The Body in the Sleigh (14 page)

Ben was long past the age where they could talk about anything serious in front of him. They'd rouse him after they'd finished talking. It could be a while.

“He's not being charged with anything. They don't have anything to charge him with. He has no idea how her shoe got in his car. She's never been in it to his knowledge. They'll go over the vehicle with a fine-tooth comb—the police took it up to Ellsworth on a flatbed. Jake was pretty upset about something happening to the paint job.”

Faith poured herself some brandy. Tom couldn't drink, but she wanted some now that he was home.

“Start at the beginning.”

“Earl's known Jake and all the Marshalls all his life, of course.
Can't imagine how this would have been handled in Aleford. Although the town is a lot like Sanpere when you come right down to it.”

Tom was rambling, exhausted. Faith let him talk. She knew what he was getting at. The fact that Earl lived on the island and knew the family meant that Jake wasn't treated like a criminal. They didn't put him in the squad car, but let him ride to Ellsworth with Tom and Freeman. It wasn't just a matter of trust, it made sense. Handcuffing the boy, putting him in the backseat behind a barrier, or anything else official, would have made him less cooperative—and from the sound of things, Jake was already very upset. They would have started in a minus column before they'd even had a chance to talk to him.

But Nan had said Jake talked to Tom.

“Jake talked to you? When was that?”

Tom was scraping his plate. She stood up and took it from him for more.

“We'd crossed the bridge and were driving up Caterpillar Hill. Jake hadn't said a word to us and we weren't pressing him. He'd been crying. Scared and angry. Suddenly he told Freeman to pull over—at that scenic-view turnout overlooking Walker Pond. The police pulled over behind us. ‘I want to talk to Reverend Fairchild alone, Grandpa,' he says to Freeman. Freeman just nodded and went back to tell Earl. They must have agreed, because he got into the police car and they waved to us to get going. ‘Anything I tell you, you can't tell anyone else, right?' he said, and I told him that was right, but if he was concealing a crime, I'd try to convince him to tell the police.”

“Oh, Tom, I've been afraid of this. He
did
have something to do with her death!”

“That's not clear.”

What was clear, Faith thought despondently, was that whatever Jake Whittaker had told her husband would stay between
the two of them. This was one of the major drawbacks to being married to a man of the cloth. Tom was a repository of all sorts of secrets that Faith was dying to know, and if he told her, he wouldn't only be in trouble with the confidant, but his boss—and that could lead to such unpleasantness as eternal damnation. Not that Faith was altogether sure this existed; still, one couldn't take chances.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“He'll have a long night. He and his lawyer had only just started talking with the police when we left. Before that he'd been meeting with her. Smart boy. Very polite, but firm. Told them he wouldn't say anything until she got there. Freeman was sitting on one side of him; his dad on the other. Kind of like palace guards. Mainers are good at holding their tongues. They never said a word to him, or much to anyone else. I was kind of superfluous at that point, but I knew Freeman wouldn't want to leave until the lawyer came. I found a vending machine and got some coffee. They had whoopie pies too. Had one. It wasn't bad.”

A whoopie pie that probably dated back to the Making Whoopee Roaring Twenties. Faith shuddered. A homemade whoopie pie, or one from a good old-fashioned Maine bakery, was a treat. A whoopie pie from a vending machine was an affront.

“He'll continue to be ‘a person of interest' until they solve this thing.” Tom suddenly sat up straight. “I can't believe I almost forgot this!” He reached out and took Faith's hand as she was clearing his plate. “Earl wants to talk to you first thing in the morning. Why would that be?”

Faith looked her tired, beloved husband straight in the eye. “I suppose because I found the body,” she said. This was no time to complicate everything with her questions to Earl and the tale of a baby found in a modern-day manger.

 

Jake wasn't that much older than his own son. Ben's cheeks hadn't known a razor, but they would soon. Already his voice was changing. He was at one end of adolescence; Jake was at the other. The thought crowded in with all the others keeping Tom awake. He finally gave up trying to get some sleep, slipped out of bed, and sat in a chair by the window looking out at the cove. He'd thought the summer skies were the starry ones until he'd seen these December nights where the firmament above was one shining arc.

It was pleasant sitting in the overstuffed armchair Faith had placed in the alcove, conveniently close to the bookshelves that lined it. “Nothing spindly, or mid-century modern, thank you. A chair where we can curl up. Together if possible,” she'd declared when they were furnishing the house.

Tom stared at the cove for answers that weren't there—and knew that sleep wouldn't come either. Normally he could close his eyes and instantly be in the arms of Morpheous—anywhere, anytime. It was a trick he'd learned early in his career. That and eating whenever he could grab a bite, since he never knew when he'd be called away from a meal. Called. Calling. Jake had turned to Tom because of his calling. He was glad he had been there for the boy. He thought again of Ben. It was terrifying to realize that something like this could happen to one of his own children. Yet, things like this happened to people's own children all the time.

He believed Jake. Not because of his family, or what he'd observed of Jake himself over the years, but because what he said had had the ring of truth. Tom didn't fancy himself an expert, but he'd found that liars tended to elaborate. Their stories—and they always looked you in the eye—were detailed. Overly plausible. No holes. Jake's story was told haltingly. Bare-bones.

When he had finished, Tom had advised him to repeat everything to his lawyer, but no one else unless the lawyer said it was all right. Jake had been relieved. He hadn't wanted to tell anyone, especially his parents—or his coach. Knowing that he shouldn't,
because in the worst-case scenario they could be called to testify, oddly gave him breathing room.

The coach. His team. That was the big thing and that was where Jake had started.

“The thing is, I'm kind of important to the team,” he'd said. “The basketball team. We have a good chance of taking our division championship and maybe even the state. Whip those kids down in Falmouth and thereabouts.”

Tom had nodded and kept his eyes on the road. He had the feeling that even a short reply on his part would have caused Jake to clam up.

“I broke training. Kids do. Like they'll have a beer and if Coach knows, he's not a hard-ass about it. But I went to a party off-island, and on a school night, plus I must have had more than a pop, although it's weird—I don't remember drinking anything except a few Cokes. Anyway, it's enough to definitely get me kicked off—and someone else from the team was at the party too. I can't tell you his name. He left early, but he was there and I'm not going to tell the cops about him no matter what.”

Jake had leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He didn't move anything except his lips, and the rest of what he said seemed to have been dragged from someplace deep inside him, someplace he didn't want to go. Each syllable was uttered more wearily than the last.

“Maybe I've been a little crazy. No, a lot crazy. I had to find her. Norah. I heard she was at this party. Not on the island—near Belfast. It had been going on since Sunday. Somebody's house in Temple Heights. I think they were planning to party straight through Christmas. It was the week before. I climbed out of my window, let the car roll down the yard onto the road, and went to pick up the other person. My mom and dad don't know anything about this. Norah was there, we talked, and the next thing I remember is waking up behind my house in my car. Not driving it
home or anything. But I must have. I was in the driver's seat. I'm no saint, but I'd never drive drunk. Except I must have. There's no other way I could have gotten home. It was about four thirty. I felt like I couldn't move. Just wanted to sleep, but I knew my parents would be up soon, so I made myself get out of the car and go in the house. I got into bed. Didn't even take off my clothes. For some reason I was freezing cold. I fell asleep and didn't hear my alarm go off. Mom was shaking me and asking me if I was sick. Then I don't remember anything except waking up in the afternoon, still feeling weird. Like I couldn't move, but I didn't want anyone to think something was wrong, so I managed to take a shower, change, and eat some supper. The next day I went to school like nothing happened. And nothing did, Reverend Fairchild. Norah was as alive as you or me when I last saw her.”

Jake's choked-up voice was still echoing in Tom's ears. He stood up and once more his gaze was drawn to the scene out the window. The cove looked like a Christmas card. He loved this season—a time of hope and belief. Tonight, more than anything, he wanted to believe.

 

On the other side of the island—the side facing the Camden Hills far across Penobscot Bay, Jake Whittaker lay in his bed wide awake. He'd be off the team. There was no way this could be hushed up. No one had asked if anyone else went with him to the party, so he hadn't had to refuse to answer. He'd screwed up, but he wasn't going to involve Davey too. None of it mattered anyway. What this might do to his chances for a UMaine scholarship. The only thing that mattered was gone. Gone for good. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from dripping out. The tears that came whenever he thought about never seeing Norah again. He wished he could have seen her body. Seen her one last time and then possibly he'd believe she was dead. He remembered that Mrs.
Fairchild had been the one to find her. Maybe someday he'd talk to her about how Norah had looked. In his mind, the clock was turned back and her hair the way it had been at her grandmother's funeral. The way it had looked with the red swamp-maple leaves tangled up in it after they'd made love for the first, and only, time. If they hadn't would things have turned out differently? The hot tears spilled down the side of his head.

It was all going to be okay. Like it had been before. That's what she'd said at the party. He hadn't told anyone what they'd talked about. Not Reverend Fairchild, not the lawyer, and definitely not the cops. It wasn't his secret; it was hers. His head ached. It had been aching since he heard the news. He was so confused. Who did this to her? It had to have been someone who was there that night. He'd tell the cops anything that would help find her murderer, but he couldn't remember past the end of the conversation he and Norah had been having when they'd returned to the house. Names. He tried to recall the names he'd overheard. Overheard. Had they been overheard? Was there someone near the shore where they'd talked? The person immediately responsible for her death was faceless. But there was someone who wasn't. Someone who had driven her from Jake and the person she had been. Someone who had made her look for a way to end the pain she was in; the pain that that person had caused. As soon as this was over and he was free, Jake had only one plan in mind: find Norah's father and make him pay for what he'd done to his daughter.

When Mary heard that Faith wasn't going to be able to get to Orono until tomorrow, she stoked the fire, checked the baby, and sat down to think. She didn't sit in the rocker but in a big armchair her father had moved into the kitchen one day, taking the door off to do so. Some summer person was getting rid of it. A few years ago, Mary had slipcovered it with a bright floral chintz that she'd found at the Take It Or Leave It at the dump. There wasn't quite enough, so she'd used some plain blue cotton from the Island Variety Store for the back. The chair had down cushions and originally must have been an expensive piece of furniture. Over time it had proved a fine place to read, seek comfort, and above all, think things over.

She had to be honest with herself. Knowing that Faith wouldn't be able to locate Christopher's mother for another day—at least—did not make Mary unhappy. Yes, she wanted to find the woman and be sure she knew what she was doing, yet at the same time, once she was identified, no matter what the outcome, Mary was afraid she would always feel that Christopher belonged to some
one else. At the moment, this figure was faceless, an apparition that would disappear in time, and she could give full range to her fantasy—that somehow she herself had given birth to the infant sleeping so soundly by her side.

“You're a fool, Mary Bethany,” she chided herself out loud—and wished she meant it. There was nothing foolish about the way she felt. In a little more than forty-eight hours, Christopher had become the most important thing in her life. She understood now what all the fuss was about—people saying they'd die for their children. And what the loss of a child could mean. She wasn't a conventionally religious woman, but she was suddenly struck by the enormity of that other Mary's grief when she saw her child crucified. It was, at heart, a mother and son. As simple—and complicated—as that.

What if Christopher's mother changed her mind once Faith confronted her? Although, if she
had
changed her mind, wouldn't she have been here by now? Or called? What if she'd been away, though? Visiting with her family for Christmas? Did seeing all of them make her want her own child back? Perhaps she had been able to tell them about the pregnancy and birth. She could be on her way here right now, saying to herself she must have been crazy to leave her precious boy with an old-maid goatherd on an isolated island that boasted a total year-round population of three thousand, give or take.

Christopher was stirring. Mary got up to prepare a bottle for him. When it was ready, she picked him up and settled into the rocker. He seemed to like the motion while he drank. His dark eyes stared straight at her and one little hand was curled tightly around her finger. Every once in a while, he'd give it an extra little squeeze—as if he were telling her everything was going to be all right. Mary held him close and kept rocking long after the bottle was empty.

 

Missy Marshall, Nan and Freeman's granddaughter—the daughter of their youngest son, Mark—was a pistol. Amy Fairchild was an active little girl, but an observer, a listener. The two were perfect together and Faith was delighted to hear her daughter's laughter as they rearranged Amy's room—Missy's idea. “Can we do something about this boodwhar? Like put the bed so she can look out the window?” Missy's best friend at home—“You're my BF here, Amy”—was a certain Delilah Ogletree, daughter to Lavinia Ogletree, interior decorator extraordinaire for the entire Triangle region. “That's Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill,” Missy had explained to the uninitiated. Amy had nodded solemnly. This was not something she was going to forget now or ever. Missy was taking Faith's mind off both young Christopher and older Jake. Especially Jake. When Missy's mother had dropped her off, she'd told Faith that Art had driven Jake back to Ellsworth for more questioning. “The phone's been ringing off the hook. This place is exactly like home. Everybody wants to help—and not a soul believes he had anything to do with that girl's death. From what I understand, she was an accident waiting to happen. I'll pick Missy up at three, if that's okay. We'll all be at Debbie's if you need us. And don't let her sass you. She's a good kid, but her mouth has a mind of its own.”

Faith had told her Missy could stay even longer, and meant it. As for her mouth, well, they could use one like hers today. After the boudoir had been completed almost to Missy's satisfaction—“I'd like for Amy to have a canopy bed, Mrs. Fairchild. Do you think you could get one?”—they went outside to “hunt down treasures on the shore.” Both girls were in agreement on what constituted a treasure and Faith knew they'd be back with parts of pot buoys, line, driftwood, and anything else poking up through the snow—not so deep on the sandy beach. Ben went along, ostensibly to keep on eye on them, but Faith could tell he was enjoy
ing their visitor as much as the rest of them were. Missy was a long string bean, with a mop of brown curls, but Faith had taken one look at Missy's mother on Christmas and realized the little girl was going to be a stunner one of these days.

After the children left, Faith turned to Tom and suggested a walk.

“They're going to be a while, don't you think?” he remarked.

“It's not cold, so I'm pretty sure they'll be an hour or so. I gave Ben a thermos of cocoa and some molasses cookies.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Not walking?”

“Definitely not walking.”

Forty minutes later the phone rang.

“Let the machine pick it up,” Faith said. She felt as drowsy now as her beloved looked and a short nap would be an extra dividend.

“We can't,” Tom said sorrowfully.

“I know. I'll get it.”

The moment Faith heard the voice on the other end of the line, she was sorry she hadn't given in to her initial impulse. It was Sergeant Earl Dickinson, although he hadn't used his full moniker, simply saying, “Faith? It's Earl.”

“Oh, hi,” she said.

“Tom must have told you I wanted to talk to you. Are you busy now? I'm down on the island for a couple of hours. I don't want you to have to drive to Ellsworth.”

She wasn't busy—not now. And there was no way she wanted to meet at the state police office. She thought quickly. The kids would be back soon, so she couldn't have him come by the house. The kids. Maybe she could postpone the encounter.

“Actually, I
am
kind of busy. I'm taking care of one of the Marshall granddaughters for the day.”

“Mark's Missy?”

“Well, yes.” While it was helpful to have a law enforcement officer who was so embedded in the island—like yesterday with Jake—at times, it was a drawback. She knew what Earl was going to say before the words were out of his mouth.

“She could take care of half the island without turning a hair. Tom's there, anyway, right?”

She was stuck.

“Well, yes.” She also seemed to be stuck to this particular speech pattern.

“Meet me at Lily's in fifteen minutes. The breakfast rush is long over, but Kyra's still serving it and I haven't had mine. Lily's is pretty quiet these days anyway. I haven't seen many cars outside. Not like August.”

Faith sighed. “See you there.”

She hung up the phone. Tom's eyes were closed, but she could tell he wasn't asleep. His mouth wasn't relaxed, and as soon as she walked toward the bed, his eyelids flew open.

“Who wants you to do what? Mary?”

“No, it was Earl. I forgot you mentioned he wanted to speak with me.”

“I forgot too. I'm sure he won't keep you long and I can make my famous toasted cheesers for the kids if they're hungry.”

Tom's culinary skills—minimal before his marriage—had atrophied to the point of said sandwiches and decent coffee. His version of a classic toasted-cheese sandwich, learned from his mother, involved lashings of butter, many slices of Kraft cheddar, an iron skillet, and a lid, which he used to initially cover the skillet.

“He wants me to meet him at Lily's.”

Tom got out of bed and reached for his clothes. His face brightened. “Maybe Kyra made doughnut muffins this morning and has some left.”

Faith was pulling an Icelandic wool sweater over her head. She felt chilled. Emerging, she reassured her husband that even if
doughnut muffins were not on the menu, she'd bring back something delectable for him, and reminded him that she'd made a big batch of nonmuffin doughnuts that he could have.

Earl was sitting on a stool at the counter, drinking a mug of coffee.

“Hi, Faith. There's no one upstairs, why don't I grab us a table while you order. I'm all set.”

His geniality was puzzling. It was almost as if he had merely asked her to meet him for a chat about what to get Jill for her birthday, or some other prosaic topic. A topic far removed from murder.

“What'll it be, Faith? Good to see you,” Kyra said. She wore the kind of vintage bib aprons that her great-aunt Lily might have worn, but the young, attractive brunette gave them a style all her own—a sense of style evident in every corner of the café.

Ordinarily, Faith would have had a hard time deciding. At the moment, she had no appetite even for Kyra's food. A mug of coffee would be enough. But Earl had probably ordered a full breakfast and Faith would be sitting there with nothing to occupy her hands except the mug.

“I've already eaten, but a toasted bagel with cream cheese and some of your jam would be nice—the cheese and jam on the side, please. And could you put aside two of whatever muffins you have today for Tom?”

Kyra nodded and disappeared into the kitchen at the rear.

Faith slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Lily's was located in a late-nineteenth-century gambrel-roofed house on Route 17 that Kyra and her partner, Renée, had beautifully restored and converted into the café-restaurant. Open year-round, it was flooded with off-islanders during the short summer season. The rest of the year, it belonged to Sanpere. It wasn't a place for a tryst—might as well put it in the
Bangor Daily News,
since someone you knew was bound to be there and that someone really
knew you. It was the spot for meetings of other kinds, though—from friends who hadn't seen each other in a while, caught up in the hectic everyday, to groups trying to start new island businesses and projects or help out existing ones.

Earl was at one of the round tables in what had been a bedroom. He had taken the chair that faced out the window at the road and passing traffic. It was the equivalent of facing the door in a bar.

He'd stopped at home long enough to shower. Faith could smell the citrusy shampoo Jill favored that they both used. His face was smoothly shaven; his uniform was freshly creased. The sergeant was ready for work.

“Thanks for coming,” Earl said.

The food arrived and Faith saw that Earl had ordered her favorite breakfast—a sandwich called the Annie, oozing with a mix of spinach, feta, scrambled eggs, and a slice of tomato.

As soon as the server left, Earl took a big bite, swallowed, and got down to business.

“Why did you think Norah Taft might be pregnant?”

Faith applied a layer of cream cheese to her bagel and reached for the jam. She had been expecting this question and was prepared.

“Finding her was a shock and I keep trying to make sense of her death, although I know that's probably impossible. But for someone to overdose deliberately, there has to be some sort of reason. I thought she might have been overwhelmed by something like an unwanted child—and the effect her drug problem was having on the fetus.”

She'd rehearsed her statement over and over. It was mostly true.

Earl nodded and finished half his sandwich.

“You also said you thought it was strange that the works would be in a bag.”

This was easier ground.

“You must have thought so too. I know you said she would have had time to tidy everything away, but why? If she shot up in the sleigh, the syringe would have dropped to her side along with whatever she used to tie herself off with—a belt maybe.”

“So, I guess what I'm asking is, did you think she was murdered when you found her?”

Faith put her bagel down. She'd done a fine job spreading the homemade strawberry jam, but couldn't manage even one bite.

“When I saw her, all I could think of was getting someone there as fast as possible, so I could get my kids away. But yes, as I waited I did think it was an unnatural death. When I heard about the overdose and the fact that everything was tucked neatly in the sleigh, I
did
think she'd been murdered. Given an overdose someplace else and moved to the sleigh. By someone with a sick sense of humor.”

“Or very smart. In this weather, with the way the display was set up, it could have been a while until she was found. People were stopping by on the weekend to take a look, not weekdays. And the only house with a clear view is Daisy Sanford's across the road. Even if she did look out the front window, her eyes aren't what they used to be.”

Faith drank some coffee. The warm liquid felt good and she drank some more. “Why the sleigh?” was the place to start. She doubted it was from any feeling for island history. As Earl had just said, it was a place she'd be noticed, but not immediately. Not only were Daisy's eyes cloudy, but that front room wouldn't be used much at any time of year except for company and definitely not in the winter with the cost of oil. Was the sleigh simply convenient? She pictured a car traveling down Route 17 in the early hours of the morning with its terrible burden. There were no streetlights on the island except in Sanpere Village and Granville. Whoever placed the body in the sleigh had to have been familiar with it,
passing it in daylight—or living nearby? She gagged slightly on the mouthful of coffee she had just taken. The Whittakers lived only a few houses away, next to Art's business.