The Body in the Birches (16 page)

It all depended on how Marian was. Her mother-in-law was never far from her thoughts. There had been no change in the diagnosis. She was free of pain and apparently threatening to “get out of Dodge.” Tom thought that bypass surgery would likely be scheduled soon, and Faith resolved to take Pix up on her offer to keep the kids for a few days so she could be at the hospital. She was so intent on the plan—what food she could leave Pix to feed everyone, clothes to pack, tactful admonitions of a widely varying nature for each of her offspring—that she didn't realize she had missed something major until she heard a splash and a yell. Closely followed by even louder yelling and another splash.

Sylvia Proctor was in the water flapping about and her shouts had to be reaching all the way to Bar Harbor. The captain had immediately gone in after her, pulled her toward the float and hoisted her up out of the frigid water into Will Tarkington's waiting grasp.

Wet and sputtering with fury, Sylvia cried, “Who was it? Who pushed me?”

Only the two girls had gone up the ramp and they were scampering back again, Faith noticed. Daisy made straight for her mother and flung her arms around her. Sylvia shoved her away and repeated her question. “Which of you pushed me off!”

Paul walked over and put his jacket around her shoulders. “The deck is very slippery, Sylvia. Nobody pushed you.”

The captain reappeared with what looked like a horse blanket and some towels from the boat, handing them to Sylvia.

“Don't worry. No bait smell. My wife is very particular. Now let's get you to the house and dried off good. It's just up the road.”

Sylvia burst into tears. “It's my
birthday
! Things like this aren't supposed to happen!”

Somehow it was Will who organized the rest of them to go set up the picnic while he went to wait for Sylvia and drive her there.

Autumn followed him to the car and got in the passenger's seat, her moves as graceful as a gazelle.

Sophie pulled into the parking lot at Tradewinds in Blue Hill. Some of her passengers headed across the street to the Dunkin' Donuts, still a novelty in these parts—blessedly franchise-free—while the rest went into the store for whatever they craved not currently supplied at The Birches. Rory had already told her he'd be loading a case of beer.

The picnic had gone smoothly, with everyone on best behavior, gamely wearing the party hats and lustily singing “Happy Birthday to You” to Sylvia while she blew out the single candle Sophie had placed on one of the cupcakes. “Fairy cakes,” that was what the British called them. Why were all these memories, unbidden, flooding back today? Another semantic one. “Scatter cushions”—so much nicer, gentler than “throw pillows,” although Sophie had a strong urge to throw a pillow or something else right now. What was going on? Her emotions seemed to be ricocheting not just below the surface, but out into the afternoon air.

They'd all brought small presents for Sylvia, and she had pounced on them with the glee of a kindergartener. Deirdre's gift—a beauty book for women over fifty—was nasty, but Sylvia had turned it around, remarking that Deirdre could borrow it for herself until Sylvia reached the milestone. Autumn and Rory had given her a lovely silver necklace from Sanpere's Pearson Gallery. Daisy had strung tiny origami peace cranes she'd made on a silk cord for another necklace. Sylvia had probably hoped Paul's gift
was the deed to The Birches when he handed her an envelope. Her face fell noticeably when it proved to be a card with a gift certificate for the Harbor Café.

Autumn, as usual, hadn't eaten much of anything. She spent the time feeding Will strawberries and then the two of them went off to see if they could spot any puffins that might have drifted inland. They left with Uncle Paul before the others, having first offered to help pack up—a request Sophie firmly refused. Wasn't she the maid of all work around here?

Pulling her cell from her purse, she walked to the side of the market across from the All Paws Pet Wash. Someone was washing an Irish wolfhound, and every inch of space was taken up by the dog and owner. Sophie started to laugh at the scene and immediately felt better. She keyed in her mother's cell. At this point, Sophie didn't care what time it was wherever Babs might be or what her mother might be doing. She needed to talk to her and she needed her to come to Sanpere so Sophie could leave. Her mother wanted her to find a job, right? So let her come back and let Sophie get on with her own life.

There was also the little matter of the pistol Babs was packing. Sophie didn't intend to mention it was missing, but she did want to know why her mother had felt the need to pack heat in one of the safest towns in Connecticut—and was the gun the reason she had been so insistent Sophie take the big Lexus?

Babs had set up something like twenty rings so she could take her time answering. Sophie waited patiently. But there was no answer, just Babs's crisp voice. “I'm not available. Leave me a message with your name, time, and date. Speak clearly. If I can't understand you, I can't call you back.”

Typical Babs. “It's your daughter. Sophie. That's S-O-P-H-I-E. I'm in the Tradewinds parking lot, and it's July tenth, three forty-six
P.M
. I'll call you again. You need to make plans to come to Sanpere ASAP. I mean it, Mother. Love you.”

Sophie hung up. She
did
love her mother, and without those last two words, she knew Babs would be too annoyed to take the message seriously. She'd try again after the marketing. And then, if there was still no answer, she'd drive to the spot that had cell service on the other side of Sanpere.

She had to get off the island.

Faith was tired and ready for an early night. Ben had called when his shift was over and asked if he could stay at Tyler's. They were working the breakfast-into-lunch shift tomorrow and Mandy wasn't. One of the Hamiltons would drive them over. Faith offered to pick them up, but Ben said it was okay. She started to tell him not to stay up too late and also that she could drop off clean clothes, but clamped her mouth shut. Damn, this was hard.

Ursula had been eager to hear about the day and said if there were another outing she'd join them. She had seen the colony on Matinicus Rock a number of times and was a supporter of the Puffin Project, which was repopulating some of the other islands in the Gulf of Maine with the birds, but she had never been out to Petit Manan.

“I'm going to turn in,” she said. “I'm rereading all of Dorothy Sayers's Lord Peter Wimseys this summer and
Gaudy Night
is calling me.”

Amy looked puzzled as she gave Ursula, whom she regarded as another grandmother, a kiss.

“You explain, Faith. See you both in the morning. Let's invite Daisy over and take her on the Settlement Quarry walk for more birding. Two osprey nests there this summer.”

She left the room, and as Faith was starting to explain who Dorothy Sayers was and what the word “gaudy” meant in this case—never too early for this sort of education—all the while thinking she might soon qualify as an ornithologist and couldn't
they go to Nervous Nellie's Jams & Jellies in Bonneville to bird-watch and get samples of their delicious wares instead? Amy said something. Something Faith had to ask her daughter to repeat. She did.

“Daisy thinks someone is trying to kill her mother.”

Without hesitation, Faith replied firmly, “Sweetheart,
nobody
is trying to kill, or hurt, Daisy's mother. What happened was an unfortunate accident. I began watching my step closely when I noticed the dock looked slippery, and I was wearing boat shoes. Daisy's mother had sandals on.” Leather sandals that looked like something a Roman gladiator might have worn with thin ties crisscrossing above her ankles. The soles were flat and it was easy to see how her feet had gone out from under her sending her into the drink.

Amy shook her head. “Maybe today was an accident, but there was a dead bird on her pillow the other night. It was supposed to scare her to death, Daisy says,
and
her mom has been having a lot of stomachaches. Her mom says someone is putting something in her food. She's only eating stuff she makes herself now.”

Faith moved closer and put her arm around her daughter's shoulders. They were sitting on the comfy, overstuffed couch in front of the big window overlooking the Reach in The Pines's living room. Faith was sure this particular piece of furniture had been host to many tête-à-têtes of all sorts, but perhaps none so odd as this discussion. Outside, the porch light illuminated the path, and beyond that the scene was completely dark.

It was very quiet. The windows were open, yet the usual nocturnal sounds of buzzing insects and peepers were eerily absent. The dead calm presaging a storm?

“There was no dead bird,” Faith said. “It was a puffin Beanie Baby.”

Gert had relayed the incident in all its gory and nongory details that morning, having taken an early walk through the birch grove to say hi to her friend Marge Foster—at least that's what she said. Faith thought it more likely part of the continuing investigation into what was happening at The Birches.

“It was a practical joke in very bad taste.” And, Faith realized, an easy one to pull off. Almost every gift shop on the island sold the Beanie puffins, as well as lobsters, gulls, and crabs.

“As for the possibility of food poisoning . . . ,” Faith tried to think how to delicately phrase what all the roughage Sylvia routinely consumed might be doing to her digestive system. “I think it's just some tummy troubles and maybe Daisy's mom needs to change her diet a little. A few days on clear liquids and soft foods.”

“Like maybe mushed-up bananas and vanilla ice cream?”

“Exactly.” Amy was the Fairchild most interested in food preparation and also shared her mother's willingness to try anything. It amused Faith to watch Amy make lunch for herself. A recent sandwich contained roasted peppers, rosemary ham, and honey chèvre with baby spinach leaves, plucked from the garden, on Tinder Hearth bread—baked across the bridge in Brooksville in a wood-fired oven and happily sold at the Granville Market. Amy was good at sharing, and they had ended up making another sandwich to consume together as well. Faith's number one rule for judging a person was whether he or she would share food. “If you wanted it, you should have ordered it” or “I might have a teeny cold” and other spurious excuses were dead giveaways to the persona lurking below the surface. Faith had helped her sister, Hope, avoid what would have been a disastrous marriage when she and Tom had joined the newly enamored couple for a meet-
and-greet dinner at New York's Le Bernardin and the would-be groom proved to be a food miser. Didn't even give an excuse, just said no. As did Hope the next day.

“Would you like me to have a talk with Daisy? I have to go check on the cottage tomorrow. Maybe she could come with us?”

“Great! I want to show her where I really live and we'll walk down to the big beach to look for stuff. But, Mom, I think it would be better if I talked to her. She might think you were just trying to make her feel good, but she'll
believe
me.”

Out of the mouths of babes, Faith thought. But Amy wasn't one anymore. Her little girl, who seemed to have grown several inches since they got to Sanpere, was becoming a savvy young woman.

Way too fast.

Her mother hadn't answered Sophie's phone the second time she tried in Blue Hill or later when she drove over to a spot directly facing the cell towers on Swans Island. She left another message with instructions to call The Birches, not the cell, and resigned herself to at least another week on Sanpere.

Marge Foster arrived as Sophie was setting out breakfast for everyone. So far only Daisy was up, and they were making pancakes in shapes from the batter Sophie had prepared. Sophie was not surprised to learn that Daisy had never made pancakes—had only eaten them a few times. Her mom, she told Sophie solemnly, believed that white flour, all sugar, and all milk except soy milk were poisonous to the body. Sophie was beginning to fantasize about scooping the girl up for a very long, very normal kid-friendly vacation. Someplace like Harry Potter World.

The phone rang and it was Amy, asking for Daisy. She wanted to know if her friend could spend the day with them. Sophie got on to talk with Faith while Daisy raced upstairs to ask her mother.

“Why don't you come along, too?” Faith said. “You can help me decide what color to paint the walls of the room we're adding. I'll bet you're good at this sort of thing and I have a stack of chips. One minute I'm sure it's going to be Ocean Beach, and the next Blanched Almond seems perfect, although it could be that I'm being swayed by the name.”

“I'll drop by later. Marge Foster and I are stripping all the beds and changing the sheets this morning.”

Daisy came back into the kitchen more slowly than she had left. Her little face was scrunched in a frown. “My mother isn't in her room or the bathroom. I knocked on the door, and it was Felicity. I looked on the porch and in the backyard, too. She's not anywhere. So I guess I can't go.”

Sophie told Faith, who said there was plenty of time before they would leave and to have Sylvia call as soon as she turned up.

When Sophie relayed the information to Daisy, her face shone again and they got busy making pancakes to keep warm in the oven. Marge and Sophie exchanged glances over the child's head. They were definitely on the same page.

Then everyone seemed to arrive at once. Rory devoured a stack of pancakes, and seeing his mother wasn't around, made a quick exit. Autumn toyed with a single serving and followed his example. The pancakes had disappeared in no time. Sophie made more batter and for a while the Proctors seemed like one big happy family—maybe not the Waltons, but kinfolk enjoying a summer vacation breakfast. Uncle Paul had arrived last, save Sylvia, and plans were being finalized for a picnic sail to North Haven when Sylvia appeared. Daisy immediately began asking for permission to go off with the Fairchilds, but her mother wasn't listening. Instead her attention was focused on the group finishing breakfast around the kitchen table.

“A sail to North Haven? Sounds like great fun. Daisy will love it, won't you, pumpkin?”

“
Mom
, I was just telling you I want to go to Amy's house. Her real house, not The Pines where she's staying until it's ready.”

Sylvia patted “pumpkin” on the head and said, “Another time. Today is family time.”

Daisy didn't say a word, but tears gathered in her startling blue eyes and one made its way down her cheek.

“Now, I need a bite to eat. Up at dawn. The rocks were beckoning to me, calling me to the sea, and I've had a long walk on the beach.”

Sylvia was clutching two Tupperware containers. One, Sophie knew, contained some sort of coffee substitute—could acorn be right?—and the other a cereal concoction, the ingredients anyone's guess. Sylvia had taken to keeping her foodstuffs in her room, despite Marge Foster's warning about mice. Sylvia had replied that mice were not what she was concerned about and she'd take her chances with the rodents.

“No can do, Sylvia,” Simon said smoothly. “Too many even for the good ship
Fortuna
. We're four plus Paul and Will.”

“But, Daddy,” Felicity said, “I'm playing tennis with the McDonald twins and Bitsy Biddle Bower in Blue Hill! I told you last night.”

Sophie turned away to hide her grin, both for what sounded like the start of a “Peter Piper” tongue twister and Felicity's emphasis on the name McDonald. The McDonald twins could easily be Calvin Klein underwear models. Totally built and all the rest just right, too. Apparently Felicity might be engaged to be married, but she could still look. The McDonald family had multiple homes, and the twins wouldn't be in Blue Hill long, Sophie was sure. They came to sail with their “old man” and to help host the family Fourth celebrations that culminated with a catered soiree during the fireworks that would not be out of place in the Hamptons. In fact, Sophie had heard, it had been catered this year by a Hamptons outfit. Felicity had been there with the rest of her
family and was oh so sorry Sophie had not been invited. Besides their social and familial obligations, the twins did have some sort of hedge fund–type jobs in Manhattan.

Simon patted his daughter's shoulder, not her head. “Sorry, sweet pea, you can go another time.”

All these vegetative endearments were getting ridiculous, Sophie thought—and annoying.

“You young folks go have fun. It's a splendid day for it,” Paul said. “Will and I have plenty to do here. Maybe take the car for a spin to Castine.”

“Not the plan at all” was written all over Simon's face, though he recovered quickly, Sophie observed. The mercurial swiftness of her uncle's devious mind was kind of scary. He was on to Plan B before Paul had finished speaking.

“Now, I don't think that's necessary. Sylvia, why
don't
you join us and then Felicity can keep her tennis date. We can always squeeze little Daisy in.”

Little Daisy spoke up. “I want to be with my friend. I don't want to go sailing.”

Her mother looked shocked. Sophie had the feeling it was the first time the child had spoken back to her mother. Rory needed to start giving his baby sister lessons in the care and management of Mother.

Sophie said hastily, “I'm going over to the Fairchilds' cottage to help Faith pick out paint colors later, so I can bring Daisy back. Now, what would everyone like for lunch? Egg salad sandwiches? Or I have sliced ham. Ham and pickle?” She was reverting to Brit talk again. At least she hadn't said egg mayonnaise.

An hour later, the washer was churning away and everyone had departed for his or her various destinations. Rory had not shown up again, and for once, his mother hadn't appeared to notice, so intent was she on joining the voyagers. Autumn's whereabouts didn't seem to concern her as much.

Felicity had looked the very model of a modern major tennis
player in crisp whites, the flirty skirt short enough to reveal white lace panties that were definitely not from Foot Locker. Sophie wondered whether all was proceeding smoothly toward the altar. She hadn't heard mention of Barclay, Felicity's fiancé, since the dramatic announcement of the new wedding locale. He was supposed to have arrived last weekend. Well, it was no never mind to her.

The Fairchilds had picked Daisy up, and Marge had left, too. The woman had already made the picnic lunch with some left behind for any landlubbers, done the housework, and prepared baked haddock with cracker crumb topping, scalloped new potatoes, and green beans that just needed steaming for dinner. There were still plenty of pies and other desserts in the fridge as well. Sophie thought she had certainly done more than her half-time day's work.

While she was waiting to switch the wash to the dryer, Sophie decided to check her e-mail. Babs might have contacted her. But there was nothing save two more “Sorry, we don't have any openings at this times,” several offers for Canadian prescription drugs, and a perky E-Save the Date from a Wharton classmate about her destination wedding in Fiji.

She pushed back the chair, got up, and thought about what to do next. The house was in order. They'd changed all the beds and all she had to do was fold the wash when it was dry. There used to be long clotheslines in the backyard and Sophie remembered the smell of the fresh linen, something a dryer sheet could never duplicate. Also how Priscilla had made it fun to hang the wash up with the old-fashioned wooden clothespins that Sophie also used for making dolls. That would be a good thing to do with Daisy, although maybe she was a bit old for it. Her cousin would soon enter her teens, Sophie reminded herself.

Being at the computer brought back her futile search for information about Will Tarkington. She'd watched the
Fortuna
leave the mooring and start to tack up the Reach. Will wouldn't be back for hours. Time for another kind of search?

Feeling as if she should be wearing a trench coat and carrying a magnifying glass in her pocket, Sophie headed for the boathouse.

She stepped outside the kitchen door. Uncle Paul had been right. It was a great day to be on the water, or anywhere else. The heat had not returned and the threatened storm had passed well to the east of them. A walk was just what she needed after her busy morning.

There was no reason she shouldn't be going into her own boathouse, well they didn't exactly know whose boathouse yet, but it was still the whole family's, Sophie told herself, brushing away the clandestine feeling that had swept over her the moment she started to slide the double door open.

The interior was dim. There weren't many windows and those needed a good cleaning. It smelled a little musty, but it wasn't an unpleasant odor. More like a combination of dried salt, ropes—or rather lines—and canvas cloth. She moved inside, not sure what she was looking for amid the canoes that had been retired in favor of kayaks, oars, paddles, mooring balls, pot buoys, fishing gear, a stack of boat cushions, and almost a mountain of life vests in assorted sizes. She hadn't been in here for a long time. Hadn't been on Sanpere at all, and as she watched the sun make its way through the old panes, picking up dust motes as it lit up the long tool bench against one wall, she was filled with an emotion the strength of which shocked her. She didn't want anyone else to have The Birches. Paul
had
to pick Babs. If not, a part of her own being would be lost to Sophie forever.