The Body in the Sleigh (12 page)

“I think so,” Mary said. “The baby's asleep again. I'll go check.”

Mary had hidden the money somewhere outside her house, Faith noted. Somewhere that required boots and a jacket. But, since Mary returned shortly, somewhere not too far away.

“‘Sammy's Twenty-four Hour Store.' Just the name. No address.” She took off her things and joined Faith at the table. “Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea now?”

Faith thought it was time for whatever rose hips did for little gray cells, and while Mary filled two mugs, she put her wits to work. First she ruled out Hancock County by looking in Mary's Yellow Pages. The store wasn't listed, although an amazing number of twenty-four-hour stores were. Maybe Mainers did keep late hours—although more likely very early ones. The busiest store on the island was a small one that opened at 3
A.M.
It was where the fishermen stopped to get their coffee and doughnuts. Also lunch for many. A lot of them hit it again for a six-pack on the way home. At those times, it was hard to find a place to park.

“If the Singers wrote down a phony address and number,” Faith said, “they probably didn't give their real names either. At least their last names. They were calling each other ‘Miriam' and ‘Bruce' right?”

Mary nodded.

“I think we should keep looking for her in Orono. Everything about this says ‘student.' I'll call information,” Faith said.

“And I'll check the goats. I didn't have time before.”

When Mary returned, Faith was putting on her own jacket and boots. She was smiling.

“The store is in Orono, all right. I was even able to get the operator to give me the address. When I go to pick up the baby things, I'll check it out.”

Faith planned to make a quick trip to the Bangor malls tomorrow—Orono wasn't much farther. She needed to get formula and diapers in bulk, besides onesies, sleepers, and hats. The fact that Christopher didn't have a hat led Faith to believe he'd been a home birth. If he'd been born in a hospital, he'd have had one of those little pixie numbers perched on his head to keep him warm.

At the moment he was certainly warm and content, hat or no hat, sleeping soundly after his last feeding. Mary was looking as if she could use some sleep too.

“Curl up in your chair and close your eyes,” Faith suggested. “You'll hear him, don't worry.”

“I think I just might.”

As Faith was starting the car, she was startled to see Mary come flying around the corner of her house, waving at her to stop. Faith turned off the ignition and stepped out.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“I knew I was leaving something out!” Mary said. “Miriam Singer had lovely, long dark hair, just like the strand on Christopher's blanket. She wore it in a braid down her back, but one day she washed it and sat out in the sun to let it dry. She looked, well, she looked like the Madonna.”

 

Miriam's father had answered the phone when she'd called the day after the baby was born.

She'd been feeling very blue. Postpartum depression. The midwife had warned her she'd have her ups and downs—and that the downs could be pretty deep.

Miriam debated with herself and finally called him. He was the only person she could think of to call. She'd just had a baby. Shouldn't she call someone? She'd tell him she wasn't keeping it. No need for her father to jump to the conclusion that she was calling for money. It was just, well, she'd had a
baby.
A major life event, and during one of the downs she'd decided somebody needed to know besides herself and the midwife, whose name was Vita—no last name, at least not one she was willing to share. Miriam's involvement with Bruce had kept her from making any other friends—female or male. She had plenty of acquaintances. The apartment was always full of people when Bruce was there. But none of them were what she'd call friends. She almost called Sheila Riley, her long-ago, and short-term, best friend.

Sheila would be home for the holidays. The high school graduation program had listed everyone's future plans. Next to Sheila's name was “Boston College” next to Miriam's “Undecided.” It would be too weird to call her. Weird to call her father as well. And totally irrational. She hadn't spoken to him since she'd phoned last year to tell him she was in school. She didn't get a chance to say where before he'd told her not to come to him to pay her tuition. That wasn't why she was calling—for help. She'd just wanted him to know that she was making it on her own. Without him. It had been a pretty short conversation. She'd heard her stepmother in the background talking rapidly, as usual. Miriam had caught “You don't owe her one red cent.” Brenda was a very high-maintenance lady and went through money almost as fast as she talked. She'd want to keep a tight hold on all the red cents in the current Carpenter household.

But she had to tell someone and the one person she wanted to confide in, the one person who would lovingly take her in her arms, was dead.

“Hi, Dad, it's Miriam.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I just, I guess I just wanted to say hi and…”

Brenda was there again in the background. “Who is it, Dan?”

“It's Miriam.” Her father hadn't bothered to turn away from the receiver and the words went directly into Miriam's ear.

“What does she want?”

“I don't know yet. What do you want, Miriam?”

What she wanted at that moment was to hang up, but she didn't. She got mad. Damn it. She'd had a baby. All alone.

“I don't want anything. I called to tell you you're a grandfather—a bouncing baby boy—and you can tell Brenda she's a grandmother.” Miriam had added the last bit with calculated cruelty. Brenda would not like to be a grandmother.

“I assume your child is a bastard; like mother, like daughter,” her father said.

Then Miriam heard Brenda's voice coming closer to the phone. “Child, what child? Miriam's had a baby? Boy or girl? Find out where she is.”

It had been those last words that caused a prickle of fear to run down Miriam's spine. Not the ones about her mother. She knew she was the reason for the marriage or, as her father called it, the entrapment. No, it was Brenda's words, not her father's. It was her stepmother's sudden interest in Miriam's whereabouts and the sex of the baby that had produced a rapidly escalating panic.

“Well, good-bye, then. I've got to go.”

“Wait. I need to know where—”

Miriam had hung up before he finished the sentence. She'd planned to keep Christopher with her until New Year's, which was when Bruce had said he'd be back. But as fright began to over-
whelm her, she realized that anything from mundane boredom to a serious fight with his Canadian connections could change his mind, and he'd split. She had been foolhardy to even bring the baby back to the apartment.

It hadn't taken long to leave; she'd had everything ready. From the beginning, she'd known what she would do. Didn't know that it would be this soon, though. Christmas Eve. Ironic. With her father's words echoing in her ears and Bruce's angry face in her eyes, she'd decided to head for the coast right then. Christopher's father didn't want him, but for some reason Brenda, his grandmother, might. Her father and stepmother had never had one of their own—was it because they couldn't? Miriam had always assumed they didn't want a child—Brenda with stretch marks, no way—but maybe they did. Or Brenda did. The ultimate soccer mom. And a little one as the ultimate accessory, a step beyond a fancy lapdog and her Louis Vuitton purses? If Brenda wanted something, Miriam knew, Daniel would get it for her, no matter what it took. In a weird turn of events, she had to keep Christopher safe from both his grandfather and his father—one because he wanted the baby, one because he didn't. And in his own way, each would murder the child.

 

Faith knew that Amy wouldn't be home until suppertime. The all-girl trip to Ellsworth the day after Christmas was a long-standing Marshall tradition, originally to purchase next year's wrapping paper and ribbon, plus any other bargains on items Santa might have overlooked. Last year Nan had scored a kayak with only a slight scratch at the L.L.Bean outlet store for a fraction of the original price. It had been on her grandson's wish list, but Santa couldn't afford it. It would be fun to see what the ladies turned up this year. The movie had been a standard component, as was eating lunch at China Hill. Nan was partial to their egg foo young, and
since it was the holidays, they always went for a couple of pu pu platters. Faith had long thought that someone wanting to make a fortune on the island—and yes, in a cookie—should set up a Chinese takeout. Sanpere natives thought nothing of driving the forty minutes to Ellsworth for moo goo gai pan and egg rolls—some good! China Hill and a nearby Mexican restaurant were special-occasion destinations.

She walked in the door and was surprised that the house was so quiet. Surely Tom and Ben were back by now. She walked into the living room. The woodstove was crackling and she smelled cocoa. A saucepan was soaking in the sink.

Somebody had turned the tree lights on and they twinkled softly. It was a beautiful tree. She turned her head and saw husband and son on the couch fast asleep, curled up against each other like part of a litter of kittens. The empty cocoa mugs were on the table in front of them and a plate showed cookie crumbs. They'd obviously had a good day. Never wake a sleeping baby—no matter what age.

The phone rang. In a move worthy of Jesse Owens or one of Pavlov's dogs, Ben sprinted for it.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi. Sure. He's here. I'll get him.”

He put the phone down on the counter.

“It's for you, Dad. Mr. Marshall.” He caught sight of his mother as she moved back into the room.

“Hi, Mom. We had an awesome time. I bet we snowshoed ten miles. We saw a mouse skeleton. It was just perfect. Those bones are really tiny. We buried it under the snow.”

“That was a good thought. Let's let Dad talk to Freeman and I'll make you a snack if you like.”

“I'm pretty full right now, thanks. Would it be okay if I just went to my room and worked on my LEGO Technic?”

The stay in Maine seemed to have restored Ben's manners, as
if he'd drunk from the etiquette equivalent of Ponce de León's fabled fountain of youth.

“Sure—and if you change your mind, I'm making a sandwich for myself and would be happy to make one for you too.”

Faith realized she was ravenous. The coffee and scones at the Dickinsons' had been ages ago. Mary's tea was tasty, but hadn't filled Faith up. She'd brought some rosemary foccacia and Mary had pressed more goat cheese on her—so fresh Faith was tempted to eat it with a spoon. In the background she could hear Tom's voice, but was too busy thinking of what to put with the cheese to pay close attention. With many of his friends home for the holidays on the island, maybe Freeman wanted to organize a checkers tournament—or poker. He was a legendary player in these parts.

Chèvre and fig conserve. Perfect. The conserve wasn't too sweet and very figgy. Like a figgy pudding. She felt a rush of pleasure. Faith loved Christmas.

She pressed the top slice of bread down on the filling and her hand picked up some of the foccacia's rosemary. As she brushed her hands off into the sink, the sweet smell reached her nose and she sniffed appreciatively. Rosemary. Mary. Legend had it that when the holy family was fleeing to Egypt, they stopped to wash out a few things. No Huggies in those days. Cloth diapers—and maybe Mary's linen shift and Joseph's cloak were in need of scrubbing too. Mary spread the wet garments on a dull, colorless bush to dry. When she took them off, the bush was a glorious green with tiny blue flowers and a pleasantly pungent smell. Rosemary.
Romarin
in French.
Rosmarino
in Italian. Faith took a bite of her sandwich. The taste was heavenly.

Tom hung up and came over to his wife. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. Tighter than usual.

“I have to go up to Ellsworth with Freeman. The state police are bringing Jake in for questioning. They found one of Norah Taft's shoes in his car.”

He had been in love with her his whole life—or at least as much of his life as he could recall. At first she was a summer girl—although her mother was from the island. Maybe that was part of what had made Norah so different, so special. He was used to seeing the other kids all year round and they never seemed to change much. His best friend, Davey, got taller but stayed skinny and was in as much trouble for not being able to sit still in high school as he had been in kindergarten. It was the same with the girls. They did stuff to their hair, and their chests began altering in an alarming and exciting way, but they were still the same girls he'd been teasing on the playground forever.

But Norah was different. Each summer she'd come back to stay with her grandparents and there would have been a complete metamorphosis. Her curly carrot-colored hair—pigtails in his earliest memory—changed each year until it hung straight to her shoulders, a sheet of burnished copper. She freckled something fierce, but didn't start caring about it until she got older. One summer, besides slathering herself with sunscreen, she carried a
parasol she'd found in the attic that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother.

Logically he knew the changes were because he didn't see her day in, day out, and guessed it would be the same if, say, Davey had gone to live off-island from Labor Day until June. Still, his mind placed her in a different category from everyone else. A unique one—at once familiar yet exotic. She was from home
and
away.

Her grandparents were old friends of his grandparents'. They were all active in the grange. Norah's mother, an only child, was like another sister to Jake's dad and the rest of the family. Norah naturally ended up with the Marshalls too.

The summers her school let out before his and he was stuck in a classroom while she was out with his grandfather in the boat, baking cookies with his grandmother, or taking her canoe to one of the islands in the thoroughfare; he knew what prisoners felt like.

One June—before he shot up in mid-August—she came back taller than he was and lorded it over him until he complained to his grandmother, who told him to stop whining and wait. She'd been right, as usual. She'd also slipped him extra cookies and always made sure his milk glass was full that summer.

Together they got to know every inch of the island—the old granite quarries and the even older serpentine one on Little Sanpere. It was so hidden by alders that when they happened upon it, he'd felt as if they had stumbled on an enchanted castle in a fairy tale—the green rock jutting out in steps only a giant could scale.

She taught him how to swim in the lily pond. She'd had lessons at some Y near where she lived in the winter. She told him she didn't want him to be like all those fishermen who drowned because they couldn't even do a dog paddle. He didn't tell her they mostly drowned because the water was so damn cold it froze them before they could take a stroke. He didn't tell her, because
he wanted her to teach him. Liked the way she held him up in the water and told him not to be afraid. He told her most everything else, though; especially that he wasn't going to be a fisherman. Or an electrician like his dad. Not that these would have been a bad way to make a living. It was that Jake wanted to build boats. Big boats. She laughed at him often, but she never laughed at his dream. She was the one who got him started—a dinghy. He sold it to a summer person for $400. A fortune. And she was the one who hauled them over to the historical society to find out everything they could about the America's Cup Boys and Nathaniel Herreshoff, the man who built the two yachts the all-island crew sailed to victories in 1895 and 1899. Afterward, Herreshoff became his hero and he read everything he could find about the man and the incredible boats he built. What had been a dream fast became an obsession. He made friends with people over at the Wooden Boat School in Brooklin. And that year at Christmas he got a gift subscription to their magazine from “Anonymous,” but he knew who it was. He sent her a book reproducing old postcards of Sanpere that the historical society had just published, with a three-word note, “Come back soon.”

She was a year ahead of him in school, but they were the same age. Something to do with when you turned five and could start kindergarten where she was. His birthday was in October, hers in August. She teased him about it the summer she turned fourteen—telling him she was robbing the cradle.

That summer. He was happier than he had ever been—and didn't know he would never be that happy again. The first summer he knew she felt about him the way he did about her. It was like they invented kissing. And it was only kissing—well, maybe a little bit more. She was working at the island day camp and he and Davey had traps out. He'd scrub himself with his mother's fancy soap to try to get rid of the smell. Norah never complained. He was going into eighth grade; she was going into ninth.

Then the next summer she wasn't on the island. School let out and there was no knock on the kitchen door. No “Come on, lazybones, let's do something.” Her grandfather had passed several years ago; her grandmother last fall. She'd come with her mother for the funeral. Jake was there too. They'd sneaked off together into the woods behind the church after the service while everyone was busy eating little egg salad and tuna fish sandwiches and drinking punch in the parish hall. She had been wearing a black dress and looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. The swamp maples had turned and some of the scarlet leaves had fallen. She stretched out on the moss and her hair mixed with the leaves. He lay beside her, at first just holding her hand. “I can't stand being away from you for so long. Can't you get your parents to move here? Your mom is always saying how much she misses the island,” Jake had said. She'd shaken her head. “I don't want to talk about it. I'd come if I could. I hate being apart too. Summer will be here before you know it,” she'd said, and he'd hugged her words close all winter like a warm jacket.

When she hadn't turned up by the Fourth of July, he'd sent her a postcard asking her where she was and when she was coming. It was the second time he'd written to her, if you counted the sentence with the Christmas book. He wasn't much good at writing, but it was more that he liked keeping the distance between them total and she seemed to want the same thing. “What would I tell you?” she'd said once when the question of writing came up. “I went to school, was bored out of my gourd, came home, did homework, blah, blah.'” So they didn't write.

And she didn't write back this time either. By now the island grapevine had picked up the news and he knew where she was. Her mother had to take care of an elderly cousin who now lived in Virginia and was dying of cancer. Norah had to stay home and take care of her father.

Jake had fumed. “Take care of him? Can't the man microwave
a frozen dinner? It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

Then there was a postcard in early August. A covered bridge someplace in Vermont. “Tell Grandma Nan to bake a cake. I'll be in Sanpere for my birthday.”

His grandmother had Norah's favorite coconut layer cake ready, but she didn't show up. They waited two days and ate it. Jake couldn't finish his piece and his grandparents had looked at him sympathetically. “Must be because the sick woman took a turn for the worse. Probably Norah's in Virginia for the funeral. You'll hear from her.”

But he saw her before hearing from her.

The first day of school. He couldn't believe his eyes. He was getting a ride that year with Davey's older brother, Larry. Jake jumped down from the pickup and she was standing with a bunch of girls outside the main entrance. With so few kids on the island, grades 7 through 12 were in the same building. It was all he could do to keep himself from running over and grabbing her. Instead, he walked next to Davey, who'd conveniently said, “Hey, it's Norah. Let's go say hi. What do you think's going on? She's carrying a backpack. She must be living here.” The bell rang before they got to her and Jake had had to wait until lunch to speak with her. The anticipation had made him feel giddy. At lunch he took his tray and sat down next to her.

“Are you here for good? What happened this summer? I can't believe your dad. My dad is a great cook, and could take care of himself, although he'd bitch about it. Did the cousin die? Were you close?” The questions poured out of him like a mackerel run.

“I can't talk now. But yes, I'm here for good. My mom and me.”

“What about your dad?”

“I have to go. I'm going to be late for class.”

He looked for her after school and saw her get on the bus. He called her name, but she didn't turn around.

Later he'd heard his mother on the phone talking about it with
someone. “Poor Darlene. Well, better to divorce than try to make something broken work. Good thing she held on to her parents' Little Sanpere place.”

He kept watching for her, but didn't get a chance to talk to her for a few days. He'd grabbed her and pulled her into an empty classroom. She'd screamed at him not to touch her. Not to ever touch her again. He'd backed away, stunned at her vehemence and scared that someone would hear her. She took off and he called after her, “I'll be waiting, Norah. I love you, and whatever's wrong, I don't care. I'll be here. No matter how long it takes.”

This time her metamorphosis was one he watched take place, although he could hardly bear to. First she cut her hair in jagged lengths—some so short you could see her scalp—then bleached it. She began hanging out with the Goth and punk kids, loser kids. Come spring, she wore crop tops and really low-rider jeans. Everyone could see her tramp stamp just above her ass. It wasn't anything bad—a big butterfly with long curling wings that ended in vines. She had another tattoo, a chain link, around her ankle. Maybe there were others on the few parts of her body not showing. The tramp stamp started the talk that she was a slut. Talk that had begun in the winter when she'd disappear off-island and skip school. Someone had seen her in Ellsworth with a bunch of bikers—older guys. Her mother couldn't control her, he heard his mother tell someone on the phone, and he wanted to slam the receiver down. Didn't they have better things to do with their time than talk about Norah Taft? Nan and Freeman never said a word to him about Norah—or Zara, as she had renamed herself.

Just before she ran away for good, the summer she would turn seventeen, he saw her sitting on the wall on Main Street in Granville one night. She was alone. Davey had gotten his license before Jake had and they were riding around as usual. When Jake saw Norah, he told Davey to keep driving. He didn't want her to bolt. Then he said to stop at the town pier and wait. He'd been pretty
sure he wouldn't be long, despite his hopes. He'd doubled back on the hill overlooking the harbor and come up behind her, calling her name softly so as not to startle her. He felt like he was out hunting with his dad, but he'd never stalked such precious prey. As soon as she heard him, she'd begun to run, but it was nothing to catch her. He'd been the star of both the varsity baseball and basketball teams for a year and before that the JV. He held her wrist gently. Her pupils were big. He knew she was on something.

“I just want to remind you that what I said when you came back still goes. I'll never stop loving you.”

She leaned her head against his chest and he thought it was over. He thought she really had come back. It had all been like a bad dream. She'd relaxed against him, then stiffened up and shaken her hand free.

He called after her. “I'll be waiting.”

He was still waiting when the state police came to his house with a warrant to search his car and found her red high-heeled shoe wedged under the driver's seat.

 

“Oh, Tom! There must be some mistake,” Faith said. “Jake couldn't have had anything to do with Norah's death. If nothing else, the way he asked us to remember her at Christmas dinner proves it. Murderers don't do things like that.” Or, she couldn't help thinking, unless they were very clever—and very evil.

“I have to go. Freeman is picking me up right away. Earl is one of the cops at the house and he said they'd wait. They're letting us take him in, but they'll be following. Jake hasn't exactly been cooperating. At first he ran out the back door, but changed his mind and came back. Said he'd go with them, but didn't want his father to come. Art suggested Freeman, and Jake agreed, but said he wanted me too.” As he spoke, Tom was putting on his coat, a wool one he'd brought to wear to church. The words kept tum
bling out. “Call Sam Miller right away and get the name of the lawyer he got for Bill Fox.”

“That was a long time ago, darling, and besides, that lawyer only lived in Blue Hill in the summer.”

“Then maybe he's retired up here. All I know is that he was good and we need somebody good in a hurry for this kid.”

Faith tied a wool scarf around Tom's neck. He'd buttoned his coat up wrong. She didn't think anyone would notice.

“Sam will be able to find someone,” she said. “I'll have him call you—and call me when you can. Your cell will work in Ellsworth. I love you.”

Tom hugged his wife tight against his chest. “I love you too. Some Christmas, I'm afraid.” He let her go reluctantly.

“Yes,” Faith whispered aloud. “Some Christmas.”

After Tom left, and after making her hurried call to the Millers, Faith was at loose ends. Ben was totally absorbed in his intricate LEGO building. She'd told him Tom had to go help Freeman with something and might be a while. Did he want something to eat? He didn't, and deprived of the modest activity of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Faith felt even more restless. She knew she wouldn't be able to read. Finally, she stood at the window and looked out at the waning daylight slanting across the cove. She hated the early dark of winter. They'd passed the shortest day, and each was getting longer, but it didn't feel that way to her. It would be pitch-dark when Amy came home. Faith drew a breath sharply. Jake's mother, Debbie, was on the Marshall Ladies' Day Out. They would have reached the final phase up in Ellsworth—the movies. Faith pictured her sitting in the darkened theater with her popcorn, unaware that her son was passing by outside, escorted by the police and about to be questioned in a murder investigation.