The Body in the Sleigh (21 page)

She continued to sit and reflect on the last few days, stroking the youngest goat, Sheba, who had a particularly appealing face. Trusting, innocent. Yes, it was in the Bible, but Mary never could understand the Almighty's choice of a goat to bear the sins of the world, abandoning it with all that wickedness in the wilderness—the scapegoat. Why not a scapeox or a scapesheep? Those were around back then too.

Christopher gave another of those sweet little baby sneezes and Mary decided it was time to get moving, although the barn was warm as toast and she hated to leave it. Besides the coziness, it was the way the place smelled. Nannies didn't stink the way bucks did, just gave off a kind of living-things aroma.

The second milking done and goats fed, Mary went back into the house with the baby. She would have to make cheese tomorrow. The nannies were giving more milk than usual, and even with Christopher's consumption, she had too much.

Mary loved making cheese. Anne Bossi at Sunset Acres Farm
over in South Brooksville had given her the recipe years ago and Mary had taught herself, soon turning out a soft, spreadable chèvre. Every time she added the rennet and returned the next day to her curds and whey, she was as pleased at the way nature worked as she had been the first time. Faith had been the one to suggest adding herbs, besides salt, and eventually sun-dried tomatoes, mixed peppercorns, and other things for more varieties. Mary was proud of her cheese-making room—it was so clean it truly sparkled—and the inspectors had never once found anything to criticize.

In the kitchen she stoked the woodstove and settled back in the rocker to feed the baby. Full circle from milking the goats. The house seemed very quiet. The creaking of the rocker on the old linoleum began to get on her nerves, as it never had before. She got up and went into the parlor to finish the feeding, turning on the television Martha had brought all those years ago. Mary had kept it mostly for the B and B guests, but she sometimes tuned in to the news or a PBS show. The early news was on now, and she settled into the sofa to watch while the baby drank. His mother must have bottle-fed him, Mary realized. He wasn't missing her teat.

First they tantalized you with the weather, not actually telling you what it was going to be lest you turn to another station or, heaven forbid, switch the set off. It was going to be—something. Then there was more about Iraq and Afghanistan. Mary thought about a twenty-year-old Christopher going off to fight some war and prayed that by that time the world could come to some sort of truce. Not liking one another. Just a truce.

“This just in. Police are investigating a homicide in Orono and we are live at the scene. Steve, are you there?”

Mary sat up straight, unmindful of the baby on her lap for the moment. A reporter was standing in front of a shabby-looking dwelling, the sidewalk cordoned off with those yellow scene-of-
the-crime plastic ribbons. Yellow ribbons for hope; yellow ribbons for despair. She'd never thought about it before.

“Yes, I'm here, Cheryl. Police are not releasing the name of the victim, pending notification of next of kin, but according to our sources here, he was a Caucasian male in his late twenties who lived in the building behind me in an apartment on the top floor with several other people. Again, the police have not released any information other than they are treating the death as an apparent homicide.”

“Do we know anything about how and why this might have happened?”

“Our preliminary sources have indicated that the cause of death was a stab wound in the chest, but police are neither confirming nor denying that. We have also been told that drug paraphernalia and a large quantity of heroin were found in the apartment.”

“Thank you, Steve.” The picture shifted back to the studio, and the anchor, face carefully composed in a serious expression of regret—and condemnation—said, “A homicide in Orono. We're at the scene and will keep you informed. Now, how about those Celtics, Larry?”

Mary reached for the remote and muted the sound. It wasn't just that it was in Orono, it was what she had seen as the camera panned past the flashing blue lights and knots of curious—or prurient—onlookers to a small block of stores. Sammy's Twenty-four Hour Store was right on the corner.

She had to call Faith.

 

Had she waited for the weather report, Mary would not have been surprised at the way the wind picked up an hour later, or at the snow that began falling in horizontal sheets shortly after. She gathered flashlights, candles, and blankets, setting up camp
in the kitchen. There was plenty of stove wood. The house's wiring hadn't been replaced—in her lifetime anyway—and she often lost power just in a stiff breeze, so the possibility was not alarming. Possibility became probability as the howls from the heavens increased their ferocity. The phone rang and it was Tom. When she'd called the house earlier, he'd told her his wife wasn't back yet. That she'd had a flat tire.

“Faith still isn't here,” he said. “How could it take her so long to come from Ellsworth? Unless they can't fix the tire? Anyway, the reason I'm calling is that I'm going to come and get you and your nephew. This looks like it's going to be a big storm, Mary. We're bound to lose power and you could be snowed in for days.”

Confused for the moment by the reference to her nephew and quickly realizing he meant Christopher, Mary told Tom, “It's happened before. We'll be fine. I have plenty of wood if the furnace goes off. Besides, I don't think you have room for the two of us plus six goats.”

“I was afraid you'd say this, but promise you'll call if you change your mind. Faith has the Subaru we keep at the Marshalls' when we're not here, and our other car, the one we drove up in, has four-wheel drive. If you change your mind once it starts piling up, I'll be able to get you.”

“Thank you. You're very kind. Best stay put in weather like this. I feel terrible having Faith on the road doing a favor for me,” Mary said. “Doesn't she have one of those cell phones? I'd like to call her.”

“I can give you her cell, but it probably won't have service. She's been calling me all day from public phones,” Tom said.

Mary
did
feel guilty at putting Faith to so much trouble, but she didn't want to call only to apologize. She needed to tell her about the murder. Maybe it was a coincidence that it happened in Miriam's neighborhood, the neighborhood they thought was hers
from the location of the convenience store. But Mary wasn't a big believer in coincidences. Life was strange enough without adding serendipity.

 

There was only one person at the gas station, and after saying he'd “take a look,” he proceeded to take a very long time talking to someone named “Elwell” on the two-way radio. Apparently Elwell was out on a call with the lone tow truck and having trouble finding the party in question.

Faith sat in the office whose sole decoration was a Pennzoil calendar still turned to November and tried not to panic. The snow was coming down heavily and she wondered whether she should go back and turn off her flashers to save the battery. But if it did go dead, she could get a jump here. Thirty minutes came and went. She tried pacing in front of the desk, hoping to catch the man's eye, but he was resolute in his inattention. After Elwell, another call had come through, apparently from his wife—or a woman with whom he was familiar enough to call “honey.” Finally he stood up.

“Well, now, you say you have a flat?”

She led the way back to her car and left him to it. He was back almost immediately, interrupting her vigil in the office with, “Need some tools.”

“Is there any place nearby where I could get a cup of coffee?” She would need the caffeine for the drive and at the moment wanted something, anything, to wash the taste of gas and other garage smells from her mouth. Plus she was cold. Even with her L.L.Bean arctic special.

“Dottie's down the road might still be open.”

Faith started off, but soon turned back. There wasn't even a glimmer of light ahead. Dottie, a sensible Maine woman surely, would have closed up.

She was startled by the ring of her phone, had thought she'd shut it off. Before it could stop or lose service she answered.

“Hello.”

“Oh, Faith, thank goodness. It's Mary. Is your car fixed? Where are you?”

“Not yet, but soon. I think I'm near Bucksport.”

“It's turning into a nasty storm. You should find a place for the night. There's one of those chain motels in Bucksport that should be all right. Go there.” Mary's voice was insistent.

Faith peered out at the dense white curtain in front of her. Where was a Saint Bernard when you needed one?

“I think you're right. In case I can't get him, will you call Tom and tell him?”

“Yes, and Faith—”

“Oh, Mary, I hope I don't lose service,” Faith said excitedly. “I have so much to tell you. I found out Christopher's mother's name! It's—”

“Miriam Carpenter,” Mary said matter-of-factly.

“How on earth did you find this out? Is she there?”

That was the only logical explanation and Faith was momentarily miffed. Although she and Mary were a team these days, Faith had been thinking of herself as the field captain. She had been so clever at putting two and two together, or in this case, many more numbers. And why was it “two and two,” anyway? In her experience, things came in triple or even quadruple digits.

Mary quickly told her about Dan Carpenter's visit.

“He wants Christopher. That's obvious. But he doesn't want his daughter. I'm sure she would have been upset if I'd given him the baby. I didn't lie, but took a page from your book and left a lot out. Faith, he scared me. I'll never let Christopher go to him. When Miriam was saying a ‘good man,' I know she wasn't thinking of her father. But I haven't told you what was on the news just now. There's been a murder in Orono and I could see
that convenience store—Sammy's—when the camera was filming the neighborhood around the house where the police found the body.”

“Who was killed?” Faith asked anxiously. Could it have been Miriam? She calmed down. If it had been, Mary would have mentioned it right away.

“They're not releasing the name yet, but he was white and in his twenties—and there were drugs in the apartment.”

“Can you describe the building?”

Mary did. Faith could have described it herself. It was Miriam's building and Faith was pretty sure it was Miriam's apartment. The top floor.

Miriam hadn't been killed, but was she the killer?

Almost an hour later, Faith had wheels again, but the snow was falling so fast and furious that she took Mary's advice and pulled into the motel's parking lot. It was pretty full and she hoped they would have a room.

 

Power went out all over the island at 9:45
P.M.
Since a good many people were already in bed, this posed no hardship for most. Keeping the fire going and trips to the bathroom would be nippy, but this was what winter Down East was all about.

With the storm raging outside, Mary felt a deep sense of peace. Once again, she wondered if Christopher was an unusually good baby. He got hungry about every four hours and let her know by slightly increasing the frequency of the little noises he made—noises somewhere between a cry and a bleat to her ears. Sometimes he hiccupped and it was real comical. He was sleeping now and she thought she would nap in the big armchair. She checked the fire, kissed the baby, and curled up in the chair.

At first she thought the knocking at the door was a dream. She struggled to pull herself awake. Conscious, she realized the storm
must have torn a branch loose and it was knocking against a window. She hoped the glass wouldn't break.

But it wasn't a dream or a branch. It was real knocking at her kitchen door. She jumped up to look out the window, then quickly pulled the door open. A woman was standing in the snow that had piled up on the top step and all but fell into Mary's arms.

“It's all right, Miriam. I've been expecting you,” Mary said.

The driving hadn't been too bad until she turned off the main road at Orland, and even then Miriam had gotten lucky. The town plow was lumbering along ahead of her. She could barely see through the windshield, but kept following the truck's taillights. The car's heater was working all right, but the radio had conked out. She was thankful she'd taken the time to get gas earlier. Once she'd figured out where her father was heading, there was no rush, so she'd paused to fill up. She wasn't in a hurry after all. Just the opposite. She'd needed to think. He wouldn't have been heading north unless he had been going to her apartment, and that meant he didn't have Christopher. She'd wished Ralph and Duane had stuck around as a welcoming committee. Torn between her disinclination to return to the apartment ever again and her desire to have it out with her father once and for all, Miriam had found herself driving north too. She had to make him understand that there was no way he could take her child. He'd taken her childhood. That was enough.

How many hours had passed since she'd seen his car parked on her street, quickly pulled into a space outside Sammy's, and run
upstairs to the apartment? It seemed like days, even weeks, but it was hours. Only a few hours.

Afterward she'd come back down and gone into the store. Sammy had taken one look at her and led her to a chair in the back.

“Are you okay? You're white as a sheet!”

“I'm fine. No problem,” Miriam said. She was shivering.

“Let me get you some coffee. And some lady left a note for you.”

“A lady left a note for me?” Miriam was having trouble taking anything in, seeing only the room across the street. The room with so much blood.

“Yeah—blond, kind of classy, thirty, maybe a little older. Name's Faith something.”

Miriam shook her head. “Don't know her.”

He returned with the coffee and the piece of paper Faith had left. Miriam scanned the message and got up quickly.

“Could you give me another cup too—a large? I've got to go.”

This had all been hours ago. She deliberately kept her mind from the recent past and focused only on the road ahead. The wiper blades kept freezing. She'd had to stop twice to clear the ice from them and her fingers were still numb. Her gloves were soaked through and her hands were warmer without them. She hated driving in bad weather.

She was tired. More tired than after the baby had been born. More tired than she'd ever been in her whole life. By the time the plow truck turned toward Castine and left her without a guide, Miriam wasn't sure she could make it to Sanpere. But she had no choice. No choice at all.

Don't think about it, she told herself. Don't go there. It never happened. You were never in that apartment.

She made it as far as Sedgwick, getting out every few miles to clear the blades. Then, seeing headlights behind her, she pulled
over and flagged the 4x4 with its plow up that was barreling along behind her.

“Pretty rugged night to be out,” the teenager commented when she slid into the cab.

“Yeah, well, my mom's sick and I have to get down to Sanpere.”

“I don't want to get stuck on the bridge. I'll take you as close as I can.”

Miriam closed her eyes. The warmth of the truck enveloped her like a quilt. The radio was working and tuned to an oldies station.

But she was the Carpenter, she was the lady, and she had had the baby. Miriam had heard the song before; she knew the refrain.

Still she cried; hot tears ran down her cheeks. Cried silently, looking out the side window into the darkness, her eyes wide open. Exhausted as she was, if she shut them, it would all come back. The room. The blood. No tomorrow.

“Stay with me. I can't let you out here. It's freezing. You'll never make it!” The boy grabbed her arm. He'd slowed near the bridge and now he'd changed his mind. She pulled her arm away.

“I'm not going to mess with you,” he said. “Nothing like that.
I'll drop you off at my sister's. She'll be glad to give you a place to stay. You can't get to Sanpere tonight in this storm.”

Miriam was tugging at the door.

“I'll be fine. I have really good boots and this parka is supposed to be what those guys who live down in Antarctica wear. I got it at the Bean outlet. Don't worry—and thanks a lot.”

He wasn't ready to give up. He was only a few years younger than she was. The hood of the gray sweatshirt he was wearing under his jacket was pulled up. He smelled like cigarettes and WD-40, like a million other guys his age in Maine.

“You won't help your mother much if you turn up dead yourself.”

She had the door open. He was forced to slow down almost to a stop.

“It's okay. Really. And thanks for the lift.”

She was out and away from his headlights before he could say another word. It would have been impossible to explain to him that she didn't care whether she made it through the night or not. She cared only about reaching Mary's. If that wasn't what was going to happen, then that would be it.

Getting across the bridge was surprisingly easy. The high winds had kept the snow from piling up and there was no danger that Miriam would be blown into the frigid waters below. Unlike other suspension bridges that allowed for a scenic view, the island bridge had solid five-foot-high walls and was all business. At the top, it was hard to keep from sliding down the other side; the roadbed under the snowfall was treacherously slick. The wind blew the falling snow into her face. It felt like grains of sand, sharp and painful. Tiny knifepoints. She ducked her head down against her chest and pulled her hood more tightly closed. Knives. She couldn't think about knives.

Back on land, Miriam was sorely tempted to stop at the first house. It was dark, no lights at the window. She'd expected the
island, like most of the mainland, would have lost power. Yet, she knew a house was near. She could smell wood burning. A woodstove or a fireplace, maybe both. The pungent aroma meant there would be warmth—a warm room, warm clothes, something warm to drink. But how to explain herself? What was she doing out on a night that wasn't fit for man or beast? And tomorrow, when power was restored and the news came on, what then? She trudged past the smell and all the others that beckoned until she came to Mary's road, perpendicular to the Reach, parallel to the bridge. It wasn't snowing as hard now and thankfully she'd recognized the turnoff. Once Miriam started down it, there wouldn't be any more houses. She'd make it—or not.

 

“First we have to get those wet things off. It's all right. Your baby is safe. Hush, don't try to talk.”

Mary ran upstairs and pulled a flannel nightgown, sweaters, and socks from her bureau. She'd eased Miriam into the big chair, after dragging it closer to the stove. The girl was barely conscious. As she stripped her wet clothes off, Mary was relieved to see Miriam's skin was pale but not dead white. No frostbite. She rubbed the girl's feet and put on several pairs of socks, then wrapped her in a blanket before undoing the frozen braid that hung like a poker down her back and dried her hair with a towel. The girl had not tried to say a word, but Mary could feel Miriam's eyes following Mary's every move. She heated some whey and honey on the stove, then fed it to the young mother with a soupspoon. After she'd consumed half the cup, Miriam took it herself and drank.

“More,” she whispered.

After she finished the second helping, she slept.

Mary had moved Christopher's basket next to Miriam where she could see him. Now she stationed herself in the old rocker and kept watch on them both through the long, dark night.

 

“Do you have any rooms left?” Faith asked the desk clerk anxiously as she eyed the couch in the crowded lobby—orphans of the storm. This was about the only place in the area that stayed open during the off-season. A very large man was sitting on the couch and she hoped that didn't mean he was staking a claim for the night.

“Not really.” The young man paused and Faith jumped in.

“Not really.' That sounds like you do have something. I'll take anything.”

“What we have is a room that's still being redone. No TV or phone in service, but I could have the bed made up and give you some towels. The bath's all set.”

Bath. The magic word. A long, steaming hot bath.

Bed. Even more magical. She might even skip the bath.

“I'll take it.”

“Okay. Sue's just about to leave, but I'll get her to make the room up for you.”

“I don't want to keep her. It's getting pretty bad out there. Why don't you just give me the linens? I can do it myself.”

Pete—as his badge noted—looked at her askance. It was as if she had suggested something unspeakably kinky.

“Susan will make up the room. That is her job,” he said firmly. “You are welcome to wait here.”

Given that the choice was of the lady-or-tiger variety—the lobby or the snowstorm—Faith obediently perched on a chair near the counter. The man on the couch was easily 250 pounds and taking up most of the room.

She closed her eyes for a moment. After her tire was changed, it had taken forever to get this far. She had greeted the train cars and huge stacks of pulpwood outside the paper mill, recognizable even in the blizzard, with relief. She was in Bucksport and near the motel. It was eerie to see the mill, open round the clock 365 days
a year, shrouded in white, completely silent at this distance, the smokestacks with their clouds of steam. Steam. Her eyes opened and she thought about a bath again. Yes, she could do this. She was exhausted, but a bath first, then bed.

She was so tired, she realized, that she wasn't hungry. Of course as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she got hungry. The Milky Way bar she'd purchased for Tom at the convenience store served as an appetizer—a slightly stale amuse-bouche. She needed more. The lobby offered several vending machines and soon she was contentedly feasting on peanut butter crackers and Mountain Dew. The sweetness of the soda offered a witty counterpoint to the saltiness of the cracker; she laughed to herself, and decided she needed another package of the orange crackers to finish off the soda. Passing the phone on the way to the machines, she realized she hadn't told Mary that she'd left the note for Miriam at the convenience store. The note with Mary's phone number. Possibly Miriam had already called, but Faith thought she'd try to get through and alert Mary as to the possibility. Mary had a landline, so even if the power was out on Sanpere, it should go through. Power was still on here in Bucksport and presumably was up in Orono too.

She pulled out the calling card she always kept in her purse for just such an emergency. Gone were the days when the Coach saddlebag she favored for every day was filled with juice boxes, crayons, Teddy Grahams, and the like. They'd been replaced by new essentials. She could never understand how those women who carried a tiny clutch, or no purse at all, survived.

“I'm in the motel,” she said when Mary answered.

The man on the couch got up and was fishing in his pocket for change. He obviously wanted to use the phone. She spoke more rapidly. “Everything's fine, but I forgot to tell you that I left a note for Miriam with your phone number at that Sammy's convenience store, so she may call or even show up, although that depends when she got it. The driving would be impossible now. Anyway,
someone wants to use the phone, so I have to get off. Could you call Tom again and tell him I did stop here? There's no phone in my room. I'll call you tomorrow when I get to Sanpere and hopefully can bring the stuff over.”

As she hung up, Pete called out, “Mrs. Fairchild, your room is ready.”

She gave the man waiting to use the phone a radiant smile.

Bath. Bed.

 

Greatly relieved that Faith was riding out the storm with a mint on her pillow or whatever the equivalent was at the place she was staying, Tom turned his full attention to his kids. He'd always loved the combination of fun and fear that a power outage meant when he was young. Ben and Amy were the same. Two full propane tanks at the back of the house had meant hot water for baths, and afterward he'd been able to heat up some of the pumpkin pie soup, that Faith had left. She always made it around the holidays and it was a family favorite. The smell of nutmeg and the other spices still lingered in the air. The kids were snuggled in sleeping bags in front of the woodstove; Tom claimed a couch. The house was almost too well insulated and he soon had to toss off his down comforter. He was reading E. B. White's
Stuart Little
out loud. It was the kind of book that knew no season. The Little family had just presented Margalo, the walleyed vireo, with a tiny cake in thanks for saving Stuart's life.

“Keep going, Daddy,” Amy begged.

This wasn't a night for strict adherence to bedtime and Tom kept reading until Amy's regular breathing and Ben's drowsy “I'm not asleep” told him it was time to stop.

The storm was at full throttle. He couldn't see the cove and the wind was flinging what was coming down against the plate-glass windows with the force of a pile driver. He wasn't worried that
they'd break—they'd opted for the top of the line, double paned. He wished Faith were here beside him not because he was worried about her—by now he'd bet she was sound asleep—but because she'd appreciate the wild beauty of the scene outside.

It had been an odd time, this time in Sanpere. First of all because Tom wasn't where he should be, had been for all of his adult life. In a pulpit at Christmas. Not lying on a couch—or sitting in an iceboat. Although that had been great. During the worst of his illness, he'd despaired of ever feeling like his old self and hated the thought that he might be a burden on Faith. It was actually pretty selfish, he reflected now. Pretty pathetic. Still, it had been his very own black cloud and wasn't entirely gone until the other day flying down Walker Pond under an impossibly blue sky, literally racing with eagles.