The Body in the Sleigh (9 page)

Once again, Faith marveled at how the do-it-yourself button had unglued Jill's tongue.

Earl walked in and greeted her. Putting an arm around his wife, he asked Faith, “So, what do you think?”

“I think she's pretty terrific and the room isn't bad either,” she said.

The Dickinsons laughed.

“When Jill showed me the paint in the can, I thought she was crazy. It looked dark as pitch, but she was right, as usual.” He gave her a squeeze.

“What am I thinking!” Jill said. “I promised you coffee and scones ages ago. It won't take a minute. Why don't you sit in the living room?”

Since the only object resembling furniture where they were was a ladder, Faith followed Earl across the hall to the living room. Originally it had been the parlor and some sort of office for Captain Reed. One of the first things the Dickinsons had done was to remove the wall between the two. The end result was a large, airy open space with another, more ornate fireplace—this one with a marble mantel—and parquet floors that had been restored to the same luster as the dining room's. Faith had seen both rooms, and others, in various stages, and PBS's
This Old House
had nothing on the Dickinsons'. Fortunately they had eschewed authenticity when it came to furnishing this room, avoiding the uncomfortable, slippery horsehair furniture of the period. Instead they'd opted for large overstuffed sofas and chairs upholstered in velvety olive green. The walls were the color of buttermilk and Jill had covered pillows with a purple and gold fabric that looked as if it had been cut from a tapestry. An enormous Oriental rug picked up the colors. The carpet hearkened back to more of those spoils from the Far East, but Faith knew Jill had found it, and the pillow fabric, at Marden's—that Down East Aladdin's cave, overflowing with overstocks and slightly damaged goods. Maybe Aladdin's brother's cave. The one who knew a bargain when he saw it?

Faith came straight to the point once she and Earl had sat down, aware that it wouldn't take long to heat up some scones and make coffee.

“Do you have any more leads on what happened to Norah Taft?”

Earl frowned. “You need to put her out of your head, Faith.
I wish to God I'd have found her. Or somebody else. Somebody who wouldn't keep thinking about the whole thing so much. I know that's what you've been doing. Could see it right away.”

Faith started to protest, but before she could get a word out, Earl stopped her, raising his hand.

“Now, hear me out. Norah Taft OD'd, pure and simple. Those might not be the right words. Nothing pure, or even simple, about the situation, but that's what happened. Why she picked that spot we'll never know, but the works were all right there in the sleigh with her. She'd had time to put them all in the bag and I'm willing to bet her last thoughts weren't unhappy. Not with the amount she shot up. But don't even go there. It was bad luck that you happened along and you have to let the whole thing go.”

Faith had stopped listening in the middle. “You mean everything was in the paper bag? She wasn't holding the syringe? Nothing tied around her arm? That sounds like she might have taken the heroin someplace else and somebody put her in the sleigh with everything in the bag all neat and tidy. There were a lot of footprints in the snow. Could have been more than one person.”

“You've been watching too much TV. She wouldn't have blacked out immediately. As for the footprints, people have been taking pictures there all week, just like you wanted to. Why she picked the sleigh, we'll never know. I agree she may have been with people, but the tracks on her arms and other parts of her body indicated that she was no stranger to knowing how to get high. She may have told someone or more than one person where to drop her off, I'll admit. She had to have come to the island by car. No bus or train that I know of. But she ended her own life.”

Faith's mind was racing. Earl's words had raised all sorts of possibilities. She'd think about them later. Now she had to ask her main question—the reason for her visit. She could smell the coffee. Jill would be in with a tray any minute.

“Did the autopsy show that she'd been pregnant? That she'd given birth recently?”

“What!” Earl stood up and walked over to the window, his back to Faith. The gesture was clearly meant to indicate that Faith had crossed some sort of line with her question, but what kind of line was it? Had she stumbled upon the truth and he didn't want to corroborate it—or did Earl think she was inappropriately nosy?

“Did Norah have a baby in the last week or so?” She
had
to find out.

He turned around. “I'm not going to ask why you want to know this, but here it is. That poor girl had plenty of problems; being pregnant wasn't one of them.”

Jill walked into the room carrying a large tray.

“At last! Everything's piping hot and I opened your jam, Faith.”

“More like a kettle of fish,” Earl said dryly. “Now, let it go once and for all.” He was looking straight at Faith. She had the feeling he'd like to make her sign something, or at least swear an oath.

“What on earth are you talking about, Earl?” Jill asked, her face deflating like a day-old birthday-party balloon.

“Nothing, honey,” he said, reaching for a plate. “I'm having one of each of these scones, so I don't have to choose,
and
I need more than one of these fancy little cups of coffee to wash them down.”

“The cups are beautiful,” Faith said, picking hers up. Above the dark liquid, the Limoges porcelain was so thin you could almost see through it. “I was just giving Earl a hard time, as usual,” she reassured her hostess, stopping short of what she was saying to herself—
something I plan to continue to do if necessary
.

Jill smiled in relief. “Oh, you two. You'd think I'd know the way you tease each other by now. You'll be the death of me yet.”

 

Miriam Carpenter sat staring at the blue book in front of her. Her professor had offered her the chance to come in and take the exam today, the day after Christmas, when Miriam had called her office last week and told her she was too sick to take it during the regular schedule. Having a baby was not an illness, but Miriam's labor pains had coincided with Anthropology 106's final exam. As she looked at the questions again, she wondered if Professor Patel had suspected anything. Miriam was tall and big boned. It had not been hard to conceal her condition under the many layers of clothing necessary in Maine, as the days grew shorter—and colder. Yet, during the last few classes, the professor seemed to be eyeing Miriam in a speculative manner and twice she had asked her how she was doing in what Miriam thought was a pointed way. But then, she had always been a little paranoid. Or maybe it was only lately. But she was definitely a little, make that more than a little, paranoid now.

Miriam herself hadn't known she was pregnant for quite a while. She'd always had irregular periods and hadn't had any symptoms like morning sickness. Her breasts were tender and seemed larger, but Miriam hadn't realized what that, plus her skipped menses, meant for a number of weeks.

“You can take a makeup exam. I always keep one in reserve for situations I think merit it,” Professor Patel had said. “You've done so well this semester. It would be a shame to skip the exam and lower your grade. And if you could possibly do it before the first of the year, I won't even have to give you an incomplete. But you must be going away for the break, home for Christmas.”

“No, I'm not going home for Christmas. I'm Jewish and, well, I'm not going home. I live off campus, so I'll be around,” Miriam had told her.

No, Miriam wasn't going home for the holidays, or any other days.

The professor had suggested the twenty-sixth and here she was.
She'd stayed in bed most of yesterday nursing her hangover and still felt tired, but her head was clear. She stared at the first essay question.

Infanticide. That had never been an option. Whether male or female. As soon as Miriam did know she was pregnant, she also knew she would have the baby. Knew she would have it, because she was going to stop thinking about it. It wasn't that she was in denial so much as she was simply on a kind of all-encompassing autopilot.

Bruce hadn't found out until early last week. They'd stopped having sex in August when he'd started bringing Tammy around. He was so high most of the time that even before, sex hadn't played a big part in their relationship. What had? The drugs, mostly marijuana to start with. She'd never felt so free, so happy. Even coming down, she'd never gotten blue or angry the way Bruce did.

Gradually, it was enough just to be around drugs and the people doing them. Mellow folks, good folks. Folks who smiled when they saw her. Folks who cared about her—at least when they were using. She found she didn't need to get high, which was a good thing, because somebody had to keep house—and keep the money straight. Somebody had to let kids on campus know where they could go. Somebody had to deal with the suppliers when Bruce was too wasted. She had been the responsible one. “Baby, I don't know what I'd do without you.” She hadn't needed drugs, just Bruce.

She'd come to a party at his apartment and stayed. He looked like Kurt Cobain, or that's what the girl next to her had said
when he walked into the living room, leaving the group shooting up in the kitchen. He'd grinned that big, lazy grin and walked straight up to her—her, Miriam, not the other girl. He'd chosen her.

“Hey, pretty lady, where have you been all my life?”

It had been good. She was sure it had been good. Then one night he walked out of the kitchen into the living room and Tammy was there. Miriam heard him say the same words. She'd learned Bruce relied on a few stock phrases in life and this was one. Another was “Laws are for other people—dumb-ass people.” But she still couldn't leave him.

Tammy took over the sex part—the girlfriend part—and Miriam was left to do everything else, which was mainly cleaning the apartment after the parties, because Bruce was trying to get straight and mostly succeeding. He didn't need her to keep track of the business anymore. He was straight when she'd told him about the baby.

“I should have known. You look like a cow. I thought it was all those chips you've been scarfing down.”

The only food craving Miriam had had was for Humpty Dumpty salt and vinegar potato chips and she had been consuming a fair number of bags.

Bruce had stopped talking at that point.

Her hand automatically went to her neck. She'd wound a long scarf over a turtleneck and would have added a cowl if she'd had one to be sure the necklace of bruise marks his fingers had left stayed hidden. She had thought he would choke her to death and struggled desperately, pulling at his hands, fighting for breath. They'd crashed to the floor, knocking over a lamp. The bulb had exploded and Tammy had come in. Would he have killed her if Tammy hadn't been there? She'd taken in the scene dreamily—she was always pretty far gone—and said, “Leave her alone, Brucie. She's not worth getting upset about.”

They'd left her on the floor. She hadn't moved from the protective fetal position she'd rolled into once he'd stood up. He would kick her. She'd assumed he would kick her, but he didn't.

“Get rid of it. If it's here when I get back, I'll get rid of both of you. Permanently.”

He was leaving for Canada, picking up a major score of prescription drugs, and Tammy was going with him. They were going to spend Christmas there and stay through New Year's Eve. When she'd overheard their plans, Miriam had been so relieved at having the place to herself—she was sure the baby was going to pop any day—that she didn't feel hurt at being so obviously excluded. Last year Bruce had taken her to New York City, her first time in the Big Apple. Where did that name come from anyway? It
was
like a big red perfect Delicious apple. Just waiting for her to take a bite.

She hadn't wanted to sleep, exploring every inch of Manhattan and some of Brooklyn—walking across the bridge was amazing—while Bruce did whatever it was that he'd come to the city to do. He had laughed at her enthusiasm and taken her to the Rainbow Room on the sixty-fifth floor of Rockefeller Plaza one night, first showing her the biggest Christmas tree she had ever seen. They'd sipped Bellinis, which Miriam had read about, and between courses, danced. Bruce had told her to go out and buy a fancy dress. She'd found the perfect one in a funky store on Prince Street. It looked like the one Marilyn Monroe was wearing in the famous photo where she's standing on a grate in the sidewalk and the subway passing underneath blows her skirt up, revealing those million-dollar legs. Miriam didn't have legs like that, but the white chiffon bodice clung tightly, revealing plenty of cleavage. The skirt was full and as she danced it swirled about. She wore her hair loose and knew that for once she really did look beautiful. They made a handsome couple—Bruce with his fair, almost Nordic looks, slightly taller than Miriam. She basked in
his gaze. He'd told her over and over how “hot” the dress made her look. They were young, in love, and had plenty of money. She didn't even look at the prices, but ordered shrimp cocktail, veal scallopine, and tiramisu for dessert. Something else she had only read about. The first bite was heaven—mascarpone cheese, custard, ladyfingers soaked in coffee and some sort of liqueur. The last bite, even more memorable because it was the end. The waiter told her the literal translation of tiramisu was “pick me up,” that in Italian it meant “make me happier.” Miriam didn't think she could be any happier. It was the best night of her life. And it had been just a year ago.