Pix heard him with only half an ear, although that half did cause an internal comment of promises, promises, before zeroing in on the matter at handâliterally. She'd have to watch out. Her mind was running amok. So, Seth claimed not to have been at the site for several weeks. The police could probably tell how long the soda cans and other debris had been around. Without carbon dating, it would be impossible to say when the venerable cement mixer had been set in place.
There was no point in delaying further. She had to tell him. He'd spot it the moment he walked over to the excavation, and he was moving that way.
“There's a dead body buried in the cellar hole. My dog started to dig it up.”
“What!”
Seth's bushy eyebrows rose clear out of sight, disappearing somewhere into his mane of hair.
Pix was patient. It was a lot to take in. “The dog was digging at something and when we went to see what it was, it turned out to be somebody's hand. There's a very dead person over there. Wrapped in a quilt.”
“A quilt?” Seth seized on the word, the only one suggestive of normalcy.
“Yes, a patchwork quilt.”
“I don't believe it!”
Pix knew he wasn't referring to the quilt. “Come and see for yourself.” He followed her over to the edge of the pit he and his crew had dug in the spring. There hadn't been anything other than rocks in the ground then.
“Holy shit! It's a hand!”
Pix nodded. It was the third time she'd approached. The hand was beginning to look familiar.
“We've got to get Earl out here!”
“Samantha was with me and she went to the Hamiltons' for help. They should be here soon.”
“I've got a shovel and a pickax in the truck. You sit out of the way and I'll dig him up. It could be pretty nasty.”
Pix figured Seth would want to take action. Most men usually did, however she'd been close enough to her friend Faith's sleuthing activities to know that they should leave well enough alone. Not that she had exactly, but digging the body up would definitely be regarded by the police as tampering with evidence, and she told Seth so.
Without something to do, he seemed visibly shaken and went to the truck for a beer.
“Want one?”
Pix did, but somehow the picture she might present to her daughter, Sergeant Dickinson, and Freeman Hamilton, who would surely not stay home once he learned there was a body on the Point, was a bit unseemly. Not to mention that it would be all over the island that she had been drinking with Seth Marshall while someone lay stone cold only a few feet away. Not by any stretch of the imagination could this be called a wake. At a wake, it was customary at least to know the name of the deceased.
“Do you have anybody new working for you this summer? Anybody who's been missing for a while?”
Seth came and sat down next to Pix on her boulder. The dogs had long since quieted down and were snoring peacefully in the afternoon sun.
“You're trying to figure out who it is, right? Well, I haven't. It's the same crew as last summer, and some from the summer before. The Atherton kid was helping us on the camp work, but I told his folks I couldn't afford to hire him for other work. They were paying him for what he did there. Or didn't do is more like it.”
“Have you heard of anyone missing? Here or on the mainland?”
Seth shook his head. “Of course, we don't know how long the body's been here, but I haven't heard anything at all, and you know the way news gets around.”
Pix continued to pursue her line of questioning.
“I assume the whole island knew you were working out here and had dug the hole for the foundation.”
“Yup, it wasn't a secret.”
“But who knew you hadn't poured yet?”
“Probably all the same people, since I've been at the other places instead of here for some time now. But I was planning to pour this week. Not too many people would have known that.”
They were getting somewhere.
“Who would have known?”
“Okay now, let me see. I was ordering the lumber for the footings at Barton's and I may have mentioned it then. I told my mother, because she said you would be here soon and if I didn't get going, you'd have my hide, which is true.” Seth smiled and the pirate was replaced by a mischievous little boyâlittle boy, despite his thirty-odd years. He'd been one of the island's footloose and fancy-free young bachelors for so long, it was hard to think of his ever settling downâor getting any older. He lived with his parents in Granville, the larger of the island's two main towns, Sanpere Village being the other. His mother, Serena, was a member of the Ladies' Sewing Circle with Pix's own mother. The Sewing Circle. That tore it. If Serena knew, it might as well have been listed under “Coming Events” in
The Island Crier.
Small-town life made criminal investigation nearly impossible. There were rarely any skeletons in anyone's closet, because at one time or another, some friend or neighbor had opened it “by mistake,” ostensibly looking for something else. “How's your uncle Enoch doing?” asked in the right tone of voice would be enough to elicit the information that he was drying out up to Bangor and how the hell did you know, anyway?
All this was running through Pix's mind, along with the inevitable conclusion that she couldn't figure anything out, island
mores or no, until she had found out who the corpse had been for a start. She abandoned her previous line of inquiry.
“So, this is definite? You're going to start work tomorrow?”
“If Earl will let me,” Seth replied.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. There was a slight breeze and the leaves in the aspen grove behind them rustled softly. Seth took a pull on his bottle of beer, then asked, “Did it seem like it was attached?”
Pix knew what he meant. “I think so.”
“Could be part of him is here, part someplace else.”
“I hope not,” Pix said, her queasiness returning at the idea of dismembered body parts turning up at construction sites from Kittery to Calais.
They were quiet again, subdued by the grisly suggestion, but Seth couldn't stay still for long.
He smacked his forehead dramatically. “I must be losing my mind. I've got a CB in the truck. I can call Earl myself and find out what's keeping him.” He walked rapidly toward the pickup and soon Pix heard the crackle of static and Seth's muffled words. He was back within minutes.
“He's already on his way. But I bet Freeman beats him.”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when Freeman's truck pulled in and screeched to a halt, sending gravel flying in all directions and starting the dogs barking again. Samantha flew out her door and was at her mother's side before Freeman had even opened his. When he stepped out, Pix could see he had his Sunday clothes on, which meant several less layers than usual. His fisherman's tanâforearms, face, and neckâwas a deep mahogany color, contrasting with his thick mat of light gray-white hair.
Samantha spoke, her voice full of concern: “Mom, the police will be here right away. Are you okay?”
Considering the only danger had been from her own overactive
mind, Pix was able to answer, “I'm fine. How about you?”
Freeman answered for her, “She was a little wobbly when she first got to me, but she's calmed down some. Nan came home and that helped.” He did not seem surprised to see Seth and nodded to him. “Hello, Seth. Where's this body of yours now? Lucky I decided to fix Nan's washer today instead of going fishing with Charlie Porter.”
“It's over here, in the foundation. And it's not mine,” Seth added snappishly.
The two men went over to the edge of the excavation. Pix decided she'd seen enough of the hand to last her a lifetime and returned to her perch on the rock, making room for Samantha and holding her near. Her daughter still looked very pale and seemed to be shivering in her jeans and T-shirt despite the warmth of the sun.
“Gorry,” they heard Freeman exclaim. “Think someone cut him up in pieces?”
Seth's speculation and Freeman's further reaction were cut short by Sgt. Earl Dickinson's arrival. Uniformed, tall, and ramrod-straight, he looked very official. And with his closely cropped light brown hair and deep blue eyes, he looked very handsome. He addressed Pix and Samantha first. “Show me where you found it and how you got down and up.”
Earl Dickinson was a man who always went straight to the point. When it became apparent that the earth had been disturbed by both of them, as well as Artie, the sergeant jumped in the hole himself, inspected the evidence, and climbed back out. “No one else been in there?”
Pix answered for them: “No.”
“All right, then, stay out of it. I've got to call in to report, then we can talk. The state police are sending a unit.”
He was back in a few minutes with his notebook out and pen clicked. They sat on and around Pix's boulder, at his feet like so many schoolchildren. First he wanted to know exactly when the Millers had arrived and how the body had been partially
unearthed, then he asked all the questions Pix had. Did Seth have anyone new working for him? When had Seth been at the site last?
After he was finished, he closed his notebook with a sharp snap and buttoned it into his pocket, along with the pen. “Not a whole lot you folks can do here, so I suggest you go home and keep your mouths shut as much as is humanly possible when everyone on this island will be asking you what's going on. Until we dig him out, we don't have anything to go on, except that somebody appears to have used a perfectly good quilt as a shroud.”
The sergeant's vocabulary was taking on a new richness, Pix noted. Maybe it was Jill's influence. But he had hit upon the thing bothering her, too. Yankee thrift being what it was, why not wrap the body in an old tarp or burlap? She wanted to tell him about the mark she'd found on the quilt, yet heeding his caution, she decided to wait until they were alone. Not that she didn't trust Freeman and Seth, especially Freeman.
“Then Samantha and I will be going. I'd like to get her home.” And into her nice secure little bed with a cup of chamomile tea, she thought.
“I'll take you,” Freeman offered. Seth looked a bit lost and said he'd stick around to keep Earl company until the staties showed up.
“No, you go along, too. We know how to get a hold of you if we need you,” Earl said. Effectively dismissed, Seth mumbled what could have been a good-bye and roared off in the pickup.
“Needs a new muffler,” Freeman commented.
Earl nodded and Pix half-expected him to take out his notebook and make an entry, but most of the pickups on the island needed new mufflers. It wasn't considered a citable offense, unless you were caught drag racing on the old cemetery road in Granville, a road so blackened by burned rubber that locally it was called “the speedway.”
So they went their separate paths to spend the afternoon
trying not to think about what was uppermost in their thoughts: Who was the body in the Fairchilds' basementâand who had put it there?
Â
The dead man turned out to be Mitchell Pierce. While not exactly an island resident, he was not unknown on Sanpere, having spent time living there off and on while he was working at his purported craft: the restoration of old houses. But Mitchell also lived all along the coast from Camden past Bar Harbor, depending on where he was working. And to complicate matters still further, he was known to disappear for months at a time, purportedly (again) to the Pacific North-west.
Purport,
in various forms, was a word that turned up often in conversations about Mitch. In addition to his restoration work, he dabbled in antiques, buying and selling. In fact, he bought and sold almost anything from Mercedes coupes to odd lots of canned goods. He was a man who lived by his wits and it was a well-known fact that these wits often took him close to the law.
Provenance
was something that Mitch defined broadly, as it suited his own needs. An exquisite piece of folk art could have been made in 1890 or 1990. What mattered, Mitch was quick to point out to his detractors, was that it was exquisite.
In another era, Mitch might have sold snake oil, and the pitch he made to new purchasers of old houses was not unlike the slippery patter of his antecedents. His charm was hard to resist and levelheaded Boston businessmen found themselves uncharacteristically turning their houses and charge accounts at Barton's Lumber over to Mitch so he might bring the dwelling back to its pristine glory. Mitch got free rent and free rein. Sometimes the customers were satisfied. Mitch
did
know what he was doing. And sometimes they returned in the spring to find hide nor hair of him, their pipes burst, and an astronomical bill waiting at Barton's. Still, he kept getting jobs.
It wasn't that he was particularly good-looking. Short, with
a wide widow's peak, the adjacent bald patches threatening to spread back across the dome of his head, he'd developed a paunch at thirty; now at forty, it could be described less kindly. He had an impish grin, an infectious laugh, took no one, including himself, seriously, and was wonderful company.