The Body in the Ivy (16 page)

When Faith opened the door after knocking loudly—barely hearing the “Come in” over the growing storm—she was surprised to see the author sitting at her desk fully dressed. In turn, Barbara Bailey Bishop was clearly surprised to see an employee at such an early hour and in her private space. She quickly covered what she had been writing with a sheet of blank paper.

“Yes?”

“I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident. One of your guests—Bobbi Dolan—has drowned in the Jacuzzi.” Faith struggled on, waiting for a reaction—shock, regret, even fear. “There's an empty bottle of champagne in the water…”

“We'll have to do something with the body.” Bishop stood up, went to the window, and gazed out. “A regu
lar nor'easter; it could go on for days. Gwen will be upset; she's stuck here.”

Whatever Faith had expected, this wasn't it. After the abrupt comment about the body, the author seemed to be thinking aloud, musing.

“There's foul-weather gear in the closet between the living room and the kitchen. You'll have to get Brent. His cabin is behind the boathouse, unless he's already down in the kitchen.”

“He wasn't there a few minutes ago and there was no sign that he'd been in,” Faith said. Going out into a gale in search of a handyman to help deal with a corpse had not been part of her job description, yet she nodded and started back out into the hall. Bishop's tone had left no alternative, yet Faith wanted Brent Justice, too. He'd been through storms like this; she hadn't. With mounting panic, as she looked at the dark sky and the storm clouds that promised torrents of rain, Faith realized that, along with the others, she was stuck here, too.

“Use this way, it's faster.” Elaine—it was Elaine Prince, Faith reminded herself—pointed to a doorway, which when opened revealed a staircase. It was the one Elaine had descended the first night, making her grand, and startling, entrance. “We've weathered worse than this. Never had the generators fail, so don't worry about that.”

Light, heat, and food had been the farthest things from Faith's mind, but it was a reassuring reminder.

“Tell Brent what's happened. He'll know what to do.”

As Faith went down the stairs and passed the fireplace that dominated one end of the living room, she
noticed that two of the bud vases on the rough-hewn wooden mantel had fallen over. The roses lay in a puddle of water on the floor. Vibrations from the storm rattling the nearby windowpanes must have caused them to spill on the uneven surface. She'd clean the mess up later. The important thing now was to get Brent and figure out what to do with poor Bobbi Dolan.

The foul-weather gear closet was stocked with enough slickers, rain pants, and boots to outfit any number of Old Salts. She donned the nearest to hand and grabbed a flashlight from the shelf. Stepping outside, she felt the first raindrops splat noisily against the hood of the jacket. She tied it tighter, bent her head down, and walked toward the boathouse, straight into the wind. The gusts were so strong, she seemed to be taking two steps backward for every step forward.

At the boathouse, there was a well-worn path leading into the woods. She hadn't heard any thunder, which meant no lightning at the moment. Corpse or no corpse, she wasn't going into the pine forest—or anywhere except back to the house—if there was a possibility of being struck and ending up as one. Under the canopy of fragrant balsam boughs, she noticed that the light was changing from deep gray to pale yellow—storm light, that pause before total darkness set in. The wind had quieted, too. It was as if she were directly in the eye. She walked quickly. The boots were big and her feet were slipping on the wet, moss-covered trail. She was cold—and she was afraid. She flashed on her conversation with Hope, a dream job. It
was
a dream, a nightmare.

Brent's cabin was constructed from the same weathered pine as the trees surrounding it. Protective
coloration. You had to look hard to find it. There were no lights on. Perhaps he was having a good lie-in, as she'd imagined earlier. No picnics today, gardening or other chores. Faith knocked on the door. The eerie quiet that had begun when she entered the woods continued, and the sound was unnaturally loud.

There was no answer.

Where could the man be? Had she missed him? Could he be tending to something in the first floor of the house? He would have had to walk through the pool room. Would have had to walk by the Jacuzzi. Faith closed her eyes at the thought, jerked them open, and knocked again—harder.

“Mr. Justice? Are you there? It's Faith, Faith Fairchild. There's been an accident at the house.”

Her voice sounded a few pitches higher than usual.

There was no answer.

She turned the knob, and as she expected, the door was open. The room appeared empty in the low light. She trained the beam of the flashlight against the walls. Clearly Brent Justice was a minimalist; the décor was almost monastic. A small table with one well-worn chair stood before a small window. On the other side of the room was a narrow bed, its dark khaki blanket stretched tight. You could have bounced a quarter off it. Had Justice been in the army? There were two oil lamps, one on the table and one on a shelf built into the wall next to his bed—a bed that had either not been slept in or made up immediately upon rising. A wood stove was his source of heat. She held her hand above it and then touched it, palm flat out. It was stone cold. The iron kettle on it was empty.

A door revealed a closet with work clothes, a heavy winter parka, and a dark suit—for funerals and purchased sometime in the sixties, judging from the lapels. Faith closed the door, not sure why she'd opened it. Her unease at finding the cabin unoccupied had been increasing as she regarded its emptiness—the lack of even one personal possession. Maybe the small chest of drawers contained a cherished photograph. Maybe it just contained underwear and socks.

There was a small sink, a bar of Lava soap next to the tap, and a tiny round window like a porthole above. Peering through it, she could just make out a privy. Surely he didn't stay here through the winter. He must move into the big house or go to the mainland. She pictured him in one of the cozy Capes she had passed coming to the dock, and as she did so realized she was stalling, lingering in this small, empty place to avoid dealing with what awaited in the filled-to-the-brim one next door.

As she left, she decided to check out the boathouse on her way back. He might have a shop there. She retraced her steps, more slippery now than before. He was probably piling the wooden storm shutters into that cart, scolding himself for not having put them in place last night. Faith had noticed the hardware on the outside of the kitchen windows. Yet how would he have known about the storm? If Elaine was to be believed, they had no way of receiving communication from the outside world except by boat.

Of course Brent could have known the storm was coming by some sixth sense, some special New England built-in weather predictor—a shift in the wind, a
change in the pattern of the waves—that was as common as baked beans on Saturday night. What was that saying her friend Pix had taught the kids? “Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning; red sky at night, sailor's delight”? Something like that. Yet, innate ability or not, Faith didn't believe a native like Justice would live out here without a marine VHF/FM radio, when so much of his life depended on the weather and tides. He hadn't put up the shutters, so the storm must have been sudden.

She didn't bother knocking at the boathouse. The wind was picking up, and he wouldn't hear her. Besides, a boathouse, unlike a cabin or house, was more public and one could ignore etiquette.

Inside there was no light at all—no windows. Faith waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and after a moment she was able to make out a light switch on the wall. There hadn't been any wires outside here or at the house. They must be buried underground, carefully hidden so as not to destroy the view. It wouldn't have cost much more to extend a line to Justice's cabin—about as much as Elaine had spent on the caviar for this reunion. It must have been his choice.

She flicked the switch and realized at once that she had been correct. Brent Justice had a full shop here, complete with a circular power saw big enough to handle all but the largest trees brought down by age and the elements. There was a ramp sloping down toward the double doors. The building must have been used for boats at one time. There were also racks on the wall where canoes and other watercraft had hung. The boathouse was devoid of any actual vessels, just as Elaine
had said. Could the writer be phobic about water? Perhaps she couldn't even swim? If her sister had drowned rather than fallen, it would make sense. But no, you wouldn't live on an island, especially this island so far out to sea, if being on and near water were a problem for you. There had to be another reason.

Empty of boats, the structure was also empty of human beings; no clues here to the caretaker's whereabouts. She should get back to the house, should already have left. Reaching for the light switch, her hand caught the end of something resting along a low beam. It fell to the floor with a crash. Curious, Faith crouched down and looked. Canoe paddles—brand-new ones, their maker, “Old Town,” stenciled in script on the wood. Not something fashioned by Brent Justice. Paddles implied canoes, just as a boathouse implied boats. But where were they? And why had the hostess denied their existence?

By the time Faith arrived back at the kitchen door, she was soaked through, despite her gear. She had stepped out of the boathouse into a raging storm. It had seemed to take forever to reach the house. The kitchen lights were on and she'd headed for them. The door opened in and as she pushed it, she almost fell flat on the floor. The room was toasty warm and smelled like coffee.

“Mrs. Fairchild! Are you all right?” Rachel Gold got up and put her arm out to steady Faith.

They were all there. All except Bobbi Dolan, who was soaked through as well, Faith thought, pulled back into the tragic situation now that she was out of the storm. If the women had been talking, her arrival in
terrupted their conversation. The room was silent. Their faces were sober, some more strained than others. Faith noticed that Phoebe James looked as if she had been crying. Only their hostess was dressed. The others were in their robes, including a chenille number worn by Maggie Howard that could have dated back to her Pelham days.

Lucy Stapleton put a steaming mug of coffee in Faith's hand. “Take this with you while you get out of those wet things.”

Faith took the mug and looked at Elaine Prince. “Brent Justice wasn't in his cabin, or in the boathouse. Has he been here?”

Elaine shook her head. “No, but Brent's a wanderer. He'll turn up. Lucy's right. You go change, then come back and we'll figure out what to do.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

Faith was annoyed. They weren't planning a dinner party, or in Elaine's case, a plot twist.

“This doesn't strike me as wandering weather. Are there any other buildings on the island where he might be? Your writing cabin?” The thought of going out again to search for the man was daunting. Maybe one of the other women would volunteer. They were older, granted, but most of them were in great shape. A little water wouldn't hurt them, and she'd had enough.

The author waved a hand toward the door. “You must be freezing. Go on now.”

Faith did as she was told, acutely aware that her question had been neatly sidestepped.

When she returned to the kitchen, there were baskets of muffins and scones on the island, butter and pots of
jam. Lucy was making more coffee. No one was eating at the moment, but apparently coffee was in demand.

“The spa rooms are air-conditioned. We can put Bobbi in one for now,” Elaine said, addressing her suggestion to Faith. Faith wondered who the
we
was that Ms. Prince had in mind. In any case, she was sure that Elaine intended Faith to be part of it.

“How can you talk about Bobbi in such a callous way? The woman is dead!” Phoebe shouted and covered her face with her hands, her sobs audible. Chris went over and put her arms around Phoebe.

Elaine looked a bit surprised. “I don't mean to sound harsh, but we have to deal with the situation. Poor Bobbi. She was so looking forward to this week. I would have thought, living in California, that she would have been especially careful about drinking too much in a Jacuzzi—it's just like a hot tub, you know.”

“You remember she used to get herself into one kind of mess or another at school. Didn't always show the best judgment, I'm afraid.” Gwen Mansfield spoke with the assurance of someone whose judgment never faltered. Phoebe lifted her tear-streaked face and seemed about to say something more, then reached for a muffin instead.

“We can't just leave her where she is.” Rachel was pale and her voice a whisper.

The room went completely silent again.

Faith sighed. “I'll move her, but someone will have to help me.” After all, she'd no doubt seen more dead bodies than anyone else present. For a brief moment, imagining her husband's response to this latest discovery, she was glad there wasn't a phone.

“I'll do it,” Lucy said.

Faith was relieved. Lucy would have been her first choice. The woman was strong—and calm.

There was a sudden buzz of talk. “Are you sure?” “Maybe I should help, too?” “Couldn't it wait until we find the handyman?” all overlapped each other, until Lucy said, “Come on, Mrs. Fairchild. Soonest done, soonest over.”

As they descended the stairs to the first level, Faith said, “Under the circumstances, I'd rather you call me Faith.” She was quite certain this was going to be a bonding experience of some kind and first names appropriate.

Lucy nodded. “And I'm Lucy. Now, how do you propose we move her? She was small, but she's, well, dead weight now, plus being wet.”