The Body In The Basement

Eight

The next morning Samantha left for work after a big breakfast of sour-cream pancakes and fresh strawberries.

Pix had picked the first ones in the garden, thankful the heat hadn't ruined what looked to be a bumper crop.

As soon as her daughter was out the door, Pix piled the dishes in the sink and went to the phone. As she dialed, it struck her that she was spending an inordinate amount of time on this instrument—especial y for Sanpere. Other summers when it did ring, it was usual y for one of the kids, and she seldom made many cal s herself.

Earl was in his office, as she had hoped. He'd recovered from whatever feelings of pique her actions at the Bainbridges' had engendered and said he didn't see any harm in tel ing her no cross of any color had been found on the quilt surrounding the corpse.

“Now whether the quilt's an old one or not, I can't tel you, because I don't know. The other one wasn't, though”

Pix was grateful for this confirmation of her suspicions.

“I thought I might do some more antiquing," she told him. "Maybe head up toward Bar Harbor. I'm hoping Jil wil come along." Pix had thought of asking Valerie, too, but decided that a third person would provide a further excuse for Jil to avoid talking about her love life.

“Wel , say hi from me, that is if she remembers who I am.”

Pix returned to what was obviously a more cheerful topic. "Do you have the results of the autopsy yet?”

“So far, al I've heard is heart failure."

“Then it may not involve any foul play?”

Pix was finding comfort in phrases like this. The alternatives were overly specific.

“Not necessarily. Could be something was given to her to cause the heart attack. But could also be she was due.”

Pix hung up, feeling better than she had for days. No mark on the quilt and the possibility that death was from natural causes. Addie's weight and eating habits—she disgustedly referred to salads and the like as "rabbit food"—definitely put her at risk. And as for the quilt, it was no doubt one Rebecca had simply forgotten about.

Next she cal ed Jil .

“Oh Pix, I would like to go. It's so horrible about Addie. I can't think about anything else, and if I don't get out of the shop today, I think I'l go insane”

Pix was surprised at the intensity of Jil 's reaction. She hadn't realized the two women were so close. Maybe Jil was some kind of niece, too.

“But I don't have anybody to cover for me. I can't afford to just close up. There are stil so many tourists in town.

Would you mind waiting while I try to find someone?"

“Of course not. Too bad Samantha's working at Maine Sail, but she does get through after lunch. We could go then if you don't find anyone sooner."

“That would be great. I'l cal you in an hour if not before to let you know what's happening.”

Pix was not in the mood to sit by the phone. "If you don't get an answer here, cal me at The Pines. I want to see how Rebecca is." And maybe get a few words with Mother, she added to herself. She also wanted to drive out to the Point on the way and inspect the foundation. There hadn't been any time yesterday to make sure Seth was doing as he had promised.

Seth and his crew were taking a break when Pix drove up. Nobody jumped up to greet her, but she didn't care. The sight before her eyes was greeting enough. The foundation and basement floor for the Fairchilds' house had been poured and the tart smel of fresh concrete fil ed the air. It was more fragrant to Pix than any number Chanel.

Seth did come over to her as she walked the perimeter of the house, inspecting the job intently.

“It'l be smooth as a baby's bottom. Don't worry," he said.

“I'm not. It looks fine." Pix believed in credit where credit was due.

“We're working on the stairs to the beach today. If the weather holds, we should be able to strip the forms and start framing the floor by Thursday, maybe even Wednesday. The wood's already cut and Barton's is holding everything for me—nice number-two Douglas fir.”

Pix nodded. Maybe this wasn't going to be Mr.

Blandings' dream house after al . Maybe Seth would come through.

“The family is some upset about Aunt Addie. Don't understand why Earl had to get al hot and bothered. There was no need to get Augusta involved. Gorry, we'l be lucky to have the funeral by Labor Day." Seth sounded extremely annoyed.

Pix's recent wel -being vanished.

“He had to cal the state police. Rebecca never saw the quilt before—and it was a red-and-white one, just like the one here." She had been consciously trying not to recal what had recently lain beneath the surface of the ground now covered by the gray concrete.

“Rebecca doesn't know the color of the blanket on her own bed once she's out of it. No, Earl had no right to ship Addie off for them to cut up. He's been watching too much TV. This is Sanpere, not New York City.”

Seth had bent down and picked up a stick. He was poking the ground ferociously with it as they walked. Pix made sure to keep wel to one side.

She could understand why Adelaide Bainbridge's relatives might be upset, but surely they wanted to find out what had happened. She made a mental note to ask Ursula what she'd heard about their reactions through the island grapevine.

Pix tactful y changed the subject. "It's going to be lonely for Rebecca in the house now, but I suppose she'l keep running the bed-and-breakfast."

“Wel , she may not be there for long," Seth stopped stirring up the dust with the stick and gave it one final shove, driving it into the soil. "She has life tenancy under Addie's wil , unless she's found unable to be left on her own, and that seems pretty certain."

“Where wil she go and who wil get the house then?" If you didn't ask, you didn't find out.

Seth did not seem too concerned about Rebecca's future and Pix realized that of course Addie was the relation and Rebecca merely a distant in-law to some one of Seth's parents or grandparents.

“Probably a nursing home on the mainland or maybe one of the Bainbridges in Granvil e wil have her. The house wil be sold and the whole kit and caboodle gets divided in equal shares”

Given what Addie's quilts sold for plus the value of the lovely old house and barn, it would add up to quite a caboodle, Pix figured.

She had the answer to one question at least.

Seth Marshal , unaware that his name had just been starred under two columns, cal ed to his crew to get back to work.

“I'd love to chat with you some more, but I wouldn't want you to think we were wasting time." He smiled warmly to soften his sarcasm. It almost worked. He real y was attractive, particularly at the moment, stripped to the waist because of the heat, his skin glistening slightly with sweat.

Maybe Jil was tired of good old Earl and wanted a fling with bad old Seth.

“I have to get going, anyway," she said. "If Jil can find someone to cover the store, we're going to drive up to Bar Harbor." She decided not to get too specific about what she intended to do. She needn't have bothered to be circumspect.

“Yup, so I hear. Going antiquing, right?”

Pix's mouth dropped. He laughed. "Heard it on the CB

just before you drove up. Jil 's got one of the Ames kids. I heard her asking her dad if she could do it."

“There are no secrets on this island," Pix remarked.

“Oh, I don't know about that," Seth said as he walked toward his crew, the sound of their hammers ricocheting in the stil air. "I'd say there were plenty.”

Doris Ames was sitting at the register reading the latest issue of the National Inquirer, and from the speed at which she was chewing her gum, Pix suspected the story was more racy than some of the fare: MOM SELLS

KIDNEY TO BUY FURNITURE or SPACE ALIEN BABY

FOUND ON MOUNT EVEREST-MEDICAL DR. SAYS

NOT HUMAN.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Mil er. Jil has been trying to get a hold of you. She's upstairs."

“I'l go on up, then. How's everything with you this summer?"

“I can't complain. Making good money and don't have to work days." Pix remembered that one of the Ames girls was waitressing at the inn, which was only open for dinner, and it must be Doris.

“I hear the food is even better than last year.”

Doris made a face. "It's too fancy for me. I like to recognize what's on my plate. I eat at home before I start.”

Pix laughed. "Wel , maybe some of it is an acquired taste." She decided to take Ursula and Samantha to the inn soon, al three of them having acquired a taste for any and al good food.

Jil had a snug little apartment over the store. Pix walked up the outside stairs and knocked at the door.

Hearing no reply, she pushed it open, stepping inside. She could hear water running and Jil had obviously decided to take a quick shower while waiting for Pix.

“Jil ," she cal ed loudly, not wanting to startle her when she emerged. "It's me, Pix."

“Oh great," Jil replied above the noise of the spray. "I'l be out in a minute. I just had to cool off.”

The apartment was divided into two large rooms plus bath. The front room was Jil 's bedroom and the larger back room served as living room, dining room, kitchen, and storage for the overflow from the store. There were several large boxes in the corner by the door, but this wasn't what caught Pix's eye. She was struck by the change in the room's decor since she'd been there last summer. Jil had been buying a great many antiques over the course of the year and the Goodwil finds spruced up with paint and fabric that had previously fil ed the room were mostly gone.

An Early American cupboard with open shelves on top stood against one wal , behind a trestle table and chairs from the same period. Pix walked over to take a closer look. She wondered whether Jil had gotten the things from Mitch. Spying a pumpkin pine stand that would make a perfect bedside table, she also wondered whether these things were for sale. She tripped on one of the uneven floorboards and her hip bumped into the corner of the cupboard. Jil 's apartment had original y been used for storage by the cobbler's shop below and the floor had never been finished off. One of the cupboard doors flew open. Pix bent down to close it, rubbing her hipbone, which, with little cushioning, smarted sharply.

She didn't close the door; rather, opened it wider. The shelves were fil ed with various items: some wonderful folk art carvings, especial y one who looked like one of the prophets; miniature furniture—the kind that used to be carried around as samples; and several patchwork quilts.

The shower was stil running. Pix was sure Jil wouldn't mind if she looked at the quilts. At least that's what she told herself. Her self also wondered what they were doing up here instead of down in the store, where they would certainly attract buyers. For that matter, al the things in the cupboard would. Perhaps Jil was saving these things for herself.

Pix careful y removed the top quilt and opened it up. It was an appliqué sampler quilt, every square a different wreath or bouquet and intricately quilted. The quilt-maker had used red, green, yel ow, and white. It was museum-quality. The shower stopped and Pix started to cal out her appreciation, but her words froze in her throat as her eyes moved down to the lower corner. Moved down to a tiny, barely perceptible blue cross.

She folded the quilt up and quickly put it back, latching the cupboard securely. When Jil came out, she found Pix sitting in a low rocker by the window reading this week's Island Crier.

“The parade pictures are wonderful. Sonny is going to love the shot of him as Burt Dow" she said brightly—too brightly.

Driving across the bridge to the mainland with Jil at her side, Pix was in a quandary. Should she come right out and ask Jil about the quilt and the other antiques? She probably should have done so immediately, but she wanted to take time to reflect. What could it possibly mean? That Jil had unwittingly bought a fake quilt—or wittingly? It was the latter possibility that was keeping Pix's tongue securely tied. Was Jil somehow connected to an antiques scam? At this point, Pix was certain it had been one of Mitchel Pierce's activities. Had they been in it together? She had certainly gotten antiques from him. This would explain Jil 's recent attitude toward Earl, and perhaps her new al iance with Seth. Supposedly, Seth had learned everything he knew from Mitch. Did that include how to construct old from new?

The blue crosses were no laundry mark, as she'd speculated to Earl. They must be an indication to those who knew that these quilts were not the real McCoy. Had Jil seen the mark on Pix's quilt when it was spread out on the ground and later come into the house and removed it?

Jil was talking and Pix realized with a start that she hadn't heard a word the woman had been saying. She forced herself to concentrate. Jil was suggesting where they might go.

“There's that barn right outside Blue Hil as you head up the hil toward the fairgrounds. I found a wonderful bamboo easel at a very reasonable price last spring. Why don't we stop there first, then go farther up the coast?"

“Sounds fine to me," Pix answered. Anything was fine at this point, when her main worry was how she was going to get through this trip without coming unglued.

The barn door was firmly shut and they didn't have much luck in El sworth, either: no quilts to examine and nothing else tempting. Pix knew why nothing appealed to her, but Jil seemed just as restless and disinterested.

Maybe she had simply needed to get away because of Addie's death and the antiquing was an excuse. Whatever it was, neither had bought anything by eleven and Pix suggested they drive straight to Beal's in Southwest Harbor for an early lunch. A big bowl of their chowder consumed at the pier while looking across the water at Acadia's Mount Cadil ac was exactly what she needed to soothe her troubled mind, and perhaps it would do something for Jil 's too. Pix had noticed that whenever Jil wasn't speaking, her fingers were finding their way to her mouth and her cuticles looked red and sore.

Many of the tables at Beal's were already ful . In tacit assent, they took their food to the one farthest away from the groups noisily cracking open the lobsters they had picked out of the tank.

A cool breeze was coming off the harbor and for a while they sat in silence consuming the delicious chowder thick with clams. Pix was in no hurry to get back into the car. Eating gave her something to do and think about other than what was pressing most on her mind.

“Coffee and pie?" Jil asked. Beal's was known for their blueberry pie.

“Sure, we came al this way. We can't leave without pie.”

More silent enjoyment fol owed, or rather, Pix thought, more silence. The pie was as good as ever, yet it was beginning to turn to ashes in her mouth. She had to say something to Jil —Jil , who had been a friend for years.

“Maybe—no, probably—it's none of my business, but you know how much we care about you, both of you. Do you want to talk about what's gone wrong with Earl?" Pix decided to start with this trial bal oon to gauge Jil 's reaction before attempting to discuss such matters as antiques fraud and breaking and entering, although Jil had always been free to walk into the Mil ers' unlocked house whenever she pleased.

Jil frowned. "I don't know why everyone thinks something's wrong between us. Goodness, if you don't happen to be climbing al over someone every minute of the day, the whole island assumes you've broken up, and of course it's not true. No one's bothered to remember we both have jobs. I've been busy and Earl's been even busier with al that's happened. We haven't had time to see each other.”

She jammed a large forkful of pie into her mouth.

Some of the juice dripped onto the front of her gauzy white blouse.

“Damn," she said, rubbing at it with a paper napkin, which only made it worse. She seemed close to tears. It didn't seem the moment to mention Earl's remarks or the fact that Pix had been there herself when Jil had turned her swain down the day after she was spotted dining with another. Nor was Pix inclined to raise anything else. They finished eating quickly, paid, and got into the car.

“Are you game for some more or do you want to head back?" Pix asked, hoping Jil , like she, had had enough.

“Let's keep going. Doris can stay until she has to go to work at the inn." Jil 's chin jutted out. "Besides, I haven't had any luck yet”

Nor have I, Pix thought dismal y.

They retraced their steps and went into a large antiques shop in Trenton. It was one Pix had frequented before, but Jil said she had never been there. They walked in and the owner greeted Pix warmly. The shop was free of cobwebs and dust. Everything was shown to its best advantage. It was quite a contrast and at the moment a welcome one. When Pix asked about night-stands, he said he thought he had the very thing and led them into another room. There were several customers browsing and one turned at the sound of their voices to greet them. "Pix, Jil ! I never expected to see you two playing hooky again so soon." It was Valerie, and contrary to her earlier impulses, Pix was delighted to have a third wheel. This day out with Jil had begun to seem like a week.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I'm stil looking for a table for my guest room and Jil was able to come along.”

Not wanting to keep the owner waiting, Pix fol owed him to what was in fact "the very thing," except not the very price. Even with some friendly dickering, she knew it would be way out of her range. Valerie and Jil joined them. Pix said she liked it but would have to wait for something less expensive.

“It is a lovely piece," Valerie commented. "Are you sure you're not going to take it?"

“Yes. Saying no to this price tag, besides saving my marriage, gives me something to keep looking for this summer.”

Valerie was on her hands and knees, examining the chest from al angles.

“Take your time, ladies," the owner said. "I'l be in the front of the store"

“Do you have any quilts?" Pix asked before he left.

“I have a crib quilt and a nice quilt top from the thirties but nothing else at the moment. Good ones are getting harder and harder to come by. The market in general has been hurt by the foreign imports that look old—and also by the fakes.”

Was it her imagination or did Jil give a sudden start?

“I'm a quilter and very interested in al this," Pix told him. "How do you spot the fakes?" It was too much to hope that he would say they were marked with a little blue cross, but she might learn something.

“It's very difficult, especial y now that the fabric companies make so many reproduction fabrics. I look at the stitching, examine the material, and mostly consider the source. I get pretty suspicious when someone comes in with an armload of quilts they just happened to find in an old trunk that hasn't been opened since goodness knows when in Grandmother's attic."

“They aren't marked in any way, then?" Pix felt her investigation was going nowhere and she had to ask.

He laughed. "That would make it easy, now wouldn't it?

No, they aren't marked. Do you want to see what little I have?”

Pix did and so did the others.

“I think I'l take the stand, if you're absolutely sure you don't want it," Valerie said.

“Absolutely sure. I can visit it at your house.”

“Anytime.”

The crib quilt was precious, Valerie declared, and that was the word for the price, too, Pix thought. She wasn't real y interested in crib quilts—not for a long time to come

—but she did like the quilt top with its bright 1930s prints. It wasn't particularly unusual. Someone had simply machine-pieced the rectangles together, yet it was someone who had had a good eye for color. Pix figured she could tie it rather than quilt it and have an attractive cover for Samantha's bed in Sanpere. If Samantha didn't want it, Pix would keep it for her own room. The price was reasonable and her spirits lifted.

“Do you have time to head up to Sul ivan?" she asked Jil . "And can you come with us?" she added to Valerie.

“That's going to be a little far," Jil said. "I can't cut it too close with Doris or she may not want to help me out again."

“Why don't you ride back with me?" Valerie suggested.

"There's only one place I want to check in Surry and it won't take long."

“Thanks," Jil said. "Then I won't feel like I'm spoiling Pix's fun.”

Pix felt a major stab of guilt. How could she suspect such a nice person? And instead of talking to her about Addie and Jil 's feelings about the death, Pix had pried into her private life, upsetting her further. Certainly she did not look any better for the outing. If anything, she seemed more perturbed. Pix was tempted to cal it a day herself and drive Jil home.

But at this point, she was compel ed to keep going, even though she didn't have the slightest idea where Mitchel Pierce had lived in Sul ivan. A quick stop at the post office should take care of that. Mitchel Pierce—it had al started with him, Mitch and antiques. Antiques—and antiques dealers—were cropping up regularly.

She paid for her quilt top and impulsively asked the owner, "Did you ever have any dealings with Mitchel Pierce?"

“Everybody in this business had dealings with Mitch and most of us wish we hadn't, however I don't want to speak il of the dead. You do know about that, don't you?"

“Yes, yes, I know," Pix said. But not enough.

She waved good-bye to Jil and Valerie and drove north to Sul ivan. Without Jil , her mind raced from subject to subject, trying to figure out a way to link Mitchel , Addie, Jil , Seth, Duncan, and John, plus God knew who else, together in one pat solution. As she pul ed up in front of the Sul ivan post office, she was sure of only one thing: She needed to talk to Faith.

She had prepared what she hoped was a plausible story on the drive. It was hard enough to pry information from taciturn Mainiacs without the complications of whatever oaths postal employees swore. Not that this ever seemed to bother the ones in Aleford, who considered return addresses and what was written on a postcard public information.

“Hi," she said in as self-confident a voice as she could muster, and it wasn't half-bad. "I'm looking for someone named Mitchel Pierce. I understand he lives here."

“Lived" was the laconic reply from the other side of the counter.

“You mean he's moved?"

“You might say”

Pix waited, then, when that appeared to be the ful extent of the reply, asked, "Do you have a forwarding address for him?"

“I have my ideas, but I'd rather not say.”

Just as she was beginning to wonder whether she was dealing with yet another would-be "Bert and I," the recording of classic Down East humor, her informant turned inquisitor.

“Why are you so interested in Mitchel Pierce?”

The story came out smooth as a new dory down the slip into the water. "Mr. Pierce took some old things my mother wanted to get rid of on consignment. He told her they might be worth something, especial y the quilts." Pix planned to mention quilts whenever possible. "He gave her a receipt and his phone number and said he'd be in touch, but that was over a month ago and she hasn't heard a thing.

The number must have been wrong, because a recording says it's no longer in service.”

Maybe it was the word mother or the tale itself, but it unleashed a veritable fountain of information.

“He's dead. Guess if you want to find out what happened to your stuff, you'd better talk to the police.”

“Police?"

“Mitchel got himself planted in somebody's cel ar hole down to Sanpere. It's a police matter. And I wouldn't hold out any great hopes of finding your things."

“Oh dear, what am I going to tel my mother?" This last bit was genuine enough. "Isn't it possible that they could stil be in his house?"

“I doubt it. He boarded with the Hardings just up the road. Didn't have a place of his own"

“Wel , I'm glad I came. At least we know now why we didn't hear from him. Thank you for al your help." He nodded in acknowledgment.

It was nice to find some humor in al this, Pix thought as she started the Land Rover. Faith was going to love the post office story.

The Hardings had thoughtful y painted their name in white on their mailbox, which jutted out into the main road. It was a neat little house, the upper story painted bright yel ow, the bottom dark brown, the shutters white. The yard was fil ed with machinery in various states of repair, several pot buoys, and broken traps. Whatever Mr. Harding did, it wasn't fishing. She knocked on the back door, noting the bright pink and purple petunias that grew profusely in the planters made from old tires on either side.

An elderly woman in a flowered housedress with a bib apron covering most of it answered.

“Yes?"

“Are you Mrs. Harding? I got your name at the post office”

This appeared to be vetting enough.

“Yes, I am. Why don't you come in, deah, and sit down? It is too hot for man or beast today. I told Virgil—

that's my husband—that he was to stay in the shade as much as possible and keep his hat on. He's bald, you know, and bald people have to be very careful not to get burned. He won't let me put on any of that cream I got from Marge Thomas. She sel s Avon. Anyway, Virgil says he doesn't want to smel like a perfume factory, but it has no smel I can make out. Those summer people work him to death, cutting the grass, weeding the garden. He caretakes now, you know.”

This, Pix thought, profoundly grateful, was going to be a piece of cake.

She told her story again—or rather, tried to. Mrs.

Harding—"Cal me Bessie, deah. Everybody does, even the grandkids"—tended to use Pix's every word as a jumping-off point for one of her own tangents. But after hearing about the priceless antique garnets—necklace, bracelet, earrings, and ring—Mr. Harding's mother had owned and which were promised to her, Bessie, but just because Mother had lived in their house, Mr. Harding's brother's wife, "who was no relation at al " claimed everything and she, Bessie, did not get so much as a button of her own mother-in-law's who also happened to be a second cousin, Pix was able to get on with her story.

Once Mitchel Pierce's name was mentioned, Pix didn't have to do anything else.

“I know he was no better than he should have been, but I liked the man. Always paid his rent on time and sometimes he'd come down here to the parlor—that's where we watch TV—and sit with us. Played that mandolin of his. A couple of times, he'd bring a bottle of something, not that Mr. Harding and I are drinkers, though we do enjoy a nip of something now and then. I don't know what he was doing down on Sanpere in a basement, but the whole thing is very sad and we miss him. That man could make you laugh from here to Christmas"

“Do you think it's possible he may have left some of Mother's things here in his room or maybe someplace else in the house? Mother is particularly concerned about her quilts. He said they might be valuable.”

It was the longest remark she'd been able to make so far.

Bessie shook her head. "He never did keep much here. Told me once that he put his wares—that's what he cal ed them—over to El sworth in one of those storage places people rent. Why on earth, I can't imagine. If you don't have room for what you've got, then you've got too much, is what I say. Somebody else is in his room now, a real nice man who's working at Acadia this summer. We don't see too much of him, though, and of course he can't tel a story the way Mitch could. I think he's from New Jersey or one of those places.”

Pix made one last try. "So you never saw any quilts—

or other antiques—that Mitch might have taken on consignment or bought?"

“No, deah, and I'm real sorry for your mother. The only quilt Mitch ever brought into this house was the one he gave me last year for my birthday. I was some surprised. Don't know how he knew, but he come into the kitchen right after breakfast—I always gave him breakfast when he was here

—and gave me the most lovely quilt. It's too nice to use, so I keep it on a rack in the parlor. Do you want to see it?"

Bessie had a sudden thought. "You don't think it could be one of your mother's? I mean, with this talk about Mitch being a little crooked and al ."

“Oh no," Pix hastened to reassure her, speaking with the conviction the absolute truth gives. "It couldn't be. It's only been a little over two months that he's had ours.”

She fol owed Bessie into the parlor and stood to one side as the woman spread the quilt out for her to admire.

Pix made al the right comments—and once again she was speaking the truth. The quilt was beautiful, intricately worked, the colors lovely. And Pix ought to know. She'd bought the twin of it a week ago—the twin, even down to the tiny blue cross at the edge.

It was difficult to get away from Bessie Harding, but after drinking two glasses of iced tea and promising to drop in again if she was ever up that way, Pix got in her car, waved good-bye, and backed out of the drive. Bessie watched her go, then ran to the mailbox cal ing after the car,

"I never did get your name, deah! What was it again?" Pix turned onto the main road and headed south. The car windows were rol ed down, but she missed Bessie's last words.

The sight of the bridge from the mainland to Sanpere always gave Pix a feeling of wel -being. A welcome-home feeling. She drove up the steep incline and looked at the sky overhead. She felt inches away from the heavens on the top of the bridge. As a teenager, she and Sonny had climbed to the uppermost crossbar of the bridge a few times before their parents heard about it and forbade them to ever do such a crazy thing again. Stil it had been wonderful, swinging your legs into nothingness and seeing al of Penobscot Bay at your feet. She let the car coast down the other side and reminded herself to mention, as she did each summer to her children, that the top of the bridge was strictly off limits.

She was eager to talk to Faith but decided to stop at The Pines before going home. She had spoken with her mother earlier to tel her about the planned excursion and see whether she needed anything in El sworth, it standing in relation to Sanpere roughly as, say, Paris to a French vil age on the Atlantic Coast. Mother had wanted for nothing and told Pix that Rebecca was fine, sitting by Ursula's side as she spoke and sipping a cup of tea.

Tea, or rather, iced tea again, sounded good. It was a long drive from Sul ivan to Sanpere and Pix was tired. She needed to recharge before cal ing Faith and trying to figure everything out.

She walked into the living room, surprised not to see her mother and Rebecca on the porch.

“Hel o," she cal ed. "Mother, where are you?" She walked through to the kitchen and saw the two women in the garden vigorously attacking anything that wasn't supposed to be there.

“You have to keep at it every day," Rebecca was saying. "They real y do grow up over night.”

Ursula was about to reply when she saw Pix. "Wil you excuse me for a moment, Rebecca? I have to talk to my daughter." Pix liked neither the expression on her mother's face nor the tone of voice in which she had said "my daughter." What have I done? she wondered.

She wasn't in the dark for long. Mother pul ed her unceremoniously up the back stairs into the kitchen and plunked her down on a chair.

“Myrtle Rowe Mil er! What have you been doing? What could you be thinking of going up to Sul ivan like that!”

Mother was definitely clairvoyant. The word witch did not even occur to Pix.

She was stunned. "How did you know where I was?"

"Earl cal ed. The Sul ivan post office thought they should report to the state police that someone was asking about Mitchel Pierce. They cal ed Earl, who knew, of course, from the description it was you. There was no answer at your house, so he cal ed here to see if I knew whether you were off-island. It was quite embarrassing."

“I'm sorry," Pix mumbled. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." And stil does, she thought defiantly. She was sorry she had upset her mother, but some prices had to be paid.

“You're to cal Earl immediately. Now, you must be exhausted, al that driving. Would you like a cup of tea?"

She was forgiven.

“After I cal Earl." Sometimes virtue was its own reward, and besides, she might get a cookie.

She went upstairs to cal , since Rebecca might run out of weeds and Pix didn't want her activities known by any more people than she could help.

He answered on the first ring. "Now before you get mad at me, let me tel you what I found out," she said, hoping to distract him, which she did.

“We knew he had the storage place. It was clean as a whistle, but this business with the quilts seems to prove he was involved in antiques fraud"

“Does this mean you'l have to take Bessie's quilt?"

The woman had been so proud, Pix was sorry to be responsible for having it impounded or whatever they cal ed it when they seized evidence.

“Yes, but she'l get it back. It's her property, unless at the end of this mess we find out differently."

“No one has stepped forward to claim the estate yet, right?”

This would have been big news on Sanpere.

“Not so far, but it hasn't been very long”

It just seemed long.

Pix was about to hang up, grateful that she had avoided a talking-to, when she remembered Jil 's protest.

"Oh, by the way, according to Ms. Merriwether, any problems between the two of you are a figment of the public's imagination. She and you have simply been too busy to see much of each other lately."

“Oh, is that it? Better than nothing, I suppose" From the way he spoke, it sounded much better.

Rebecca and Ursula were sitting in the living room. "It's too hot on the front porch. The sun has been beating down on it al day," her mother explained.

“If you don't mind, I think I'l lie down for a while. I can't understand why I'm so tired al the time," Rebecca said.

“I'm sure you'l feel better soon," Pix reassured her.

“Thank you, deah, but I know one thing. I'm not going to feel any better until we can have a proper Christian burial for Addie." Her voice broke. "It's not fair to do this to her.”

Pix went upstairs with Rebecca and spread the afghan she requested over her, despite the warmth of the room, tucked up under the eaves as it was.

“I like to lie here and look out the window at the water,"

she told Pix drowsily. "I could never see it from my bedroom in the back, but Addie could.”

The woman was almost asleep. Pix left, closing the door. When she went back downstairs, her mother was in the kitchen pouring iced tea, adding sprigs of mint she must have just cut in the garden.

“In al this commotion, I forgot to tel you Faith cal ed. It seemed every cal was someone looking for you. She said for you to cal her back as soon as you could."

“I wonder what she wants?"

“I have no idea. She didn't mention anything to me."

Mrs. Rowe smiled. Let the girls have their secrets was its implication.

Pix didn't feel like going back upstairs and so cal ed from the kitchen. She got the answering machine and left a message.

“Stil too hot for the porch?" she asked her mother.

"Yes, but not the backyard. Let's sit there.”

They took their glasses and a plate of sugar cookies out back. There were chairs and a smal table set out under a large black oak surrounded by a bed of lilies of the val ey.

They weren't in bloom now, but the columbines that had sprung up among them, managing to get just enough sunlight, were lovely.

“It's because I worry about you," Ursula said. "That's why I was angry."

“I know, but I wouldn't put myself in any danger." Pix suddenly thought of al the things she was responsible for, starting with her family. Wel , she certainly hadn't been in peril. Half the state of Maine knew where she was every minute.

“It's just this terrific need to know what happened—

maybe because I found the body. I can't not try to find out whatever I can," she told her mother.

“I understand. An enormous wrong has been done, two wrongs if, as we suspect, Adelaide was kil ed, too."

“You don't think she died of natural causes? A heart attack?"

“It may have been a heart attack, but I don't think it was natural. However, I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong"

“Did Earl say anything more about the autopsy?" Pix realized she'd forgotten to ask him.

“He said they're not finished doing their tests. Rebecca wants very much to go home, although she's happy enough here. But the house is stil sealed."

“This whole thing has been terribly hard on her."

“Yes, I suppose it has”

Pix told her mother what Seth had said about Addie's wil .

“I haven't felt right about asking Rebecca so soon, but I'm not surprised. The whole show was always Addie's and James's, her husband. You wouldn't real y remember him.

Besides, he was sick at the end of his life. But he and Addie were wel matched—two very strong-minded people.

He was First Selectman for years. His people hadn't farmed for a long time, so he fished, yet buying the house in town set them apart from some of the others. Rebecca had lived in the house, taking care of her parents until they died, then moved out when James inherited it. She lived in Granvil e and worked at the Emporium until Addie asked her to move back in to help take care of James. After he died, she just stayed. But it was always James and Addie's house, even though Rebecca had lived there for most of her life"

“I hope she can stay at least for a little while. I get the feeling she'd like to move into Addie's big front bedroom with the view.”

Her mother nodded. "I'm sure she would."

“What about the quilt? Has Rebecca said anything more about it?"

“I did ask her that, only she insists she's never seen it before and that if it had been in the house, she would have known about it. I suggested maybe the antiques dealer staying there had purchased it and left it for Addie to look at, but she said it wasn't the kind of thing he bought."

“That's true. Remember, he told us he was interested in clocks and furniture at the clambake" An image of Ursula deep in conversation with John Eggleston earlier that same day came into Pix's mind and she remembered she wanted to ask her mother some questions about him.

“Which reminds me, what were you and John talking about so earnestly over your lobsters?”

If her mother wondered at the abrupt change in subject, she did not show it. She was working on a pair of mittens with sailboats on the back for the Sanpere Stitchers Fair and her needles continued to click rapidly. Pix had worn similar mittens in her youth, ones with kittens, ice skates, and once her flower namesake done in purple on green.

Pix was a fair knitter herself, but her mittens tended to be utilitarian solid colors, as the Mil er children scattered them al over Aleford while sledding, making snow forts, and skating on the old reservoir.

“We were talking about changing one's occupation in midlife. He was expressing some amazement, and contentment, with the way the Lord had worked things out for him.”

There didn't seem anything untoward here.

“What about Mitchel Pierce? Did John mention him to you or have you heard why Mitchel moved out?"

“It was foolish to think those two could ever have lived together. They were both much too stubborn, but that wasn't what happened. John caught Mitch using his tools without permission and went through the roof. It seems he's very, very particular about them—the same way an artist would be about his brushes, I imagine."

“What was Mitchel making?"

“That, I cannot tel you. You'l have to ask John. I do know he was very upset, because Mitch had waited until John was asleep, then went out to the woodworking shed. It may have been the subterfuge that bothered John most.”

Woodworking in the dead of night, a fake quilt for his landlady: It al sounded very much as if Mitch had been in the business of making and sel ing forged antiques. But had John realized this, too?

Or had Mitch found something in John's shed?

Something John didn't want him to know about?

Pix wanted to go home, make herself a drink, and stretch out in the hammock. There was a pizza in the freezer and she could make a salad for their dinner. It was the utmost effort she could envision, and she knew Samantha wouldn't mind.

As it turned out, she didn't even have to do that much.

Samantha cal ed as she was about to leave to tel her she was going out with Arlene. Fred was helping some relative move and he'd let his girlfriend have his car. Samantha and Arlene were looking forward to Girls' Night Out: dinner and a movie in Granvil e. Pix gave her consent, said good-bye to her mother, and went home.

She poured herself a drink, put the pizza in the oven, and tried to decide whether she had enough energy to wash some lettuce for a salad. She didn't. She grabbed a handful of carrot and celery sticks to munch on instead and prepared to head for the hammock until the pizza was ready.

They kept only a smal portion of the lawn mowed, so the kids could play croquet and badminton. The rest they left to its own devices, watching the cycle of wildflowers and grasses change over the course of the summer. Now the meadow was fil ed with white daisies, purple vetch, and hawkweed, yel ow and dark red against the green. Pix stretched out in the hammock and looked up into the sky.

The air was cooler as dusk approached. She gave herself a swing with her foot and balanced her glass on her chest.

The phone rang.

She leapt from the hammock, setting the drink down on the grass, and sprinted for the house. Fortunately, Faith did not hang up.

“I figured you'd be out doing something energetic in the garden or digging clams at the shore. Whatever.”

“Actual y, I was lying in the hammock”

This did not sound like the Pix Mil er she knew, Faith thought. When her Pix Mil er indulged in contemplation, it was usual y paired with something else—taking the dogs for a run or a ten-mile hike with Danny's Boy Scout troop.

Things must be seriously out of kilter on Sanpere.

“What I have to tel you may help put some of the pieces together—or confuse things further. I'm not sure."

“Tel me. Tel me!"

“Tel me. Tel me!"

“A few days ago, I cal ed a friend of mine who has an antiques shop on Madison Avenue. She knows everybody in the antiques world, national y and international y. Anyway, right off the bat, she hadn't heard of Norman Osgood, which was pretty surprising. But she said she'd check her professional directories and ask around. She cal ed me back today, and the man does not exist. She didn't even find him in the Manhattan phone book!"

“Faith, this is amazing. What made you think about checking on Norman?"

“You kept saying something wasn't quite right about him, and I trust your impressions absolutely."

“I'l let Earl know right away. Obviously Norman Osgood is an alias. If they can find out who he real y is, we may have found the link between the two murders." And the murderer. She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud, even to Faith. The murderer? He'd been sitting on her blanket watching fireworks two nights ago.

“So, you actual y think Adelaide was murdered?" Faith asked.

“Yes, and what's more, so does Mother."

“No question, then" Faith sighed. She knew how Pix and the whole Mil er-Rowe clan felt about Sanpere Island, and now it would never again be the unsul ied Eden it had been.

Pix told Faith about her trip to Sul ivan and what she'd found at Jil 's.

“I can't see Jil being involved in this—fake antiques, murder. Besides, she was close to the Bainbridges, wasn't she? And isn't she in that sewing group of your mother's? I believe it's an unwritten law in these societies that one lady does not bump another off."

“It does seem improbable, but I saw the quilt with my own eyes, and she has been behaving strangely this summer."

“True, if you're engaged in any sort of criminal activity, the last person you want for a fiancé is a cop.”

They talked a bit more, particularly about the possibility that Mitch and Norman, or whoever he was, had been in business together.

“Al those buying trips Norman made off the island—

maybe he was meeting Mitch. And staying with the Bainbridges—that could have been to swindle them out of more things. Addie must have found out something. Oh dear, it's too dreadful to think about."

“Forget the Fairchilds and their traditions! I'm coming up this weekend!" Faith felt she belonged with her friend—

and besides, things were heating up.

“No, you go. Plan to come up the fol owing one. Arnie and Claire wil be here by then and I'm giving a party for them.”

Faith correctly sensed that Pix was more thrown by the idea of cooking for the party than solving any multitude of crimes.

“If you change your mind, cal . We won't be leaving the house until ten."

“I wil —and have fun."

“Fun is not the word we're looking for here, but I'l have something. Mosquito bites and sunburn maybe." They laughed and said good-bye.

Pix had to cut some burned edges off the pizza and it was pretty crusty. She'd completely forgotten about it while talking to Faith. It tasted fine with the scotch she'd retrieved from the lawn, only one smal ant having invaded the alcohol. She might not be hitting al the food groups, but it was exactly the kind of supper she wanted.

Afterward, she cleaned up, taking a mere merciful three minutes, and cal ed Earl. He wasn't around, so she left a short message for him on the office machine to cal her back, which he did an hour later. He did not seem unduly surprised at the news she had uncovered about Norman. Maybe he was getting used to having her for a partner, she thought somewhat smugly. Wel , Faith had John Dunne, a detective lieutenant with the Massachusetts State Police.

She went to bed early and tried to read while she waited for Samantha. So, Norman Osgood wasn't an antiques dealer and might not be Norman Osgood, either.

Who and what was he?

Samantha and Arlene had gone to the early movie and at nine o'clock found themselves in a booth at the new pizza restaurant near the cannery, consuming a large pie with everything on it but anchovies.

“Who eats those things? Why do they even bother putting them on the menu?" Arlene asked.

“My father loves them," Samantha said, making an appropriate face. "He says our tastes are not as refined as his"

“Yuck!" Arlene popped a stray piece of pepperoni in her mouth. It had taken her a few years to work up a taste for that.

“What do you want to do? When do you have to get the car back to Fred?"

“I'm supposed to pick him up at his cousin's around ten-thirty. He's going to be ready to leave, I'm sure. They've been working since early afternoon”

The girls gave their ful attention to the food before them for a moment. It was disappearing fast.

“It's great having a place where you can get real pizza on the island. Gives us somewhere to go, too”

The restaurant was jammed and the crowd at the door was eyeing their booth longingly—and in some cases, aggressively.

“Let's go," Samantha said after catching one particularly beady eye.

“Yeah, I'l take the rest for Fred in case he's hungry, although his aunt and mother sent over enough food for an army.”

They got in the car and Arlene started the engine. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she said to Samantha.

“Wil Fred be mad if we go without him?"

“No, I told him we might. He just wants to know what's in the trunk. He doesn't care if he's there or not. I don't think he likes to go into the cabin, anyway. He told me if he sees the stuff Duncan has around again, he might be tempted to smash it to pieces."

“Maybe it's better he doesn't come, then.”

Arlene turned the car down Main Street and drove up the steep hil by the old Opera House, where the movies were shown now. In an earlier era when Granvil e had been a boomtown because of the granite quarries and fishing industry, Nel ie Melba and other stars had tread the boards.

They parked the car by the side of the road again and made their way to the cabin with no difficulty. It was dark.

Fred had left his flashlight in the glove compartment. With it to guide them, they went back up the tumbled-down stairs and pushed open the door. It was much as before—the bed mussed, some dirty clothes in the corner, the candles placed about. Samantha had come armed with several bobby pins.

“I'l try to open it and you stand guard”

She directed the beam of light on the lock and wiggled the bobby pin around, trying to press down on the catch.

The first pin snapped and she tried another with greater success.

“It's open!”

Arlene came quickly to her side and they raised the lid slowly.

A heavy smel of incense made Samantha sneeze.

The black robe was on top and they lifted it away apprehensively. Underneath were some books, magazines, and several large photograph albums. There were also more clothes.

“This is real y weird. Why would he keep his clothes locked up?”

Samantha thought she knew why and she found she had a lump in her throat.

“These aren't his clothes. They're his father's. Look at this Nautica sailing jacket. It would be huge on Duncan.”

At the bottom of the trunk was a box with a man's watch, some cuff links, and a bunch of birthday cards—al from Duncan to Dad.

“And the albums are probably ful of pictures of him,"

Arlene said. "I can't believe it, but I'm actual y feeling sorry for the creep.”

The albums did have pictures, starting with Duncan as a baby and his young parents, smiling and looking straight into the camera with the confidence they would al live forever that a moment like this brings.

“Let's put it back. It's too sad."

“Sssh," Arlene said, and grabbed the flashlight, clicking it off.

Samantha heard it, too. Someone had jumped off the porch and was running into the woods.

They went to the window, but al they could see were some tiny red flashing lights disappearing into the darkness.

“Let's get out of here before he comes back!”

They hastily put the things into the trunk, trying to remember exactly where everything had been. Some of the books were about the supernatural, but the magazines were mostly back issues of Hustler. As Arlene refolded what must have been Mr. Cowley's gown from some graduation, something fel from the pocket and onto the floor with a clunk. Samantha trained the light on it.

It was a hunting knife.

“Should we give it to Earl?"

“Let's ask Fred. But I'l tel you one thing, I'm not leaving it here." Arlene took off the tank top she was wearing over her shirt and wrapped the knife in it.

They closed the trunk and returned to the car through the woods, much faster than they had come.

It was almost 10:30. They had been at the cabin longer than they had thought.

“Look, just drop me at the end of the road and go get Fred."

“Are you sure?"

“So long as I have the flashlight, I'l be fine. I'd probably be fine without it, I've walked this road so many times."

“Al right, but I'm cal ing your house in a little while. I want to be sure."

“That's very sweet, but be real. What's going to happen to me?"

“Do you want to take the knife?”

Samantha shuddered. "No thank you. And tel Fred that I think we should give it to Earl as soon as possible.

Tonight. I think I should tel my mom about it, too."

“Yeah. I'm sure he'l agree. Why do you suppose Duncan didn't come in and blast us for being there? The last time, he yel ed his head off."

“Maybe he planned to come back with his friends and ambush us. Or maybe he didn't know who or how many we were.”

This first alternative left Samantha feeling distinctly shaky.

They were at the end of the Mil ers' road. Arlene stopped the car.

“Good-bye. I hate to do this, except I'm late already—”

Samantha cut her off. "Don't be sil y. Go! It was my idea. If Fred is nice enough to let us have the car, the least we can do is get it back to him on time. He's probably imagining al kinds of things, from crumpled fenders to dropped transmissions.”

Arlene laughed. "Talk to you later.”

The moon was waning yet stil quite ful and bright.

Samantha switched the flashlight off and decided to jog home. It was beautiful and the familiar sight of the dark trees on the opposite shore as she passed the first inlet comforted her. But who would comfort Duncan? The trunk and the candles above it were a virtual shrine to his dead father. She imagined him slipping his skinny arms into the sleeves of that familiar jacket, trying to recapture some of the warmth and security those other arms had provided.

She thought about her own father and what would evoke him most. His handkerchiefs, she decided. Big white squares of the finest cotton. When she was sick with a cold, her nose raw from Kleenex, she used those. They smel ed slightly of the drawer where he kept them—a drawer fil ed with years of Old Spice soap on a rope sets given to him by his kids. She felt tears pricking at her eyes and stopped to speak to herself sternly. "Your father's not dead, Miss Samantha Mil er. Get a grip, girl." She laughed when she realized she'd said it out loud. She started jogging again, her mood elevated as she brought her knees up and down.

She was almost home.

She was almost home before she realized that she wasn't the only runner out that night. Someone dressed in black streaked by her and knocked her to the ground. She screamed, felt a sharp pain on the back of her head, and had time for just one impression before losing consciousness.

Lights. Smal , red twinkling lights.