The Body in the Lighthouse (18 page)

“I think that happened long before Sanpere Shores, but this certainly would have made it worse. They went their separate ways early on. Don has always made good money doing financial consulting, first traveling all over and now by computer. That's why he can afford to be as green as he wants. Harold struggled for a long time—fished, tried to sell his photographs to the tourists, did odd jobs. He's only been in the money for the last ten years or so. Made a pile on a big piece of land and kept reinvesting in more. Anyway, their lives were very different. Don married a girl he met in college, moved to Sanpere, had kids, became part of the island home-schooling, no-white-sugar group. Harold's been pretty much a loner, especially once he stopped fishing and started the real estate business.”

“Does his wife sound like anyone you know?”

“Absolutely not. Besides, if I knew her, the Sewing Circle would, and nobody there recognized her from Mabel's description, right?”

“Yes. But Mabel did say the woman sounded like she came from Maine. She also got the dis
tinct impression that they'd gotten hitched—her word—recently.”

“It won't be a secret for long. The Durgen brothers know by now, I'll bet, and you know how they are—that is, if they're in the mood to talk. Earl knows, too, but that won't help us any.”

True, Faith thought, remembering Jill's complaint that the whole island knew things Earl repeatedly told her he wasn't at liberty to divulge.

“Well, I'm sure I'll have her name and other vital statistics the next time you call.”

There was a pause, and Faith thought the connection had been broken, but then Pix spoke, hesitating between words.

“Faith, you don't think…I mean, are you thinking that Harold's death wasn't…”

“Wasn't an accident?”

“Yes.”

Having to answer Pix—Pix Miller, to whom it was as impossible to tell a lie as it was to Ursula—brought a truce to the warring thoughts that had filled Faith's mind so painfully since she'd found the body at the lighthouse.

“I didn't think it was an accident when I found him, and I've been feeling surer every day. I don't know how it was done, but somebody killed him.” Somebody who wanted to stop Sanpere Shores—or now, Faith thought with a start, maybe somebody who wanted to inherit it.

 

Fortunately, Sanpere did not have to wait long to hear all about Harold Hapswell's attractive
widow. She'd wasted no time after she left Earl, stopping first at Durgen's, then at the one remaining granite works for a headstone, and finally at the
Island Crier
to place an obituary. The ensuing stream of information flowed over the island, seeping into the porches of every waiting ear before nightfall.

“Her name is Victoria Viceroy. I mean her maiden name,” Ursula said.

“Sounds like a stripper—or a cigarette,” Tom commented.

“Sounds made-up,” Faith said.

Ursula nodded in agreement with both. The phone had been ringing steadily since dinner—the seafood lasagna—and Ursula had taken all the pieces the Sanpere Stitchers had provided, fitting them into the whole she was presently sharing with the Fairchilds. Faith had been jealous of Ursula's insider status and at one point had actually been tempted to listen in on the extension in Ursula's bedroom. Looking longingly from the doorway at the now highly collectible square black phone, it was not the fires of hell that had deterred her, but the photo of Ursula and Daniel, silver-haired, silver-framed, poised on one side of Mr. Bell's instrument. They peered out at the world, eyes brimming with total and complete trust, calm smiles on their lips.

Besides, Faith had been sure Ursula would catch her.

“She's from Aroostook County but lives in Trenton now. Until her recent marriage, she worked as
a hostess at the Jade Island—you know, that Chinese restaurant outside Bar Harbor.”

“I told you, Tom! A Chinese take-out place would be a gold mine on this island. There was Harold, driving all the way up to Bar Harbor for moo shu pork or whatever!” Faith exclaimed.

“From the sound of her, I think it might have been the ‘whatever,' but we have interrupted you, Ursula,” Tom said.

“There isn't too much more. Nobody seems to know how recent the marriage was. The obit she dictated just says ‘recent.' She's the only survivor listed, and Harold's described as ‘a prominent real estate developer with strong ties to the island he loved.' Well, that's true, but when Aggie—you know, Gert's sister's niece, who works at the
Crier
—asked her where she'd like memorial contributions to be sent, she said she didn't know. They hadn't ever talked about anything like this. Aggie suggested the Medical Center, and so they stuck that in.”

“Harold may have had ‘strong ties,' but it doesn't sound like she's formed any yet,” Faith said.

“Apparently, she would have—and may still. She told Marvin Durgen that Harold had been planning to build their dream house on one of the Sanpere Shores lots. Seven bedrooms, eight baths—counting a powder room—indoor gym, entertainment room—and no remarks about what that might be, Tom.” Ursula shook her head. “We've talked about it and talked about it, but it's
just plain wrong, houses like that. There are people in Maine still living in tar-paper shacks.”

Tom looked serious. “It's not only Maine, of course. I never thought I'd see the gap between rich and poor become so pronounced in this country—between rich and everybody else. And there isn't a single place, rural or urban, that can claim it has affordable housing.”

“Sanpere was always a backwater,” Ursula said. “We don't have a big golf course or fancy spots to eat. No movies, casinos. Nothing to attract big spenders. Except now. Now we have shoreland. These new buyers are people who would have bought on Mount Desert in the past, but that's priced out of reach even for multimillionaires these days.” Faith had never heard Ursula sound so bitter. “Suddenly, Sanpere looks like a bargain.”

Turning toward Tom, who was steadily consuming the Sewing Circle leftovers as a bedtime snack, Faith said, “Louise Frazier was hoping Harold's widow would turn Sanpere Shores over to the Island Trust.” She laughed hollowly.

Tom raised an eyebrow and swallowed. “I wish I had even one-tenth of her optimism. I'll bet the Widow Hapswell is on the phone with the highest bidder right now, selling each and every pine needle Harold owned—except maybe the lot for their dream house.”

 

In bed, both Tom and Faith had trouble dropping off to sleep.

“What has Lyle had to say about Harold? He must have known him pretty well,” Faith said.

“Lyle's a lot younger. You know about the time Harold wanted Lyle to work with him—Harold would sell the land, reel in the big fish, and Lyle would put up the houses, giving Harold a kick-back on that action, too.”

“I remember, and Lyle wouldn't have any part of it. So they probably didn't have much to do with each other.” Faith gave voice to an idea that had been lurking in her mind since the Planning Board meeting, when she'd become aware of Lyle's obvious antipathy toward Hapswell and all of his projects. “Lyle seems pretty passionate about Sanpere, but I don't see him sabotaging the work of another builder. Especially Seth. Seth gave him his start.”

“That's true. But Lyle
is
passionate, although you have to look hard to catch it. He hates what's happening here.”

Faith had another thought. “If Harold was struggling to make a living here, where did he get the money to buy the first property? Prices were already starting to go up even ten or fifteen years ago.”

“Maybe it was a steal.” Tom yawned. He was getting sleepy at last. He kissed his wife. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night,” Faith replied absently. She was remembering something from a few years back, from the time when she'd learned about some of Sanpere's less savory past. The eighties, and ear
lier, had been a boom time for drug smugglers. Maine, with over three thousand miles of coastline, was made to order for them. It was impossible to patrol. Inevitably, Maine fishermen became involved in the drug trafficking. Some because they were strapped and had no other way to make it, no other way to support their families. Others took to it for the sheer adventure—people with a healthy distrust of government delighting in outsmarting the DEA, much as their fathers and grandfathers had hoodwinked the feds during Prohibition. And some were just greedy and didn't care how they made their money. Who was involved and who wasn't became a tightly guarded secret in these closed communities, still was. The only way anyone from outside might suspect was if a fisherman had a brand-new boat or bought a new, fancier truck. To this day, the island remained conflicted about those days; it had torn apart a lot of lives—especially when someone did get caught. Was this how Harold had amassed his nest egg? And if so, had he made some enemies along the way?

Enemies. Lyle had said some of the people who sold Harold their property on Butler's Point, now Sanpere Shores, had been “gypped.” How hard would it have been to whack someone on the back of the head and push him onto the rocks below? People here were well acquainted with the tides—and it could have been an acquaintance who went out to the lighthouse with
Harold. Acquaintances, enemies—sometimes there wasn't any difference.

She closed her eyes and fell into a skim coat of sleep.

 

It didn't last. Unable to shape her pillow into anything but an anvil, Faith decided to go down to the kitchen and make some cocoa. When she was a little girl and had occasional bouts of sleeplessness, her father had made the cocoa. It had always worked. The novelty of seeing her father turn on a burner—the Reverend Lawrence Sibley couldn't even perk coffee—and the taste of the warm chocolaty liquid drove the nightmares and worries away. Making a cup for herself still sometimes worked, even as she wished for those all-important crises of old: “Margaret has a new best friend” “I spelled
bowl
with an
e
before the
l
in front of my whole class” “Why doesn't Hope ever get detention?”

She pulled a sweatshirt of Tom's on over her nightgown, slipped her feet into her sandals, and went softly down the hall.

The landing window was filled with stars as the fourth-quarter moon disappeared into the new one. She went down the stairs. At the bottom, instead of walking toward the back of the house and into the kitchen, Faith took a flashlight from the battalion arrayed on a shelf next to the front door and turned the knob, drawn irresistibly out into the night air as a moth to a flame. She sat on the front steps, taking off her sandals
and tucking her feet under her nightgown. This was what she had been missing—the peace, the take-a-step-back perspective that was Sanpere, that was Maine. The tide had been high at ten o'clock, when she and Tom had been trying to get to sleep. It still looked high now, though it was almost one o'clock. The tides—they governed life on an island, and the constancy of their change filled her with a deep sense of contentment. The tide always came in; it always went out. It always would, no matter what was happening onshore. Putting the flashlight down, she grasped her knees and arched her head back to look up into the sky. Pix, Ursula, and the rest of that family knew everything about the stars. They were on a first-name basis with the constellations: “Oh, Orion's not so bright tonight. Too bad.” Ursula had told Ben that it would cool off now, because the dog days were over—the dog days, named for the Dog Star, Sirius, so bright at this time of year that people used to believe it was adding its heat to the sun, producing hot, sultry days down below on Earth.

It smelled good. A combination of pine, seaweed, and something else, something from the ocean—something clean and wet. She released her legs and stretched, feeling happier than she had since she'd arrived on the island—what?—less than three weeks ago. It seemed both longer and shorter, as time does whenever you stop to consider it. She put her sandals back on, picked up the flashlight, and walked toward the shore.
There was no breeze; no sound at all except the soft lapping of the sea. The stars gave as much light as a full moon, so she didn't need her own light. She couldn't recall ever having seen the stars so bright. One fell. Good luck or bad? You could make a wish—that was good. Or it meant someone had died and was on the way to heaven—a mixed blessing. Heaven, all right. Death, not just yet, thank you. She knew she was tired. Her thoughts were all jumbled together—belief, superstition, jokes with herself. On herself? But she wasn't ready to go back inside. It was too nice out.

Up ahead, the lighthouse looked so dependable—and so beautiful. She hoped Victoria Viceroy wouldn't convert it into a motel. Victoria Viceroy—what a name! She was Victoria Hapswell now—maybe that was why she'd gotten married, although Hapswell as a cognomen wasn't much better. No, it was the money. Or Harold, Harold, who was obviously much older, yet still attractive. Or both—money and Harold. Faith pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and walked closer to the lighthouse. The grass, left unmown here, brushed her feet. Orache and vetch knotted their tendrils around the stalks and caught at her ankles. Someone, probably Harold, had cleared the growth from the front of the lighthouse door. It was locked, of course. Earl would have seen to that. Good old dependable Earl. “Calm as a clock,” Mabel had said. This was a new one to Faith, and she liked the phrase. De
scribed Earl to a tee. Without thinking, she grasped the handle of the lighthouse door, feeling the cold brass, and pushed down with her thumb—and pulled.

The door swung open, creaking loudly on un-oiled hinges. In a moment, she was in. She clicked on the flashlight and found herself in a large room. The beam of light picked out an assortment of objects—broken chairs, wooden traps, a derelict mattress, an oar. The walls had been whitewashed, but the paint had peeled, leaving rough scars. The stairs to the top of the light were on the right side, winding their way up, following the curve of the wall.