He'd done some work on The Pines a few years ago and Ursula stood over him the whole time. He'd expected nothing less and they parted friends, but Pix hadn't fallen under his sway. She didn't trust himânot on her tintype, and especially not on his.
It was Mother who called to reveal who the dead man was, of course.
Ursula was miffed that Pix hadn't informed her immediately about her grisly find, but Pix had always been a good little girl. So when Earl told her to keep her mouth shut, she took it as a sacred trust.
“But certainly you could have said something to your own mother!”
“I didn't even tell Sam. Now, of course, I can, since everyone seems to know even more than I do and I found him.” Pix often found being good didn't shower one with the rewards implicitly promised.
“Why don't you come over here for tea and we'll talk about it. How is Samantha?”
“She slept when we came back and seems fine now. Arlene and her boyfriend asked her to go to the movies in Ellsworth and that should take her mind off it. And it will help when she knows who it was. I doubt she ever met him. If it had been someone she knew, that would have been worse.”
“All right, then. When she leaves, you come on over.”
Pix agreed and hung up. She really ought to call Sam now and most certainly should call the Fairchilds. Tom was probably out on parish business. Maybe it would be better if they were both together and she could tell Sam at the same time, because the first thing he'd do after hanging up would be to
run next door. Besides, her mother might have picked up some more things and Pix would have further information for them. She'd wait until she came back.
Feeling like the abject coward she knew herself to be, she waved good-bye to Samantha, whose color was back, and set off for tea and maybe sympathy.
The tea tray was on the front porch and her mother was waiting. The family took as many meals outside as the weather and time of day permitted. None of the Rowes liked to be indoors when they could be enjoying the view and the air up close.
“It must have been terribly upsetting for you, darling,” Ursula said, taking Pix's hand in both of her own.
“It was.” Pix sat down in one of the wicker chairs that they had never thought to cushion. The latticework that appeared on the back of one's legs when one was wearing shorts was a kind of badge of authenticity. “I was mostly worried about Samantha. But she seems to be all right, even a little excited. None of her friends have ever found a body,” Pix added with a slight grimace.
“A dubious distinction at best, but I'm glad she is not upset. The whole thing is puzzling, though. Who on earth would want to kill Mitchell? He was always a complete gentleman when he was here, although I know others have not been so fortunate in their dealings with him. He did a beautiful job removing all that dry rot in the back addition. I'd hoped he would be able to repair the latticework on the porches this summer. I suppose it's too late now.”
“Much too late, Mother. The man is dead.”
“I know, dear. I told
you,
remember.”
Pix did.
“I hope the Fairchilds weren't too disturbed by all this. It's not the way one likes to start a new house.”
“I haven't reached them yet.” Pix skirted the truth. “But I don't think they'll be too upset. It just happened to be their
basement. It could have been anybody'sâand they didn't know him.”
“This business of wrapping him in a quilt ⦠such an odd thing to do. What was the pattern?”
Pix was amazed there was something her mother didn't know.
“It was a red-and-white Drunkard's Pathâvery nicely done, tiny hand stitching. It looked old. Although, I couldn't see much of it.” And there were those bloodstains obscuring the work. Pix gagged on her tea and her mother had to pound her vigorously on the back before she stopped coughing.
“Well, whoever did kill him must be an exceptionally nasty person.”
“I think we can assume that,” Pix said.
“No, besides being evil. Drunkard's Pathâit's just plain nasty to call attention to Mitchell's drinking problem. He's been fighting it for years.”
Ursula must have grown very close to Mitchell over the dry rot, Pix speculated. There didn't appear to be much she didn't know about the man. No reason not to take advantage of Mother's winning ways.
“Did he have a family? I never heard that he was married.”
“No, he never married. I don't think he was really very interested in womenâor men. Just things. He definitely liked things, especially beautiful and valuable things. Of course he must have had a mother and father, but he never spoke of themâor any brothers or sisters. He did mention that he grew up in Rhode Island, though.”
“We should tell Earl that. It might be a lead.”
“I will, or you can tell him. Mitchell knew a great many people on the island, but not many people knew him. He minded his own business.”
And probably for very good reasons as far as Mitchell was concerned, Pix thought.
“Seth knew him best, I'd say.”
“Seth!”
“Yes, when he was a teenager, he worked for Mitchell. I've often heard Seth say he learned everything he knows about building and restoring houses from Mitch. They were very close for a time. You know the way boys that age look up to someone a little older who seems to know everything. I think Mitchell even lived with the Marshalls one winter. Maybe Seth can repair the latticework. I hadn't thought of him.”
“Not until he finishes the Fairchilds' house,” Pix said firmly. “The latticework has needed repair for several years and it can hold out a little longer.”
She took another cup of tea, turned down her mother's offer of sherry as sunset drew nigh, and set off for home to make her phone calls.
Â
The Pines was across a causeway connecting Sanpere and Little Sanpere. It was a short road, but it twisted and turned precariously above the rocky shoreline. It was another favorite place for the local kids to drag and had witnessed several tragedies over the years. There were no guardrails. Large rocks had been set on either side and this year they were painted with bright white luminous paint to help keep drivers on track. It wasn't a road she liked to think of Samantha negotiating at night.
She passed through Sanpere Village with its lovely old ship captains' houses, some with widow's walks, facing the sea. Her friends Elliot and Louise Frazier lived in one, and Louise was planting geraniums in a huge old blue-and-white stoneware crock in the fading daylight. Pix waved and continued on. The Fraziers belonged to the same group that Pix fancied her family didâpeople not orginally from Sanpere who either now lived here year-round or had been coming in the summer for so long that the line between native-born and “summer person” had blurred. They weren't islanders, but they were close to it. Elliot Frazier had been the postmaster for years and both he and Louise had served on many of the
town's boards. They were even further across the line than the Millers and Rowes, although if there had been an honorary islander award, Pix's mother would have won it years ago. Being admitted to the Sewing Circle amounted to the same thing.
As Pix drove across the island on one of the three roads that connected the loop Route 17 made around the circumference, she thought about all these distinctions and wondered why people always found it so necessary to put other people in neat little categories, and why indeed she prided herself so much on her own label.
Many of the summer people actively fought the monikerâbuying their clothes at the fishermen's supply, driving beat-up old trucks, and studiously avoiding the vacation community on the island. These same people tended to count how often they received the traditional island road greetingâa few fingers casually raised from the top of the steering wheel and maybe a slight nod as vehicles passed.
The rusticators, families who had been coming for generations, had always hired local people to work for them as caretakers, and cooks and they didn't pretendâor in some cases wantâto blend in. Their ways had been set by a grandmother or grandfather in '02 and successive generations found no reason for change. They sailed. They took vigorous walks. They picnickedâwith the same immense wicker hampers outfitted with thermos bottles, china, utensils, a rug to spread on the ground, and a folding camp stool if required by an elderly member. They wore squashed salt-encrusted, white canvas sun hats that did not prevent their faces from turning a ruddy bronze, complete with peeling nose, by August.
Where did Mitchell Pierce fit into the social scheme? Pix wondered. He wasn't a summer person, but he was from away. He was more intimate with the native population of Sanpere, since he'd boarded in various island homes at times. These people generally spoke approvingly of him, even after some major disaster when a foundation he had finished crumbled
because there was too much sand in the concrete. He loved to listen to the old-timers' stories and could recount the history of the island better than most who had grown up here. He played the mandolin passably and was a popular addition for musical evenings, where he was sure to be asked for “Rainbow” and “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Yet his last series of misadventures had left an unpleasant taste even in the mouths of these supporters.
He'd been working on a large Victorian mansion originally constructed by a shipyard owner in Sanpere Village. The current owners, wealthy summer people, lived in Chicago during the winter. Mitch had charged not only building supplies at Barton's but also food at the IGA and bread and other baked goods at Louella Prescott's. Louella ran a small bakery from her kitchen and had learned the same delectable recipes from her mother that her sister, Gert, had. Both women were noted especially for their pies, and in Louella's case, the best anadama bread in Maine, or perhaps anywhere.
Mitch had disappeared midwinter and was sighted up in Northeast Harbor with a booth at an antiques show. He told someone there that he planned to return to Sanpere to finish the job and settle his accounts, but he never again crossed the bridge to anyone's knowledgeâand there were plenty of people looking for him. Barton's was a big outfit, and in any case, the owners of the house he was working on would be forced to cover the bill, since they'd given Mitch carte blanche. But Louella, and Vincent at the IGA, had trouble absorbing the loss. Mitch had run up quite a tab. His habit of turning up on your doorstep with a pie in one hand and a few pints of the expensive ice cream Vince stocked as a luxury item didn't seem the generous and kindhearted gesture it once had. Local opinion was that Mitch should come back and face the music.
Pix could almost hear what people were no doubt saying now. Well, old Mitchell is back, but the only music he's facing is harp music, and that might be doubtful.
She added another category for people like Mitch.
The Fairchilds were clearly going to be summer people, arriving for a vacation, pure and simple, leaving only their footsteps behind.
Samantha's employers were a blend, since Jim's family had been coming for such a long time, plus they were now living here year-round. But Valerie's southern accent alone would keep them at arm's length as outsiders for years.
Jill Merriwether drove past Pix on the opposite side of the road. They'd reached the two steep up and down hills that were so much fun to drive, like a roller coaster. Jill gave more than the laconic saluteâa big smile and a wave. Had she heard about Mitch?
Pix suddenly remembered that Jill had added antiques to her shop. She'd talked about it during the Memorial Day weekend and mentioned that Mitch was one of her suppliers, so she must have known how to get in touch with him. Pix made a note to herself to talk to Jill and try to find out where Mitch had been living.
Jill's shop was close to the Sanpere Inn, lovingly restored six years ago by its new owners and saved from certain ruin. Mitch had worked on that, too, she recalled. The inn sat next to the millpond, facing the harbor across another small causeway. In a short time, it had become well known for its picturesque location and fine cuisine. Jill had quickly noted that its clientele was more interested in nineteenth-century marine paintings and pine chests than in mugs decorated with lobsters or jars of blueberry jam. She'd been excited about getting into the antiques business and had told Pix she was reading everything she could get her hands on. Pix reminded her not to overlook finds at the dump. A previous enterprise in Sanpere had obtained most of its stock that way when various local people traded up for a matching living room set from Sears, complete with his and her recliners, leaving the old rickety stuff off to one side by the household trash.
Pix turned down the long dirt road to their house. No matter how often she did this, she always felt an immediate sense
of well-being. The first cove she passed had been posted for red tide this summer and no clamming or worming was allowed. But the cove at the foot of the meadow by their house had always tested out fine. It was illegal to cross private property to get to the shore, though anyone could come by boat and did. She'd see them bent over the mud with their short-handled rakes. Clamming and worming were backbreaking work. Digging in the mud for sea worms and bloodworms, freshwater bait, wasn't any better. Eking out a living on Sanpere had never been easy, but it was especially hard during the current recession. Men and women had to be Jacks and Jills of all trades. And that brought her back to Mitch again.