful. "It's ... wel , how can I describe it?”
“Good or bad?"
“Superlative.”
Pix heaved a sigh of relief. He always said superlative, too, but it was comforting to hear. The perfume simile was new, though: "Al the perfumes of Araby" Wasn't it
"Arabia"? Macbeth. Lady Macbeth scrubbing at her hands.
She wished he'd picked something else.
It was impossible to forget that only a week ago on such a day as this, a corpse had turned up. As people began to arrive, struggling with food, sports equipment, and smal children, she wondered whether the guilty one walked among them. She had to put it out of her head. Sonny Prescott had provided the most logical answer. Mitch had gotten in with the wrong business partners.
“Pix, Pix, could you help set these out?" Louise always became mildly flustered at the start of the clambake. She was nervous that the food wouldn't cook until it was too dark to eat, although the rare years when El iot had miscalculated and they did eat late, nobody had minded a bit. Eyeing what Louise had provided and others were bringing, Pix thought the problem would be finding room to eat anything else ·when the tarp was taken off and the fragrant layers of food exposed.
“There's enough to feed an army here!" she said, gesturing to the tables they'd constructed from planks and sawhorses, then covered with red-checked oilcloth.
“Good," a voice behind her commented, reaching for a deviled egg—Louise's great-aunt Lily Sue's prized recipe.
It was Earl, and Jil was by his side, Pix noted happily.
They were carrying paper plates, napkins, and other necessary objects. For the next hour, Pix was busy ladling out her chowder, which was disappearing fast. The party was in ful swing. The vol eybal net had been set up and there was a ferocious game of over forties versus unders going on. The younger children were exploring the shore, climbing over the rocks, oblivious of the sharp barnacles and other hazards that threatened their bare feet.
Samantha and some of her friends were with them. Arlene and her boyfriend had put in an appearance, politely tasted the chowder, then left for the Prescott clambake. There were time-honored functions occurring al over the island and the problem was not having enough time, or room in one's stomach, to visit them al .
The actual day of the Fourth was so crammed ful of activities that years ago, islanders had started celebrating early with their family picnics, usual y clambakes.
Seth Marshal had also dropped by with his parents.
He didn't partake of any of Pix's chowder. Maybe he was saving room for the next clambake. And maybe he was avoiding her. The crime site was stil sealed off by the police, so this was unlikely. But when she waved him over to ask him how quickly he could start once the police gave the word, he was so engrossed in conversation with Jil that he appeared not to see Pix's gestures. Overseeing the Fairchilds' cottage could be more work than she had envisioned. The first, almost overwhelming task was proving to be getting it started.
Pix reached up to mop her brow. Her T-shirt was beginning to stick to her back. It was getting unpleasantly hot, especial y standing over the chowder. She was glad she'd worn her bathing suit under her clothes. The cove was on deep water, which explained why the yacht club had selected the spot roughly eighty years ago—a yacht club that consisted of a venerable equipment shack, some moorings, and a few life buoys with SANPERE YACHT
CLUB stenciled on them. Some people were already in the water, and Pix was amused to see friends who expressed amazement at the Mil ers' tolerance, even enjoyment, of the cold temperature, bobbing about and cal ing others to join them.
The Athertons had arrived laden with pies and Valerie and Jim promptly joined the vol eybal game—on opposite sides of the net, Pix noted. She glanced around. Duncan, who she recognized from Samantha's description, was at the other end of the beach. It was hard to see him. He was sitting high up on a granite ledge at the point where it met the woods. His somber attire blended into the shadows of the trees. A figure of melancholy, a figure of gloom. Of doom? A mouse kil er. Pix firmly shoved back al the morbid thoughts that persisted in crowding into her conscious mind and joined the vol eybal game—on the over-forty side. Away from the chowder fire, she felt ten degrees cooler, and giving a good hard thwack to the vol eybal felt terrific.
During a break, Sam brought her a cold beer. "Who's that guy with the Bainbridges?”
Pix turned to look. Adelaide was set
tled into a monstrous lawn chair with al sorts of cushions, rugs, and satchels strewn about her. Rebecca was pressing sun-block on her. "You know how you burn, Addie."
“Oh, can't you let a body be? I'm fine. You'd think I was a two-year-old." This last comment was made to the man Sam had wondered about.
“I think he's staying at their bed-and-breakfast. I've seen him in the post office. But it would be odd for them to bring one of their guests to the Fraziers' clambake. I'l ask Louise.”
Pix walked over to her hostess, keeping the unknown visitor in view. He was very slim, attractive, with dark closely cropped curls and a smal neatly trimmed beard but no mustache. His clothes were appropriate and looked expensive. His jeans were pressed. Faith would be able to tel the brands and how much he'd paid instantly, but al Pix could determine was that his shirt might be silk. He'd knotted a raspberry-colored cotton sweater about his neck and there wasn't a drop of perspiration evident anywhere on his body. Pix's own damp hair told her what she looked like. After her swim, she'd get the fresh shirt she'd left in the car and put it on. Looking at this guy was having this kind of effect on her. He was tan and the only jewelry he wore was a watch. Maybe if she got closer, she could see what kind.
Faith always said that you could tel almost everything about a person by his or her watch and shoes. Pix looked down.
He was barefoot. Her own feet were clad in serviceable white Keds.
Louise was drinking a glass of white wine, not a good sign. "I don't know when we'l be ready to eat," she announced. "I've decided not to let it bother me, though."
Her tone belied her words.
“Good, you shouldn't worry about a thing," Pix reassured her emphatical y. "Everyone is having a marvelous time. And besides, what have we been doing since we got here? No one would leave hungry, even without the lobsters and clams. But they'l be ready soon, so we won't have to find out."
“You're right. Some years it just takes longer than others." She put down her glass and picked up one of Aunt Lily Sue's eggs from a careful y shaded area on the table.
The Body In The Basement ff-6 Page 10
