The Body In The Basement

Three

No one claimed the body.

After the medical examiner finished the autopsy and established that the cause of death was most certainly due to multiple stab wounds, the state police let it be known that whoever wanted to was free to take Mitchel and hold whatever last rites deemed fitting and proper. The remains were transported to the back room of Durgen's Funeral Home in Granvil e, pending the wishes of the near and dear.

Those wishes were stil pending at the end of the week, by which time Donald Durgen had sensibly opted for cremation. Aside from the obvious reason, Donald told his brother and partner, Marvin, "We don't know how long we're going to have Mitch's company. Could be quite a while, and you know we need the space." He conscientiously labeled the cardboard box and placed it next to their tax receipts from 1980 to 1985. If someone wanted to come along and pay for an urn, why then they'd be only too happy, but for the moment, 'Mitch would stay filed.

That Mitchel Pierce had been stabbed to death with a hunting knife did not make the investigation any easier. On Sanpere, hunting was not merely a sport but a passion, and in many cases, a necessity. Finding a household without a hunting knife would be as surprising as the use to which this particular one had been put. Far in advance of opening day, knives and guns were honed and oiled, stories told and stretched. The winners of the state moose lottery, those fortunate individuals who got the chance to track a real y big creature, were targets of envy for weeks.

But the fact remained: No one seemed to be in a hurry to claim any kinship with Mitch. He seemed destined to remain at Durgen's, not even perched by the one window in the room where his spirit would have had an unobstructed bird's-eye view across the harbor to the old granite quarries on Crandal Island and straight out to Isle au Haut, rising from the sea in the distance—with its Mount Champlain resembling some sort of Down East version of Bali Hai.

Durgen's was one of the best vantage points in Granvil e.

Pix was expressing her surprise at Mitchel 's lack of earthly ties to Louise Frazier who had cal ed to remind the Mil ers about the Fraziers' annual Independence Day clambake on Sunday.

“The police have tried to track down a relative or even a close friend, but so far no luck. There's got to be somebody. It's real y very sad. I told Sam we ought to bury him and hold a smal service. There's plenty of room in the plot, and I don't imagine mother would mind. I can't stand thinking of him on some shelf at Durgen's for eternity, but Sam is sure someone wil turn up. He told me to wait.”

He'd also told her that there was no way Ursula was going to let a nonfamily member eavesdrop on their conversations in the next life, particularly when they had been careful to avoid revealing more than where to replace a two-by-four in this. Pix was sure her mother would be more accepting, but Sam convinced her to let things lie for the moment.

“It is odd," Louise agreed, "but Mitchel was a loner. He seemed to know everybody—and he certainly knew a lot about everybody; he was a wonderful gossip—but I can't ever remember his having a good friend. Nobody lived with him whenever he was on the island, although he lived with plenty of people.”

It sounded il ogical, but Pix knew what Louise meant.

“He was certainly adept at mooching a place to stay when he needed one, but when he was working on a house and living on the premises, you're right: He was always alone. He lived with other people only when he couldn't live in the house. The time he was restoring that barn in Little Harbor, he lived with one of the Prescotts"

“And didn't he board with John Eggleston once?"

“Very briefly. I don't think he was there a week before they quarreled and John threw him out. I'd forgotten that."

Pix made a mental note to talk to John. A former Episcopal priest, now a wood sculptor, he might have evoked some revelations of a confessional nature from Mitch before things went awry. It would be interesting to discover what had happened to cause the heave ho, although it would no doubt turn out to have been something like Mitch's using John's towel or drinking milk from the carton. In Pix's experience, this was usual y why roommates parted ways—

nothing dramatic, just irritating little everyday things that piled up to actionable proportions.

Pix continued: "Jil told me that Earl told her the state police have been trying to find out about Mitch's past from his tax returns and Social Security. It seems everybody has a paper trail. He was born in Rhode Island, but his parents are dead and there were no siblings. His permanent address was a post office box in Camden. They got al excited when they went over the court records—you know, he's been sued a number of times. They found a lawyer's name and got in touch with him, but he says Mitch never told him anything personal, just hired him by the case.

Never, apparently, made a wil , either—at least not with this guy. Now they're going over his bank records, seeing whom he may have written checks to and if he had a safety-deposit box anywhere. The last place he was living was a rented room in a house in Sul ivan, and there wasn't much in it except a few clothes and a whole lot of paperback mysteries."

“It does seem amazing to us. We're so embedded in our families, our relationships, and yes, our legal affairs"

Louise laughed. "What I'm saying is, people like us don't often think of people like Mitch—someone with no roots.”

Louise came from a large South Carolinian family, bringing with her to Maine softened speech, a penchant for drinking iced tea al year long, and an endless supply of stories about various family members. She had a tendency to talk of the living and the dead in the same tense, so Pix was never sure whether Aunt Sister, who dressed al in white and spent fifteen minutes every day of her life with slightly dampened bags—which she fashioned herself from silk and rose petals—on her closed eyes, was stil alive or had passed on. Surely, however, Cousin Fancy, who saved the sterling from the Yankees by burying it in the family plot, moving Grandaddy's stone to mark the spot—merely for the duration, you understand—was no longer rustling along the sidewalks of Charleston in her hoop skirts.

Pix accepted Louise's invitation, hoping that Sam would be able to be there with her. He liked to help El iot prepare the pit. It was an old-fashioned clambake always held in Sylvester Cove, with half the island in attendance.

She offered to bring her usual vat of fish chowder, her grandmother's cherished, but not particularly closely guarded, recipe—unlike some she could name, she told Louise, both women having tried unsuccessful y for years to get Adelaide Bainbridge's recipe for sherry-nutmeg cake.

Pix had tried not so much because she wanted to make it, but because of the principle of the thing, and besides, her mother would like it. Louise wanted it because it was a favorite of El iot's.

Pix always thought of the Fraziers as ospreys, the large fish hawks that were once more returning to the islands, building their enormous nests on rocky ledges, high atop spruce trees, and occasional y even balanced on a channel marker. Ospreys were birds who mated for life.

She'd told her theory to Sam, who agreed, commenting that El iot was actual y beginning to look a little beaky as he got older. Whatever the name or the comparison, the Fraziers were a devoted couple.

Louise accepted Pix's offer of the chowder grateful y.

"Timing at clambakes is so unpredictable, and people always get hungry before we uncover the pit.”

After she hung up, Pix thought she'd better put in a quick cal to Faith before Sunday to ask her advice about making a large quantity of chowder. Usual y, she simply quadrupled or quintupled the recipe, but working at the catering company had heightened her sensibilities. Maybe there was some special proportion known only to dedicated cooks or foodies. She wished the Fairchilds could come up for the Fourth of July festivities on Sanpere, which actual y started the weekend before. The day itself would begin with a parade in Sanpere Vil age, fol owed by children's games in the elementary school playground, before moving to Granvil e for first the Odd Fel ows Lobster Picnic, then later the Fish and Fritter Fry run by the Fishermen's Wives Association on the wharf. The day ended back in Sanpere Vil age, with fireworks over the harbor at nightfal . But Faith was catering four different functions and couldn't get away.

Pix would miss the Fairchilds, but it might be best if they weren't around until the whole business with Mitchel Pierce was cleared up. She reminded herself to cal Earl and see when Seth could start work again. She presumed they'd been over the site with magnifying glasses, tweezers, fingerprint powder, and whatever else it was they used to find clues. They'd taken both her and Samantha's sneakers away on Sunday, so examining footprints was one activity, although it had been so dry that the slightest breeze would have long since blown away any traces in a cloud of dust.

Al right, she told herself briskly. Cal Earl, cal Faith, get out chowder recipe, make shopping list, pick up Mother at the Bainbridge's, where she is lunching, stake tomato plants, set out beer-fil ed tuna cans to kil slugs, pick up Samantha at work ... She got a pencil and made a list. Pix had lists everywhere—in her purse, in her pockets, on the wal , on the fridge, tucked into books. She'd told a friend once, "My life is one long list," and the friend had replied, "I know—and the list is never done." It had depressed Pix at the time and it depressed her now. She decided to take the dogs outside and do the tomatoes first.

The exercise and the fresh air lifted her spirits immediately and she stood up and stretched. It was a long one. Pix was not her given name, but an abbreviation of the childhood nickname "Pixie," bestowed by her doting parents when she was a wee mite of two. At four, she had shot up to the size of a six-year-old, but the name persisted.

And as she grew older, she was thankful to whatever fate had been responsible for that brief petite moment. As a name, Pix was vastly preferable to what was on her birth certificate, Myrtle—for her father's favorite aunt and her horticulturist mother's favorite ground cover. In retrospect, Pix was grateful Mother hadn't opted for the Latin and chosen Vinca Minor instead of little Myrtle. When Aunt Myrtle died, she left her namesake a cameo, a diamond brooch, and some nice coupons to clip. Everything but the cameo had long since been converted into a hot-water heater, braces for the kids, and, one particularly tight winter, antibiotics for the dogs, the cost of which had led Pix seriously close to fraud as she considered listing them under their given names of Dustin, Arthur, and Henry Mil er on the family's health insurance.

After al , what was in a name? Pix, like most people, seldom remembered she even had another one, unless she received a notice for jury duty or her mother was particularly annoyed with her. Her mother! She dropped her tools, ran into the house, hastily washed, and dashed out to pick Ursula up. It wouldn't do to be late.

* * *

Samantha, on another part of the island, stopped for a moment to look about. It was bright and sunny—a little too warm for Maine. They stil hadn't had any rain. She'd been working for several days and was beginning to get the lay of the land.

Maine Sail Camp consisted of a number of smal rustic wooden cabins plus a large dining hal that doubled as a recreation center scattered over a sloping hil ending at the shore with a large dock and boathouse. When not actual y on the water, campers could stil see it and the sailboats that were the focus of each encampment. In addition to the sailing lessons, campers were instructed in nature lore, swimming, and the al -important crafts of lariat making and pot-holder weaving. The oldest campers were thirteen; the youngest, seven. An invisible but impenetrable wal ran down the middle of the hil separating the boys' from the girls' cabins. There were campers whose parents and even grandparents had attended Maine Sail. Reunions were nostalgic affairs and camp spirit was actively encouraged.

A tear in the eye when singing "O Thou Maine Sail of My Life" was not viewed amiss. Jim Atherton, the director, was the embodiment of a Maine Sail camper. He lived, breathed, and now ran Maine Sail.

He had told Samantha her first day the camp wasn't just a camp but a state of mind. Kids returned year after year, not simply for the sailing and al the rest but for the

"experience." Samantha had noted that he seemed to be too choked up to put it into words. Final y, he'd told her,

"You'l have to feel it for yourself.”

Mostly what Samantha was feeling was tired. She was responsible for teaching ten of the youngest children beginning sailing, which was going to involve everything from knot tying, to reading the water, and final y to putting a tiny hand to the til er. Then she had to race up to the kitchen and help serve lunch, cleaning up afterward. She'd thought it would be fun to work with Arlene, but so far, they were much too rushed to do more than exchange a quick greeting in passing. Arlene stayed on with the crew to prepare dinner and clean the cabins. She told Samantha that if last year was anything to go on, the counselors would be much worse pigs than the kids. The kids had to keep their own bunks tidy. There were no such rules for the staff.

Today was as busy as the earlier part of the week had been. Samantha raced up the hil to the dining hal , swinging open the screen door, then letting it close behind her with a bang when she saw the kitchen crew surrounding Jim, al talking at once.

“Now, now, let's not get hysterical," he said. "There are mice al over the place. You know that. We'l put out some more traps”

Mabel Hamilton, Freeman's sister-in-law and the cook at the camp for so many years that local people thought of Maine Sail as "Mabel's Place," spoke above the din.

Everyone quieted down.

“We've al had mice in our kitchens. I found one poor little fel ow suffocated in a sack of flour once, but what we have not had until now are three mice with their heads cut off laid out on the counter alongside a carving knife.”

Samantha had moved next to Arlene. "Did you see them?" she whispered.

“Yeah, it is so gross."

“I think we should cal Earl." Dot Prescott's voice was firm. Everyone nodded. Dot was in charge of housekeeping and, like Mabel, had been at the camp forever.

Jim tried a jocular approach. "The police! Over a few dead rodents!" He laughed. It didn't work. A sea of tightly shut lips faced him. Mabel and Dot stood directly in front of him, feet planted solidly on the worn pine floorboards, arms folded tightly across their ample bosoms.

“Al right, al right, I'l tel Earl. Now, can we clean the mess up and feed the hoard of hungry kids who wil be streaming through that door in less than thirty minutes?”

Everyone returned to the kitchen. Mabel scrubbed the counter, muttering angrily to herself. "I don't like it. Not one little bit. Have half a mind to .. " No one learned what Mabel was going to do with half of her mind, although al hoped it wouldn't be the lobe with the recipe file. She was far and away the best cook on the island. She suddenly stopped and addressed them in a louder and determinedly cheerful voice. "Let's forget about this now. It doesn't do any good to think about such foolishness. Probably a prank somebody thought would be funny.”

Samantha wasn't sure. She also didn't think it should have been cleared away until Earl had had a chance to look at it, but no one was asking her, and she didn't feel she knew anyone except Arlene wel enough to offer an unsolicited opinion. Besides, she was a kid and they were mostly grown-ups.

She had been unable to keep herself from looking at the gruesome sight. The tiny creatures were neatly laid side by side in a row, with their gory heads tidily set above each carcass. Samantha had seen dead mice before, even a mouse who had met its demise in a trap, but this precise carnage was worse than al the rest put together.

She watched as Mabel scoured the carving knife.

Mitchel Pierce had been kil ed with a hunting knife.

Carving knives. Hunting knives. It suddenly seemed that there were an awful lot of knives in the news on Sanpere.

She felt a bit dizzy and shook her head.

“Sam, are you okay?" Arlene was loading bread into baskets. The diet at Maine Sail leaned toward a carbohydrate overload. Today's entrée was macaroni and cheese. Dessert was bread pudding. There was a salad, though, lemon Jel -O with shredded carrots and mayonnaise dressing on an iceberg lettuce leaf.

Samantha nodded. "I'm fine. It's just creepy, especial y after Sunday.”

Arlene nodded knowingly and put an arm around Sam's shoulder. Since she'd started going steady, she'd begun to adopt a kind of big-sister attitude that Sam wasn't sure she total y liked.

“It is creepy, but I know who did it, and he's a harmless creep, believe me."

“You know who did it!"

“Wel , I'm almost positive. It's got to be Duncan, of course. He's like stuck in the third grade or something, and I bet he thought this would be a real y great joke on us and Jim. He hates it here. Maybe he thinks if he does enough weird stuff, they'l send him away. They should send him away al right—to the loony bin. It would serve him right.”

Samantha hadn't given much thought to Duncan Cowley, whom she had yet to meet. Given everything she'd heard, though, Arlene's theory made sense. Samantha was wil ing to bet this had occurred to her employer, too. It certainly would explain why he wanted to make light of the incident.

She was about to ask Arlene to tel her some more about Duncan when one of the doors to the kitchen opened and a woman walked in. It wasn't the way her mother walked, Sam immediately observed—those purposeful strides meant to get you someplace. This walk was more like a glide. A dancer's walk. A beautiful walk.

The woman had very short, very fair hair that hugged her head in a silken helmet. Her eyes, or her contact lenses, were turquoise blue.

“It's Valerie," Arlene said in a low voice. "She's so awesome. Dunc had to have been switched at birth. He just can't be her son.”

Valerie Atherton was speaking to Mabel Hamilton, then came over to the counter where the two girls were working.

“You must be Samantha Mil er. I'm Valerie Atherton."

Her voice was as smooth as the sea on a dead-calm day when you sat in the boat anxiously watching the drooping sail for a hint of tautness. Nothing was taut about Valerie, except her trim body and unlined face, shadowed by a large straw hat with a big red poppy pinned to the brim.

Sam's mother had three hats: a floppy white sun hat with something that was paint or rust on it, a black hat for funerals, and a yel ow rubber rain hat that made her look like the old salt on the package of Gorton's fish sticks.

“Hi." Samantha, star of the debate team, lead in the junior class play, searched for some other words, something that would make an impression on this witty and urbane woman, a woman Arlene worshiped. Sam had heard so much about Mrs. Atherton, she felt she already knew her—her clothes, her car, her cat, Rhett Butler.

Valerie hailed from the South and what was a hint in Louise Frazier's speech was a ful -blown answer in Valerie's.

“Hi," Samantha said again, now ready with a remark.

"I'm Samantha Mil er.”

She met Arlene's eyes and turned scarlet with embarrassment. Someone else might have said, "I know. I said that, stupid," but Valerie appeared to find it new and delightful.

“I just adore your grandmother and your parents. It's lovely of you to be helping us out this summer. I hope you'l come by the house real soon. We can't show it off enough.

It was in such bad taste to build such a big place and we have no excuse, except we al seem to take up so much space and if the house was any smal er, Jim and I would probably end up getting a divorce, so real y we're helping to change those terrible statistics about failed marriages.”

Mabel Hamilton, who'd been beaming since Valerie came into the kitchen, burst out laughing. "I have to remember this. Maybe if I tel Wilbur it's to save our marriage and set a good example for folks, he wil final y winterize the porch so I can have my sewing room.”

Samantha's cheeks were back to their normal color.

She didn't know anyone who blushed as much as she did; it was annoying, so immature. She realized Valerie had entirely changed the mood of the kitchen and gotten everyone thinking of something else in a very short time.

Valerie perched on one of the stools and asked Mabel if she could have a bowl of the macaroni and cheese. "It's my ultimate comfort food" She was looking at Samantha, so Sam nodded and final y found some words. "Mine, too, along with chocolate pudding and whipped cream."

“And warm applesauce," Arlene suggested. Soon everyone was listing their favorites—mashed potatoes, cinnamon toast, tapioca—until Mabel brought the reverie to a halt with her own candidate—sardine sandwiches.

“Ugh! That's more like bait, Mabel," Dot said. She was about to elaborate when they heard the trample of little feet, many little feet. Samantha and Arlene jumped up to take the huge trays of steaming food out to the tables, where the kids helped themselves family-style. But first Jim asked for quiet. Samantha expected some reference to the mouse incident: "If anyone has any information"—the old "Put your heads down on your desks and I won't tel who raises a hand" kind of thing. Yet he didn't mention it. Instead, he recited from Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar," his voice growing slightly husky at "Sunset and evening star/And one clear cal for me!" Jim started every meal with some inspirational nautical quotation. The man must have spent years memorizing them al . Sam was curious to see whether he recycled them each session or whether there would be a new one every day. Irreverently, she wondered whether he had picked today's quote as a tribute to the mice.

She stood near the wal on one side of the dining room, ready to refil platters and the pitchers of milk and water that were set in the middle of each table. She took the opportunity to study Jim. He didn't seem to be Valerie's type. He dressed invariably in L. L. Bean khakis, the camp T-shirt, and, of course, Top-Siders. He was handsome.

Days on the water had bleached out his light brown hair and given him a good tan. His eyes were clear and blue.

He always looked as if he'd had a good night's sleep. But there was nothing exotic about him, nothing special. He didn't have any style. Samantha found herself searching for the exact words that would sum up her employer. Jim Atherton was ... wel , he was just so straight.

As she'd groped for the definition, Jim's antithesis appeared at the dining room door: black/white, ying/yang, right/wrong, you say either—al rol ed up into one. It had to be Duncan. A nudge and a whisper from Arlene confirmed it. Samantha watched as Jim Atherton's gaze, which had been sweeping steadily across the room at regular intervals like the beam from the old Eagle Island lighthouse, rested on his stepson. There was no mistaking Jim's look of dismay. He concealed it hastily and walked toward the young man.

“Duncan. Hel o. Are you hungry? Take a seat. We're stil on the macaroni and cheese" Jim made the mistake of resting his hand on the boy's shoulder. Duncan shook it off with disdain. Arlene whispered, "Cooties" in Samantha's ear. Sam had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Duncan had looked childish.

Duncan Cowley inhabited that curious limbo between childhood and adulthood, cal ed, depending on the speaker, "the best years of your life,”

“the process of self-actualization," or "teen hel ." To stake out his own particular territory in this strange land, Duncan had chosen to dress al in black. Today he wore a Metal ica concert T-shirt under an unbuttoned black denim shirt, black jeans, and black high-top L.A. Lites, untied and without socks. A black leather bracelet complete with lethal metal spikes completed the ensemble.

“His parents should make him smel his shoes for punishment," Samantha said, adding, "I thought only elementary school kids wore those shoes that light up.

You're right. What a loser.”

Without a word to his stepfather, Duncan made his way to the kitchen, his shoes indeed flashing tiny red spots of light as he walked. The girls turned to the wal . It was the kind of thing that could send them into uncontrol able fits of the giggles.

“And he stinks, too! What is that smel ?" Samantha gasped.

“Musk and B.O."

“Poor Valerie." Samantha was in total sympathy with his mother, something that would have astonished some of her Aleford friends. But then, she wasn't in Aleford, and besides, Valerie wasn't like a regular parent.

At dinner that night, Samantha couldn't stop talking about the Athertons. She and her mother had taken big bowls of chili down to the deck by their own boathouse. Life with Samantha was turning out to be very relaxed, Pix thought as she reached for a tortil a chip straight from the bag. She hadn't even bothered with a bowl and she pushed thoughts of what Mother—and Faith—would say far from her mind. Instead, she concentrated on a cold Dos Equis—

Faith would at least approve of the beer—and on what Samantha was saying. Obviously, the girl was in love.

Had Pix's own besotted crush on their neighbor, Priscil a Graham, been as boring, and even slightly irritating to Ursula? Pix sighed. If she was going to have to listen to paens to Valerie every night, she'd better lay in some more booze. What made it worse was that Valerie was a pretty fascinating creature and Pix liked her. She also knew, though, that in terms of types of women, she, Pix, was somewhere in Julia Ward Howedom, while Valerie inhabited the realms of Carole Lombard and Claudette Colbert, women who could and did wear satin.

“You have got to see him, Mom. He wears an earring, but not one like normal people—it's a notebook ring. I don't even want to think about how he got it through!”

It was an unappetizing thought, Pix agreed. Her mind swerved to the current fashion that bestowed normalcy on male earrings and she laughed aloud. She liked the freedom today's kids had to dress the way they did, although she stil wished Samantha would cut her hair. In Pix's day, the most outré thing one dared do was wear one's Pandora cardigan buttoned up the back instead of the front.

“What are you laughing at?"

“Nothing in particular. I was just thinking about how differently teenagers dress now compared with when I was growing up."

“Your kilts and kneesocks? Your Weejuns? Your circle pin?" Samantha teased her.

“Someone told me circle pins were coming back. I always used to get so confused about which side to wear it on that I never wore mine much—one side meant you were ànice' girl and one meant the opposite. The middle meant something, too, but I can't remember what.”

Now Samantha laughed. "Where would you have put it?"

“None of your business." Pix was not the type of parent who believed in revealing al to her children, especial y before they had passed through the particular stage.

“Do you real y think Duncan put the dead mice on the counter?" Pix was ready to move on to another topic. This had been the first thing Samantha had blurted out to her mother when Pix picked her up. Pix knew there could be no possible connection with Mitchel Pierce's murder, but it was another unsettling event in a place usual y devoid of such things.

“I don't know. It's no secret he hates Jim, hates the camp, maybe even hates his mother for bringing him here.

Arlene says he only has a couple of loser friends, mostly younger kids who are together not because they particularly want to be, but because nobody else likes them. They al wear a lot of black and listen to mope rock, that kind of stuff."

“Mope rock?" This was a new one, but Pix had grown to expect unrelenting novelty after raising one adolescent.

The temps and mores changed at roughly the speed of light.

“Yeah, The Cure, New Order. I mean, I like them sometimes, except it gets a little much—tormented souls, desperate love. It's depressing."

“I think these were the kids who used to write poetry and try to get their parents to let them take the train down to Greenwich Vil age in an earlier day."

“Beatniks! I read about them in my American history book.”

Sometimes children could make you feel very, very old with merely a few wel -chosen words.

“I've read about them, too," Pix countered. She picked up her empty bowl and glass—she had taken the trouble to pour the beer from the bottle—and stood up. It was stil light and she hated to go indoors, but she told Samantha, "I real y have to cal Faith. The kids should be asleep by now"

“I can't wait until they come. I miss seeing Ben and Amy. By August, they're going to be al different. Amy probably won't even remember me." Samantha had gone straight from passionate involvement with horses to smal children, and now, it appeared, to soignée thirty something women, as wel .

“I'm sure the Fairchilds can't wait to see you, either,"

Pix assured her, silently adding, Especial y Faith.

“So what's going on? No more bodies I trust." Faith felt she could be flippant. If another corpse had turned up, in their wel , say, surely Pix would have cal ed her at once.

Besides, she knew every nuance of her friend's speech.

From the moment Pix had said hel o on Sunday, Faith had known something was disastrously wrong on Sanpere.

Tonight's greeting had been cheerful, everyday Pix.

“No, not human ones, anyway." Pix hadn't intended to start the conversation by tel ing Faith about the mice, but here it was.

Faith's reaction was similar to Pix's. "It seems unlikely that the two events have anything to do with each other, except proximity in time, and the use of knives. But why three mice? Were they blind?"

“I imagine they weren't taking in any movies," Pix said.

"I've tried to think of a connection with the rhyme, but Valerie Atherton isn't a farmer's wife, nor are you, and there aren't any other wives involved."

“That we know of," Faith reminded her.

“That we know of. Besides, if it was meant to il ustrate the nursery rhyme, their tails, not their heads, would have been cut off."

“Maybe the person has a bad memory and thought it was `cut off their heads with a carving knife.' “

This actual y made sense. Pix often misremembered childhood ditties, much to her mother's dismay. Her mother was supposed to be in the time of life when one's gray matter retreated into the shadows. Ursula's was a veritable Costa del Sol.

“What kind of mice were they?" Faith asked.

“Common field mice, I suppose. They're al over the island, you know.”

Faith did not know and wasn't sure she was grateful for this new information.

“Not white mice, the kind kids keep as pets?”

“Samantha didn't say, but I don't think they were; otherwise, she would have mentioned it."

“Wel , it is odd. Let me know if anything of a nursery-rhyme nature occurs again. There isn't anything in Mother Goose about a body in the basement, is there?"

“Probably. Some of the rhymes were pretty violent. I'l ask Mother."

“Speaking of violence, what's happening with the investigation?”

Pix told her everything she knew, including Mitchel Pierce's present whereabouts.

“I agree with you. It is sad. And it certainly gives new meaning to the phrase òn the shelf.' If no one has claimed him by August, he should be interred someplace on the island. Tom can do the service," Faith said, cavalierly offering her spouse. "If relatives or friends haven't turned up by then, they would be unlikely to later."

“As soon as they calculate his estate, they're going to advertise—not the amount, of course, although Mitch couldn't have had much just that you could hear something to your interest. If this doesn't bring someone forward, nothing wil —or there's no one to be brought. I'm not saying it wel ."

“You're saying it wonderful y. Why, I don't know, but the whole thing reminds me of the time I went in the backyard and saw this man scattering ashes on the rosebushes. It must be the ashes," Faith added parenthetical y.

“You never told me about this!" Pix exclaimed, surprised at the incident and even more at the fact that she hadn't known about it.

“It was shortly after we were married, and I didn't know you as wel then as I do now. I probably thought you'd be scandalized, because I was furious with him. I mean those were our roses! He could at least have had the decency to ring at the front door and ask permission. It turned out that he was a former parishioner who was passing through and just happened to have his aunt Til y in the car and thought she'd like literal y to be pushing up roses."

“Her name wasn't real y Til y."

“Possibly not. I don't remember. Of course I ended up feeling sorry for him. He finished his sprinkling and I gave him something to eat. I think it was some leftover blueberry tarte."

Faith's food memory was flawless.

“I want that recipe, remember. We're going to have a bumper crop this year and the wild strawberries in the meadow are already ripe. I should have plenty for jam."

“Don't make me jealous. I wish I hadn't accepted al these jobs for the Fourth. I'l never do it again.”

Pix got her chowder advice; it wasn't complicated, simply good old multiplication. Faith suggested she might like to sprinkle fresh dil on top, but Pix told her this was a chowder purist crowd, eschewing even oyster crackers.

Faith then asked Pix's advice on how to stay sane while Amy was determinedly learning to walk, reeling around the house on feet that looked too tiny to support any kind of movement, let alone something as complicated as standing erect unaided.

“I want to give her knee and elbow pads, plus a helmet.

Ben never went through this self-destructive phase. Sure he pul ed himself up on things a lot, but he basical y just sat, then started walking when he was about fourteen months."

“You just don't remember. It's a merciful forgetting. Al that fal ing down”

They talked and laughed about the kids some more.

Pix had yet to receive one of the stack of self-addressed stamped postcards she had sent off to camp with Danny.

She had wanted to do the same with Mark but dared not.

She'd have to pray for col ect cal s. She told Faith about Samantha's Valerie worship, was reassured—and realized she needed it—by Faith's own loyal remarks as to Pix's superiority, despite her lack of a subscription to Vogue.

“It wouldn't hurt to put on a little lipstick occasional y, though. I know what happens to you in Maine. Squeaky-clean is not al that intriguing. And leave a fashion magazine or two around the house with your cow-manure manuals or whatever you're reading these days"

“I'd rather have manure on my roses than what's on yours," Pix retorted.

“That was years ago. Besides, they've bloomed like crazy ever since.”

It was very difficult to get the last word with Faith. Pix said good-bye and went to bed but not to sleep. They were showing movies at the old Opera House in Granvil e again and Samantha had gone with a group of friends.

As she lay listening for the sound of a car door, she thought about putting up another trel is in the garden for morning glories, across from the one that now sported a lush purple clematis. Building. House building. Earl wasn't sure when Seth could get back to work again. Bang.

Samantha was home. Pix turned out her light and was almost startled into wakefulness by remembering.

She'd forgotten to tel Faith what she stil didn't know—

that Seth hadn't done anything at al since May. Forgotten to tel her again.

The Sanpere Stitchers, which was what the Sewing Circle had decided to cal itself about twenty-five years before, was meeting at The Pines this month. Many island routines were disturbed by this sacrosanct meeting. Louel a closed the bakery for the afternoon; Mabel Hamilton left a cold dinner for the camp; and Dot Prescott's daughter went over to fil in for her mother. Anyone in residence at Adelaide and Rebecca Bain-bridge's bed-and-breakfast would find the doors locked. A note affixed to the shiny brass front knocker announced their return at five and suggested a long walk or drive to Granvil e until then.

When the ladies convened at her mother's house, Pix's life was not her own for about twenty-four hours. She wasn't a member of the group, although they graciously al owed her to sit in when it was at Ursula's. Membership was a closely guarded affair, bestowed infrequently and only to women of a certain age and level of skil . The Sanpere Stitchers were very proud of their handiwork, and their annual sale in August to raise money for the Island Food Pantry was sold out by ten o'clock.

Pix's role began the night before with a cal from Mother.

“You remember, dear, that tomorrow is Sewing Circle at my house, don't you?”

Since Ursula had managed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways to work this into the conversation every day since last Friday, Pix did indeed remember. It was written down on several lists.

“Yes, of course, and I'l be there early to help. I know you want my big coffee urn. Is there anything else you need?"

“Not real y. Gert has things under control. She's been baking since Tuesday and cleaning since last Tuesday. But it occurred to me that you might bring some savories—a cheese spread, some crackers, you know the kind of thing.

Perhaps arranged on a nice plate with some grapes, for those who don't want just sweets.”

Pix developed a bowline in the pit of her stomach.

Mother wasn't talking about a Wispride spread or Cheez Whiz. Her reputation was at stake.

“I'l see what I can do," she promised, vowing to cal Faith as soon as Ursula hung up. This was an emergency.

Faith, knowing Pix's culinary expertise, gave her two very simple recipes* and told her to go to the foreign-food section, one shelf, at the IGA and pick up some Carr's water biscuits and Bremer wafers.

“Basical y, these are cream-cheese spreads. For the first, blend some of the goat cheese from the farmers'

market with an equal amount of cream cheese. That goat cheese by itself is too crumbly. If you don't have any, it's Mrs. Cousins who makes it, and you can go to her house.

Try to get the kind she puts herbs in. For the other spread, take some of the green-tomato chutney you put up last year

—you must have some left; you made vats of it—and mix it into the cream cheese. Don't make it too gooshy; taste it as you go along. Then put each in a pretty little bowl and decorate the top with a nasturtium or some other nonlethal posy from your garden. Put them on a platter and arrange the crackers and grapes around the bowls with more flowers.”

The next morning, Pix stepped back from her creation and was tempted to take a picture for Faith. The platter looked beautiful—and tasty. Julia Child, watch out. She decided to go early to Mother's and show off.

“Isn't that lovely!" her mother exclaimed. One of the nice things about Ursula was that she expressed her appreciation, even if it was for something she herself could have done with one hand tied behind her back, especial y in earlier years. This was a woman who stil gathered her grandchildren and their friends together at Easter to make the sugar eggs with the frosting scenes inside from scratch.

"Gert, come see what a good job Pix has done.”

Pix usual y felt about twelve years old on Sewing Circle days. Today it might be ten.

The ladies started arriving promptly at one o'clock, bearing work bags and projects, some to display, some to complete. Pix scurried around fetching chairs and even a footstool or two for those who needed them—like Adelaide Bainbridge. She was an immense woman and said the blood ran better in her legs if her feet were up. She took up two spaces on the couch, further claiming territory as she spread out her work. There was a tiny corner left to sit in and she cal ed over to her sister-in-law, seated in one of the multitude of Boston and Bar Harbor rockers, "Rebecca, there's plenty of room here and I need you to thread my needles. My eyes aren't what they used to be," Addie explained to the group. Rebecca obligingly gathered her things together and squeezed into the space. Fortunately, she was spare and lean, with elbows exposed in the warm weather that looked as sharp as the needle she was now threading. She had brought Ursula an old-fashioned, beribboned nosegay—pale pink sweetheart roses mixed with dried sea lavender surrounded by lily of the val ey leaves. It graced the table now in a smal white pitcher Pix had found, perfect for a tea party.

Louise Frazier had been voted into the group some years ago and after giving Pix a warm hug sat down on the other large couch next to Mabel Hamilton and pul ed out a child's sweater with brightly colored crayons worked on the front. "I have just got to finish this today," she said, needles clicking away. "The sale is only six weeks away and I have two more to do!”

After appropriate praise was given for various articles, the talk turned to how many raffle tickets each member had sold for Adelaide's quilt.

“It's so good of you to give it, Addie. The summer people are buying chances like crazy and now that the Inn is displaying the quilt, even more people wil want tickets,"

Dot said.

Adelaide Bainbridge was one of the island's celebrities. Fame had come late in her life. She now admitted to seventy-nine and friends politely ignored the fact that this admission had been made several years ago, as wel . She'd started quilting as a child, taught by her mother to while away their time on one of the smal islands off Sanpere. Adelaide's father had been a lighthouse keeper in the days before automation replaced the families who faithful y tended the beam. Pix always pictured Addie as one of those lighthouse keeper's daughters in old storybooks, battling through the storm to keep the light burning while Papa lay tossing with fever at her feet. If her childhood had been lonely on the island with only her parents for company, she never said anything. She seemed to have learned how to do an enormous number of things wel from her mother—the art of housekeeping, reading and ciphering, and sewing.

Her quilts had become col ector's items, depicting elaborately appliquéd scenes from her childhood and island life. A few of the recent ones were more abstract—

colorful shapes suggestive of trees, waves, birds, and fish.

Some of the quilts were in the permanent col ections of museums. No shrinking violet—her appearance alone claimed center stage—Adelaide enjoyed being the Grandma Moses of the quilting world. Just when people thought her head couldn't get any bigger, an entire article in The El sworth American—"Good Morning America"—

included her in a special about Maine.

She lived with Rebecca, or rather Rebecca lived with her, moving into the large white nineteenth-century farmhouse after her brother James, Adelaide's husband, died. That was thirty years ago. Rebecca was the perfect handmaiden, basking in Adelaide's glory. No mean quilter herself, Rebecca had already contributed two quilts to the sale, a Double Wedding Ring and a Log Cabin. Now she was turning out an endless number of counted cross-stitch Christmas ornaments, hunched over her work, looking even smal er than she was next to Adelaide's bulk. The two were the island's own odd couple. Adelaide ran the household and was total y down-to-earth and practical, despite the fits of fancy her quilts represented. Rebecca drifted through the day with her head in the clouds—and occasional y her purse in the refrigerator or the garden implement she'd last been using set on the table in place of a fork.

Pix knew what she was supposed to do at these gatherings and announced that the coffee was ready.

People fil ed their plates and she was gratified to see the cheese spreads disappearing. They put their handwork aside and sat back. Pix and Gert passed around more goodies.

“My word, but these are tempting, Ursula, how did you find the time to do al this?" Mabel asked.

Credit where credit was due. "Oh, Gert and Pix did most of it." Her self-deprecating smile hinted at the possibility that she might have sliced a lemon or two and put out the milk.

The talk drifted away from the sale to what was uppermost on every islander's mind these days—Mitchel Pierce. Most people were regarding it as an isolated incident, so it wasn't stirring up anyone's fears. Talk about it tended to the matter-of-fact.

“And the police don't have any leads? You'd think someone would have seen something," Adelaide Bainbridge declared emphatical y after consuming one of Gert's cream puffs in two bites.

No one seemed prepared to respond. Al eyes turned to Pix. She was certain that they knew as much as she did but supposed her discovery of the body conferred some sort of mantle of expertise.

“I'm sure the police have leads that we don't know about. Mitchel hadn't been seen on the island for some time, so they're concentrating around Camden and Bar Harbor. As for seeing something, anyone could have landed on the Point at night—or even driven out there without being noticed. There were no signs of a struggle, so they are probably assuming the murder occurred someplace else. If you were lucky and no one was picnicking, you could even get away , with bringing in a body in broad daylight."

“And Seth hadn't started working out there yet," Gert added.

“I know." Pix stil found it hard to keep the irritation from her voice whenever she thought about it. If Seth had stuck to his promised schedule, or what Pix had assumed was promised, the foundation and cel ar floor would have been poured and the murderer would have had to find someplace else for the body. Yet with Seth's mother sitting across from her, hard at work on a smocked baby's dress, Pix couldn't give vent to her true emotions.

“Poor Mitchel , he was a likable soul," Louel a said.

"But he swindled you out of al that money!" Pix's emotions found an outlet.

“I know, I know, stil I'm going to miss him." It was the first real expression of mourning Pix had heard. "It hasn't been easy to make up the loss, but he intended to pay me back, I'm sure. He simply didn't have it."

“Wel , he'd have it now if he could've taken it with him,"

Ursula commented dryly. "Seems like there's quite a fortune in his bank account in Bar Harbor—close to half a mil ion dol ars.”

This was news, and for an instant the ladies were too amazed to comment, then everyone spoke at once.

Mother has been holding out on me again, Pix thought, and after I slaved away al morning concocting gourmet cheese spreads for her party!

Ursula's voice cut through the fray. "I found out just as you were al arriving and haven't had a chance to tel anyone" She gave her daughter an apologetic look. "Nan Hamilton cal ed to say she'd be late and told me Freeman had heard it from Sonny, who picked it up on the police band”

This was an impeccable source, and the obvious question was voiced by one of the Sanfords, "Where in this world would Mitchel Pierce get al that money?”

It was what Pix was asking herself. Less than a year ago, he was skipping town to avoid his debts and now he was on easy street—or would be if alive. Either he'd been restoring houses at breakneck speed up the coast or he'd been branching out into some other lines of business. The multitude of coves and inlets on the coast brought to mind several il egal possibilities.

Jil offered a suggestion. She was younger than the other members, but she had come so often with her aunt, who had raised her, in days gone by that when the aunt died, it seemed only right to ask Jil to take her place. "He did sel a lot of antiques and maybe he came across something real y valuable."

“That's possible," Pix agreed, "but the police would have discovered that by now."

“How do we know they haven't?" Jil asked.

“Wel , if you don't know, no one on this island does,"

Dot teased her, and Jil obliged by turning red.

“Has anybody claimed him yet?" Serena Marshal asked. "Because when they do, you march right down, Louel a, and get your money back" Serena was partial to Court TV. Cable had changed the landscape of the minds of islanders forever. "They have to settle his debts from the estate.”

Everyone nodded and they moved away from the topic of Mitch to the consideration of a new member.

“She hasn't lived here that long, but she does beautiful work and they are year-round now.”

Pix assumed they were talking about Valerie Atherton.

She said Samantha was enjoying her work at the camp.

“Oh no, not Valerie"—Mabel. laughed—"though she'd liven things up. I don't believe that girl has ever even threaded a needle in her life. We're talking about Joan down to the Inn." Joan Randal and her husband, George, owned the Sanpere Inn. Smiles of the "sil y old Pix" variety crossed some lips and Pix lowered her age to five. She loved these women—but one at a time.

“I don't see why we shouldn't have her," Louise said.

"There's a space open." Everyone grew silent for a moment as they remembered their friend who'd died the year before. "Joan's eager to join and she's a gifted quilter, although a bit shy about her talents. I've seen her quilts. In some of them, she's taken the traditional patterns and given them a new twist by using contemporary fabrics. She has a wonderful sense of color.”

It was agreed that Joan would be the newest Sanpere Stitcher and informed of this signal honor as soon as possible so she could contribute to the sale.

The afternoon drifted on. A lot of coffee was drunk, some gossip conveyed, and a surprising amount of work accomplished. The only note of discord had been struck when Adelaide misplaced her scissors and, finding that her sister-in-law was sitting on them, chewed Rebecca out in no uncertain terms. "I do believe you are getting scattier by the minute, Rebecca! You know you put cream that had turned in the gravy last week." Rebecca appeared not to hear her and just went on working. It was something she'd grown adept at over the years. The other women ignored Addie, too. They'd also heard it al before.

After the last woman left, Ursula looked about at the wreckage of half-fil ed cups and crumb-laden plates and said, "Don't you wish we could leave al this until tomorrow?" Unfortunately, Gert had had to leave, as it was her evening to do for the Bainbridges. Besides Ursula, Gert seemed to do for most of Sanpere.

“Why don't we? Come to my house for supper and leave everything," Pix suggested. She had no problem with it, yet she was sure what her mother's response would be.

“Getting up and seeing a pile of dirty dishes in my living room would be worse than seeing a ... wel , let's just say it would be unpleasant.”

Pix knew what her mother had intended, but she didn't agree. Seeing a body would be far worse. And she, Pix, should know.

It didn't take as long as they thought to clean up. Ursula turned down Pix's offer of supper. "Maybe it's the noise, but al I ever want on Sewing Circle days is a boiled egg and early bed.”

Pix kissed her mother good-bye and headed home.

She felt like talking to Sam and hoped her husband would be around. She'd always thought it was one of life's little inequities that when a man was left on his own, he was showered with dinner invitations—the poor thing. When Sam was out of town, kids home or not, no one so much as offered her a casserole.

Samantha was in the living room reading. Pix was glad to see it was Alice Hoffman and not Martha Stewart—this after Samantha's remark the other evening that their soup bowls didn't match. It had never come to her attention before, and the bowls had been around as long as she had.

She'd be tying ribbons around their napkins next.

“How was your day, sweetheart?"

“I like the teaching part, but it's boring standing around while they eat, then it's a big rush to clean up. The kids are great, except it's kind of sad."

“What do you mean?"

“Wel , some of them real y don't want to be there, although I think they kind of like me."

“They're probably just homesick. Most kids are that way at camp in the beginning."

“I know. I remember Danny sending you al those cards to come get him, then when you final y broke down and went, he wanted to know what you were doing there”

Pix remembered the incident wel . Danny, or their unexpected little dividend, as she and Sam cal ed him in private, was predictably unpredictable in al things.

“But these kids have been sent to camp for years, even though they're so young. It's like their parents want to get rid of them," Samantha continued.

“Maybe their parents need to have a program for them.

If both are working, a child can't simply stay home."

“I know and I think that's true in some cases, but there's one little girl, Susannah, who's so sweet, and I know her mother isn't working. She said so. And then there's this boy I'm kind of worried about. He's real y mad at his parents for what he cal s `dumping' him at camp while they're on vacation."

“It's hard to know what's going on in other people's families." With that understatement, Pix went to make some supper for the two of them, after which she had a delightful and foolish talk with her husband, reminiscent of al the talks of al the other summers.

“Dad thinks he wil be up on Sunday," Pix happily told Samantha. "And he can stay on through the Fourth."

“I'd better make myself scarce," her daughter teased her. "I know what you two are like.”

Pix was stil not used to the idea that her older children knew their parents had and enjoyed sex. "Oh, Samantha, don't be sil y. Daddy wants to spend as much time as possible with you, too.”

And it was true. Sam was taking the thought of his daughter's leaving for col ege in the not-too-distant future even harder than Pix.

The phone rang and Samantha grabbed it, but this time it was for her mother.

“Pix? It's Jil . What are you doing tomorrow? Valerie and I are going to go antiquing over in Searsport and toward Belfast if there's time. Could you join us? Valerie says prices are especial y low because of the economy, and since it's stil early in the season, things haven't been picked over. We'l leave after breakfast. I have someone to cover the store then."

“I'd love to. I have to be home in the afternoon to make chowder for the Fraziers' clambake, so the morning is perfect for me," Pix answered. "I'm looking for a night table to go in the guest room at home, and in any case, it's always fun to poke around."

“Plus, Valerie knows so much about everything.

Whenever I go with her, I always learn new things—and she's very good at dickering. I can never find the nerve.”

Pix had always been amazed that Jil had found the nerve to open and run her store. She was extremely quiet and shy. Both Pix and Faith thought Jil was beautiful—what was cal ed in another day a "pocket Venus"—tiny but perfect, with thick, silky dark brown straight hair fal ing to her shoulders. Her attire betrayed the fact that she spent winters off-island working in Portland. The outfit she'd worn today at the Sewing Circle—a hand-painted turquoise tunic over a gauzy white accordion-pleated skirt—hadn't come from the Granvil e Emporium, where it was stil possible to find printed shirtwaist dresses circa 1955. Tom and Sam both said “attractive" was as far as they would go in describing Jil , thereby confirming Faith's oft-stated notion that men knew nothing about female pulchritude.

The next day, Valerie met them at Jil 's. Pix had offered to drive, but Valerie had a van and there was always the possibility they might be carting home something big. Jil hoped to get some things for the store—smal folk art items and thirties jewelry had proved especial y popular.

“Hop in," Valerie cal ed out cheerful y. She was wearing work clothes jeans, turtleneck, sneakers, each discreetly emblazoned by Lauren. The first place they stopped was a barn. The sign out side promised TRASH

AND TREASURES. Jil had found some alphabet plates at a procurable price there earlier and wanted to look in again. Pix walked through the door feeling the tingle of excitement she always did at an auction, a yard sale, any place that offered not just a bargain but a find.

Jil started sifting through boxes of costume jewelry and Valerie was climbing over dressers and bedsteads to examine an oak dining room set. Pix strol ed through the musty barn. There was a pile of Look magazines next to a windup Victrola. Tables were fil ed with a mixture of fine cut glass and gas station giveaways. She was slightly taken aback to see the kind of tin sand pail and shovel from her childhood behind locked doors with other toys of various vintages. Maybe hers was stil in the attic at The Pines. At the end of the aisle, there was a heap of linens, and her heart began to beat faster when she saw there were some quilts in the pile. She started to sort through them. Motes of dust floated in the strong light from an adjacent window.

Some of the quilts had suffered a great deal of dam age, but one was remarkably wel preserved. Left in a trunk or used only for company, it was the Flying Geese pattern, done in shades of brown and gold. The triangular "geese"

were several different prints—some striped, some flowered. The setting strips were muslin and elaborately quilted. It was a real scrap quilt and Pix fel in love with it.

There were occasional touches of bright red, perhaps flannel, and the handwork was exquisite. She took it and two of the damaged ones that she thought could be repaired to the front of the barn.

“How much for al three?" she asked the owner. "Some of them are very badly worn."

“Came out of a house over near Sul ivan. Nothing that went in ever left until the party that owned it departed in a pine box." He seemed to find this very funny. Pix had heard about these untouched houses before.

“What's your price?"

“Two hundred dol ars," he said firmly.

Pix almost gasped. The man obviously didn't know what quilts were bringing. She held on to her senses and countered, "A hundred and fifty"

“We'l split the difference, deah. How about one seventy-five—plus tax”

Pix agreed. She wasn't about to lose her quilts. She paid him and ran over to Jil , who had a fistful of Bakelite bracelets.

“Look what I got!" Pix kept her voice down, but it was hard.

“Quilts! How wonderful. I'l pay for these and then let's go where I can see them properly.”

They cal ed to Valerie that they'd be outside, then spread the quilts on the grass by the van. The Flying Geese quilt looked even better in the sunlight against the green grass. "Pix, it's gorgeous," Jil enthused.

Pix was elated and bent down to look at the stitching again. That's when she saw it. Close to the border, just like the other one. Two crossed blue threads.

Two crossed blue threads just like the ones on the quilt that had served as Mitchel Pierce's winding-sheet.