The Body in the Sleigh (20 page)

She hid behind the Dumpster in the parking lot of the convenience store across from the apartment and watched the two heavyset thugs come roaring out screaming her name. They had been to the apartment only once before. Mostly Bruce met them down in Belfast or in Bangor. He didn't want them at the apartment. Too risky. She watched them go to the end of the block in either direction and circle the house. Ralph yelled, “Bitch, we know you're out here, so listen up. We will find you!” Duane had his cell phone out, but put it back in his pocket right away. Miriam assumed he was trying to call Bruce wherever he was, and she blessed Maine's erratic cell service. Her mind was racing. Bruce must have come back early and gone to Brewer to stash the prescription drugs he'd brought across the border—that very long border impossible to patrol, just as Maine's very long coast was in better weather. By land or by sea, Maine had always been a smuggler's dream and a law-enforcement nightmare. He'd discovered the money was missing, figured out it had to have been Miriam—who else?—and sent Duane and Ralph to grab it, and her. It was probably money he owed them. And they wanted it now.

The trash in the Dumpster had been ripening since the holiday and she felt slightly nauseated by the smell. The sky was getting dark and she remembered hearing someone in the market say she was stocking up on milk, because a storm was coming. She breathed through her mouth and curled into a tighter ball.

After loudly describing in graphic detail what they'd do to her when they found her, the two got in their pickup and tore off, burning rubber. The Chevy was tricked out with flames airbrushed on
the sides. Perennial adolescents: totally amoral, psychopathic ones. But she couldn't think about them—or Bruce—now. She had to head down to Sanpere and try to intercept her father on his way back. She wasn't altogether sure how she was going to do this. She certainly didn't want to endanger the baby by trying to cut the car off on the road; she'd think of something.

Her father's car was new to her, but she'd never known him to drive anything but a Mercedes. Daniel Carpenter was loyal—to brands, anyway.

Once she was sure Duane and Ralph were really gone, it didn't take her long to walk to Cindy's apartment and pick up her car keys. Cindy was living with her boyfriend and using Miriam's address for her parents. She stopped by to pick up the mail every week and score some dope. Her parents never called, because dutiful daughter that she was, Cindy had arranged a weekly time when she would call them, saving them the long-distance fees, since “I'd probably be in the library anyway and you'd just get my roommate, Miriam.” Cindy also had had Bruce take a picture of Miriam and her on the couch with a stack of books on the coffee table, so she could send it to her parents. They lived in Duluth and it was highly unlikely that they'd be dropping by unannounced. Miriam had been impressed by Cindy's thoroughness, but college students in general were a pretty crafty bunch, she'd noticed—or maybe it was that parents just wanted to believe.

As she drove off, she looked at her watch. Less than twenty minutes ago, she'd been sitting in Ellen's apartment.

She was passing through Bucksport when she saw her father's car. It wasn't hard to miss. There weren't too many silver Mercedes S500s (have to have a killer car to impress the buyers and sellers) around at this time of year. The summer people—those who weren't green and driving hybrids—were going for the SUV version in the absurd belief that they were blending in ruralwise. To really blend in, they'd have to drive a pickup over ten years
old with vanity plates that combined your initials with your girlfriend's, your wife's, or your kid's.

Miriam thought fast. Her father had obviously been down to Sanpere if he was coming this way. He might or might not have Christopher. Suddenly she was furious. She pulled into Hannaford's parking lot, did an adrenaline-fueled U-turn, and followed him. He wouldn't know Cindy's car, or any other car Miriam might be driving.

It was easy to keep the big silver car in sight. She'd tail him until he stopped for gas or a bathroom break, then act. If he didn't have Christopher in the car that would mean the baby was still safe with Mary. If he did, she'd grab the baby and run, making a scene at the rest stop or wherever when her father resisted, as she was sure he would. Not just any scene, but a pull-out-all-the-stops one. Her father hated scenes and she was sure she could draw a crowd. The so very public mention of his name and his agency might be enough to get him to give up and leave. She was sure the whole kid idea was Brenda's. Her father wasn't the paternal type, as she knew only too well. Thinking about her years with him, she grew more and more angry, her mood matching the darkening sky. Daniel Carpenter wasn't fit to raise any living thing, and—most important—Christopher was her baby, not his!

She was surprised when he didn't turn south toward Portland. What was he doing? Where was he going? He was speeding up too. Well, so would she. Except she'd have to stop for gas. Damn. She followed for a couple more miles and saw him turn. Okay. She was sure she knew where he was going now. Back to her apartment. But why?

 

Besides hitting the Bangor malls for baby things and driving to the twenty-four-hour store in Orono, Faith didn't have a plan. If she found Miriam, she'd talk to the girl, make sure she knew what
she was doing, and then what? Ask her where the fifty thousand dollars came from? Get her to sign some kind of papers, so Mary could adopt Christopher?

She decided to hit the mall first. She'd gotten a later start than she'd planned, but a practiced shopper, she was sure she could get the baby essentials quickly. The lines at the registers had been long, however, and it seemed that every one she chose turned out to be behind a customer who needed a price check. Finally, late in the afternoon with a threatening sky and lengthening shadows, she turned the loaded car north away from Bangor toward Orono. It wasn't far, and once there she only had to ask twice to find the convenience store.

As she had suspected, it was a mom-and-pop operation, a cross between a market and a five-and-dime—only those long-ago treasure troves had morphed into dollar stores now. Sammy's had a little bit of everything from beef jerky to Rolex rip-offs and dusty plastic poinsettias, still on sale from the last few Christmases. It was located in a mixed residential/commercial area. There was no Sammy in evidence, unless the tired-looking older woman at the counter was named Samantha. Faith picked up a slightly faded package of colored construction paper for Amy and an ancient balsawood model-airplane kit for Ben. At the register, she added a Milky Way for Tom. She'd check the expiration date in the car.

As the sale was rung up, she said, “I wonder if you might help me. I'm supposed to drop off a Christmas gift for a friend of mine. It's for her niece, who lives around here. I've misplaced the address, but the niece's name is Miriam. She's tall with long dark hair that she usually wears in a braid down her back. Do you by any chance know her?”

“Sure, I know Miriam. Comes in here a lot. Always polite. Not like some. She lives over there. I'm not sure which apartment, but I saw her this morning, so she's probably home.”

Faith looked through the window—obscured by HOLIDAY
GREETINGS sprayed on in white by a liberal but unsteady hand—and saw a rundown house that had obviously been carved up into apartments for students fleeing dorm life, or just fleeing.

She thanked the woman and walked slowly across the street. The front door swung open and she stepped onto a litter of junk mail. There were six mailboxes; each card had several names. Some had been crossed out and new ones scribbled above. She studied each as if it had been the Rosetta stone. She knew she wouldn't find “Miriam” or “Bruce Singer.” But she wasn't finding anything remotely resembling them. No initials
M
or
B
. No
S
's. When people put down false names, they usually stick to their own initials, even if no monogrammed luggage is involved. A question of human nature. Or they choose a similar name, as in a similar occupation. “Singer.” No “Chanteuses,” “Vocalists”—what other synonyms were there? Preferably synonyms that made sense. She went back to the cards and searched again. And there it was. Apartment 4B. One word in minuscule writing written above some others: “Carpenter.” The Carpenters. Karen Carpenter. “Singers.” Miriam Singer; Miriam Carpenter? Faith pushed the buzzer. There was no answer. She wasn't even sure it was working, so she started climbing the dark, narrow stairs. If there was a “4A,” it had vanished into a black hole. 4B was the only door at the landing on the top floor. After knocking loudly on the flimsy, hollow door—she debated giving it good shove—for what seemed like ages, Faith was forced to conclude that Christopher's mother wasn't home.

She retraced her steps and almost bumped into a young woman coming out of an apartment.

“Excuse me,” Faith said. “I'm looking for Miriam. She doesn't seem to be home. Do you know where she is or when she might be back?”

The woman—young, very thin with long, possibly blond hair, hard to tell it so needed a wash—cried out, “Miriam! It's always all about Miriam.” And pushed past Faith.

“Okaay,” Faith said aloud, and crossed the street. She'd ask if she could leave a note for the celebrated Miriam at the convenience store. The woman at the counter had been replaced by a short, balding man. Sammy?

“I just came on, so I haven't seen her today. She's around, though. Came by last night for some orange juice,” he said, and gave Faith a sheet of paper. She wrote a brief note, knowing that it would most certainly be read.

Faith debated whether to include her number as well, but someone else, most likely Ben, might answer the phone, and Faith's cell didn't work on the island. She folded the paper over and wrote Miriam's name on the front, handing it to the man behind the counter. He tucked it by the register and said, “Nice girl, Miriam. Not like some.”

Apparently this was the prevailing opinion at Sammy's, Faith thought, and left.

Back in the car, glancing in the rearview mirror, she could see the bags filled with baby paraphernalia. She understood the whole grandmother thing better now. The grandmother thing that awaited in the far distant future. Shopping when you had an infant was a chore, even if someone else was watching your precious bundle of joy at home. You were fatigued and in a rush. Today she'd lingered over the tiny garments, amazed that her children had ever been so small.

And now she was remembering the wonderful smell her ba
bies had had—a milky sweet smell. A smell she realized with a start that only a mother or grandmother could love. The notion speeded her along. She wasn't speeding now, though. There was actually traffic. In Maine.

As she drove, she was thinking of how pleased Mary would be that Faith had discovered Christopher's mother's name and address. She hoped Miriam would call. Otherwise they'd have to figure out another way to make contact. There might not be time to come back up before the Fairchilds had to return to Massachusetts—and what excuse could she give Tom? She'd think of something, though. Knowing where Miriam lived—and she was most certainly in residence according to the people at Sammy's and the strange girl in the same building—meant they could eventually get in direct contact with her. The old “I know where you live.”

The afternoon light was fading fast. Faith speeded up; cars were thinning out now. She hated driving at night in Maine. Even in the summer the dark was very dark. She wanted to get home before night fell, when even your high beams couldn't pick out the twists and turns in front of you. A few flakes of snow were starting to fall. She hadn't heard a weather report, and as she switched on the radio, she heard a muffled pop, which she assumed was coming from the speaker until it was followed by the dreaded flap, flap, flap sound that meant a flat tire. All those potholes down on Sanpere.

She was still on the main road, and pulled over to the side as far as she could. Faith knew how to change a tire, but she didn't want to in the dark, and searched for the AAA card in her wallet. She tried her cell—no bars, but there was a gas station within sight. Glad that she had on her long down hooded parka, even though she thought it made her look like the Michelin man, she set her flashers, got out of the car, and headed up the road straight into the wind.

 

Mary Bethany had been sure her words would get Daniel Carpenter out of the house. Bullies were usually cowards. She was eager to tell Faith what had happened and was especially looking forward to telling her all about the call she had put through to the small Granville library, knowing it was closed, and not Sergeant Earl Dickinson of the Maine State Police. Earl did patrol the island, and he lived here, but Mary hadn't wanted him around any more than she had wanted Daniel Carpenter.

She went to the barn and decided to stay there with Christopher until dark, when it would be easy to see headlights, although she wasn't expecting anyone. But she hadn't been expecting Miriam's father either. “Better to err on the side of caution” had been one of her mother's favorite sayings, and in this case, Mary agreed. She'd told Faith to wait until tomorrow to bring the baby things over. The poor woman hadn't had hardly any time with her family these last few days. This meant that any lights Mary saw would not be welcome ones.

Christopher was sleeping so soundly, a warm little bundle hidden away against the straw in the manger, that she didn't want to disturb him by moving him to his basket, which she'd retrieved from the pantry, where she'd hastily shoved it earlier. The nannies were content for once and continued to greet her cheerfully. Christopher didn't move a muscle, so Mary turned her full attention to the herd, starting with Dora, her oldest goat—the queen. Her coat was longer now that it was winter and Mary kept it, and that of the others, free of tangles, running her fingers through it now in a gesture of affection. Then she spent time with each of the others in order of age. You had to do it this way or they got upset and confused. It was the same order for milking, grooming, everything. Each goat knew her place. No one tried to squeeze ahead. They all got along together and with her. Faith was going to bring her some baby books, which would be a help, but Mary
thought raising goats and raising children were much the same. Of course she wouldn't have to make ear splints for Christopher. Sometimes Nubians are born with folded ears and they have to be splinted for a few days, otherwise they'll stay that way. She looked at the herd with pride, shining coats and straight ears. Christopher weighed about as much as a newborn kid too from the heft of him. Could be he was even a little more. She could tell from the way he felt in the sling. She'd also had to use one once for a tiny kid who was doing poorly after opening up her muzzle on a nail she'd worried loose. Goats are very curious, and childproofing a house would be child's play—Mary smiled to herself—compared to goatproofing the barn and pasture. And the nannies were social creatures, like people. Except me, she thought ruefully, and the enormity of what she was contemplating struck her. Raising a child!