The Body in the Birches (14 page)

But she couldn't skip the outing without offending Sylvia, plus she would have to be on hand to see to the food, and all sorts of other things. Sophie pulled the curtain back and looked out the window. Her bed was like a bunk on a ship, built into the wall under the sill. She liked that she could sit up and see what the weather was before actually getting up. The sky was still gray, not even dawn yet. But, despite the yawn, she knew she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

She threw some clothes on, went to wash up, and decided to make a list for the picnic. She had a list from Mrs. Foster and maybe she'd head to the larger market in Blue Hill. She could make a dump run on the way. The urge to get away from The Birches and this particular cast of characters was irresistible.

Someone had at least helped by sorting the trash and tying
the large Hefty bag of household rubbish shut. Sanpere recycled newspapers, glass, cans, some plastic; and deposit bottles went into an oil drum for the local Scout troops. Sophie lugged it all out to the car and was happy she'd remembered to spread plastic sheeting to protect Babs's pristine cargo hold. As she hefted the black household garbage bag, she noticed that a piece of wire had poked its way out. She balanced the bag on the rear bumper and took a closer look.

It wasn't a wire. It was a syringe needle.

“What are you doing?”

Damn that man! Didn't he ever wear shoes?

“Going to the dump, then the market off island. Not that it's any of your business.” Sophie instinctively went on the offensive to keep Will at arm's length. She straightened up and blocked the bag as best she could. She needed to think about what the needle meant, and she didn't want Mr. Nosey Tarkington to see it. Was it Autumn's? Could Samantha have been right? No one in the house was diabetic or anything else that would require shots either self-administered or by someone else. At least she didn't think so.

“I can take this stuff to the dump,” Will said. “You should get going to the market.” He was making it sound as if she didn't have a choice.

Sophie jutted her chin out and folded her arms in front of her chest.

“The market won't be open yet, but the dump is. Besides, I've just about loaded everything. I can manage fine, thank you.”

“Sophie,” Will's voice softened. “I don't know what's going on and I'm pretty sure you don't, either. Please don't do anything stupid.”

His first words had almost convinced her to tell him what she'd found, but then he'd had to go and spoil everything.

“I will try to remember your possibly well-intentioned advice. Now, if you don't mind I have to be going.” She swung the bag
into the back of the car where she'd already stowed the recyclables and pulled down the hatch. Tight.

Resisting the temptation to floor it, she drove away. “Stupid!” she muttered. “Call
me
stupid!”

Before reaching Route 17, she pulled onto a dirt road she knew had no houses on it—it led to an old gravel pit—and stopped to think. She hadn't talked much with Autumn—or even seen her. She and Rory were staying in the bunkhouse. Daisy had been begging her mother to let her stay there, too, and last night had finally succeeded. Forbes and Felicity were up in the stifling attic rooms. Simon and Deirdre were in what Sophie knew her mother considered her room. People seemed to be coming and going, upstairs, downstairs, in the house and out of the house all the time.

She thought hard. No, Autumn hadn't been sleeveless even on the hottest days. She had the figure for any sort of swimwear, but she hadn't appeared in a bikini or other bathing suit. She
was
definitely thinner than Sophie remembered. When she'd hugged Autumn the day she had arrived, her ribs had been so well defined Sophie could almost have counted them.

But what to do now? Was there more than one syringe? Sophie got out of the car and went back to the trash. Babs kept a tool kit and a large first aid kit in the car. Sure enough, there were good scissors in the first aid packet. Sophie carefully cut around the syringe and, using paper towels from the roll Babs also kept in the car—really her mother's organizational talents were being wasted; she should have a cabinet post—Sophie removed the syringe and wrapped it well, taping it with the first aid adhesive. The syringe was empty. Impossible to speculate about what it might have contained. She set it aside and spread newspapers on the ground, hoping it was too early for anyone to be passing by on the way to the nature trail that started at the end of the road. She emptied the bag. It was not a pleasant task.

There were no other syringes or anything else of interest except a few crumpled American Spirit cigarette packages. Someone was
a smoker. She stuffed it all back, tied the bag shut, and wiped her hands with some of the towels before picking up the syringe again. It looked innocuous wrapped up. Where should she put it?

She closed the rear of the car and got back in, considering her options. For now it could stay in the glove compartment. It would have interesting company. Or not.

The gun was gone.

Marge Foster had left a huge pan of chicken potpie with a biscuit crust, plus a salad that only needed dressing, and grapenut pudding with whipped cream for dessert. She was obviously a follower of the stick-to-your-ribs school of cooking. Sophie found it was just what she wanted to eat, although Deirdre, Felicity, and Autumn did not. They picked at some salad and Felicity took one bite of the pudding. Sophie was pretty sure her cousin wanted more from the way Felicity savored the morsel. She'd no doubt sneak down when everyone was in bed to gorge. She was Sophie's suspect for the person who had been leaving empty Ben & Jerry's cartons in the back of the freezer. Sylvia was eating something that looked like silage with raisins from a Tupperware container.

Despite the comfort food, the atmosphere in the room was tense. Conversations were started, veered off course, and petered out. No one wanted coffee. They'd be making an early start in the morning. Afterward—much to her surprise—almost everyone helped Sophie clean up, then people drifted upstairs and out to the bunkhouse. Quiet reigned.

Sylvia's screams pierced the night. Sophie pulled her jeans on and raced up the back stairs. She heard doors and the sound of rapid footsteps. Sylvia was in the hallway, still screaming without pause. Simon, a hand on each of her shoulders, was attempting to quiet her. Deirdre was at his side and had her hand poised to slap Sylvia's face. Will Tarkington emerged from Sylvia's bedroom with what appeared to be some sort of small animal covered in blood.

“It's not real,” he said. “Sylvia, stop. It's a Beanie Baby puffin. A joke. Not a funny one.”

Sylvia stopped, gulped, and looked closely at the object in Will's hand.

“It was on my pillow,” she whispered. Rory and Autumn had joined the group, and Sophie hoped Daisy hadn't heard the commotion. At least she wasn't there.

“A bird in the house—doesn't that mean death?” Rory said. “Better get your crystals out, Ma.”

“Shut up,” Autumn said. “And anyway it's not a live bird.”

Sylvia drew herself up and gathered the shocking-pink-and-turquoise paisley pashmina she had donned against the night air tightly around her. “If the person responsible—and you know who you are—thinks a dead bird, even a fake one, is going to scare me, make me cancel my birthday trip, you—and I
will
find out who—have another thing coming. Now, I'm going to bed for a good night's sleep before my birthday!”

Mouths that had been hanging open closed. Simon, grabbing a chance to show how very, very solicitous he was, put an arm around Paul, murmuring, “I hope this has not upset you too much, Uncle Paul. May I get you something? Cocoa?”

Paul shrugged the arm off. “Takes more than a stupid, tasteless stunt like this to upset me. But I do believe I would like a little something. Will, could you bring me a snifter? I'll be in my room. I'm in the middle of the book
Hour of Peril
by that Stashower fellow, about the first plot to kill Lincoln. How Pinkerton got his start. Good night, all.”

Sophie took a deep breath. The screams and the fleeting sight of blood had sent a tidal wave of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her heart was still beating fast. She turned to go back downstairs. She wouldn't mind a snifter of something herself. At the bottom of the stairs she almost collided with Rory, who was headed toward the back door.

“Good night,” she said to him and ducked into her room. The
scene that had just unfolded continued to play in her mind and she gave a slight shiver. She kept returning to one image. Will Tarkington emerging from Sylvia's room. After the kitchen was cleaned up, Sophie had seen Will leave by the front door to go down to the boathouse, where he was staying.

How was it that he was first on the scene?

“I think I hear a car,” Amy said excitedly. “Yes, they're here!” She'd overheard the talk about Arnie and Claire's surprise. To her a surprise meant something like a puppy, which would be fun. Most likely it was some kind of special outing for the family. Maybe in his boat. She'd discussed all this with her mother and had refused to go to bed until they arrived, despite having to get up very early to go on another sort of boat trip with Daisy's family. Her mother had been invited, too.

Faith was tired. She had stayed close to the phone all day. Early this morning Marian had been scheduled for a diagnostic cardiac catheterization. The results had determined that the first treatment step would be an angioplasty to increase the flow of blood. After that, bypass surgery might be next. Tom had called whenever he had news and once just because he wanted to hear her voice. She wished again that she could be with him. His sibs were due back at the end of the week and she only hoped they would understand that he couldn't tell them without Marian's permission. Families.

At Amy's words, everyone got up and moved onto the porch. Moths clustered on the outside lights, dimming their already low wattage.

Sam Miller rushed to help with the luggage, which Arnie was unloading from the trunk. There was a mountain of it. Faith looked over at Pix, who seemed to be struggling to keep her expression neutral. Faith knew Pix loved her brother and sister-in-law, but in small doses. It looked as if this was going to be a much longer visit than usual.

Claire was paying the driver and still in the car. Everyone moved inside, grabbing a bag or two. Ursula was holding the door wide open. Dropping what he was carrying, Arnold Rowe gave his mother a big hug. If his smile were any broader, it would crack his lips, Faith thought.

“How was the trip?” Ursula said.

Before he could answer, Amy grabbed his arm. “The surprise! What's the surprise?” Arnie picked her up and swung her around. He hadn't done that with her, or any of his nieces and nephews, for years.

“The surprise is that I've packed it in,” he said. “I've retired so I can be a stay-at-home dad! Meet my son, Dana Cameron!”

A boy, who looked to be about nine or ten, walked in beside Claire, so close he almost seemed an appendage. His fine dark hair was as glossy as a raven's wing and the bangs almost covered his eyes. His face was tanned, and a sprinkling of freckles covered his nose and cheekbones. He reminded Faith of a woodland creature trying for protective coloration.

Arnie's announcement had silenced the room, frozen everyone in place. Typically, Ursula was the first to react—and was doing so splendidly. She crouched down, looking directly in the boy's face, and said, “Welcome to Maine, to The Pines. I'm Ursula, Arnold's mother, and your grandmother now. You can decide what you want to call me. You share a name with one of my favorite writers, a grown-up also named Dana Cameron.”

She straightened up. “Now, I'm sure you three would like something to eat. And before that your parents can show you where you'll be sleeping.” She addressed Claire. “Why doesn't Dana start out in the little room off yours and then as he gets to know us, he can choose one of the bigger rooms if he wants?”

Everyone started moving and talking.

“We have chicken salad and I can make some sandwiches,”
Pix said. “Plenty of cold drinks, and of course Gert left you your favorite, Arnie—a strawberry rhubarb pie.” It was her favorite, too, and she quickly quashed the churlish thought that in all these years no one had made one especially for her. She started to head for the kitchen to cut her brother a big slice.

It was left to Amy Fairchild to point out the emperor's clothes, or lack thereof. To voice what everyone was thinking—maybe with the addition of “Arnie's love child?” “Claire's?” “Left in a large basket on their doorstep?”

“But how can he be your son?” Amy said clearly and emphatically. “He's pretty grown and you never brought a baby here. Where did he come from? Did you adopt him?”

Faith said hastily, “I'm sure it's a wonderful story, honey, and we'll hear about it later, but now we need to let the Rowes settle in.”

Arnie picked Dana up. He seemed as light as a feather. Still grinning, the proud papa said, “You're absolutely right, Amy. You never did see us with a baby, but we have always wanted one, and yes, we have adopted Dana. We have known him since he was born.”

Claire picked up the thread. “Dana is my cousin's little boy, and they lived near us in New Mexico. Sadly she died last winter, and at first Dana went to live with my aunt and uncle, but they are getting on in years. He was spending more and more time with us. When we asked him if he would like to be with us all the time and be
our
little boy he said . . .”

Dana's shyness fell away like a suffocating blanket. “Yes!” he shouted and then embarrassed, ducked his head down on his father's shoulder.

There was a general exodus with Faith hustling Amy into the kitchen before she could ask what had happened to Dana's father—a question Faith had as well—with Pix following to help prepare the food. Ursula sat down on the couch, and Sam joined her, taking her hand.

“Some surprise,” he said.

Ursula smiled ruefully. “It just goes to show how little parents know about their own children. All these years we thought Arnie and Claire didn't want children. I'm sorry to say that I even said to Arnold, husband Arnold that is, that I thought they were too involved in their careers and taking those expensive exotic vacations to bother with raising a child.”

“Since they never said anything, how could you have known? We certainly didn't, and many's the time I said the same thing to Pix—that it was even a good thing they didn't have kids, because how would they fit them into their schedules?”

“I just wish I could have shared this particular heartbreak. And I wonder why they didn't adopt earlier?”

“I have the feeling that with his newfound expansiveness—never saw him smile like this ever—Arnie will be sharing a lot with us.”

Pix came in at the last words and sat down on her mother's other side. She was deeply ashamed at the thought that sprang to mind and tried desperately to push it away—Arnie and his new family would want to be sharing more than their joy. They would want to share The Pines.

Captain Robertson, with help from Sylvia, had regaled them with some puffin facts while getting ready to cast off. So far Sophie had learned that the Atlantic puffin,
Fratercula arctica,
is the only puffin native to the Atlantic Ocean. They are erroneously called “sea parrots” and more accurately “clowns of the sea” for their brightly colored, face-paint beaks. They are particularly attracted to Iceland, but also have colonies in the British Isles, Norway, Greenland, and Newfoundland. Most of North America's puffins are Newfies, but the 5 percent not there lure birders, ecotourists, and just plain people who think the small birds are cute to New Brunswick, Canada, and Maine. She'd been surprised to hear that
puffins are still a prized—tasty?—food source in the Faroe Islands. But so far lobster rolls and fried clams dominate on this side of the Atlantic.

Sophie was trying to take this information in while keeping an eye on Daisy, whose mother was so busy being the birthday girl and puffin specialist that her small daughter had almost toppled off the dock twice before they all got on board. Everyone was wearing life jackets now. Simon and his crew had, of course, brought their own, the expensive ones with the CO
₂
cartridges that always reminded Sophie of horse collars. The rest of the group was buckled into the puffy orange kind provided by the captain. A moist chilly fog enveloped the harbor, but they had been assured it would burn off by the time they got to the nesting grounds at Petit Manan Island.

It had been cold when Sophie had gotten up before dawn to make sure those who wanted breakfast would have it, plus pack up the food for the boat and the picnic. Maybe she should forget about the law altogether and go into the catering business. Working for someone like Faith Fairchild suddenly had great appeal. No more nights sleeping in her office. No more power suits. And especially no more people like Ian Kendall. She didn't kid herself that the food business wasn't without stress, but at least there would be great stuff to eat. Even if one had to make it oneself.

The engine sprang to life and they were off on the hour-plus journey to the island. Sophie looked around at her fellow voyagers. They'd had to take three cars to accommodate all of them. She was glad Sylvia had agreed to include Faith and Amy. Daisy needed someone her age, and after last night's dead puffin skit, Sophie needed someone sane like Faith around. As she surveyed the group, she noticed Uncle Paul was looking cold. She'd brought a duffle with extra warm clothes, as well as two fleece throws. She took one of these over to him, and he didn't complain as she wrapped it around him.

“I have Thermoses of hot coffee, peppermint tea, and cocoa,” she said loudly over the steady put-put of the engine.

“Maybe later,” Paul said. “For now, I'm enjoying the sea air—and the company. This was a good idea of yours, Sylvia.”

Sylvia was sitting next to him in pride of place and shot a self-satisfied look at the rest of them. “I'm Number One” was virtually etched on her forehead.

They had been late leaving Sanpere, but since they were the only ones on this tour because of their numbers, Captain Robertson had said he could wait. Rory had been missing. Really missing, not simply sleeping in or dawdling. Daisy had appeared early in the kitchen, followed a bit later by Autumn. When Sophie had asked whether Rory was awake, Autumn buried her face in the oversize coffee cup she favored while Daisy piped up, “He's not in the bunkhouse. Wasn't all night. His bed hasn't been slept in. Although it's kinda hard to tell. He doesn't make it much.”

They had decided to leave without him—much to his mother's distress—when his car pulled up. He leaped out with a balloon bouquet and a package of party hats. Sophie was amused. So there, Deirdre.

“Give me the hats and I'll put them in with the picnic things, but let's leave the balloons here with the flowers for later,” Sophie had said while Sylvia beamed at everyone. Could any mother ever have a better son?

None of the stores on the island offered the elaborate floral arrangement and party hats covered with glitter that Rory had brought. Where had he bought them? Sophie was guessing Bangor, maybe Ellsworth. He must have taken off right after his mother's gruesome discovery last night. What he did with his time was his business, yet she wondered how many nights he'd been tucked up in his bunk and how many somewhere else.

Too many things to think about. She flashed back to the scene yesterday by the car. Will had said that Sophie—and he—didn't know what was going on. Maybe she should have pushed him to explain further instead of getting angry. She turned to look at him. He was behind the captain, sitting on the bench diagonally
across from her. Autumn was next to him. Was it Sophie's imagination or was Autumn, usually someone who kept a distance, sitting very close to the Southerner? Maybe she was cold.

“I have extra jackets and other things if anyone needs them,” Sophie said, almost shouting.

Autumn shook her head, but Rory, who was only wearing a hoodie with the name of a Santa Cruz surf supply store on it, said, “Got a down parka in there? And maybe ski pants.” He was wearing shorts. At least he'd grabbed Docksiders before they left, shedding his ubiquitous flip-flops.

Sophie gave him the other throw and a denim L.L.Bean jacket lined with flannel she'd found on a hook in the hallway. She recalled seeing it there last summer—and the summer before and the summer . . .

“Thank you for thinking of this—and everything else, Sophie.” Paul almost had to shout as well. Sophie smiled back at him. Nice to be appreciated. She looked past Captain Robertson out the windshield at the water. The fog was starting to clear. She almost missed her Uncle Simon's frown at Paul's words and it thrust her back where she didn't want to be. In the bosom of her family. A family that was fast resembling a nest of vipers. Time for Babs to come to Sanpere. Sophie resolved to call her mother as soon as she could get a signal. Passing through Ellsworth and Blue Hill would give her a chance, and since she'd been one of the drivers, she'd insist on stopping. She needed to go to the big market, Tradewinds, again, anyway.

Faith Fairchild had seated both girls next to her, and the three were talking. Sophie couldn't hear what they were saying, but from the way Faith was pointing, it was probably about the birds that were starting to loom into view. Should she try to get some time alone with Faith and tell her about the syringe? And the Beanie puffin? She could hear Aunt Priscilla's voice warning her not to air dirty laundry in public, but Sophie thought this was getting way beyond soiled linens.

Autumn and Will had their heads bent together, almost touching, talking about who knows what. Sophie had noted from her own experience he wasn't big on keeping a distance, but they were starting to look like Velcro. Not that she cared.

She looked at her watch. They'd only been on the water seven minutes.

Over the years Faith Sibley Fairchild had come to love Sanpere, more than Aleford, but never as much as Manhattan. No place on earth came close to her visceral connection to the Big Apple. Still, despite being happy to spend the summer in Maine, there were aspects less appealing. Bundled up as if she were headed for a winter Alpine trek rather than a July boat ride under what she hoped would soon be sunny skies, she felt a strong twinge of “what is wrong with this picture?”

There was more than the temperature wrong. She looked at her fellow seafarers. Sophie's face showed a mix of sad and mad with a touch of having sucked on a lemon. Paul was exhibiting a determinedly bland countenance. Next to him, Rory was sound asleep. Faith sensed he hadn't had much last night. He'd been very hail-fellow-well-met when he'd arrived at The Birches just in time to come with them this morning. But beneath that, it was obvious he'd had a rugged night.

It was hard to see Autumn's and Will Tarkington's faces, as they were leaning toward each other, engaged in conversation. Not so the rest. First there was Simon Proctor and his crew. Faith had come across the family over the years, usually at the kind of party she and Tom avoided. The Proctors were properly dressed for the voyage—for a nor'easter, should one suddenly blow up—in matching foul-weather gear that Faith recognized as top of the line from Hamilton Marine. She had no doubt that when they stripped it off for the picnic there would be Lily Pulitzers or maybe Vineyard Vines beneath for the women and top-to-toe Brooks for the men.

Other than the two little girls, Sylvia was the only one wreathed in a smile, having the time of her life. She'd tucked one of the flowers from her birthday bouquet, a red carnation, under the scarf that kept her flowing locks in place.

The fog was starting to lift. Faith got her camera out as they passed pilings with several cormorants perched on each plinth, their elegant crooked necks silhouetted against the still overcast morning. Ebony statues. She took a few shots and some of the passengers as well so Sylvia would have a record of her birthday.

Faith had never seen an actual puffin and was starting to get excited. She wished Tom were with her, and Ben, too. He was scheduled to work the lunch shift into the evening. Mandy was picking him up. Faith would have to start getting used to the fact that Ben was independent—pulling away, as he should be, she reminded herself yet again—from his family.

The two girls were giggling about something. She put an arm around her daughter and pulled her in for a little hug. Bless Amy for saying what had been on most of their minds last night. Faith thought back to her conversations with both Ursula and Ed Ricks about inheritance. Would Dana's arrival in the Rowe family change what would happen to The Pines after Ursula's death? And what about The Birches? Faith didn't envy Paul's position. She looked at each possible heir before gazing back at the cormorants, “sea ravens” they were called. From her long-ago degree in English she recalled that the cormorant was the disguise Satan used in Milton's
Paradise Lost
.