The Body in the Kelp ff-2

by Katherine Hall Page

  And it was an extremely noisy night.

  Prescott's was loading lobsters, and the trucks seemed to grind every gear. Every floorboard in the house creaked in turn; the glass in every window rattled; and every diurnal creature decided to join his nocturnal cousin for a night of raucous fun. On top of all this, Bird's little chick wailed most of the night on and off. From the sound Faith was convinced that their cabin had suddenly located itself in her yard instead of on the next point of land.

  Bird must have gone back to pack things up, Faith thought. She realized they had forgotten to ask Bill when the nuptials were going to be celebrated, but she had the impression it would be soon. But not soon enough. She yawned and turned over to punch her pillow.

  Still, Faith didn't hear the dog bark, and that was something.

  Pix had insisted that she keep one of the Millers' three golden retrievers and swore that he would bark if anything human approached. He would not attack—more likely run forward in friendly greeting—but he would sound an alert. He was sleeping on the hooked rug at the foot of the stairs and added a steady adenoidal snoring and occasional doggy nightmare snarl to the cacophony of sound. His name was Dusty, the other two were Henry and Arthur, aka Hanky and Arty. The next generation had fortunately limited to dogs Pix's parents' penchant for whimsy in names, although Samantha, after her father, was getting dangerously close.

  Ben was up at the crack of dawn, and for once Faith was glad to get up with him. He came running gleefully into her room, his soaked nighttime diaper swaying between his legs. He had taken his sleeper off. It was probably wet too.

  “Mommee, Mommee," he cried, and stretched out his little arms for Faith to pull him into her warm bed for a cuddle.

  “Not a prayer," she answered as she got up and swooped him into her arms and off for a bath. He laughed in delight. She could do no wrong. At least not for many years to come. She was his own "Mommee" and he loved her passionately. This is why women have sons, Faith reminded herself as she turned on the taps.

  It was a brief detour from the all-important task of the morning. She had outlined the plan to Pix the night before and lost no time, once Ben was dressed and fed, in executing it. As she came downstairs with Ben and his Brio Spool Wagon to keep him occupied, she heard the other baby crying again. Faith was a little hazy on when babies were supposed to have things, but she thought Zoë was too old for colic. It could be teething. That was a reasonable answer for a few years when anyone asked why your child was screaming. It sounded better than "bad temper" or "horrible personality." She turned to the matter at hand, happy she wasn't the one futilely pacing the floor or rocking in a chair.

  First she spread the quilt on the floor in the living room and carefully photographed each square with Samantha's Polaroid Impulse, which Pix had brought over when she had delivered Dusty and the quilt top. Then Faith numbered the pictures, put them in an envelope, and stuffed the envelope in the folds of one of the diapers in Benjamin's diaper bag.

  Afterward she wrote a short note to her friend Charley MacIsaac. He also happened to be the chief of police in Ale-ford, the place she was still startled to call home.

  Dear Charley,

  Please put the enclosed in a safe place. Don't give it or show it to anyone. I'll explain when I get home. It's nice here and everyone is fine. See you soon.

  Love, Faith

  The good thing about Charley was that he would do it and not feel he had to call her up and ask a lot of questions. Like Tom.

  Next she opened one of the desk drawers, which she had discovered earlier contained enough brown paper and string to send the Queen Mary by parcel post, and took out what she needed. She wrapped the quilt and tied it, taped the letter to it, and wrapped the whole thing again. If Charley didn't know what was in it, it was all the better. She addressed it to "C. MacIsaac, 1776 Revere Street, Aleford, Massachusetts." Then she called Pix, who she figured should be back after taking Bill Fox home from the garage in Granville.

  “Everything's ready. Can you come with, me now?"

  “No problem, and Samantha wants to take Ben for a walk."

  “Perfect. We wouldn't want to cut things short because of a restless child, and if he's behaving well, he might upstage us.”

  A half hour later Pix and Faith were standing in line at the IGA in Sanpere Village. Pix had filled a basket with things she didn't need and Faith was holding the unwieldy package. Pix went first.

  “Faith," she said, managing to sound genuinely reproachful, "you know Louise and I would have been happy to help you get started. There is really no need to have someone else quilt your top."

  “Oh, Pix, I am very grateful, but you know that I'm hopeless with a needle and thread. You can teach me something else like basket weaving. I really would like to have it finished in my lifetime, and his woman is a fine quilter. I remember she finished a quilt for a friend of mine, and when I called her, she said she could start right away. That's why I want to get it off this morning." Faith was deliberately ambiguous as to name and place. Plus she never minded a few fibs in the cause of justice.

  “I do understand, Faith, and it's such a lovely quilt, it deserves to be finished quickly. I wonder what color she'll choose for the backing. Did you tell her what color to pick?”

  And they were off on a discussion of colors, patterns, and textures which took them through the checkout and into the street.

  “Now for Part Two," Faith said under her breath as they strolled through the village with their packages.

  Pix had something more on her mind. "You know, you might enjoy basket weaving. It's fun and very relaxing. I could start you on a melon basket.”

  Faith knew where the thought was going. "Pix," she said gently but firmly, "I don't carry my melons in baskets. At least not in this country." Some ideas had to be ruthlessly nipped in the bud.

  People with post office boxes generally came to get their mail in the late morning, and Sanpere Village bustled with their activity. Even if one's mail was delivered, there was always something to pick up. Something from Prescott's Hardware, the IGA, or The Blueberry Patch.

  There were two other enterprises in the village, an art gallery started by an off-islander who now lived on Sanpere year round and an antique shop operated by one of the Sanfords, who purportedly got most of her stock from picking the dump. But these two shops were strictly for summer people and Faith and Pix walked by them quickly.

  Jill stocked newspapers and magazines and had lately added a small section of paperback books. Faith stopped to buy a paper and managed to pass the news to the four or five people in the store, then conveyed it to three more in Prescott's while she picked up some batteries for one of the dozen or so flashlights that had come with the cottage, everything from penlight to searchlight. John Eggleston was busy buying nails, but paused to emit a bark of polite interest before turning back to the infinitely more fascinating display in front of him. Faith filed a thought to pull out later. It was unlikely that he had amassed much in the way of earthly goods as a minister, "poor as church mice" being the rule rather than the exception. Was he a successful enough sculptor to support himself? What did he live on?

  By the time they walked up the worn wooden post office stairs, which had once been red like the rest of the building, it was almost pointless to keep talking. Most of the island, from the top of the old serpentine quarry at South Beach to the town wharf at Granville, already knew that Mrs. Fairchild was mailing that quilt of Matilda Prescott's up to Massachusetts to be finished.

  There were only two people in the post office, but one of them was Sonny Prescott, and Faith and Pix went through the whole thing again for his benefit. The other was Eric, standing with studied care as far away as possible from Sonny as he could in the tiny room. It was to him that Faith addressed her remarks, with Pix providing backup.

  Sonny left after a nod to the ladies. Possibly the conversation was not as riveting as they thought, but when the package, which had already made quite a jour
ney, was finally sent on its way and they emerged into the sunlight, they were pleased to note Sonny earnestly talking into his CB in the cab of his pickup.

  “Mission accomplished, n'est-ce pas?" Faith murmured to Pix.

  “But oui, mon capitaine," she replied.

  They both felt terribly smug.

  Eric was following closely behind them, and they walked together toward Faith's car.

  “I've decided to move into the Prescott house—my house, that is," he told them. "I think Roger would have wanted it."

  “That's wonderful." Pix put her hand on his arm. "Of course Roger would have wanted it and we want it. You mustn't be driven away by all this."

  “Jill is going to help me move later this afternoon. There isn't much. This morning I'm going to try to work again. I haven't been in the studio since all this happened, and I can't be a coward anymore.”

  1"I don't think you're getting graded on this one," Faith commented. "Nothing on your permanent record.”

  Eric grinned. "Thanks, Faith. But it's now or never. Must be all those times my daddy made me get back up on the horse.”

  Faith remembered Pix had mentioned Eric was from Texas. Once more she blessed the fates for their wisdom in settling her near the bridle trails of Central Park, not the Panhandle.

  He left them at the car and walked toward the causeway. The tide was out, and his house sat up on a knoll in fastidious contrast to the mud, rocks, and tangled seaweed below. Faith hoped he and Jill would get together soon. It seemed like a large and lonely place for just one person. Besides, there was safety in numbers.

  She asked Pix if it was all right to take the long way home in order to replenish her liquor supply at Granville. Pix didn't mind, and soon they were on the shore road out of Sanpere Village.

  The route provided an informal history of the island. The early settlers' few remaining clapboard houses were scattered among the large arks built by the rusticators at the turn of the century, more recent fishermen's cottages, trailers in varying degrees of repair, and finally sleek nouveau Robert A. M. Stern imitations built by the latest invaders. The gulls, pines, granite outcroppings, and wildflowers were the same in every yard.

  On the way, Pix told Faith what Bill had told her when she drove him home earlier that morning. Faith had been right. Bird had returned to the cabin the night before to pack and also leave a note for Andy. Bill and Bird were planning to get married as soon as they could get a license. It was going to be a simple ceremony in Bill's garden and he hoped they would both come.

  “He's so happy, Faith. I don't have any sense of what she's like, but she'd better be good to him." Pix's voice brooked no opposition.

  “I don't think you should worry. She's the embodiment of his imaginary princess and can do no wrong. I wonder what her life was like before she ended up here with Andy? It may be that the security Bill will provide is just what she needs—and wants."

  “I hope so. It would be devastating for him if she got bored and took off with a younger man in a few years—or months."

  “I'm sure that has occurred to Bill and he's willing to take the chance for the woman of his dreams.”

  As Faith said that, in her mind, she heard Eric's voice just the week before talking about the house of his dreams. So many dreams and a nightmare that touched them all. The sadness did not go away and she found herself murmuring "Poor Roger" as she parked in front of the old Opera House, which had once hosted traveling companies with such luminaries as Nellie Melba and now stood empty.

  There were no other customers in the state liquor store. It was lunchtime. Native islanders were home and the summer people were picnicking or enjoying the chowder and pie at The School Street Rest. It was one of two places to eat in Granville, three if you counted the Italian sandwiches for sale at Baylor's Market. Bert Hamilton had painted an old bus blue and sold clam rolls and pizza in the parking lot next to the town wharf, but it didn't compare with The School Street. Pix had explained that "Restaurant" hadn't fit on the original sign, and even when a new one was made, no one called it anything else.

  Faith replaced what had been stolen from her tantalus. As they walked back to the car, she scrutinized the wrists of the teenagers sitting on the nearby wall. They were spread out silently in a row, unconsciously duplicating the immobile line of gulls perched on the roof behind them. The kids eyed Faith and Pix with expressions ranging from indifference to hostility. One of them had a face so devoid of affect that Faith suspected it was drug induced. He was definitely gone. She didn't see her bracelet. She didn't expect to.

  They drove up the steep hill leading away from the harbor, passed School Street Restaurant, resisted the lure of fish chowder and black walnut pie, and hastened home.

  Faith realized she was happy to get back. It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours, with the robbery and this morning's tour de force.

  Samantha had fed Ben, and he was beginning to get drowsy. Faith could tell because he had an unusual amount of energy and was running around the kitchen trying to entice her into a game of tag. It was a final statement: "What, tired, me? Never!" She made herself a sandwich and a tall glass of iced tea, grabbed a banana for Ben, and led him outdoors. They sat in the grass, and soon Faith felt his body relax and lean into hers. She could hear the slight whistle of air as he breathed in and out. She could also, she suddenly realized, still hear the baby, Zoë, crying. Bird didn't seem like the kind of mother who suffered advice gladly, but perhaps the child was ill, and with no phone or car Bird couldn't get help. Of course, it wasn't far to Faith's, or Bird could even stand on the point and somehow attract Sonny Prescott's attention from the short distance across the water. And surely Bill was checking in. But his car was in the shop.

  The crying continued. It was a high-pitched wail on one note that varied in volume. Faith sat and studied the calm horizon. She couldn't stand it anymore. Carefully she hoisted Benjamin into her arms and up the porch steps, depositing him in the portable crib that had been set up there for outdoor naps. Then she went into the house and called Pix.

  “It does seem odd," Pix responded. "She seemed like such a placid little thing Tuesday in the cemetery. Why don't I come over?”

  Pix arrived and listened. Samantha and Arlene were with her, waiting for a ride to the village. They agreed to sit on the porch steps in case Ben awoke while Faith and Pix went to offer maternal guidance to Bird.

  “It could be indigestion. Bill said he was trying to vary their diet, and maybe Zoë was too used to brown rice," Pix suggested.

  “Well, whatever it is, we'll find out. I just hope she doesn't take offense and think we're a couple of busybodies," Faith said as she turned up the narrow, rutted road that led to the shack, wondering at the same time when the word "busybody" had entered her vocabulary.

  The shack appeared deserted. Some of the glass in the windows had been replaced with cardboard, and the siding looked like a good strong wind would send the whole thing tumbling down like a house of cards. A clothesline had been strung up between two pines, and a number of gaily colored articles swayed gently in the breeze. It was the only note of color in the scene.

  Until Faith opened the door.

  Blood was everywhere. The walls, the floor, and especially on Bird. Or what had been Bird. She was lying on her back on the floor, her long, silky hair spread out against the old piece of linoleum someone had put down in an attempt at housekeeping. Her head had dropped to one side. One hand rested on her cheek as if she had tried to ward off the blows. It had been futile. Her face was barely recognizable, a bloody pulp of something that had once been beautiful.

  Faith slammed the door shut instantly, collapsed onto the granite step, and retched.

  “Faith, Faith, what's the matter?" Pix grabbed her. "Don't go in!" Faith screamed. "She's dead! Murdered! You've got to go get help!"

  “What! It's not possible!" Pix started to open the door and Faith grabbed her arm.

  “Believe me, Pix, don't go in! There's nothing
we can do for her. Blood is everywhere and you don't want to see. I've got to get the baby, then I'll wait outside until you come back."

  “Oh, dear God, think of Bill, Faith. This will destroy him!”

  Pix sped off and Faith nerved herself to go back in. It was just as bad the second time. Zoë was in a basket cradle suspended from the rafters and was unharmed. Faith grabbed her and didn't linger to find fresh clothes. She stepped over the body and a chair that had been overturned. The shack was a mess, but not knowing how it had been before, Faith couldn't speculate on what was due to the struggle. Much of the blood was dry, as she had obscurely noted the first time.

  Whoever had killed Bird was long gone.

  Faith sat down wearily in the shade of a large mountain ash and held the baby close, rocking her. Soon Zoë stopped crying and began to suck her fist contentedly. Faith started to cry.

  It wasn't that she knew Bird. She had never even held a conversation with her, but the horror of it all was overwhelming. First Roger, now Bird. Could it be a coincidence? All Faith's instincts said no, but what possible motive could tie them together? She gripped the baby tightly. Poor little thing. What was going to happen to her now?

  Pix was back before the police arrived. She stumbled wild-eyed out of the car.

  “Faith, this can't be happening! I called John and told him, so he could break the news to Bill. They have been close friends for years, and it would be terrible for Bill to find out from the police or someone in the village. It will be terrible enough. Oh dear, why did this have to happen and why now?"

  “I know. It just doesn't make any sense. In either case.”

  “What do you mean `either case'?"

  “Bird and Roger. They both seemed like people with relatively uncomplicated lives who were just going their own distinctive ways not hurting anyone else. And unless Bird turns out to be some runaway heiress, neither had money a murderer would have wanted. And there aren't any jealous spouses around. All the traditional murder-mystery motives."