The Body in the Basement (11 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Basement
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“What do you mean?”
“Well, some of them really don't want to be there, although I think they kind of like me.”
“They're probably just homesick. Most kids are that way at camp in the beginning.”
“I know. I remember Danny sending you all those cards to come get him, then when you finally broke down and went, he wanted to know what you were doing there.”
Pix remembered the incident well. Danny, or their unexpected little dividend, as she and Sam called him in private, was predictably unpredictable in all things.
“But these kids have been sent to camp for years, even though they're so young. It's like their parents want to get rid of them,” Samantha continued.
“Maybe their parents need to have a program for them. If both are working, a child can't simply stay home.”
“I know and I think that's true in some cases, but there's one little girl, Susannah, who's so sweet, and I know her mother isn't working. She said so. And then there's this boy I'm kind of worried about. He's really mad at his parents for what he calls “dumping” him at camp while they're on vacation.”
“It's hard to know what's going on in other people's families.” With that understatement, Pix went to make some supper for the two of them, after which she had a delightful and foolish talk with her husband, reminiscent of all the talks of all the other summers.
“Dad thinks he will be up on Sunday,” Pix happily told Samantha. “And he can stay on through the Fourth.”
“I'd better make myself scarce,” her daughter teased her. “I know what you two are like.”
Pix was still not used to the idea that her older children knew their parents had and enjoyed sex. “Oh, Samantha, don't be silly. Daddy wants to spend as much time as possible with you, too.”
And it was true. Sam was taking the thought of his daughter's leaving for college in the not-too-distant future even harder than Pix.
The phone rang and Samantha grabbed it, but this time it was for her mother.
“Pix? It's Jill. What are you doing tomorrow? Valerie and I
are going to go antiquing over in Searsport and toward Belfast if there's time. Could you join us? Valerie says prices are especially low because of the economy, and since it's still early in the season, things haven't been picked over. We'll leave after breakfast. I have someone to cover the store then.”
“I'd love to. I have to be home in the afternoon to make chowder for the Frazier's clambake, so the morning is perfect for me,” Pix answered. “I'm looking for a night table to go in the guest room at home, and in any case, it's always fun to poke around.”
“Plus, Valerie knows so much about everything. Whenever I go with her, I always learn new things—and she's very good at dickering. I can never find the nerve.”
Pix had always been amazed that Jill had found the nerve to open and run her store. She was extremely quiet and shy. Both Pix and Faith thought Jill was beautiful—what was called in another day a “pocket Venus”—tiny but perfect, with thick, silky dark brown straight hair falling to her shoulders. Her attire betrayed the fact that she spent winters off-island working in Portland. The outfit she'd worn today at the Sewing Circle—a hand-painted turquoise tunic over a gauzy white accordion-pleated skirt—hadn't come from the Granville Emporium, where it was still possible to find printed shirtwaist dresses circa 1955. Tom and Sam both said “attractive” was as far as they would go in describing Jill, thereby confirming Faith's oft-stated notion that men knew nothing about female pulchritude.
 
The next day, Valerie met them at Jill's. Pix had offered to drive, but Valerie had a van and there was always the possibility they might be carting home something big. Jill hoped to get some things for the store—small folk art items and thirties jewelry had proved especially popular.
“Hop in,” Valerie called out cheerfully. She was wearing work clothes—jeans, turtleneck, sneakers, each discreetly emblazoned by Lauren.
The first place they stopped was a barn. The sign outside promised TRASH AND TREASURES. Jill had found some alphabet plates at a procurable price there earlier and wanted to look in again. Pix walked through the door feeling the tingle of excitement she always did at an auction, a yard sale, any place that offered not just a bargain but a find.
Jill started sifting through boxes of costume jewelry and Valerie was climbing over dressers and bedsteads to examine an oak dining room set. Pix strolled through the musty barn. There was a pile of
Look
magazines next to a windup Victrola. Tables were filled with a mixture of fine cut glass and gas station giveaways. She was slightly taken aback to see the kind of tin sand pail and shovel from her childhood behind locked doors with other toys of various vintages. Maybe hers was still in the attic at The Pines. At the end of the aisle, there was a heap of linens, and her heart began to beat faster when she saw there were some quilts in the pile. She started to sort through them. Motes of dust floated in the strong light from an adjacent window.
Some of the quilts had suffered a great deal of damage, but one was remarkably well preserved. Left in a trunk or used only for company, it was the Flying Geese pattern, done in shades of brown and gold. The triangular “geese” were several different prints—some striped, some flowered. The setting strips were muslin and elaborately quilted. It was a real scrap quilt and Pix fell in love with it. There were occasional touches of bright red, perhaps flannel, and the handwork was exquisite. She took it and two of the damaged ones that she thought could be repaired to the front of the barn.
“How much for all three?” she asked the owner. “Some of them are very badly worn.”
“Came out of a house over near Sullivan. Nothing that went in ever left until the party that owned it departed in a pine box.” He seemed to find this very funny. Pix had heard about these untouched houses before.
“What's your price?”
“Two hundred dollars,” he said firmly.
Pix almost gasped. The man obviously didn't know what quilts were bringing. She held on to her senses and countered, “A hundred and fifty.”
“We'll split the difference, deah. How about one seventy-five—plus tax.”
Pix agreed. She wasn't about to lose her quilts. She paid him and ran over to Jill, who had a fistful of Bakelite bracelets.
“Look what I got!” Pix kept her voice down, but it was hard.
“Quilts! How wonderful. I'll pay for these and then let's go where I can see them properly.”
They called to Valerie that they'd be outside, then spread the quilts on the grass by the van. The Flying Geese quilt looked even better in the sunlight against the green grass.
“Pix, it's gorgeous,” Jill enthused.
Pix was elated and bent down to look at the stitching again. That's when she saw it. Close to the border, just like the other one. Two crossed blue threads.
Two crossed blue threads just like the ones on the quilt that had served as Mitchell Pierce's winding-sheet.
Pix was so startled that she grabbed Jill's arm.
“It's the—”
She started to speak, then stopped abruptly. She hadn't told anyone except Earl about the mark, a mark that had come to represent a hex in her mind. He hadn't seemed very interested. Pix quickly decided to change course.
“It's the best quilt I've ever found. What a treasure!”
Jill did not appear to find Pix's overt enthusiasm odd. Quilters were known for their passion.
“It is beautiful. You are so lucky. I could probably get three or four hundred dollars for it, maybe more.” She sounded wistful. “What about the other quilts, what are they like?”
Pix was suddenly eager to examine them for more marks. They spread them out in a row.
“What a shame! This quilt is almost perfect, only some wear in the corner. But that could be repaired. What's the pattern?”
“I'm not sure. Some variation of Pinwheel. This one is Irish Chain, though, and it will take some work, but I think I can replace the parts where the fabric has disintegrated.”
Pix wanted to go back to the pile of linens to examine them further. For all she knew, the blue cross-stitches could be a kind of laundry mark, but it was strange to find them in exactly the same place on both quilts.
“Shall we see what else we can turn up? Valerie seems to be engaged in mortal combat with the owner over that dining room set, so we might as well look around some more.”
Jill commented, “Mortal combat with velvet gloves. When I was leaving, I heard her tell him, ‘My, what lovely things you've got here. I have so many people asking me to find antiques for them, I just
know
I'm going to be coming here all the time.'”
Pix had to laugh at her imitation of Valerie's accent—Down East meets Down South. It was a curious encounter.
Happily, Jill wanted to look at the linens, and Pix led her to that corner of the barn. They sorted through the stack of mismatched napkins, huck hand towels, and tablecloths, turning up the two badly tattered quilts Pix had previously spotted. Pix shook out each one thoroughly, ostensibly looking for holes. There wasn't a blue mark to be seen. Jill decided to take some of the monogrammed guest towels.
“People don't care whose initials they are so long as they have them. It adds a touch of class to one's powder room.”
“I'll have to remember that if I ever have one,” Pix remarked. The downstairs half bath off the kitchen in the Miller household always seemed to be filled with the kid's overflow from the bath the three shared upstairs. In the past, it was dinosaur toothbrush holders and whatever toothpaste manufacturers had dreamed up to entice kids to brush—sparkles, stars, exotic flavors. Now it was hair gel and hot combs. The towels, while not actually on the floor, were always in disarray, except for the first five minutes after she put out clean ones.
With her mind torn between a vision of what a home inhabited by two reasonably tidy adults would look like and how dreadful it would be not to find mud-covered cleats in the living room anymore, she wandered toward the big open barn door.
At the front of the store, Valerie was writing a check and arranging to come back later for the dining room set. She didn't want to stand around and wait while he unearthed it all. When the owner's back was turned, she shot Pix a triumphant glance and winked.
Outside as she looked at the quilts, she softly crowed, “Golden oak, never restored—perfect condition and everything my client wants, even the lion's paw feet on the table. It's not my taste, but at the moment it's delicious. He said he was happy to get rid of it, wants the room!” She picked up the corner of the Flying Geese quilt to examine the stitching. “It looks like you made a steal, too, Pix. This is gorgeous. You sure you want to keep it? I have just the place for it. I wouldn't sell this one.”
“And neither would I, thank you,” Pix said gleefully. Somehow it added to the sweetness of the coup to have a professional's approval—and envy.
“Ladies, the morning is young. Let's get going!”
By lunchtime, they were ready to quit. The shops had begun to merge together into one antique haze. Valerie had picked up some yellowware bowls and pitchers. “These used to go for a song, but now that everyone has a country kitchen, or a modern one that has to be accented with a few old pieces, the prices are up. Still these were good buys.” Pix did not find her night table. What she did find was an elaborate Victorian wire plant stand perfect for the second-floor landing in her house in Aleford. She might even bow to convention and put a Boston fern in it.
Jill had found several more small items, including an old doll made from a clay pipe that she knew would appeal to someone. Also a cigar box full of old hat pins. Her find for the
day was an elaborately carved picture frame, a sailor's valentine. The picture was gone, but the wood was in perfect shape.
“Who do you suppose looked out from here,” Valerie mused, “his sweetheart, his mama? We'll never know.”
“Maybe his dog,” Pix suggested. That would have been her choice. She'd see what price Jill put on the frame. Dusty's face would look perfect surrounded by the intricately carved wood, the same golden honey color as her fur.
They decided to stop for lunch at Country View, a stand on the way back to the island that overlooked a large cow pasture and blueberry fields. The view changed with the seasons, green and yellow now with a few contented Swiss Browns in clover, their tails swinging like pendulums at the flies. Pix had a sudden image of a chirpy cuckoo emerging from a yawning pink mouth on the hour.
Happily munching fish sandwiches—and the fish was so fresh—Pix realized she'd be up to her elbows in haddock and cod for much of the afternoon. She wasn't going to get any gardening done, but at least the chowder was foolproof. No anxiety there. She'd made it dozens of times before.
3
And it had to be made the day before so the flavors could blend. If she put it off until the morning, it would still taste delicious, but at the first bite Ursula would go into her old “Can you look me straight in the eye and say that?” routine, asking, “When did you make this chowder?” She might even call her Myrtle. It had happened before.
Over their coffee and thick wedges of the pie made at the stand, apple today, Jill brought up the subject of Mitchell Pierce.
“Did you know Mitch, Valerie? It's funny. I hadn't thought about missing him until someone mentioned it at the Sewing Circle yesterday. But he was a part of life here—both his good and bad sides. And, of course, the whole thing is so disturbing.” Jill did seem to be extremely disturbed. She was picking
at the handle of the paper coffee cup, reducing it to shreds. And several of her cuticles were ragged. Pix had never seen her display any nervous gestures. Jill was normally as imper-turable as a china doll—and just about as easy to read.
“I've met him,” Valerie replied, “but I didn't know him. I saw him at a few shows and bought things from him once or twice. He sold me that sweet little collection of fans I had framed to hang in my bedroom. We'd planned on having him down to the house sometime. Jim says he was quite the storyteller. The two of them were friends, but we've been so busy with the move and the house, there hasn't been much time for anyone.”
Pix was tempted to tell them about the cross on the quilts and see whether they had any idea what it could mean. Valerie, especially, might know if this was a common mark on antique quilts. But again, she decided to do as Earl had advised and keep quiet.
“I hate to break up the party. It's been so nice to get away—and with grown-ups, too—but if I don't make the chowder, I really will break up a party. Louise is counting on it.”
“I'm taking some of Louella's pies. I don't dare try to cook any of my southern specialities for Louise.”
“Well, I'm bringing festive plates and napkins from the store,” Jill said. “Louise knows the size of my kitchen—and the extent of my culinary expertise. Dinner guests are lucky to get a hamburger. I need Faith to give me a few lessons.”
This was encouragingly domestic, and Pix longed to give Jill a little more of a nudge altarward. “There's a wonderful house for sale on the crossroad. The last owners put in a new kitchen and the back has an orchard that slopes down to one of the long inlets from Little Harbor.” She could picture Jill, rosy-cheeked and smiling, hanging up her wash near the old apple trees, a pie keeping warm on the stove for Earl's return. “And Faith likes nothing better than teaching people how to cook. Dismal failure though she's been with me, she keeps trying.”
But Jill wasn't biting. “How could I afford a big house like that? Besides, it's so convenient living over the store.”
Pix sighed. Maybe another time.
 
The first thing Pix did when she got home was spread out the quilt in the living room. It had not diminished in effect, yet she found herself with a definite feeling of unease as she stood looking at it. The blue threads—but what else was nagging at her? It was too cheap. Why had the dealer let it go for so little?
She thought about it all the way over to Sonny Prescott's lobster pound. Sonny dealt in all kinds of marine life, besides those succulent crustaceans. Pix had already ordered the cod and haddock for the chowder. The mixture of the two fish, as well as the use of slab bacon instead of salt pork gave the Rowe family chowder a distinctive flavor. They also put in more onions than most recipes called for.
Hearing the car, Sonny stuck his head out the bait shed doorway and yelled, “I'm over here.” Pix followed him in. He'd been close to the only other murder investigation on Sanpere in recent memory and Pix wondered what his thoughts might be on Mitchell Pierce's death. Among others, Mitch had boarded at Sonny's one winter, so he knew Mitch better than most.
“I've come for my fish,” Pix said. The smell of the bait, decomposed herring, was overwhelming, but it didn't bother her. It was one of those smells you got used to in childhood and never noticed again. She vastly preferred it to all those perfume samples magazines and catalogs were including in their glossy pages with increasing eye-watering and nose-itching frequency.
“Be right there, deah. Got to get this ready for Jeb Sanford.” Sonny supplied fishermen with bait, fuel, and whatever else was needed. In turn, they sold their catches exclusively to him.
While she was waiting, Pix left the shed and sat at the end of the pier, dangling her legs over the side. She'd known
Sonny since they were both teenagers and had occasionally “borrowed” a dinghy from the yacht club to row out into Sylvester Cove to watch the sparkling phosphorescence magically drip from the oars, a mirror image of the mass of brilliant stars shining overhead. What else Pix and Sonny might or might not have done in the way of canoodling was between the two of them, but they always had a special smile for each other. Sonny came and sat down next to her, the huge package of fish fresh from the boats tied up and set behind him.
“I cleaned it for you. Save you some time. It's for chowder, right? The Fraziers' clambake?” Sonny probably knew the social plans of every inhabitant on the island for the holiday just from the orders that had been placed.
“Yes, and I'll be peeling potatoes until midnight. I've been dreading cleaning all this fish. You are truly a godsend. What would I ever do without you?”
Sonny grinned. “Let's not find out.” They sat for a while looking at the boats moored in the cove. There were some beautiful yachts from farther down the coast. From behind Barred Island in the distance, one of the windjammers sailed into view.
“Is it the
Victory Chimes
?” Pix asked.
Sonny nodded. “Funny to think these were workboats, hauled lumber, whatever else was traded. Now they're hauling rich tourists who want to experience the good old days—cramped sleeping quarters and plenty of hard work to sail the things. Me, I'd like to take one of those cruises Kathie Lee advertises. That would be some good time.”

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