The Body In The Basement

Two

At first, Pix thought it was one of those plastic joke hands that had been al the rage in Maine the previous summer—sticking out of someone's trunk or trash can. The first time she'd seen one, she'd laughed. After a while, it got boring—and ghoulish.

This hand wasn't plastic.

Pix and Samantha looked at each other, aghast.

Samantha was the first to speak.

“It's a dead body, isn't it?" she whispered. Her face looked pale and sickly.

Pix gently lifted the hand with the stick. It was flaccid and curiously heavy. The cuff of a blue denim work shirt was revealed. Pix assumed there was an arm attached, leading to al the other parts wrapped in the quilt in the shal ow grave. She nodded and stood up. Her legs were shaking.

“I'l stay here and you go to the Hamiltons' for help.

They're the closest. Take the dogs."

“No, Mom. Keep the dogs with you."

“Al right," Pix agreed. The dogs could slow Samantha down if they decided to chase a squirrel or even a leaf blowing across the path. She felt immeasurably comforted to have them stay.

The two women climbed out of the hole in the ground at the lower end, opposite the spot where the body had been buried. As they walked across the level dirt, Pix gave a thought to the footprints they were obliterating, but there was nothing they could do about it now. From the moment the dog had jumped in, the murder scene had been messed up.

Murder scene. Murder. There couldn't be any doubt.

This was not the way loved ones were laid to rest.

Samantha paused briefly to give her mother a hard hug. "Is this real y happening?”

Pix held her close. "I'm afraid so, but I can't believe it, either. You'd better go," she said, holding her tighter.

Samantha broke away and ran off toward the road.

She was a fine athlete, and as her mother watched her graceful long-legged stride, the horrible discovery they had just made was forgotten for an instant—but only an instant.

The first thing Pix did was to tie the dogs to one of the trees. She didn't want Artie or the others to continue the exhumation. She sat down on a granite boulder, a massive one disgorged by the inexorable progress of the glacier, and tried to think.

But the horror of their discovery was making rational thought impossible. At least she'd been able to send Samantha for help. What was fil ing her mind now was the picture of that hand lying on the ground, disembodied. It was growing larger and larger in her imagination. She hadn't even noticed whether it was the right or left, and what did that matter anyway? What mattered was that it was a person, someone who had been alive perhaps only a day or two ago. She took a tissue from her shirt pocket, blew her nose, and swal owed hard. She sat up straighter. So far, she'd done what she was supposed to; now she had to force herself to think of something besides that hand.

For instance, whose it might be? She hadn't heard anyone was missing on the island, and her mother would certainly have mentioned it the night before. If it wasn't someone local, the police were going to have a difficult time identifying the remains. The end of the Point was a lonely, sheltered spot. A boat from anywhere along the Maine coast—or the Eastern Seaboard, for that matter—

could easily land and dispose of a body without anyone knowing.

But ... Her thoughts were sliding back into their old, familiar logical patterns. The kil er had to be someone who knew about the construction, someone who knew the foundation hadn't been poured yet. It was too unlikely that an individual looking to get rid of a dead body would just happen upon an excavation site. No, the whole thing did not point toward someone wel acquainted with what was happening on Sanpere. Roughly 95 percent of the population.

The initial shock and disbelief were beginning to wear off and Pix was drawn to the edge of the basement, above the body. She looked down. The hand was dead white against the dark soil, just as she'd left it. She hadn’t imagined the whole thing and natural y nothing had moved.

She jumped into the hole again, being careful to land on the same spot and retrace her steps. Somehow, Pix couldn't continue to sit on a rock with a corpse lying a few feet away and not investigate further.

She didn't disturb anything; she simply stared at what had already been revealed and noticed several things she had missed before. There was a noticeable but smal X

sewn in blue thread near the border of the quilt where people sometimes put a name and date. Roman numerals? The beginning of a date? X was ten. She remembered that much from her year of Latin.

The hand looked like a man's—or that of a hirsute woman who worked with her hands. The nails were short, uneven, and one was blackened—the way a nail gets if you close it in a door or hit it with a hammer. It was the left hand, but there was no ring on the ring finger, although that didn't mean whoever it was wasn't married. Few of the men around here wore wedding bands, except to please their wives when they dressed up. The kind of work they did was not kind to jewelry.

The final thing she noticed sent her quickly up aboveground. The quilt was indeed a red-and-white one, but there were two reds, one a slightly rusty one—dried blood. It had been a violent death.

Back on the rock with the dogs stretched out next to her, she realized she could be here a long time. It would take Samantha at least a half hour to get to the Hamiltons'

house at the beginning of the Point. Nan would be in church and probably not home yet. It was Sunday, so Freeman Hamilton wouldn't be out pul ing his lobster pots, and Pix hoped he was puttering around the house and not off someplace. He wouldn't go too far, though, and risk being late for his Sunday dinner.

Freeman wasn't a churchgoer. Said he liked to talk to God directly. She remembered what he'd told her once when she was a girl and he and Nan were a young married couple. He'd come by with some lobsters for her grandfather, pointed to the view of their cove, with islands that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon across the wide expanse of deep blue water, and said, "You know, if you want to speak to God, it's a local cal from here”

Pix thought a few words with the Almighty were most certainly in order now, but her mind was teeming with so many questions, such as how long the body had been there, that she settled for a few devout entreaties for the peaceful repose of whoever the unfortunate soul might be and a Godspeed for Samantha.

Pix realized that she felt oddly distanced from the event. Was she in shock? Or was it because the hand stil seemed like plastic and without a ful y identified being, the death wasn't a reality yet? Nothing had been personalized, except their reactions to the idea of murder.

She must be in shock, she thought, to be thinking this way and to be thinking about what she was thinking so consciously. She was going in circles, but she wasn't frightened. Whoever had brought the body here was long gone. She tried to imagine what might have happened. An unknown man (presumably) was stabbed to death by person or persons unknown, wrapped in a quilt (why a quilt?), taken to this out-of-the-way spot either by boat or car, and buried. It would have had to have been at night. It would have been risky to come during the day, when there was a chance the construction workers might be around.

She saw the .scene vividly: the body wrapped in the quilt to keep the blood from leaving any tel -tale signs, carried from the car or boat, and placed in the basement; the digging of the grave by the dim light of a flashlight beam—make haste; make haste—final y leaving the corpse and slipping back into the role or roles played everyday, with no hint of the night's work crossing a face. Her breath was almost taken away at the audacity of it al . If Pix hadn't brought the dogs, the concrete basement floor would have covered the grave and no one would have been the wiser. The Fairchilds would be living above a crime and never know it.

But wouldn't the dead person have been missed eventual y? What kind of person has no one asking his whereabouts?

Pix stood up and walked farther away from the house.

Sketching the scene in her mind had removed some of the distance—or the shock was wearing off. She began to feel queasy and afraid. Where was Samantha?

Think about something else. There's nothing you can do. Why had she stayed behind? They both could have gone for help. But it had seemed wrong to leave that hand so exposed, untended. The sky was fil ed with the shril cries of gul s and terns. She shuddered at the notion of their beaks pecking at the hand, unearthing more of the body in the basement.

She threw her head back and gazed up at the circling birds: herring gul s; laughing gul s; two cormorants, portentous black creatures, necks bent like shepherds'

crooks as they landed on the rocks; arctic terns, streamlined and elegant, swooping graceful y among their gul cousins. She watched as one lone tern hovered over the water, then suddenly plunged headfirst after a fish. A hundred years ago, this tern would have been prey, not predator. Pix's mother invariably mentioned it at least once a season when watching the birds dart and dive.

Thousands at a time were kil ed in their summer nesting grounds and island women were hired to skin them, preparing them for the New York feather market to grace a hat or trim a dress. The terns were saved from extinction just in the nick of time by the first Audubon Societies and legislation control ing the plumage trade.

The terns were summer people. They were from

"away" and had nested on the islands at their own peril.

The corpse lying here under the sky, was it someone from away, as wel ? Someone unknown and unfamiliar to the island who could vanish without a trace? Vanish as the terns nearly had?

Samantha must surely be at the Hamiltons' house by now.

Think of other things.

It was almost July, but the long hard winter buffeting the island with snow and heavy rains until late April had delayed the already-short growing season even further. And now it was dry. There wouldn't be the traditional fresh peas to go with salmon for the Fourth of July. No one had been able to sow much of anything Memorial Day weekend because the weather had been so bad. Pix imagined what her garden would look like in August: green tomatoes that she'd have to bring back to Aleford to ripen between sheets of newspaper; lettuce; too many zucchini; the eggplant was doubtful—Her pessimistic reverie was interrupted by a loud shout.

“What the hel are you doing here!”

She hadn't heard anyone approach, and it was obviously not Freeman Hamilton, Samantha, or Sergeant Dickinson.

She jumped to her feet and ran in the direction of the shore, with some notion of trying to attract attention from a passing sailboat.

The tethered dogs were barking their heads off. As she raced down the slope toward the beach, her heart pounding with fear and from the exertion, she glanced back at the animals and caught sight of the intruder. It was Seth Marshal , glowering. His long dark hair, heavy mustache, and the anger in his eyes made him look like a pirate from a children's book il ustration.

Pix stopped abruptly and turned around. Her own anger of an hour ago returned ful force, fueled in addition by the fright he had given her.

“What do you mean what am I doing here? How about what the hel you were supposed to be doing here? I thought you were building a house. The foundation isn't even poured!”

Her voice was booming and she was almost face-to-face with him before she col ected herself. Seth Marshal knew when and where the concrete foundation was going to be poured. Seth Marshal had a handy pickup fil ed with shovels and al sorts of other digging equipment. Seth Marshal 's mother was a quilter.

“I didn't know it was you." He was almost apologizing.

"Don't want people messing around out here.”

“When were you here last?" She wanted some information before she broke the news.

“Look, Pix, I can't afford to turn work down. I told the Fairchilds that when they hired me. I've got to make enough in the spring and summer to last me al year. The Athertons needed some repairs at the camp before they could open and I've been over there the last few weeks. And I've been finishing a cottage for some people on the reach road. But we'l be here every daylight hour from now on. The soil is good and dry. We'l be able to get everything done, even the floor, by the end of the week. The Fairchilds wil have their place before Labor Day. That's a promise.”

Pix heard him with only half an ear, although that half did cause an internal comment of promises, promises, before zeroing in on the matter at hand—literal y. She'd have to watch out. Her mind was running amok. So, Seth claimed not to have been at the site for several weeks. The police could probably tel how long the soda cans and other debris had been around. Without carbon dating, it would be impossible to say when the venerable cement mixer had been set in place.

There was no point in delaying further. She had to tel him. He'd spot it the moment he walked over to the excavation, and he was moving that way.

“There's a dead body buried in the cel ar hole. My dog started to dig it up."

“What!”

Seth's bushy eyebrows rose clear out of sight, disappearing somewhere into his mane of hair.

Pix was patient. It was a lot to take in. "The dog was digging at something and when we went to see what it was, it turned out to be somebody's hand. There's a very dead person over there. Wrapped in a quilt."

“A quilt?" Seth seized on the word, the only one suggestive of normalcy.

“Yes, a patchwork quilt."

“I don't believe it!”

Pix knew he wasn't referring to the quilt. "Come and see for yourself." He fol owed her over to the edge of the pit he and his crew had dug in the spring. There hadn't been anything other than rocks in the ground then.

“Holy shit! It's a hand!”

Pix nodded. It was the third time she'd approached.

The hand was beginning to look familiar.

“We've got to get Earl out here!"

“Samantha was with me and she went to the Hamiltons' for help. They should be here soon."

“I've got a shovel and a pickax in the truck. You sit out of the way and I'l dig him up. It could be pretty nasty.”

Pix figured Seth would want to take action. Most men usual y did, however she'd been close enough to her friend Faith's sleuthing activities to know that they should leave wel enough alone. Not that she had exactly, but digging the body up would definitely be regarded by the police as tampering with evidence, and she told Seth so.

Without something to do, he seemed visibly shaken and went to the truck for a beer.

“Want one?”

Pix did, but somehow the picture she might present to her daughter, Sergeant Dickinson, and Freeman Hamilton, who would surely not stay home once he learned there was a body on the Point, was a bit unseemly. Not to mention that it would be al over the island that she had been drinking with Seth Marshal while someone lay stone cold only a few feet away. Not by any stretch of the imagination could this be cal ed a wake. At a wake, it was customary at least to know the name of the deceased.

“Do you have anybody new working for you this summer? Anybody who's been missing for a while?”

Seth came and sat down next to Pix on her boulder.

The dogs had long since quieted down and were snoring peaceful y in the afternoon sun.

“You're trying to figure out who it is, right? Wel , I haven't. It's the same crew as last summer, and some from the summer before. The Atherton kid was helping us on the camp work, but I told his folks I couldn't afford to hire him for other work. They were paying him for what he did there. Or didn't do is more like it."

“Have you heard of anyone missing? Here or on the mainland?”

Seth shook his head. "Of course, we don't know how long the body's been here, but I haven't heard anything at al , and you know the way news gets around." Pix continued to pursue her line of questioning.

“I assume the whole island knew you were working out here and had dug the hole for the foundation”

“Yup, it wasn't a secret."

“But who knew you hadn't poured yet?"

“Probably al the same people, since I've been at the other places instead of here for some time now. But I was planning to pour this week. Not too many people would have known that”

They were getting somewhere.

“Who would have known?"

“Okay now, let me see. I was ordering the lumber for the footings at Barton's and I may have mentioned it then. I told my mother, because she said you would be here soon and if I didn't get going, you'd have my hide, which is true."

Seth smiled and the pirate was replaced by a mischievous little boy—little boy, despite his thirty-odd years. He'd been one of the island's footloose and fancy-free young bachelors for so long, it was hard to think of his ever settling down—or getting any older. He lived with his parents in Granvil e, the larger of the island's two main towns, Sanpere Vil age being the other. His mother, Serena, was a member of the Ladies' Sewing Circle with Pix's own mother. The Sewing Circle. That tore it. If Serena knew, it might as wel have been listed under "Coming Events" in The Island Crier.

Smal -town life made criminal investigation nearly impossible. There were rarely any skeletons in anyone's closet, because at one time or another, some friend or neighbor had opened it "by mistake," ostensibly looking for something else. "How's your uncle Enoch doing?" asked in the right tone of voice would be enough to elicit the information that he was drying out up to Bangor and how the hel did you know, anyway?

Al this was running through Pix's mind, along with the inevitable conclusion that she couldn't figure anything out, island mores or no, until she had found out who the corpse had been for a start. She abandoned her previous line of inquiry.

“So, this is definite? You're going to start work tomorrow?"

“If Earl wil let me," Seth replied.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. There was a slight breeze and the leaves in the aspen grove behind them rustled softly. Seth took a pul on his bottle of beer, then asked, "Did it seem like it was attached?”

Pix knew what he meant. "I think so."

“Could be part of him is here, part someplace else."

“I hope not," Pix said, her queasiness returning at the idea of dismembered body parts turning up at construction sites from Kittery to Calais.

They were quiet again, subdued by the grisly suggestion, but Seth couldn't stay stil for long.

He smacked his forehead dramatical y. "I must be losing my mind. I've got a CB in the truck. I can cal Earl myself and find out what's keeping him." He walked rapidly toward the pickup and soon Pix heard the crackle of static and Seth's muffled words. He was back within minutes.

“He's already on his way. But I bet Freeman beats him.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when Freeman's truck pul ed in and screeched to a halt, sending gravel flying in al directions and starting the dogs barking again. Samantha flew out her door and was at her mother's side before Freeman had even opened his. When he stepped out, Pix could see he had his Sunday clothes on, which meant several less layers than usual. His fisherman's tan—forearms, face, and neck—was a deep mahogany color, contrasting with his thick mat of light gray-white hair.

Samantha spoke, her voice ful of concern: "Mom, the police wil be here right away. Are you okay?”

Considering the only danger had been from her own overactive mind, Pix was able to answer, "I'm fine. How about you?”

Freeman answered for her. "She was a little wobbly when she first got to me, but she's calmed down some. Nan came home and that helped." He did not seem surprised to see Seth and nodded to him. "Hel o, Seth. Where's this body of yours now? Lucky I decided to fix Nan's washer today instead of going fishing with Charlie Porter."

“It's over here, in the foundation. And it's not mine,"

Seth added snappishly.

The two men went over to the edge of the excavation.

Pix decided she'd seen enough of the hand to last her a lifetime and returned to her perch on the rock, making room for Samantha and holding her near. Her daughter stil looked very pale and seemed to he shivering in her jeans and T-shirt despite the warmth of the sun.

“Gorry," they heard Freeman exclaim. "Think someone cut him up in pieces?”

Seth's speculation and Freeman's further reaction were cut short by Sgt. Earl Dickinson's arrival. Uniformed, tal , and ramrod-straight, he looked very official. And with his closely cropped light brown hair and deep blue eyes, he looked very handsome. He addressed Pix and Samantha first. "Show me where you found it and how you got down and up”

Earl Dickinson was a man who always went straight to the point. When it became apparent that the earth had been disturbed by both of them, as wel as Artie, the sergeant jumped in the hole himself, inspected the evidence, and climbed back out. "No one else been in there?”

Pix answered for them: "No."

“Al right, then, stay out of it. I've got to cal in to report, then we can talk. The state police are sending a unit.”

He was back in a few minutes with his notebook out and pen clicked. They sat on and around Pix's boulder, at his feet like so many schoolchildren. First he wanted to know exactly when the Mil ers had arrived and how the body had been partial y unearthed, then he asked al the questions Pix had. Did Seth have anyone new working for him? When had Seth been at the site last?

After he was finished, he closed his notebook with a sharp snap and buttoned it into his pocket, along with the pen. "Not a whole lot you folks can do here, so I suggest you go home and keep your mouths shut as much as is humanly possible when everyone on this is land wil be asking you what's going on. Until we dig him out, we don't have anything to go on, except that somebody appears to have used a perfectly good quilt as a shroud.”

The sergeant's vocabulary was taking on a new richness, Pix noted. Maybe it was Jil 's influence. But he had hit upon the thing bothering her, too. Yankee thrift being what it was, why not wrap the body in an old tarp or burlap?

She wanted to tel him about the mark she'd found on the quilt, yet heeding his caution, she decided to wait until they were alone. Not that she didn't trust Freeman and Seth, especial y Freeman.

“Then Samantha and I wil be going. I'd like to get her home." And into her nice secure little bed with a cup of chamomile tea, she thought.

“I'l take you," Freeman offered. Seth looked a bit lost and said he'd stick around to keep Earl company until the staties showed up.

“No, you go along, too. We know how to get a hold of you if we need you," Earl said. Effectively dismissed, Seth mumbled what could have been a good-bye and roared off in the pickup.

“Needs a new muffler," Freeman commented.

Earl nodded and Pix half-expected him to take out his notebook and make an entry, but most of the pickups on the island needed new mufflers. It wasn't considered a citable offense, unless you were caught drag racing on the old cemetery road in Granvil e, a road so blackened by burned rubber that local y it was cal ed "the speedway.”

So they went their separate paths to spend the afternoon trying not to think about what was uppermost in their thoughts: Who was the body in the Fairchilds'

basement—and who had put it there?

* * *

The dead man turned out to be Mitchel Pierce. While not exactly an island resident, he was not unknown on Sanpere, having spent time living there off and on while he was working at his purported craft: the restoration of old houses. But Mitchel also lived al along the coast from Camden past Bar Harbor, depending on where he was working. And to complicate matters stil further, he was known to disappear for months at a time, purportedly (again) to the Pacific Northwest. Purport, in various forms, was a word that turned up often in conversations about Mitch. In addition to his restoration work, he dabbled in antiques, buying and sel ing. In fact, he bought and sold almost anything from Mercedes coupes to odd lots of canned goods. He was a man who lived by his wits and it was a wel -known fact that these wits often took him close to the law. Provenance was something that Mitch defined broadly, as it suited his own needs. An exquisite piece of folk art could have been made in 1890 or 1990. What mattered, Mitch was quick to point out to his detractors, was that it was exquisite.

In another era, Mitch might have sold snake oil, and the pitch he made to new purchasers of old houses was not unlike the slippery patter of his antecedents. His charm was hard to resist and levelheaded Boston businessmen found themselves uncharacteristical y turning their houses and charge accounts at Barton's Lumber over to Mitch so he might bring the dwel ing back to its pristine glory. Mitch got free rent and free rein. Sometimes the customers were satisfied. Mitch did know what he was doing. And sometimes they returned in the spring to find neither hide nor hair of him, their pipes burst, and an astronomical bil waiting at Barton's. Stil , he kept getting jobs.

It wasn't that he was particularly good-looking. Short, with a wide widow's peak, the adjacent bald patches threatening to spread back across the dome of his head, he'd developed a paunch at thirty; now at forty, it could be described less kindly. He had an impish grin, an infectious laugh, took no one, including himself, seriously, and was wonderful company.

He'd done some work on The Pines a few years ago and Ursula stood over him the whole time. He'd expected nothing less and they parted friends, but Pix hadn't fal en under his sway. She didn't trust him—not on her tintype, and especial y not on his.

It was Mother who cal ed to reveal who the dead man was, of course.

Ursula was miffed that Pix hadn't informed her immediately about her grisly find, but Pix had always been a good little girl. So when Earl told her to keep her mouth shut, she took it as a sacred trust.

“But certainly you could have said something to your own mother!"

“I didn't even tel Sam. Now, of course, I can, since everyone seems to know even more than I do and I found him." Pix often found being good didn't shower one with the rewards implicitly promised.

“Why don't you come over here for tea and we'l talk about it. How is Samantha?"

“She slept when we came back and seems fine now.

Arlene and her boyfriend asked her to go to the movies in El sworth and that should take her mind off it. And it wil help when she knows who it was. I doubt she ever met him. If it had been someone she knew, that would have been worse."

“Al right, then. When she leaves, you come on over."

Pix agreed and hung up. She real y ought to cal Sam now and most certainly should cal the Fairchilds. Tom was probably out on parish business. Maybe it would be better if they were both together and she could tel Sam at the same time, because the first thing he'd do after hanging up would be to run next door. Besides, her mother might have picked up some more things and Pix would have further information for them. She'd wait until she came back.

Feeling like the abject coward she knew herself to be, she waved good-bye to Samantha, whose color was back, and set off for tea and maybe sympathy.

The tea tray was on the front porch and her mother was waiting. The family took as many meals outside as the weather and time of day permitted. None of the Rowes liked to be indoors when they could be enjoying the view and the air up close.

“It must have been terribly upsetting for you, darling,"

Ursula said, taking Pix's hand in both of her own.

“It was." Pix sat down in one of the wicker chairs that they had never thought to cushion. The latticework that appeared on the back of one's legs when one was wearing shorts was a kind of badge of authenticity. "I was mostly worried about Samantha. But she seems to be al right, even a little excited. None of her friends have ever found a body," Pix added with a slight grimace.

“A dubious distinction at best, but I'm glad she is not upset. The whole thing is puzzling, though. Who on earth would want to kil Mitchel ? He was always a complete gentleman when he was here, although I know others have not been so fortunate in their dealings with him. He did a beautiful job removing al that dry rot in the back addition. I'd hoped he would be able to repair the latticework on the porches this summer. I suppose it's too late now."

“Much too late, Mother. The man is dead."

“I know, dear. I told you, remember.”

Pix did.

“I hope the Fairchilds weren't too disturbed by al this.

It's not the way one likes to start a new house."

“I haven't reached them yet." Pix skirted the truth. "But I don't think they'l be too upset. It just happened to be their basement. It could have been anybody's—and they didn't know him."

“This business of wrapping him in a quilt ... such an odd thing to do. What was the pattern?”

Pix was amazed there was something her mother didn't know.

“It was a red-and-white Drunkard's Path—very nicely done, tiny hand stitching. It looked old. Although, I couldn't see much of it." And there were those bloodstains obscuring the work. Pix gagged on her tea and her mother had to pound her vigorously on the back before she stopped coughing.

“Wel , whoever did kil him must be an exceptional y nasty person."

“I think we can assume that," Pix said.

“No, besides being evil. Drunkard's Path—it's just plain nasty to cal attention to Mitchel 's drinking problem.

He'd been fighting it for years”

Ursula must have grown very close to Mitchel over the dry rot, Pix speculated. There didn't appear to be much she didn't know about the man. No reason not to take advantage of Mother's winning ways.

“Did he have a family? I never heard that he was married."

“No, he never married. I don't think he was real y very interested in women—or men. Just things. He definitely liked things, especial y beautiful and valuable things. Of course he must have had a mother and father, but he never spoke of them—or any brothers or sisters. He did mention that he grew up in Rhode Island, though."

“We should tel Earl that. It might be a lead."

“I wil , or you can tel him. Mitchel knew a great many people on the island, but not many people knew him. He minded his own business.”

And probably for very good reasons as far as Mitchel was concerned, Pix thought.

“Seth knew him best, I'd say."

“Seth!"

“Yes, when he was a teenager, he worked for Mitchel .

I've often heard Seth say he learned everything he knows about building and restoring houses from Mitch. They were very close for a time. You know the way boys that age look up to someone a little older who seems to know everything.

I think Mitchel even lived with the Marshal s one winter.

Maybe Seth can repair the latticework. I hadn't thought of him."

“Not until he finishes the Fairchilds' house," Pix said firmly. "The latticework has needed repair for several years and it can hold out a little longer.”

She took another cup of tea, turned down her mother's offer of sherry as sunset drew nigh, and set off for home to make her phone cal s.

The Pines was across a causeway connecting Sanpere and Little Sanpere. It was a short road, but it twisted and turned precariously above the rocky shoreline.

It was another favorite place for the local kids to drag and had witnessed several tragedies over the years. There were no guardrails. Large rocks had been set on either side and this year they were painted with bright white luminous paint to help keep drivers on track. It wasn't a road she liked to think of Samantha negotiating at night.

She passed through Sanpere Vil age with its lovely old ship captains' houses, some with widow's walks, facing the sea. Her friends El iot and Louise Frazier lived in one, and Louise was planting geraniums in a huge old blue-and-white stoneware crock in the fading daylight. Pix waved and continued on. The Fraziers belonged to the same group that Pix fancied her family did—people not orginal y from Sanpere who either now lived here year-round or had been coming in the summer for so long that the line between native-born and "summer person" had blurred. They weren't islanders, but they were close to it. El iot Frazier had been the postmaster for years and both he and Louise had served on many of the town's boards. They were even further across the line than the Mil ers and Rowes, although if there had been an honorary islander award, Pix's mother would have won it years ago. Being admitted to the Sewing Circle amounted to the same thing.

As Pix drove across the island on one of the three roads that connected the loop Route 17 made around the circumference, she thought about al these distinctions and wondered why people always found it so necessary to put other people in neat little categories, and why indeed she prided herself so much on her own label.

Many of the summer people actively fought the moniker—buying their clothes at the fishermen's supply, driving beat-up old trucks, and studiously avoiding the vacation community on the island. These same people tended to count how often they received the traditional island road greeting—a few fingers casual y raised from the top of the steering wheel and maybe a slight nod as vehicles passed.

The rusticators, families who had been coming for generations, had always hired local people to work for them as caretakers and cooks, and they didn't pretend—or in some cases want—to blend in. Their ways had been set by a grandmother or grandfather in '02 and successive generations found no reason for change. They sailed. They took vigorous walks. They picnicked—with the same immense wicker hampers outfitted with thermos bottles, china, utensils, a rug to spread on the ground, and a folding camp stool if required by an elderly member. They wore squashed salt-encrusted, white canvas sun hats that did not prevent their faces from turning a ruddy bronze, complete with peeling nose, by August.

Where did Mitchel Pierce fit into the social scheme?

Pix wondered. He wasn't a summer person, but he was from away. He was more intimate with the native population of Sanpere, since he'd boarded in various island homes at times. These people general y spoke approvingly of him, even after some major disaster when a foundation he had finished crumbled because there was too much sand in the concrete. He loved to listen to the old-timers' stories and could recount the history of the island better than most who had grown up here. He played the mandolin passably and was a popular addition for musical evenings, where he was sure to be asked for "Rainbow" and "The Girl I Left Behind Me" Yet his last series of misadventures had left an unpleasant taste even in the mouths of these supporters.

He'd been working on a large Victorian mansion original y constructed by a shipyard owner in Sanpere Vil age. The current owners, wealthy summer people, lived in Chicago during the winter. Mitch had charged not only building supplies at Barton's but also food at the IGA and bread and other baked goods at Louel a Prescott's. Louel a ran a smal bakery from her kitchen and had learned the same delectable recipes from her mother that her sister, Gert, had. Both women were noted especial y for their pies, and in Louel a's case, the best anadama bread in Maine, or perhaps anywhere.

Mitch had disappeared midwinter and was sighted up in Northeast Harbor with a booth at an antiques show. He told someone there that he planned to return to Sanpere to finish the job and settle his accounts, but he never again crossed the bridge to anyone's knowledge—and there were plenty of people looking for him. Bar-ton's was a big outfit, and in any case, the owners of the house he was working on would be forced to cover the bil , since they'd given Mitch carte blanche. But Louel a, and Vincent at the IGA, had trouble absorbing the loss. Mitch had run up quite a tab. His habit of turning up on your doorstep with a pie in one hand and a few pints of the expensive ice cream Vince stocked as a luxury item didn't seem the generous and kindhearted gesture it once had. Local opinion was that Mitch should come back and face the music.

Pix could almost hear what people were no doubt saying now. Wel , old Mitchel is back, but the only music he's facing is harp music, and that might be doubtful.

She added another category for people like Mitch.

The Fairchilds were clearly going to be summer people, arriving for a vacation, pure and simple, leaving only their footsteps behind.

Samantha's employers were a blend, since Jim's family had been coming for such a long time, plus they were now living here year-round. But Valerie's southern accent alone would keep them at arm's length as outsiders for years.

Jil Merriwether drove past Pix on the opposite side of the road. They'd reached the two steep up and down hil s that were so much fun to drive, like a rol er coaster. Jil gave more than the laconic salute—a big smile and a wave. Had she heard about Mitch?

Pix suddenly remembered that Jil had added antiques to her shop. She'd talked about it during the Memorial Day weekend and mentioned that Mitch was one of her suppliers, so she must have known how to get in touch with him. Pix made a note to herself to talk to Jil and try to find out where Mitch had been living.

Jil 's shop was close to the Sanpere Inn, lovingly restored six years ago by its new owners and saved from certain ruin. Mitch had worked on that, too, she recal ed.

The inn sat next to the mil pond, facing the harbor across another smal causeway. In a short time, it had become wel known for its picturesque location and fine cuisine. Jil had quickly noted that its clientele was more interested in nineteenth-century marine paintings and pine chests than in mugs decorated with lobsters or jars of blueberry jam.

She'd been excited about getting into the antiques business and had told Pix she was reading everything she could get her hands on. Pix reminded her not to overlook finds at the dump. A previous enterprise in Sanpere had obtained most of its stock that way when various local people traded up for a matching living room set from Sears, complete with his and her recliners, leaving the old rickety stuff off to one side by the household trash.

Pix turned down the long dirt road to their house. No matter how often she did this, she always felt an immediate sense of wel -being. The first cove she passed had been posted for red tide this summer and no clamming or worming was al owed. But the cove at the foot of the meadow by their house had always tested out fine. It was il egal to cross private property to get to the shore, though anyone could come by boat and did. She'd see them bent over the mud with their short handled rakes. Clamming and worming were backbreaking work. Digging in the mud for sea worms and bloodworms, freshwater bait, wasn't any better. Eking out a living on Sanpere had never been easy, but it was especial y hard during the current recession. Men and women had to be Jacks and Jilts of al trades. And that brought her back to Mitch again.

Which of his enterprises had led to the grave in the basement? Who had wanted him dead? Someone left with a half-finished or botched job? But they'd be more likely to sue or at least try to get him to complete the work, wouldn't they? She also couldn't see Louel a working herself up to a murderous frenzy over unpaid bil s for baked goods. But then there were people on the island who might get pretty steamed on her behalf, particularly after a night fil ed with too many beers.

Someone had had a reason. When they could figure that out, they'd have the murderer. This was the way she understood it usual y worked in books. Look for a motive.

Who inherits? Who had been scorned? Some event in his past? Something to do with his family? Maybe the whole thing was total y divorced from his shady occupations.

The newspapers played up random craziness, serial kil ers selecting victims at whim. But altogether too much thought had gone into the planning of Mitchel Pierce's death—the location, the timing, maybe even the quilt, Drunkard's Path. Had he been kil ed because he drank too much? Maybe it was insanity, some crazed temperance fanatic?

She pul ed the car to the side of her house. The simple Cape wasn't an old one, but the seasons had worn the cedar shingles so that it looked as if it had been in place for centuries. Pix's garden added to the image. It was fil ed with old-fashioned flowers: delphinium, cosmos, phlox, oxeye daisies, and coreopsis. A combination of fragrances from the old varieties of peonies and the rosa rugosa bushes welcomed her home.

Inside, the cottage had been furnished with castoffs from The Pines, yard-sale finds, and a gem or two from local auctions. These embel ished the myth that it was an old house, as did the Boston rocker needing some new paint and the gently faded chintz slipcovers on the down-cushioned sofa. The braided rugs scattered across the pine floorboards had been made by Pix's grandmother in shades of muted rose, blue, and green. Field guides, knitting projects, sailing charts, and Samantha's tennis shoes were strewn around the living room.

Other than the shoes, there was no sign of Samantha.

She was stil at the movies. Pix decided it was now or never. She had to cal Faith. Having refused Ursula's sherry, she felt justified in pouring herself a scotch, dropped an ice cube in it, and dialed Sam.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Hi, honey, I was going to cal you two tonight. I was just out in the backyard in the hammock. You wouldn't believe how hot it is here!"

“That's

nice,"

Pix

said,

then

realized

the

inappropriateness of her remark. "I mean, that must be terrible.”

“Al right, what's wrong?"

“Samantha and I walked out to the end of the Point today to check on how the house was coming along.... "

“Is Seth doing a good job?"

“He hasn't done much of any job so far, but that's—”

Sam was as indignant as Pix had been earlier and she decided to let him have his say before final y interrupting.

"Darling, we found a dead body on the site. In the excavation, actual y."

“What!”

Pix told him the whole story. It was turning out to be a much-needed dress rehearsal for her star turn with the Fairchilds. Sam agreed to give her fifteen minutes before he went over.

“I know they're both home. I just saw Tom pul in and Faith has been in the yard with the kids al afternoon. They went inside about an hour ago.”

Baths, supper, stories, Faith would be pretty busy. But not too busy to answer the phone.

“Pix! This is great. I didn't think we'd get a report so soon”

Pix took a deep breath and a large mouthful of scotch.

"Is Tom around?"

“Yes, he's reading to the kids in the living room. Why do you ask? Don't tel me. They've screwed something up.

Put something in upside down or left us with no doors!"

Faith was attempting to speak lightly.

“Samantha and I went over this morning to see how things were progressing and one of the dogs dug up a dead body in your basement—or rather, the hand. The police uncovered the rest."

“I can't believe it!" Faith turned away from the phone.

"Tom, get on the extension. Quick!"

“We had trouble believing it ourselves, but ..

“This is going to put us terribly . behind schedule,"

Faith wailed.

From the extension, Tom asked, "What is?"

“Pix found a body buried in our future basement, and I know how the police work. It wil be weeks before they'l let us continue. We may have to get al sorts of new permits and getting the ones we have was like something out of Dickens.”

Pix graciously decided Faith must be in shock. She also decided she needed to get back into the conversation.

“The man who was kil ed was Mitchel Pierce. I don't think your paths ever crossed. He never had a permanent place on the island." Until now, she added silently. "He restored old houses, sold antiques, and tended to move around a lot."

“Isn't he the one who left Louel a Prescott holding the bag?" Faith had become friendly with the baker. "Yes, that was Mitch."

“I can't see Louel a committing murder over a few crul ers, though.”

This time, Tom interrupted.

“How are you and Samantha? It must have been terrifying for you”

Pix felt a warm glow, a combination of Tom and Johnnie Walker.

“It was at first, but we're al right now. Fortunately, the dog only unearthed a hand."

“Oh, Pix"—now it was Faith's turn—"I've been such a jerk, thinking of my own petty concerns when you and Samantha have been through a horrendous day. What can we do? Should I come up?"

“No," Pix and Tom said in unison, Pix adding, "There real y isn't anything you could do, and I know how busy you are getting ready for al those Fourth of July parties.”

The Fairchilds' doorbel rang audibly in the background.

“That's probably Sam," Pix told them.

“Why don't you get it, sweetheart," Faith said. Tom said good-bye and hung up the phone.

“Now, Pix," Faith said sternly, "I know you've seen me get involved in a number of murder cases, but it's not something I recommend, and I think you should stay out of al this as much as possible.”

Pix found herself feeling somewhat annoyed. Who had located Penny Bartlett missing in Boston last year? It hadn't been Faith, but none other than her faithful friend and neighbor. Surely this same friend and neighbor should be able to ferret out a few salient details about Mitchel Pierce's death here on Sanpere, where she knew not only the names and characteristics of al the flora and fauna but the two-legged inhabitants and their habits and habitats, as wel .

“Please, Pix, listen to me. It could be dangerous. I'm sure it's a total coincidence that someone picked our particular cel ar hole, but you can't be too careful.”

It was al Pix could do to refrain from comment, something referring to Faith's possible reactions upon hearing these same words. But Faith had become her dearest friend, and if she was a bit insensitive, a bit self-absorbed, a bit like a steam rol er, other sterling qualities more than made up for it.

So she said, "Yes, Faith" as meekly as she could muster and hung up with promises to stay in touch with everyone on the hour every hour if necessary. Sam had picked up the extension and both he and Tom were exhorting her along the same lines Faith had.

She hung up, drained her glass, and then remembered: She had total y forgotten to tel Faith that Seth hadn't done any work since Memorial Day.

It would just have to wait.