The Body in the Birches (19 page)

Will grabbed a dish towel and started drying what Sophie had put in the rack. “I could probably eat another stack. They were delicious. Buttermilk? But I don't want to spoil my appetite for future meals. This kitchen has been serving up the best food on the island.”

“Yes, I did use buttermilk, and it's really just plain Yankee cooking.” Now, that sounded snarky, too. Yankee! What was wrong with her?

“Uncle Paul, Sylvia, and Daisy have gone over to the Tennis Preserve and I'm off to Granville to get lobsters and clams for dinner,” she said.

Simon had been sitting at the table reading the
Wall Street Journal
on his tablet. He looked up.

“Get some of Granville Seafood's smoked mussels to have first. Plain and the ones in mustard sauce.” He didn't reach for his wallet.

“Why don't I run you down?” Will said. “You haven't been in the Triumph—just near it,” he added with a mischievous grin.

Before Sophie could answer, Simon, who had not returned to his paper but seemed to be watching the two, said, “The car's too small and, in any case, I've been wanting to chat with you, Will, about an idea I have that concerns your uncle.”

“I'm sure it can wait, can't it? The Triumph has a large boot, as the British call it. Sophie seems to be doing all the toting and I'd like to help.”

She'd been about to accept, but the image of Will and Autumn on the boat as well as just a short while ago in the garden muddled her initial thoughts of sitting next to the tall Southerner in the undeniably sexy vintage sports car.

“Uncle Simon is right. I wouldn't want to drip anything from the lobster or clams on those precious seats.”

Will shrugged and sat down at the table across from Simon. He did not look happy.

“What's on your mind, sir?” He sounded coldly polite. There was a “Frankly I don't give a damn” lurking not far behind the sentence.

There was no mistaking Simon's look of annoyance at the use of “sir,” a term Sophie was sure her uncle thought suggested a much older man. Was this yet another move in this high-stakes, winner-takes-all Birches game? Curiosity kept Sophie from leaving and she took the memo pad from the fridge to make another shopping list, one not strictly necessary.

Simon started right in. “It has been a little over a year since we lost Aunt Priscilla, and it was a devastating blow to me. She was the person I was closest to in the family. A much warmer person, I'm sorry to say, than my own mother, Mary, and Daniel,
my father, was wrapped up in his work as was typical for men of his generation. None of this changing diapers, hands-on parenting the way it is now.”

“As it was for you?” Will didn't hide his skepticism, Sophie noted.

Simon ignored the comment.

“Priscilla is buried with all the other Proctors in Massachusetts, and it well may be that Paul will want to rest with his family in the South.”

Simon made it sound like a destination akin to Limbo. It was all Sophie could do to keep from laughing aloud. She was glad she'd stayed.

“There is no memorial to her, or any of the family, on the island and I'd like to surprise Paul with something tasteful, a small granite obelisk perhaps with the names and dates of everyone who has gone before Aunt Priscilla, too. An enduring tribute that could be placed somewhere on the property.”

“With plenty of room for those Proctors to follow who will be going to their just reward?”

Completely missing Will's mocking tone, Simon nodded. “Exactly.”

“And this would be a gift to Uncle Paul from everyone?”

“Oh no. This would just be from me. And my wife and children, of course. Because of the very special relationship I had with Aunt Priscilla. To commemorate it. I have been in touch with one of the stonecutters on the island who does this sort of work. But I thought I would run it by you, although I am sure Uncle Paul will be very moved.”

“I think that's fair to say.” Will stood up. “If you'll excuse me, I'm heading over to the Preserve. I want to be sure Uncle Paul isn't getting tired. He may want to leave before the others.”

“Don't trouble yourself. I can drive over.”

“It's no trouble. You see we have what you might call a very special relationship.”

He let the screen door slam behind him and didn't look back to see the expression on Simon's face. He didn't need to, Sophie thought, grabbing her purse to leave, too.

Faith called Tom to tell him she was in Blue Hill with a full complement of those lovely little cell phone bars. He'd seen his mother, and although she was still groggy, she had instructed him to take his father and siblings out to dinner “on her.” For some reason she was instructing him using a very bad French accent. He told Faith he'd once seen his mother approaching this condition after several cups of a Patriot's Day punch that she thought was pure fruit juice, but this was something else again—“high as a kite and never funnier.” Giddy with relief, the Fairchilds had decided to do what Marian said, and since cuisine française was not at hand, were heading for Italia and the Trattoria San Pietro in their hometown. Thinking of the restaurant's excellent seafood pastas, Faith decided to do something similar for dinner. They needed to celebrate here, too. Linguine with a garlicky clam sauce and plenty of the flat-leafed Italian parsley from Ursula's garden would hit the spot.

With a gift for Marian in mind, she headed first for The Meadow and, with Karen Brandenburg's expert help, assembled an array of self-indulgent soaps, lotions, and bath oils that her mother-in-law would never buy for herself. At the last moment, she added a long peony pink slightly ruffled silk scarf. The Meadow would package it all up beautifully and send it. Impulsively, Faith added the same scarf in blue to give to Ursula. It was that kind of day.

At the garden center, Faith soon filled one of their red wagons with several varieties of astilbe for Ursula and another with an ambitious selection of perennials for herself. She knew she'd have to plant them all, but in their pots they looked so pretty, and the toil that awaited—the sweaty digging while mosquitoes whined in her ears—was not going to deter her from loading up. Several
new varieties of daylilies—always her friends, more elegant bell-shaped campanula, Moonbeam Coreopsis—how could she resist the name? She couldn't resist Dragon's Blood Sedum for the same reason, too. Tolkien fans Ben and Amy would appreciate it, plus the flowers were wonderfully crimson, and it would spread. Fill in the holes. Two summers ago she had succeeded in growing delphinium at last. She added another, blue with a white center, and, throwing caution to the winds, decided to try lavender once more. Hidcote, an English lavender, might work. A climate more similar to Maine than that of Provence, the source of her previous failures.

“Looks like you're opening a branch down on the island,” a voice behind her said.

Faith turned to see Ed Ricks. “I guess I'm getting carried away, but I can't resist a sale, especially here. What are you looking for?”

“Advice about my climbing hydrangea. It is very peaked. And that's what led me astray. Althea told me I've almost watered it to death, thinking I was saving it.”

“Ursula has one climbing up one of the brick chimneys and it's flourishing. I don't think anyone has ever done anything to it. Maybe neglect is the answer.”

Ed laughed. “Easier said than done in my case. Too many years dealing with the results for the
Homo sapiens
species. Do you have to get back right away? If not, how about getting something to eat at the De-Li? They're open until three.”

Feeling very much off the leash and also very hungry, the idea of sitting outside overlooking Blue Hill's harbor from the front deck of the small deli sounded ideal.

“I'll settle up here and meet you,” Faith said.

As she drove the short distance, Faith came to a decision. She couldn't keep worrying about Ben without telling Tom—couldn't keep the fact that she was finding bodies a secret either, for that matter. Ed had his finger on the pulse of the island, and at the moment, she wanted it on hers as well. She was loathe to take advantage
of his expertise in his retirement, but he had said the last time they talked to feel free to call on him for anything.

At the restaurant, she ordered an egg salad sandwich—her comfort food. The De-Li's was a delicious deviled egg version that added mustard, vinegar, and celery salt to the traditional ingredients. Taking a tall glass of iced coffee outside, she found Ed waiting for her with iced chai.

“How is your mother-in-law doing?” he said. “I forgot to ask back at Mainescape.”

Faith brought him up to date, and their sandwiches arrived. He was having one of their specials—a Black Forest ham panini with Swiss cheese and apple slices.

They were sitting on the same side of the picnic table so they could both have the view. On a day like this, there was constant activity as pleasure boats left and fishing boats put in. Faith took a bite of her sandwich. Ed paused, his partway to his mouth.

“You want to talk about it?” he said.

Faith swallowed and gave a wry smile. “It's that obvious or you're a very good shrink—or some kind of wizard.”

“How about all of the above? Faith, you found Dwayne Hitchcock and that must have been terribly upsetting, coming so soon after being on the scene where Bev died, too. Your husband is away, and I know Ursula and her whole family are there for you, but it's not the same.”

“You're right. Except I don't want to burden Tom with any of this now. For one thing, what can he do? Besides his mother, he has a clerical obligation starting in a few days and can't get up here until after that.” She hesitated. “It's not just the two deaths.” She told him about Ben, starting with the fight outside the Legion Hall dance and ending with the visit last night from Earl.

“Has Mandy turned up?” she asked as she finished the tale.

“No. And it's not like her.”

“That's what I keep hearing.”

“I think you do need to share all this with Tom. Not to get
too technical on you, but as we say in the trade, ‘You have a lot on your plate.'” He smiled at her.

“And here all these years, I thought my mother coined that phrase when we wanted more cake.”

Ed looked serious again. “The good reverend's used to hearing things like this. Yes, tougher when it's his family, but you can't keep dealing with it on your own. And I'm sure one of the first things he'll say is how upset he'd have been if you
hadn't
told him.”

This was something Faith had not considered. Were it the other way around, she would have been mad as hell at her spouse for keeping it from her.

“Should I ask Ben to quit his job?”

Ed shook his head. “Not unless you want that to be your battleground this summer. That's the tough one for parents—which battleground to choose. I've heard good things about the chef, and Ben's friend Tyler is there with him. I feel a little sorry for Derek Otis. At his age, running an operation like The Laughing Gull is a lot of responsibility to have dumped in your lap—and I'm pretty sure that's what happened. My sense is his parents got tired of what one might term his aimless pursuit of pleasure and bought the business for him, thinking being an innkeeper would suit his outgoing personality. He was all for it and maybe he'll stick with it. But there's more required than meeting and greeting. I doubt either he or his parents took that into account.”

“Ben would be very angry if we insisted he quit, and you're right. It's not the right issue,” Faith said. “I'm sure he'd say he hasn't done anything wrong and that we're being overprotective. But I can't shake the feeling that something toxic is going on at the Lodge, and Mandy's disappearance is making it worse. When Earl came last night, he said her father's death wasn't an accident. That it was being treated as a homicide. What made them rule out an unintended overdose so fast?”

Faith was sure Ed knew. He would have responded to the call and come to some conclusions on the spot, plus he would also be
privy to the information shared from the sheriff's office. Whether he would share with her was the question.

He did. “It's a small island, so you'll hear eventually. A couple of things jumped out at us right away. Dwayne is no stranger to those of us on the ambulance corps. A neighbor, Leilah, or Mandy—whoever was around—saved his life more than once when he overdosed on alcohol. Determined effort on his part, considering his size. He also had frequent diabetic seizures.”

“Seth Marshall told me that Dwayne had some sort of disability and hadn't worked in years,” Faith said.

“He was at the paper mill a while back and claimed he broke his wrist on the job. I think they were happy to get rid of him. He probably did it himself during a liquid lunch in the parking lot. He had a motorcycle in those days, and it wasn't long before he was back on it, so it couldn't have been much. Then in recent years he took to the lawn chair. The point of all this is that alcohol was his drug of choice—and food. Occasionally pills when he could get a doctor who didn't know him, or was just plain foolish, to prescribe them. He didn't have the money they cost now from a dealer, so he wasn't that kind of addict. None of us ever picked up rumors that he was doing the hard stuff.”

“But I've heard that heroin is easy and relatively cheap to get, all over Maine.”

Ed nodded. “True, but even if he had enough cash, Dwayne was phobic about needles. Wouldn't even get a tattoo—and the crowd he ran with when he was younger was covered with them. Each time he was hauled into the hospital, he was a total baby when it came to an IV. And would drop into a dead faint at the sight of a syringe.”

“So shooting up would have been the last thing he would have done.”

“Well, it was the last thing. Only we're pretty sure he wasn't the one who did it.”