The Body in the Birches (5 page)

“Wait a minute. Uncle Paul is your uncle, too? And I've never seen him with a sports car like that.”

“That's because he kept it at my family's house outside Savannah and drove it when he was down there. That's Georgia, by the way.”

Sophie knew Uncle Paul was originally from the South and
still had family there. He and Aunt Priscilla had spent part of every winter in the warmer clime, but she'd never really paid attention where. She
was
a regionalist, she thought with sudden shame. Not that she was about to let this man know that.

“Why is it here now? The car?” She was tempted to add,
and you
.

“Not that it's really your concern, but I'm pretty fond of Paul and offered to bring it up for him and drive him around this summer—I've never been up here—plus do anything else for him he might need. I have a little free time for the next two months, and I thought he could use my help.”

Your help protecting him from his wife's family, Sophie thought, before another idea entered her mind. Could Paul leave The Birches to anybody? Or was Aunt Priscilla specific that it be a Proctor descendant?

“I'm sure there are any number of cars available on the island for sale or rent,” she said. “I don't get why you had to drive this old one all the way up here.”

“Woman! This isn't just any old car! For your information it's a 1973 Triumph Stag, just about the ultimate sports car Britain ever produced. It's Paul's baby. He's owned it for years.”

At that moment, Paul McAllister himself came down the back stairs. “Sophie, Will! Glad you two met. I was keeping an eye out for you, Will. What did Forrest think of the car?” He was looking at them both in an approving manner. Sophie's heart sank. Someone must have told her uncle about Ian, and now he was going to play matchmaker.

“Forrest?” she said.

“Forrest Nevells,” Paul said. “He's a local guy. A wizard at restoring cars. I knew he'd get a kick out of seeing this beaut.”

“He did—and he said if you ever think of getting rid of it, he's first in line.”

“You'll see Fod, that's his nickname, in the parade, Sophie. He and his wife, Margie, always drive one of their cars. Last year's had
a vanity plate that read ‘WA2SEXY.' I'm thinking of getting one for the Triumph. Maybe not exactly the same, but something that befits a car that James Bond drove.”

“I doubt Sophie would have seen those movies, Paul. She strikes me as more the
Pride and Prejudice
type.”

“And you strike
me
as the Mister Darcy type—in the first chapters,” Sophie shot back. “Now, I have to get these herbs inside before they wilt.”

“The same goes for me,” Paul said. “Coming, Will?”

“Sure, but I want to put the car in the garage. Wouldn't want anything to happen to it.”

Sophie stopped where she was. If her face hadn't been red from the heat, the blush of shame at what she'd done would have been obvious. She'd hit Uncle Paul's car. His treasured vehicle. She turned around and followed Will. He saw her and paused where he was. “What now? Maybe you could do something to the roof with those scissors. The canvas is thick, but you seem like a very determined type.”

“Is there some way we could get the dent fixed right away?” Sophie tried to keep her voice from trembling.

“So you don't have to tell him who did it?” He folded his arms and stood in front of her. He was wearing a red baseball cap with a bulldog on it, the same one she'd seen in the light from the flashlight last night, but today she could see that the hair sticking out was the color of hay and his eyes were green, deep green. Like the herbs she was clutching. For some reason this annoyed her even more.

“No!” Sophie knew she had shouted and lowered her voice. Her uncle was still making his way back into the house. “I just don't want him to be upset.”

“Well, fortunately Fod was able to take care of it, so you can stop worrying.” He smiled, a “Dennis Quaid
Big Easy
” crooked smirk. “About that, anyway.”

“Now what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks was that supposed
to mean?” Sophie said softly to herself once he was well out of earshot.

With the arrival of Felicity and Forbes, the house was bursting at the seams, and Sylvia's two oldest children would be adding to the numbers late tonight or tomorrow. Bev served dinner buffet style and people took plates out to the porch, where it was marginally cooler. Household groups gravitated toward one another, and without a next of kin, Sophie found herself with Uncle Paul and Will, whose last name she'd learned was Tarkington. Booth Tarkington was well represented in The Birches's bookshelves. The summer she'd spent recuperating, Sophie remembered making her way through every title from
Penrod
to
Gentle Julia
. She doubted Will had ever heard the author's name, let alone read him. This Tarkington struck her as a
Car and Driver
devotee, oh, and James Bond, but the movies, not Fleming's books. She'd been dismayed to discover Will was camped out in the boathouse at the end of the largest dock, so avoiding him would be a challenge. Now he was sitting next to his uncle and she was on the porch floor. She moved down a step.

“So, Sophie.” Her cousin Forbes's voice was carefully modulated to sound slightly superior, but not arrogant. She imagined he practiced to strike just the right tone, one that said “I'm better than you, but it would be such bad taste to flaunt it.” She steeled herself for his next words. She knew what was coming. “Sorry things didn't work out with you and that Brit, Ian. How's the job hunt coming?”

Felicity quickly chimed, “You must have been devastated. So, so sorry.” It was an almost convincing demonstration of how very very caring and sympathetic her cousin was, Sophie thought.

“Thank you both, but I'm fine. And the job hunt is going well.” She tried not to grit her teeth. And who had told Forbes Ian's name?

“Oh?” Forbes said. “Which firms?”

“None you'd be familiar with.”

“Try me. My net is a broad one.”

“That reminds me,” Uncle Paul said. “We're going to need lobsters for the Fourth. I'd better call Charlie Sullivan.”

Sophie gave him a grateful smile.

“Seems to me those are caught with traps, not nets,” Will said, getting up. Sophie's smile vanished. Was Will trying to steer the conversation back? Then he added, “Anyone want more lemonade? I can bring the pitcher out.”

“Where's Bev?” Aunt Deirdre said. She had been quiet—rare for her. Sophie figured she was basking in the pleasure of being with her three favorite people: her husband, her son, and her daughter. The question clearly indicated that she thought fetching lemonade fell under the purview of the help.

“I told her to go lie down,” Paul said. “Keeping all of us fed in this heat is too much for her.”

How could I be so thoughtless, Sophie thought. Bev was easily in her seventies. She was always shooing people out of the kitchen, but from now on Sophie wasn't going to let her. She would start by cleaning up once everyone had finished.

“This heat is getting to everyone,” Uncle Simon said. “Can't remember it ever being like this here at The Birches.”

“That's because we're destroying the earth,” Sylvia said. “Poor Daisy won't have anything but an ash heap.”

The twelve-year-old looked so startled that Sophie hastened to reassure her. “I'm sure not. We certainly do our part here, and people are much more aware now all over the world.”

“Sophie, I do not believe in telling my children anything but the truth, so please don't tell Daisy what we all know is a lie. The polar ice cap is melting rapidly and as for fossil fuels—”

Paul jumped in. “The only fuel I need now is the strawberry shortcake I happen to know Bev made. The real kind with biscuits,
not that spongy stuff you get in restaurants.
And
real whipped cream. I'll bet you can eat two, Daisy.”

Sylvia opened her mouth and seemed about to say something, but changed her mind. His distraction worked. “If she does, she'll be sick. Come on, Daisy, and we'll bring a plate back for you, Paul.”

Sophie watched them go into the house. She had to hand it to Sylvia. She never veered off course. She'd come of age during the Summer of Love and had never left. Along the way she'd toyed with just about every alternative lifestyle from communes to convents (this choice was brief). At times she'd worked at a variety of jobs, mostly shops that sold crystals and herbal remedies. She didn't believe in marriage, but she did believe in child support, so Autumn, Rory, and Daisy had always had a roof over their heads, even though it had been a yurt on more than one occasion. Sophie had seen photos of Sylvia as a young woman, still with the same long hair, but no gray mixed with the blond, and the same lean body, yoga-toned. She'd been stunningly beautiful and was still very attractive. Her clothes ran to tie-dye and batik, but they fit well. A California tan and many beaded bracelets, necklaces, and long earrings completed the picture of Sylvia Proctor at forty-something.

In contrast, the Simon Proctor family could have stepped straight from the Brooks Brothers summer catalog. Father and son were wearing pima cotton tees with the Golden Fleece logo, the sheep suspended by a ribbon that always made Sophie long to set the poor animal free. Uncle Simon was wearing navy blue Bermuda shorts while Forbes was going rogue in madras. Felicity and her mother were in sleeveless linen shifts, lime green for Deirdre and raspberry for Felicity, with strappy sandals to match. Sophie noticed that they had both had recent pedis and tucked her own toes out of sight.

The sun, a fiery ball, was starting to sink into the sea. Sophie
looked out at the horizon. A few boats—not the fishermen, who'd long been in port—left plumes of wakes on the flat surface of the Reach. The water was very inviting. She pushed a stray hair back over her ear. It had come loose from the low ponytail she'd gathered at the nape of her neck. After she finished putting the food away and washing the dishes, she'd take a swim. The tide was high and she could go in off the dock. Just thinking about it made her feel cooler. Then she remembered the boathouse and its occupant. Damn. She looked over her shoulder. Will Tarkington or no Will Tarkington, she was going to do as she pleased.

The notion that bad news never comes during the day, but is conveyed by a middle-of-the-night phone call, is of course a myth. Yet when one picks up the phone at noon, the expectation is to hear a friend's voice, a spouse, someone looking for a volunteer to chair the Girl Scout cookie drive, or increasingly in these economic times, desperate cold calls from small companies or individuals offering carpet cleaning or chimney sweeping. It was with one of these sorts of expectations that Faith picked up the phone at The Pines. Everyone was out and she had been enjoying a few treasured moments alone to sit on the porch and read.

“Hello?”

“Faith? It's Dick. Is Tom there?”

Dick Fairchild, her father-in-law. Faith had given everyone in the family this number when they'd moved over to The Pines, so the surprise was not that he had it, but that he was on the phone at all. Tom's mother, Marian, did the calling. Dick's aversion to Mr. Bell's instrument was well known; Faith had seen him sit and let it ring until someone else in the house answered. Before retirement he'd been a Realtor, and she guessed he'd had enough of phone calls.

Her heart sank. Whatever the news, it was bad.

“Tom is out sailing; he should be back soon.”

“How soon? Marian's had a heart attack. I'm at the hospital with her. The EMTs brought her in thirty minutes ago. She is stable now, but in the ICU.” The anguish in his words was palpable.

“A heart attack! But she's never had any heart problems! We'll be there as quickly as we can. We can get a plane from Bar Harbor to Boston. What are the doctors saying? Is she conscious?”

Faith knew she needed to sound calmer. She took a deep breath. “I can see the dock from where I am and will know the minute Tom's here. Tell me what happened.”

“It's been so darn hot. I thought that was it.
We
thought that was it.” Faith heard the catch in Dick's voice. “She's been short of breath this last week, maybe longer. She didn't tell me about it until yesterday when she thought she might have eaten something that disagreed with her. She had chest pains.
Chest pains!
How could I not have known?”

Very easily, Faith thought to herself. Her mother-in-law would have made the Spartan boy look like a whiner.

“You couldn't have known,” she said. “I'm sure she didn't think anything was wrong either.” Marian most likely did but wouldn't have wanted to make a fuss.

“This morning the pain was worse,” Dick continued. “She wouldn't let me take her to the hospital or even call the doctor. Then it got really bad and, well, I had to get an ambulance.”

“I'm going to call the airport and find out when the next plane leaves. It will take about an hour to get there and about an hour in the air, but it will be quicker than driving. We can pick up the car we left in Aleford.”

“I haven't phoned anyone else. Craig is up in Vermont and the rest of the gang is over in Europe.”

Craig was the baby of the family, behaving like one for too long; but he had finally settled down. He co-owned a ski resort in Vermont, active as a vacation spot in the summer as well.

Betsey, divorced with two college-age boys, was the oldest Fairchild sibling and like her dad had gone into real estate. Marian recently told Faith that empty nester Bets was seeing someone seriously, a fellow Realtor. The two were currently in Provence, maybe checking out the market—what a four bedroom, three and a half bath, kitchen with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, etc., went for there.

Tom was the next Fairchild to arrive and then Robert, two years younger. He was also abroad, in Spain, on vacation with his partner, Michael. They were sporting goods sales reps, and this was a less busy time of year for them.

Dick had paused before finishing the sentence. “Besides it's Tom she'll want in any . . .” He seemed to run out of steam again.

But Dick didn't have to finish the thought. Of course Marian would want Tom by her side. Anybody would. In addition to his many pastoral calls to those in times of illness, Tom was one of the chaplains at the local VA hospital. It was what he did, and he was very good at it.

“I don't like the idea of your being at the hospital without anyone until we get there. Why don't you call one of your brothers?”

“Maybe in a while. It's early days yet.”

Faith understood: calling them, even calling her, was making everything too real. She could picture the hospital waiting room. The hand sanitizer dispensers every few feet, the out-of-date magazines, seating with a view to durability not comfort, the sights and sounds of patients coming—and going. But it
was
real and he shouldn't be alone there.

“Would you like me to call your brothers for you?”

“Okay.”

There was a little relief in his voice. And then big relief after Faith spotted Tom and then quickly told Dick, “I can see the dinghy! They're on the way in. Are you using Marian's cell? Never mind, just stay on the line.”

“I will.”

She sped down the stairs and over the rocks to the dock. Tom, Ben, and Chris Knight, a sailing buddy of Tom's, were within shouting distance. Faith hated to upset Ben, who definitely wasn't used to this sort of crisis, but there was no choice.

“Tom, come as quickly as you can! Your mother's in the hospital and your father is on the phone!”

It seemed only seconds before he was talking to his father, Faith and Ben listening at his side.

He hung up and the first thing he did was hug them both close to him.

“She's going to be all right. We're lucky to live in an area with the best medical care you can get, and the doctors have told Dad there's no immediate danger. They don't have a diagnosis yet, but she definitely had some kind of heart attack. A major one. Come upstairs, both of you, while I change and pack. Chris told me he could give me a ride to the airport and I'm going to take him up on it. Come to think of it, Ben, go tell him I'll be ready in a few minutes and stow the gear in the boathouse.” He gave his son another quick squeeze, then started up the stairs with Faith close behind.

“Tom!” she said. “I'll pack for both of us. I want to come with you. Your mother could want me there, too, and in any case, I can help take care of Dick.”

“Of course she'll want you. Eventually. But now you need to stay here with the kids. Explain that they won't be able to see her. I don't even know whether Dad and I can. Will you call both my uncles and tell them what's happened? Once I know what Dad wants, I'll call my sibs. You know Betsey for one will be on the next plane back, and that might upset Mom more than anything.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it's so hard to believe.”

Marian Fairchild was the picture of health with the stamina of a sixteen-year-old. Faith had never even known her to have a cold.

Tom sat down on the bed and pulled her into his arms, his head bent. She knew he was praying. As she had been since she'd answered the phone.

“You change,” she said. “I'll pack your things. And I'll get someone to bring our car to Logan so you won't waste time going home.”

One of the things she had grown to appreciate about living in a small town like Aleford was the network of people who would help in times of trouble. There wouldn't be a problem finding someone to drive the Fairchilds' car followed by someone driving another out to the airport. It would easily save several hours.

Less than twenty minutes had passed from the time of the call until Tom kissed her good-bye, told her he would phone when he got there, and drove off in the Knights' Prius with Chris at the wheel. There was a network on Sanpere, too. Faith sat down on the top step of the porch and waited for Ben to come back from the boathouse.

Bad news. Bad news on a sunny, cloudless, perfect Maine day.

“Now that Autumn and Rory have arrived, I'd like to get everyone together after lunch. Pass the word if you will.” Paul McAllister paused and smiled at the late risers, who were still lingering over coffee in the kitchen. “I've always wanted to stand in front of a roomful of people and say, ‘You may have wondered why I have gathered you all here together'—like Hercule Poirot—but you all know why. So let's get it out of the way and then we can concentrate on enjoying a bang-up Fourth.”

Sophie was standing at the sink finishing the dishes. Bev had been feeling off-color—the heat again, she'd said—and Sophie had convinced her to go back to bed with one of the ancient electric fans The Birches had in abundance trained on her—fans with lethal-looking blades and frayed cords that Sophie had seen for sale in antiques shops with warnings to use for decorative purposes only. She'd put a glass and a pitcher of ice water on the bedside table, tucking a piece of paper under one leg to stop the wobble. It wasn't that Bev's room had been furnished with discards.
All
the
furniture in the house was like this. Bev hadn't wanted anything more than water—“Never could eat when it was hot. And my waistline won't suffer.”

It was true that Bev was an armful, but it suited her. Sophie couldn't imagine her any other way than the small plump woman whose hair had gone from carrot to pale rust in the years Sophie had known her. Sylvia had wanted to give Bev some sort of herbal remedy, but the housekeeper had firmly rejected the offer before going up to her room. “Took some plain old table salt and that will do it. And putting my feet up.”

Sylvia was one of those remaining in the kitchen, although she had been up for hours and eaten an early breakfast. Her children were the attraction. Will Tarkington, who did seem to be making himself useful in all sorts of ways, Sophie thought grudgingly, had picked Autumn up in Bangor at the airport last night. Her plane from San Francisco had been late. Rory had appeared late, as well. He'd flown from California to Boston several days earlier and driven up. Sylvia was quizzing him now about whose car it was—or was it a rental—and what friends he'd been visiting; so far she'd gleaned very little. It occurred to Sophie that her cousin, who looked like a stereotypical surfer dude with his sun-bleached hair even blonder than she recalled and a deep tan, was showing well-practiced adeptness at humoring his mother while revealing almost nothing.

Uncle Paul's announcement deflected Sylvia's attention from her son.

“I'll go tell Simon before he leaves,” she said. “He and Forbes are playing golf at the country club in Blue Hill this morning. Deirdre and Felicity are going, too. Some old school chum of Deirdre's has a house there on Parker Point.”

“Thank you, Sylvia. About two o'clock then, in the living room.”

And Colonel Mustard with a candlestick, jumped into Sophie's mind. Must be Uncle Paul's Christie reference that had her leaping
to the mystery game. In any case, she reflected, Cousin Sylvia seemed to have appointed herself the town crier as well as keeper of tabs on everyone at The Birches's whereabouts.

As for what she would do with herself until the meeting, Sophie wasn't sure. Bev had started to plan lunch, but Sophie had stopped her and emphatically told her she was not to worry, that Sophie would do it. So there was that to organize. She'd take the car and engage in a little hunting and gathering, harder on Sanpere than in New York or London. She had a sudden pang at the thought of the Waitrose around the corner from Ian's flat. All that lovely prepared food, as well as the best ingredients for Londoners who had time to cook. She still had the customer card in her wallet. Well, that was one thing she'd do right now. Throw it away, along with other reminders like her Oyster Card for the Tube.

What mattered was the here and now. Sanpere Island. The Birches. Uncle Paul.

It had been just like him to get right to the point. They
did
all know why they were here, although she would be glad when the specifics were made clearer. Had Aunt Priscilla designed something like the Twelve Labors of Hercules? Except that was penance. No, maybe something like a treasure hunt with hidden clues. There she was again, back in some sort of novel, a mystery novel? One thing was clear. Having the meeting early would make for a much better holiday. Or would it?

Quelling that notion, Sophie took the memo pad that was stuck to the fridge with a lobster magnet to write a shopping list both for today and tomorrow. She loved making lists. Cold cuts and bulkie rolls to make sandwiches for lunches. They had plenty of mustard and other condiments, but she should check anyway; jars had a way of accumulating with only a teaspoon left at the bottom. Tomorrow's picnic would by definition be messy. They'd need more paper goods plus plenty of butter to melt for the lobsters and clams.

Paul and Priscilla, and earlier generations, had hosted the
clambake picnic for the entire Point each year. The method for the main course was unvarying. It had originated with the first summer people, the Abenakis, who came down to these shores each year from Canada. Tonight a group would dig a pit well above the high tide mark on the beach, lining it with rocks and driftwood, adding charcoal if there wasn't enough wood. Early in the morning, they'd light it. The rocks had to heat up for at least five hours before the food was layered in between wet rockweed, which would steam it to perfection. A tarp, weighted down with more stones, covered the bake.

The Proctors, and then the McAllisters, always had provided the lobster, clams, and corn, omitting the chicken and sausages some bakes included. The rest of the households on the Point brought variations of chicken and sausage, as well as traditional picnic fare like deviled eggs, potato salad, coleslaw, chips, dips, hot dogs for the kids, and desserts galore. Blueberry pie was a given, as were chocolate chip cookies, but the rest could be anything from coconut layer cake (that family was from the South originally) to Pavlova (a son had married an Aussie).

Sophie found herself getting excited. The Fourth of July was her very favorite Sanpere/Birches tradition. Up early for the pancake breakfast at the Sanpere Village town hall to raise money for the volunteer fire department and ambulance corps, then the parade—a short one, as dictated by the island population, turning around at the top of the hill by the Congregational church to come back through town again. After the parade and games for children in the field by the elementary school, they would head back to The Birches for the clambake that would last until dusk. Will Tarkington was in for a treat. He'd probably never even had a real lobster. A Maine lobster. Knowing him, he'd want grits with it. Grits!