The Body in the Kelp

“That's great! It definitely gives us our direction. There was an old mill across from Harborview, and what's left of the wheel is directly opposite the gazebo on the other side of the pond." She was getting excited. "So if we go north toward the wheel, then east, the Odd Fellows Hall is before the first of the crossroads."

“Then we turn left," continued Faith.

“And," finished Pix, "it's another square we don't know.”

“Well, we have more than a week to figure it out before we go home.”

The phone rang. Again.

“It could be Sam. He was in court when I called before, so we have to get it," Pix groaned. "Why don't you make us a drink while I find out who it is; then we can feed the kids?"

“Great idea," Faith replied, looked into the cradle, then moved toward the door.

Zoë was still sound asleep. She had roused briefly, drained a bottle, and immediately closed her eyes again. After a while even the nannies had become a bit bored with gazing at her cherubic, sleeping face and had taken Ben outside to play croquet. This was almost as hard as playing with flamingos and hedgehogs, since he chased all the balls and gleefully tossed them into the air. Between making sure he didn't concuss himself and trying to get their balls through the hoops, the girls were getting a fair amount of activity. They were happy to stop and eat. While they ate salad and what Faith had described as sandwich spread in order to make the terrine palatable, the two women sat on the porch.

“Why do we always sit on the steps?" Faith wondered. "Because wicker is basically uncomfortable and the overhang cuts out the view.”

It was after six o'clock, and everything was still. Hardly a leaf moved, and there was no activity on the water to ripple the surface. The sun hadn't set, but they could see the moon. The day's events seemed very far away.

But not too far.

“Pix, was that Sam who called? Did you get a chance to ask him about Roger's will?"

“Yes, I asked him the last time he called. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Other things on my mind, I suppose. Anyway, it's public knowledge, all probated." She digressed, as was her habit, and Faith waited patiently for her to get back on the track. "You know it's hard being a lawyer's wife. Sam never tells me anything—and shouldn't—but there's so much I'd like to know. You probably have the same problem. Secrets of the confessional." She paused, then added hastily lest a whiff of incense escape into the Maine air, "Not that we have confession, of course.

“Anyway, it was as we thought. Everything goes to Eric. The only surprlse would have been a small trust set up for Bird. But now we know how he felt about her. He also left a thousand dollars to his sister and two thousand to his mother."

“He made the will last spring, right?"

“Yes. He must have wanted to provide for Bird. He may not have thought she was going to leave Andy then, and that's why it's a trust and not money outright, which Andy could have taken over."

“Exactly what I was thinking," Faith agreed. "But what happens to it now? Does it go to Zoë or Eric or even the state of Maine?"

“I have no idea, but Sam will know. If Bird made a will, which I doubt, it would probably go to her beneficiary. But even without a will, I think it might still go to Zoë.”

The day had seemed interminable, and Faith found it hard to believe that it was the same day she and Pix had taken the quilt to the post office. They went inside to eat. Sam called again, and then the phone was blissfully silent. The Fraziers had called earlier to tell them that Bill was at their house. They offered to take Zoë but quickly agreed that it would be better for her to stay where she was. Bill was in shock and refused to take the sedative Dr. Picot had prescribed. He had barely spoken since John had brought him to their house, except to refuse anything to eat or drink. "He seems very confused, almost as if he doesn't know where he is or who we are," Louise had added.

Pix was getting ready to drive Arlene home, although it hardly seemed worthwhile, since she and Samantha were virtually inseparable. Faith suspected Arlene's mother, who had uncharacteristically refused permission for Arlene to stay the night at the Millers', of wanting inside news of the murder.

The two girls went to take a last look at the sleeping baby. They had been disappointed that she hadn't awakened again while they were there.

“Can't we keep her, Mom?" Samantha pleaded. "She doesn't have any place to go, and you were just saying that the house will be so empty when we're all gone in a few years."

“Bird must have had a family, and they'll want her. Anyway, maybe I was looking forward to an empty house." Pix smiled. A fleeting image of time to herself with no car pools or soccer practices, and only Sam across a candlelit table, flickered across her mind.

“Mother!"

“Just kidding, dear. Now we have to get Arlene home."

“Ma would love to have her, Mrs. Miller. I can ask her tonight." Passion provoked Arlene to speak at length.

“I'm sure your mother has quite enough little Prescotts of her own underfoot—Arlene is the oldest of six," she explained to Faith. But Faith was focusing on the first part of her statement."Prescotts?" she asked.

“Yes, Arlene's last name is Prescott.”

Faith looked at the pictures of the quilt and the books spread out on the floor where they had been working—right under Arlene's eager gaze.

“Why am I not surprised?" she said to Pix with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Pix clearly had no idea what Faith was talking about, until she followed her vigorous nod. She shook her head slightly and shepherded the girls out the door. Faith looked at them dismally as they climbed into the car.

Maybe the girl hadn't heard about the quilt or wouldn't connect the pictures to it. Maybe she wouldn't mention them to anybody.

Maybe there wouldn't be any tides tomorrow. Or maybe it would snow. Or maybe . . .

7

The children were crying. They had come across a baby robin, fallen from its nest, lying dead beneath a large oak.

Princess Ardea came up quietly behind them. They hadn't realized she was near until she spoke. "Come, we will bury it in the garden." She reached into the pocket of her gown, drew forth a blue silk handkerchief—the same blue as the color of the egg the bird had hatched from—and gently wrapped it around the still body.

They walked back toward the castle grounds, and Paul pointed to a bank of day lilies in bloom. "This might be a good spot. " The princess nodded, and he dug a small hole with a stick.

“The bird never had a chance to live. It didn't even know it would have been able to fly someday," Julie said.

“It isn't fair. " Her brother scowled. "Why do things have to die?"

“To make room for other things," Prince Herodias answered as he approached from the river, where he had been watching the herons.

“And must everything die?" asked Julie.

“Yes, that is the way," he replied.

“Even you?" she persisted.

“Even us."

“But not for a long, long time?"

“No, not for a very long time. Time passes very slowly here. "

“Then he took her hand, and they went to stand by the others to lay the bird to rest.

Nightfall in Selega, WILLIAM H. H. Fox

Zoë slept through the night, which Faith had not expected. She had not expected that she would either, but aside from a brief time of semiconsciousness listening for the baby when she first got into bed, Faith slept too.

Now it was after breakfast and she was sitting on the lawn watching the two children communicate contentedly in a language all their own. She had spread a blanket and put an assortment of Ben's toys on top, but Ben seemed to think Zoë was the best toy of all. He had taken to crawling to keep her company after trying valiantly to pull her to a standing position before toppling over in a heap. Zoë was wearing another of Ben's shirts, which reached her ankles, and one of his hats. Although it was slightly overcast, Faith didn't want her to get too much sun. Ben was brown as a berry, and next to him Zoë reminded Faith of one of those Poor Pitiful Pearl Dolls before the transformation.

Was it just yesterday morning she had heard Zoë crying? Less than a day since finding the body? She suddenly felt exhausted and shivered as she contemplated the violence that must have preceded Bird's death. Who could have hated her that much? Faith had been turning this question over and over again in her mind. There was no question of burglary. Poor Bird had had nothing worth stealing. It was hate. Or insanity. Or both.

There had been three phone calls before Faith took the children outside. First, of course, was Pix. The "nannies" wanted to know if they could come over, and Faith was happy to agree. She asked Pix to stop and get some smaller diapers and another bottle, preferably postwar, to supplement the one from the pantry.

Sgt. Dickinson had called shortly after and asked Faith if she could keep the baby a little longer. They had not found much in the cabin, but the police down the coast had picked up Andy, and they hoped he might be able to tell them who Bird was. Dickinson had spoken rapidly, and Faith had had the impression that he was short of time—or someone who matched a face on the post office wall had just passed by his window.

Finally, Louise Frazier had called. Bill had not slept and was still sitting silently. John Eggleston had come by the night before and tried to talk with him, but Bill had waved him away. John was coming back today. Not whom she would have chosen as a comforter, Faith reflected; rather like having Captain Ahab offer solace, but they had known each other for a long time. Bill had roused himself only once, to ask about Zoë, and had appeared to be satisfied with the arrangements.

Faith looked at the horizon with what she thought was an increasingly nautical eye. They hadn't had any rain in a long time, and it appeared there might finally be a storm.

By the time the Millers and Arlene arrived, the rain was pelting down and Faith and the children had hastily moved into the living room.

“We certainly need this," Pix said as she removed her dripping-wet foul-weather gear. "But I hope we don't lose our power. I left the pump on."

“What do you mean?" Faith wanted to know.

“When the power comes back on after being off, it surges and can destroy the pump."

“Just another one of the perils of living in the country.”

“Have you ever tasted better water?”

Faith had to admit that if the Millers ever got around to bottling their spring, fifty million Frenchmen would toss their Perrier and Evian bottles out the fenêtre.

But Pix had more on her mind than water.

“Faith, how about a cup of coffee?" she asked, and seemed barely able to contain herself before they got into the kitchen. She closed the door quickly.

“I didn't want to gossip in front of the girls, but when I stopped to get some of Mrs. Kenney's doughnuts this morning, she told me there was a big drug bust last night! She heard it all on her CB. The Coast Guard seized a boat out beyond Osprey Island, and the hull was loaded with bales of marijuana.

“Mrs. Kenney said they were probably going to land it on Osprey, which is uninhabited, divide it into smaller amounts, and then bring it into Camden and Bucksport on several other boats."

“So that's why Sgt. Dickinson was in such a rush this morning. He barely said two sentences. But he did tell me they had located Andy. Maybe he was on the boat!”

Pix slumped into a chair. "What an amazing summer! Believe me, Faith, in all the years I've known this island, there hasn't ever been this kind of trouble."

“I certainly hope not," Faith said, as she filled the pot with water and set it on the stove. "But I'm beginning to think there was probably a lot going on you didn't know about. And what about the old days—during Prohibition? Things must have been pretty lively then.”

She sat down next to Pix to wait for the pot to boil and studiously avoided watching it. Her mind was racing. If Andy had been on that boat, where had he boarded it and did his presence mean that he was not a suspect in Bird's murder? And if he wasn't a suspect, who on earth was? Itinerant tramps suddenly gone amok were always possibilities in books, but unheard of on the island. Everybody knew everybody else, and if there had been a stranger around the last few days, they, or rather Pix, would have heard about it by now.

And there was something else. Bird had been attacked face on. The murderer had not crept up behind her. This suggested that they had been talking. It also suggested it was someone she knew.

The whistle blew shrilly, and Faith ground some beans for the Melitta. Nothing was getting any clearer. Except for one thing.

She and Pix had better hurry up and figure out Matilda's clues before word spread too rapidly that she had kept the quilt photos. She doubted that Arlene's branch of the Prescott family had had anything to do with the break-in, or with Roger's death for that matter; but she wasn't going to count on word not leaking out. Anything to do with Matilda's quilt, which might just happen to be a treasure map, was bound to reach the wrong ears at some point. The drug raid might squeeze it off the grapevine today and give them time to name the rest of the squares and find whatever they were seeking. She said as much to Pix, and they spread their things out on the kitchen table.

“Only four more." Faith put the photos in a row. "What do they look like to you? Number eight could be a spider's web, or a ripple in a pool with concentric circles."

“And number twelve looks like mountain peaks. Let's try those themes.”

It worked for number twelve. Pix located it in one of the quilt books soon after.

“Hill and Valley. That should be easy—North Star is just before and it's not marked in any way, so presumably it means go north, and Apple Tree is before that, so we look for a tree or orchard."

“Pix, I think we should go out for a drive when the rain lets up and see what we can figure out with what we have. The children will be fine here, and we could spend weeks at this. We don't even know that they are all in these books." Faith was also starting to get a little bored with the current approach.

“True. I agree. We can follow the clues to square eight and then see what choice we have. The Schoolhouse square should give us a clue, but again there were quite a few of them when the island population was greater. At the turn of the century there were fifteen hundred residents in Granville alone."

“Let's give the kids an early lunch, then take off. I want to do some cooking this afternoon. I feel like eating something good tonight, and it also calms the spirit."

“I know," Pix responded. "Comfort foods—like shepherd's pie and macaroni and cheese.''

“No, like seafood mousse or maybe lobster en gelée.”

“Whatever.”

It was shortly after noon when Faith turned the Woody around in the driveway at Harborview and said, "Go," to Pix who sat next to her with the list and the photos discreetly out of sight in her lap.

“Drive back through the village and turn right up the hill. At the top, you're as close to the mill wheel as you can get on the road.”

They drove on, turning east when the road divided, and paused at the Odd Fellows Hall.

“That casserole supper seems like a long time ago," Pix remarked. "Although it's been less than two weeks.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

And thinking of the way Roger and Bill had looked at Bird when she had come in with Andy.

Faith tried to remember more about what Andy looked like, but she had been so distracted by his outfit that she didn't really remember much about his face, although she had had a general impression that he regarded the world at large in a smug, lordly way. Almost as if he knew what the other men yearned for and only had. Now no one had her.

“What's next?"

“Go straight and turn left at the crossroads.”

They encountered few other cars. Most people were eating lunch. Traffic on Sanpere was never very heavy, except on the Fourth of July when everyone left the parade at the same time for the chicken barbecue. And then they had two auxilliary policemen, each authorized to wear a special armband and carry a piece.

A blue Ford pickup roared past them going the other way, and the driver raised a few fingers from the wheel in the traditional island wave. Faith was flattered. She might almost live here. But what was she thinking of? Tom, that's whom she was thinking of. He had noticed the wave the first day and thereafter raised his fingers, getting a response each time. He liked to be at home wherever he was. She took a deep breath. Labor Day was still a long way off.

“Come on, Pix, right or left?”

The road forked, and each branch beckoned with a claim of its own.

“I can't tell you. It's number eight. The square we don't know."

“All right, we'll wing it and go down each. Maybe something will suggest itself." She turned left, and they drove past a series of wood lots, a few trailers, and one or two farmhouses before the road again split.

“I think we should try the right-hand one first. Remember, Winding Ways with the upper right section indicated comes next, followed by Apple Tree. If we see any sign of apples, we'll know we're on the right track.”

They weren't, and Faith suggested they go back to the original fork and try that one. Pix agreed. "And I thought I was figuring it out so cleverly."

“You are. Keep it up.”

The right turn dipped down toward the shore. The rain had not completely stopped, and as Faith looked at it breaking the surface of the water, she was sure this was the correct choice.

“Look at the water. The waves look just like the square. I'm sure of it—look at the way the wind ripples the surface of the waves." She put her foot down on the pedal, and they shot forward. The road twisted and turned.

“Winding Ways," Pix muttered.

“Ayup." They carne to a fork that showed the remnants of logging tracks, and they stayed on the road, turning right. When they saw the old apple orchard, Pix grabbed Faith's arm. "It really is like a map!"

“Of course it is, and what's more I'm sure the gold, or what's left of it, is at the end. She must have put it there before she became bedridden, intending to tell someone, but then decided this would be more fun."

“Or maybe the gold has been there since her father's time." Faith stopped the car again to have another look at the photos.

“Maybe we should get rid of the ones we've identified and just keep a list of the names."

“I think we should hold on to them. There's always the possibility we've identified something incorrectly, or by one of its other names.”

They sat in silence for a moment, which Pix broke somewhat hesitantly. "It's been a bit like a game up to now. If, a very big if, we do find something valuable, what are you going to do with it?”

Faith realized she had been thinking primarily of the journey and not the arrival. Although from the moment she had seen the spidery handwritten "Seek and Ye Shall Find" at the Fraziers', she'd been convinced it was some sort of treasure.

“Us, not me. Let's get that understood. I never could have identified all these squares without you or known where they led. But I'm sure it's the gold, Pix, and I know you don't just mean we'd never have to worry about our children's college tuitions or wardrobes again. You must have had as much Sunday School as I did." Faith pictured the pin with all the bars for perfect attendance, which grew steadily longer on the lapel of her navy-blue coat from B. Altman's as the hem of said garment kept pace. She was sure there was a similar bijou in Pix's past. Along with all those "Do what you think is best, dear" remarks from parents who would have been astonished if you had. It was a burden that Faith had been endeavoring to unload for some time. Now might be as good a time as any, but she still said to Pix, "You mean what is the right thing to do."

“I suppose I do. Of course, we may never find it." Neither of them believed that for a moment any longer, and the look they exchanged said as much.

Faith continued wrestling. "Probably the morally correct thing to do would be to split it with the Prescotts. Take a finder's fee. Or give the whole thing to some worthwhile cause."

“Legally, of course, I think it would be ours. Abandoned property or something like that.”

They laughed. "I wonder what our husbands would advise," Faith mused. "Representing God and Mammon."

“I wouldn't say that exactly." Pix was a little peeved. "Sam does plenty of pro bono work."

“You know what I mean. I only thought it would be funny if Tom said finders keepers and Sam said give it away."

“This is all castles in the air until we locate what is in that last square."

“Very nice castles, but you're right. Let's get going.”

She pulled out onto the road, and they followed it for almost a mile before another choice presented itself. The next square was North Star and Pix told her which way was north. Faith said a silent prayer of thanks to the Girl Scouts or whomever for the thorough training Pix had had in her youth. The road suddenly plummeted, and they careened up and down two hills. The burned-rubber tire tracks in evidence indicated it was a favorite spot for those island youths possessing cars, and Faith could see why. She looked forward to driving it again herself, slightly faster this time. "Hill and Valley it is," she noted jubilantly.

When the road took them past an old schoolhouse that a summer person had painstakingly restored, they felt the treasure was almost in their grasp. But not quite.

Faith stopped the car again.

“Let me see the next square. Jacob's Ladder? How does that fit in? Are any of the rungs a different pattern? Or does it seem to be pointing a certain way?"

“No, it's all the same. Very regular and there are three possible roads here and all these woods."

“Fern Berry doesn't give us much help either," Faith observed dismally as she looked at the lush ferns, bright red bunchberries, and other bracken that grew along each roadside.

“And we don't know the one after, and the one after that is Shady Pine.”

They looked up glumly at the awning of evergreens surrounding them.

Pix sneezed.

“It looks like it's back to the books and back to the antihistamines for me." She was allergic to ragweed, and this was the worst time of year for her.

“I thought the rain was supposed to drive the pollen out of the air," Faith commiserated.

“So did I." Pix sneezed three times in rapid succession. Faith started the engine. "There are only two more squares to identify now. Even if we didn't name that spiderwebby one, I'm sure it had to do with that ocean view. And if worst comes to worst, we'll go down each of these and look for noticeably shady pines or ferny berries.”

Pix laughed and sneezed at the same time.

“We're in the right spot, though. No question.”

“What makes you so positive?"

“This spit of land is called Prescott Point, that's why." Faith was impressed.

As they passed the turnoff for Prescott's lobster pound, Faith said, "Do you mind if I stop to pick up some fish?”

“Not at all. I'll see if Sonny has any scallops today. Scallop stew is Samantha's favorite.”

Faith parked the car next to the bait shack and tried to keep upwind of the smell. Sonny was at the end of the dock where two boats were unloading their catch. Faith regarded the still-quivering, glistening bodies in the hold with anticipation. The only way she'd ever get fresher fish would be to catch it herself—an unlikely prospect. She selected what she wanted and followed Sonny into the offIce, where he weighed it out. He was a small man, but trim and muscular. His blond hair was crew cut, since he had never bothered to change his hairstyle after his military service. Faith had heard he was the star pitcher and coach for the Fish Hawks. She wondered if he'd given the team its name. As he wrapped the fish, she noticed his nails were bitten to the quick and his hands were red and chafed from his work. He handed her the bag.

“It will be delicious," she commented.

“Waal, can't say I ever cared much for the creatures. I like a good steak myself," he said.

“That's got to be a bit harder to find than fish on this island." She smiled.

“Ayup, but we always want what we can't get, Mrs. Fairchild." The intensity of his glance full in her face seemed to pin her against the wall next to some coiled rope, netting, and a long fly trap black with prey.

“I suppose so," she said without looking away. She paid and joined Pix on the dock, wondering as she did whether what had just occurred was an oblique reference to Matilda's house, the quilt, or a come-on. Maybe all three. She'd never heard him say "Ayup" before either. A reminder of turf?

He stood in the doorway and watched them go to the car.

“I'm sorry he didn't have any scallops. Maybe Monday," Pix said.

“What do you know about him? He seemed almost sinister today. The last time I was here, he was full of jokes and talked my ear off. Do you think he's heard about the quilt?"

“No, or he would have said something. Sonny and Margery Prescott are as honest as they come. We've known them for years. He's probably worried about the catch today, or maybe he's not feeling well. You know there can be logical explanations for things, Faith. You're beginning to imagine bandits behind every bush."

“I suppose you're right. I do feel surrounded by a kind of cocoon of suspicions. I keep looking at people and wondering where they were when Bird was killed, or the house broken into, or even if they have the kind of drill that made the holes in Roger's boat.

“Well, Sonny certainly has a drill like that, I'm sure. And I'm equally sure he didn't do it." Pix's mouth was set in a firm straight line. It reminded Faith of the lines they used to have to draw under the predicate with their rulers when she was in grade school. The line suddenly curved toward the rest of the sentence.

“I thought this was going to be the perfect vacation for you and you'd fall in love with the island. How wrong could a person be?"

“Not very wrong at all! I do love the island, and while it certainly hasn't been the perfect vacation, it hasn't been dull. And anyway, nothing more is going to happen, except when we find the treasure." Faith was surprised to hear her declaration of allegiance to Sanpere and even more surprised to realize it was true.

Both children had gone down for gaps when they returned. Pix decided to go home, take an allergy pill, and lie down too. The "nannies" reluctantly relinquished their role and went with her. Pix had promised to take them to the danceat the Legion Hall that night, and they had to decide what to wear. This could take all afternoon.

As Pix was leaving, Faith said, "If you don't feel up to it, I can take the girls to the dance for a while and you can lie down here."

“Oh, I'm sure I'll be all right. These pills are magic, though I do hate taking them. They make me so dopey.”

Pix was loath to take even an aspirin and was driven to any form of medication only if in dire pain. Faith had found this to be characteristic of New Englanders. They seemed to revel in the antique remedies enjoyed by their foremothers and -fathers, righteously avoiding the relief provided by modern medicine. "Let Nature take its course," one parishioner was fond of saying whenever she heard of an illness in the congregation. Faith reflected if we had let Nature take its course unhindered all these years, most of us would be dead.

“Call me if you need me," she shouted after Pix. "Otherwise, I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

After they left, she felt a certain relief. The children were asleep and it was nice to be alone. It would have been nicer if Tom was there—he had called early in the morning to make sure she was still alive and kicking, or so she had accused him. She was extremely happy to hear his voice, though, and they agreed he would call at the same time for the next few days.

Now, after the intensity of the last twenty-four hours, she was content to go into the kitchen and poach some fish for the mousse. She decided to bake some bread too. The real comfort food. The real comfort smell.

She couldn't keep her thoughts away from the scene in Bird and Andy's shack. She plunged her hands into the dough, trying to knead away the memory of all that redness, all that blood. As she built up the rhythm and felt the dough smooth into an elastic texture under her hands, she wondered how Bill Fox was. The Fraziers hadn't called. His silent grief had a self-destructive quality, or perhaps it was self-preservation—if he gave way to what he was feeling, it would be impossible to be whole again. Either way it was terrible. She tried to think about Bird. Who was she? Was it simply her startling beauty that had enthralled Bill and Roger, or had it been more than that? Faith had categorized her immediately as the flower child of parents poised in the sixties forever, picturing Bird's mother in black tights, ballerina flats, sack dress, and Student Peace Union button, teaching little Bird to weave, silk screen, or whatever. Or maybe Bird was as romantic in her way as Bill, yearning for what she imagined the sixties to have been like and re-creating them in her person. Whatever she had been, she had a kind of consistency Faith admired—from afar. Bird had decided to live a certain way and had not merely adopted a few surface trappings—the beads, the hair, and inevitable water-buffalo sandals.

Faith put the bread to rise again and went upstairs. Zoë was lying in the cradle awake and talking softly to herself. Faith leaned down to pick her up and thought how much simpler it would be to adopt Zoë than go through the whole tedious business of pregnancy again. Maybe it wasn't such a crazy idea. It could be that Bird didn't have any family, or perhaps if she did, they wouldn't want the child or be able to take her. And Andy had told the police he wanted nothing to do with Zoë, that she was all Bird's idea.

Ben was up too, and they all went outside again. He taught Zoë by example how to roll down the little hill behind the cottage and soon they were shrieking with delight.

It was late in the afternoon and Faith was gathering her small charges for mousse when the phone rang. She grabbed them to hurry inside before it stopped—something that happened with irritating frequency.

It was Pix, or some approximation of Pix. Her nose was so stuffed up, she sounded like a caricature of herself.

“Faith, cud you ruddy tage de gurls to de danse?”

Faith hastened to interrupt her. It was a horrible sound.

“Don't say another word. Please. Of course I can take them. Why don't you plan to spend the night here, both of you? Then you can get settled in bed when the kids go to sleep. You know there's plenty of room.”

In between major trumpeting into possibly an entire box of tissues, they established that Pix would come over after dinner and spend the night. Samantha was going home with Arlene, and Faith could drop them there no later than eleven o'clock, which Pix and Arlene's mother had established as a reasonable curfew.

Faith hung up the phone and turned her thoughts to what to wear. It wasn't going to be Capote's Black and White Ball, but she didn't think she should turn up in jeans. Pix had told her that there would probably be a few square dances sandwiched between the band's renditions of Pink Floyd and Lawrence Welk favorites. The Saturday-night dances attracted a wide age range. Faith lacked the requisite circle skirt and petticoats for do-si-doing, but she thought she would dress for the spirit of that part of the soiree and decided on a pale-blue Eileen West sundress with a wide skirt. At the last moment she tied a black ribbon around her neck and promptly took it off in the car. It had been a close call.

The girls sat together in the backseat, which made her feel only slightly ancient, and they spent the whole trip talking about what they should have worn and each reassuring the other that what she had on was perfect. Faith wondered how many permutations a wardrobe that seemed to consist chiefly of oversized khaki pants, form-fitting Guess? jeans, and extra-large T-shirts could allow, but evidently enough to cause concern. Arlene had a black barrette with rhinestones in the shape of a star on it that was destined to appear and disappear from her hair all night as clouds of doubt rolled by.

Faith pulled into the parking lot in front of the Legion Hall, a large, barnlike structure that had been used for everything from dances and band concerts to basketball games and graduations in various incarnations. She parked next to a Corvair. You could spot cars of virtually every era on the island, and although pickups were the vehicle of preference, she had seen everything from a Model T to a Mercedes traveling along Route 17.

They walked in, bought their tickets, and were enjoined to guard their stubs for the raffle. Arlene and Samantha were trying to enter as nonchalantly as possible, walking behind Faith and using the abundant fabric of her skirt as a shield.

“There's Becky!" Arlene cried, and they scurried over to a group of girls who were leaning against the wall, pretending to look bored.

Faith looked after them. She wouldn't return to adolescence for a second. Well, maybe a second out of curiosity, no longer. It wasn't as if your own trials and tribulations were enough; everybody else was your age and having them too. And the boys' palms were always sweaty. She sighed. Even a boy with sweaty palms might have been welcome. What was she going to do for three and a half hours?

She sat down on one of the folding chairs set against the wall and spread her skirt out in an attractive manner. She loved to dance, and she hoped someone would have the courage to ask her. She smiled encouragingly, then decided she looked like a lunatic sitting there grinning and fell to studying her surroundings instead.

It was not dark inside, but it was quite dim. In the center of the room a huge ball covered with tiny mirrors slowly turned and sprinkled the dancers with irregular patches of light. Up on the stage the band had blue spots trained unsteadily on them, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. It didn't look much like the island. More like The Blue Angel. Marlene Dietrich's role had been usurped here by a young woman, with short platinum-blond hair, dressed in leather. She was wailing some lyrics into the microphone, but there was too much noise for Faith to decipher them. The band had energy and was good and loud. She squinted through the smoke and saw from the name on the drum that they were The Melodic Mariners. Two of them looked to be in their forties, the rest somewhere between fourteen and twenty-one. They were all having a hell of a time, to judge from their expressions.

The music stopped, and with barely time for "A one and a two and a three" they launched into the slow cadences of "The Blue Danube." Nobody seemed to find the change disconcerting. A few stood up to dance, a few left the floor, but mostly they stayed, stopped boogying, and waltzed.

Faith turned her attention to the crowd to see if she recognized anyone. Pix had been right. It was all ages. Small children were dancing on their fathers' and grandfathers' shoes. Middle aged women were dancing sedately together in perfect step. The teenagers were using the music as an excuse to make out on the dance floor, rocking slowly from side to side when they remembered they were supposed to be dancing.

Faith spotted Sonny and Margery Prescott on the floor. They weren't Ginger and Fred, but they weren't half bad. They danced in that practiced, semiprofessional way people who like to dance and have been married for a long time do. She also saw Nan and Freeman Hamilton sitting next to an enormous fat woman dressed in trousers with a skinny man perched comfortably on her knee. She'd have to ask Pix who that was. Paul Edson and his wife, Edith, were on the other side of the Hamiltons. They were staring at the crowd. Paul probably liked to keep close tabs on everyone's physical and financial well-being. He seemed to be studying one couple in particular. Looking to see if she was still wearing all her jewelry or if hard times were setting in? Maybe they'd like to get rid of their small camp down by the shore that they never used? Faith imagined this was what was going through his mind and wondered why Nan and Freeman hadn't moved away from them. Then she remembered Edith had been a Hamilton and on the island, kinship mattered more than real estate transfers. Nan and Freeman didn't seem to be paying them much mind, though. Paul was the only man Faith had seen wearing a suit. There were a few ties of various natures, some dress pants, even a few neatly pressed jeans, but no suits. He must know the mores. Maybe he liked to set himself apart, in which case Faith thought he could have picked something more distinguished than the navy polyester model he was sporting. Edith was wearing a lilac pants suit, no doubt of similar venue, and they looked like bookends.

There seemed to be a lot of activity around the rear door to the outside. Faith noticed the people leaving for a breath of fresh air were returning with very rosy cheeks. The dances were dry, not even BYOB, so those desirous of refreshment drank it out in the parking lot or made do with the punch ladled out of a large pot sitting on the pass-through into a small kitchen. She hoped Arlene and Samantha didn't dis- appear out the back door. She was there to chaperone, but it was not a role she relished. They were still glued to the wall with a steadily increasing group of girls. An equal and opposite number of boys was gathered by the entrance.

The time passed more quickly as she became engrossed in people watching. Those returning from the outside began to be a bit unsteady. The room got warm, and people who had arrived in freshly pressed shirts and dresses began to sweat and wilt. The smoke grew even denser, and the Mariners announced they would be taking a break. The floor cleared, but many of the dancers stayed and arranged themselves in two long lines facing each other.

Freeman mounted the stage and took the mike in his hand.

“Get ready for `The Lady of the Lake,' he called out. "And if you don't know it, don't worry. The person next to you does.”

Faith joined the ladies' line and saw Arlene and Samantha follow suit. Two boys quickly placed themselves opposite them. Faith looked across. She was opposite Joe Prescott. The one who had tried to attack Eric and Roger at the auction. He smiled encouragingly at her. Well, she reflected, if she thought someone was trying to get away with what she believed to be hers, she might try to throw a punch too. Besides, bygones were bygones. In some cases anyway.

The music started. It would have been impossible to sit still, and she was glad she had decided to dance. An old man with a string tie was playing the fiddle. Another man was plucking a flat-backed mandolin, and a woman named Dorothy was on guitar. Faith knew her name because every once in a while someone would shout, "Hit it, Dorothy." She was obviously a local favorite. Freeman was a good caller, and Faith had no trouble following. Over the years the dance must have been performed countless times under this roof. Skirts swirled, feet stamped, and hands clapped. Two more dances followed, then they played "Soldier's Joy" for Nan Hamilton and "Red Wing" for Freeman, who demanded equal time. The Mariners returned and Faith collapsed breathlessly on the nearest chair. Sonny and Margery were next to her. Sonnygrinned at her. "Don't get much of this up to Boston, do you?"

“No. In fact, I've never been to a dance like this before."

“A few years back they wanted to cut out the old dances. Said the kids didn't want to do them and would stop coming, so we tried for a while. They were the first ones to complain," Margery said.

“I think it's important," Faith told her. "Otherwise they would never know how to do them and a whole part of the island's history would be lost. I hope there will be some more, and the musicians were wonderful.”

Sonny looked at her appreciatively. "They just do it for fun. We have an awful lot of good times in the winter. Those three will come by and we'll have a musical evening. There was an English lady here last summer, and she heard them play down to the inn. She said a lot of the songs were old English and Scottish ones. And here we thought we'd invented them on the island. Anyway they've been here a long time.”

Sonny was being his friendly and loquacious self, and Faith didn't think it all could be chalked up to the nips he was having out by his Chevy. By dancing she had taken a step away from being an off-island onlooker to becoming at least an appreciative outsider. She thought of the quilt. Little did they know how much and how well she was getting to know the island.

Sonny and Margery excused themselves to dance, and Faith was lost in thought when she heard a familiar voice.

“You were stepping pretty lively from what I could see, Mrs. Fairchild, and I hope you'll give a poor old man a dance." It was Freeman.

“Show me the poor old man first," answered Faith.

“Now that's what I call kind." He pulled her to her feet and energetically steered her onto the dance floor. It was "The Beer Barrel Polka" and fortunately it was half over. After they had spun around for a while, there was another of those abrupt changes of direction and the Mariners segued into "The Tennessee Waltz."

“My favorite," said Freeman. "Are you game for another?"

“Absolutely.”

The waltz afforded more opportunity for conversation, and after they had maneuvered over to wave at Nan, Faith commented that the Edsons didn't seem to be dancers.

“I guess that's true," observed Freeman. "Come to think of it, I never have seen Paul dance. Edith used to be pretty spry when we were younger."

“Maybe he likes to sit and take the lay of the land.”

Freeman slowed down a bit and appeared to be thinking of something. When he responded, his voice had lost some of its teasing quality.

“You seem to have gotten pretty interested in this island in the short time you've been here. I don't deny that a lot has happened to you that sort of dragged you in. But sometimes it isn't always good to know too much about a place too fast.”

Faith was startled. Was this some kind of warning? Did Freeman know about the clues in the quilt? Or was it the normal reaction of someone who liked her to the fact that she had come upon two corpses and had her house broken into in less than a week?

She spoke slowly. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean, but I certainly don't mean to push myself in where I'm not wanted."

“Now, now it's not that. Not that at all. Just take it slow, Faith." He smiled broadly at her. "Since you're so interested in things, I'll tell you what we say about Paul Edson around here. He's what we call a `self-made man,' and that lets the Almighty off the hook. Now I'd better dance with my wife or the whole island will have me in divorce court on Monday." He gave her hand a squeeze as they walked over to Nan. Faith felt as if she had been stood in the corner and given a star all at the same time. She greeted Nan. "Thanks for the loan of your husband. He's a treat to dance with."

“He's a treat, all right," Nan said as she glanced lovingly at Freeman. "You can borrow him anytime. He's awful good at weeding the garden and chopping wood too."

“Now Nan," protested Freeman. "One female slave driver is enough!”

The three of them laughed and Faith went back to her chair. She had told the girls that was where she would be if they needed her for anything, and she didn't want to desert her post for too long.

Nobody asked her to dance, and the next half hour dragged a little despite the excitement of the raffle drawing. Sevenyear-old Missy Sanford drew her own grandmother's name and everybody cheered as Missy solemnly presented her with a large canned ham and got a big kiss in return.

Faith's chair was near the door, so she saw Eric before he spotted her. He was wearing spotless white Levi's and a navy polo shirt open at the throat. He looked cool, crisp, and very handsome. She automatically looked for Jill, but he appeared to be alone. Maybe he was meeting her at the dance. He certainly seemed to be looking for someone, standing in the door and letting his eyes travel across the crowd. At last they landed on her, and he smiled and made his way over.

“Faith! What on earth are you doing here all by your lonesome?"

“Gooseberrying. You know, the honorable role of 'chaperone.' Pix is having one of her allergy attacks, so I'm here to keep Samantha and Arlene on the straight and narrow. A pretty easy job."

“Poor Pix. This smoke would have been murder for her. I always stink after one of these things.”

He was speaking clearly, but Faith had the definite impression Eric had been drinking. It was the way he shaped his words—precisely and with extra care. He asked her to dance and stumbled slightly as he gallantly reached for her hand to pull her to her feet.

“Love the band, don't you? Good beat and easy to dance to. I give it a seven and a half." He laughed.

Maybe Jill didn't like to dance, Faith thought. Or maybe Eric liked to have a few beers and go solo. As was often the case with Faith, to speculate was to query.

“Where's Jill tonight?"

“We're not married, you know," Eric answered peevishly, then modified his tone. "Not yet, anyway, but I hope it will be soon. This is strictly entre nous, Faith, not even Pix. She'd be arranging showers and trousseaux or what have you if she knew."

“I'm so pleased, Eric. For both of you. It's been such a difficult time for you, and you deserve some happiness.”

He pulled her closer and said, "Thank you, Faith. Thank you for understanding.”

The band was playing and Eric hummed along. He pulled Faith a bit nearer, and while one part of her was definitely enjoying the feel of his lean, muscular body, another was slightly uncomfortable at the increasing proximity and the fact that he was slowing down to a standstill. She could count on the band, though, and as they zoomed into "Twist and Shout," Eric broke away abruptly and began an extremely athletic version of the old classic. After a few minutes Faith said, "I've got to sit down, Eric, and it's getting close to eleven. The girls will be looking for me. That is, they'd better be looking for me."

“Go do your duty, my beautiful duenna," he replied, and walked over to the wall and grabbed the first woman he saw. She looked pleased and began to match him step for step.

Definitely feeling no pain, Faith reflected in amusement. It was good to see him letting loose and having some fun.

Samantha and Arlene were dancing at last. With the two boys from the "Lady of the Lake" square dance. Ten more minutes. Faith was sure they would be good about going, and she was ready to leave herself. The band decided to continue the frenzied momentum they had created and started in on "Louie Louie." Eric was still dancing with the same partner. Sonny and Margery gyrated alongside. Both couples were not far from where Faith was sitting.

Suddenly Eric seemed to register the fact that Sonny was there. He turned and said something to him that Faith couldn't hear. Sonny said something back, and the two women seemed to be trying to keep the men dancing. Margery put her hand on Sonny's arm, and he angrily shook it away. The couples around them gave them a wide berth.

Sonny was shouting at Eric now, and Faith could hear Eric calling him a "son of a bitch.”

“Motherfucker" was next, and Sonny tried to land a punch, but a number of men had closed in and were swiftly escorting them into the parking lot.

Samantha and Arlene came running over to Faith.

“Do you think Eric's all right?" Samantha asked.

“I think the men who took them out will take care of things, but maybe we should go and see if he needs a ride home"—and see what's happening, Faith said to herself, although the part about the ride was true. Eric should definitely not be driving in his condition.

The philosophy on the island seemed to be to let the men fight it out, just get them away from the women and children, and to a place where they couldn't do damage. When Faith and the girls walked into the parking lot, Sonny and Eric were rolling on the ground. Margery was standing to one side. Faith went up to her.

“This is ridiculous. They could seriously hurt each other. Can't we do something about it?"

“I think `hurt each other' is what they have in mind, Mrs. Fairchild, and if I could stop Sonny, I would. Besides, if they didn't do it here, they'd do it somewhere else.”

But some of the men seemed to think enough was enough. Freeman was among them.

“That's it," Faith heard him say, and he waded in between them. They were still screaming at each other. Eric's white pants were covered with dirt and streaked with blood from a cut on his cheek. Sonny's nose was bleeding and looked a little crooked. "Fuckin' faggot!" he yelled as he tried to get away from the two men who held him. Margery walked over and stood slightly behind him.

Faith didn't know what to do. Eric was in no condition to drive, but she was unsure how to approach the situation. Freeman must have had the same thought and was offering Eric a lift. "I can drive myself, thank you," he replied with exaggerated politeness and crawled into the front seat of his car. Freeman pushed him to the passenger side and they took off. Nan climbed into their car and followed.

Faith took a deep breath. "I'm sorry you girls had to see this."

“Don't worry, Mrs. Fairchild," Arlene assured her. "We have fights like this at every dance. They drink too much, then they get rowdy.”

Eric wasn't going to feel very rowdy in the morning, although he probably would feel a lot of other things, Faith thought. They walked toward the Woody, passing Sonny and Margery with a cluster of friends and relatives around them. Sonny was slumped against the side of his car, but he didn't seem to be injured. Margery had pushed up the sleeves of her shirt and was busy holding a handkerchief to his nose. As they passed, Faith paused to say something, couldn't think of an appropriate remark, and kept going with a brief nod and slight smile to Margery that vanished immediately when she got a closer look at Margery's left wrist.

She was wearing Faith's bracelet.

The silver cuff bracelet Tom had given her.

The one missing after the break-in.

Faith gasped and increased her speed, almost pushing the girls into the car. Although it was possible that Margery had bought one like it from the same silversmith on the island, it was not possible that she had deliberately made a scratch on it. No, Ben had done that with a fork when Faith had left the bracelet on the kitchen table one day.

Faith's mind was in a whirl. Margery and Sonny the burglars? It seemed reasonable if they had known about the quilt, but how did they know about the quilt? The image of Margery standing in the Frazier's doorway flashed into Faith's mind. Of course, she had overheard them discussing "Seek and Ye Shall Find." But to wear the bracelet to the dance, what gall! Of course she would not have expected to see Faith there. And she had been wearing long sleeves. Faith tried to remember. Was it overactive hindsight, or had Margery tugged on her left sleeve when Faith had sat next to them?

She was driving fast, but Arlene and Samantha, already beginning the dissection of the evening that would be the main topic of conversation for the next few days, didn't notice. She had to finish identifying the quilt squares. The Prescotts might not know she had made photographs, but Arlene could let something slip, and it was only a matter of time before they would. Then there would be another break-in—or worse.

Driving back along the causeway after dropping the girls at Arlene's, Faith didn't see a single light. There were only two streetlights in the village, and then you were plunged into darkness. She slowed down. There were no other cars on the road and she didn't know whether to feel relieved or anxious. The last thing she wanted now was a pair of headlights following her down the long dirt road that led to the isolated cottage. But Pix would be there waiting, and she relaxed when she remembered.

Pix and the dogs.

Faith let herself in quietly. The dogs barked dutifully and briefly once they recognized her. Only the porch and kitchen lights were on, which meant Pix must have gone to sleep. She debated waking her, but decided to wait until the morning. She wanted some time to think what it all meant. Eric's behavior at the dance, then the fight, and the bracelet. She looked in on the two children soundly asleep in Ben's room and took a peek at Pix, who was also soundly, but more noisily, asleep.

She got into bed and revolved the various scenes of the evening around her brain. In less time than it takes to go Loupty Lou, she was asleep too.

Asleep, that is, until she heard the dogs begin to bark.

8

Dusty had been joined by Henry and Arthur. Pix never liked to leave the dogs home alone. Surely she must be awake with all the barking! Faith quietly crept out of bed and moved quickly to the door, pausing to pick up the brick doorstop that had been disguised with needlepoint. Then she ran down the hall into Ben's room. She had no time to waste.

The children were sleeping peacefully. She closed the door and positioned herself behind it with the brick raised in her hand. She'd have the element of surprise on her side. Whoever it was downstairs would have everything else. She couldn't hear any footsteps, and the dogs had calmed to occasional whimpers of delight, as Pix had predicted. Maybe the intruder had brought snacks.

The house was quiet again and she waited. She had time to be afraid now, and she was terrified. Finally the boards on the stairs creaked. The intruder was coming up.

She heard the hinges groan as the door to her room was pushed slowly open. Then nothing.

The steps began again and moved down the hall past the room Pix was in. They were making straight for the nursery. The doorknob turned slowly. She watched it, hypnotized with fear. The door began to move. Faith got ready. "Faith," came a soft voice, "Faith, are you in here?" She yanked the door open. It was Tom.

“What the hell do you mean giving me a scare like that!" she whispered angrily at him, then threw herself into his arms.

“I tried calling, but there was no answer. I'm sorry, honey, but I was getting too edgy down there. They didn't need me tonight or tomorrow, and I wanted to see my family. Intact, as it were."

“You were the one destined for injury," Faith said as she dropped the brick that had become cemented into her palm.

“Why don't we go to bed and you can tell me everything in the morning?" Tom suggested as he lifted Faith up in his arms and walked toward their bedroom. "Just one question. What are all those dogs doing here?"

“I'm beginning to realize there are few easy explanations on this island, but this one is fairly straightforward. Pix had one of her allergy attacks, so she stayed here and I took Samantha and Arlene to the dance tonight. Of course, the dogs couldn't stay all by themselves at the cottage.”

Tom lowered Faith onto the bed and started peeling off his clothes preparatory to following her. He started to climb in and stopped. "I didn't even look at Ben. Just a minute, darling, I'll be right back.”

And he was. In seconds.

“Faith Sibley Fairchild. There are two children in Ben's room! Would you mind telling me where you got that other baby?”

Faith gasped. Surely she had mentioned to Tom that she was taking care of Zoë, hadn't she?

“Oh Tom, I'm sure I must have told you I was taking care of Zoë until the police can find out who Bird was and if she has any family."

“No, you omitted to mention that fact." Tom started to laugh. "Of course it's fine to take care of her, but you have to imagine what it is like to bend over Ben's crib and realize there is a fairly new baby in a cradle by the side. Nice cradle, too."

“I'm glad you like it. It's ours. I got it at the auction.”

Tom beamed. He wanted a big family. "That's great, sweetheart. Now, why don't we do something about filling it? Presuming, of course, that Zoë is not a permanent resident."

“Well, it would make life simple, and what if they can't find any relatives? I do feel responsible."

“Because you had the misfortune to find the body? Why don't we wait and see what happens." Tom reached over and turned out the light. "We've had enough surprises for one night."

“Don't be so sure," Faith said as she began to kiss his ear. She was very fond of his lobes.

Sunday morning dawned fair and fine. Pix left after consuming a stack of blueberry pancakes. She hadn't heard a thing the night before and vowed never to take an antihistamine again, no matter how miserable.

“What if it hadn't been Tom? I would have been useless!" she wailed.

“I don't think this particular situation will arise in the near future, and I'm sure you can sleep safely with or without your hay-fever medicine," Tom said.

“No, if I can't even hear the dogs or the phone, it's too strong. I'll have to get something else from Dr. Kane when I get home." Pix was adamant. "I have to get Samantha now. See you in church.”

They waved good-bye from the porch and settled down on the lawn with more coffee and the two children.

“Okay, Faith, tell all. I want to hear everything you've been sticking that pretty little nose of yours into." Tom sounded firm.

Faith felt it was a bit unfair to accuse her of idle curiosity when both bodies had virtually found her. But she started from the beginning and told him everything. Or almost everything. She glossed over the quilt, sticking it in the midst of Bird's murder and making only a vague allusion to the map and treasure. It was, after all, supposition. To assuage her guilt, she mentioned the break-in. Tom got up and paced around the yard.

“I really wish you and Ben—and Zoë if you feel you must—would come back with me. It's only a few days, and I'd feel much better knowing you were safe. We can still be here for Labor Day."

“I am safe, Tom. Sgt. Dickinson was sure it was kids looking for liquor and it's not likely to be repeated. Remember, they picked a time when I wasn't here. And what would I do down there? You'll be busy and I'd rather not attend the workshops."

“There's a beautiful lake and you could sit on the beach with the kids," Tom pointed out.

“All day? No thank you. And what about the food? You said yourself it was abysmal," Faith protested.

“Food isn't everything, Faith."

“Bite your tongue!”

They glared at each other a moment; then Faith took Tom's hand and stroked the back of it gently. She loved the fine reddish hairs that grew there. "I know you're worried and I love you for it, but I'm a grown-up too. If I thought it was dangerous, I'd leave."

“Promise?"

“Promise.”

They went inside, got ready for church, and were in good time for the service. The bell, hung high in the pointed steeple of the small white clapboard church facing the harbor, was just starting to peal as they drove over the hill into Sanpere Village. Ben and Zoë were deposited in the child care overseen by volunteers, among them Samantha and Arlene, who reached for the children delightedly. Faith raised an eyebrow at Tom. "And what about baby-sitters in New Hampshire?"

“All right, all right, I've already given in. Put your life in danger just so you don't have to search for a baby-sitter.”

“Women do it all the time, Tom.”

Faith sat contentedly in a pew. The sun streamed in the long, plain-glass windows. The only ornament was a large bouquet of flowers on the simple altar in front of the cross. Prize gladiolas from someone's garden were mixed with ferns from the woods, Queen Anne's lace, and other wildflowers. The glads, never Faith's favorite, looked definitely outclassed.

The sermon was as unadorned as the church, and Faith enjoyed the service. A few well-chosen words, a rousing hymn or two, a quiet moment for prayer, then they were out in the bright sunshine greeting friends and neighbors. In Faith and Tom's case, this meant saying hello to Pix again and nodding to Nan Hamilton. She came over and Faith introduced Tom.

“I'm afraid my husband is not a great one for church, Reverend Fairchild."

“There are many ways to worship," Tom said.

“Now, that's just what Freeman always says. You two ought to get together sometime."

“I'd enjoy that.”

They collected Ben and Zoë and drove back through the village and turned at the Fraziers' house to get onto Route 17. The cars in front of them appeared to be slowing down, and Faith rolled down her window and leaned out to see what was happening.

“Pull over, Tom! There's a police car in the Fraziers' driveway and some cop is putting Bill Fox in the backseat! I've got to find out what's going on."

“They may only be bringing him in for questioning. He was going to marry the girl and presumably he knew her very well."

“But they could do that here. Why take him some other place?" Faith sprinted along the road and was in time to see the police car pull out and turn left, the way off the island. The Fraziers were standing on their porch. Louise was crying.

Faith walked slowly up to them, unsure now whether she was intruding, but Elliot called out, "Oh Faith, this is terrible. I'm glad you're here. We can't believe it." She climbed the stairs.

“They've taken Bill to Ellsworth. They think he killed Bird!"

“That's incredible. What possible reason could they have for accusing him?”

Louise spoke, her normally soft voice a whisper. "They found the weapon in his tool shed. They also found a drill and some corks."

“You mean they think he killed Roger too?"She nodded.

Faith thought rapidly. "Let me tell my husband what's happened. He can leave the children at the Millers' and come back with Pix. Sam is Bill's lawyer, isn't he? I think Pix should get in touch with him right away.”

The Fraziers seemed grateful for her help, and when she came back from telling Tom, they moved inside and sat in the kitchen.

“What did Bill say about the evidence?" Faith asked. Louise paused to pour some tea, and having a mug to hold on to seemed to allow her to strengthen her voice.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing at first. He just stared at them as if they were crazy, which of course they are," she answered. "Then he stood up and said, `I guess you want me to go with you,' got his jacket, and went. We told him we'd follow and he said not to bother, but as soon as we've talked to Pix, we'll go up there.”

The two of them looked terribly frail and all of their years. Faith knew that Tom would go with them. He could leave for New Hampshire from Ellsworth. After the events in Aleford when Faith had discovered Cindy Shepherd's corpse, Tom had become an old hand at police procedures and comforting the incarcerated and their friends and families.

“Did the police say what the weapon was?"

“They had it with them, all wrapped up in a plastic bag. It was a small hatchet and there was no doubt it was Bill's. Had his initials on a little brass plate. His mother and brother had given him a fancy set of garden tools last Christmas. He thought it was sweet of them, but he liked his old ones best and I doubt he ever used these.”

Faith flashed back to the blood-stained shack. Hearing about the weapon added the final touch of horror to the scene. It had not been an easy death.

Pix rushed in the back door, followed by Tom. She put her arms around Louise. "How could they possibly think Bill had anything to do with this? He adored her.”

Elliot spoke. "I'm afraid that's what they think the motive is. They confronted him with the drill and the corks, and I think they're going to charge him with Roger's death. I imagine they think he killed Roger so he could have Bird."

“Even admitting that, which I don't," Pix said, "we still come back to Bird. Why destroy the one thing you love?”

You might have to, thought Faith, if she had somehow discovered the earlier deed. Or she might have decided to go back to Andy and wasn't in the cabin packing, but there to stay. She decided it was neither the time nor the place to air these opinions. And it was Bill Fox they were talking about. The man who had created the gentle world of Selega couldn't have done either of these murders. It just didn't feel right, and Faith was a great believer in hunches.

“I called Sam and he's going to try to find out what's going on in Ellsworth. He has a lawyer friend who summers in Blue Hill, and he's going to ask him to go straight over. Sam won't be able to get away himself until later in the week, unfortunately, but we're to call if we need him and he'll drop everything. He's fairly certain they won't charge Bill now. It's all pretty circumstantial." Pix was starting to run on and on. Tom interrupted.

“I don't know Bill Fox, but if you'd like me to come to the jail with you, I'd be happy to be of help," he told the Fraziers.

“That would be wonderful. We really would like someone to come along with us, and I have the feeling you are the perfect choice," Elliot said.

Faith thought so too. Calm, unobtrusive, firm. That was her Tom.

“Oh, dear, we should tell John. He'll probably want to come too," Louise remembered.

“Would you like me to tell him on my way back?" Faith offered.

“That would be a big help, because we should be leaving, and in any case, I hate to break news like this over the phone—not to mention our party line. It will be all over the island soon enough. Poor Bill. He came here for privacy, and now it looks like that will be at an end for some time.”

Pix followed the Fraziers out the front door. She was going along too. Tom and Faith lingered on the porch a moment."I know," said Faith. "It's always something.”

Tom held her close. "Be careful, darling. I'll be back before you know it, and then we really will have a vacation.”

“Pix should drive with you so you won't get lost.”

“That's a good idea, and she can tell me all the things you didn't on the way." Tom shook his head. "I never met Fox, but I read all his books when I was a kid, and I feel like I know him. What do you think. Could he possibly have done this?"

“I think he was obsessed by her and he might have been driven to some kind of passionate act, but I don't see him plotting to do away with Roger. Or killing her so brutally. He'd have been more likely to give her a poisoned apple and watch her slip into a sleeplike death."

“I'd better get going. I'll call you from New Hampshire tonight. Try to take it easy today. Play with the kids. Cook." Faith kissed him. "Drive carefully. 1 love you.”

She watched as the tiny caravan took off, then got into Pix's car. For a moment she was daunted by the number of things confronting her on the Range Rover's dashboard—there was even a compass. Then she set off for John Eggleston's house in Little Harbor, curious to see how the former clergyman lived.

She pulled into his road and swerved immediately over to the side to avoid the large Lincoln town car speeding in her direction. As it careened past, she saw Paul Edson at the wheel with Edith sitting stiffly beside him. They were not smiling.

Now what could they want with John Eggleston? Faith wondered. A spiritual crisis?

He was standing in front of his house. His face was more ruddy than usual and his angry expression softened only slightly when he realized it was Faith.

It was a small white farmhouse in perfect repair. Peony bushes lined up like choirboys across the front, and a purple martin multiple-dwelling birdhouse adorned a huge pine that stood to one side. There were no other flowers. No lawn decorations—no whirligigs, clam-basket planters, old tires filled with marigolds, or the ubiquitous posterior of a fat lady ^pending over that had sprouted on many local lawns this sum- mer, the only variation being in the color and pattern of her bloomers.

It was all pretty stark, until you looked past the house to the view.

John Eggleston had one of the choicest pieces of waterfront on the island. The backyard stretched out to a salt marsh, and beyond that was a wide, crescent-shaped beach. And beyond that was the sea, a westward view of the islands. They looked like plump green pincushions today beneath a cloudless blue sky. Faith knew why the Edsons had been there and why John was not in the mood to love his neighbor. They'd been trying to get him to sell, and they must have had a reason to think he would.

She recollected herself and the job at hand.

“Is there somewhere we can talk? I'm afraid I have some bad news. They've arrested Bill."

“I'm not surprised," he said, and started walking toward the small gray-cedar-shingled barn at the rear of the house. Faith trotted along behind him.

She waited for amplification, realized it would not be forthcoming, and asked, "Why do you say you're not surprised?"

“Because they're all a bunch of fools. Bill included.”

He opened the door, and they stepped into what was obviously his workshop.

“They're a bunch of fools to think that Bill could do it, but they haven't the brains to figure out who did. And Bill's a fool for getting involved with the girl in the first place.”

He picked up a chisel and a mallet and started to hack away at an enormous piece of wood on his workbench. Faith perched on a stool and looked around. There were a number of pieces in various degrees of completion. She needn't wonder about how he supported himself anymore. He was obviously very competent at his craft. She noted the irony that many of the pieces seemed related to religion. There was a beautiful menorah, and an altarpiece, with a crucifix surrounded by flamelike spirals. He followed her glance.

“Most of my commissions come from churches and synagogues. I had started doing this when I was a priest, and just because I am no longer active in the church doesn't mean I should stop doing what I know best—or stop believing either.”

He was chipping away for dear life, and Faith noticed how sharp he kept his tools. The metal edges gleamed on the bench, mixing with the shavings that were flying all over the barn. He was certainly a muscular Christian.

He didn't seem inclined to talk about Bill, and she didn't feel like leaving. If she was ever going to find out anything about this man, she'd have to ask. He wasn't going to give anything away.

She plunged in. "Why did you leave the church?”

He glared at her, then turned back to his work. "I should say it's none of your business and it's not, but I'll tell you and you'll see why I think Bill has been such a fool. That girl would have brought him nothing but unhappiness. Has, in fact.”

Faith waited patiently.

“My grandfather had been an Episcopal priest, and I loved and respected him more than anyone in the world. I never had any doubt that that was what I wanted to be. He was at peace with himself and the world. And he gave that peace to others. But I lost it. And it was all because of a woman." He gave the wood a particularly violent vicious blow, and Faith drew slightly away.

“I'm not saying it wasn't my fault too, but let's just say I had a Bird. She was in my congregation and I was drunk with love of her. We were going to get married when she announced she was pregnant and we'd have to move the date up. Now I knew for a fact that baby wasn't mine, but it wasn't long before the parish got wind of it and began to agitate for my removal. Like_, a fool I still wanted to marry her, and we decided to go to the next parish, where a friend of mine would perform the ceremony. Well, she never showed up. I heard later she'd gone to Atlanta with some man. By then I'd come to my senses, but I had to leave my church. The church I had led for ten years. I wasn't at peace anymore. Not with myself, my congregation, or my heavenly Father. I've been searching for it ever since. Thought I might find it here. But it remains out of my grasp.”

He was grasping the chisel so hard, his knuckles were white. "And now Edson is breathing down my neck. How he found out I'll never know. Must steam open the mail somehow—you see, that woman is filing a paternity suit. The baby is nine years old and the mother wants all the back child support. Of course she won't win, but it's going to cost me a lot in lawyers' fees."

“Maybe Sam can give you some advice," Faith suggested. Eggleston jerked his head up. He appeared to have forgotten she was there.

“Maybe. Anyway, I'll be damned if I'll sell even an inch of this land.”

There was a large window in one end of the barn.

“I don't blame you," Faith said. "It's some of the loveliest land I've seen on the island.”

He carved in silence for a few moments, then set down his tools and ran a hand through his hair, leaving wood shavings mixed in with his own curls.

“I guess I better get up to Ellsworth. Bill's never going to be the same again. Damn that girl!" He blurted out the words vehemently.

Faith got down from the stool and followed him across the lawn. He whirled around and faced her. "Did you read his books?"

“Yes, many times."

“So you know what it means, Selega and all that.”

“It's just a made-up word, isn't it?"

“Spell it backward," he said grimly, and without saying good-bye strode into his house and closed the door.

Faith stood and looked at the shore. She could hear the gulls screech as they dropped mussels and sea urchins onto the rocks to crack them open.

Selega.

Ageles.

Ageless.

She sighed, got into the car, and drove to the Millers'. Efficient as always, Samantha and Arlene had fed the children and put them down for naps. Faith was beginning to think the two of them might do a far better job at parenting than Tom and she ever would. It might be wise simply to turn Ben over immediately. She sent them off for a bike ride and told them she would take care of things. They seemed a bit dubious, and she half expected them to leave a list of emergency numbers, but they took off and she was pleasantly reassured to hear some adolescent giggles and horseplay as they left the drive.

She made herself a sandwich. Pix seemed to go in heavily for tuna fish, so tuna it was. Hunger will do that. Then she wandered about at loose ends. She didn't want to be out of earshot and she didn't feel like reading. The mornings' events had made her edgy. She wondered what was going on up in Ellsworth. And John Eggleston's revelations had been pretty startling. A genuine misogynist. She felt somewhat uneasy as she thought about the way he was cleaving the wood sculpture.

Pix had taken the quilt books and magazines back to her house along with the photos to work on some more. Faith didn't know where Pix had hidden the pictures. Probably in her freezer, marked "mystery," but the rest of the stuff was in a pile by one of the large easy chairs set in front of the fireplace.

Faith didn't need the photos anymore. The three squares they had not yet identified were permanently etched in her memory. She was sure number eight had something to do with ripples and turned to the index to look up any references to sea, ocean, pools, anything with water. After searching through several books, she found Wild Waves, only to be disappointed. It didn't look anything like Matilda's square. Ten minutes later she had it: Ocean Wave. They had been on the right track. She found a piece of paper and sketched the other two. Maybe if she stared at them long enough, inspiration would strike. Number fifteen looked like someone had placed four squares of diminishing sizes on top of each other. It didn't look like anything. Neither did number seventeen—two large diamonds surrounding two smaller ones. She decided to try Pix's method. Seventeen was a four-patch divided in half. She started to go through the books looking under four-patch designs and was making some progress—that is, she had eliminated a whole lot of squares—when she heard Ben's familiar "Mommee! Up!" Zoë was not far behind, and it sounded like an "I'm wet and hungry" cry.

Maybe one child was enough.

She changed the baby and decided to go back to her own cottage for the rest of the afternoon and left a note for Pix telling her to call and relating Faith's success with the square.

Walking back through the woods weighed down with Zoë on her hip, the tedious job of trying to keep Ben from straying too far afield, and the cares that refused to go to the back of her mind, Faith decided to take Tom's advice and spend the afternoon playing with the children outdoors. She knew if she got into the hammock, she'd be asleep in no time, so she spread a blanket on the grass and dumped blocks, cars, whatever she could find in the middle. Maybe later, when she had regained some energy and joie de vivre, she'd bake some cookies. Ben and Zoë could bang on the pots and lick spoons. But all she wanted to do now was collapse.

Pix arrived about four.

“I'm exhausted, and I didn't stop to eat anything, but I know I've come to the right place. Please feed me."

“My pleasure. We just finished making these oatmeal cookies, but I have the feeling you need something heartier.”

Pix picked up one of the crisp, lacy cookies and took a bite. "Ummm, delicious. I'd probably finish the plate.”

Faith was busy taking things out of the fridge and putting them in front of Pix: a salad of the tiny lentils from LePuy in vinaigrette, some tapenade, tomato slices, and hard-boiled eggs. She grabbed a loaf of bread, cut a few slices, poured two glasses of an '82 Minervois, deposited the children by the large clothes basket of toys she kept in the kitchen, and sat down to listen.

“Tom left after an hour or so," Pix said after a large mouthful of the salad and a gulp of wine. "Nobody could see Bill, but Sam had gotten hold of the lawyer from Blue Hill, and he arrived before we did and stayed with Bill the whole time. I'm glad Tom was there. The Fraziers are terriblyshaken, and he was able to comfort them. They came home the same time I did. We left messages for Bill, but there was nothing we could do. Oh, John appeared just about when Tom was leaving. He looked wild. His hair was even more on end than usual."

“I think he is an extremely angry man, certainly bitter. I had a very interesting conversation with him when I went to tell him about Bill. It turns out that the reason Eggleston left the ministry was a woman. And a parishioner at that. She got pregnant while they were seeing each other—not by him, he claims—and the congregation found it difficult to condone. He still wanted to marry her—why I can't imagine, since she was evidently traveling many garden paths at the same time—but he did; then she left him standing at the altar—not his own. He had to leave his church and now she's slapped a paternity suit on him."

“But there must be some sort of statute of limitations on these things! Did you believe him when he said he wasn't the father?"

“Yes. He seems so ruthlessly honest. Besides, he's quite confident he'll win the case, but he is worried about the costs. And the plot thickens. I saw the Edsons emerging from his drive. It's uncanny the way those two can nose out financial hardship. They were after his waterfront."

“I can imagine what he said, or even did."

“They didn't look pleased, but they did seem to be in one piece.”

Pix laughed. "They do look like one piece, joined at the seams.”

Faith had finished her wine. She took Zoë on her lap and Ben ran over to wiggle the baby's toes. "One piggy, two piggy, market."

“That boy is a genius," Pix commented.

Faith smiled. There were these moments.

“Eric left a note at the house inviting us for drinks in the gazebo. He's all moved in," Pix said, "but I'm too tired to go.”

Faith was tired too, but she wanted to see Eric after last night's contretemps at the dance. She'd told Pix about the tight, and she'd been inclined to dismiss it as too much Coors too fast. Faith hadn't told Pix about the bracelet. She wasn't altogether sure her friend Mrs. Miller could keep her mouth shut with Tom around, and she knew they would both worry.

“Come on, Pix, we'll just stay a little while, and it will be a good distraction. Heaven knows we need it."

“You don't usually say things like `heaven knows,' so you must have a reason for wanting me to come. But I want to be in my bed and asleep by eight.”

Faith wasn't sure she had heard correctly.

“Eight o'clock? That sounds obscene. I'm sure all that sleep can't be good for you."

“It is tonight," Pix answered.

“All right, I promise. Do you want to pick me up? And I almost forgot, can Samantha baby-sit?"

“Yes and yes.”

Faith had a momentary pang, followed swiftly by an unwelcome realization that utterance might lend validity to it. She bravely voiced it anyway.

“You don't think I'm asking Samantha and Arlene to watch the children too much, do you?"

“No, my dear, and you don't either. It is your vacation, though I must say it hasn't seemed like one. Besides, you're paying them very well for their labors, and I happen to know Arlene has opened an account at Bar Harbor Trust and all this is going toward college, so she's very pleased."

“College?"

“Yes, Arlene wants to be a biochemist."

“Still waters run deep. I'll see you later. I suppose we should wear our sprigged-lawn afternoon dresses or white muslins with the trim we tatted last winter?"

“Mine need airing, so I'm going for a denim skirt and that striped blouse you made me get. See you soon.”

The fog had started to roll in late in the day, and by the time they got to Eric's, it had stopped coming in wisps across the horizon and settled in a thick blanket that effectively obscured any dramatic sunset that might have glimpsed from the gazebo. Yet there was a cozy, mysterious quality to it.

They followed the red sun faintly piercing the fog as it slipped into the sea while they sipped some wine and nibbled the cheese straws Jill had made. She seemed very much the mistress of the house, and Faith, remembering Eric's words the night before, hoped she would be in name as well as deed soon. Eric appeared none the worse for wear, except for a large bruise on his left cheekbone. Neither Pix nor Faith said anything about it and studiously addressed their remarks to his good side.

“You two are so discreet," he said, laughing. "I really made an ass of myself last night. Faith can bear witness." He grabbed Jill around the waist. "That's what happens when I go anywhere alone.”

Seizing the opening, Faith hastened to ask, "What were you fighting about?"

“You name it. The house, the weather, politics, religion," he replied vaguely, and she had to be satisfied with the response, especially as Jill firmly proceeded to close the subject.

“I don't want to hear any more about it," she said. "Two grown men acting like children." She was angry herself. Bright-red spots rose on her cheeks. Faith was surprised at her intensity, then recalled that Jill, unlike the rest of them, was a true islander, and it must be embarrassing or worse to have the man she was in love with at odds with the Prescotts, a significant percentage of Sanpere's population.

Eric looked sheepish. "Tell us more about what's happening with Bill, Pix. Did you get to see him?"

“No, but he has a lawyer, James Lyman—a friend of Sam's from Blue Hill—who's been with him. When Jim leaves, he'll call Sam and we'll know more—whether Bill will be formally charged or not."

“What the hell are they doing wasting their time on Bill instead of finding out who really did this? It's typical of the way things run around here!" Eric exploded. "He's from away, so he's suspect!”

And they did find the murder weapon in his shed, Faith added mentally. It seemed Eric and Jill hadn't heard that the police had also found a drill and corks in Bill's shed, and she decided not to mention it if Pix didn't.

Pix didn't.

“I've known Bill since he came to the island," Jill said quietly. "It must have been twelve years ago. He was always a bit moody. There would be times when we wouldn't see him for a while. Usually it was when he was between books. When he was writing, he was engrossed but happy. I can't imagine that he would do something like this.”

But somebody had, and it was clear from the expression on each of their faces that that was what they were thinking. Pix stood up.

“This has been lovely, but I really have to go. I hope you'll excuse me, but I am so-o-o tired.”

Eric put his arm around her. "Of course you are, after the day you've had. But at least stay and have a bowl of chowder. You have to eat."

“Thank you, but I've been eating so many of these cheese tidbits, all I want is a cup of Sleepy Time tea and bed.”

Faith was a little worried. The words "unflagging,”

“indefatigable,”

“robust," had all been coined for Pix. "Tired" was something that happened to other people.

“I know what you mean," Jill said. "I'm tired too. Not my body. That can keep going on automatic pilot, but I find myself wanting to sleep so I don't have to think.”

Faith was relieved. Of course that was it. The engine was fine; it had just been flooded.

“We'll have a grand dinner party Labor Day weekend, an end-of-summer party," Eric offered. "Cocktails out here, then we'll retire to the dining room, which should be finished by then."

“Eric is stenciling a frieze around the walls," Jill explained. "Kind of a cross between William Morris and Peter Max."

“Sounds interesting," Faith said.

“Take a peek before you go," Eric urged.

Faith looked at Pix.

“One peek," Pix said, and they started to walk toward the house."Did you grow up in an old house?" Faith asked Eric.

“Anything but. It was a trailer that my father set on concrete blocks and later enclosed in siding. Then when my parents split up, I lived with my mother in an apartment in Houston. But by then I was a teenager and on my way out.”

And up, Faith thought. No wonder he loved the Prescott house so much. It was still the Prescott place, and even when Eric was ninety, it would be known as such. She wondered what he thought of that.

“And where did you live?" Faith turned to Jill. "I know you grew up here, but which part of the island?"

“I'll show you sometime. A relative of mine still lives there. It's a tiny old farmhouse on the shore near the causeway. It faces the Reach. I'll always miss living there. It seemed perfect when I was growing up. This house"—she gestured toward Harbor View, draped in fog and looming larger than life with nothing visible nearby for comparison—"this was like a mansion to us, although the Prescotts weren't snobbish. We just never had much occasion to come here.”

Not exactly on the trick-or-treat circuit. Somehow Faith couldn't see the Matilda she'd heard about dropping Hershey bars into small outstretched hands.

They walked into the dining room and Eric switched on the lights. He had done a great deal in a short time. The walls were painted a warm coral, and across the top stylized Morris leaves and berries in gold joined turquoise geometries. Words in deep green, some in gothic script, some in block letters, ran across the bottom.

“What does it say?" Faith asked. She stood and looked up at the wall and read aloud. " `Here too in Maine things bend to the wind forever.' That's very beautiful."

“It's Robert Lowell's ‘Soft Wood,' a favorite of Roger's and mine. It seemed to suit the house and Matilda too. It was written for Harriet Winslow, Lowell's older cousin who lived in Castine, not too far from here.”

Faith was deciphering other lines. She liked the sound of "illimitable salt" and decided to look for the poem in the little Sanpere library.

Eric had purchased an Eastlake dining-room set from a dealer in Northeast Harbor, and it looked perfect against the color of the walls. She walked slowly around the room, reading the poem, then stopped abruptly. Over the lintel, by accident or design, two lines stood alone: "This is the season/ when our friends may and will die daily.”

The phone rang. Eric excused himself. He was back quickly, ashen faced and the words spilled out. "That was Louise. Bill Fox has killed himself.”

For the first time in her life, Faith passed out.

9

Whenever Faith recalled that juxtaposition of reading Low-ell's lines and Bill Fox's death, she thought she understood what the phrase "a clashing of the spheres" meant. It was as if two universes had collided, the written and the real—with Faith caught in the middle, one foot resting unsteadily in each.

She didn't believe in portents, but for an instant it seemed the words had killed him, stabbing him with the sharp strokes of painted prophecy.

But he hadn't used a knife. He would not have been allowed that. What he had been permitted was paper, a pencil, and a lamp. Young Officer Gibson, who was on duty, saw no reason to deny his request. Gibson had heard the guy wrote books and figured he probably wanted to work or write to somebody.

Bill did write—a long, incoherent letter addressed to the Fraziers in which he confessed to the crime: "My princess is dead and the guilt is mine." Then he stripped off the end of the lamp cord, wrapped one wire around each leg, plugged the other end into the wall outlet, and electrocuted himself. It was a swift death. They found him, lifeless on the floor, when they came to bring his dinner.

If it had not been that way, it would have been another.

The fog was even thicker on Monday morning than it had been the night before. Faith looked out the window, and only the fact that she had two importunate children to care for kept her from crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her head for a long, long time. She felt numb as she dressed, fed, and even smiled at Zoë and Ben. It was an outof-body experience.

Pix had called. She was on her way to the Fraziers' and Samantha was in her room. Bill had been her idol. She had a complete set of his books, all personally inscribed. She had told her mother there was no way she would ever believe he was a murderer.

Faith was inclined to agree. An ambiguous suicide note written in the throes of intense grief did not exactly amount to an ironclad confession. But if not Bill, who? Andy, her favorite choice for a suspect, was apparently being ruled out. He had been on the boat raided by the antismuggling task force. But the boat was wandering around the islands close to Sanpere. How hard would it have been for him to put ashore? Andy had stated to the police that Bird never intended to marry Bill, that she was in fact at their cabin because she was coming back to Andy—had never really left. He reportedly regarded Bill as a demented old man. But it was his word against Bill's, and now Bill wasn't around to speak for himself. Nor was Bird. Or Roger. Faith felt an instant of panic. Death shrouded the community like the fog lying thickly in the cove.

Bill's mother and brother were flying to the island to take Bill home. He would be buried next to his father in the family plot in a small cemetery near their North Carolina farm. He'd been from away. Like Bird and like Roger. Could there be a connection there?

Faith slogged through the morning and planned on a nap when the children took theirs. She had tucked them in—marveling at the quirkiness of fate that for once had smiled, sending Zoë and Ben to sleep at almost precisely the same moment—and stretched out on her own bed. She was drifting off to sleep when she heard a car drive up.

She ran to the front hall window and looked out. It was too foggy to see the plates, but she could see the driver as he approached the house—a large man about sixty with thickwhite hair. He was alone. He stood on the porch uncertainly, then knocked and called out, "Is anybody home?”

Faith went downstairs and opened the door. As soon as she saw his face, any fears she had quickly vanished. It was a kind face and a tired-looking one. It was also slightly familiar. She knew immediately who he was, and a wave of contradictory emotions swept over her.

“Mrs. Fairchild? I am George Warner, Bird's father. I've come for my granddaughter.”

So, Faith realized, Andy had known Bird's real name and where she came from. "Please come in and sit down. Zoë is taking a nap. We can wake her, but perhaps you'd like to have a cup of coffee and wait. She won't sleep much longer."

“Oh, I don't want to wake her, and a cup of coffee would be wonderful. I drove straight from the airport to the police and then couldn't wait to see her."

“That you can do right away. She won't wake up, and neither will Ben—that's my little boy. They're in his room.”

She led him up the stairs and stood to one side as he looked down at the tiny child asleep in the cradle. He turned to leave and there were tears streaming down his face. In the hallway he said to her, choking on the words, "She looks just like her mother."

“Please, come down and sit in the kitchen while I make some coffee. And I'm sure you must be hungry too." Faith always assumed people were hungry. Especially in times of crisis.

“That would be very kind.”

He sat at the kitchen table in silence and watched Faith as she heated up some scallop bisque. She set a steaming bowl in front of him and quickly spread some thick slices of bread with cheese to run under the broiler. He ate swiftly, and it was not until she had paced a cup of coffee in front of him and sat down herself that he began to talk.

“Her real name was Laura Sue. She never liked it. We took both grandmothers' names." He paused. "Did you know Bird well?"

“No, I'm sorry, I didn't. We have been staying here only since the beginning of the month. I've seen her. She used to gather seaweed on the beach in front of the cottage, but we never actually spoke." Faith did not feel it was necessary to describe the scene in the cemetery or remind Mr. Warner that she had found the body. Perhaps he didn't know.

“We lost her mother when Bird was twelve. Cancer. It was pretty rough on Bird. They had been so close. Rough on me too, but I was more used to death. My parents, a brother. For Bird it was like the world had come to an end. She had always been a little different from the other kids. Always reading books.”

Probably Bill's, Faith thought. This view of Bird's childhood was different from what she had imagined. Lonely. Somehow the self-assurance her beauty had projected had never suggested that.

“She used to hang around with the older kids at school. That's how she knew Roger."

“Knew Roger? You mean Roger Barnett?" Faith was astonished.

Bird's father nodded. "Oh yes, he's from Blakesburg too. Iowa born and bred. Known his family all my life."

“But Roger would have been quite a bit older than Bird," Faith said.

“Only five years. She and Roger were always close. I'd say like brother and sister, and maybe it was for Roger, but not for my daughter. She never looked at any of the boys in her class. If she went to a dance, it was with Roger or not at all. When he went away to college, she was very unhappy. He'd come home from time to time, but it wasn't the same. Then there was a while when his mother didn't know where he was. They'd quarreled. Bird left soon after that.”

He picked up one of the crusty slices of bread. His hands were covered with age spots, which stood out against his smooth, untanned skin. Whatever he had done with his life, it hadn't been outdoors. He broke the bread in half with studied care. Faith was torn between wanting him to eat and needing to hear the story.

“I came home and there was a note on the table. Said she had to get away. Find herself. That sort of thing. I guess I wasn't too surprised. There wasn't much in the town for her.

I knew if I tried to go after her, she'd just leave again, so I waited. I didn't want to lose her.”

Did that first step lead to this end? Faith wondered. Oh, why didn't Laura Sue stay at home, get married, and start a health food store! Was she looking for Roger?

“She'd phone every once in a while so I'd know she was all right, and she'd send funny postcards. They came from all over. She started calling herself Bird after living with some people in New Mexico. `I feel free as a bird, Daddy,' she said, so Bird it was.

“Did you know she was going to have a baby? The police told me." His eyes filled, and he stopped speaking. Faith poured some hot coffee into his cup.

“I don't know why she didn't tell me—or about Zoë either. Maybe she was planning on surprising me, turning up with two babies. I'd never pushed her to come back to visit, but she always said she would. She knew how much I wanted to see her.”

Would she have come if he had asked, sent her a ticket? Faith was sure money was never plentiful for Bird. But her father must have been afraid she would stop getting in touch if he made any demands. Maybe he had been right.

“I knew she was in Maine, because I got a postcard with a sea gull on it. It had been mailed from Camden. I looked it up on the map. I always did that. I knew Roger lived in Maine. His mother told me, and I planned to tell Bird the next time she called. But I never got another call." He broke down completely at this point and, putting his face in his hands, sobbed uncontrollably. Faith got a box of tissues from the bathroom and stood with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. There was nothing she could say. All those years of longing and separation. It was the saddest story she'd ever heard. Why did people have children anyway? If Ben had any ideas of cutting out when he was seventeen, he could just forget it right now.

Mr. Warner lifted his head, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. "I feel so foolish. Please forgive me. Since I got the news I don't seem to be able to stop."

“Please, don't apologize. This has been such a shock for you."

“I have to see the police again. I've made plans to leave tomorrow morning. I want to take Bird home. She'll be next to her mother.”

A tiny cry drifted down to the kitchen. Faith smiled. "That's Zoë. She's a slow waker.”

They went upstairs, and Mr. Warner took his granddaughter in his arms. She stopped crying immediately and burrowed down against his suit jacket with obvious pleasure.

“She's a sweetheart," Faith told him. "Your daughter must have been a very fine mother. Zoë has such a lovely disposition. We're going to miss her.”

Mr. Warner was gently stroking Zoë's cheek. "Don't worry about her. I come from a big family, and she has more relatives than she'll know what to do with and they're all standing ready to give me all the advice I want and some I don't."

“What about tonight? Would you like to leave her here? You could stay too. There's plenty of room," Faith offered.

“Thank you for offering, but I think we'll stay at the Holiday Inn. I already ordered a crib, and it's nearer the police and the airport. I stopped at the Shop and Save on my way down, and the car is loaded with everything from diapers to toys, so we'll be fine.”

Faith took Zoë and changed her, then put on a warm sleeper. Arlene had appeared on Saturday with a bag of baby clothes from her mother's stockpile. Faith added a sweater and handed the little girl over to Mr. Warner. Ben had been running around waving toys at her. When they got to the front door and it became apparent that this big man was taking Zoë away, Ben started to howl. Faith felt much the same way.

Mr. Warner looked upset.

“Don't worry, he'll be fine," Faith assured him.

He managed a smile. "How can I thank you for all you've done, Mrs. Fairchild?”

He looked out toward the cove. From there it wasn't possible to see the water, but the sound of the steady pulse of the waves was plain. "I don't know why she came to Maine.

Bird hated cold weather and she never liked to be near the water. I couldn't even get her to learn to swim when she was a kid. She probably never did learn." He gazed into the fog again.

Faith gave Zoë a last kiss and picked up Ben, who had attached himself to her leg like a suction cup and was still crying. Mr. Warner shook her hand awkwardly, both of them encumbered. "We'll be in touch. I'll let you know how things are."

“That would be nice," Faith answered. She knew she would never hear from him again. She waved good-bye and bundled Ben back into the house for an intensive dose of quality time. He wasn't fooled and cried off and on for an hour for the baby to come back. Faith was exhausted and it was only two o'clock. It always seemed to be only two o'clock when she felt this way.

She dug out some homemade playdough and installed Ben at the kitchen table with a garlic press and a small rolling pin. Soon he was happily making "sketties" and she was thinking of food too. She had a few quarts of fresh tomatoes, and she ought to make sauce before they went bad.

She had just finished seeding and skinning them when Pix called.

“Are you feeling as out of sorts as I am? Whenever I think about Bill, I sit and cry. The poor Fraziers have completely broken down. Their daughter and her husband arrived from Boston, and I left them to it."

“My news is not going to make you—or the two nannies—feel any better. Bird's father just left with Zoë."

“Oh no! I was beginning to think you would keep her!"

“Maybe I was too. It was quite a wrench to see her go, but Mr. Warner is a lovely man and he was so happy to have her. He didn't even know he was a grandfather. You should have seen him, Pix—he was grieving terribly for Bird. She'll never be back, but he has a part of her in Zoë."

“Bill and Bird gave her an appropriate name."

“Yes, and by the way, Bird's real name was Laura Sue. I don't blame her for changing. It sounds as though `Tips for Teens' or ‘Original Recipe Brownies' should follow, but I would have picked something with fewer comedic possibilities to replace it."

“Like what?"

“Oh, I don't know. Portia or Deirdre. Something, anything."

“I disagree. Bird was Bird. It suited her."

“That's only because you were used to it being her name, and is this conversation going anywhere or are we just bored?"

“Just bored." Pix agreed.

“Well, I'm going to finish my spaghetti sauce, then read a million stories to Ben. It's too foggy to take a walk. We'd tumble into the sea. But if it lifts later, we'll come your way if that's all right."

“Of course. And just be happy you don't live on Whitehead Island. It's the foggiest place in Maine. They have eleven weeks of it a year."

“How many do we have?" Faith was slightly startled by her own use of "we." Had she said good-bye to the Hamptons and civilized life as she knew it forever? She hoped not.

“About five weeks—and sometimes all in a row, or it seems that way."

“Don't worry, it will lift before Hope and Quentin arrive. There isn't a fog that creeps on little cat or any other feet that would dare to obscure their well-regulated horizons.”

Pix laughed again. "While you're creating culinary masterpieces, I'll go to work on the quilt. We've got to find out what those last two squares are."

“Call me if you have any luck. It would be fun to take Hope and Quentin on a treasure hunt when they arrive on Wednesday. And Quentin could probably figure out how to write the whole thing off as a tax loss. I think that's what he does, although I've never been too certain. One of those legally illegal things anyway."

“Good cooking, Faith."

“Good hunting, Pix. Oh wait! I must be losing my mind. I almost forgot to tell you the rest about Bird! She and Roger were from the same town in Iowa. They grew up together and, from the sound of it, Bird had been in love with himsince she was a little girl. And the police told Mr. Warner that she was pregnant at the time of her death."

“By Roger, do you think? Oh, Faith, it just gets sadder and sadder."

“I know. Roger does seem the likeliest—or it could have been Andy? Her father didn't say how far along she was."

“This is almost too much to take in. Do you think Bill knew?"

“There are lots of things I'm afraid we're never going to know and that's one."

“Well, I'll try to find these squares and at least we'll know something. Talk to you later."

“Okay, good-bye.”

Faith hung up and turned back to her tomatoes. She decided to give Pix some of the sauce. The Millers definitely needed some real food. The quilt photos were being hidden in a half-empty can of bread crumbs with Italian seasoning. Pix had told Faith she used this convenience all the time and that they were particularly good on chicken. Faith had asked Pix if she ever thought about where those bread crumbs had been. She used the same tone her mother employed years ago when Faith picked up a penny from a New York City sidewalk. It was impossible to be too stern about fresh bread crumbs.

The fog did not lift, and as the afternoon wore on, Faith began to feel suffocated by it. She was tempted to jump in the car and drive to the Millers', but it would take too much energy. Besides, once there she'd have to come back again. Her sauce was made and she was contemplating an early dinner, long bath, and bed—Benjamin permitting—when the phone rang. It was Pix again. A very excited Pix.

“I've got number fifteen! It's White House Steps and that's got to be it. Somewhere on that road there must be a white house, and the treasure is under the steps!"

“Pix, that's fantastic! If only the fog would lift, we could go hunt! But if the treasure was under the steps, why would Matilda put all those other squares after it?”

Pix sighed. "You're right. I didn't think of that. I was so excited to have found it. But it must be another directional clue. Starting from the steps you look for some fern berries, then number seventeen and a shady pine. If we could find the steps, we could look for large pines. It must be buried under one of them."

“Let's go back to Prescott Point first thing in the morning," Faith proposed. "But now I have to finish reading The Three Little Pigs to Ben. I don't know why he likes it so much. I've always thought it was such a prissy book. And what do you suppose would have happened if the wolf had gone to the third little pig's house first? Before he was finished with all his brickwork? He'd have been singing a different tune."

“You've been cooped up too long, Faith. See you in the morning.”

Faith hung up and felt happier than she had in days. At least one mystery was becoming clearer.

The weather was not, however. When she awoke the next morning, the fog was thicker, if that was possible. She called Pix and they commiserated, resolving to go exploring the moment it lifted.

“It'll burn off," Pix promised.

Faith, thinking of those five weeks, was less sanguine. "How much fog has there been to date? Maybe we can approach this scientifically."

“There's nothing scientific about fog and I prefer to trust Arlene. When she called Samantha this morning, she told her it would burn off by tomorrow, so no doubt it will.”

Faith faced another long, housebound day squarely in the face and found it wanting. She decided to get ahead in cooking some treats for Hope and Quentin; then even if she had to bring a stick to feel her way, she'd take Ben to the Millers', one step at a time.

The morning passed quickly, and after making more bread and a large Basque salad with shrimp, sausage, prosciutto, peppers, onions, and rice for Quentin and Hope's arrival, she called Pix to tell her she was bringing lunch. Pix, who had stoutly averred she welcomed a few foggy days, agreed with more than a suggestion of cabin fever in her voice.

Faith took the path through the woods. It was quite clearin patches, impenetrable in others. Ben ran ahead, undeterred by frequent falls over tree roots and happily scaling small stones. He was chanting to himself, "See Samantha, Ben see Samantha," until it all ran together like a name from The Arabian Nights.

Pix and Samantha welcomed them eagerly. The quilt books and magazines were strewn about the living room, and they had been ardently pursuing square number seventeen. They seemed happy for a break. Samantha took charge of Ben with an obvious display of bliss on both their parts—Ben's perhaps a bit more obvious since he jumped up and down and whooped.

“Why don't you stop and have lunch?" Faith suggested. "We won't fuss. I'll just put everything on the table. It's fresh curried pea soup—appropriate for a pea souper—and there's plenty to go with it. This weather has given me an enormous appetite. All I've done is eat.”

She went into the kitchen and unpacked her basket. A moment later Pix was shaken from a last contemplation of four-patches by a shriek from the kitchen.

“Damn! I forgot to bring the bread." Faith emerged and grabbed her sweater. "I'll have to go back. It won't take me long without Ben. Keep an eye on the soup and make sure it doesn't boil."

“Why don't you take my car?"

“No, thanks. I'd rather feel terra firma directly under my feet. I'd be liable to end up making a left turn into the cove or something. The kids can start on the soup if they get hungry. You too.”

And she ran out the front door. She was annoyed with herself. She didn't usually forget things, especially anything to do with food. Could it be the first harrowing harbinger of her dotage? She hurried on purposefully. Halfway back to her cottage she slowed down and began to appreciate the sensation of walking through the dense fog. Sound seemed magnified. She could hear an occasional bird's cry and the rustle of the light wind through the leaves and brush. The tide was out and there was no noise from the sea. It was very quiet.

Until she heard footsteps behind her.

At first she thought she must be mistaken, that it was an animal scurrying about. But these were slow and deliberate steps. A branch cracked when he or she stepped on it. Whoever it was couldn't be far behind.

“Hello?" she called, and the steps stopped abruptly. She kept walking, increasing her pace. She decided not to call out again. It couldn't be Pix or Samantha, and who else would be coming from the direction of the Millers' cottage? It could be a clammer, but why would he be so far away from shore?

She must have imagined it, she told herself. Then the footsteps started again, faint and faintly closer.

“Who's there? Who are you?" She tried to inject irritation into her voice and keep the mounting fear out.

There was no reply. Absolute and total silence.

She walked on hurriedly and realized that she was now very frightened. Bird had been murdered not too far away or too long ago, and she had no intention of joining her. She started to run and tripped, falling flat on her face. She had cut her cheek on something sharp and started to cry out in pain. She scrambled to her feet and realized there was no way she could get away quickly. And where could she go?

There was only one thing to do. Climb a tree.

She crept as noiselessly as she could off the path and looked for the nearest tall spruce. A gigantic one rose out of the fog. She couldn't even see the top as she started up. The inner branches were like the rungs of a ladder, and she began to make headway slowly. She didn't dare to climb fast for fear of the noise the branches made as parts snapped off. She didn't hear anything below. Her pursuer had paused—or gone away. Twigs caught in her hair, and she was forced to take her sweater off when it caught in the needles. Her cheek was throbbing, and when she touched it she could see the blood on her palm. Fresh red blood. Not like Bird's had been when Faith found her, but like Bird's had been once. Without her sweater Faith was cold, and what she was thinking chilled her more than the cool air about her. She was shivering.

At last she was high up in the tree, clinging to the trunk and trying to keep her full weight from the fragile branch on which she stood.

She looked down. She couldn't see a thing.

And no one could see her.

Tears filled her eyes and her arms were already aching. She was afraid she was in for a long stay. She wanted to scream, but screaming was the last thing she should do. She clamped a hand over her mouth for a second to steady herself.

After what seemed like hours, she heard the footsteps again. He or she had not gone away. The steps came close to the tree and stopped. Then walked on. Then returned again. Softly, slowly, deliberately.

Whoever it was was not just passing by. He was looking for someone. Looking for Faith.

After several more forays the stalker moved down to the beach; filled with dread, Faith heard the footsteps squish into the sand. Her heart was beating fast and she felt sick. There was no way her hiding place could be discovered unless the fog lifted or blew away from the tree. Dread kept its steady grip on her. Please stay by the shore. Don't come back, she prayed.

The steps continued their slow, deliberate quest—systematically covering the beach. The sound echoed obscenely in her ears—squish, squash. Then the noise stopped. The hull of a boat scraped across the sand and rocks as it was pushed into the water; then came the steady lapping of oars. He or she was gone. Weak from relief, she started to climb down.

She had loosened her grip and put one foot on the next branch before she realized she was doing exactly what her pursuer wanted. What was to prevent the stalker from landing in another spot and waiting for her at the cottage, or along the path? She clung to the tree again and prepared to wait. Surely Pix would begin to worry.

She was so cold. She tried to concentrate on other things to keep her mind off the rapid loss of feeling in her fingers and toes. The fog felt like a blanket of snow on her bare arms. She cautiously loosened her grip to rub her left arm with her right. It helped a bit. She could catch glimpses of her sweater stuck several branches below when the fog moved. It had been a birthday present from Tom—a bulky Stewart Ross cardigan. She practically lived in it. Should she try to get it and climb back up? Lived in it, lived in it—the phrase had a reassuring sound as she repeated it to herself. She was safe so long as she didn't move. She would still live in it. Just don't move. She closed her eyes. She had no fear of falling asleep in her precarious position. She just wanted to get away for a moment.

There was no sound, except the sounds of the sea and forest. Nothing to threaten her, but nothing to save her either. Pix must have assumed Faith had gotten a phone call or held up some other way. But by now surely even unsuspicious Pix would have begun to wonder and come after her.

Faith leaned her uninjured cheek against the trunk of the tree, gave her arms a good rub, and settled down to wait. But it wasn't Pix who rescued her.

“Mrs. Fairchild? Mrs. Fairchild? Are you all right? Faith? Where are you?" It was Nan Hamilton, and never had a voice sounded so welcome.

“I'm up here—in a tree.”

If Nan thought that was odd, her voice did not betray it. "Well, deah, just keep talkin', and I'll follow your voice. We were afraid you were hurt in the fog.”

Faith shuddered as she started to climb down, thinking of what Nan might have stumbled across if it hadn't been for the pine.

“Can you tell where I am?" she said loudly, and kept talking. "Someone was following me and wouldn't answer when I called out, so I climbed a tree until they went away.”

Nan was close enough for Faith to see her now.

“Now I call that real smart," she said, and much to Faith's surprise folded her in an ample hug. "We'd better keep going to your house and call Pix. She was in quite a dither. Why, you're about frozen! Put this on and let's get you home." Nan wrapped Faith in a huge sweater that smelled pleasantly of pancakes, wood smoke, and balsam. She hadn't forgotten to retrieve her own sweater in her climb down, and she flung that on too. She was still cold.

Faith felt so relieved to be both alive and out of the tree that it didn't occur to her to ask what Nan was doing at the Millers' until they got to porch. The door was shut, and if someone was waiting for them inside, he'd have to deal with both of them. It was a reassuring idea.

Nan spoke before Faith could ask.

“I came over here to give you some mushrooms I'd dried. Thought you might be a little restless with all the fog. I saw the car and knew you couldn't be far away, so I went over to Pix's. She was just starting to get nervous and about to call Earl, but I said I'd take a look."

“I hope you don't think I've imagined the whole thing," Faith told her, beginning to feel as if she might have.

“No, deah, I don't think you've dreamed it all up. Wish you had." She looked solemn. "I can't remember a time when the island has been like this. Everybody looking at everybody else like they don't know who they are. And you've got a nasty cut we'd better wash." Faith stood still while Nan gently bathed her cut. She was feeling like a five-year-old about to get a cookie after skinning a knee. It was a lovely feeling.

She went into the kitchen and picked up the offending loaves lying all ready on the counter.

“Why don't you come back to Pix's and have a late lunch with us?" Faith didn't want Nan to leave yet.

“I think I will, thank you. Nothing but Freeman at home, and all he wants to do in weather like this is mend his traps and sleep. Not terrible interestin' for me.”

They took the car. There was no way Faith was going back into the woods except in the clear light of day, and maybe not even then.

Pix rushed out of the house. "Oh, Faith, thank God you're all right! You can't imagine what was going through my mind!”

Faith could and had.

Over lunch the three women speculated on who could possibly have been following Faith and why. After a quick exchange of glances and a slight nod toward the quilting books, they told Nan about Matilda's quilt and the map.

“It sounds like her. Mind you, she was a friend. Maybe because we weren't related and she couldn't boss me around. But she had a peculiar streak in her. Like leaving the house to those two boys. That was just orneriness. Same thing with the gold. If she had it, she should have given it td her nieces and nephews. Fine people, most of them, and they work hard for a living, every day. Would have been pretty glad of some extra money.”

Faith tried not to picture the gold this way—a Prescott legacy. She pushed the image back toward her id and away from her usually high-minded super-ego.

Nan had stopped talking and appeared to be lost in thought. "I don't know who was following you, Faith, but I have a hunch if you find the gold or whatever it is Matilda hid, you'll be a lot safer."

“My sentiments exactly," agreed Pix. "You know the island so well, Nan. Why don't you have a look at the squares and see what you make of them?" She went to the closet and took down the bread crumbs. Fortunately she had taken the precaution of wrapping the photos in a Baggie, so Faith did not have to touch the crumbs. They spread them out on the table. Pix had labeled each one, and they told Nan how they had followed the map as indicated by the squares.

“She was a very smart woman," Nan commented admiringly. "But I didn't know she was this smart. She was spry until a few years ago, so she must have had a lot of fun running around the island and figuring out her clues.”

She paused at number seventeen. "Why doesn't Rail Fence have a name to it?"

“Oh! You're wonderful! We couldn't find it," Pix exclaimed.

Nan pointed a finger at number fourteen. "I've never seen a Jacob's Ladder like this one, but they are different in other parts of the country."

“But Matilda would have used one she was familiar with. Oh, Pix, you don't think we've been wrong about these!" Faith turned a stricken face toward her friend. She had felt they were virtually at the end of their quest.

“Maybe Jacob's Ladder, but not the others. The names have fit the clues. And anyway, we know white House steps That's the most important part, and I'm sure about it. Nan, can you think of a white house on that part of Prescott Point?"

“I know the very house she's thinking of. Only it's not there anymore.”

Pix and Faith looked at each other, crestfallen.

“Which house was it? Did it burn or was it moved?" Pix asked. Houses were moved routinely on the island as fortunes rose and fell.

“Neither. It just fell down and most of the lumber got hauled away. Belonged to Clifford Prescott. It wasn't even a white house. It was gray, but it got that nickname in the forties. FDR was yachtin' up here and they hailed Clifford when he was out lobsterin'. Wanted to buy eighty pounds of lobster. Clifford was a friendly sort, and he got to chatting with them and gave the President some special lobsters as a gift and got a thank-you note from The White House. He was right proud of that letter. Had it framed on the wall. That was when people started calling Clifford's house the Prescott White House. He loved the joke, and Matilda must have too."

“That's a great story," Faith said. She was in the mood for a cheerful story or two.

“If the house caved in, it's possible that the steps are still there." Pix was thinking out loud.

“Of course," Faith agreed eagerly. Nan looked a bit wary.

“Just be careful," she said. "Now I'd better get home or Freeman will try to make his own supper, and there's no tellin' what the mess will be like." She looked at Faith. "I hear you don't think much of island cookin'. You have to come over and have a meal with us sometime. I'm not a bad cook, if I do say so. The two best cooks on the island are two sisters. Had a restaurant in their old farmhouse. You may remember it, Pix, South Beach Farm? It was too popular and they got worn out, had to close. But that was some good.”

Faith blushed. Had her distaste at the casserole supper been so obvious? She remembered all the good smells in Nan's kitchen and didn't doubt her expertise.

“A lot of the food at the supper we went to was delicious—the baked beans, the biscuits, and the desserts. I don't care much for casseroles," Faith said apologetically. "I hope you don't think I don't appreciate the island."

“Well," Nan admitted, "some of those casseroles the girls got from magazine recipes, and I never did lean that way myself.”

She turned at the door. "By the way, those were Freeman's beans.”

Nan left, and Faith decided to spend the night. The idea of going back to the cottage alone was both terrifying and exhausting.

After supper they put Ben to bed, popped some corn, and played Trivial Pursuit, to Samantha's infinite delight. Faith reminded her that this was a once-in-a-blue-moon occasion and she would always detest all forms of board games. She also enjoined her to secrecy. If Tom discovered she had played Trivial Pursuit, then backgammon, Othello, parcheesi, Chutes and Ladders, whatever, would not be far behind. It was pleasant to sit and be beaten, basking in the ordinariness of the situation, but when she climbed into bed at last, she was aware that her arms still ached from being treed, her cheek was sore, and she was still afraid. Pix had suggested reporting it to Earl, but Faith wanted to forget the whole thing. She wasn't going to be alone anymore and she'd be leaving soon. She wasn't sure if she was happy or not at the prospect. So many loose ends remained, but today's intimate experience with a spruce had given her a longing for impersonal sidewalks and forests of skyscrapers of her childhood.

When Ben came in and jumped on her bed the next morning, thrilled with the novelty of sleeping in a different house, Faith noticed at once that the fog, as predicted, had gone wherever it goes. It was a perfect Maine day.

She got up and dressed hurriedly. She wanted to look for the White House steps, and she had a lot to do to get ready for Hope and Quentin. They had said late afternoon, but that could mean virtually anytime between two o'clock and midnight.

After bolting breakfast, Pix and Faith climbed into the Woody and set off on the trail. They drove straight to the area of Prescott Point where they had been on Saturday. Afterdriving up and down the road searching fruitlessly, they finally admitted there was no indication of where the road to the White House was, or had been. Nothing suggested Jacob's Ladder either and they agreed the square could have been mistakenly identified.

They'd have to get in touch with Nan to find the old road and since she didn't have a phone, that meant going to her house. Pix volunteered to do it while Faith went back to the cottage. It was impossible to feel apprehensive with such a blue sky.

As Faith was dropping her off and fetching her son, she took a deliberately cheerful view. "The Hamiltons are bound to know where the road is, and it won't take me too long to get things in order. Quentin can always remake the bed if my hospital corners aren't taut enough. Call me and we can resume the search. Ben shouldn't be a problem." Samantha was with Arlene for a joyful reunion after their fog-induced separation.

“Don't worry, I'll call the moment I have any news. Oh Faith, isn't this exciting! Even if it's not the gold, we've solved the puzzle.”

Pix phoned a half hour later. "Nobody's home! I'm so disappointed. I'll go back in an hour or so and keep checking until I find them. They can't have gone far. Freeman says the last time he went off island was in 1979. Hasn't needed to since. Nan does go up to Ellsworth to shop occasionally."

“Well, let's hope she didn't go today. Talk to you later.”

It was almost four o'clock when Pix called again. "Still nobody home!" she cried. "Should I wait until tomorrow?"

“Why don't you try once more at dinnertime, island dinnertime that is? And maybe by then Hope and Quentin will be here and can help us hunt."

“All right, I'll let you know one way or the other.”

At five o'clock Hope and Quentin pulled up to the cottage in the Jeep Cherokee they had rented. Faith grabbed Ben and rushed out to meet them. Hope was getting out of the car in one swift motion. It was the way she did most things. Like her mother. They didn't look the same, but they moved the same way. Women who knew where they were going.

Faith hugged her sister warmly and turned her cheek to Quentin. It wasn't an air kiss, but it wasn't a big smacker either and that pretty much summed Quentin up. Nothing in excess. He and Hope looked as if they had just stepped out of the J. Crew catalogue. Faith knew for certain that everything Hope was wearing was brand-new, but it could just as well have been sailing in Newport for years. And Quentin's jacket was either an old favorite of his father's handed down or the equivalent at a price. Dressed for the part, they were delighted to be there.

“We've been having such fun, Fay. Maine is wonderful!”

“But the last few days were a bit foggy, don't you think?" Hope and Quentin looked at each other in astonishment. "Foggy? They've been the best of our trip. We were out sailing all day yesterday and the sun never stopped shining." Of course.

“Are you hungry? Why don't we go in and get something to drink and sit on the porch? I have a nice 1987 Bertani Catullo white chilling and some tidbits to go with it," Faith proposed.

“I'm sure you do. We stopped for clams at Beal's, but I can eat again. How about you, honey?" Quentin said. He was very appreciative of Hope's sister's talents. Hope herself had firmly told him her own culinary expertise involved knowing which number to dial.

“We have been eating like pigs. Lobster, clams, all those biscuits and pies, but it's vacation, so lead me to the trough." She was on a permanent diet. The Sibley side of Faith and Hope's family were tall and also had what was referred to kindly as "big bones." Hope's skin had been stretched tightly, but not too tightly, over those bones so far, and with her dark hair and deep-green eyes—the only ones in the family, to Faith's chagrin-the hearts Hope Sibley did not cause to quicken in fear over her business acumen quickened for more pleasurable reasons. Quentin was tall too, although less exotic in appearance: light brown hair, brown eyes. Just your average, run of the mill, good-looking-enough-for-any-adcampaign-from-Dior-to-Dewars kind of guy. They made a nice couple.

They settled onto the porch and took turns retrieving Benjamin from trying to climb onto the Jeep's hood. He had settled into car worship and Faith had to keep her car locked at all times after once discovering him at the wheel, steering away and screeching in imitation of squealing tires.

Quentin seemed to find it all very amusing, and Faith and Hope exchanged looks of relief. Quentin did not have a great deal of experience with children. None, in fact, and viewed the whole notion of parenthood with fear and loathing. There was no question of avoidance, he had told Faith once as she was cleaning spit up off his linen suit in Ben's earlier days. The line must continue, but preferably out of sight with a good nanny. Hope felt almost the same way, with moments of thaw when Ben was particularly winsome.

Faith raised an eyebrow in inquiry and glanced in the direction of her sister's ring finger. Hope shook her head slightly. She didn't seem worried about when and if Quentin. would pop the question. He could do no wrong.

They began to eat the gravlax Faith had made with the salmon from Sonny Prescott and dill from the Millers' garden. There was dark-brown bread to go with it, and Faith had heated up some tiny chèvre tarts, in case anyone was still hungry.

“Delicious! And we certainly wouldn't need dinner after all this." Hope leaned back against Quentin, sitting on the stair above.

“Speak for yourself. I always need Faith's dinners," he protested.

“Me too," Faith said. "Besides, we'll eat later, after Ben is in bed. Anyway, it's a simple meal, a bourride, some salad—”

Hope sat up. "And now, sister dear," she said, fixing Faith with that gimlet eye usually employed in sizing up a building, or individual, in her capacity as a real estate appraiser for Citibank, "tell all, and I do mean all—not the edited-for-Mother-and-Father version.”

Faith had sandwiched a brief mention of finding Roger's body between glorious descriptions of the flora and fauna of the Maine coast in a letter to her parents. After finding Bird's body, she had decided not to say anything more and confined herself to postcards of lighthouses and sunsets with brief messages about the weather.

“I know you found some poor drowned man's body on the beach, Fay, but knowing you I figured there had to be a whole lot more going on.”

Her sister was smart. But where to begin and where to stop? She gave an only slightly edited version of the last few weeks, and had just gotten to Bill Fox's suicide when the phone rang.

“I hope that's Pix," Faith cried, and ran inside. It was.

“Faith, I had just about given up. They weren't home again. Then on my way back, I passed them on Route 17 and waved them over to the side. They'd been at Nan's sister's house helping her pack. She's moving to her daughter's in Granville or maybe it's South Beach."

“Pix! Tell me about it later! Did they know where the road was?"

“Of course, and what's more we all drove over there and I know where it is now too. Is your sister there yet?"

“Yes, and there's just enough daylight to go and have a look. I haven't had a chance to tell them about it, but I'll fill them in on the way. Can you meet me there in ten minutes?"

“Of course. See you then.”

Faith ran back to the porch and hastily told Quentin and Hope about the quilt.

“Are you making this all up to entertain us?" Quentin asked reasonably. "If so, it's very kind of you and a lot of fun—especially after the tale of horrors you've been relating."

“I swear it's true," Faith protested.

They were still claiming disbelief as they got into the Jeep while Faith threw some shovels, trowels, a pick, and a crowbar—all easily to hand in the Thorpe cottage's well-equipped barn—into the back. Soon they were headed off to Prescott Point. Ben chortled with joy at riding in the Jeep and made little vroom-vroom noises all the way there.

Pix was waiting by the side of the road.

“We have to walk in. A car can't get through anymore, but the Hamiltons said to follow the remnants of this stone wall and we'd end up where the house used to be. Maybe Jacob's Ladder was meant to look like a stone wall.”

Quentin swung Benjamin up on his shoulders and they set off. It was easy going at first; then they had to pick their way through a dense mass of alders. They emerged into what had obviously once been a clearing and looked across to a heap of fallen boards in an old cellar hole. The stairs were almost intact and looked odd leading to the pile of dereliction behind them.

“That's it! Those are the stairs! Come on, let's look for ferns.”

Quentin and Hope clearly believed Faith had gone mad and taken her neighbor and friend with her, but they decided to humor her. After all, there could be money involved. They walked purposively over to the steps and fanned out to look for ferns.

A few minutes later Quentin, with Ben, his adoring disciple, in tow, strolled over to Faith. "This is a fern, isn't it?" he asked, waving a giant frond at her.

“Yes! Where did you find it?"

“Over there"—he waved his hand—"by that fence.”

“Faith!" Pix screamed. "Rail Fence!" This was no lighthearted scavenger hunt now.

They all raced over to the fence.

“Then," said Faith slowly, "the treasure must be buried under this pine." She looked up at the towering tree, starting to merge with the sky in the dusky twilight. She was developing quite an affection for the pines of the Pinetree State. "It's the only one standing'alone." Matilda's clues had been perfect.

They circled the base of the tree. Quentin handed Ben over to Faith and began to dig in a few places. The earth was packed solid.

“I think we ought to come back with a metal detector,”

he suggested. "There's no telling how deep this thing is buried, if it's here at all."

“It's here," Faith and Pix chorused.

Hope had been looking at a piece of ground between two exposed roots. "Why don't you try this spot, darling? This would be where I would have hidden something; then I'd have these roots to guide me if I ever wanted to dig it up again.”

Sensible, very sensible.

Quentin started to dig, and at two feet the tip of the shovel hit something. He removed some more dirt, and Faith took the hand trowel and carefully scraped away the rest. After a long five minutes, she lifted a small tin box out of the hole.

They stood in silence and gazed at it before Pix said, "Workbox," and Faith nodded. Perhaps none of them, not even Faith and Pix, had ever been sure that there would be something there. And here it was—a small box, the black paint worn away in spots with some gold-painted trim still visible around the edge. It had a padlock that was intact.

“Prosperity," whispered Faith. It was all too much.

“Well, well," commented Quentin, "I guess we don't need the crowbar for this baby. I can probably pry it open with my hands. That lock must be pretty rusty."

“No," cried Faith. "We want to save it." She had the feeling that breaking open the box was somehow a desecration. "There are thousands of keys in a drawer at the cottage, and if those don't work, there's always the bobby-pin method. Come on, let's go."

“Oh my God." Pix put her hand to her mouth. "I forgot all about Samantha. She's waiting at the bridge. Arlene's mother took them to the Bangor Mall today and was going to drop her this side of the bridge to wait for me, since she had to pick up the other kids at six. I've got to go! Faith, would it be too much to ask if you could wait until I got there to open it? Yes, of course it is. Just open it, don't wait."

“Of course we'll wait. It's yours just as much as it's mine.”

Hope and Quentin looked a bit disappointed. Quentin, ever gallant, reassured Pix, "Of course we can wait. We didn't even know about it until an hour ago, so we can certainlywait another few minutes. How long did you say it would take you to get your daughter?"

“I'll be back in a flash," promised Pix, and she was off.

Faith was feeling slightly dazed. They walked slowly back to the road and she gave the box a shake or two. No coins rattled, but it was heavy.

“That's an old cash box," Hope told her knowledgeably. "You wouldn't use it to keep your buttons in."

“You don't know New Englanders. It could just as well be string too short to be saved or something like that," Faith rejoined, but Hope's positive identification increased her already wildly spiralling expectations.

They got back to the cottage and Faith looked around for a place to put the box. She set it on the table in the living room, but immediately picked it up and put it in one of the desk drawers instead. Who knew how long Pix might be? It was more temptation than anyone should have to bear to have it in plain sight.

“I'm going to feed Benjamin, and why don't you two go through the keys from the junk drawer in the kitchen and sort out all the small ones? That's not opening the box. If we don't do something, we'll go crazy." She walked about snapping on lights. It was after seven o'clock and getting dark.

She went into the kitchen and put Ben in the high chair she'd found in the attic and sprinkled a few Cheerios kept for that purpose on the tray to keep him from screaming the place down, since his dinner had not instantly appeared. Hope followed her and took the whole drawer out to the other room to rummage through with Quentin.

“How about a drink?" Faith called to them.

“Fay," came Hope's voice—or some approximation of it; this was not her usual strident tone, more like a gasp. "Fay, you'd better come in here.”

Faith dropped the zucchini she was cutting into strips onto Ben's tray and went into the living room. They must have found a key, she thought.

But they hadn't. What they had found was Eric—standing in the shadows by the huge fieldstone fireplace that filled up one end of the room. Standing wlth a gun pointed at them with unmistakable intent.

Eric. Of course, Eric.

The only possibility—and the most obvious. That part was now clear. What wasn't was why.

Speculation could come later. She had to do something. Anything was worth a try. "Eric, what on earth are you doing? Did you think these were intruders? This is my sister, Hope, and her friend, Quentin."

“Pleased to meet you," Eric drawled, suddenly reverting to his Texas youth. "But it's no mistake, Faith. Give me whatever it was you got at Prescott Point. Awful nice of you to go to so much trouble finding it for me.”

Pix would be coming back, and the noise of the car might startle him enough so Faith could catch him off guard. She moved as close as she dared to the table, which had a large oil lamp on it. She could heave it at him, if he would only look away. She was damned if she was going to give him the box after all their work and especially before they even knew what was in it. There were three of them, after all. There must be some way of getting the gun. She had to stall. Keep him talking.

“Now, Eric, I'm sure you don't want to hurt anyone. Not after all that has happened. Why don't we look inside the box together and decide what to do?" It was feeble, yet it might distract him.

“I know what to do. It's you folks who don't. Fetch the box, Faith dear, while junior here gets some rope from the barn. The Thorpes have a pile of it inside the door. Then I'll be on my way and you won't be tied up for long. Somebody is sure to come along one of these days." He laughed unpleasantly. "Now get going. Both of you and I'll keep sis here for company.”

He walked over to Hope and grabbed her, placing the gun against her temple. Quentin took a step toward them and Eric cocked the gun.

“Don't think about any noble gestures. Hurting people doesn't particularly bother me.”

Quentin gave Hope an anguished look and went out the front door toward the barn.

“Now you, Faith.”

Faith took the box from the drawer and Eric uncocked the gun, but did not release his hold on Hope.

“Put it on the floor in front of me and then go back to where you were," he directed her.

There was still time. Quentin's return could divert him; meanwhile talk. Say anything, just keep him talking and off guard.

Faith stared Eric squarely in the face. "You did it, didn't you? Sabotaged the boat. Murdered Bird?"

“Shut up, Faith." His face clouded briefly. "Dumb-ass Roger. If he hadn't been so pure, he'd still be alive. And he was going to marry her, that cunt. He couldn't see what she was like. Anyone would have been better. But he just kept raving about finally finding each other. Made me puke.”

The house. He was in love with the house.

“You're leaving your house? After all you said it meant?"

“Yeah, that's a bitch. But I can't take it with me and anyway I'm going to be able to buy any house I want with what's in this box.”

Quentin was back and Eric immediately cocked the gun and tightened his grip on Hope.

“Tie Faith up and don't waste any time, then you can do your girlfriend here. You might even enjoy it," he leered.

Quentin started over toward Faith and just as he began to loop the rope around her wrists, the front door swung open.

Sonny Prescott walked in, not Pix. He must have come by boat, since they hadn't heard a car.

Sonny looked at Eric and the box on the floor, then at the rest of them frozen in various poses around the room.

Faith had never been so glad to see him in her life, not even the day he had called and said he had fresh salmon.

“Sonny!" she warned. "He's got a gun, be careful!”

Eric smiled slowly. "Oh, I don't think old Sonny here has to worry. You see, he's with me.”

10

It was a nightmare. The kind where the steady ground under your feet turns out to be quicksand and you can't take a step. Sonny! Sonny and Eric!

And what made it worst of all was now there were two to deal with.

Faith frantically tried to figure out how she could do something. If only the light switch wasn't so far away—she could use the element of surprise to get the gun. It wasn't just the box now. The idea of Eric getting away free made her furious.

She was sure Eric didn't plan on killing them, but he might not mind an injury or two.

Ben's angry cries of starvation from the kitchen presented an unlikely solution.

“Go get your brat and shut him up—and don't think about leaving, unless you want to be Mommy and Daddy's only little girl.”

Faith raced into the kitchen and grabbed Ben. She filled a bottle, left from Zoë's stay, with juice and grabbed a large handful of cookies. It was no time to be thinking of the four basic food groups. Then she quietly opened the back door and put Ben in the portable crib on the porch, zipping closed the mesh screening on top. Ben settled right down, charmed by vestigial memories of happy nursing days. She ran back in and took a large cast-iron frying pan from the pantry. Most New England kitchens were a veritable arsenal of utensils.

She paused to lift the receiver on the ancient dial phone, found the phone dead, as she had suspected, stood behind the door, and started screaming.

Ben was safely out of the way for the moment and if she could manage to get rid of one of them, the other wouldn't be able to leave his post to search for the baby. Eric had obviously been watching a lot of B movies and Faith had no doubt he would use Ben as a hostage if he decided he needed one.

She thought of Roger and Bird and Bird's father and Zoë and Bill—all the sadness and horror of the past month. She screamed in real anguish. It felt wonderful.

The door swung open and Sonny stepped in. Before he had a chance to look around, Faith swung too—bringing the frying pan down on top on his head with all her strength. He crumpled to the floor with a resounding "thunk." She felt for a pulse, was reassured, and started to tie his wrists together with some clothesline from the pantry, which she was beginning to regard as King Midas's storeroom.

Eric's voice interrupted her.

“Faith, if you don't get in here right now, I'm going to shoot your sister.”

He meant it. Faith could tell. He hadn't added any extraneous lines.

“Fay," implored Quentin. "Fay, please, hurry!”

The crisis rivaled the tragic benchmark of young Quentin's life to date—the time in October 1987 when the computer was down just before the market closed.

Faith hurried in. What did they think? She was going to let her own sister die because of a nickname and a few hundred other things that had happened in childhood?

Eric again had Hope in a stranglehold with the gun up against the side of her head. The box was under his arm. He waved Faith over to the table.

“I guess I have to assume I'm on my own now," he said in a matter-of-fact voice, which, to Faith's surprise, held no anger. That fight at the dance had been too real to be staged. Maybe he really did hate Sonny's guts. Maybe he just wasn't good at sharing.

He moved quickly toward the door. When he got there, he pushed Hope to one side and as he did so, the box slid to the floor and opened, spilling its contents all over—contents that appeared to be letters and some kind of currency.

Just then they heard a car pull up. Pix—and Samantha—ready for the end of a treasure hunt.

Eric grabbed Hope again and turned out the lights. "Don't answer the door and keep quiet!" he hissed at them.

The door opened.

“Eric? Sonny? Anybody heah? I found the note and set off right away.”

Eric turned the lights on. It was Margery Prescott.

Things were informal on Sanpere, but this was getting ridiculous, Faith thought. Did the Thorpes have this many unexpected guests when they inhabited the cottage? And who would be dropping by next? Jill? More Prescotts? Were they all in on this?

“Pick up the papers on the floor and let's get the hell out of here," Eric directed Margery. He let Hope go and she gave him a poisonous look, which had no effect whatsoever.

“Where's Sonny?" Margery asked as she stuffed everything back in the box.

Eric grinned nastily. How could she ever have liked him? Faith wondered.

“He's out cold in the kitchen. Maybe you'd better go make sure he stays that way."

“What!" exploded Faith. This was too much for her to keep her mouth shut.

“You just saved us the trouble of doing it offshore.”

Margery looked at Eric with adoration and nodded. Margery and Eric? Marjorie Main and Douglas Fairbanks?

“Margery, how can you trust him? He's killed three people. Now look what he's doing to Sonny. Just what do you think he's going to do to you once he's away and doesn't need your help?"

“That's where you're wrong, Faith. I'll never be finished with Margery. Never have. We go back a long way. Businesspartners who got friendly. And I didn't kill three people, did I, honey?”

Margery laughed. It was truly repulsive.

“No, Margery here took care of Bird. Took care of her very well.”

Faith began to feel sick. She saw the scene in the cabin projected on the living room walls. All that blood and hate. It had been Margery who had hated that beauty so much.

It was beyond horror. Faith felt completely overwhelmed by the evil in the room.

“Margery and I are going to take our business to a new location. Maybe north. Maybe south.”

Business. Did Margery have talent as a potter? Faith looked at her strong hands and stubby fingers. She certainly would be able to wedge a lot of clay.

“Can you really go back to making pots after all this?" She was stunned. Did Eric actually think he could start production again, even under an assumed name? He must really be mad.

“Pots?" Eric laughed. "Not pots, but pot. Pot—and other things—in with the lobsters in those nice big trucks of Sonny's. Lobsterpot. Not floats—the real thing." He was enjoying himself. Showing off for Margery, who rewarded him with an affectionate grin.

The night noises, all that action in the cove. It finally made sense. Too late.

Margery stood up to go to the kitchen.

“Bring the baby back with you. He's out there somewhere, probably asleep, since he isn't yowling. We'll forget about tying anybody up. Instead, I think we'd better take him and his auntie for a short boat ride to make sure these folks don't decide to follow us too soon or do something else stupid like call the police."

“His auntie" directed her "this-is-just-about-enough" look at Ben's mother. The steady gaze was as plain as skywriting on a cloudless day.

As Margery walked by, Hope tripped her and delivered a forceful, lightning-swift chop to the back of her neck, at the same time grabbing her left arm and twisting it in a way it was never meant to go. Faith didn't stay still to watch. As soon as Hope moved, she threw the oil lamp at Eric, ran over and jumped on him, brought her right knee up sharply between his legs, and wrestled the gun from his surprised hand.

Only slightly flushed, and firmly astride Margery's lumpy, cursing body, Hope called out to Faith, "Aren't you glad I signed us up for those self-defense courses, Fay?”

It was a sister act nonpareil.

Eric was lying on the floor moaning and writhing in pain. Faith stood over him with the gun aimed at his chest. She was in no doubt about the location of his heart—only of its existence. Quentin, somewhat stunned, knelt beside Hope. "Darling," he said with a note of awe in his voice, "will you marry me? Soon?"

“Of course!" She beamed at him radiantly.

Faith hated to be a wet blanket, but they did have two murderers and a drug traffIcker to attend to before any epithalamic toasts could be raised.

“Quentin, you go for the police, but first see how Sonny is. Oh, and Ben too. He's on the porch.”

Quentin returned immediately with the news that both Sonny and Ben were oblivious. He tied Margery securely, then Hope helped him with Eric, lovingly clover-hitching him to one of the more uncomfortable chairs in the cottage. Faith kept a steady aim and hoped she didn't have to fire any shots. Goodness knows what that would do to their security deposit.

“If Margery took Sonny's truck, there's a CB in it and you can call for help. Do you know how to work one?”

Quentin, who despite his flush of joy was beginning to feel a tad inadequate, hastened to assure Faith that a CB was something he was capable of handling. Hope went out into the kitchen, finished tying Sonny up, and dragged him into the living room so they could keep an eye on him.

“I moved Ben inside, Faith. Do you want him in here?"

“No, he's fine where he is and this room is beginning to get badly overcrowded.”

Quentin returned. "I reached your Sergeant Dickinson. He seemed pretty surprised. I had to repeat everything twice.”

Eric and Margery, after some foul-mouthed moments, had subsided into bitter silence. Faith had placed a chair by the door and was sitting in it with the gun aimed and cocked. She felt like Annie Oakley.

Three deaths. Three shattered lives. For what? Money? In Margery's case, love? Money! Faith sat up straight.

“Hope, let's see what's in the box! I don't know what has happened to Pix and Samantha, but I'm sure they wouldn't blame us for looking after all this."

“And it is already open," her sister agreed.

She and Quentin sat as close as possiole on the couch and sorted through the contents. Quentin was making a neat stack of the currency.

“Sorry, sister-in-law to be, it's a bundle, but it's Confederate money. Still, not completely without value."

“As wallpaper?" Faith proposed. She was trying hard not to be desperately disappointed.

“Here's a letter, Fay, from Matilda. I'll read it out loud to you:

To Whoever Finds This Box:

I hope you had a good time figuring out my quilt. I had a lot of happy hours planning it and don't intend to die until it's finished. You probably expected the gold, unless it's already been found, but that's someplace else fun. You have to forgive an old woman her amusements.

Please give the top two papers to my nephew, Sonny Prescott, who is my executor. Tell him he's to call a family meeting and decide what to do with the land. I never wanted anyone to know I had it or I would have been pestered to death years ago by real estate agents and developers. If no one ever finds this box, that would be all right too. Maybe the Point would remain the way it is. I'd like to see it stay unspoiled, but I know this may not be possible. Anyway, I won't be around to know about it.

As a prize for figuring out an Old Maid's Puzzle, the rest of the contents of the box is yours. Sorry I can't be there to shake your hand.

Yours respectfully,

Matilda Louise Prescott

Hope scanned the two remaining papers.

“They're old deeds, all right. What is this `Point' she refers to? Is it big? Because these seem to indicate a large property." And Hope should know, Faith reflected. Before she could answer her sister, Margery broke in.

“Gorry, the Point! Deeds to the whole thing! We're rich!" She appeared to have forgotten that she was tied up, awaiting the police and charges of murder, attempted murder, and drug trafficking. Faith was also pretty sure that Sonny wouldn't be giving Margery so much as a green stamp once he found out about her passion for Eric.

The thought must have occurred to Eric, too.

“What do you mean we're rich?" he spat out. "Sonny and all the rest of those damn Prescotts are rich. And this is what I've been busting my ass to find—a bunch of papers for Sonny? That old witch! She swore she had the gold and was hiding it. I should have made her talk before I ..." He stopped speaking abruptly and clamped his mouth shut.

“Before you what, Eric? Before you killed her too?" Faith was sure that was what he had intended to say.

Margery raised her head off the floor. Her cheek was imprinted with the mark of the braided rug she was lying on. It stood out against the rest of her face, which had paled.

“Eric! You killed Sonny's aunt?" It was one thing to murder strangers and off-islanders, but family?

As Faith was endeavoring to run this perverted morality through her mind, Sonny came around at last. Either the fact that he could be rich, his aunt's murder, or both had doused him like a faceful of cold water.

“What's going on? Why are we all tied up?”

Before Faith could get to the explanations, there was a loud knock on the door and Sergeant Earl Dickinson strode in. He moved his head slowly, taking in the full sweep of the room.

“Judas Priest, I heard it and I couldn't believe it. I'm seeing it and I still don't.”

The giant Ferris wheel, crown jewel of Smokey's Greater Shows, rose high above the fairgrounds, silhouetted against Blue Hill. Ben had had several rides on ^.the merry-go-round. Now it was Faith and Tom's turn for some fun.

People were still getting into the bottom car, and the Fairchilds were suspended at the top of the wheel. Below them, Pix, holding Ben, was waving and trying to direct his attention skyward. He was more interested in the gears of the machine that moved the wheel.

“I love Ferris wheels," Faith said, sitting as close as possible to Tom.

“Me, too. And I've never been on one with such a magnificent view before." He gestured toward the bay, which looked like another fairground, its flat expanse reflecting the moon in tiny spots of white light as the current changed.

The gondola swayed and the wheel began to turn. Down they swept past the Millers and Ben, past the midway, the animal barns, the 4-H Beef Show, the State of Maine Two Crusted Blueberry Pie Contest goods lined up in the exhibition hall, the John Deere oooth, and the grandstand where people were patiently waiting for Joie Chitwood's Auto Thrill Show to start.

Faith was content. Pix had sworn there was a concession run by a local grange that served up a perfect lobster stew, and after that there would be fireworks. The last night of the fair. The last night of summer.

The wheel began to slow and soon they were up at the top again, immobile for a brief moment as people got off. "Hey, honey, wanna neck?" Tom breathed into her ear. "Okay, out I'd better tell you right now. I go all the way.”

“I'm a lucky guy. Do you want to go 'round again?”

“Absolutely, but I think we'd better relieve Pix and Sam.

Maybe after we eat.”

The wheel lowered them down and they stepped out. Ben oegan to squeal with delight as soon as he saw them.

“Daddee, Daddee!" Far from having forgotten Tom, as was feared, Ben would barely let him out of his sight.

“Lead us to that lobster stew, Pix. I'm starving," Tom said as he hoisted Ben up on his shoulders.

“This way. The Fraziers are meeting us there, but I want to get some french fries first.”

Pix had been steadily consuming french fries since they arrived. Faith succumbed as well when she saw the sacks of potatoes outside the stands and tasted one of Pix's fries—crisp, fresh, and with a bit of the skin still clinging to it. But douse it with vinegar, as was the local custom, adopted by the Millers, she would not.

The Fraziers were eating corn on the cob, near the French Fry Queen's stand. Louise's chin was shiny with butter and they looked as if they were having their first good time in a long time.

They all made their way together to the picnic tables set up by the grange under a tent. The night air was beginning to assume an autumnal character and it was pleasant to walk into the warm tent filled with the smells of fair food.

They sat down around a big table and ordered lobster stew, biscuits, and coffee. While they were waiting, Jill came in. Jill and Sergeant Dickinson. Faith wasn't surprised. She had expected the full cast of characters to appear—those that were not dead or in jail, that is. They had already seen the Hamiltons at the 3,200-pound six-foot oxen pull and Hope and Quentin were happily wandering the arcades, toting an enormous white bison Quentin had won pitching pennies. This was what "Meet Me at the Fair" was all about. Sooner or later you'd run into everyone you had met all summer.

Faith waved. "Come join us," she called.

“Thank you. We'd be glad to," answered Earl, putting a protective arm around Jill and steering her toward the table. So it was like that.

Jill was the first to bring up what was on everyone's mind.

"Don't think you have to avoid talking about what has

happened because of me," she told them. "It's going to take

a long time to sort it all out and talking is the only way to do it. To say that I didn't know what Eric was like is a major understatement.”

Faith was relieved. She still had a question or two and the people who could supply some of the answers were sitting right there.

“I still can't believe I missed the whole thing," Pix said ruefully. "If Arlene's mother had taken proper care of her tires, she wouldn't have had a flat on the way back from Bangor. I spent all my time driving back and forth from the bridge to the Prescotts', sick with worry about Samantha. Of course, if they hadn't been delayed, I would have had her with me and that wouldn't have been good."

“Or good for you either, sweetheart," Sam said emphatically. "There's no telling what you might have taken it into your head to do.”

Faith was afraid they were going to get hopelessly sidetracked on one of the famous Miller tangents. She interrupted.

“You're off duty, Earl, or so it seems." She smiled as she caught him dipping a spoon to taste Jill's chowder. He'd ordered a hamburger. "What were Eric and the Prescotts up to?"

“Well, I figure you have a better right than most to know, Mrs. Fairchild. Anyway, it's no secret now. Sonny Prescott has turned state's evidence and hasn't stopped talking since we got him to Ellsworth. He's pretty sore about Margery. Never knew she was carrying on like that. Come to mention it, quite a few of us were surprised."

“Matilda never liked Margery," Louise commented. "Said she used to poke around the house and attic at night. Looking for that gold, I suppose."

“I think we can forget about the gold. I know it was in that letter in the box you found, but I've been hearing about it since I was a kid, and nobody ever saw it or ever will."

“Don't forget, Earl, somebody over in Penobscot dug up a vase near the Bagaduce river with more than two thousand gold coins inside. It was believed to be pirate gold," Jill reminded him.

“Honey, that was more than a hundred years ago! Any gold around these parts has already been found or is just imagined. Anyway, a lot of people believed Matilda had the gold and I have an idea she liked them to. But that didn't get her killed. No, what got her killed was kindness or foolishness or both."

“What do you mean?" Tom asked. He had a lot of catching up to do and had barely gotten all the people straight. What he did have straight was that his wife had once more unaccountably landed herself and child in danger and been miraculously spared. He squeezed her hand as he fed Ben some stew.

“Matilda's people weren't paying a whole lot of mind to her, and those two young fellows were. She was flattered and got to care for them. Genuine niceness on Roger's part, more than likely, but Eric must have always had his eye on the main chance. I thought he might have burned his house down himself to convince her to leave them hers. But Sonny did that and he's been kicking himself ever since."

“Sonny? Why?" Faith realized she had missed something. "He was trying to get Eric to leave the island. He tried other things too, but nothing worked."

“So that fight at the dance was real." Faith was beginning to put it all together. "He wanted out of the business, right?"

“Ayuh. I'm not saying what he did wasn't wrong, very wrong, especially when you see all the drugged-out kids around this area. Right here tonight—kids who would have been showing the sheep they raised or the jams they put up before all this hit. I blamed the bridge that they built to the mainland, but that's neither here nor there and it was bound to happen one of these days. Pretty hard getting across the reach by boat in the winter.”

Now it was Earl who was off.

Faith felt like the lady they had seen at the sheepdog trials earlier. She resisted the impulse to say "come on, Laddie.”

“But you think Sonny did have some excuse for doing what he did?"

“Not excuse. Reason. He was in big trouble financially. Two summers ago was a bad one for lobsterin' and an especial bad one for Prescott's pound. They had just bought anew six-wheeler when they lost a boat in a storm and then there just weren't any lobsters. That was when Eric came along. Sonny was only going to do it until he got on his feet again, but it was easy money and after a lifetime of strain and struggle, which fishing is, I guess a little easy money was like heaven. They landed the bales on some of the small islands offshore, then loaded them into the front of the trucks at the Old Ferry Cove dock, which hasn't been used for years. Then they'd go back to the lobster pool and fill the rest up with lobsters. If they did get stopped, an inspector looking for shorts would never make them unload the whole truck without a pretty good reason. And they were lucky. The drivers didn't know what they were driving and Eric had it all worked out on the New York end. Sonny didn't even see the stuff. He just provided the transport. Andy and his crew from Camden were doing the heavy work."

“But then Sonny wanted to stop," Jill picked up the story. "I was so stupid. I should have known what was going on. I heard them arguing one night. It didn't make any sense to me and when everything else began to happen, I forgot about it." Her voice lowered and she looked away. "I guess it was hard for me to believe Eric could be involved with anything illegal."

“I'm stIll confused. Why did Eric kill his friend Roger? And why did he have my wife at gunpoint?”

All the pieces had fallen into place and it was Faith who could answer him. "I think Eric was a very selfish person. Enough was never enough. He had a lucrative pottery business, but he started dealing drugs to make more money. Then Matilda left them the house. That would have been fine, so long as it was Roger, but when he found out about Bird and the baby, that was too much. There are so many sad stories here, but Bird's is the saddest. She had finally found Roger after all those years and was looking forward to marriage, motherhood. But Eric couldn't allow that. It also may be that Roger had found out about the drug dealing. Something Eric said the other night suggested that. And Bird probably knew because of Andy. So he sabotaged the boat, no doubt put something stronger in place of what Roger usually smoked, and took off for his friends. He returned grief stricken and oddly enough, I think he was."

“Roger was the only person Eric ever really cared about or let get close," Jill said softly. "Oh, I never fooled myself into thinking he loved me as much as I did him. There was always a distance between us. But he loved Roger, almost like a part of himself—a better part. I remember when Bird came to the island, he was upset. If she and Roger hadn't gotten together, I'm sure Eric would have given up the dealing rather than lose Roger. But since Roger was already lost to him, he just went ahead taking care of himself."

“ `Taking care of himself' is an apt expression," Faith continued. "It was going to be so easy too, before things began to go wrong. He had planned a nice tidy little murder.”

No one seemed about to interrupt her and Faith kept a firm grip on center stage. "He'd get the house—which did obsess him—marry Jill, maybe see Margery on the side, maybe still run the drug business, but basically settle down. Then Bird didn't go out in the boat and he had to tie up that loose end. He may not have intended Margery to kill Bird, just find out what she knew. But the deed was done. He had to plant the evidence on Bill Fox, then Andy got picked up and things began to get even more complicated. At some point he must have decided to cut and run, but he wanted to take the gold with him and the key to the whole thing was in my hands. We know he tried to steal the quilt and did take my bracelet," Faith remembered indignantly before winding up her tour de force. "It looks like Margery was getting secondhand goods all the way around—not that I feel particularly sorry for her. She or Eric must have been the person following me in the woods to see if I was on the track of the gold. They were probably following us all week."

“I should never have asked you to bring the quilt over that night," Louise apologized. "Then they would never have known."

“How long have you lived on this island?" her husband demanded. "When does something like a treasure map in a quilt get hushed up?”

Pix shook her head. "I feel like I'm still on that Tilt-aWhirl ride. The whole summer has been like that. Roger, then Bird, then Bill—and everything finally colliding in your living room, Faith."

“If he hadn't been afraid Andy would talk, he might have stayed, believing that the police thought Bill had killed Bird and Roger. You didn't, did you?" she asked Earl.

“No, we weren't too happy with that one, although it all made sense."

“Sense! Bill would never have killed Bird, never would have killed anybody. Besides, whoever killed Roger had planned to kill Bird at the same time. We were too dense to see what was in front of our faces. Remember? Samantha told us originally Bird was going out in the boat with Roger? And she didn't know how to swim, according to her father. That would have eliminated Bill right away if we had only thought of it."

“I think once Bird was gone, it was only a question of time for Bill," Elliot said. "We've known him for years and there was a dark side to his nature. You mustn't blame yourself.”

Tom looked at Faith in annoyance. "You've got the perfect candidate for blame in Eric, and you and your sister, Bat-woman and Robinette, are responsible for his capture. Think about that instead."

“We all trusted him and liked him so much," Sam mused, "it's hard to understand how so many of us could have been taken in."

“He would have been some good as a con man—was in the case of Matilda, conned the house right out from under her and the rest of the Prescotts, then killed her once he was sure she had changed her will," Earl pointed out. "No scruples and a lot of self-importance."

“And what about Sonny? Think how we trusted him! I can't get over someone from the island being involved." Pix looked devastated.

Earl grinned, "You summer people are all alike. Somehow you've dreamed up this idea that Sanpere is like the Garden of Eden before Eve got hungry. Nobody lies, cheats, or steals.

We just go along our blameless ways. Every carpenter is a master. Every fisherman gets a good catch. Every woman can make good pie crust and raise prizewinning tuberous begonias. Well, surprise—we're just like other people, good, bad, and mostly in between.”

The sergeant was getting more interesting by the moment. Faith wondered whether the combination of boyish charm and good looks plus an interesting philosophy of life was working any magic on Jill. Goodness knew she needed some after Eric.

Sam looked at his watch. "I hate to break this up, but something tells me we're going to be repeating this conversation with some frequency and if we want a good spot for the fireworks, we've got to get going."

“I think I can find you a spot," Earl promised. Rank had its privileges.

Quentin and Hope were waiting by the information booth. Hope was eating cotton candy and feeding it to Quentin. The bison had been joined oy a raccoon, or rather a mutant of the species three feet tall, wearing goggles and a vest. All four of them looked disgustingly smug and blissfully happy.

Samantha ran over. "Mom, we want to sit in the grandstand. Is it okay if we meet you after?" She pointed back at Arlene and two gangly boys who were stolidly munching fried dough.

“Why is it always `Mom'?" Sam complained. "Don't I get a vote?"

“Oh, Daddy, just say yes. They're waiting for me!”

“Yes. But be here at ten-thirty on the dot.”

She ran off and Sam looked at Pix. "By the time I get used to having a teenage girl, she'll be in college.”

Pix took his arm. "Poor you. It's hard when Daddy's little girl takes her hair out of braids."

“I always liked those braids," Sam muttered.

The spot Earl found for them turned out to be away from the grandstand, across the track that circled the field where the fireworks would be launched. It was safe, but close to the action and away from the lights of the rest of the fair. Tom fetched blankets from the car and they spread them on thedamp grass. Faith lay back and put Benjamin on her chest. The stars were beautiful.

“Should start seeing the Northern Lights soon. It's getting to be that time of year," came a familiar voice from the darkness. It was Freeman.

Faith sat up. "I'm glad you found us."

“No, deah, you found us," he replied.

“Hush, Freeman. They're staatin'.”

They were the best fireworks Faith had ever seen. Even better than the Fourth of July in New York City, though she wasn't about to admit that to anyone.

Two large ships lobbed fiery shots at each other on the ground. Then, just as they were disappearing, the sky above was filled with tiers of brilliantly colored light. Huge chrysanthemums that looked as if they were made of gold dust exploded and drifted lazily down toward the sea.

The whole fair was frozen in intense light.

And every time he heard an explosion, Ben crowed with delight and clapped his hands.

Catherine wheels spun at eye level and an immense American flag rose and fell. Silvery fish darted across the sky accompanied by piercing whistles. Niagara Falls stretched from a trickle to full force across the field, the magnesium illuminating the workers who were darting from one side to another. There was something familiar about the tallest of them, Faith realized. In the intense light, his red hair and beard glowed like sparks from one of the aerial shells.

“Why, that's John," she exclaimed.

“It's a hobby of his. Told me once he'd been doing it since he was a boy. He works for the fireworks company when they need him," Elliot told her.

John Eggleston looked supremely happy, happier than Faith had ever seen him. Soon his image faded back into the night as the set pieces were extinguished and a hushed crowd waited an instant in total darkness for the end of the show.

The finale was orgasmic and a chorus of ohs echoed across the field as volley after volley rocketed into the sky, sending trails of red, gold, white, blue, and green light shimmering across the darkness. Just when everyone thought it was over, another series would begin. It was perfect.

Faith and Tom were nestled close together, Ben wedged between them.

“I love you, darling," Tom whispered.

“I love you, too.”

The fireworks continued to tumble across the sky. Tom gazed up, then put his hand on Faith's cheek and gently but firmly turned her face toward his.

“I've been so worried about you these last weeks. I had no idea what was going on. Please, please promise me you won't ever get involved like this again.”

That was easy. Faith put her hand over his, looked him straight in the eye, and swore solemnly, "I promise you I will never find a body in the kelp again.”

After all, how much kelp did one normally run across in a lifetime?

Epilogue

From The Ellsworth American

Thursday, Sept. 14

MASSACHUSETTS MINISTER FINDS KING'S RANSOM IN AUCTION BOX LOT

Aleford, Mass.—Monday night, the Rev. Thomas Fairchild of the Aleford First Parish Church was surprised to discover a cache of gold coins disguised as checkers in a box lot of old games his wife had purchased for him at the August 17th Matilda Prescott estate auction held in Sanpere Village.

The coins have been the object of much speculation for years. Said to have belonged to Darnell Prescott, who died in 1960, the coins also figured in the recent arrest and arraignment of Eric Ashley. Mr. Ashley is alleged to have held several people at gunpoint, Mrs. Fairchild included, in the belief that a different box in their possession held the coins. He is also charged in three separate murders.

The coins, uncirculated 1913 and 1920 Eagles and Double Eagles, had been painted black and red and mixed in with an odd assortment of old checkers pieces. The Rev. Fairchild came upon them as he was sorting out the games.

When reached for comment, the Rev. Fairchild said he was "completely stunned," especially as he had believed the story of the gold coins to be "a bit of island lore." When asked what he planned to do with the coins, valued at roughly half a million dollars, he answered, "That's no problem. My wife and I believe the money belongs to the island, and we are returning it by purchasing the Point for The Island Heritage Trust, saving a small part for a summer house of our own.”

“The Point" refers to a parcel of land on Sanpere recently offered for sale.

Faith stopped reading aloud and threw the paper down with a gesture of irritation. Who spotted the box? Who bought it? And what about all that work on the quilt? By all rights the coins were hers. And Pix's. Though of course Pix was delighted with Tom's plan.

“Now, Faith, you know you agree with me."

“So what if I do? It would have been nice to dream for a few days. You didn't have to be so definite. We could have let it run through our fingers a while.”

The gold was in a safe deposit box at the Shawmut Bank, and Tom had breathed an enormous sigh of relief when it got there. It was volatile enough having Faith in the house.

Faith picked up the paper again, the bold headline stretched across four columns and even farther in her mind. She looked at Tom, who was obviously not enjoying the rain on his parade, and felt a twinge, a very small twinge, of guilt. "Well," she reluctantly conceded, "it's all turned out neatly. The Prescotts have their money, the island has its land, and we have a summer house in Maine. I suppose I'll get used to it, darling just so long as we go to the Hamptons first for a vacation.”