The Body in the Birches (20 page)

Faith thought back to the man she had seen, a mound molded
onto what must have been a sturdy lawn chaise, day after day, except in the pouring rain. He often appeared asleep or, now she realized, was passed out. It would have been easy to approach him without disturbing him, but to tie his arm off and send what must have been a megadose into his compromised bloodstream—how would someone have been able to do that? And in broad daylight?

“It must have been someone he knew,” she said.

“That's why they're looking for Mandy,” Ed said.

After his words, they sat in total silence for a while. The view was no longer a serene one. The contrast with the images in Faith's mind was enormous—the picturesque harbor seemed a mockery, a kind of painted ship upon a painted ocean.

“Leilah was at work. No doubt about it,” Ed said softly. “Dwayne used to knock her around, and Earl thinks he may have done the same with Mandy—or worse. Couple of years ago Dwayne began saying Mandy wasn't his.”

Faith felt sick. “And no one tried to intervene?” She thought of all those notices, small and poster size, about help lines in the island restrooms and other places.

“Not that I know of. And Mandy would have had to tell someone. The problem with domestic abuse is denial coupled with the way most abusers manipulate their victim. ‘I wouldn't have hit you if you hadn't made me.'”

Faith kept trying to find some logic in a terrifyingly illogical situation. “I don't know the girl, but everyone keeps saying how intelligent she is. Wouldn't she have been smarter about it?”

“It”—she found she couldn't say the word. Say aloud what she was thinking: murder. She kept on. “Done it in a less dramatic way. And Mandy would have known about his fear of needles.”

“She
is
smart. Given that, maybe planned the whole thing to point suspicion away from her or her mother. I'm just telling you what the thinking is now. Why Earl said it wasn't accidental. We
don't have the full postmortem results, just some preliminary blood work. As expected, Dwayne's blood alcohol level was through the roof, but we've known him to survive higher. And they found traces of heroin, but there may also be something more. He may have been drugged with something else so the fix could be administered without his waking up.”

Driving back, despite the end of the conversation with Ed, Faith felt the familiar surge of pleasure as she started up the seventy-five-year-old suspension bridge—that graceful and essential link from Sanpere to the rest of the world. There were those who seldom crossed it heading away from Sanpere and also those arriving who wanted to pull it up after them—preserve the island in amber. She didn't feel either of those emotions. Change was an inevitable part of life. Even all the changes whirling about her this summer. The Birches would pass to someone. She hadn't gone into it with Tom. She also hadn't had a chance to tell him about the other change: Dana Cameron, the newest addition to the Rowe family. She tacked this one in particular onto her lengthening mental list. Both were quickly replaced by the topic uppermost in her mind.

Ben. All Faith could think about was Ben. Ben had a serious crush on this young woman she was sure. He'd started to date—going out in a group mostly—but this was different.

Her son was in love.

At four o'clock Felicity called to say they were leaving Bar Harbor. Simon answered the phone, as he usually did. Sophie, scrubbing potatoes for potato salad, heard him tell his daughter, “Don't make any stops. Come straight to the island,” enunciating his words in no uncertain terms.

It appeared they would be dining fashionably late. With summer traffic, it would be at least six before they arrived, possibly
later. Then drinks would further delay the main meal. Sophie decided to aim for dinner at eight.

Simon left clutching the tablet that was an extension of his right hand and Will, who had been in the kitchen getting a glass of water, said, “So, what's the plan? And how can I help?”

It was all Sophie could do to keep from throwing her arms around him.

“The bugs will be terrible on the beach, but I think we could set up outside on the porch with plenty of citronella candles.”

“There are some sawhorses and an old door out in the shed. We can set them up as a buffet. And let's be ecologically unsound tonight—paper plates, plastic cutlery. Otherwise we'll be doing dishes until midnight or later.”

“Great! There's a long tablecloth that Aunt Priscilla used to use for lobster feasts. Checkered oilcloth. I don't think you can buy those anymore. But since we'll be using metal lobster tools, let's skip the plastic and give everyone a real fork. And I'll put the melted butter in the ramekins we have that go over votive candles. Uncle Paul likes his sizzling. We can do one dishwasher load.”

Sophie was beginning to look forward to what she had been viewing as a pain-in-the-neck job. “Rory will help with drinks. Maybe he could make a run to the market soon—they have something they call a ‘Beer Cave' now—and get ice for the cooler, too. I think he's in the bunkhouse. At least his car is parked outside. Could you go ask him? And if she's there, see if Autumn would come help us get everything ready later?”

Sophie watched Will's face closely as she mentioned Autumn's name. He'd finished his water and walked slowly to the sink, placing the glass on the counter. She moved away, running her hands down her jeans to dry them, and opened the pantry, looking to see what she might transform into gourmet hors d'oeuvres. All she had so far were the smoked mussels.

Will followed, standing just behind her. “I think you should
be the one to ask your cousin. Think she'd like to be included.”

He put his hand on Sophie's arm, pulling her toward him. She turned, and this time when she let her eyes close, the kiss came. Soft and gentle, like a first kiss should be with all its hope for the future and reminders of long-ago ones, teenage ones. As Will drew her into his embrace, it became more insistent. A kiss that blocked out the memory of any others. He wanted more. More than kisses.

And so did she.

They moved apart. She was holding a jar of olives, and the incongruous sight caused her to burst out laughing.

“Now, that's a sound I've been waiting to hear,” Will said. “You're such a serious lady, Sophie Maxwell.”

“Not really—” she started to protest.

“No,” he cut her off. “Serious is good. I'm a serious man myself, darlin'.” He stepped toward her again and Sophie felt a shiver of anticipation.

“I think we should try to have dinner on the porch, Sophie.” Uncle Simon was standing in the doorway. Sophie wondered how long he'd been there.

“That's just what Will and I thought,” she said coolly. “He's going to get some things to make a large table from the shed. Maybe you could help.” It was the closest she had come to being rude to her uncle, and it felt great. She had a feeling Babs would approve. In fact, she realized, she was probably channeling her mother at the moment.

She also realized she had just kissed a man whose occupation, possibly his name, and all sorts of other things were a mystery to her.

Pix was at The Pines when Faith got back. Her brother and family weren't back from sailing, and she was returning from having driven her mother to a garden club meeting. Apparently an expert on deer resistant plants had been a big draw. Amy was still with
the Proctors and Ben was at work. Faith had planned to call Tom the moment she entered the house, but one look at her friend's face put it on a back burner.

“Mother's taking a nap. I think the fact that she can plant spirea, one of her favorite shrubs, up here after thinking the deer would destroy it all these years may have been too much for her,” Pix said.

Faith said, “Do you have to run back home? Iced tea—or better yet, gin and tonic? You can tell me more—not that it will help. Our deer eat the marigolds, and even I know they're supposed to hate them. Sort of like my father-in-law and brussels sprouts.”

They took their drinks to the Adirondack chairs at the edge of the front lawn overlooking the beach. Faith loved the idea of the furniture. It looked as indigenous to the Maine coast as lupine, but in fact it was all too reminiscent of the pews in First Parish, seats desperately in need of cushioning.

For the second time today Faith looked at a picture-postcard view in silence. This time the gin was helping to lighten her mood.

“You almost never hear the sound of real lawn mowers anymore,” Pix said.

Faith was startled. It was not the subject she expected. Nor were the deer-resistant plants.

“And those real ones would be?”

“Hand mowers. The whirr, whirr sound they made. It was what summer sounded liked. Just like the way fall smelled. Burning leaves.”

Having never experienced these Proustian madeleine moments on Manhattan's East Side, Faith simply made a murmuring sound in reply.

They sat sipping their drinks. Faith waited for the next tangent. Retired Crayola colors?

The silence continued. Pix broke it.

“I'm a terrible person.”

“How so?' Faith knew enough not to contradict what was patently a foolish remark.

“Dana is a love. I've never seen Arnie and Claire so happy. And I
am
happy for them, for the three of them. But everything was set. Sam and I—eventually the children—would take on all this.” She waved toward the lighthouse, but Faith knew what she meant. “It was always enough for my brother to arrive, with his boat and strawberry rhubarb pie waiting. I have no idea what he has in mind now. And I can't ask him. Or my mother. Especially not my mother.”

“Why not?”

Pix turned to look at her friend. Faith could read the quickly suppressed thought that skimmed across her friend's face—“Well,
she's
not a New Englander.”

“I just can't,” Pix said.

Faith poured a little more gin in Pix's glass. She was planning to feed her dinner before she drove home.

“Pretty much ninety percent of the time I'm the one coming to you for advice,” Faith said. “Starting with the time Ben swallowed a paper clip when he was a year old. Here's my ten percent.”

Faith was starting to hear echoes of her conversation with Ed Ricks. “You
have
to talk to your brother. Ursula told me earlier this summer that she has told both of you what her plans for this place are.”

Pix took a big swig of her drink.

“Have breakfast at the Harbor Café. Bond over their amazing strawberry pancakes. And then the two of you talk to Ursula. I would be very surprised if she hasn't been thinking about all this since your brother's family arrived.”

“Someone's been pouring Moxie on your Wheaties,” Pix said.

“You know I would never eat processed cereal—or drink Moxie,” Faith replied.

“That's my girl—and since I am clearly staying for dinner, pour me some more gin.” Pix stretched her long legs out and
leaned back against the slanted back. She made it look as comfortable as an overstuffed armchair.

Uncle Simon had been fuming for almost an hour before Aunt Deirdre suggested they start drinks without the latecomers. She made a point of sitting by Paul and chatting about the wonderful Sanpere garden club lecture she had attended that afternoon. How much she had learned about what plants flourished on the island, what a “superb spot” The Birches was, and how she was itching to put her green thumb to work, enlarging Priscilla's beds in front of the house with some new plants. “But no hosta!” she chortled. “Candy for the deer population I now know!”

Paul thanked her for her offer and agreed that the deer had plenty to eat in the woods surrounding The Birches without providing more fodder.

Finally, after noting a few too many drinks consumed by several of her relatives, especially Deirdre, Sophie had declared dinner served. Felicity, Forbes, and their guests finally arrived at nine with apologies that included an overturned tractor-trailer truck and a lengthy detour through Ellsworth. Their flushed faces indicated the detour might have been to the Irish pub there.

The friend who had “hitched a ride” on the plane was the last on the porch. Tall, the light catching his thick ash-blond hair, he was startlingly good-looking, and followed Felicity's fiancé, who was already making the rounds—“I'm Barclay, but do call me ‘Barks.' Everybody does.” Barks looped an arm through his friend's, shepherding him straight over to Sophie.

“This is a good buddy of mine from across the pond. Ian Kendall. Sophie, Ian. Ian, Sophie.”

Ian.

“I hope you don't mind. I couldn't leave things as they were. I was a total ass, Sophie. And, well, I've missed you terribly.” Ian was standing in front of her and had taken her hand in both of his. Sophie could see the tiny chicken pox scar on one side of his lips that looked like a dimple unless you were close. Very close. Like now.

She seemed to have lost all power of speech. Of movement. Ian's voice made everything he said sound as if he had trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Trained so the words would sound completely natural. Natural, sincere, and seductive. Her head was spinning.

“Do you know this guy, Sophie?” Different accent.
Very
different accent. It was Will. He was standing next to Ian. He asked again more insistently, “Do you know him?”

Sophie thought she might faint. It was warm, and the two men, their faces doubled before her eyes, were smothering her.

“I . . .” She tried to get a sentence out and failed.

Forbes's laugh rippled across the porch. “I'd say ‘know' would be the operative word here, cuz! Sensed you were pining for your
British beau. When Barks mentioned Ian was in town—they work for the same firm—Felicity and I told him to bring him along.”

“Especially since Ian has agreed to be Barks's best man.” Felicity twinkled, feeding her intended a steamed clam dipped in melted butter and kissing the ensuing drip on his chin, an act so nauseating it jolted Sophie from her trance.

“I imagine Barclay can wipe his own chin,” Aunt Deirdre said, moving slowly toward Ian with a hand out in welcome. “I think you'll enjoy your time here. You must take us as you find us here in this place that has been in the family for many generations. It may not be Blenheim, but we like to call it our own castle.”

She was doing a veddy credible imitation of Dame Maggie Smith.

“Now,” she continued to trill, “what can we get you to drink? Gin and It? I'm afraid no Pimm's.”

Ian removed one hand from Sophie's and shook Deirdre's, leaving his other firmly in place. “I can't tell you how much it means to me to be here. Sophie has told me so much about Sanpere Island. Many thanks; whatever you're drinking is fine with me.”

Sophie freed her hand and watched as Ian proceeded to enchant her aunt further. Sylvia approached with an outstretched plate of the dried kelp chips she had prepared as her canapé contribution, and he proceeded to charm her, too. Then, without giving the ladies short shrift, Ian tactfully made his way over to Paul McAllister and thanked him for letting him “crash” the family evening get-together. Deirdre had placed a vodka tonic in his hand, and Sophie watched him startle slightly as he took a drink. Throughout the week, she had noted that her aunt's idea of the perfect summer cocktail was a glass of Stoli with a splash of tonic and a wedge of lime. It explained the rather stately, studied way she was moving about the porch.

Sophie had often heard Uncle Paul and Aunt Priscilla speak of
spending time in England, where they had close friends both in Yorkshire and London. It wasn't long before Ian and Paul discovered mutual acquaintances—“Different generations,” Paul noted with a slightly wistful smile. Ian had brushed that aside and proceeded to regale the older man with what the McAllisters' friends had been up to, noting that they were “much more interesting than their boring offspring like myself and much naughtier as well.”

Sophie had still not moved—only her eyes followed what seemed like a Noël Coward drawing room drama. Will hadn't moved, either. “Sophie,” he said softly, bending nearer. “Who is this guy? Why is he here?”

“He's . . . we met in New York. And . . .” She automatically began picking up some of the used plates. “I don't know why he's here,” she said finally and looked straight at Will.

“You may not, but I do,” he said, and walked down the front stairs toward the boathouse.

Hurricane Cary was not meant to amount to much and had spared the coast from Florida past the Carolinas, considerately moving out to sea. A fickle storm system, it then decided to move back toward land, and soon they were battening down the hatches from Ocean City, Maryland, to Bar Harbor, Maine.

The storm threat to The Pines was falling trees, and branches, near the house. Ursula kept clearing deadwood, but there was always the possibility that the gale force winds would take some down that had seemed firmly rooted.

Gert Prescott arrived for work early, setting out the oil lamps, a battalion of flashlights and emergency candles. She and Faith baked bread and sweets, also preparing soups and dishes like chicken in gravy that could be heated up on the stove. The propane tanks had fortunately just been filled. As one last precaution, Ursula filled the old claw-footed bathtub with water in what she laughingly called the “mistress bath” off her bedroom. Faith, with
grave misgivings, drove Ben to work and made him promise to call when his shift was over. Amy wanted to invite Daisy to come stay for the day and an overnight.

“She said they don't lose electricity in California, Mom, and she's scared. She says she's never been in a hurricane and doesn't want to have the house blown away with her in it.”

“I think she's seen
The Wizard of Oz
too many times,” Faith said, “but I'm happy to have her here, although her mother might want her close in case Daisy gets upset.”

Apparently Sylvia did not, and Daisy appeared at the door with her things bundled into a tie-dyed satchel.

It was a typical day-before-a-storm day. Both the market and convenience store in Granville ran out of essentials like batteries, milk, and beer. Rumors were rife. It was going to be another Sandy. Or not. The range of advice was even broader. Cover all the windows with plywood. Or don't. Move inland. Move to higher ground. Or stay put.

And hovering over the island, low on the horizon, was a yellow sky. It flattened out both the land and sea below and promised nothing good.

Tom Fairchild had heard the weather report and called early. He and Faith had talked for almost two hours the night before. Hanging up after midnight, Faith thought she had never missed him—or loved him—so much. This morning when he called after hearing the latest predictions, he started to tell her what to do to get ready for the worst, but she assured him they were well prepared. Not Fairchild-family prepared, which would have meant more than a swimming pool's worth of water, food for weeks, and some sort of underground shelter stocked ages ago; but definitely prepared for the storm. The Millers and Rowes had been through many hurricanes on Sanpere, Faith reminded Tom.

He calmed down, and she was happy that her husband was not as concerned as he might have been, distracted by Marian's doing so well. He had gleefully reported that his mother was up
and about. Her doctor had even decided she might be better off in her own bed, possibly discharging her as early as Monday. She'd received Faith's package from The Meadow and had insisted on slathering herself with the Botanic lavender lotion—“Better than all these chemicals.”

Promising to call with weather updates, Faith hung up and steeled herself for what she knew was going to be a very long day. Waiting for a storm to hit stretched minutes into hours.

The dinghies and other small craft had been hauled, the larger boats would have to ride it out, and they'd tied down or removed anything that could fly off in the winds—porch furniture, planters. The storm shutters were in place. There was something almost pleasurable in the preparations until Faith remembered why they were doing it.

Unlike the princess and the pea, Sophie had gone to bed early and slept like a rock, blocking thoughts of both swains from her mind. Yet when she awoke at dawn as usual, she was exhausted.

Now she was busy preparing for what they were saying could be a major storm. Will was in and out of the kitchen with a hammer, presumably nailing the plywood shutters over the front windows. When Paul came downstairs, Sophie immediately poured him a mug of coffee. With her uncle up at this hour, she was beginning to think it might indeed be heavy weather.

“I'm going to help Will with the windows,” he said. “Send anyone else who comes along out to give us a hand with it, will you? We'll also need to put things away from the lawn and porch. And could you call Marge Foster? I don't want her coming to work. Nothing's going to happen for a while, but I'm sure she has plenty to do at her house. How are we fixed for supplies?”

“We're fine. Yesterday we baked and made things that would keep a while. I'm going to add one more large veggie pasta casserole
to the others. I thought you'd want Mrs. Foster to stay put, so I've already called her.”

She was rewarded with a broad smile from her uncle as Will came back into the kitchen.

Will and Uncle Paul were clearly enjoying the preparations, Sophie realized. Man versus Nature. Something like that. And afterward Man with Chain Saw to clean up the downed trees and limbs.

“More coffee before you start?” she asked them. “I also have some blueberry lemon muffins that just came out of the oven.”

“No coffee. I've had more than I should already, but one of those muffins would be great, thanks,” Will said.

She and Will began doing awkward do-si-dos in the kitchen as she took the muffins from the tin and refilled her uncle's mug of coffee. Will kept looking over at her, his mouth half open, as if he wanted to say something. He didn't.

Paul put his cup in the sink.

“Better get to it. We probably have hours to spare, but I never put much trust in the weather reports. Even the marine forecasts. Which reminds me, Will. Be sure we have that Uniden marine radio and anything else you think we might need from the boathouse. You'd better bunk up here tonight.”

There was no mistaking the look Will gave Sophie. “I'll be fine down there. It's a solid structure. And I wouldn't want to get in anyone's way.”

“Nonsense. Don't want to worry about you. There are still beds free on the third floor, and it won't be too hot there tonight. We'll probably all be in the living room anyway. Besides, I'll need a Scrabble partner.”

Sophie took a pencil from the junk drawer. She started to make a to-do list and had just written “check flashlight batteries” when she realized she was alone. She was alone with her thoughts, all the ones that hadn't kept her awake.

Ian. Will. Ian some more.

Last night as Sophie had started to slip away from the increasingly merry group on the porch, the Englishman had blocked her way and said, “I need to talk to you, Sophie. You can't know how badly. The way I behaved has haunted me since you left London. Make time tomorrow? Please?”

She'd tried hard to resist, knowing what she ought to say—words justifiable for a lady who had been treated the way she had, words a lady usually didn't use. Instead, she'd said, “No . . . well, maybe.”

The memory of her feeble response was still grating on her. She should have said no. Better still, never. She was glad he was staying at the Sanpere Village Inn with Barks and she wouldn't be running into him. Because of the storm, their paths wouldn't be crossing—not today at least. Will underfoot was bad enough.

Simon Proctor strode into the kitchen. “I'd be very grateful if you could go check on your aunt, Sophie. She seems to have picked up some sort of bug, and I can't find Felicity.”

Since Felicity had taken off for a night at the inn with her betrothed, Sophie knew he wouldn't find his daughter for a while.

“What seems to be the matter?” she asked.

“Some sort of stomach upset.” Simon clearly did not want to go into details.

As she went up to their bedroom, Sophie thought the aftereffects of what her aunt had imbibed were most likely the cause and stopped to get a large glass of water and Tylenol.

But Deirdre was not just hungover. She was clearly running a fever. She had also thrown up several times throughout the night, continuing into the morning, she reported.

Grabbing the water and analgesic from Sophie, she said, “Where did you get the clams? I'm positive I got a bad one.”

“Bad one what?” Sylvia was standing at the doorway and came into the room.

“A clam that was off.” Deirdre quaffed the rest of the water and slunk down in the bed, pulling the light blanket almost over her head. “You must not have checked them, Sophie.”

Her aunt might be ill, but she was still very much herself.

“I did check. They were from Granville Seafood, where we always get them. You must have picked up a touch of some flu,” Sophie said.

Sylvia put her hand on Deirdre's forehead. It was quickly shaken off. “Someone is putting something in our food. I know it!” Sylvia's voice rose. “Someone is deliberately trying to poison us!”

“I'm sure no one is doing anything like that,” Sophie said gently. “Why would they?”

“Because of the house, of course. It must be that nephew or whatever he is of Paul's.” Sylvia almost spat out the words.

“He
is
Paul's nephew, and he's not in the running,” Sophie said, thinking at least one of those things was true. Although, was she sure about both?

Deirdre handed Sophie the empty glass. The command was clear.

“Nonsense, Sylvia. Must you always be so dramatic?”

Sophie fetched her aunt a full glass of water. She was tempted to curtsy. The audience was clearly over. Deirdre was feeling better. But what had been wrong?

Downstairs, Felicity was coming into the kitchen through the back door with Barks, both of them with that dewy-eyed, just-had-great-sex look. Sophie was getting ready to leave with her list in hand, although it would be potluck at the market. As soon as the last batch of muffins was done, she'd go.

“Barks and Ian are moving over here,” Felicity said. “I wouldn't be able to sleep a wink tonight thinking about them at that old inn. A stiff breeze would blow the whole place down.
Uncle Paul said it was okay, which is good, because they already checked out.”