The Body In The Basement

Four

Pix was so startled that she grabbed Jil 's arm.

“It's the—”

She started to speak, then stopped abruptly. She hadn't told anyone except Earl about the mark, a mark that had come to represent a hex in her mind. He hadn't seemed very interested. Pix quickly decided to change course.

“It's the best quilt I've ever found. What a treasure!”

Jil did not appear to find Pix's overt enthusiasm odd.

Quilters were known for their passion.

“It is beautiful. You are so lucky. I could probably get three or four hundred dol ars for it, maybe more." She sounded wistful. "What about the other quilts, what are they like?”

Pix was suddenly eager to examine them for more marks. They spread them out in a row.

“What a shame! This quilt is almost perfect, only some wear in the corner. But that could be repaired. What's the pattern?"

“I'm not sure. Some variation of Pinwheel. This one is Irish Chain, though, and it wil take some work, but I think I can replace the parts where the fabric has disintegrated.”

Pix wanted to go back to the pile of linens to examine them further. For al she knew, the blue cross-stitches could be a kind of laundry mark, but it was strange to find them in exactly the same place on both quilts.

“Shal we see what else we can turn up? Valerie seems to be engaged in mortal combat with the owner over that dining room set, so we might as wel look around some more.”

Jil commented, "Mortal combat with velvet gloves.

When I was leaving, I heard her tel him, `My, what lovely things you've got here. I have so many people asking me to find antiques for them, I just know I'm going to be coming here al the time.' “

Pix had to laugh at her imitation of Valerie's accent—

Down East meets Down South. It was a curious encounter.

Happily, Jil wanted to look at the linens, and Pix led her to that corner of the barn. They sorted through the stack of mismatched napkins, huck hand towels, and tablecloths, turning up the two badly tattered quilts Pix had previously spotted. Pix shook out each one thoroughly, ostensibly looking for holes. There wasn't a blue mark to be seen. Jil decided to take some of the monogrammed guest towels.

“People don't care whose initials they are so long as they have them. It adds a touch of class to one's powder room."

“I'l have to remember that if I ever have one," Pix remarked. The downstairs half bath off the kitchen in the Mil er household always seemed to be fil ed with the kids'

overflow from the bath the three shared upstairs. In the past, it was dinosaur toothbrush holders and whatever toothpaste manufacturers had dreamed up to entice kids to brush—

sparkles, stars, exotic flavors. Now it was hair gel and hot combs. The towels, while not actual y on the floor, were always in disarray, except for the first five minutes after she put out clean ones.

With her mind torn between a vision of what a home inhabited by two reasonably tidy adults would look like and how dreadful it would be not to find mud-covered cleats in the living room anymore, she wandered toward the big open barn door.

At the front of the store, Valerie was writing a check and arranging to come back later for the dining room set.

She didn't want to stand around and wait while he unearthed it al . When the owner's back was turned, she shot Pix a triumphant glance and winked.

Outside as she looked at the quilts, she softly crowed,

"Golden oak, never restored—perfect condition and everything my client wants, even the lion's paw feet on the table. It's not my taste, but at the moment it's delicious. He said he was happy to get rid of it, wants the room!" She picked up the corner of the Flying Geese quilt to examine the stitching. "It looks like you made a steal, too, Pix. This is gorgeous. You sure you want to keep it? I have just the place for it. I wouldn't sel this one"

“And neither would I, thank you," Fix said gleeful y.

Somehow it added to the sweetness of the coup to have a professional's approval—and envy.

“Ladies, the morning is young. Let's get going!”

By lunchtime, they were ready to quit. The shops had begun to merge together into one antique haze. Valerie had picked up some yel ow ware bowls and pitchers.

"These used to go for a song, but now that everyone has a country kitchen, or a modern one that has to be accented with a few old pieces, the prices are up. Stil these were good buys." Pix did not find her night table. What she did find was an elaborate Victorian wire plant stand perfect for the second-floor landing in her house in Aleford. She might even bow to convention and put a Boston fern in it.

Jil had found several more smal items, including an old dol made from a clay pipe that she knew would appeal to someone. Also a cigar box ful of old hat pins. Her find for the day was an elaborately carved picture frame, a sailor's valentine. The picture was gone, but the wood was in perfect shape.

“Who do you suppose looked out from here," Valerie mused, "his sweetheart, his mama? We'l never know”

“Maybe his dog," Pix suggested. That would have been her choice. She'd see what price Jil put on the frame.

Dusty's face would look perfect surrounded by the intricately carved wood, the same golden honey color as her fur.

They decided to stop for lunch at Country View, a stand on the way back to the island that overlooked a large cow pasture and blueberry fields. The view changed with the seasons, green and yel ow now with a few contented Swiss Browns in clover, their tails swinging like pendulums at the flies. Pix had a sudden image of a chirpy cuckoo emerging from a yawning pink mouth on the hour.

Happily munching fish sandwiches—and the fish was so fresh—Fix realized she'd be up to her elbows in haddock and cod for much of the afternoon. She wasn't going to get any gardening done, but at least the chowder was foolproof. No anxiety there. She'd made it dozens of times before.* And it had to be made the day before so the flavors could blend. If she put it off until the morning, it would stil taste delicious, but at the first bite Ursula would go into her old "Can you look me straight in the eye and say that?"

routine, asking, "When did you make this chowder?" She might even cal her Myrtle. It had happened before.

Over their coffee and thick wedges of the pie made at the stand, apple today, Jil brought up the subject of Mitchel Pierce.

“Did you know Mitch, Valerie? It's funny. I hadn't thought about missing him until someone mentioned it at the Sewing Circle yesterday. But he was a part of life here

—both his good and bad sides. And, of course, the whole thing is so disturbing." Jil did seem to be extremely disturbed. She was picking at the handle of the paper coffee cup, reducing it to shreds. And several of her cuticles were ragged. Pix had never seen her display any nervous gestures. Jil was normal y as imperturbable as a china dol —and just about as easy to read.

“I've met him," Valerie replied, "but I didn't know him. I saw him at a few shows and bought things from him once or twice. He sold me that sweet little col ection of fans I had framed to hang in my bedroom. We'd planned on having him down to the house sometime. Jim says he was quite the storytel er. The two of them were friends, but we've been so busy with the move and the house, there hasn't been much time for anyone”

Pix was tempted to tel them about the cross on the quilts and see whether they had any idea what it could mean. Valerie, especial y, might know if this was a common mark on antique quilts. But again, she decided to do as Earl had advised and keep quiet.

“I hate to break up the party. It's been so nice to get away—and with grown-ups, too—but if I don't make the chowder, I real y wil break up a party. Louise is counting on it."

“I'm taking some of Louel a's pies. I don't dare try to cook any of my southern specialties for Louise."

“Wel , I'm bringing festive plates and napkins from the store," Jil said. "Louise knows the size of my kitchen—and the extent of my culinary expertise. Dinner guests are lucky to get a hamburger. I need Faith to give me a few lessons.”

This was encouragingly domestic, and Pix longed to give Jil a little more of a nudge altar ward. "There's a wonderful house for sale on the crossroad. The last owners put in a new kitchen and the back has an orchard that slopes down to one of the long inlets from Little Harbor."

She could picture Jil , rosy-cheeked and smiling, hanging up her wash near the old apple trees, a pie keeping warm on the stove for Earl's return. "And Faith likes nothing better than teaching people how to cook. Dismal failure though she's been with me, she keeps trying.”

But Jil wasn't biting. "How could I afford a big house like that? Besides, it's so convenient living over the store”

Pix sighed. Maybe another time.

The first thing Pix did when she got home was spread out the quilt in the living room. It had not diminished in effect, yet she found herself with a definite feeling of unease as she stood looking at it. The blue threads—but what else was nagging at her? It was too cheap. Why had the dealer let it go for so little?

She thought about it al the way over to Sonny Prescott's lobster pound. Sonny dealt in al kinds of marine life, besides those succulent crustaceans. Pix had already ordered the cod and haddock for the chowder. The mixture of the two fish, as wel as the use of slab bacon instead of salt pork gave the Rowe family chowder a distinctive flavor.

They also put in more onions than most recipes cal ed for.

Hearing the car, Sonny stuck his head out the bait shed doorway and yel ed, "I'm over here" Pix fol owed him in. He'd been close to the only other murder investigation on Sanpere in recent memory and Pix wondered what his thoughts might be on Mitchel Pierce's death. Among others, Mitch had boarded at Sonny's one winter, so he knew Mitch better than most.

“I've come for my fish," Pix said. The smel of the bait, decomposed herring, was overwhelming, but it didn't bother her. It was one of those smel s you got used to in childhood and never noticed again. She vastly preferred it to al those perfume samples magazines and catalogs were including in their glossy pages with increasing eye-watering and nose-itching frequency.

“Be right there, deah. Got to get this ready for Jeb Sanford." Sonny supplied fishermen with bait, fuel, and whatever else was needed. In turn, they sold their catches exclusively to him.

While she was waiting, Pix left the shed and sat at the end of the pier, dangling her legs over the side. She'd known Sonny since they were both teenagers and had occasional y "borrowed" a dinghy from the yacht club to row out into Sylvester Cove to watch the sparkling phosphorescence magical y drip from the oars, a mirror image of the mass of bril iant stars shining overhead. What else Pix and Sonny might or might not have done in the way of canoodling was between the two of them, but they always had a special smile for each other. Sonny came and sat down next to her, the huge package of fish fresh from the boats tied up and set behind him.

“I cleaned it for you. Save you some time. It's for chowder, right? The Fraziers' clambake?" Sonny probably knew the social plans of every inhabitant on the island for the holiday just from the orders that had been placed.

“Yes, and I'l be peeling potatoes until midnight. I've been dreading cleaning al this fish. You are truly a godsend. What would I ever do without you?”

Sonny grinned. "Let's not find out." They sat for a while looking at the boats moored in the cove. There were some beautiful yachts from farther down the coast. From behind Barred Island in the distance, one of the windjammers sailed into view.

“Is it the Victory Chimes?" Pix asked.

Sonny nodded. "Funny to think these were work-boats, hauled lumber, whatever else was traded. Now they're hauling rich tourists who want to experience the good old days—cramped sleeping quarters and plenty of hard work to sail the things. Me, I'd like to take one of those cruises Kathie Lee advertises. That would be some good time.”

Pix laughed and asked if he'd heard what the weather was going to be for the next couple of days.

“Same as it's been. Good for vacations and good for me; not so good for the crops or fires. Heard they had a big one up to Baxter State Park," Sonny observed.

“My garden is going to shrivel up and die." There was that word. Pix had used it on purpose. "Like Mitchel Pierce.”

They looked at each other.

“If you hadn't have gone out there, no one would ever have found him. Seth was fixing to pour this week."

“I know. It's scary. Who do you think wanted Mitch out of the way so badly?”

Sonny had to have a theory. He did about most things and he did about Mitch.

“I figure he must have gotten in over his head somehow with the antiques or maybe the cars. He was a trusting soul for a crook and not a real good judge of character. This time, he put his faith in the wrong man."

“Crook!"

“Come on, Myrtle," Sonny was virtual y the only person who used her name in everyday conversation. "The man was running scams up and down the East Coast. Where do you think he got al those fancy cars?”

Mitch had a fondness for vintage sports cars.

“Saved up?"

“Touch one of those fenders and like as not you'd burn your fingers.”

This was food for thought: a stolen-car ring.

“Lot of talk about a car wash place in Belfast that real y laundered the vehicles. Mitch was a regular.”

“And the antiques?"

“Fakes. Don't look so surprised. Just because he could tel a good story and did a nice job for your mother doesn't make him a member of the choir. People are not always al of a piece like you.”

Pix wasn't sure whether this was a compliment or not.

She suspected something in between. Oh, for a bit more intricacy.

“Not that I'm suggesting you change. I like you just the way you are—especial y those long legs of yours" Sonny stood up and eyed them, exposed to ful advantage in Pix's denim shorts. For an instant, they were teenagers again, ready to take off for a picnic on Strawberry Island, a little knol off Prescott's Point. Pix was suddenly acutely aware that Sonny was divorced and her own husband was almost three hundred miles away. She paid for her fish and left with a pleasant sense of having been tempting and tempted.

The fact that she was absolutely and total y in love—and loyal—to her husband made it al the more enjoyable.

At home, she began the mammoth task of cutting and chopping, running what Sonny had said about Mitch through her mind as she alternately was drenched in tears from the onions and splattered fat from the sizzling bacon.

Maybe there would be a chance to talk to Earl in private at the clambake tomorrow. Jil said he was coming, although he'd probably be cal ed away just as they were uncovering the lobsters. There were going to be about fifty people of al ages at the party, and Pix found large gatherings often offered more opportunities for intimate conversation than smal ones. Two people strol ing off to gather driftwood for the bonfire were much less likely to attract anyone's notice than say two people disappearing from a group of eight at a dinner party.

She decided to cal Faith and have her give Sam a book that Pix had about identifying quilts, so that he could bring it up. Sam would never find it himself, and Faith wouldn't stop until she did. Pix was absolutely sure it was in the stack of books by her bed, in with the cookbooks in the kitchen, or down in the basement in a carton waiting for more bookshelves. The quilt looked authentic, yet it was possible that it was a fake. Using the book, she could date it. Which would mean what? That she had been swindled?

The man hadn't said it was an old quilt. Maybe the quilt on Mitchel Pierce's body wasn't old either, but what would that matter? It did somehow, though. She was sure. She took her cleaver and whacked the head off an enormous cod Sonny had missed when he cleaned the fish. She thought of the mice. She thought of Mitch. The cod stared at her, glassy-eyed. She came to her senses. Chowder, rich, fragrant fish chowder. She tossed the head into a pot for stock and beheaded the other cod she found with aplomb.

These were fish, not French aristocrats, and she was definitely not a murderess.

“Anything I can do to help?" Samantha's voice was a welcome alternative to the sound of tumbrels.

“Perfect timing. Could you peel these potatoes?”

“Mother! There are mountains of them," Samantha shrieked.

“Wel , just do as many as you can and I'l help when I get the onions done and the rest of the fish cut up.”

Samantha had spent the morning at The Pines. She often bicycled over to see her grandmother. They had a very special relationship. Pix wondered what they found to talk about, but they shared a love of the outdoors and it was Ursula who had started Samantha on the first of her many col ections—seashel s at age three.

“Granny's helping me with the mosses," Sam told her mother.

“I thought you'd given the project up"

“Of course not, after al that work last summer!”

“This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that Arlene is otherwise occupied, would it?" Pix was curious to know how Samantha was taking Arlene's defection.

“Not real y. Besides, she and Fred aren't married. She is al owed to go places without him." Samantha cut the sarcasm in her voice and admitted to her mother, "It's true, I miss her, but with her job, we wouldn't see each other that much, and she does like to spend time with her boyfriend.

Otherwise, why bother having one?”

Pix decided to change the subject.

“I bought some beautiful quilts this morning antiquing with Jil and Valerie. One is especial y lovely. It's on the couch. Take a break and go look at it."

“You didn't tel me Valerie was going. I thought it was just Jil ! What did she buy?”

Correctly surmising Samantha meant Valerie and not Jil , Pix gave an account of the morning.

“She has got such perfect taste. We should hire her to do our house."

“But our house is done.”

Samantha raised an eyebrow, clearly indicating that a decorating scheme that had evolved simply because that was where things had happened to land did not represent interior design in her opinion.

“How about my room, then? We could send her pictures. I'm sure she'd have some great ideas."

“Some expensive ideas.”

Pix heard it inside her head before it was said: "Oh, Mother!”

Samantha, happy for an excuse to leave the potatoes, went to look at the quilts.

“The one with the triangles is real y beautiful, Mom. We should hang it on a wal here or at home."

“That's what I was thinking." Pix went into the other room and the two of them held the quilt out.

“What's that blue cross on the bottom?" Samantha moved her thumb to indicate the threads.

“I have no idea," Pix replied truthful y, but something in her voice betrayed her.

Samantha looked her straight in the eye—and where she had picked up this trick, Pix didn't like to think. "Come on, Mom. What aren't you tel ing me? You are such a bad liar."

“And you're a good one?"

“Don't try to change the subject”

Pix realized that the proximity in which they were spending the summer would make keeping secrets difficult.

"I don't know what it means. Probably nothing. It's just that there was a cross like this one on the quilt out on the Point, too."

“Nothing! It could be a major clue!" Samantha was excited, yet after they discussed it some more while finishing the chowder preparations, both women were forced to agree that if it was a clue, they were without one.

The chowder was simmering and Samantha had gone off to the dance at the Legion Hal . It was an island institution, a mixture of ages, groups, and most especial y music—everything from "Like a Virgin" to the Virginia reel, with a stop at "a one and a two and a three" in between.

She'd cal ed Faith, who had then cal ed back to say she'd located the book and placed it in Sam's car just before he left. That was at six o'clock. He'd arrive, like Samantha, before midnight. Pix told Faith about the discovery of the quilt and the second mark.

“Perhaps both quilts belonged to the same family,"

Faith suggested.

“Sul ivan!" Pix was annoyed she hadn't made the connection before. "The man said the linens had come from Sul ivan and that was where Mitch was living before he was kil ed."

“It does seem like more than a coincidence. What you need to do is figure out if your quilt is authentic and talk to Earl.”

Pix was tempted to say she'd already planned this very course of action, but instead she thanked Faith for getting the book and told her she'd be in touch soon.

“I know," her friend said before she hung up.

Pix never minded being in the cottage alone. It was so familiar and felt so safe that she thought of it as a kind of shel . Now she curled up inside, actual y in one of the big overstuffed armchairs in the living room, with a mug of Sleepy time tea and the latest issue of Quilter's Newsletter Magazine.

The first car door slam was her husband's. She'd dozed off but awoke instantly at the welcome sound and was at the door. He dropped his suitcase and held her tightly.

“I wish I could have come up right away. It has to have been a hel ish time for you both.”

After a moment, she leaned away and told him, "It honestly hasn't been too bad. Everyone is more puzzled than alarmed, and it's easier because none of us was real y very close to Mitch."

“He was an interesting son of a gun, though.

Remember the night he came and played the mandolin at the Hamiltons and he and Freeman got to trading stories. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life."

“That was a great night." It had been many years ago, before Danny was born. That reminded her. "Did you stop at Chewonki and see Danny?"

“No, I did not." Seeing the look on her face, Sam took both his wife's hands. "First off, it was late and I would have interrupted the evening program, thereby embarrassing him for the remainder of his summer, and second, he likes, even loves, his old man, but at home. Chewonki is his turf, a parent-free zone for Danny. Don't worry, sweetheart, he'l be back before you know it and expecting you to do everything for him just as usual." It was not entirely a frivolous observation and they'd had this conversation before—many times before, inserting Mark or Samantha for Danny.

“Are you hungry?" Pix asked, hoping Sam would want only a drink and maybe some crackers and cheese. She had some of the chutney spread stil left from Friday's Sewing Circle.

Sam saw the look on her face. He had not stopped to eat, but he couldn't do it to her.

“Not very, how about a drink and maybe a few crackers or whatever you have around.”

Pix beamed. Why wouldn't Jil —or Earl—want to get married?

In bed, Pix found having someone to keep her company while she listened for Samantha to come home did a great deal to diminish the anxiety. Also, they were busy tel ing each other al the things that had happened in their respective worlds since they'd last been together.

Atypical y, more had been going on in Pix's than Sam's.

He did not seem to think the quilt marks meant much.

"It was probably a common way to mark where something else was going to go—the name and date, as you suggested. Or maybe it was part of the basting that didn't get removed." Sam had watched his wife complete several quilts and was quite knowledgeable about how they went together. Sam was the type of man who liked to know the way things worked. This had led him to medical school, but the discovery that he fainted with great regularity at the sight of an abundance of blood curtailed his career, although not his interest. He stil read The New England Journal of Medicine and the Harvard Health Newsletter in between briefs.

Slam—music to the ears of parents of teenagers, just as the cessation of noise was for the parents of toddlers.

Samantha was home safe and sound.

Pix reached up to turn out the light.

“No, I want to say hel o. I'l be right back" Sam threw on his robe, a wel -worn Black Watch plaid flannel one he kept hanging on the back of the door, and went downstairs. He had missed his daughter and wanted to tel her so. He also wanted to tel her that a quarter after midnight was the thin end of the wedge on a twelve o'clock curfew. Pix had enough to cope with this summer without Samantha's coming in just a little bit later every Saturday night.

The weather continued unbroken and the Mil ers awoke to gorgeous blue skies and almost balmy weather.

Too balmy, Pix thought as she got dressed. It wasn't supposed to be this hot on the coast of Maine.

Sam was already gone, having offered as usual to help El iot get the clambake ready, no smal task and one Pix suspected the men relished for its complexity and the opportunity to dig in the sand. After constructing a pit unpleasantly reminiscent of what she and Samantha had stumbled across the previous week, they would line it with rocks and pile driftwood, plus anything else that would burn

—charcoal if there wasn't enough wood—on top. The fire had to heat the rocks for at least five hours. Otherwise, when they threw the wet seaweed on, there wouldn't be enough steam to cook the lobsters, clams, corn, chicken, and sausage that would be layered on top. The Fraziers'

clambake was famous for its authenticity and had become a Fourth of July tradition. They always seemed to be able to find room for more guests and it had grown each year from humble beginnings to the kind of quintessential red-white-and blue photo opportunity that politicians running for office dream about.

Pix and Samantha were going to church. After last Sunday, Pix was not about to skip it, even though she relished the clambake preparations as much as her husband did. She was not a superstitious person, yet something told her she'd enjoy the day a whole lot more if she'd bent a knee in a pew rather than hauling rocks.

Sam returned before they left. He wanted to get more wood from their cove.

“We'l be back at noon to change," Pix told him, "and then I promised Louise I'd help her bring things to the beach, so I'l see you there." She kissed her husband goodbye. He returned it somewhat absentmindedly and she knew his thoughts were on hot rocks and rockweed, the

"snap, crackle, and pop" seaweed, the kids cal ed it, because of the sound it made beneath your toes and when squeezed between your fingers.

“I'l get rid of this load of wood, then change cars with you, so take both sets of keys." It wasn't that he didn't like her driving his Porsche—he al owed it because he knew he should. It was that he didn't want coleslaw, chowder, and whatever else was going to the clambake to be stowed on his particular leather-covered backseats.

“Don't worry, Daddy, we'l take good care of your baby," Samantha teased him. "Can I drive?"

“Don't even joke," her father replied.

Pix enjoyed the short trip across the island to the smal white clapboard church where they worshiped. It was nice to drive a sleek, jazzy machine that sped forward instantly at the slightest pressure on the gas. Maybe she should trade her Land Rover in. It was such a symbol—Pix, the trucker, the transporter of men, women, children, animals, and al their worldly possessions. It would certainly be nice to have an excuse: "Sorry, I can't pick up twenty watermelons for the school picnic. They won't fit in the car,"

and so on.

“Mom, what are you thinking about? You have the funniest expression on your face."

“Do I? I was thinking maybe I ought to get a new car, something smal er.”

Samantha shook her head. "Your car is always loaded now. If it was any smal er, you'd have to get a trailer. Make Daddy let you drive his more. I wish I could. It must be a blast," she added longingly.

They stopped outside the church and hurried in, sliding next to Ursula just as the bel in the steeple began to tol .

“Such a perfect day for the clambake," Ursula whispered. "I figured Sam would be with El iot, but I was beginning to wonder where you two were.”

At one o'clock, Pix was helping Louise set up. Sam had started a smal er fire, let it burn down, and placed a gril on top for the huge pot of chowder Pix had made. They lugged it over and gingerly set it in place. Sam took off the cover and inhaled. "Sweeter than al the perfumes of Araby.

I believe this is going to be the best ever. Why don't I get a cup and give it a try?"

“You say the same thing every year!"

“That's not true. I don't remember ever comparing your chowder to perfume before."

“Possibly, but the rest. Anyway, by al means get a cup.

You know me—a bottomless sink for reassurance when it comes to cooking.”

Sam got a cup and ladled some out. He took a heaping spoonful. "It's ... wel , how can I describe it?”

“Good or bad?"

“Superlative.”

Pix heaved a sigh of relief. He always said superlative, too, but it was comforting to hear. The perfume simile was new, though: "Al the perfumes of Araby" Wasn't it

"Arabia"? Macbeth. Lady Macbeth scrubbing at her hands.

She wished he'd picked something else.

It was impossible to forget that only a week ago on such a day as this, a corpse had turned up. As people began to arrive, struggling with food, sports equipment, and smal children, she wondered whether the guilty one walked among them. She had to put it out of her head. Sonny Prescott had provided the most logical answer. Mitch had gotten in with the wrong business partners.

“Pix, Pix, could you help set these out?" Louise always became mildly flustered at the start of the clambake. She was nervous that the food wouldn't cook until it was too dark to eat, although the rare years when El iot had miscalculated and they did eat late, nobody had minded a bit. Eyeing what Louise had provided and others were bringing, Pix thought the problem would be finding room to eat anything else ·when the tarp was taken off and the fragrant layers of food exposed.

“There's enough to feed an army here!" she said, gesturing to the tables they'd constructed from planks and sawhorses, then covered with red-checked oilcloth.

“Good," a voice behind her commented, reaching for a deviled egg—Louise's great-aunt Lily Sue's prized recipe.

It was Earl, and Jil was by his side, Pix noted happily.

They were carrying paper plates, napkins, and other necessary objects. For the next hour, Pix was busy ladling out her chowder, which was disappearing fast. The party was in ful swing. The vol eybal net had been set up and there was a ferocious game of over forties versus unders going on. The younger children were exploring the shore, climbing over the rocks, oblivious of the sharp barnacles and other hazards that threatened their bare feet.

Samantha and some of her friends were with them. Arlene and her boyfriend had put in an appearance, politely tasted the chowder, then left for the Prescott clambake. There were time-honored functions occurring al over the island and the problem was not having enough time, or room in one's stomach, to visit them al .

The actual day of the Fourth was so crammed ful of activities that years ago, islanders had started celebrating early with their family picnics, usual y clambakes.

Seth Marshal had also dropped by with his parents.

He didn't partake of any of Pix's chowder. Maybe he was saving room for the next clambake. And maybe he was avoiding her. The crime site was stil sealed off by the police, so this was unlikely. But when she waved him over to ask him how quickly he could start once the police gave the word, he was so engrossed in conversation with Jil that he appeared not to see Pix's gestures. Overseeing the Fairchilds' cottage could be more work than she had envisioned. The first, almost overwhelming task was proving to be getting it started.

Pix reached up to mop her brow. Her T-shirt was beginning to stick to her back. It was getting unpleasantly hot, especial y standing over the chowder. She was glad she'd worn her bathing suit under her clothes. The cove was on deep water, which explained why the yacht club had selected the spot roughly eighty years ago—a yacht club that consisted of a venerable equipment shack, some moorings, and a few life buoys with SANPERE YACHT

CLUB stenciled on them. Some people were already in the water, and Pix was amused to see friends who expressed amazement at the Mil ers' tolerance, even enjoyment, of the cold temperature, bobbing about and cal ing others to join them.

The Athertons had arrived laden with pies and Valerie and Jim promptly joined the vol eybal game—on opposite sides of the net, Pix noted. She glanced around. Duncan, who she recognized from Samantha's description, was at the other end of the beach. It was hard to see him. He was sitting high up on a granite ledge at the point where it met the woods. His somber attire blended into the shadows of the trees. A figure of melancholy, a figure of gloom. Of doom? A mouse kil er. Pix firmly shoved back al the morbid thoughts that persisted in crowding into her conscious mind and joined the vol eybal game—on the over-forty side. Away from the chowder fire, she felt ten degrees cooler, and giving a good hard thwack to the vol eybal felt terrific.

During a break, Sam brought her a cold beer. "Who's that guy with the Bainbridges?”

Pix turned to look. Adelaide was settled into a monstrous lawn chair with al sorts of cushions, rugs, and satchels strewn about her. Rebecca was pressing sun-block on her. "You know how you burn, Addie."

“Oh, can't you let a body be? I'm fine. You'd think I was a two-year-old." This last comment was made to the man Sam had wondered about.

“I think he's staying at their bed-and-breakfast. I've seen him in the post office. But it would be odd for them to bring one of their guests to the Fraziers' clambake. I'l ask Louise.”

Pix walked over to her hostess, keeping the unknown visitor in view. He was very slim, attractive, with dark closely cropped curls and a smal neatly trimmed beard but no mustache. His clothes were appropriate and looked expensive. His jeans were pressed. Faith would be able to tel the brands and how much he'd paid instantly, but al Pix could determine was that his shirt might be silk. He'd knotted a raspberry-colored cotton sweater about his neck and there wasn't a drop of perspiration evident anywhere on his body. Pix's own damp hair told her what she looked like. After her swim, she'd get the fresh shirt she'd left in the car and put it on. Looking at this guy was having this kind of effect on her. He was tan and the only jewelry he wore was a watch. Maybe if she got closer, she could see what kind.

Faith always said that you could tel almost everything about a person by his or her watch and shoes. Pix looked down.

He was barefoot. Her own feet were clad in serviceable white Keds.

Louise was drinking a glass of white wine, not a good sign. "I don't know when we'l be ready to eat," she announced. "I've decided not to let it bother me, though."

Her tone belied her words.

“Good, you shouldn't worry about a thing," Pix reassured her emphatical y. "Everyone is having a marvelous time. And besides, what have we been doing since we got here? No one would leave hungry, even without the lobsters and clams. But they'l be ready soon, so we won't have to find out."

“You're right. Some years it just takes longer than others." She put down her glass and picked up one of Aunt Lily Sue's eggs from a careful y shaded area on the table.

"Don't you just love the Fourth of July celebrations? It's my favorite holiday. When I was a little girl, we'd have big picnics like this. Of course we didn't bury our food in the sand”

It must have been something more than mystifying when Louise met El iot and first heard about a Down East clambake.

“By the way, do you know that man who came with Addie and Rebecca?" Pix asked.

“Haven't you met Norman? He's been here for two weeks now. That's Addie's beau." Louise smiled. "Beau!"

“Wel , perhaps not strictly speaking, but he does dance attendance on her—and on Rebecca, too. He's an antiques dealer from New York City and he's taking a working vacation, he told them. They're to keep his room available for a month and he comes and goes”

New York City—that explained the clothes and the good haircut. Pix was trying very hard in what she hoped was the second half of her life—and look at Mother, so it was not impossible—to cultivate a more open mind about certain things, one of them being New York City. She now had a dear friend in Faith, who had actual y been born and raised there. In fact, truth be told, she might even prefer it to Aleford and Boston, although Pix was always careful never to ask outright. She didn't want to know for sure. Try as she might, the name New York City did not suggest the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, but fast living and danger. Whenever she was there—and they dutiful y took the children, as wel as making one or two adult forays—

she felt like a rube who would leap at the chance to buy the Brooklyn Bridge before she knew what she was doing.

She looked over at the Bainbridge group, appraising Norman in light of this new information.

He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. Whatever Addie had just said had sent him into peals of laughter.

He'd been sitting on a blanket literal y at her feet and got up now, walking toward the table with the drinks.

“Addie says he told her she's the most interesting woman he's met in years. Every time he goes off-island, he brings something back for them."

“I'l bet he just wants to get her quilts cheap," Pix said skeptical y.

“No, he doesn't sel anything made after 1900. He told her he liked her work, but they're not his `thing.' "

“Then, what do you suppose he sees in her?"

“We al take Addie for granted because we know her, but she is a great storytel er. El iot thinks Norman is writing a book. Most people are. And Addie is a great source.”

The afternoon wore on. Pix took a swim, which felt heavenly while she was in the water, but without a shower to wash off the salt, increasingly itchy later, even under her clean dry shirt. She sat down with her back against a log cast up on the shore by one of the winter storms and glanced around to check on her family, a reflex. Ursula was in deep conversation with John Eggleston, whose bright red beard and hair blended wel with the shade his face had taken on during the day. What on earth could they be discussing? Was Mother going to take up wood sculpture?

Pix would not be surprised. Sam was poking at the mound with El iot. They might have been considering a Viking tomb, given the intensity of their expressions. And Samantha was ... walking toward her.

Samantha sat next to her mother, leaned back, and stretched her long legs, almost as long as Pix's, out, wriggling her toes in the sand. The two considered the view for a moment before speaking. This one from Sylvester Cove was every bit as good as the one from The Pines, or the Mil ers' cottage, or just about anywhere else on the island Pix could name. Today there were dozens of sailboats, crisp white triangles against the dense green outer islands and the deep blue sea.

“I love the Fraziers' clambakes," Samantha said, "but not when the weather is like this. We might as wel be home, it's so hot.”

Pix nodded. She considered another beer, then decided to wait. Others had not waited and the laughter and talk was noticeably louder than it had been earlier.

Some of the children were getting whiny. It was definitely time to eat. A sudden onslaught of sand fleas sent Pix and Samantha flying from their seats.

“At least it's not blackfly season," Pix said. Nothing came close to that. They'd al worn beekeeper's hats when they'd tended the graves on Memorial Day. It had been a strange sight.

A possible discussion of "annoying insects I have known" was sharply curtailed by the noise of a loud disturbance farther down the beach. It was moving toward them.

“It's that jerk Duncan!" Samantha said as she moved closer. Pix fol owed, out of curiosity and to get away from the fleas.

“I'm speaking to you, young man! Don't you walk away from me!" It was Valerie. Her face was red, and as she'd been wearing a fetching sun hat since she arrived, it wasn't from a burn. She was absolutely furious.

“Fuck you!" Duncan answered, and kept walking.

“I saw that beer can in your hand! Don't you lie to me!”

Duncan stopped and turned to face his mother. "So what? Only grown-ups can get wasted?" He said this last in the jeering singsong tones of a smal child. Pix marveled at Valerie's self-control. Sure, she was yel ing, but had Duncan been Pix's son, she would have had him by the arm by now and marched him straight to the car.

Jim appeared. He'd been swimming and was dripping wet. It magnified his rage—a bul from the sea.

He stood next to his wife.

“Don't you ever talk that way to your mother again!

Where do you get off using words like that? Now, I've had just about al I'm going to take from you. Get in the car.

You're going home."

“Home?" Duncan screamed. "You cal that `home'?

Your home maybe, not mine!”

Valerie stepped forward and put her hand on his arm.

"Now Duncan, let's calm down...

He pushed her away rudely and she went sprawling in the sand. Everyone on the beach froze for an instant, including Duncan. He stared at his mother and seemed about to reach for her before noticing Jim virtual y foaming at the mouth.

Duncan took off, the tiny red lights of his sneakers blinking frantical y in the late-afternoon light.

“Let him go," Valerie said to her husband. "He needs to be alone." She brushed the sand from her white pants, adjusted her hat, and said to everyone with a big smile, "I apologize for my son. In his case, adolescence real y is a disease. I only wish there were shots for it.”

People laughed and Jim let out what seemed like the breath he'd been holding since confronting his stepson. He hugged Valerie and echoed her sentiments. "My parents always said someday I'd get mine the way they got theirs from me, and boy, were they right!"

“I don't believe it," Samantha said. She and Pix were on the fringes of the group.

“About Jim, you mean?"

“Yeah, I don't believe he was ever the way Duncan is.

And he's definitely not the type who got in trouble when he was a kid. More the kind other parents wanted their kids to be like.”

Pix was not unduly surprised at her daughter's analysis. Samantha was a good judge of character.

“I agree. Plus, I happen to know for a fact Jim was an Eagle Scout. But I think you're being a little hard on Duncan.

He may feel like the odd person out in that big house. And he must miss his father terribly. Then, the move couldn't have been easy."

“I guess it's because I like the Athertons so much. I wasn't thinking of it from his point of view. It's hard to be sympathetic, but you're right. What if Daddy died and you got married again and made me move from Ale-ford, although coming to Sanpere wouldn't be so bad."

Samantha was working out a whole scenario. "Except no matter who you picked, it wouldn't be Daddy."

“Who wouldn't be Daddy?" Sam appeared at his daughter's side.

“Mom's next husband—that is, if something happened to you and she remarried," Samantha added hastily, seeing her father's startled look.

“I thought you were going to be faithful to my memory,"

Sam said to his wife. "Now I find out you're getting hitched when I'm barely cold in the ground.”

Whether it was the heat, the sand fleas, the scene with the Athertons, or something altogether different, Pix suddenly felt a sense of deep despair. She didn't want to joke about Sam's demise. She didn't want to talk about death at al .

“Samantha, why don't you and your friends see if you can find Duncan. He may want someone to talk to" Pix had not liked the look of fear and anxiety on the boy's face as he'd run off. "He's probably up in the ledges at the other end of the beach. I saw him sitting there before"

“You're right, Mom, but I think he'd be more apt to talk to one person than a bunch of us. I'l go.”

She ran off. Sam looked at Pix. "What's going on?”

“I don't know. I wish I did. It's probably just me. I got tired al of a sudden”

At that moment, El iot began to bang on the lid of Pix's now-empty chowder pot with the ladle.

“Hear ye, hear ye! Gather round!”

El iot, normal y a reticent and mild-mannered man in his late sixties, assumed an entirely different persona at the clambake. He wore an apron that proclaimed him "The Clam King," a gift from a partygoer some years ago and now indispensable garb, as was his broad-brimmed straw hat decorated with smal plastic clams, lobsters, and various seashel s bearing absolutely no resemblance to reality.

People crowded near to the pit, knowing that before they would get their hands on a lobster or an ear of corn, they'd have to listen to El iot's traditional clambake speech.

“Some of you have heard this al before," he started.

"Many times before," a friend cal ed out, and everyone groaned.

El iot continued undaunted.

“When my friend Sam and I dug the pit and lined it with rocks this morning, getting everything ready for you sleepyheads who were stil snoring away, we were continuing a tradition that goes back to the first summer people to come to Sanpere—the Abenaki Indians. Along with al the other useful things Indians taught the early colonists, they showed them how to cook in the sand this way. I always like to remember them—we could be eating at the site of one of their clambakes—and say thank you before we tuck in."

“Thanks, Abenakis," a little girl shouted, and everyone laughed. She buried her head in her mother's skirt in embarrassment.

“Now, I'm not quite done yet. At the risk of being accused of being sentimental—"

“Risk it, El iot." This, much to Pix's surprise, came from her own mother.

“Thank you, Ursula, I wil . I'd like to make a toast to al of you good people, who mean so much to Louise and me, and also, as always, to absent friends. Final y, in the words of Sean O'Casey, `May the very best of the past—be the worst of the future!" He took a swig of beer, handed the bottle to his wife, took the first stone anchoring down the tarp covering the steaming pit, removed it, and flung it into the sea. 'It resounded appropriately with a loud splash.

Everyone cheered and rushed to help uncover the steaming food, packed in cheesecloth parcels.

Pix stayed close to Sam. "I love El iot's toasts" Things were beginning to be al right again.

“And I love you," he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

"Now let's eat." Definitely al right.

Perhaps because they had been waiting so long for the food or because the various potables that had been imbibed created an atmosphere of heightened enjoyment, one and al declared the food the best ever. Pix knew she was a mess. She'd dripped melted butter down her chin as she'd consumed her lobster and clams. Her fingers were sticky from the chicken—Louise always charcoal-broiled it a bit first—and corn. Above al , she was ful —and there was stil dessert. She and Sam were sitting on the blanket she'd brought when Earl and Jil strol ed past laden with lobster carcasses and clam shel s.

“Come and join us," Pix cal ed.

“Just as soon as we dump this stuff," Earl answered.

She'd have to go see Earl down in Granvil e at the combined post office, town hal , and office of the law to get him alone and talk about the blue quilt marks. Although her appearance at the tiny hole-in-the-wal that served the needs of justice on the island would immediately cause talk. She'd better cal him. Now she might just try to steer the conversation to antiques, quilts in particular, perhaps, and fakes. She was feeling comfortably sated and the demons disturbing her earlier were gone. She didn't want to waste the opportunity. Earl was right here and she hadn't made much progress in her investigation so far. Faith would no doubt have had the whole thing sewn up by now—

but maybe not. Pix sat in the growing darkness waiting for Jil and Earl's return. El iot had lighted his huge bonfire and a few people were playing guitars. It was a lovely scene.

She was content to wait.

* * *

Samantha had not been able to find Duncan at first. He wasn't in plain sight and she walked deeper and deeper into the woods before she found him, curled up in a fetal position on a bed of pine needles.

“Duncan, it's me, Samantha Mil er. I'm a friend of Arlene Prescott”

He didn't move for a second, then slowly sat up and eyed her warily.

“You work at the camp. I've seen you. Did they send you to get me?" He spat the words out.

Assuming he meant Valerie and Jim, Samantha answered, "No, I just thought maybe you'd like to talk to somebody. You seemed pretty upset" He was so antagonistic that she'd begun to wish she hadn't been the good little Samaritan her mother expected and had stayed down on the beach.

“I'm not going back."

“It's a long walk." She almost said home, then quickly changed it to the house.

“So what" He leaned against a tree and put his arms behind his head. He was pathetical y skinny and short for his age. Samantha hoped for his sake that he would grow a few inches this summer and maybe start to work out. It would certainly make life easier if he looked a little more attractive.

She decided to give it a try. "I know a kid whose mother died last year—cancer. It was real y terrible.

Anyway, I wanted to say I'm sorry about your dad. I know how my friend feels, and she didn't have to move”

Duncan looked as if he was going to cry. His face got al screwed up, then he opened his eyes wide and shook his head. The ring in his ear wobbled. Samantha noticed that the hole was red and angry, obviously infected. Now completely grossed out, she decided she'd done her duty and turned around to return to the party.

“Hey, are you leaving?"

“My parents might be wondering where I am," she lied,

"and besides, the food is almost ready and I love lobster cooked this way. You ought to try it."

“I don't eat fish—or meat," he added.

Definitely not getting enough protein, Samantha thought. She sat down beside him. He was so pathetic.

"There's lots of corn. It's steamed in the husk. My dad brought it up from Boston, since there's no corn here yet.

Come back and you can eat with us." It was worth a try.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

She didn't have an answer ready.

“I don't know. I guess I feel sorry for you.”

He nodded. She assumed he felt sorry for himself, too.

"Life sucks. Especial y in this rinky-dink place."

“It must seem smal after living in Richmond. That was where you were, right?"

“Yeah. Richmond was okay. The best place was where we lived before my real father died. Outside the city"

“There are a lot of good kids here, though. I've been coming every summer since I was born and I know everybody. You could come to the movies with us next week if you want." Samantha had no idea why she proposed this. Arlene would kil her.

“I don't need your friends. I've got plenty of my own"

She should have saved her breath.

“Wel , that's great. Now I'm going to go get some thing to eat before I starve." Enough was enough. "Plenty of friends. We even have our own club.”

“Club? That sounds like fun," Samantha commented perfunctorily. She was picturing a steaming red-hot lobster.

“Maybe you'd like to join." Duncan's tone was mocking.

Samantha resented the implication—that she was too good for his little club, or whatever.

“Maybe I would—and maybe I wouldn't," she said in as even a voice as she could manage. He real y was irritating.

She stood up to go. Duncan got up, too. He seemed to have sprouted during the conversation and stood only a few inches from her face. He had a sour smel and the skin on his face was oily. She took a step backward. He fol owed.

“Naaah, I don't think you could get in.”

Suddenly, she had to know.

“So what do you have to do to be a member of your club?" she said slowly, moving away from him. "You have to kil something.”