The Body in the Sleigh (5 page)

She set the basket aside. Mary had put a pillow in what Faith recognized as an antique bread trough—where dough was put to rise and definitely an item a collector would covet. The pillow was
covered with a quilt and Christopher now reposed on top of that under the afghan that had accompanied him.

His mother had packed three sleepers; Faith picked each one up separately. Then she examined the snowsuit.

“Pretty generic. Not Baby Dior or Hanna Andersson—or even Baby Gap. Therefore, we're not talking money here, although…” Faith gestured to the stacks of bills. “There's certainly money here. The clothes are new; they haven't been washed, so that tells us she didn't buy used baby clothes at a thrift store or get them passed down to her. But they're not recognizable brands, so she could have picked them up anywhere.”

Mary cocked her head to one side, looking from the baby to the clothing. “No other children and no family involved. And she wanted brand-new clothes for Christopher.”

Faith nodded and said, “She does have a computer, though—or access to one.”

“How can you tell?” Mary asked.

“The note's a computer printout. Not typed on a typewriter. Much smoother.”

“I thought the wording of the note might mean something,” Mary said, picking it up. “Not the ‘Keep him safe' part, although since she wrote that first I'm sure it means she thinks or knows he's in danger—but the ‘Raise him to be a good man' part. Sounds like she hasn't had much luck there—or worse.”

“I'd guess worse,” Faith said. “It sounds like Christopher's father is not her idea of a model father figure. Maybe not her own father either. Or it could be her father who is the ideal, but then why wouldn't she go to him for help, or her mother, for that matter?”

“Maybe both passed away?” Mary handed the note to Faith. “She didn't sign it. Just stopped writing. Do you think she was interrupted or was it that she couldn't think of any way to finish it?”

“Either or neither,” said Faith. “But she has to be someone you know, Mary. Your name was on the basket and in the letter. Plus
she knew you had a barn and kept goats—knew your routine, that you'd be out to milk them at six. She wasn't taking any chances that the baby wouldn't be found quickly.”

“I've been going through all this since I found him, believe me. And I can't think who she could be.”

“And you didn't hear a car? Or notice footprints in the snow?”

Mary shook her head. “She's a smart one. I figure she stepped in the ones I made earlier. What puzzles me, though, is that I didn't hear the nannies. They can raise quite a hubbub if a stranger comes near.”

“Which further suggests it's someone you—and the blessed goats—know.”

Faith put the clothes down. She had to get going soon.

“What else?” she wondered aloud. “The afghan—exquisitely handmade. But it doesn't tell us anything except she's a good crocheter or went to some kind of fair that had a handwork table.”

“My neighbor Arlene could read it like a book. Tell us where the yarn came from, who does that kind of stitch—at least on the island. Maybe we can think of a way to show it to her without having her get suspicious.”

“The cloth diapers suggest she's pretty green.”

“You mean inexperienced?” Mary asked.

Faith laughed. “No, as in environmentally friendly, ecoaware. No disposables, but washable cloth diapers.”

“A tree hugger. Well, I'm with her on that one. Easy enough to wash diapers.”

“Wait and see. The jury's still out on whether you use more resources washing the cloth ones than those other diapers consume. And they do cut down on diaper rash. I know how much time you spend tending your herd, but babies are even more work than your nannies.”

Mary doubted this, but she was on shaky ground here.

“Computer access, environmentalist, young—that's a logical
presumption—and can't keep her baby. This all says ‘student' to me.” Faith was feeling quite Holmesian and wished there had been a bit more evidence such as cigar ash or mud from a shoe, so she could say that the young woman had been in Morocco recently, purchasing smokes at a stall in the bazaar from a red-haired man with a limp named Abdul.

Hair!

“Are there any strands of hair on the blanket—or on Christopher himself?”

“How stupid. There was one and I forgot to mention it. It's dark like mine, or like mine used to be.” Mary was starting to go gray. “It's not mine, though, because it's long. Not Christopher's either, but the same color.” Mary's hair was sensibly short. She cut the bangs herself and exchanged cheese for a trim from one of her customers who'd worked as a beautician before moving to Sanpere. The name of her former salon was Curl Up and Dye. Mary couldn't decide whether it was funny or sad.

“Well, we've certainly narrowed it down. A young female student with long dark hair,” Faith said dejectedly.

“It does seem impossible,” Mary agreed.

But Faith was nowhere near giving up.

“Don't say that. We've barely scratched the surface. What about the money? Where would a student come up with this kind of money? Have you counted it?”

“There's fifty thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

Faith's mouth dropped open.

“As soon as I leave, you have to hide it. You should have done it already.”

Mary nodded in agreement. “I have the perfect place. I'm going to—”

“Don't tell me. I don't know why, but it's better if just one of us knows.”

“A student,” Mary mused. “Unless she comes from a very rich
family with ready access to a trust fund—and then maybe she would have bought more expensive baby clothes—there's only one thing I can think of that brings in that kind of money for someone her age.”

“Drugs?” Faith had been thinking the same thing since she'd first seen the stacks of bills. And these thoughts had taken her back to last Wednesday, back to the body in the sleigh. Was Christopher's mother an addict like young Norah Taft? Another victim? The baby looked healthy—blooming with health—but what problems might await Mary further down the road?

“I heard,” Mary said softly, “about your finding that girl…”

Faith put her hand on Mary's arm. “We have another girl to find now.”

Christopher was awake. Mary realized he would want to be fed. It had amazed her to watch the way he moved from light to deep sleep to short periods of consciousness when he was hungry. She'd always thought it must be hard for her kids to leave a doe's nice warm womb and it was obviously the same for babies.

“I know you have to get going, but could you stay a few minutes more and give him a bottle while I check on the herd?”

Faith picked up the baby, softly stroking his sleek dark hair. “My pleasure.”

On the way to the barn, Mary chided herself. She'd been so wrapped up in Christopher, she'd been neglecting the nannies. They were such social creatures. Her old dog had died last spring and she hadn't gotten around to getting another. The goats seemed to miss his visits—and the presence of the wild goose that had made a nest in their pen, laid her eggs, raised the goslings, and then vanished.

She wasn't worried that the herd would be cold. In their own inimitable way, they didn't mind lower temperatures or snow, but they hated rain and hated drafts even more. She'd have to make sure no wind was getting through any chinks in the boards.

When Mary returned, Faith gave Christopher's chubby little cheek a last kiss and reluctantly relinquished him.

“I wish I could stay,” she said. “But I'll be back as soon as I can. And call me at the Marshalls' if you need to.”

The two women looked at each other. If Mary had to call for help, Faith knew it wouldn't be for Dr. Spock–like advice. The scene in front of her could have illustrated his or any number of baby books. Mary was tightly swaddling the baby in a flannel blanket she'd made by cutting up one of her nightgowns. The rocker was waiting by the warm stove.

But the something-wrong-with-this-picture was the mound of cash on the kitchen table. Cash that Faith had a strong feeling didn't lawfully belong to Christopher's mother. And the real owner wasn't going to waste any time looking for it. Looking for it all over the great state of Maine.

Miriam opened her eyes and promptly closed them again. The sun streaming in through the broken window shade resembled a klieg light trained on the red carpet. The simple act of opening and closing her lids set the full force of what had been a dull ache across her forehead free to pound her entire skull. She needed to get some Tylenol. Much Tylenol. And water. Her tongue somehow managed to feel smooth and sticky at the same time. It had lodged itself behind a molar, choking her slightly.

She had the mother of all hangovers.

Scenes from last night cartwheeled uneasily across her brain. Her eyes flew open. It was her room, thank God—and she was alone. Even better, fully clothed. She closed her eyes once more—in weariness now. The weariness that had been her constant companion for months. Last night all that alcohol hadn't made the slightest dent in it, despite her best efforts. She was owed, she'd told herself as she'd pushed open the door of the bar down the street from the apartment.

Someone had made a halfhearted attempt at seasonal decoration. Cardboard cutouts of wreaths and candy canes were taped
to the walls; a dusty tree with a single string of blinking lights partially blocked the hallway that led to the restroom—unisex, unfortunately. The seat was always up, and worse.
MERRY XMAS
was this week's sprayed on the mirror behind the bar in what appeared to be shaving cream.

Holiday cheer. What an oxymoron. She'd dredged the word—and the notion—from some long-ago cramming for an English test or maybe the SATs and felt a momentary glimmer of pride that she could still do so.

She hadn't had so much as a sip of beer since she'd discovered she was pregnant. Not that she'd ever been a big drinker, especially a beer drinker. After the repeated positives—and it had to be someone with a warped sense of humor at the “personal care” company who decided to color them blue, as in “the blues”—when people had pressed her to join in, she'd made herself a “vodka” and tonic in the kitchen, careful to pour away some alcohol from the bottle. When the bottle was empty, she bought a new one, replacing the entire contents with water, and picked up a couple of large containers of cranberry juice—might as well get some vitamin C. She wasn't worried that anyone joining her would complain about a drink without much kick. The people who passed through the apartment were usually so strung out that they wouldn't have noticed if she'd replaced the liquor with white vinegar.

Maybe Bruce would have. Bruce noticed things like this. He'd even noticed her switch to what he called a “Cape Codder.”

She hadn't been drinking Cape Codders last night. No need for vitamins now. She'd opted for the house white (poured from a box). It had a witty clam-flat nose with a slightly frisky petroleum-product aftertaste. When somebody else was paying, she'd switched to tequila and, as the night wore on, the two had tasted much the same. At midnight, a guy wearing a Santa hat had appeared with buckets of chicken and got almost everybody singing Christmas carols. In the middle of “Jingle Bells” he'd started
crying about his kids. They lived with his ex-wife, and the bitch had moved to Ohio. He wasn't going to see them until the summer. An older woman at the end of the bar, who had been doing shots by herself all night, got up, put her arm around him, and walked him out the door. Someone started singing again. The one about grandma getting run over by a reindeer, the mean one. Miriam was glad when they moved on to “We Three Kings,” although that coincided with major breast-milk leakage and she missed most of it. She'd gone into the bathroom and used the pump, which she was carrying in her purse all the time these days. Lactation was not a problem. Getting rid of it was. She tried not to think about anything at all as she poured the fluid in the sink and watched it spiral down the drain. Tried not to think about its cause—or where it should be going. “We Three Kings.” She knew all the words. They'd sung carols in school. Her town had been so Gentile, they didn't even bother to put a menorah on the bulletin board for equal time. One year her teacher had all the children take off their shoes and put them outside the classroom in the hall, just like little Dutch children did at Christmas. Kriss Kringle would leave them a surprise while they studied their multiplication tables, she'd promised. When Miriam whispered to her that she was Jewish, the teacher had patted her arm and told her not to worry, that God loved her anyway. The big surprise was a candy Kiss for each child, even the sole heathen. And Kwanzaa? If local people had heard the word at all, they'd probably thought it was one of those way-too-spicy dishes from someplace they'd never been, or want to go.

The Magi. Okay, so they brought gifts, but “frankincense”? “Myrrh”? Granted, these were precious substances back in the day, but what were Mary and Joseph supposed to do—sell them? Get someone to front for them? At least one of the kings had had the sense to bring gold. And maybe the shepherds had slaughtered a sheep, so at least there'd have been something to eat.

Back in the bar, people were drifting out and new people were taking their places. Miriam found herself trying to explain about the three kings and their stupid gifts to a group in one of the booths, but they didn't get what she meant. She was pretty sure that's when she'd decided to come back to the apartment.

She had to get out of bed. Had to do something about the pain. But she pulled the blanket up over her head and let herself sink back into oblivion. There was some pain that Tylenol couldn't touch.

“Amen. Thank you for that nice blessing, Tom. Now let's eat.” Freeman Marshall looked down the long table that had been made even longer with the addition of several card tables. His wife was at the far end, grandkids to either side. The Marshall family wanted everyone, no matter what age, around their holiday board. No children's table in the kitchen for them, and if things got a little messy, Nan was there with a roll of paper towels.

“Grandpa, could we say a special one for Norah, I mean Zara?”

“Of course, Jake. How 'bout you do it?”

The teenager shook his head, so Freeman bowed his and said, “Dear Lord, we know you are taking good care of our little girl who you chose to take from us so early. We don't always understand how your wisdom works, but we know it is here guiding us every day of our earthly lives. As we celebrate the birth of your son, we give special thanks for Norah's birth and her years with us. Help Darlene, her poor grieving mother. We'll be there for her too. Amen.”

This appeared to satisfy Jake Whittaker. He nodded and almost everyone reached for a serving utensil. Faith hung back. Jake's mention of the girl—had they baked cookies with Nan together? Gone out fishing with Freeman?—pierced Faith's heart. In her
mind's eye, she was seeing the picture that had accompanied the obituary in this week's
Island Crier
. It was a school picture taken junior year. Norah—Faith couldn't think of her as Zara—hadn't changed her hair color yet and although she sported numerous piercings, there was still something of the cheerful, younger girl Faith remembered in the upturn of her lips and the way she looked directly into the camera. What had happened to her when she left the island? What had happened the last time that had kept her from coming back to those who loved her and only wanted to keep her safe? People like Jake, obviously a close friend, and the rest of the Marshall clan? Her mother?

The weather had grown much colder. The icicles that had been dripping last week were rigid, glistening daggers in the weak sun, and the cove was frozen solid near the shoreline where the water wasn't deep. Too cold for burial. There would be an interment of her ashes in the spring when the ground warmed up. A spring she wouldn't see. The idea of an urn, or box, sitting on the undertaker's shelf all winter was ineffably sad. Faith hoped Norah's mother was keeping it at home, but some people found it too painful to have the tangible reminder of their loss in view.

Freeman had mentioned the brevity of Norah's life and the unknown ways of the Almighty. Reconciling faith and reason seemed almost impossible at times like this. Since finding the body, Faith had had recurring regrets—the “if only's” of life. If only she'd stopped at the historical society early in the morning, the girl might have been alive and they could have gotten her to the medical center in time. Even when Earl called and told Faith that the coroner's preliminary report indicated the time of death around two in the morning, Faith still felt there must have been something she, or someone else, could have done. The coroner was ruling it “accidental.” Norah Taft had miscalculated the amount of heroin she'd injected—or calculated correctly if it had been suicide. Hers wouldn't have been a painful death, but it must have been a painful life.

Life. The white face, the white snow, the black sleigh vanished as Faith flashed back to a few hours ago and a very different face—little Christopher's. A death and a birth. There wasn't any connection, except the coincidence of her presence so close to each one—a departure and an arrival. No connection, but yet, a feeling that there should be one, if only in a sense of the mystery of existence.

 

“Dark or light?”

“Pardon?” Faith was startled into a sudden awareness of the scene around her.

“Dark or light meat?”

Faith passed her plate to Nan, calling cheerfully, “A little of each, thank you.” The merry scene, which had been momentarily so far from her thoughts, returned and she was back. Christmas dinner. A Down East version of the Cratchits.

Years of catering all sorts of events and her own attendance at numerous family gatherings had not prepared her for the array of dishes in front of her. Turkey was the centerpiece—two of them. The birds had been carved by Freeman and his oldest son, Willie, and platters of the succulent, moist meat anchored each end of the table. The space between was covered with bowls of mashed potatoes—white and sweet—several kinds of cranberry molds and a quivering mass of something that looked like lime Jell-O and cottage cheese; dinner rolls; cornbread; biscuits; pumpkin muffins; slabs of butter; creamed spinach; pureed parsnips; candied carrots; pickled beets; Hoppin' John from the Marshalls' Southern daughter-in-law; the dilly beans and various concoctions that Nan and other women in the family had put up the previous summer; several kinds of stuffing—including Faith's favorite with oysters—plenty of giblet gravy; a platter of crab puffs; chunky applesauce made from the apples in the old orchard near the shore; and finally
Kraft macaroni and cheese, because some of the young fry were picky eaters. It wasn't haute cuisine; it was Marshall cuisine. Faith knew most of the family had gathered for thick, creamy lobster stew the night before—their Christmas Eve tradition—otherwise that would have been the first course. Nan had explained this—and that they always skipped appetizers like cheese and crackers, because nobody wanted to fill up on anything before the main event.