The Body in the Kelp

“I don't pretend to think I'm Bird's first or only choice. I'm quite certain that had he lived, she would have married Roger. She's marrying me because he wants some stability in her life and she wants to stay on the island." He paused and colored slightly. "Of course, she does have some affection for me too."

“Of course she does, Bill. If she didn't, she'd be out of her mind. She's the lucky one here." Pix was getting a bit irritated at all the self-deprecation. Trading life in a fisherman's bait shack with no amenities and a quixotic, perhaps abusive, would-be rock star for Bill's beautifully designed modern house and unswerving love and devotion wasn't exactly a step down.

“We're both lucky, Pix," Bill smiled as he put his hand over hers. "One of those serendipitous blinks where two people find themselves in the right place at the right time. And Zoe makes it even more perfect," he added.

“Zoë?" asked Pix. "Oh, the baby, of course. I never knew her name."

“Well, her name has actually undergone several transformations that are too embarrassing to reveal, but it's Zoë now for keeps. Zoë Fox."

“I like Zoe. I think it means `life,' doesn't it?”

While Pix was musing on Zoe's name, Faith was concentrating on Bird's. Bird Fox? Better than Bird Dog, but still ludicrous. If Bill could get her to eat meat and change the baby's name, maybe he could convince her to go back to her original name, whatever that was. More important, maybe he could get her to stop tie-dyeing her clothes.

A lobster boat returning from a long morning of hauling made its way across the inlet. The herons rose up and flapped off in the opposite direction.

“I have to be going," Bill said. "Bird and Zoë had fallen asleep when I left, and they must be up by now." And he didn't want to miss a single waking moment, Faith surmised.

They walked him to his car and returned to the job of identifying the quilt squares.

Pix took a sheet of paper and was making a list.

“Why don't we give them numbers starting at the upper left-hand corner and going across each row. So far we know number one, Old Maid's Puzzle, number five, Mariner's Compass, and this one, number seven, is Crossroads or something like that."

“And Louise said this was Fern Berry, number sixteen. I remember, because it was an interesting name."

“Right, and in the next row, number eighteen is Shady Pine.”

Pix stood back, regarding the quilt intently. "Number thirteen is obviously Schoolhouse, or Little Red Schoolhouse, I think it's called. And number fourteen is Jacob's Ladder."

“Pix, this is great. We've already named seven, almost half."

“Make that eight, because number ten has to be some kind of tree design. See the trunk and the leaf pattern?"

“I've been stupid about this. Of course the squares are pictures. Look at number nineteen. It looks like a chest or a trunk."

“I know what you're thinking and it may be crazy, but I think you're right. The quilt does have some kind of message."

“Matilda may have been religious, but I'm sure 'Seek and Ye Shall Find' meant something else. Something like 'God helps those who help themselves.' And what else is there to seek but the gold?" Faith was definitely getting excited.

“Naming the first block Old Maid's Puzzle is too much of a coincidence to be one, together with the quotation and that square at the bottom with the chest or whatever on it."

“Exactly. Now all we have to do is solve the puzzle."

“And to do that, we have to find the names of all the squares. Not an easy job. But we can start by figuring out if the squares are four-patch, nine-patch, appliqué, what have you."

“And what have you? What's all this patch business?"

“Many blocks are made up of four, six, or nine, etc. smaller squares sewn together, and the books list the patterns this way, so we don't have to go through every category searching. We can narrow it down a little.

“Wonderful. Appliqué is in my vocabulary, but I don't see any here, except maybe this schoolhouse." Faith was down on her hands and knees, looking closely at each square. "No, it's your little nine, ten, whatever blocks too.”

Pix had started to open a book. "Ickis's Quilt, Making and Collecting is a Bible for quilt makers, and Matilda is sure to have had it. Let's see.... "

“Pix!" Faith interrupted. "There's something peculiar about some of these squares. Look—on Mariner's Compass she only embroidered one point, and E for East. And in this one, number three, the top triangle is red and all the others are blue. It's not a code. Pix—the quilt is some kind of map!”

Pix knelt down next to Faith. "You're right! Look at Crossroads. The calico for the one on the left is different from the rest."

“And number nine has the same thing—the fabric in the upper right is different from the rest. She's telling us which way to turn. What a smart lady. I'm really sorry I never knew her," Faith said with regret in her voice.

“I have a feeling you're going to be a whole lot better acquainted with Matilda by the time we ever figure this out," Pix commented.

They pored over the books, taking turns at amusing Ben, who awoke and vociferously demanded some entertainment. After an hour and a half, they had identified four more squares: Harbor View, number two, Weather Vane, number three, Odd Fellows Chain, number six, and North Star, number eleven.

“Harbor View is the name of the Prescott house. It's painted on a board over the barn door. So that means the map must start there and we must read across the rows, not down."

“Then Weather Vane refers to the ship weather vane. Which way is north?"

“Toward this side of the island, but we don't know what the square in between is—before Mariner's Compass.”

Faith had been scanning the designs in one of the books. "It looks like this one, Pullman Puzzle, but that doesn't make sense. There aren't any train tracks on the island."

“I should have told you," Pix said apologetically. "Many of the same squares have different names depending on what part of the country you're in."

“Wonderful. All right, we'll put a question mark next to that one. And in any case we may not have to identify all the squares to figure it out. The most important ones have to be the last few. Why don't we concentrate on those, now that we know the starting point?”

Another forty minutes yielded only two squares: number nine, Winding Ways, and number twenty, Prosperity, which Faith noted assured them they were on the right track, but gave no clues. Ben had had more than enough of sitting indoors. Eager as she was to figure out the quilt, Faith was glad to take a break.

“I think I'll take Ben home the shore way, and he can explore to his heart's content."

“Leave the quilt and I'll keep trying. It's addictive. Besides, I'm dying of curiosity." Pix was standing on the floor with a stack of Quilter's Newsletter Magazines to her side. "Look at this quilt. Can you imagine the work that went into it?" she asked Faith.

Faith took a look at the magazine. "It's gorgeous and could not possibly have been accomplished by human hands." She paused, then added, "You know we could be at this until Christmas, especially if we get sidetracked like this."

“Don't worry, I'm working. That was just a momentary aberration."

“Speaking of which, was Matilda the type to go to all this trouble for an empty box? Some kind of joke from the other side?"

“I don't know. It's an awful lot of work to do for a joke.”

“On all our parts," Faith agreed.

Before she left, she jotted down the names of the quilt squares they had identified. They were assuming the clues were in sequence from left to right across, but they could be wrong. She wanted to look at it all again when her mind was clearer and see if she could figure anything out.

“Call me if you find any more names," she said as they left.

Faith and Ben took their time following the shoreline between the two cottages, stopping to watch some eider ducks bob about in the water. Faith's pockets were heavy with all Ben's treasures: assorted shells, sea urchins emptied of their contents by the gulls, and rocks. he had finally pried him away from a boulder almost as big as he was that he seemed to want to add to the collection, and they climbed up into the meadow in front of the cottage. The landscape had that peculiar flat, intense light it sometimes assumes in the late afternoon, or just before a storm. Everything was absolutely still and light flooded into every corner. It was like a stage set. Ben and Faith stopped for an instant.

“I'm going to get you!" Faith cried and reached out for him. He squealed in happy terror and ran for the house. It worked every time.

The door was open. Faith thought she had closed it. When she walked into the living room, she was sure she had.

But the person or persons unknown who had been in the house since and torn it apart hadn't bothered.

She didn't linger to see if Goldilocks was sleeping in Ben's bed, but grabbed her car keys and child, drove straight to Pix's, and called the police.

Faith hung up and turned to Pix. "He's going to check it out and then come by here. It's very strange. There's absolutely nothing of value in the house that people know about. Not even a TV set. What could someone have wanted?”

Which was Sgt. Dickinson's question as well. The house was empty, and he asked Faith to come back with him to try to figure out what was missing. Pix jumped in next to Faith.

They stood and surveyed the living room in silence. It wasn't as bad as Faith had first thought. Drawers were pulled out and cushions from the couch strewn around, but nothing had been smashed or broken, thank goodness. Short of haunting every yard sale on the Maine Coast for the rest of her life, she would have had no idea how to replace the vintage noncollectible cottage furnishings. The other rooms showed the same regard for property, but not order. Things were messed up, particularly the beds, but intact. Sgt. Dickinson showed special interest in the beds, examining the sheets with care. He was a medium-sized, well-built man with aspirations toward a Burt Reynolds mustache, the whole effect only slightly marred by a persistent cowlick.

“They might have done a little rolling around in here, but nothing else," he reported to Faith and Pix. "If you catch my meaning," he added solemnly. They nodded vigorously in unison and Faith felt slightly relieved. The sanctity of the cottage beds had been preserved. It had been plain to her from the start that all those hours of exercise and masochistic dips in the ocean by the previous inhabitants had been to quell certain urges. And as for the current inhabitants—well, they were married.

Ben had sensed something was amiss and had clung to Faith since they had entered the house, refusing even Pix's familiar arms. Trying to remember whether she had brought her Hermès scarf with the boat design or not was made more difficult by Ben's anguished cries whenever she tried to set him down for a moment. Pix had told her life was simple on the island, and Faith hadn't brought any good jewelry. Nor, she finally recalled, the scarf. But Pix was wrong. Life on the island was certainly not simple. Yet it wasn't something for which one dressed. She'd been right about that.

An hour's careful inventory revealed only a few items missing: some bottles of scotch, gin, vermouth, and wine Faith kept in the pantry; and a cuff bracelet Tom had bought for her from a silversmith on the island when they had first arrived. The wine in the basement had not been touched. Possibly, the fear of Faith and Ben's arrival had driven the miscreants away before they had had a chance to get to it.

They assembled on the porch to hear Sgt. Dickinson's parting words.

“Looks like kids, Mrs. Fairchild. No tire marks, except yours going out. I expect they were out in a skiff, saw you leave, and decided to have a party. Or at least get the makings of one. This happens a lot in the winter. But they're getting pretty foolish lately. I have an idea or two who they might be, and I'll keep an eye out for that bracelet of yours."

“It wasn't worth that much, but my husband gave it to me.”

He took a small memo pad out of his pocket and made a note, as he had been doing every time Faith opened her mouth. He was nothing if not thorough.

“I don't think they'll be back to bother you, but I'll make it a point to check by here for the next couple of days."

“I think you're right, Sergeant. There's really nothing for them to steal. But thank you all the same. It's reassuring to know you're around." Faith gave him one of her more radiant smiles and he was properly impressed. He blushed and left.

“Do you think this is some sort of record, Pix? For summer people, especially?"

“What are you talking about, Faith?"

“Making the `Police Brief' two weeks in a row, of course.”

Pix patted her on the shoulder and they went in to start cleaning up. Ben had fallen asleep—he hadn't slept long enough earlier—and Faith had put him in his crib. His room was untouched. Evidently these were not teenagers who collected stuffed animals.

“Faith, why don't you come and stay with me until your sister gets here? There's plenty of room and we'd love to have you," Pix offered.

“That's very sweet and thank you, but I'm not nervous. Whoever it was has had a look around and won't be back, and I know how to make sure of it.”

They were stripping the sheets off the bed.

“What do you mean? They'll probably watch you the next time you go to the state liquor store. You know there's always that line of teenagers sitting on the stone wall next to it."

“Oh Pix, don't tell me you think it was kids who broke in here! It wasn't booze and bangles our thief wanted. It was the quilt."

“The quilt!"

“Of course. Look at the way the beds are messed up and which drawers are open. No small ones, only those big enough to hold the quilt." Faith stood for a moment, her arms filled with bedding.

“And we have to do something about it as soon as possible, because if we don't he, she, or they will try again.”

6

Despite her brave words to Pix, Faith spent a sleepless night. She was jolted to full consciousness by each noise outside and inside the cottage.

And it was an extremely noisy night.

Prescott's was loading lobsters, and the trucks seemed to grind every gear. Every floorboard in the house creaked in turn; the glass in every window rattled; and every diurnal creature decided to join his nocturnal cousin for a night of raucous fun. On top of all this, Bird's little chick wailed most of the night on and off. From the sound Faith was convinced that their cabin had suddenly located itself in her yard instead of on the next point of land.

Bird must have gone back to pack things up, Faith thought. She realized they had forgotten to ask Bill when the nuptials were going to be celebrated, but she had the impression it would be soon. But not soon enough. She yawned and turned over to punch her pillow.

Still, Faith didn't hear the dog bark, and that was something.

Pix had insisted that she keep one of the Millers' three golden retrievers and swore that he would bark if anything human approached. He would not attack—more likely run forward in friendly greeting—but he would sound an alert. He was sleeping on the hooked rug at the foot of the stairs and added a steady adenoidal snoring and occasional doggy nightmare snarl to the cacophony of sound. His name was Dusty, the other two were Henry and Arthur, aka Hanky and Arty. The next generation had fortunately limited to dogs Pix's parents' penchant for whimsy in names, although Samantha, after her father, was getting dangerously close.

Ben was up at the crack of dawn, and for once Faith was glad to get up with him. He came running gleefully into her room, his soaked nighttime diaper swaying between his legs. He had taken his sleeper off. It was probably wet too.

“Mommee, Mommee," he cried, and stretched out his little arms for Faith to pull him into her warm bed for a cuddle.

“Not a prayer," she answered as she got up and swooped him into her arms and off for a bath. He laughed in delight. She could do no wrong. At least not for many years to come. She was his own "Mommee" and he loved her passionately. This is why women have sons, Faith reminded herself as she turned on the taps.

It was a brief detour from the all-important task of the morning. She had outlined the plan to Pix the night before and lost no time, once Ben was dressed and fed, in executing it. As she came downstairs with Ben and his Brio Spool Wagon to keep him occupied, she heard the other baby crying again. Faith was a little hazy on when babies were supposed to have things, but she thought Zoë was too old for colic. It could be teething. That was a reasonable answer for a few years when anyone asked why your child was screaming. It sounded better than "bad temper" or "horrible personality." She turned to the matter at hand, happy she wasn't the one futilely pacing the floor or rocking in a chair.

First she spread the quilt on the floor in the living room and carefully photographed each square with Samantha's Polaroid Impulse, which Pix had brought over when she had delivered Dusty and the quilt top. Then Faith numbered the pictures, put them in an envelope, and stuffed the envelope in the folds of one of the diapers in Benjamin's diaper bag.

Afterward she wrote a short note to her friend Charley MacIsaac. He also happened to be the chief of police in Ale-ford, the place she was still startled to call home.

Dear Charley,

Please put the enclosed in a safe place. Don't give it or show it to anyone. I'll explain when I get home. It's nice here and everyone is fine. See you soon.

Love, Faith

The good thing about Charley was that he would do it and not feel he had to call her up and ask a lot of questions. Like Tom.

Next she opened one of the desk drawers, which she had discovered earlier contained enough brown paper and string to send the Queen Mary by parcel post, and took out what she needed. She wrapped the quilt and tied it, taped the letter to it, and wrapped the whole thing again. If Charley didn't know what was in it, it was all the better. She addressed it to "C. MacIsaac, 1776 Revere Street, Aleford, Massachusetts." Then she called Pix, who she figured should be back after taking Bill Fox home from the garage in Granville.

“Everything's ready. Can you come with_, me now?"

“No problem, and Samantha wants to take Ben for a walk."

“Perfect. We wouldn't want to cut things short because of a restless child, and if he's behaving well, he might upstage us.”

A half hour later Pix and Faith were standing in line at the IGA in Sanpere Village. Pix had filled a basket with things she didn't need and Faith was holding the unwieldy package. Pix went first.

“Faith," she said, managing to sound genuinely reproachful, "you know Louise and I would have been happy to help you get started. There is really no need to have someone else quilt your top."

“Oh, Pix, I am very grateful, but you know that I'm hopeless with a needle and thread. You can teach me something else like basket weaving. I really would like to have it finished in my lifetime, and his woman is a fine quilter. I remember she finished a quilt for a friend of mine, and when I called her, she said she could start right away. That's why I want to get it off this morning." Faith was deliberately ambiguous as to name and place. Plus she never minded a few fibs in the cause of justice.

“I do understand, Faith, and it's such a lovely quilt, it deserves to be finished quickly. I wonder what color she'll choose for the backing. Did you tell her what color to pick?”

And they were off on a discussion of colors, patterns, and textures which took them through the checkout and into the street.

“Now for Part Two," Faith said under her breath as they strolled through the village with their packages.

Pix had something more on her mind. "You know, you might enjoy basket weaving. It's fun and very relaxing. I could start you on a melon basket.”

Faith knew where the thought was going. "Pix," she said gently but firmly, "I don't carry my melons in baskets. At least not in this country." Some ideas had to be ruthlessly nipped in the bud.

People with post office boxes generally came to get their mail in the late morning, and Sanpere Village bustled with their activity. Even if one's mail was delivered, there was always something to pick up. Something from Prescott's Hardware, the IGA, or The Blueberry Patch.

There were two other enterprises in the village, an art gallery started by an off-islander who now lived on Sanpere year round and an antique shop operated by one of the Sanfords, who purportedly got most of her stock from picking the dump. But these two shops were strictly for summer people and Faith and Pix walked by them quickly.

Jill stocked newspapers and magazines and had lately added a small section of paperback books. Faith stopped to buy a paper and managed to pass the news to the four or five people in the store, then conveyed it to three more in Prescott's while she picked up some batteries for one of the dozen or so flashlights that had come with the cottage, everything from penlight to searchlight. John Eggleston was busy buying nails, but paused to emit a bark of polite interest before turning back to the infinitely more fascinating display in front of him. Faith filed a thought to pull out later. It was unlikely that he had amassed much in the way of earthly goods as a minister, "poor as church mice" being the rule rather than the exception. Was he a successful enough sculptor to support himself? What did he live on?

By the time they walked up the worn wooden post office stairs, which had once been red like the rest of the building, it was almost pointless to keep talking. Most of the island, from the top of the old serpentine quarry at South Beach to the town wharf at Granville, already knew that Mrs. Fairchild was mailing that quilt of Matilda Prescott's up to Massachusetts to be finished.

There were only two people in the post office, but one of them was Sonny Prescott, and Faith and Pix went through the whole thing again for his benefit. The other was Eric, standing with studied care as far away as possible from Sonny as he could in the tiny room. It was to him that Faith addressed her remarks, with Pix providing backup.

Sonny left after a nod to the ladies. Possibly the conversation was not as riveting as they thought, but when the package, which had already made quite a journey, was finally sent on its way and they emerged into the sunlight, they were pleased to note Sonny earnestly talking into his CB in the cab of his pickup.

“Mission accomplished, n'est-ce pas?" Faith murmured to Pix.

“But oui, mon capitaine," she replied.

They both felt terribly smug.

Eric was following closely behind them, and they walked together toward Faith's car.

“I've decided to move into the Prescott house—my house, that is," he told them. "I think Roger would have wanted it."

“That's wonderful." Pix put her hand on his arm. "Of course Roger would have wanted it and we want it. You mustn't be driven away by all this."

“Jill is going to help me move later this afternoon. There isn't much. This morning I'm going to try to work again. I haven't been in the studio since all this happened, and I can't be a coward anymore.”

1"I don't think you're getting graded on this one," Faith commented. "Nothing on your permanent record.”

Eric grinned. "Thanks, Faith. But it's now or never. Must be all those times my daddy made me get back up on the horse.”

Faith remembered Pix had mentioned Eric was from Texas. Once more she blessed the fates for their wisdom in settling her near the bridle trails of Central Park, not the Panhandle.

He left them at the car and walked toward the causeway. The tide was out, and his house sat up on a knoll in fastidious contrast to the mud, rocks, and tangled seaweed below. Faith hoped he and Jill would get together soon. It seemed like a large and lonely place for just one person. Besides, there was safety in numbers.

She asked Pix if it was all right to take the long way home in order to replenish her liquor supply at Granville. Pix didn't mind, and soon they were on the shore road out of Sanpere Village.

The route provided an informal history of the island. The early settlers' few remaining clapboard houses were scattered among the large arks built by the rusticators at the turn of the century, more recent fishermen's cottages, trailers in varying degrees of repair, and finally sleek nouveau Robert A. M. Stern imitations built by the latest invaders. The gulls, pines, granite outcroppings, and wildflowers were the same in every yard.

On the way, Pix told Faith what Bill had told her when she drove him home earlier that morning. Faith had been right. Bird had returned to the cabin the night before to pack and also leave a note for Andy. Bill and Bird were planning to get married as soon as they could get a license. It was going to be a simple ceremony in Bill's garden and he hoped they would both come.

“He's so happy, Faith. I don't have any sense of what she's like, but she'd better be good to him." Pix's voice brooked no opposition.

“I don't think you should worry. She's the embodiment of his imaginary princess and can do no wrong. I wonder what her life was like before she ended up here with Andy? It may be that the security Bill will provide is just what she needs—and wants."

“I hope so. It would be devastating for him if she got bored and took off with a younger man in a few years—or months."

“I'm sure that has occurred to Bill and he's willing to take the chance for the woman of his dreams.”

As Faith said that, in her mind, she heard Eric's voice just the week before talking about the house of his dreams. So many dreams and a nightmare that touched them all. The sadness did not go away and she found herself murmuring "Poor Roger" as she parked in front of the old Opera House, which had once hosted traveling companies with such luminaries as Nellie Melba and now stood empty.

There were no other customers in the state liquor store. It was lunchtime. Native islanders were home and the summer people were picnicking or enjoying the chowder and pie at The School Street Rest. It was one of two places to eat in Granville, three if you counted the Italian sandwiches for sale at Baylor's Market. Bert Hamilton had painted an old bus blue and sold clam rolls and pizza in the parking lot next to the town wharf, but it didn't compare with The School Street. Pix had explained that "Restaurant" hadn't fit on the original sign, and even when a new one was made, no one called it anything else.

Faith replaced what had been stolen from her tantalus. As they walked back to the car, she scrutinized the wrists of the teenagers sitting on the nearby wall. They were spread out silently in a row, unconsciously duplicating the immobile line of gulls perched on the roof behind them. The kids eyed Faith and Pix with expressions ranging from indifference to hostility. One of them had a face so devoid of affect that Faith suspected it was drug induced. He was definitely gone. She didn't see her bracelet. She didn't expect to.

They drove up the steep hill leading away from the harbor, passed School Street Restaurant, resisted the lure of fish chowder and black walnut pie, and hastened home.

Faith realized she was happy to get back. It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours, with the robbery and this morning's tour de force.

Samantha had fed Ben, and he was beginning to get drowsy. Faith could tell because he had an unusual amount of energy and was running around the kitchen trying to entice her into a game of tag. It was a final statement: "What, tired, me? Never!" She made herself a sandwich and a tall glass of iced tea, grabbed a banana for Ben, and led him outdoors. They sat in the grass, and soon Faith felt his body relax and lean into hers. She could hear the slight whistle of air as he breathed in and out. She could also, she suddenly realized, still hear the baby, Zoë, crying. Bird didn't seem like the kind of mother who suffered advice gladly, but perhaps the child was ill, and with no phone or car Bird couldn't get help. Of course, it wasn't far to Faith's, or Bird could even stand on the point and somehow attract Sonny Prescott's attention from the short distance across the water. And surely Bill was checking in. But his car was in the shop.

The crying continued. It was a high-pitched wail on one note that varied in volume. Faith sat and studied the calm horizon. She couldn't stand it anymore. Carefully she hoisted Benjamin into her arms and up the porch steps, depositing him in the portable crib that had been set up there for outdoor naps. Then she went into the house and called Pix.

“It does seem odd," Pix responded. "She seemed like such a placid little thing Tuesday in the cemetery. Why don't I come over?”

Pix arrived and listened. Samantha and Arlene were with her, waiting for a ride to the village. They agreed to sit on the porch steps in case Ben awoke while Faith and Pix went to offer maternal guidance to Bird.

“It could be indigestion. Bill said he was trying to vary their diet, and maybe Zoë was too used to brown rice," Pix suggested.

“Well, whatever it is, we'll find out. I just hope she doesn't take offense and think we're a couple of busybodies," Faith said as she turned up the narrow, rutted road that led to the shack, wondering at the same time when the word "busybody" had entered her vocabulary.

The shack appeared deserted. Some of the glass in the windows had been replaced with cardboard, and the siding looked like a good strong wind would send the whole thing tumbling down like a house of cards. A clothesline had been strung up between two pines, and a number of gaily colored articles swayed gently in the breeze. It was the only note of color in the scene.

Until Faith opened the door.

Blood was everywhere. The walls, the floor, and especially on Bird. Or what had been Bird. She was lying on her back on the floor, her long, silky hair spread out against the old piece of linoleum someone had put down in an attempt at housekeeping. Her head had dropped to one side. One hand rested on her cheek as if she had tried to ward off the blows. It had been futile. Her face was barely recognizable, a bloody pulp of something that had once been beautiful.

Faith slammed the door shut instantly, collapsed onto the granite step, and retched.

“Faith, Faith, what's the matter?" Pix grabbed her. "Don't go in!" Faith screamed. "She's dead! Murdered! You've got to go get help!"

“What! It's not possible!" Pix started to open the door and Faith grabbed her arm.

“Believe me, Pix, don't go in! There's nothing we can do for her. Blood is everywhere and you don't want to see. I've got to get the baby, then I'll wait outside until you come back."

“Oh, dear God, think of Bill, Faith. This will destroy him!”

Pix sped off and Faith nerved herself to go back in. It was just as bad the second time. Zoë was in a basket cradle suspended from the rafters and was unharmed. Faith grabbed her and didn't linger to find fresh clothes. She stepped over the body and a chair that had been overturned. The shack was a mess, but not knowing how it had been before, Faith couldn't speculate on what was due to the struggle. Much of the blood was dry, as she had obscurely noted the first time.

Whoever had killed Bird was long gone.

Faith sat down wearily in the shade of a large mountain ash and held the baby close, rocking her. Soon Zoë stopped crying and began to suck her fist contentedly. Faith started to cry.

It wasn't that she knew Bird. She had never even held a conversation with her, but the horror of it all was overwhelming. First Roger, now Bird. Could it be a coincidence? All Faith's instincts said no, but what possible motive could tie them together? She gripped the baby tightly. Poor little thing. What was going to happen to her now?

Pix was back before the police arrived. She stumbled wild-eyed out of the car.

“Faith, this can't be happening! I called John and told him, so he could break the news to Bill. They have been close friends for years, and it would be terrible for Bill to find out from the police or someone in the village. It will be terrible enough. Oh dear, why did this have to happen and why now?"

“I know. It just doesn't make any sense. In either case.”

“What do you mean `either case'?"

“Bird and Roger. They both seemed like people with relatively uncomplicated lives who were just going their own distinctive ways not hurting anyone else. And unless Bird turns out to be some runaway heiress, neither had money a murderer would have wanted. And there aren't any jealous spouses around. All the traditional murder-mystery motives."

“Aren't you forgetting Andy? He's not a spouse, but pretty close.”

Faith had forgotten Andy. Bird had been afraid of his temper, but would it drive him this far? Suddenly the unreality of sitting in the lovely landscape talking about whodunit while the very bloody corpse lay a few feet away struck Faith and she began to shiver.

“Faith, this is insane! You're still in shock. I've got to take you home."

“As soon as the police come. Remember, I've been through this before," she said grimly, "and they don't like you to leave the scene of the crime.”

Fortunately they didn't have to wait long. Sgt. Dickinson screeched up, asked where the body was, and entered the house. He was out almost immediately and went into his car. They could hear him talking on the two-way radio, but now what he said. Finally he came over and sat down next to them. He looked pale.

“Gorry." He shook his head. "Somebody must have really hated that girl. " Then he sat up straight, recollected his duty, and asked Faith to tell him what had happened. He pulled his notebook out and licked the tip of his pencil. She told him about hearing the baby crying all night and then coming over with Pix about twenty minutes ago to see if Bird needed some help. She had needed help. They were just too late.

“She was probably killed last night, if you heard the baby crying like that," Sgt. Dickinson reasoned. "You didn't hear any other sounds. Screams?" he asked hopefully.

Faith was forced to disappoint him and was tempted to add that although she was only a dumb summer person and a female at that, if she had heard screams she would have done something about it.

He asked if they knew anything about Bird. Where she was from?

“I've seen her only a few times," Pix replied. "You probably know more than I do, since she's been living here all winter. Of course Bill Fox can tell you."

“Fox?" The sergeant seemed puzzled.

Before Pix could answer, Fox himself arrived, jumping out of John Eggleston's car before it stopped. He raced to the door of the cabin and almost had it open before Sgt. Dickinson reached him.

“You can't go in there, Mr. Fox. And I don't think you want to.”

Pix and Faith, who was still carrying Zoë, hastened over. Pix put her arms around Bill, but he pushed her away roughly. He was angry.

“I have a right to see her! She was going to be my wife!" he shouted.

If the sergeant was surprised, he didn't show it, but he placed a hand on Bill's arm and led him away from the step.

“I know you want to do the right thing and that's to wait for the appropriate authorities to come with everything they need to track down who did this. We can't go in and mess things up.”

Faith was impressed by his approach. It was common sense and, as it turned out, exactly the right thing to say to Bill. "Well, I'm staying right here," he asserted.

“That's fine. I'm staying myself, and maybe you could tell me a little about your fiancée while we wait," Dickinson said in an even voice. He had appeared completely calm after that initial slip, and given the scene, Faith could hardly blame him. It was a scene she was trying desperately to obliterate from her mind with small success.

“I wonder if we could leave now, Sergeant? I can take the baby home. She must be starving and she needs changing," Faith said.

He nodded, and Bill Fox looked at Zoë. "The baby, I'd forgotten about the baby," he said dazedly.

“Come over here, Bill, and we can talk to the sergeant together." John had been standing off to one side. Now he was taking charge. Faith had trouble reading his expression. There was anger, but not sadness. Something else. Something like disgust.

She got into the car wearily and they left. The last thing they saw was Bill's face, immobile and uncomprehending.

The rest of the day was chaotic, but not immediately. Later the phone rang off the hook and they were besieged by reporters from TV and radio stations, The Ellsworth American, The Boston Herald and everything located in between.

But first it was just two women, two teenagers, and two babies to take care of. Samantha and Arlene immediately took charge of Zoë and fed, bathed, and dressed her in one of Ben's undershirts and an enormous toddler-sized Pampers. Faith fetched the auction cradle from the barn and put it by a sunny window in the living room. She placed some blankets inside and settled the exhausted child on top with a bottle, which she had discovered in the continuously amazing contents of the pantry off the kitchen.

The two girls immediately sat next to the cradle, Samantha rocking it gently while Arlene held Ben, who peered in delightedly. "Ben's baby?" he asked his mother in a beseeching tone of voice. The tone of voice he usually reserved for animal crackers.

“No, sweetheart. We're just taking care of her for a little while.”

While the police scrape what's left of her poor mother off the floor of the shack and set all the wheels in motion that may or may not find her killer, but that will certainly find the baby a home, Faith thought as her insatiable curiosity took hold once again and she began to speculate. Bill had no legal claim, but he might try to get custody. And there must be relatives somewhere. Then there was Andy, but he didn't seem the paternal type.

Faith and Pix sat down next to each other on the sofa at the opposite end of the room. Faith looked at Pix and nodded at the scene around the cradle.

“Callous youth," murmured Pix. "They're happy to have a live doll to play with."

“They didn't know Bird, so it's understandable," Faith pointed out. "It's not like Roger." She realized that she felt sad, but the sadness was totally eclipsed by the horror she had witnessed, and it was hard to connect the blood-stained room and scarcely identifiable corpse with a real person.

“You have to call Tom, Faith," Pix admonished.

“I know. I've been avoiding it. But it will be worse if he reads about it in the papers or hears it on the news.”

She glanced at the cheerful faces by the cradle and went into the kitchen to the phone. It was just after lunchtime and she might catch him. She did.

It was hard to know how to start. So she plunged in as soon as she heard his voice saying, "Faith, is that you?" He seemed to be chewing something.

“Yes, darling. Ben and I are fine, but I'm afraid I've found another body.”

He choked. "What! Faith, you have got to get out of there immediately! I'll be there as soon as I can! What the hell is going on in Sanpere!"

“Really, Tom, it's not necessary for me to leave. I knowit's hard to believe, but think of it as very bad luck. Ben and I aren't in any danger. If I thought there was even the slightest hint of it, of course we would come."

“You haven't told me who was killed. The other potter?”

“No, not Eric. It was Bird—you know, the girl living in the shack on the next point. I only went over with Pix to see why the baby was crying." She hastily decided to omit a description of the body. "And there she was. It had nothing to do with me."

“Faith, please. You and Ben would have a nice time here.”

“I'm sure we would, but it is lovely here. Perfect weather and there's really no reason to leave.”

And every reason to stay, she thought.

“If I get nervous, I can always go to Pix's.”

She could hear Tom sigh.

“But what about my being nervous?" he complained.

“I'll call. You'll call. And you'll be here soon.”

They continued to talk, and Tom finally agreed—grudgingly. His misgivings took another five minutes and Faith hung up. The phone rang immediately and the chaos began.

The girls moved the cradle behind the sofa and Faith and Pix dealt with the onslaught on the porch. The press did not appear to know about the baby yet, and they were careful not to mention her. It was enough that Zoë had lost her mother in this particularly grisly manner without being spread all over the front pages herself.

Sgt. Dickinson stopped by during one of the rare hiatuses and told them the medical examiner and the state police had arrived. He seemed a bit left out, and Faith offered him some cold lemonade, which he gratefully accepted. While he drank, he told them that Bill Fox hadn't known much about Bird. She was from the midwest originally, but never mentioned her family or real name. The police hoped to find something in the shack. There was also an APB out for Andy. They did know his name, Andrew Collins, and he was from Rockland. Dickinson hinted that the police had been keeping an eye on Andy for some time.

“Drugs?" Faith asked.

“I wouldn't say no," he answered.

After he left, Pix went back to her house to get the quilt books and magazines. They had decided to fill the time trying to identify some more squares. Faith felt vaguely compelled to solve at least one puzzle.

While Pix was gone, she sat with Ben while he scribbled with crayons on the shelf paper she had taped to the top of the kitchen table. He was making car noises and covering the paper with lines that Faith assumed to be roads. She looked closely for signs of incipient artistic talent, didn't find any, and sank back into her thoughts.

Roger, then Bird.

She told herself that it was only logical to agree with the prevailing opinion that Roger's death was due to misadventure—that one of the Prescotts had meant to frighten but not kill him.

But there was no question about Bird. Whoever killed her meant it. Whoever?

Faith closed her eyes and felt sick. She opened them and was a little surprised to see the tranquil scene in front of her and not the mayhem in her mind.

The likeliest perpetrator was Andy. He was known to be violent. Pix had told her Bird had appeared with bruises and once a black eye in the previous months. He was also known to be jealous, and he might have gone berserk at the news of Bird's departure, especially if he had been on something.

And unlike the cases in fiction, Faith knew from Charley MacIsaac, the likeliest suspect is usually guilty—a husband, wife, someone who benefits financially or psychologically from the death.

But there had been two deaths on Sanpere, and much as she tried to reason with herself, Faith still couldn't squelch the notion that they were connected. After all, Roger and Bird were connected and had planned to be connected even more closely, it appeared. She tried to think how their deaths could have benefited anyone and came up with nothing. The Prescotts had no connection to Bird. Even if she and Roger had been secretly married, Bird would not have inherited Matilda Prescott's house, because of the way her will had been written. It went to Roger and/or Eric or issue. Faith wondered if Pix knew anything about Roger's will and resolved to ask her.

Ben was tired of drawing and went back to the cradle to gaze at the baby. The two girls—the "nannies," as Faith had begun to call them in her mind—were happy to have another child in their charge. Faith expected to see the two of them debating the merits of various soothing syrups as they rocked and knit serviceable garments.

Pix came back with lettuce, tomatoes, and some other vegetables from the garden. Faith put together a large salad for dinner, which they could eat with bread and the terrine of smoked mackerel she had made the day before. The nannies would probably want Bovril and toast.

They spread the photographs of the squares, which Faith had retrieved from their hiding place in the diaper bag, on the floor at the end of the living room and started to search for more names.

“Get out your list of the ones we know so far, and let's divide the photographs into two piles," proposed Pix, ever systematic. As she grew to know Pix better, Faith began to think all these lists and systems might be a hedge against basic absentmindedness, even out-and-out woolgathering. Nevertheless there they were.

“Fine. You read out the names and numbers, and I'll go through the photographs.”

Pix had identified the tree square as Apple Tree and number nineteen, the chest, as Workbox. There were only five they didn't know.

“You know the island so well. Does any of this make sense, even without all the squares?" Faith asked.

Pix studied the list, glancing over at the photos as she did.

“We really need number four. Obviously she's telling us it's a puzzle since she starts out with Old Maid's Puzzle; then she goes to Harbor View, which must be where the hunt begins. But north on number three—the weather vane could be pointing almost anywhere on this side of the island—or even on the mainland."

“What about the next group? The Compass is pointing east, and it's the left road on Crossroads that's a different pattern. Does that help?"

“Yes," mused Pix, "and number six, Odd Fellows Chain, must refer to the Odd Fellows Hall. There's only one on the island. The problem is it's located almost equidistant between the two main crossroads. We still need number four to point us in the right direction. Matilda figured this pretty carefully."

“It looks like a bull's-eye. Does that suggest anything?" Faith asked hopefully.

“No, but it also looks like the spokes of a wheel, and that's easier. Let's look in the indexes for all the patterns with the word `wheel' in the title.”

Pix's strategy worked: fifteen minutes later Faith triumphantly cried out, "Here it is! Millwheel!"