The Body In The Basement

Six

A midnight curfew was a definite disadvantage to detective work, Samantha decided as once more she entered the woods behind Maine Sail Camp with Fred and Arlene. Fred had no curfew, of course, and Arlene's was a great deal more elastic than Samantha's own. Whatever Duncan and his friends were up to, Sam was wil ing to bet, things didn't get rol ing until the wee hours.

This time, there were lights flickering in the windows of the cabin, just visible through Duncan's elaborate camouflage.

“Should we try to look through the back window?"

Arlene whispered.

“Let's wait a while and see what they do," Fred suggested. "They may go someplace else. The cabin is pretty smal .”

They retreated behind a row of tamaracks and took turns watching.

“More kids are coming," Samantha reported. True to Fred's prediction, soon a group of about eleven teenagers came out of the cabin and headed straight for the tamaracks. Samantha froze in position after crouching close to the rough trunk, the sharp-needled boughs pricking her bare arms. Why hadn't she thought to wear a sweatshirt? The weather was stil peculiar for Maine, up into the high eighties every day. She'd been shedding clothes, not adding them.

The group passed by without noticing anything.

Samantha, Fred, and Arlene waited a minute before fol owing. Once again, Fred was ful of ideas. "There're only two places where they could be headed, the quaking bog and the old settlement quarry—unless they're planning to dispose of something or someone, which would mean the bog—I'l bet they're on their way to the quarry

“What do you mean?" Samantha had never been to the bog, deterred al these years by reports of mosquitoes as large as robins and giant Venus's-flytraps.

“The suction—you put your foot down wrong and it takes two men to help you twist it and pul yourself out.

People used to junk cars there before Earl came. And there's always talk, especial y on Hal oween, of what may be lying under the surface from years past."

“You know that's al nonsense," Arlene whispered angrily, "except about the cars. That's true. Stop trying to psych us out Fred. I'm nervous enough as it is.”

Samantha had to agree with her and was glad the bog had been eliminated as the probable gathering place for the club.

Fred put out his arm to stop them. "See, they're turn ing left. That leads to the top of the quarry" The flashlights the group ahead of them was carrying did go left, darting like so many fireflies through the dark woods.

Samantha had been to the quarry. It was one of her favorite places—also her mother's and grandmother's.

They picked blackberries there and then, later in the season, tiny tart mountain cranberries that appeared as conserve at the Mil ers' Thanksgiving table.

The view from the top of the quarry was spectacular—

straight out to sea across vast expanses of granite carved in huge blocks, like Brobdingnagian steps. During the day, you had to be careful not to walk into one of the crevasses where the charges had been set to blast the stone. At night, it would be treacherous. Was Duncan's club an elaborate game of chicken?

Fred stopped suddenly and led them up a granite ledge until they were directly above the group below. A fire had been lighted and everyone was drinking beer. Duncan was nowhere to be seen. It looked like any other gathering of kids from Maine to California, eager to put themselves at a distance from adult supervision. A few were smoking.

One of the cigarettes was being passed from person to person—obviously not tobacco.

“So, what's the big deal? They're partying," Arlene said. "Let's go home.”

Samantha wanted to wait until Duncan came, and Fred agreed. It was at least fifteen minutes before they heard the music and saw him leap suddenly into the midst of his friends, dangerously close to the fire. He was wearing a black robe—it looked left over from someone's graduation

—unfastened. They could see that he was stripped to the waist underneath and had covered his body with symbols and lines done in red marker—at least Samantha assumed it was marker. He didn't seem to be oozing blood, but the effect was dramatic and she felt instantly nauseated.

Everyone grew quiet and the words of an old Black Sabbath song fil ed the stil ness from the tape deck he set down.

When the music stopped, Duncan began to chant "We are everybody and everybody is nobody" over and over.

The group picked it up, some laughing a little—maybe because of the beers and the pot. A few of the guys stripped off their shirts and pranced unsteadily around the fire.

Duncan took out a chicken that looked like a roaster from the IGA and made a great show of slitting its throat—

or rather, the place where the throat would have been if the head was stil attached. Blood flowed; he must have stuck a sack of red-colored liquid inside.

“The asshole!" Fred whispered. "He couldn't even get a live chicken.”

Samantha wasn't finding the scene humorous. Duncan's intent was the same as if the chicken had been alive

—or if it had been something other than a chicken. She shuddered and gripped the granite hard with her hand to remind herself that this wasn't a movie. She wondered what would happen next. The kids below her looked so normal.

She stared at one girl in particular: short dark hair, a striped tube top, and cutoffs—a typical teenager on a summer night. Maybe she wore a little too much makeup, especial y the exaggerated black mascara around her eyes. But she wasn't typical. The whole gathering wasn't typical at al , and Samantha began to feel frightened. Duncan had somehow managed to tap into an unhealthy fascination shared by this group, and it was a vein better left unopened—and it might wel have been if he hadn't come here to live.

The kids passed the chicken around. Solemn now, each smeared some of the "blood" on their foreheads. One girl almost broke the mood by declaring she was not going to touch something so gross, but the boy next to her did it for her, loudly declaring she was a wuss. The dark-haired girl fiercely told them to shut up. "You're spoiling it!" There was no question about her own dedication.

Throughout, Duncan watched intently. If the scene had not been fil ed with such potential y evil symbolism, Samantha began to think, it would have been pathetic.

Duncan was pitiful y thin and his chest concave. Al the kids seemed to have spent more time indoors than out; and if they were robust, they were overly so—tending in one boy's case to obesity.

“Do you know everybody?" Samantha whispered to Arlene.

“Yeah, I'l tel you later. It's what we've been saying—

loser kids. But sometimes it's not their fault, like Karen over there. Her old man beats her pretty badly. Everybody knows it." It was the girl with the dark hair.

Now Samantha did want to leave and she poked Fred.

They started to back away from the ledge.

“Let the games begin!" Duncan threw off his robe and turned on the music again, louder. He grabbed a beer, chugged it down, threw the empty can high into the air, and stripped off his pants. The beer can clattered down the rock and rol ed off into the darkness.

“We are al and al is in us. Join with the darkness.

Cast off your garments." He'd definitely been reading more than comics, Samantha thought. His language was getting positively gothic.

“Nobody wants to see your dick, Duncan," one of the girls said. "And besides, I'm not al owed to take my clothes off. My mother says so.”

Duncan looked at her with scorn. "You are not a true sister of blood."

“I'm not a sister of anybody here. If you're going to get foolish, I'm leaving.”

A few others stirred and Duncan appeared to weigh losing his audience against maintaining his noble position.

He decided to go for the numbers and pul ed his jeans back on. "Al right. Let's go climbing instead." This appeared to find more favor. Armed with beers and smokes, they set off, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the quarry precipice.

“Someone's going to get kil ed!" Samantha started forward.

“No, come on. We'l make an anonymous cal to Earl from the CB in my pickup. They're not going to stop because we tel them to," Fred advised.

The three climbed down to the woods below and went back to the truck as fast as they could.

“Assholes," Fred was muttering. "And Duncan's the worst. After we cal , I want to see what's in that trunk of his.

Obviously, the black stuff was the thing he was wearing. He is real y into it.”

Sensibly, Arlene pointed out that as soon as Earl got the news, he'd be up at the quarry and they'd come running back to the cabin.

“Another time, then," Fred said.

Samantha wasn't so sure. The day had been fil ed with images of blood—intended images: the gory sails that greeted them in the clear light of the morning and the streaked faces around the flames in the dark of night.

Another time?

She'd have to think about it.

* * *

The next morning Pix was putting away her chowder pot. She must have been more fatigued than she'd thought to have left it on the beach. Louise had dropped it off. As Pix was pushing it up onto the top shelf in the pantry, the lid fel , clattering to the floor and narrowly missing the side of her head. As she put the pot down and bent to retrieve the lid, she discovered a large Tupperware bowl had inadvertently been placed inside. She opened it up and found a few cookie crumbs. A piece of masking tape clearly marked BAINBRIDGE was on the bottom. The two women had brought a number of desserts to the clambake and this must have been an offering Pix had missed. The crumbs smel ed delicious. She washed the bowl out and decided to go to the vil age to drop it off. Norman might be around and she could pick up some more information about fake antiques. She'd also like to get him alone to ask him about Mitchel Pierce. Mitch dealt with museums, and presumably a New York dealer in the know would be familiar with Mitch's name, even if there hadn't been any business transacted between them. She'd try him on Mother's Brewster chair story again, too.

Pix could not shake the feeling there was something that didn't quite ring true about Norman. She was trying hard to be objective about him and knew that a good part of her mistrust had to do with his Big Apple shine. Then too there were few strangers on the island. There were tourists and people who rented cottages for a week or so, but Norman—someone from away—had managed to insinuate himself into everyday island life to an alarming degree.

Why, he'd even been at the Fraziers' clambake! Things, especial y social y, moved slowly on Sanpere and people waited a decent interval, say ten years, before expecting invitations.

Why was Norman here? She knew what was purported. There was that word again. It reminded her of Mitch. "Purported" activities. Norman and Mitch. Dealers in antiques. Norman had arrived on the island wel before the murder. Where was he at the time?

There was a lot to work into a conversation.

Driving down Route 17 past the turnoff for Little Harbor, she wished Faith were around and resolved to cal her later to talk about these misgivings. Pix turned into the Bainbridges' drive, stopped the car, and got out. The property had once included many acres to the rear and on both sides, but the land had been sold long ago, leaving the farmhouse and barn. The first thing to greet her was the sound of hammering. Curious, she fol owed the noise and sound of hammering. Curious, she fol owed the noise and discovered Seth Marshal and someone obviously working for him inside the barn, replacing a beam.

“Seth!" He dropped his hammer in surprise.

“Now, Pix, I have to keep busy. The police won't let me out there yet"

“But it could be tomorrow. Wel , not the Fourth, but maybe the next day, and you'l be al tied up here!" She was livid. The Fairchild house was becoming a dream one, literal y.

“I told Aunt Addie I would have to stop once I got the go-ahead on another project. Don't worry." Seth spoke soothingly and tried flashing an ingratiating grin. It made him look more like Peck's Bad Boy than ever and Pix was not mol ified.

“I'l give Earl a cal and see if we can get some idea of how much longer they need. Goodness knows, they should be finished by now. I think you had better plan to start Thursday at the latest."

“Which means working here tomorrow," the other man muttered angrily, stopping the rest of his complaint after a glance from the boss.

“Thursday wil be fine. Now, please, remember I want to get started as much as you do.”

Pix certainly hoped so, said as much and good-bye, then walked out into the sunshine and over to the house.

"Aunt Addie" indeed, although she could real y be his aunt, or more likely, great-aunt. The whole island was connected by ties of varying degrees of kinship.

Rebecca answered the door—the back door, of course. A bed of ferns had grown up over the front steps and Pix thought it unlikely that the door with its shiny brass knocker in the shape of an anchor had been opened since James Bainbridge had been carried out in his coffin. It would never have done to take him the back way through the kitchen.

“Who is it?" a querulous voice cal ed out. "Don't just leave whoever it is standing with their chin hanging out!

Invite them in!”

Rebecca ignored Addie's remarks and reached for the Tupperware bowl.

“Oh, Pix, am I glad to see this. I couldn't remember where I had mislaid it, but I knew I had it at the clambake, because I'd fil ed it with butterscotch shortbread* that morning.”

She had missed something good, Pix thought, stepping into the room. The Bainbridges' shortbread was another of those secret family recipes.

“I'm glad I found it. It was in my chowder pot and I might have put it away without opening it until next year, but the top fel off the pot when I was putting it on the shelf."

“The Lord works in mysterious ways," Rebecca said confidently, then led Pix to the front parlor, where Addie was somehow managing to keep herself poised on the slippery horsehair Bainbridge fainting couch. Pix knew that it was a fainting couch because Adelaide had told her once, adding, perhaps unnecessarily, "not that it has ever been used as one" Oddly enough, today she did seem a bit under the weather. She wore a housecoat that made her look like a large pink-and-orange-flowered tea cozy. Her legs were stretched out and she apologized for wearing her bedroom slippers.

“The heat is something terrible for my circulation; I can't even get my shoes on this morning. I told Rebecca to order the next-biggest size, but she forgot and got the same as always."

“We could send them back. It wouldn't be any trouble."

“Wel , it would be for me. What wil I do for footwear while they're gone, I'd like to know?" She kept right on going: "And there must have been something I et at the clambake that didn't sit right—not that I think for a moment it was your chowder, deah," she added, looking Pix straight in the eye. The intent was clear. Now was the moment for Pix to confess to buying suspect fish and last year's potatoes. Pix stared right back. Nobody else had suffered from the chowder in the slightest and Addie's indisposition was more than likely a case of overindulgence. Addie was starting to catalog her major symptoms, such as severe diarrhea and stomach cramps, rather graphical y when Rebecca tactful y broke in.

“Fix brought our Tupperware bowl back, the one we thought was lost at the clambake. It was in her chowder pot.”

Adelaide beamed as if she'd recovered the family jewels instead of an airtight storage container. "It's hard to get good Tupperware nowadays and I won that at one of Dot Prescott's parties when she was sel ing Tupperware. I don't know who's doing it now.”

Pix tried to steer the conversation away from plastics to antiques and Norman.

“It must be interesting having an antiques dealer like Norman Osgood as a guest" The Bainbridges always cal ed their bed-and-breakfast customers "guests."

“Oh my, yes, he's been a treat. The stories that man can tel . We sit and laugh for hours.”

Rebecca didn't look quite so merry, and Pix wondered whether she was included in these funfests.

“Is he around now? I had a question I wanted to ask him."

“No, he's off on one of his jaunts today. Be back in time for the parade tomorrow, he said. What's your question? I'l ask him for you.”

Pix had been afraid Addie would say this and was now thankful she'd prepared a mythical inquiry about the best way to take care of an old Sheraton dresser her mother was giving her.

“Just keep it clean with a dust cloth," Rebecca advised, "if the wood is not too dry and the finish stil good."

“And what do you know about the care of valuable antiques, Rebecca Bainbridge? I don't recal too many down in that shack you grew up in.: No, Pix. I swear by Olde English and plenty of it. You can't go wrong there.”

Faith could smel it had been put to good use in the parlor. She looked anxiously at Rebecca. It might have been that Addie had gone too far.

“Your own husband was raised in that `shack,' Addie, and you're lying on Grandmother's couch this very moment.

I guess we had just as many nice things as you did out at the lighthouse.”

Pix was glad to hear Rebecca answering back. It didn't happen very often.

“You couldn't have had many, then," Addie one-upped her. "I slept on a cot in the kitchen and there wasn't a decent piece of furniture in the place. The only thing worth any money at al was the light, and that belonged to the government. Now where are my regular glasses? You've gone and fetched the wrong ones, as usual! Can't see a thing with these"

“Those are the right ones. Remember, you put a piece of tape on the frame so we wouldn't get mixed up. There it is, plain as the nose on your face.”

Addie pul ed her glasses off. "Can't see a danged thing. You must have put tape on both.”

Before the fur could fly any faster, Pix made her farewel s with promises to sit together at the parade the next day. The Bainbridges' lawn sloped agreeably down to Main Street and was a perfect viewing stand.

“And don't forget your mother!" Addie cal ed after her.

As if I would—or could, Pix thought.

After leaving the Bainbridges, she felt a little betwixt and between. Sam was on a long cruise to Swans Island with a sailing buddy and Samantha was stil at work. She thought she might pop in to Jil 's store and pick up a baby sweater made by one of the women on the island that The Blueberry Patch stocked. One of Pix's cousin's children was having a baby, which would make Ursula a great-great-aunt and make Pix a what, a cousin some number of times removed?

Removed. She realized Mitchel Pierce's death had removed her from her normal embedded island feelings.

She had the constant sense that she was on the outside looking in, not because she was from away but because there were things going on she couldn't quite make out.

She had the il usion that if she could only squint hard enough, she'd be able to make out the shapes.

Jil was at the register. The store was empty.

“Hi, Pix," she said. She had been working on her accounts evidently and now shoved a large ledger under the counter. The cash register was an antique—and not for sale. It had been a fixture in the previous store to occupy the space, a cobbler's shop owned by Jil 's grandfather.

“My cousin's daughter is having a baby soon and I want to send a sweater."

“Do they know what they are having? I always think that sounds so odd, but you know what I mean?"

“Yes, I do, and they don't, so the sweater had better be white or yel ow.”

After taking a pleasurable amount of time, Pix took her purchase to the front of the shop. It was always fun to buy baby gifts. A few years earlier, she used to toy with the idea of another bundle of joy herself, then remembered al the homework supervision that would entail and opted to wait for grandchildren—a wait she fervently prayed would be a long one.

Earl had come in while she'd been in the back and was buying a paper.

“How are you, Pix?" he asked. "Quite a business yesterday at the camp. Samantha was great with the kids.

Real y kept them calmed down."

“Fine, thank you, and thank you for saying that about Samantha. I'l tel her. She's always wanted to go into science, marine biology, but she's so good with people."

“Maybe she'l figure out a way to combine the two. Now I've got to go pick up something to eat at the IGA or I'l start to get malnutriated.”

Earl looked anything but. Pix smiled. Jil didn't. Hadn't they patched things up yet?

The next exchange made it clear they hadn't. "So, I'l see you about eight?" Earl asked.

“I'm afraid I can't make it tonight. Maybe another time,"

Jil answered. The time, from her expression and tone, could possibly be wel into the new century.

“Okay" Earl flushed and left quickly.

Pix was tempted to ask what was going on, but Jil did not look as if she'd welcome inquiries into her personal life at the moment. She rang up the purchase and Pix was soon out on the walk planning a dinner party with a few friends, mainly Earl and Jil —soon.

She got into her car and noticed Earl was parked next to her. It was the perfect time to tel him about the mark on the quilt, if he was not too distracted by his own affairs of the heart. But Pix doubted it. Work was work. The notebook would be out in no time, just the way it had the day before at the camp. When they'd arrived, it was the first thing she had noticed. There was Earl standing before the bloody red sails, calmly writing down each and every word.

He was at his car soon, carrying what she knew to be one of the IGA's Italian sandwiches—bologna, salami, and cheese on some sort of large hot dog rol . It also had green peppers and onions if those were to hand and a drizzle of Italian dressing, hence the appel ation.

“Earl, have you got a minute? There's something I've been meaning to tel you. It's probably nothing, yet I thought you should know.”

The notebook came out. He clicked his pen.

Merciful y, they were parked behind the post office.

They might be news, but not big news, particularly if she spoke fast. She explained about finding the mark on the quilt she'd bought—a mark identical to the one on the red-and-white quilt.

“I know you told me. It's a blue cross, right? Like this?"

He drew one on the pad.

“Yes, maybe a bit smal er. I wouldn't have noticed it on the one around the body if the quilt had had more colors.

Then in the one I bought, it just seemed to jump out at me"

“Do you have any idea what it could stand for?"

“It could be some kind of family laundry mark. Both quilts may have come from Sul ivan. I mean, that's where the antiques dealer said the quilt was from, and Mitch was living in Sul ivan when he died. The red-and white one may have been taken from his room.”

Earl agreed. "That makes sense. Although I'm not sure what kind of link there could be. He hadn't been in his room for some days before he was kil ed, according to his landlady, but she admitted he could have been there one of the times she was out doing errands."

“There's another possibility. Much as it pains me to realize I may have been duped, I think the quilt I bought could be a fake. The price was suspiciously low. I have a book about dating quilts and I'm going to go through it to try to establish when mine was made. If it's a modern one, as I suspect, the mark could be a way whoever was faking the quilts kept track of which were real and which weren't.”

Earl looked at Pix admiringly. "Good thinking.

Obviously, we don't want it spread around, but we're pretty sure Mitch was involved with one or more of the antique scams. Unfortunately, he was also involved in some other tricky businesses, so the field is pretty broad" His face fel a bit.

He continued: "So that's why you were asking al those questions on Sunday."

“Yes," Pix admitted.

“Look, I'd like to photograph the mark and see how it matches with the one that was wrapped around Pierce's body. I've got my camera in the trunk. Al right if I come over and take a picture now? I'l be able to send it to Augusta right away. They may also have something in their files about it."

“Sure," Pix agreed. She was excited. They were beginning to get somewhere. Maybe.

As Earl got into his car, he cal ed over to her, "By the way, since you're turning out to be so interested in detective work, how about finding out why my girl is giving me the cold shoulder?”

Pix was sorry to disappoint him. "I'l try, but I'm sure it's nothing much. You two have been together a long time"

“ `Nothing much,' " Earl was uncharacteristical y sarcastic. "Do you think the fact that she had dinner with Seth Marshal last night might mean something? The entire island and half the mainland saw them down at the inn.”

Pix did not have an answer.

Nor did she have an answer shortly thereafter when she spread out the new quilt on her living room floor.

"Where is this mark?”

She looked. Then looked again.

It was gone.

* * *

“I felt like a fool. Fortunately, I thought to get one of Samantha's magnifying glasses and I showed him where the holes were. There had definitely been something sewn there.”

The first thing Pix had done after the police car had pul ed away from the house was cal Faith. She was at work.

“But this proves that the marks mean something." Faith was excited. "Why am I stuck down here making blueberry pies and coleslaw, not to mention a cake in the shape of an eagle some patriotic soul has ordered, while you're having al the fun!”

Pix thought of Mitch and the incidents at the camp. It wasn't exactly what she'd cal fun, but Faith tended to view life a bit differently.

“I wish you were here, too. Sam has to leave after the parade. He's got a client coming in early Thursday morning.

It must be someone important, because it's not like Sam to miss the fireworks. Since he's been here, I've realized how nice it is to have another adult around. Samantha is wonderful company, but she's at work or off with her friends.

In fact, I think she's doing too much. She looked terrible at breakfast—as if she hadn't slept a wink, but she says she's fine."

“Wel , what did you used to tel your mother? Speaking of whom, she certainly qualifies as an adult. Why don't you get her to come over for a while? No, that's not right. That's not what you need.”

Faith knew her so wel , Pix thought. Much as she loved her mother, it would not provide the ease she was seeking.

“Even before we got here, I asked her to come until my brother arrives. I don't like to think of her alone in that big house, but she wants to be on her own, and when we're her age, we'l be exactly the same."

“I should hope so. Now, back to the quilt. Obviously, nothing else in the cottage was disturbed or you would have said so."

“Right, and yes, I did leave the door unlocked as usual.

There's nothing of value here, and it's such a nuisance for Samantha to carry a key. I have one with my car keys, but I can't remember the last time I used it”

These New Englanders, Faith thought to herself. The unlocked door represented their trust in humankind and belief in a certain way of life: "Come in; it's off the latch."

And she knew Pix would stil keep her doors unlocked even now. What would it take? Faith hoped Pix would never find out.

“I've been doing some detective work for you in between shucking corn for corn pudding and the like. There was an article on quilt making in the paper. You remember that controversy about the Smithsonian's decision to reproduce some of the quilts in their col ection using overseas labor? That's what it's about mainly, however it started me thinking. These new quilts could be made to look old, particularly if they are unmarked. I think the Smithsonian ones have an indelible tag on the back, but a lot of mail-order companies and department stores offer quilts. I doubt they're al labeled so conscientiously. Anyway, I mailed the article to you and you should get it by Thursday."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam and his daughter both laughed and Sam said,

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

You have many other talents.”

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

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

Jim and Valerie, it had come to this.

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

Simpler to put it on video.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I in your way?"

“Not at al . It's good to see you.”

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

But what made him unusual was his unpredictability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the bikes came the school band.

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

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

Fred was class president, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More lemonade, Pix?" asked Rebecca.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

her mother said with a very amused look in her eye.

Saying good-bye to Sam had been hard. He would try to get up again for a long weekend, but the likelihood was that they wouldn't see each other until August. She didn't want to think about it. They'd checked in with Samantha at the games and the kids were not as upset as Pix had feared, especial y since the judges had awarded them the prize for Best Walking Group. Everyone was studiously ignoring the incident, except for some of the younger campers who were stil giggling. Samantha's sidekicks, Susannah and Geoff, were among the worst. They would get in control, glance at each other, and burst out laughing again. Pix watched in amusement herself at her daughter's struggles to be firm with the two. Samantha had told her that their initial homesickness had quickly given way to a friendship based mainly on a mutual love of corny "Knock, Knock" jokes and mischief.

Jim and Valerie were overseeing the three-legged races, laughing just the right amount as they partnered unlikely combinations--fifteen-year-olds with five-year-olds.

Everyone seemed to be having fun. Duncan was nowhere in sight. Samantha's camp duties ended after the Odd Fel ows Lobster Picnic and she told her mother not to worry, which Pix correctly interpreted as meaning mother would not see daughter until midnight. She was tempted to extend Samantha's curfew—it was a holiday—yet the girl was stil looking pale, quite unlike her usual hale and hearty self. Pix wondered whether anything was wrong—unrelated to health. Samantha had seemed preoccupied for the last few days. Of course with everything that was happening, this was a reasonable response. But Pix's motherly intuition was picking up more, her antennae were twitching. She'd try to talk to her daughter later. Maybe the two of them would drive to El sworth for dinner and a movie tomorrow night. She needed to get her in the car for a good long drive.

Pix spread her blanket out on a choice spot on the library hil overlooking Sanpere Harbor and waited to see who would join her for the fireworks. They were due to start at 9:00 P.M. and it was 8:30 now. You had to arrive early to grab a good place. Her mother had decided to forgo the fireworks this year, as she had for the last two years. The first summer she'd declared she was going to bed early and had seen enough fireworks to last the rest of her life had Pix ready to check her mother into Blue Hil Hospital for a thorough examination. Ursula loved fireworks—or so she had always claimed. "It's the beginning of the end," Pix had told Sam mournful y. "First fireworks, then she'l stop going out of the house altogether." Sam had reacted less dramatical y. "Just because your mother doesn't want to sit on the damp ground with hundreds of people chanting ooh and aah while they get cricks in their necks plus kids running around throwing firecrackers, waving sparklers in everyone's faces, doesn't mean she's cashing in her chips."

And of course he'd been right. But Pix didn't like things to change.

Wel , her mother had made it both to the Lobster Picnic and the Fish and Fritter Fry. Few Rowes would miss the chance to eat lobster, dripping melted butter and lobster juice al over themselves and their neighbors at the picnic tables the Odd Fel ows erected especial y for the occasion in the bal field each year. Some of the older people always reminisced about the days when lobster was so cheap and plentiful that they would beg for something else. Ken Layton, Sanpere's resident historian, would remind everyone that around the time of the Civil War, lobsters, regardless of weight, were two cents apiece—and they pul ed in bigger lobsters then. It had al happened again this year and Sam had managed to eat two lobsters, since he was going to miss the Fish and Fritter Fry, but Pix had stopped at one to save room.

She lay back on the rough wool blanket, an old army blanket of her father's, and gazed up at the sky. You never saw so many stars in Aleford and certainly not even a quarter in Boston! She felt as if she were peering into a big overturned bowl and the milky white constel ations were tumbling out above her. The fireworks would have some competition.

Just as she was beginning to feel a bit sorry for herself, no kith nor kin by her side, Jil came and sat down. "Do you have enough room for me?"

“I have enough room for ten or twelve of you," Pix said, sitting up. "Sam had to go back early and Samantha's off with her friends."

“What a day! Business hasn't been this good in years."

Jil was clearly excited. "People stuck around after the parade and I even sold the lobster-pot lamp that one of the Sanfords made. It's been sitting in the store for years”

Pix knew the lamp wel . She had threatened to give it to Faith more than once and vice versa. Not only had the resourceful craftsman wired the pot buoy but he had attached netting, cork floats, and, as the pièce de résistance, a whole lobster that glowed when the lamp was turned on. The plain white shade had been lavishly painted with yet more bright red crustaceans.

“That's great, especial y about the lamp." Pix laughed.

“Don't worry," Jil said, "you can stil have one. He's bringing another one up tomorrow! If I'd known, I might have been able to sel them as a pair!"

“I doubt it. When you buy such an object, you like to think it's one of a kind."

“The only thing about being so busy was that I didn't close for lunch or dinner. I missed the picnic and the fry." Jil sounded very disappointed.

“I think I ate enough for both of us," Pix said. "And everyone at the parade and in your shop must have gone down to Granvil e for both. I've never seen so many people!

Mabel Hamilton told me they went through three hundred pounds of potatoes, a hundred and sixty pounds of fish, twelve gal ons of clams, fifty pounds of onions, and goodness knows how much else for the fry!"

“That's wonderful. Al the profits go to the scholarship fund for kids from fishing families, which real y helps the island. Those women are amazing. Think of al that peeling.”

But Pix was not thinking of peeling potatoes or any other vegetables. She was thinking of what Earl would say.

Seth Marshal was standing next to them, obviously waiting for an invitation. Jil gave it.

“You said there was room, didn't you, Pix? Why don't you sit down, Seth." The woman actual y patted the blanket.

It wasn't that Pix disliked Seth. It was just not the way things were supposed to be. And come to think of it, Seth wasn't exactly flavor of the month.

He appeared to realize this and eyed his hostess a bit warily as he sat down.

“You do know we're pouring tomorrow," Seth said.

"Yes, Earl told me this morning. I'l be there at seven. That about right?"

“You don't real y need to be, unless of course you want to," Seth added hastily.

With the start in sight, Pix was feeling generous. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hang around al the time. I just want to see the foundation go in and cal Faith." It was the least she could do.

“No problem," Seth replied.

Pix sighed. She had the feeling she'd be hearing this phrase often in the weeks to come. And Seth was also sitting awful y close to Jil . In the moonlight, his resemblance to one of Captain Kidd's mates was even more pronounced. Maybe Jil found him romantic. Pix thought him hirsute—and suspect. She started to think what he could possibly gain from Mitchel Pierce's demise—she'd never been happy with Seth's explanation for being at the site—

when a long shadow fel across the blanket.

“May I join your party?" Norman Osgood asked. Pix was delighted. She might have the chance to work in some of her questions, although with Jil and Seth around, it might be hard to steer the conversation toward Mitchel Pierce.

Jil had made it plain that she didn't want to hear anything at al about the subject whenever Pix had referred to the event.

“Are Addie and Rebecca watching from their lawn?"

Pix asked.

“No, Addie is stil not feeling wel and she needs Rebecca. I suggested they go over to the Medical Center or at least cal a doctor, but Addie won't hear of it."

“According to my mother, neither lady has ever had any contact with the medical profession," Seth said.

“That's amazing." Norman was astonished. "At their ages. Not even tonsils?"

“If they did have them out, the doctor did it in the kitchen, and since that meant a boat trip in Addie's case, it might never have been done”

Norman was stil shaking his head when the first rocket went up and they al said "Aah.”

A huge golden chrysanthemum shape fil ed the sky and the petals dropped slowly toward the sea, leaving trails of golden sand. The show was spectacular. The finale was positively orgasmic and the cries of the crowd grew louder and louder as bursts of color and sound exploded overhead. Then suddenly, it was finished and only smoke hung in the air like dense fog.

Norman sighed happily. "That was wonderful. I love fireworks, especial y over the water. I was in a boat on the Hudson for the Statue of Liberty display in 1986. Sublime, but this came close."

“Have you lived in New York City al your life?" Pix asked as a way of starting her inquisition.

“No, my dear, I haven't, however you'l have to wait for the tale, which is a lengthy and enthral ing one. I told the Bainbridges I'd be back as soon as the show was over, and I am a little concerned about Adelaide. She hasn't been eating, and you know how she enjoys her table.”

Something must be wrong indeed, Pix thought.

"Please cal me if there's anything I can do. Maybe my mother could convince her to cal a doctor."

“I doubt that the Almighty Himself could convince Mrs.

Bainbridge to do anything she didn't want to do, but if I think otherwise, I'l cal . Thank you.”

Pix had the peculiar feeling that Norman had become closer to the Bainbridges than she was—two people she'd known al her life.

Seth picked up on it, too. "Who do you think is adopting who?"

“I'm not sure," Pix said. "Maybe it's mutual.”

Jil jumped up and said she was exhausted after her busy day. "Al I want to do is col apse." Pix said goodbye to them both and slowly began to fold up her blanket as she watched the crowd disperse—as she watched Jil and Seth go into The Blueberry Patch together.

Duncan Cowley was lying on the mattress in his secret cabin, staring up at the rafters. Long-ago inhabitants had carved their names and various epitaphs into the wood.

He'd painted over the ones on the wal s in disgust at such sentiments as "Maine Sail Camp. I pine for yew." He was disgusted tonight, as wel —and angry. What a bunch of pussies. They knew how important the ful moon was and stil his friends had deserted him for some stupid fireworks.

The cabin glowed with the candles he'd lighted. He looked at his watch. It was stil too early. He closed his eyes yet knew he wouldn't sleep. Restless, he got up and went over to the trunk.

He'd just have to do it alone.

It was a long wait until midnight. Pix had been tempted to cal Faith but didn't want to bother her. If she was home, she'd be weary after working the holiday. She hadn't had a chance to tel Faith about the blood red sails at the camp.

Amy had diverted her mother's attention just as Pix had remembered she hadn't mentioned the incident to Faith.

She'd cal tomorrow. Tel ing Faith what was going on was making things clearer, or, if not clearer, making Pix feel better.

She did cal Sam, to make sure he'd gotten home al right. She missed him more than ever when she hung up.

Final y, she got into bed with the latest issue of Organic Gardening and tried to get interested in mulch. When Samantha did get home, just before the stroke of twelve, Pix cal ed out to her daughter to come say good night.

“Weren't the fireworks awesome? The best ever."

Samantha had clearly had a good night. Pix felt less worried.

“Truly awesome," she agreed. "Whom were you with?"

“Oh, the usual people—Fred, Arlene, their friends. How about you?" Samantha sounded slightly anxious.

Oh no, Pix thought, don't tel me Samantha is starting to worry about poor old Mom. The way I do, a stil -deeper voice whispered.

“We had quite a crowd on the blanket. I was by the library. Jil , the antiques dealer who's at the Bainbridges, some others." Pix didn't care to get more specific.

Samantha was hoping to be a junior bridesmaid at Jil and Earl's wedding.

“That's nice, Mother." Her daughter actual y patted her hand. "Now I see you've got your usual exciting bedtime reading, so I won't keep you from it a minute longer."

“Don't you patronize me. And where's my kiss!" Pix grabbed Samantha for a hug. Sam had given them al magazine subscriptions last Christmas: Organic Gardening renewed for his wife, Sassy for his daughter, and the Atlantic Monthly for his mother-in-law. There they were in a nutshel .

Pix drifted off to sleep. Maybe this was a new way to categorize people. She'd have to talk about it with Faith—

The New Yorker, obviously. And who else? Valerie Atherton, House Beautiful, without question, and Jim, Boys'

Life. Jil ? Not Modern Bride, not yet anyway.

She thought she was stil thinking about magazines, then realized that dawn was streaking across the sky outside in shades of burnt orange and magenta. The phone was ringing. She grabbed the receiver in a panic. Nobody cal ed this early. It was just over the edge of night.

“Pix, Pix, are you awake?”

It was Mother.

“What's wrong? What's happened? Are you al right?"

Pix ignored the obvious question. Of course she was awake.

“I want you to get over to the Bainbridges as fast as you can. Addie's dead.”

Pix was momentarily relieved. "Oh dear, Mother, what sad news, yet I suppose with this weather, her age and al that weight, it—"

“Rebecca found her on the floor of her bedroom with an old quilt Rebecca's never seen before wrapped around her—a red-and-white quilt."

“I'l be there as soon as I can.”