The Body In The Basement ff-6

by Katherine Hall Page

  “It's pretty easy to spot some of the reproduction quilts, even if they are made by hand, because the stitching is uneven and there are fewer stitches to the inch. Handmade quilts, like the one I got in Pennsylvania last year, have ten to twelve stitches."

  “What about this one? How many does it have?"

  “Ten in most places, more in a few others"

  “But it could stil be a new one made to look old."

  “Yes, and that's what I have to do now—figure out for sure if it's a fake. Then I can tel Earl to have an expert look at the one the police have. I also thought I might do some more antiquing and see if I turn up any more marked quilts."

  “So what else is going on up there—or should I say down there?”

  Pix had patiently explained to Faith her first summer on the island what Down East meant. The term dated from the days when the coastal towns of Maine were part of an active exchange of goods with the port of Boston. Timber, quarried stone, and of course fish were sold to purchase manufactured goods from Massachusetts. The coast curves eastward as it heads north to Nova Scotia and the first landfal a boat encounters is Maine. The windjammers took advantage of the prevailing westerlies, sailing down-wind—before the wind. Therefore, a boat setting sail from Boston to Bangor was headed down-wind, eventual y shortened to "down east." Pix made Faith learn it until she was letter-perfect, but although she was sure she had the words right, it had never made a whole lot of sense to Faith.

  Up was north and down was south. And Maine was north.

  “The clambake was great, but the weather's been much too hot."

  “It's the same here. Thank goodness this place is air-conditioned. It's a relief to come to work. The parsonage may self-ignite, it's so stuffy—even with fans going. Tom's afraid the window frames are too fragile for an air conditioner, but if the heat keeps' up, I wil personal y pay to have the old ones ripped out and new ones put in, never mind the blasphemy. I know God al ows New Englanders to be very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer because they prefer to suffer in this way, but I'm tired of taking the kids to work or to a movie when I want them to cool off!”

  Pix felt a twinge of guilt. She was on the Parish Buildings and Grounds Committee, which, among other things, saw to the upkeep of the parsonage. No one had ever raised the notion of air conditioning. The Mil ers had never had it, and Faith was no doubt right—some of Pix's fel ow committee members would definitely classify it as wickedly self-indulgent.

  They talked a bit more, then Faith let out a shriek. "Got to go! Amy's at the pies!”

  With a vivid picture of a toddler smeared from head to toe with blueberry pie, gleeful y licking her hands, Pix hung up. She was on her own.

  She spread the quilt out on the floor and opened her book, Clues in the Calico by Barbara Bradman. It had been bedtime reading the last few nights. She leafed through it, then set to work. First, she considered the fabric: lots of smal -figured calicos, some shirting material. The abundance of brown-colored triangles indicated a pre-1900 quilt, a time when this was a very popular color. It wasn't used much again until the 1960s and was stil favored. She took her scissors and turned the quilt over, snipping a piece of thread, then pul ing out a few stitches.

  With a fine needle, she unraveled it and looked at the strands through Samantha's magnifying glass—Six-ply.

  That meant post-1860. She was narrowing the date down.

  Maybe the quilt was genuine after al and she had scored a terrific coup. She teased a bit of the batting from between the top and backing and rubbed the fibers between her fingers.

  Her heart sank. It was very cleverly done. The thick ness of the batting mimicked what would have been used earlier. But they did not have polyester in the late 1800s. It could be an old top newly quilted. With that optimistic thought, she turned the quilt over and spread it out again.

  On hands and knees she looked at each and every triangle and at one fabric design in particular. It appealed to her, as it had when she bought a yard of it herself last year.

  Pix closed the book and careful y folded up her quilt, laying it across the back of the couch. She stroked the fabric. No question, no question at al : The whole thing was as phony as a three-dol ar bil .

  The Mil er family was quiet at dinner that night. Pix had set the table, rather than eat on the deck, in honor of her husband's presence and also as a nod to the gracious living à la Valerie Atherton that Samantha continued to espouse. They had cold blueberry soup, a big salad with fresh crabmeat, rice, sweet red peppers, and plenty of lettuce. There were some of Luel a Prescott's rol s and ice cream for dessert. Nothing was even remotely connected with Pix's having to turn on her stove.

  “This is good, Mom. Did you make it?" Samantha asked, tilting her bowl to get the last of the soup.

  Pix was tempted to reply, "No, the fairies left it on my doorstep," but chagrin at her culinary reputation and the soft glow of the candles she'd put on the table tempered her reply.

  “Yes, I did." She paused. "Faith gave me the recipe.”

  Sam and his daughter both laughed and Sam said,

  "The important thing is that you made it and we're eating it.

  You have many other talents.”

  Which were? Pix waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she got up to get the salad. Samantha fol owed with the soup bowls—the unmatched ones.

  “I was at the Athertons' house today. Jim asked me to take some mail over to Valerie that had come to the camp by mistake. You should see it. It's like something from a magazine”

  Jim and Valerie, it had come to this.

  Oblivious to her mother's lack of interest, Samantha prattled on and on about the house: the two-story fieldstone fireplace—"And Valerie selected every rock herself "—the artwork, the Italian leather couch, apparently large enough to accommodate Michelangelo's David—if he could sit, of course. Pix felt increasingly giddy as she listened to her daughter repeat the tour Valerie Atherton had given her.

  Simpler to put it on video.

  “Salad's ready. Get the plates, wil you?”

  Samantha placed the three plain white ironstone plates on the table. One had a tiny chip.

  “Get another one, Samantha, and put that one aside, please," Pix said grandly. She'd stick it back in the pile when Samantha was otherwise occupied.

  The Fourth of July was supposed to be sunny and it was. The sky was supposed to be blue and it was. The Mil ers were supposed to be sitting on lawn chairs brought from home, waiting for the parade to start at 10:00 A.M., and they were. The only thing that felt odd to Pix was that she didn't have any children to remind not to run into the street or get overheated. Samantha was lined up with the camp at the far end of Main Street, waiting to march, and of course her other two were far, far away. Not even a postcard or a cal yet. Such was a mother's fate.

  Her own mother was on one side, Sam on the other.

  Various friends and relatives of the Bainbridges, as wel as the B and B guests were strung out in a line. Pix waved to El iot Frazier, who was perched with the other judges in chairs set up on the porch roof of the old Masonic Hal . It was the ultimate viewing platform. Louise was down on the ground next to Ursula.

  “I think El iot agrees to judge every year just so he can go up on the roof," Louise said. "The view must be magnificent."

  “Where's Adelaide?" Ursula asked Rebecca, who was coming down the lawn carrying a big pitcher of cold lemonade and some cups. It was already hot and she was greeted enthusiastical y.

  “She'l be along. She's feeling a little poorly this morning. Must be the humidity.”

  Pix didn't wonder Adelaide was suffering. With al the extra weight she carried, this weather must be brutal.

  John Eggleston appeared, chairless, and plopped down at Pix's feet.

  “Am I in your way?"

  “Not at al . It's good to see you.”

  Pix had always liked John, despite his being odd, even for a place that tolerated a wide range of differences
in human nature. It wasn't merely his appearance; his shoulder-length wiry red hair and bushy red beard made him unique, especial y since there was usual y sawdust, and occasional y wood shavings, in both. Nor was it his reluctance to discuss his past life, although Pix knew that as a priest he had served a large church somewhere in the South. She'd also learned something about why he left, but not from him—rather, from Faith. There were lots of people who came to Maine to start fresh, leaving certain doors firmly closed. In his present incarnation as wood sculptor, John's talent was enormous and widely recognized. He received orders for carvings from al over the world and specialized in religious objects. The last time she'd been in his studio, he was working on a huge menorah. "I did not lose my faith," he'd told her once, "just my head.”

  But what made him unusual was his unpredictability.

  You never knew what kind of mood he would be in. Pix had seen towering rage and quiet gentleness. The kids on the island flocked to him for advice and it was only with them that he seemed able to maintain his equilibrium. Pix thought of these younger people as his new parish. Arlene had told the Mil ers many stories about the help John had quietly given to one or another child. Today he seemed mel ow and gave Ursula a big smile. She was a favorite.

  “What's the theme this year?" he asked her.

  “I believe it's storybook characters, but I think it's being interpreted rather loosely in some cases. I know the Fishermen's Wives Association has constructed a lobster boat, and I can't think of a book to go with that.”

  Ursula was managing to look completely cool in a crisp white blouse and navy skirt. She'd tied a red silk scarf around her neck in honor of the day. A sunshade was clipped to the side of her chair and its resemblance to a parasol lent Mrs. Rowe a timeless air.

  “It's a new book, Mother, based on a true story. Two twenty-pound lobsters got caught in a dragger's net and ended up way down in Rhode Island. They were sold to a seafood dealer and eventual y went on display in some fish store in Philadelphia. Somewhere along the line, someone named them Bob and Shirley. Anyway, people got upset seeing them in the tank and wanted the owner to set them free. They were flown back up here and released!”

  Ursula was laughing. "I want to read that book! Of course, if they'd been caught in a trap, they would have had to be released right away, since they were oversized. But this way, they got to do some traveling."

  “It's starting!" someone cal ed out. The crowd along the parade route had grown considerably. The high school band was playing "It's a Grand Old Flag" and another Sanpere Fourth of July was marching along its invariable course. First came the kids on their decorated bikes. Pix remembered how excited she'd been as a child to thread crepe-paper streamers through the spokes of her Schwinn, then ride grandly with the others at the head of the parade.

  Except for the color scheme and crepe paper, today's bikes looked radical y different, although two or three were relics obviously handed down by a previous generation.

  After the bikes came the school band.

  “Isn't that Arlene's boyfriend?" Sam asked.

  Pix nodded. Fred had been completely transformed by his drum major's uniform, gold braid dripping from his shoulders and sparkling in the sun as he solemnly raised and lowered the baton. It was a very important position.

  Fred was class president, too.

  “Nice kid," John commented. "I guess he'l be the fourth generation to lobster from Ames Cove, although things have certainly changed since his great-great-grandfather used to go out with nothing more than his traps, buoys, a compass, a watch, and a hank of rope with a weight on it to tel him how deep the water was around the ledges."

  “It's simpler now," Sam said, `ànd safer, yet some of the romance is gone. I think it every time I see the plastic buoys, instead of the old wooden ones they carved, and the new traps"

  “The new traps weigh less, same with the buoys, and both don't require the kind of upkeep as the old ones. But I'm with you, aesthetical y—maybe even practical y. Sonny Prescott told me the other day he's not so sure al the new computers are helping the industry. Makes it too easy, and God knows these waters are being overfished enough."

  John seemed to be off and running on a favorite topic and Sam was ready to join him, but Pix didn't feel like hearing about the demise of the island's fishing economy today.

  She wanted to enjoy her lobster at the noon Odd Fel ows Lobster Picnic without worrying about the cost of bait and later at the Fish and Fritter Fry she didn't want to think about the growing scarcity of clams. As her friend Faith Fairchild was wont to say, "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt."

  “Look at the children. Imagine making al those lobster costumes! Aren't they precious!" The lobster-boat float had to be a major contender for Most Original. The boat itself was a miracle of construction, papier-mâché over chicken wire, and the red-clad children gleeful y wriggled about its hul snapping their "claws" at the parade viewers.

  Barton's lumberyard sponsored a huge float with Mother Goose figures and the cannery had opted for Alice in Wonderland. Sonny Prescott drew a big round of applause as Robert McCloskey's Burt Dow, Deep-Water Man, dragging his double-ender, The Tidely Idley, complete with rainbow stripes, set on wheels behind him.

  “He must be roasting in al that foul-weather gear; they'l probably give him Most Foolish for that alone," Sam commented.

  “More lemonade, Pix?" asked Rebecca.

  “Yes, thank you, but let me help you" Suddenly, Pix realized she'd been so intent on the parade, she'd forgotten about Rebecca, who was dispensing lemonade and now cookies in the hot sun. "Does Addie feel any better?”

  Before Rebecca could answer, Norman Osgood, coming toward them from the house, beat her to it. "She says she's fine. Just wants to be left in peace—that's a direct quote—and she'l see everybody later." He took the pitcher from Rebecca's hands and started pouring. "I brought your hat," he said, and plunked an old leghorn—her grandmother's?—on Rebecca's head. Handy man to have around, Pix thought. He was beginning to seem more like a member of the family and less like a guest al the time.

  “Oh, Norman, thank you," Rebecca gushed. "This is so much better." She turned to Pix. "It's my gardening hat; actual y, it was Mother's. The straw makes it light.”

  Pix was off by one generation, yet, who knew where Rebecca's mother had picked it up. Rebecca's garden was one of the showplaces of the island. She did put in some vegetables, at Addie's insistence, but they were behind the house. In front and on the sides were Rebecca's borders, plus an old-fashioned cutting garden. Her roses never suffered from Japanese beetles and her delphinium, in intense blues and lavenders, had been known to stop traffic during the tourist season.

  “Look, it's Samantha! Samantha!" Pix cal ed, and was rewarded with a brief acknowledgment. The campers, singing lustily, dressed in immaculate Maine Sail Camp Tshirts and crisp pine tree green shorts marched in perfect synchrony, stopping opposite the judge's platform to flip their cards to form a perfect replica of Old Glory. They then crouched down so the crowd could see and flipped the cards again, displaying for al the message: HAPPY FUCK

  OF JULY, SANPERE IS LAND! written on the hul of a sloop with yet another flag for its sail. The prankster had struck again. A gasp went up from the crowd and the judges al stood up simultaneously like puppets on strings, peering down from the roof. The children knew something was wrong, and predictably, Samantha's adorers moved in her direction. Jim, attired like his charges in the camp uniform, except with long pants, was shouting, "Put the cards down! Put the cards down!" Ranks broke and the campers raced for the bank parking lot, parade's end, to the strains of "Anchors Aweigh" as the band played valiantly on.

  “I can't believe Duncan would do this. Not after what happened on Monday!"

  “Why do you assume Duncan did it?" John asked. Pix was struck by the protective tone in his voice.

  “Wel ," she wavered, "he seems to be very angry at his parents and there have been a number of incidents at the camp, unplea
sant things happening."

  “Yes, I know," John said impatiently, "but that doesn't necessarily mean it's Duncan. Lots of kids fight with their parents and don't chop the heads off mice."

  “Whoever did it, it was a horrible thing to do. They've been working on the parade routine for days!”

  The old fire engine, bel s ringing and crank-operated siren blaring, was bringing up the rear of the parade. It effectively put an end to any conversation, and Pix, for one, was glad.

  She stood up and stretched, trying to recapture the mood of the day. "Anybody going to the children's games?

  Why don't we walk up and leave the car here," she added to her husband.

  “Darling" He kissed her earlobe. "You don't have any children in the games anymore. We don't have to go and watch our progeny dissolve in tears when the egg rol s off the spoon or the bal oon breaks when they try to catch it and they get soaking wet. There are other things we can do. Things at home. Grown up things.”

  Pix blushed. She couldn't help herself. Mother was here.

  “I know, sweetheart, but the camp wil be there. I'm sure everyone is quite upset, and Samantha may need help."

  “Al right, we can check in, however I doubt Samantha needs or wants us. She's doing a fine job on her own, and remember, I have to leave straight from the picnic.”

  Pix remembered. She went to thank Rebecca and say goodbye to everyone. Ursula was going to the picnic with the Fraziers.

  “Go home with your husband and help him pack, Pix,"