The Body in the Sleigh (2 page)

On Friday evening Faith and Tom had taken the kids to the town pier in Granville to greet him along with most of the island—population 3,134 in the winter. They'd cheered Santa ashore along with everyone else and joined the crowd for cocoa and cookies in the Grange hall. With no school the next day for the children and, sadly, most of the boats out of the water for the fishermen, due to the economy, not weather, the night took on a leisurely character. It was only the women, Faith had noted, who had that to-do-list look. She'd felt a bit guilty at how short hers was, but remembering previous years, decided she was owed.

The Fairchilds had hung a wreath on their own front door and bought a small, living tree in a tub. It was trimmed with ornaments they'd made during the week from pinecones and clam and mussel shells. So it would look as pretty at night, they'd added a
string of tiny white lights purchased at the Island Variety Store. The only decoration Faith had brought from home was the exquisite Gladys Boalt Treetop Angel figure Tom had given her their first Christmas together. She always put it on the top of the tree even before they put the lights on—that normally tedious job. The angel had become a kind of talisman and Faith had promised herself that no tree they'd ever have would be without it. She glanced over at it now. The angel's deftly painted smile looked enigmatic—or perhaps it was Faith's imagination.

Yes, everything had been perfect until she'd found the body in the sleigh. And now in this early-morning hour, the scene played, unbidden, as sharply focused as when it had occurred.

Tom had been napping and she was taking the kids on their first tour of the island decorations. They'd stopped at the market to pick up some things for supper and were greeted by Santa handing out candy canes. He turned out to be Sonny Prescott underneath the beard. Sonny would normally be found at his dock; he was a seafood dealer. Mostly lobster these days, since there were no ground fish near enough to speak of. He'd explained he was doing the occasional stint as Santa at the store in exchange for the use of the “rig” Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for various family parties. Faith had duly admired the lush velvet outfit and realistic silky white beard and wig. In return, Sonny told them to be sure to stop at the display on the Sanpere Historical Society's front lawn, promising it was “some pretty.”

The society was housed in the oldest farmhouse on the island and attracted people from the time it opened in May through the fall, especially those who were researching their roots. The former barn had been restored a few years ago and served as the setting for the society's collection of antique farm machinery, carriages, and other modes of transportation. Another outbuilding was filled with glass cases of ship models.

They'd driven straight over and were not disappointed. The
house itself boasted a fir wreath at every window. Set in front of the door was one of the sleighs that had provided the only means of transportation during the winter months before four-wheel drive and Ski-Doos. It was filled with gaily wrapped presents, and three mannequin passengers peeked out from beneath a carriage robe. It was all very Currier & Ives. Faith had brought the camera and had been taking pictures of Ben and Amy in front of all their favorites. She hadn't sent out cards this year—another reprieve, although she liked catching up with friends and family. The sleigh would be a wonderful backdrop for a shot of the two children, fortuitously dressed—Amy in a red parka, Ben in forest green. She could have prints made at the Rite Aid in Blue Hill and send them to family and a few close friends at least. Others must have had the same photo-op idea; there were several sets of footprints leading to the sleigh, stopping alongside. The kids hadn't been as willing to pose for this picture as the others. They were getting tired—and besides, they liked the lobster-pot tree better. She'd urged them on, walking ahead.

Then she stopped.

“Ben, Amy, go back to the car. I'll be there in a minute.”

“But, Mom, I thought you wanted to take a picture of us,” Ben had protested. He was out of the car and cooperating and now his mother was telling him to get back in? Adults never knew what they wanted.

“Another time. Please, get in the car right now.”

Both kids had been quick to pick up on the tone of her second request. They'd obeyed without hesitating.

Faith herself stood frozen. Not sure at first that what she was seeing was real, she was very sure now. There were three figures—a male and two females—in the sleigh, but only two mannequins. One female was not an example of Sanpere's Christmas cheer, but the polar opposite.

The girl was dead.

There was no question about that, but how did she come to die? How long had she been in the sleigh? It was late morning. Most of the island was at work, and school was still in session. No one would have been out taking holiday photos except someone with Faith's free time.

The girl was young, but looked college, not high school, aged. Her face was waxy white and there were no signs of violence other than the contorted mouth. Her eyes were closed. Faith felt for a pulse on her neck. Her skin was freezing and it was like touching a marble statue. There was no pulse; there was no life left at all.

Cell phones only worked on the shores that faced Swan's Island to the north, where there was a cell tower. The historical society was inland. She'd have to knock on a neighbor's door. She looked for signs of smoke from a nearby chimney. Someone was home across the road. She stepped carefully away from the footprints by the sleigh and took a final look back at the scene. The mannequins had not been disturbed, nor the presents—although there was a brown paper bag with some words stamped on it shoved next to the gifts. It didn't look as if it had been an original part of the display.

Just as the girl hadn't.

She sat between the two other lifeless figures, carefully placed—or perhaps she had climbed in herself? She, or someone else, had pulled the heavy woolen lap robe that was part of the display almost up to her chin. Faith couldn't see much of what she was wearing, just the top of a thin flowered blouse—not exactly winter garb. Her hair was short, very blond, white-blond like Marilyn's. Her ears, an eyebrow, and her nose were pierced, sporting an array of small rings and studs. Faith realized she was still holding her camera in readiness and took pictures of the tracks in the snow, the sleigh, and its contents. She had to force herself, hating the notion that they would join her holiday snaps—for a time anyway.

She stopped briefly at the car and told the kids it would be a little longer. At the market, she'd given in to their pleas and
bought a half-dozen store-baked, sugar-shock cupcakes, iced red and green with plenty of sprinkles. She told the kids they could each have one now while they waited. On no account were they to get out of the car.

Then she walked across the road and knocked on the front door. There hadn't been a doorbell in sight. An elderly woman answered so quickly that Faith was sure she must have been watching the scene from her window.

“There's been some kind of accident. There's a dead girl in the sleigh across the street and we need to call 911.”

The woman nodded. “My eyes aren't what they were—cataracts. My daughter wants me to have that surgery, but I don't want anything stuck in there. Anyway, I thought there'd only been two dolls, or whatever they are, in the sleigh yesterday. The phone's in the kitchen.”

She led the way into what was undoubtedly the warmest room in the house. It was a blend of two, perhaps three, centuries. The linoleum on the floor and the Magic Chef stove were mid-twentieth. The Kelvinator fridge looked to be the same vintage. The walls were covered with the old house's original beadboard and plaster; the heat source was an Empire Crawford wood cookstove, blackened and its chrome gleaming—all these dating from the nineteenth century. There was a Hoosier as well. But there was also a brand-new stainless dishwasher, and a large flat-screen TV dominated the room. Following Faith's glance, the woman told her, “My grandson gave it to me so's I could watch my shows. Gave me the dishwasher too. Didn't really need that, though. Here's the phone.”

Faith made the call and was relieved to hear that there was a cruiser on the island. An officer would be there immediately. With no police on Sanpere, except for the Field Troopers who periodically patrolled from the Maine State Police branch in Ellsworth, she'd been afraid she'd have to wait with the kids for a long
time or call someone to take them back to the cottage. She knew from previous experience that she couldn't leave the scene.

“My children are in the car. I have to go back outside. I'll wait for the police there. Thank you so much.”

“You're that Mrs. Fairchild who lives on the Point in the summer. Friends with the Marshalls.”

It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact—and a vetting.

Faith nodded. “We're here for Christmas. My husband has been ill and we came up here so he could rest.”

This seemed like information the woman already had, which, given the nature of the island grapevine, didn't surprise Faith.

“I like Christmas. Got my first present last night. My grandson, same one, came by late—he knows I don't sleep much anymore—and handed me one of those things you put your feet into. Water bubbles around and my bunions feel a treat this morning.”

Hard to think of a comment other than a murmured, “How nice for you.” Faith moved toward the door to the hallway. The woman followed her.

“I'm Daisy Sanford, by the way,” she said.

Ursula Rowe, the mother of Faith's friend and neighbor Pix Miller, had once told Faith that you could figure out a woman's age by her name, particularly with flower names. “Born sometime in the twenties or thirties, although I hear they're coming back into fashion now. But introduce me to an ‘Iris,' ‘Rose,' or ‘Daisy' and I'll be looking at a woman in her seventies or older.”

Faith remembered the remark; this Daisy looked as if she'd earned all her wrinkles over the course of at least seventy-five years.

“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Faith was at the front door. Daisy nodded.

“I knew something was wrong. Looks like we're heading toward a white Christmas for sure and that always fills the churchyard. Should have gone out to check, but I promised my family I
wouldn't tackle the walk without one of them being next to me. Did you know her?”

The girl's face was not one she would ever forget, but no, Faith didn't know her. Had not, she was almost certain, ever even seen her.

She shook her head. “She's young, no more than late teens or early twenties, and unless she worked someplace—waitressing at Lily's or in one of the stores open in the summer, I wouldn't have run across her anywhere.”

People the girl's age tended to hang out on Main Street in Granville or in the old ball field also in Granville on summer nights—not places Faith frequented. If you drove by, you'd see the red glow from their cigarettes and maybe catch one of them heading for a car and a clandestine beer. There wasn't a whole lot for teenagers to do on the island.

“Why don't you send your little ones in here where it's warm? I baked this morning.”

Faith had been aware of the aroma of bread and something sweet like molasses filling the kitchen. The offer was tempting, but she wanted to keep Ben and Amy close, speak to the police, and leave as fast as possible.

“Thank you, that's very kind, but I'm hoping this won't take long and I can get them home.”

“Change your mind, just knock.” Daisy sighed heavily. “There's going to be broken hearts on this island soon.”

Someone's daughter, granddaughter, niece, cousin, friend—the web of connectedness on the island left almost no one untouched in good times and bad.

Faith saw the cruiser coming down the road and hastened across before her children could be startled. She was very happy to see that it was Sergeant Earl Dickinson in the driver's seat. The Fairchilds had known Earl since their first days on Sanpere and he was married to Faith's good friend Jill Merriwether, owner
of the Blueberry Patch, a seasonal gift and book store in Sanpere Village.

She told the kids, whose mouths were stained bright red and green, everything was all right—that she just had to speak to Earl for a moment—and greeted him as he stepped out of the car, the little notebook he always carried flipped open to a blank page.

“Tell me what happened,” he said in his calm voice, and Faith felt the full weight of the last half hour lift. It was such a relief to turn the whole thing over to him that she felt dizzy for a moment. She took a breath and started talking.

Once she'd finished, Earl said she could leave soon. He'd verify what she'd described. She showed him which were her footprints and he carefully placed his over them. He stood at the sleigh, then turned and shouted that she should go home. He'd call if he needed anything more from her. She'd slipped into the driver's seat and saw him talking into what looked like a walkie-talkie with a long antenna. She realized she'd forgotten to tell him about the photos, but she didn't want to get out of the car. In a very short time the scene would be photographed in much greater detail than she'd achieved, and right now, she had to tell her children why Earl was there.

“What's going on, Mom?” Ben's voice, which had recently started to travel up and down many octaves, sounded at the moment like a very little boy's. A very scared little boy.

She'd turned around and reached for both their hands.

“I'm sorry I had to leave you. I had to get the police to come immediately. There was a young woman in the sleigh who's had some sort of accident and is dead.”

“Dead!” Amy had shrieked. “Was she all bloody?”

“No, honey,” Faith said gently. “Nothing like that. I think we'll find that for whatever reason she climbed into the sleigh and—”