The Body in the Sleigh (7 page)

Nan sighed. “You're right, Connie, but it doesn't change anything. It's been such a strange fall and now this.”

“What do you mean ‘a strange fall'?” Faith asked. She was cutting the plum puddings and couldn't believe that her mouth was watering again so soon after the main course.

“Thirty break-ins in September alone, mostly summer places closed up for the winter. Freeman and I didn't want to worry you, since no one was going to bother your place with us keeping an eye on it. November was just as bad until the weather turned. They're pretty sure they were looking for stuff to sell for drugs. Hunters might camp out in your living room and maybe take a nip or two from what you left behind, but they don't take anything.”

Debbie picked up where her mother left off. “They used a crowbar to pry open doors, stripped the places of anything of value—and summer people leave some pretty expensive things—
plus they sometimes took canned goods and clothing. The only comical thing about it all was when we heard they took an iron from one cottage. An iron!”

Faith smiled. It had made her think a woman must be involved either directly or indirectly—“Honey, could you pick up an iron; this one is shot”—or an extremely anal-retentive male.

But it was no laughing matter. She'd been on the island long enough to know that drug trafficking was a perennial problem in Maine—just as rum-running had been during Prohibition and for the same reason. With roughly 3,500 miles of coastline, it was impossible to police every harbor large or small, every inlet, every cove. Plus there were more than two thousand coastal islands where a boat from Canada could land its cargo, and another pick it up.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” Debbie said. “It's Christmas. I feel bad for Darlene. It's hard enough raising teens with two parents and we don't know for sure why she divorced Norah's father and came home so fast, but I never heard of her trying to get help for the girl—or herself. Right now I want to sit here for a minute and have a cup of coffee before we all dive into dessert.”

Her sister, Connie, gave her a hug. “I didn't mean anything about Jake.”

“I know you didn't, so forget it and tell me what was different about your crab puffs this year. They're always good, but these were even better.”

The secret turned out to be a dash of Old Bay seasoning and the women settled around the kitchen table with their coffee talking about recipes, diets tried and untried, husbands, and kids. The things women talk about.

“You're sitting down in this nice warm kitchen while we've been freezing our butts off!” Willie came through the back door, ice crystals on his beard. “Where's my pie! And I want some of that chocolate bread pudding Faith brought that Dad has been raving about.”

And so they picked up where they left off. Pies, plum pudding, angel food cake with strawberry sauce frozen last July, Christmas cookies, and Faith's chocolate bread pudding. Her secret was using the chocolate bread made by When Pigs Fly, the Maine bakery company, which she could get near Aleford. They also sold the bread and a kit to make it online. Besides the bread pudding, it was delectable as French toast, warmed, with ice cream, spread with honey-sweetened chèvre, or just plain with butter.

After the last belt was loosened, the Fairchilds walked back to their house under another brilliant, starry sky. Tom carried Amy on his shoulders. She reached up and grabbed a snow-covered pine bough, sending a dusting over the four of them. Ben threw a snowball at his sister, laughing when it fell short and landed on his mother's shoulder instead. Seeing the lights they'd left on shining through the dusk, they ran toward home in one accord.

 

“I guess we've finished opening everything,” Brenda Carpenter said wistfully. “You'd think my brother and sister-in-law could think of something else besides oranges to send every year. Rubbing it in that they're living in Florida as if I could care. And this year I sent them another one of those Towers of Treats since last year he said it was some good, even if they can't eat nuts.”

Her husband shook his head. “You're just more thoughtful, honeybun. And you've really spoiled me this Christmas.” He extended his arm out straight, all the better to see the Rolex watch she'd given him. They were still in their nightclothes, otherwise he'd be admiring the solid-gold cuff links with his crest engraved on them that had been in the toe of his stocking next to a dozen of his favorite candy bars—Almond Joy. Brenda had found the Carpenter crest online and although Daniel doubted he had any claim to it, he didn't mind pretending. It was all part of the game.
Clients were impressed by things like watches and cuff links, evidence that you'd been racking up some hefty commissions. A Realtor didn't just need an expensive car. Everything about him—or her, Brenda had gotten her license a number of years ago—had to spell success. This was the way you sold the best houses, and got the best houses to sell.

He looked over at his wife. There was a slight pout on her face, which he'd soon take care of. It was a face
she
took care of and you'd never guess her real age, especially right now. The sheer negligee she was wearing was trimmed with pink marabou at the neck, hiding any of the ravages of time that the surgeon hadn't been able to reverse. She wasn't wearing anything underneath and her breasts were full and firm. Damn, she could still turn him on, Daniel thought to himself, shifting slightly in his silk pajamas.

Ten years ago when she'd walked into his office to apply for the receptionist's job, he'd barely glanced at her résumé and hired her on the spot. Best decision he'd ever made. Maybe he'd gone on appearance, but she was a hard worker, pulling in a decent amount now—some people preferred looking at houses with a woman—and it all went into his account. None of that women's lib nonsense about it being “her” money. The economy was in the toilet and had been for a while, but not for Carpenter Fine Homes buyers or sellers. Upturns, downturns—the rich knew how to stay rich and get richer. He'd been observing them for his entire adult life and had picked up more than the faux patrician accent that didn't reveal a hint of his hardscrabble childhood in a trailer near the Maine-New Hampshire line. When the deal called for it, he could do an “ayuh” or two—let the suckers think they were pulling a fast one on this Down East penny-ante real estate agent. Brenda was even better at it than he was with her “some goods” and “finest kind.”

They were in the great room off the kitchen, which had state-of-the-art stainless appliances and granite countertops. Part of the
fun of this business was trading up yourself and he didn't see how much higher they could go. Right on the shore, a killer view, five bedrooms, five and a half baths, home theater, home gym, wine closet, three-car garage. All the bells and whistles.

Brenda had hired a decorator from Portland to do the house for the party they gave the Saturday before Christmas each year—totally tax deductible. There was a real tree in this room—so tall it almost scraped the cathedral ceiling. The theme was “The Night Before Christmas,” complete with a sleigh on the lawn. Daniel had nixed putting it on the roof, which apparently was in the original verses. The decorator was good, but tended to get carried away. The tree did look pretty spectacular, though, wrapped in gold mesh with pastel “sugarplums” and ropes of shiny silver beads. Tiny lights buried deep in the branches finished the effect. Although the house had been built only ten years ago for wealthy summer people from Manhattan, it looked like one of the Victorian “cottages” in Bar Harbor, and the pine boughs on the banister, fragrant wreaths over the fireplaces, everything but the twenty-first-century kitchen, suggested a family that had been celebrating the Yuletide for generations in their own time-honored fashion.

There was a sound, not of tiny footsteps, but tiny paws on the parquet.

“Come to Mommy, sweetums,” Brenda cooed at Snowball, her bichon frise—a gift last Christmas. “Let me see the pretty collar Daddy gave you.”

“It ought to be pretty,” Daniel said. “Those
ain't
rhinestones, you know.”

Brenda put the dog down and walked over to where her husband was sitting, glanced down, and promptly sat in his lap. “I think Daddy needs a great big thank-you.”

“And I intend to get one, but first let's take this wrapping paper out to the trash in the garage.”

“Can't it wait? Besides, it's cold out there.”

“I thought I took care of that on your birthday.”

He went to the coat closet, put on his heavy shearling, and handed her the full-length sable he'd given her last month when she'd turned thirty-five again.

“As if I'd forget.” She slipped into the coat, stroking the sleeves with feline grace. “All right, Mr. Clean, let's get rid of this mess.”

When she stepped from the door in the kitchen that led into the garage, he took the paper from her and told her to close her eyes and reach into her right pocket.

“Now open them and tell me what's in your hand!”

“A car key! I knew there was another present! I could tell by your face! Oh, Daniel! Come on, let's get dressed and drive someplace for brunch. My other Lexus was only a year old, but this girl isn't going to complain one little bit. On second thought, let's take our time getting dressed. Brunch can wait.”

He kissed her hard. “I'm so lucky. Sometimes I can't believe it. That whole other life doesn't seem real.”

Brenda put her hand on his lips. “Hush now. It wasn't and I don't want to hear about it. Ever. You got a bad break and now you've got a good one. You didn't do anything wrong. Anyway, they're both gone now. You know where Rebekah is. She can't bother you. And we can handle Miriam, Daddy! So don't worry.”

“I'm not. Just sometimes I think—”

“Don't think. That's when people get into trouble. It's Christmas. Let's celebrate. I want a mimosa and a whole lot more. Christmas! Guess your family tree is shaking! I can just hear what my mumma, God rest her soul, would say if she'd known I married a Jew boy. But I haven't been sorry. Not one minute. Not this girl.”

 

It was too early to go to bed, but no one had the energy after the Christmas feast to do anything but sit by the woodstove. Faith was
reading while Tom and the kids played Boggle. Game playing—indoor and outdoor types—was firmly embedded in the Fairchild genetic code. It was totally lacking in Faith's and over the years she'd managed to tactfully avoid both Tom's family's marathon Scrabble tournaments and vigorous fall weekend touch-football matches. It had taken some doing.

Everyone was beginning to droop in the soporific heat the powerful little stove was putting out. Faith felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Maybe they should go to bed. The idea had great appeal. Call it a day—a wonderful Christmas Day.

“Dad!” Amy's exclamation startled Faith. “We haven't done ‘The Queens Came Late'!”

Tom always recited Norma Farber's poem out loud to his family and anyone else around on December 25. It was a tradition they'd started when Ben was two.

“Don't worry, honey, I was just thinking it was about time. Why don't you and Ben get all ready for bed and we'll do it here in front of the fire?”

“With cocoa and some of that Christmas cake we made at home?” As Ben lurched his way into full-blown adolescence, his appetite increased in direct proportion to inches grown. Between her husband and son, gallons of milk disappeared from the fridge almost as soon as Faith unpacked the groceries from the market. Even so, it was hard to believe her son was hungry again now.

“Sure, cocoa and cake,” she answered. Since her friend Helen Barer had given her the recipe for this Norwegian Christmas cake—Mor Monsens Kake or Mother Monsen's Cake—the Fairchilds had made the toothsome buttery concoction studded with currants and almonds every year. It kept beautifully and melted in your mouth.

Ben and Amy soon reappeared in the doorway together. No longer in sleepers with feet, Faith thought with a pang, but still
children. She clung to the thought. The years were going by much too fast.

Tom began:

This mention caused Faith's thoughts to drift to Mary's goats. Mary's small, furred, domestic animals, and from there to Christopher, the baby who had appeared so mysteriously—so miraculously?—on Christmas Eve. In the poem the Queens bring useful gifts—chicken soup, “a homespun gown of blue,” and a cradle song to sing. Faith would have to drop off some useful gifts from the Granville Market tomorrow and make a trip off-island soon for more. She had gently explained to Mary that unlike goat kids, human babies needed more nutrients than goat's milk—superb in every other way—could provide and Christopher would have to have formula. And Huggies. “Just as a backup, Mary. You can't keep washing what you have on hand.”

“Say it again, Daddy,” Amy begged.

“Absolutely,” Tom said. He usually did it at least two times, occasionally three, when they'd all be reciting it together by then.