The Body in the Lighthouse (21 page)

Lyle was packing up his tools. The others had left. Faith just wanted to sit on the deck and look at the view and then back at the house. The kids were running happily from room to room. Ben had peed in the newly installed upstairs toilet and, after the christening, declared it just as good as the downstairs one.

Faith looked at a pile of shavings and bits of wallboard that had been left in one corner of the
room. She had a sudden vision of a lighted match being tossed into it and the whole house going up in smoke, like those recently attacked all over the island.

“Now that it's finished, you don't think that crazy KSS group or whoever will attack this house, do you? I mean, we're from away and we did enlarge what was here before. They may think we should have been content with what we had. Small is beautiful.” Faith's anxious words ran together.

Lyle stopped what he was doing.

“This little Tinkertoy place? Don't even think about it. Besides, it's not that they're people from away. Gorry, half the island is from away, but it's what they're putting up and the way they're going about it. These aren't people who are real interested in this island, except for the view and the water. They're not going to run for the school board or give money to the Medical Center. They're not going to get paint on their noses making sets for a local play.”

Faith reached toward her nose. “Blue, right? I was filling in the sky today.”

“Blue it is,” Lyle said, and laughed.

Faith felt reassured, a feeling she treasured all the more after her most recent adventure at the lighthouse.

“Just so long as it isn't green,” she said.

Lyle's face darkened. He'd been very upset about what had happened to Faith—and the lighthouse.

“Can't believe Earl and the rest of them haven't caught whoever's doing this. Lots of people on the island still think it's kids. You heard that they caught a group of them burning down a shed near the old quarry in Bonneville?”

Faith hadn't heard about this.

“No, I guess it was while I was out of the picture for a bit. What happened?”

“Typical Saturday night—drinking too much—but this time they decided to burn the shed, and someone had the bright idea of making it look like the others. Sprayed slogans on the ledges. Spelled a lot of the words wrong, but that could have been the beers. I never believed it was Don and Terri Osborn, except they are total fanatics when it comes to this stuff. And they hated Harold—and Persis, too—like they were the devil incarnate, out to destroy Sanpere. But Don's way of doing harm is to talk you to death. You should hear him about global warming and wetland preservation. Never takes a breath. Even Kenny, who has to have the patience of a saint, told me he couldn't listen to him anymore.”

“Kenny?”

“Kenny caretakes for them, does all sorts of odd jobs Don dreams up—solar panels on every roof, even the doghouse, that sort of thing. They're real close. Have been for years, since Kenny was a kid.”

“What's Terri like?”

“As nuts as her husband, or committed to their cause—whichever way you want to look at the
whole business. Won't kill a mosquito or wear leather, even shoes. Of course they're vegetarians, too, although Elwell told me he saw Donald at the buffet one Friday night up at Jordan's in Searsport, hitting the prime rib.”

Linda Forsythe and the Osborns were soul mates.

Lyle picked up his toolbox and said good-bye.

“Don't worry. We'll be here bright and early. You'll be sleeping in your own room before the week is over.”

Faith almost kissed him.

She left the kids with Tom and went back to the Pines to start dinner. I'll never regret the time spent here, she thought, as she turned into the gravel drive next to the house. But it was time to create their own traditions, hang their own photos and the kids' projects on the walls, store up their own memories.

The recent rain had brought forth a modicum of produce, and while she didn't have tomatoes, she had enough other summer vegetables to make a pasta dish that her family loved (see recipe on Crab Cakes). She started the grill to smoke some chicken, then set to work dicing peppers, summer squash, a red onion, carrots, and, of course, zucchini. She'd brought fresh rosemary from her very own garden, the one in front of the deck. After she'd cooked some tortellini and combined it with some chèvre, she steamed the vegetables. All she had to do was toss them with a rosemary vinaigrette, add the chicken, which she
would cut into bite-size pieces, and mix it all with the pasta.

Ursula came in from the porch, where she had been hard at work on a new sweater for the fair. This time, it was one for a little boy, with a bright red lobster on a navy background.

“Something smells divine! You've spoiled me, Faith,” she said.

“I plan to keep on doing so, with your permission. Will you be our first dinner guest?”

“I would be honored.” Ursula gave Faith a hug. She'd taken to doing that since Saturday morning. “Now, I think I'll lie down for a little while. The Historical Society is meeting tonight, and Ken Layton is picking me up after dinner.”

“Shall I call and invite him to come eat with us? There's plenty of food,” Faith offered.

“I'm sure he'd appreciate that, and Ben would enjoy his lighthouse stories. Ken's grandfather was a lighthouse keeper and Ken used to spend summers with him.”

Ken wasn't home, but Faith left a message on his machine, then took her book down to the shore to read until Tom and the kids came back.

It was a perfect Maine day—puffy white clouds, Kodacolor blue sky, sparkling sea. Not too warm, not too cool. She could see a small dinghy rounding the next point, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. In the other direction, sailboats of all sizes were gracefully making their way down the Reach to anchor for the night at Buck's Harbor or maybe Castine.

There were a few cars by the dock, and she was surprised to see Persis's big Cadillac. Setting the book down, Faith sprang up, walking rapidly toward the lighthouse. The realtor must be showing the property, showing it before she even owned it! Should I wake Ursula, Faith wondered, and tell her what's happening? Ursula was still hoping the price would be within her means. No, she didn't want to disturb her. Faith could ask Persis herself, client or no client. She found herself getting more and more indignant as she approached the lighthouse. They'd carve windows in the sides and hang cute little nautical curtains in them. They'd put a deck in front for happy hour and serve awful drinks named after lighthouses—the Nubble, the Pemaquid.

The door was open and Faith stepped inside, expecting to hear voices, but there wasn't a sound. Could they be up at the top? The view was the selling point, after all. She was about to climb the stairs, brightly illuminated—Persis must have had the power turned back on—when she saw exactly where the woman was.

She wasn't at the top. She had never left this room. And never would.

Sprawled on her back, her arms stretched out straight on either side, Persis was dead. The coral jacket of her pantsuit was soaked with blood. It had oozed onto the floor, a small sea of red beneath the body. Faith walked slowly over to make sure it was true. She was supposed to do this. Supposed to do this, even though there
wasn't the slightest doubt. Persis was dead. Murdered.

Faith started to retch. There was no way anyone could have survived such a savage attack. The woman had been stabbed many, many times. Backing away, starting to run, Faith saw there was a photograph in one of Persis's outstretched hands. Without touching it, Faith tried to make out who was in the picture. There were two people, one a much younger and, yes, very beautiful, recognizable Persis. Next to her stood a handsome young man. It was impossible to figure out where they were. Rocks, sea, sky. Sanpere—or any number of places on the Maine coast. Persis's fingers had relaxed in death and cradled the photo. Trying hard not to see the carnage on the jacket, Faith looked at Persis's face. Her eyes were wide open, staring at sights unseen. Her mouth was twisted in a silent, agonized cry. Had she known her attacker? Her murderer? Who could it have been? Who could have hated her this much?

“I didn't do it,” a soft voice said. “She was like this when I got here. I didn't kill her.”

Linda Forsythe came out from behind the old mattress, which had been propped against the wall. Her skirt was streaked with blood and she was holding a knife in her right hand.

Faith screamed and raced for the door. It seemed the prudent thing to do. Linda dropped the knife and followed, moving much more swiftly than Faith would have judged possible. She increased her own speed.

“Faith! Faith! Stop!
Please!
I didn't kill her! You've got to believe me! She was dead when I came in.” Linda was gasping between words, but they were clear enough.

“Just now when I heard someone coming through the door, I hid. I thought it was the murderer!”

That made a certain amount of sense, but Faith was not inclined toward reason. They were both outside now, still sprinting. She looked wildly around.

“Go into the boathouse,” Faith ordered, pointing toward the small building near the dock
where the Lymans and Rowes kept their gear. “Go on. Stay ahead of me and don't try anything.”

She realized now that one of the cars parked near Persis's must be Linda's.

Linda headed for the shed and went straight inside. Faith quickly slammed the large door shut and fastened the lock. She suspected it had never been used. It was slightly rusty, but it worked.

“I'm going to the house to call the police,” Faith shouted through the thick boards.

Linda didn't reply, but Faith thought she heard the sound of sobs. Without windows, there was no way to check. Sobs of fear? Sobs of remorse? She ran to the Pines with only one thought in her mind. She had to get to Tom before he arrived with the kids.

Having blurted out the unbelievable news and without pausing for his reaction, Faith yelled into the phone, “Just keep away. Tell the kids I'm going to the Historical Society meeting with Ursula and you're going to have a picnic supper and camp at the new house. I'll call as soon as I can. Don't let them out of your sight.”

“Faith, Faith…”

She hung up and dialed 911, blessing the new convenience that had resulted in names for every road on Sanpere, many that had never had names other than “the road to Dana's” or “the old cemetery path.” A lot of people objected to the new signposts and appellations—they knew where they lived and where they were going—but as 911
literally saved lives, the opposition faded away. It wasn't saving a life now, though. A life had been taken.

The dispatcher was keeping Faith on the line. She knew she must have sounded hysterical. She
was
hysterical. Persis Sanford was lying dead in the lighthouse, only a short walk away, and the obvious suspect was locked in Ursula's boathouse.

Ursula! Over the dispatcher's objections, Faith hung up and went upstairs. She didn't want her friend to wake to the sound of sirens—and the sirens would be here soon.

She shook Ursula's shoulder gently. The old woman was sound asleep, the steady rise and fall of her chest just barely detectable.

“Ursula, it's Faith. You need to wake up.”

Ursula opened her eyes and reached for her glasses.

“What time is it? I hope I haven't overslept.”

“No, you haven't. There's plenty of time.” Except for Persis, she thought. “There's been another…” Faith searched for the word. This wasn't an accident. It wasn't a death like the other deaths—Harold's, Helen Marshall's, the others—or maybe it was.

“I found Persis in the lighthouse. She's been murdered. Linda Forsythe was there holding a knife.”

She was sitting on the side of the bed and Ursula reached for her, holding her tightly.

“I've been afraid something like this would
happen. Things have been so strange all summer, so volatile. I suppose Persis goaded her into it. Terrible that way, despite all the good she did. Oh dear, the island will never be the same without her. Where is the girl now?”

Ursula's tone suggested that Faith might have put her in the living room with a cup of tea.

“I locked her in the boathouse until the police could get here.”

Ursula nodded. “Of course. And Tom, the children?”

“They're staying at the house.”

“Good.” She released Faith and pulled the covers back.

“I suppose we'd better go downstairs and wait.”

Faith helped her up. “Yes, it shouldn't be long.”

 

The phone was ringing as they made their way to the living room. By tacit agreement, they avoided the porch, with its view of the lighthouse. Faith answered it on the fifth ring. It was her husband.

“Faith, my God! I've been so worried! Are you all right? I'm going to take the kids to Lisa Prescott's or one of the other sitters. I'm sure I can find someone.”

“No,” Faith shouted, startling Ursula. The woman was looking at her with a puzzled expression. “I want one of us to be with them at all times until we know what the hell is going on. Linda says she didn't do it. Maybe she didn't. We
don't know! There's nothing you can do here. Nothing anybody can do.” Her voice caught. She knew she was overreacting, but every maternal gene was marching to the front. She didn't want Ben or Amy out of their parents' sight for even one second.

“It's okay.” Tom was speaking softly, calmly. “I understand, sweetheart. They won't leave my side, and we'll all be together as soon as you can get here.”

Faith hung up and sat next to Ursula. The sirens she'd heard faintly in the distance while she was talking to Tom were now blaring in the front yard.

 

It took a while to find the key to the lock on the boathouse. Faith had been correct. It never had been used. The Pines abounded in keys—in drawers, on hooks, and in mason jars. Eventually, it turned up in a Shaker box on the dresser in Arnie and Claire's room. It had been labeled when new and the tag remained readable.

“My father's hand,” Ursula noted. “He was very organized, and we all drove him crazy.”

By this time, it seemed as if every law-enforcement officer in Hancock County had arrived. There was considerable activity, and confusion.

Kenny Sanford showed up, too. Earl had called him, telling him delicately that there had been an “accident” at the lighthouse and his mother was dead. His old pickup squealed into the yard, leav
ing deep ruts in the grass. He leapt out, barely turning off the ignition.

“Where is she?
Where's my mumma?
” he cried.

Earl took him aside, but Kenny wasn't having any of it and broke away, running toward the lighthouse and disappearing inside before anyone could stop him. He was out again moments later and threw himself on the grass, pounding his fists on the ground, sobbing. Trained volunteers from the ambulance corps were by his side immediately.

“What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” he wailed over and over.

When they finally got the lock off the boathouse door and Linda emerged, her bloody skirt visible to everyone, it took three men to hold Kenny.

“You killed my mother! You whore! Why? Why? Because of a few fucking trees? Killer! Killer!” His screams grew louder and louder. Linda seemed to be on the point of fainting. She made no protest as her rights were read to her and an officer cuffed her. Faith had moved onto the porch. Ursula remained inside by the phone, which was ringing steadily. In the midst of everything, Ken Layton appeared.

“This looks like some dinner party,” he said, coming up the front stairs, but his lighthearted comment gave way to sober grief when he heard what had happened.

“We've never had anything like this happen here before. Poor Persis. She deserved so much
better. I always imagined her getting the
Boston Post
cane.” He explained for Faith's benefit. “In 1909, the newspaper gave them to the oldest resident in two hundred and thirty-one communities all over their circulation area. A lot of the canes have been lost, but we still have ours.” He was quiet for a moment, contemplating this fact or, more likely, the one immediately before him now.

“And Linda! I don't know her well, but I can't believe she had this much hate in her heart.”

He relapsed into silence and the two sat watching the scene in front of them. It was surreal. Still a beautiful day, winding down into late afternoon, but now draped with yellow crime-scene tapes. The shoreline was crowded with cars, trucks, and an ambulance. Kenny was sitting in its front seat waiting to go to the hospital. He'd already been sedated and was now quietly crying, his shoulders heaving.

“I don't know what that boy is going to do without his mother,” Ken said. “We're going to have to keep a close eye on him to make sure he doesn't do something foolish.” He stood up. “Well, being as I am the president of the Historical Society, I have to go to the meeting. I'll see what Ursula wants to do.”

Faith remembered the meal she'd cooked, several lifetimes ago, and urged him to go to the kitchen and eat something. He went into the house. She stayed where she was, staring straight in front of her, staring in continued disbelief.

Earl had come over several times, and eventu
ally he asked her if she felt she could answer some questions. He had his notebook out, pen clicked. She nodded. She wanted to talk to someone, wanted to do anything that would stop her from thinking by herself.

“Let's go inside, Faith. I assume Tom has the kids someplace?”

“Yes, they're all at our house.” She got up and went through the open front door.

Ursula was hanging up the phone.

“Word has definitely spread,” she said grimly.

Faith hadn't thought about the repercussions suggested by Ursula's tone. All she could think about was Persis's face, Persis's jacket, Linda's face, Linda's skirt. She realized with a jolt that the murder would polarize the island as nothing before had. Linda not only was associated with KSS but she was from away, an off-islander, even an out-of-stater. Persis's family had roots so deep in Sanpere, they went below the aquifer into the ocean floor. She had been an active, vital force—a partisan. Faith had a sudden image of more fires, fires on the lawns of people like Linda, the Osborns. The resentment was going to be enormous. She could hear it now: “If only that girl hadn't come here in the first place….”

Earl was talking to her.

“Sorry, I didn't hear what you were saying. I was thinking about how the island is going to explode now.”

Earl didn't bother to contradict her. “We'll try to keep on top of it. Try to get the cooler heads
talking, but you're right. This will be regarded by a lot of people as a ‘them' and ‘us' situation.”

Ursula brought a tray in. Tea, real tea this time around, hot and fragrant. She poured Faith a cup and added some heaping teaspoons of sugar, then started to leave.

“She doesn't have to leave, does she?” Faith asked. She wanted Ursula by her side—always.

“Of course not. Maybe she can shed some light on this, too,” Earl said. “Anyway, walk me through what happened, Faith. Try to remember exactly what you saw before you went into the lighthouse and then what you saw when you got inside.”

Faith obliged. As with Harold's death, there wasn't a whole lot to say. She'd spotted Persis's car, gone to the lighthouse all steamed up, intending to make a last-ditch effort to prevent its sale, and found the body. Then Linda had come out from behind the mattress.

“And the photograph. I looked at the photograph. It seemed so odd that she would be holding something like that. As if the murderer had handed it to her just before killing her. Why?”

“What's this about a photograph?” Ursula asked.

“It's no secret, what with the number of people around. Persis had an old picture of herself in her hand. She looked about seventeen or eighteen. I didn't recognize the man next to her, but someone else did. It was Harold,” said Earl.

“Harold Hapswell!” Faith exclaimed. “Why would the murderer have put a picture of the two
of them there?” As she tried to make sense of it, she recalled how handsome the young man in the snapshot had been and how both figures had faced the camera square-on, smiling, arms entwined, greeting life with full force.

“I can only think that somehow this whole business with the Sanpere Shores development has unhinged Linda's mind and she was leaving a sign that now both enemies of the environment were dead,” Earl theorized.

“Then you think Linda killed Harold, too?” Faith asked quickly.

“I didn't say that. I said both were dead.”

“But where would she get an old photograph like that?” Ursula asked. “Linda was probably not even born when it was taken.” Earl and Faith looked at each other. Where indeed?

 

If the residents—all categories—had been on edge throughout the summer, Persis's death sent them tumbling over into an abyss. They even took to locking their doors, searching out the keys at the back of junk drawers and in old jacket pockets. Rumors were rampant, and suddenly every encounter between Persis and Linda was resurrected. Resurrected and embroidered. The incident with the Moxie bottle, dismissed as an accident, now became the first attempt. Persis's car trouble became another as residents recalled how handy and mechanical Linda was. Preparing to move into their beautiful house, Faith could not remember feeling this depressed.

Tuesday evening, the family was assembling their IKEA dining table and chairs. The Swedish company made it look like a piece of pastry on the drawings, but the Fairchilds were having trouble figuring out what went where. Ben was enjoying the names.

“‘Jussi.' What do you think that means in Swedish? And why are the bookcases called ‘Billy'?”

Tom started to spin a tale about little Billy Jussi, who wanted to get even with the world for making his ears stick out, so he designed furniture and made up the directions, always giving too many little pieces of hardware. That way, people like Daddy would be sure they had not attached something correctly. The kids were laughing hysterically, but Faith tuned out, intent on lining up the holes to attach the leg of her Bror chair. Bror, no doubt, was Billy's brother. This was supposed to be a joyous time. The house was almost finished. And it was wonderful.