The weather continued unbroken and the Millers awoke to gorgeous blue skies and almost balmy weather. Too balmy, Pix thought as she got dressed. It wasn't supposed to be this hot on the coast of Maine.
Sam was already gone, having offered as usual to help Elliot get the clambake ready, no small task and one Pix suspected the men relished for its complexity and the opportunity to dig in the sand. After constructing a pit unpleasantly reminiscent of what she and Samantha had stumbled across the previous week, they would line it with rocks and pile driftwood, plus anything else that would burnâcharcoal if there wasn't
enough woodâon top. The fire had to heat the rocks for at least five hours. Otherwise, when they threw the wet seaweed on, there wouldn't be enough steam to cook the lobsters, clams, corn, chicken, and sausage that would be layered on top. The Fraziers' clambake was famous for its authenticity and had become a Fourth of July tradition. They always seemed to be able to find room for more guests and it had grown each year from humble beginnings to the kind of quintessential red-white-and-blue photo opportunity that politicians running for office dream about.
Pix and Samantha were going to church. After last Sunday, Pix was not about to skip it, even though she relished the clambake preparations as much as her husband did. She was not a superstitious person, yet something told her she'd enjoy the day a whole lot more if she'd bent a knee in a pew rather than hauling rocks.
Sam returned before they left. He wanted to get more wood from their cove.
“We'll be back at noon to change,” Pix told him, “and then I promised Louise I'd help her bring things to the beach, so I'll see you there.” She kissed her husband good-bye. He returned it somewhat absentmindedly and she knew his thoughts were on hot rocks and rockweed, the “snap, crackle, and pop” seaweed, the kids called it, because of the sound it made beneath your toes and when squeezed between your fingers.
“I'll get rid of this load of wood, then change cars with you, so take both sets of keys.” It wasn't that he didn't like her driving his Porscheâhe allowed it because he knew he should. It was that he didn't want coleslaw, chowder, and whatever else was going to the clambake to be stowed on his particular leather-covered backseats.
“Don't worry, Daddy, we'll take good care of your baby,” Samantha teased him. “Can I drive?”
“Don't even joke,” her father replied.
Pix enjoyed the short trip across the island to the small
white clapboard church where they worshiped. It was nice to drive a sleek, jazzy machine that sped forward instantly at the slightest pressure on the gas. Maybe she should trade her Land Rover in. It was such a symbolâPix, the trucker, the transporter of men, women, children, animals, and all their worldly possessions. It would certainly be nice to have an excuse: “Sorry, I can't pick up twenty watermelons for the school picnic. They won't fit in the car,” and so on.
“Mom, what are you thinking about? You have the funniest expression on your face.”
“Do I? I was thinking maybe I ought to get a new car, something smaller.”
Samantha shook her head. “Your car is always loaded now. If it was any smaller, you'd have to get a trailer. Make Daddy let you drive his more. I wish I could. It must be a blast,” she added longingly.
They stopped outside the church and hurried in, sliding next to Ursula just as the bell in the steeple began to toll.
“Such a perfect day for the clambake,” Ursula whispered. “I figured Sam would be with Elliot, but I was beginning to wonder where you two were.”
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At one o'clock, Pix was helping Louise set up. Sam had started a smaller fire, let it burn down, and placed a grill on top for the huge pot of chowder Pix had made. They lugged it over and gingerly set it in place. Sam took off the cover and inhaled. “Sweeter than all the perfumes of Araby. I believe this is going to be the best ever. Why don't I get a cup and give it a try?”
“You say the same thing every year!”
“That's not true. I don't remember ever comparing your chowder to perfume before.”
“Possibly, but the rest. Anyway, by all means get a cup. You know meâa bottomless sink for reassurance when it comes to cooking.”
Sam got a cup and ladled some out. He took a heaping spoonful. “It's ⦠well, how can I describe it?”
“Good or bad?”
“Superlative.”
Pix heaved a sigh of relief. He always said
superlative
, too, but it was comforting to hear. The perfume simile was new, though: “All the perfumes of Araby.” Wasn't it “Arabia”?
Macbeth
. Lady Macbeth scrubbing at her hands. She wished he'd picked something else.
It was impossible to forget that only a week ago on such a day as this, a corpse had turned up. As people began to arrive, struggling with food, sports equipment, and small children, she wondered whether the guilty one walked among them. She had to put it out of her head. Sonny Prescott had provided the most logical answer. Mitch had gotten in with the wrong business partners.
“Pix, Pix, could you help set these out?” Louise always became mildly flustered at the start of the clambake. She was nervous that the food wouldn't cook until it was too dark to eat, although the rare years when Elliot had miscalculated and they did eat late, nobody had minded a bit. Eyeing what Louise had provided and others were bringing, Pix thought the problem would be finding room to eat anything else when the tarp was taken off and the fragrant layers of food exposed.
“There's enough to feed an army here!” she said, gesturing to the tables they'd constructed from planks and sawhorses, then covered with red-checked oilcloth.
“Good,” a voice behind her commented, reaching for a deviled eggâLouise's great-aunt Lily Sue's prized recipe.
It was Earl, and Jill was by his side, Pix noted happily. They were carrying paper plates, napkins, and other necessary objects. For the next hour, Pix was busy ladling out her chowder, which was disappearing fast. The party was in full swing. The volleyball net had been set up and there was a ferocious game of over forties versus unders going on. The younger
children were exploring the shore, climbing over the rocks, oblivious of the sharp barnacles and other hazards that threatened their bare feet. Samantha and some of her friends were with them. Arlene and her boyfriend had put in an appearance, politely tasted the chowder, then left for the Prescott clambake. There were time-honored functions occurring all over the island and the problem was not having enough time, or room in one's stomach, to visit them all.
The actual day of the Fourth was so crammed full of activities that years ago, islanders had started celebrating early with their family picnics, usually clambakes.
Seth Marshall had also dropped by with his parents. He didn't partake of any of Pix's chowder. Maybe he was saving room for the next clambake. And maybe he was avoiding her. The crime site was still sealed off by the police, so this was unlikely. But when she waved him over to ask him how quickly he could start once the police gave the word, he was so engrossed in conversation with Jill that he appeared not to see Pix's gestures. Overseeing the Fairchilds' cottage could be more work than she had envisioned. The first, almost overwhelming task was proving to be getting it started.
Pix reached up to mop her brow. Her T-shirt was beginning to stick to her back. It was getting unpleasantly hot, especially standing over the chowder. She was glad she'd worn her bathing suit under her clothes. The cove was on deep water, which explained why the yacht club had selected the spot roughly eighty years agoâa yacht club that consisted of a venerable equipment shack, some moorings, and a few life buoys with SANPERE YACHT CLUB stenciled on them. Some people were already in the water, and Pix was amused to see friends who expressed amazement at the Millers' tolerance, even enjoyment, of the cold temperature, bobbing about and calling others to join them.
The Athertons had arrived laden with pies and Valerie and Jim promptly joined the volleyball gameâon opposite sides of the net, Pix noted. She glanced around. Duncan, who she
recognized from Samantha's description, was at the other end of the beach. It was hard to see him. He was sitting high up on a granite ledge at the point where it met the woods. His somber attire blended into the shadows of the trees. A figure of melancholy, a figure of gloom. Of doom? A mouse killer. Pix firmly shoved back all the morbid thoughts that persisted in crowding into her conscious mind and joined the volleyball gameâon the over-forty side. Away from the chowder fire, she felt ten degrees cooler, and giving a good hard thwack to the volleyball felt terrific.
During a break, Sam brought her a cold beer. “Who's that guy with the Bainbridges?”
Pix turned to look. Adelaide was settled into a monstrous lawn chair with all sorts of cushions, rugs, and satchels strewn about her. Rebecca was pressing sunblock on her. “You know how you burn, Addie.”
“Oh, can't you let a body be? I'm fine. You'd think I was a two-year-old.” This last comment was made to the man Sam had wondered about.
“I think he's staying at their bed-and-breakfast. I've seen him in the post office. But it would be odd for them to bring one of their guests to the Fraziers' clambake. I'll ask Louise.”
Pix walked over to her hostess, keeping the unknown visitor in view. He was very slim, attractive, with dark closely cropped curls and a small neatly trimmed beard but no mustache. His clothes were appropriate and looked expensive. His jeans were pressed. Faith would be able to tell the brands and how much he'd paid instantly, but all Pix could determine was that his shirt might be silk. He'd knotted a raspberry-colored cotton sweater about his neck and there wasn't a drop of perspiration evident anywhere on his body. Pix's own damp hair told her what she looked like. After her swim, she'd get the fresh shirt she'd left in the car and put it on. Looking at this guy was having this kind of effect on her. He was tan and the only jewelry he wore was a watch. Maybe if she got closer, she could see what kind. Faith always said that
you could tell almost everything about a person by his or her watch and shoes. Pix looked down. He was barefoot. Her own feet were clad in serviceable white Keds.
Louise was drinking a glass of white wine, not a good sign. “I don't know when we'll be ready to eat,” she announced. “I've decided not to let it bother me, though.” Her tone belied her words.
“Good, you shouldn't worry about a thing,” Pix reassured her emphatically. “Everyone is having a marvelous time. And besides, what have we been doing since we got here? No one would leave hungry, even without the lobsters and clams. But they'll be ready soon, so we won't have to find out.”
“You're right. Some years it just takes longer than others.” She put down her glass and picked up one of Aunt Lily Sue's eggs from a carefully shaded area on the table. “Don't you just love the Fourth of July celebrations? It's my favorite holiday. When I was a little girl, we'd have big picnics like this. Of course we didn't bury our food in the sand.”
It must have been something more than mystifying when Louise met Elliot and first heard about a Down East clambake.
“By the way, do you know that man who came with Addie and Rebecca?” Pix asked.
“Haven't you met Norman? He's been here for two weeks now. That's Addie's beau.” Louise smiled.
“Beau!”
“Well, perhaps not strictly speaking, but he does dance attendance on herâand on Rebecca, too. He's an antiques dealer from New York City and he's taking a working vacation, he told them. They're to keep his room available for a month and he comes and goes.”
New York Cityâthat explained the clothes and the good haircut. Pix was trying very hard in what she hoped was the second half of her lifeâand look at Mother, so it was not impossibleâto cultivate a more open mind about certain things, one of them being New York City. She now had a dear friend
in Faith, who had actually been born and raised there. In fact, truth be told, she might even prefer it to Aleford and Boston, although Pix was always careful never to ask outright. She didn't want to know for sure. Try as she might, the name New York City did not suggest the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, but fast living and danger. Whenever she was thereâand they dutifully took the children, as well as making one or two adult foraysâshe felt like a rube who would leap at the chance to buy the Brooklyn Bridge before she knew what she was doing.
She looked over at the Bainbridge group, appraising Norman in light of this new information.
He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. Whatever Addie had just said had sent him into peals of laughter. He'd been sitting on a blanket literally at her feet and got up now, walking toward the table with the drinks.
“Addie says he told her she's the most interesting woman he's met in years. Every time he goes off-island, he brings something back for them.”
“I'll bet he just wants to get her quilts cheap,” Pix said skeptically.
“No, he doesn't sell anything made after 1900. He told her he liked her work, but they're not his âthing.'”