Read The Body in the Basement Online

Authors: Katherine Hall Page

The Body in the Basement (7 page)

Which of his enterprises had led to the grave in the basement? Who had wanted him dead? Someone left with a half-finished or botched job? But they'd be more likely to sue or at least try to get him to complete the work, wouldn't they? She also couldn't see Louella working herself up to a murderous frenzy over unpaid bills for baked goods. But then there were people on the island who might get pretty steamed on her behalf, particularly after a night filled with too many beers.
Someone had had a reason. When they could figure that out, they'd have the murderer. This was the way she understood it usually worked in books. Look for a motive. Who inherits? Who had been scorned? Some event in his past? Something to do with his family? Maybe the whole thing was totally divorced from his shady occupations.
The newspapers played up random craziness, serial killers selecting victims at whim. But altogether too much thought had gone into the planning of Mitchell Pierce's death—the location, the timing, maybe even the quilt, Drunkard's Path. Had he been killed because he drank too much? Maybe it was insanity, some crazed temperance fanatic?
She pulled the car to the side of her house. The simple Cape wasn't an old one, but the seasons had worn the cedar shingles so that it looked as if it had been in place for centuries. Pix's garden added to the image. It was filled with old-fashioned
flowers: delphinium, cosmos, phlox, oxeye daisies, and coreopsis. A combination of fragrances from the old varieties of peonies and the rosa rugosa bushes welcomed her home.
Inside, the cottage had been furnished with castoffs from The Pines, yard-sale finds, and a gem or two from local auctions. These embellished the myth that it was an old house, as did the Boston rocker needing some new paint and the gently faded chintz slipcovers on the down-cushioned sofa. The braided rugs scattered across the pine floorboards had been made by Pix's grandmother in shades of muted rose, blue, and green. Field guides, knitting projects, sailing charts, and Samantha's tennis shoes were strewn around the living room.
Other than the shoes, there was no sign of Samantha. She was still at the movies. Pix decided it was now or never. She had to call Faith. Having refused Ursula's sherry, she felt justified in pouring herself a scotch, dropped an ice cube in it, and dialed Sam.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Hi, honey, I was going to call you two tonight. I was just out in the backyard in the hammock. You wouldn't believe how hot it is here!”
“That's nice,” Pix said, then realized the inappropriateness of her remark. “I mean, that must be terrible.”
“All right, what's wrong?”
“Samantha and I walked out to the end of the Point today to check on how the house was coming along … .”
“Is Seth doing a good job?”
“He hasn't done much of any job so far, but that's—”
Sam was as indignant as Pix had been earlier and she decided to let him have his say before finally interrupting. “Darling, we found a dead body on the site. In the excavation, actually.”
“What!”
Pix told him the whole story. It was turning out to be a much-needed dress rehearsal for her star turn with the Fairchilds.
Sam agreed to give her fifteen minutes before he went over.
“I know they're both home. I just saw Tom pull in and Faith has been in the yard with the kids all afternoon. They went inside about an hour ago.
Baths, supper, stories, Faith would be pretty busy.
But not too busy to answer the phone.
“Pix! This is great. I didn't think we'd get a report so soon.”
Pix took a deep breath and a large mouthful of scotch.
“Is Tom around?”
“Yes, he's reading to the kids in the living room. Why do you ask? Don't tell me. They've screwed something up. Put something in upside down or left us with no doors!” Faith was attempting to speak lightly.
“Samantha and I went over this morning to see how things were progressing and one of the dogs dug up a dead body in your basement—or rather, the hand. The police uncovered the rest.”
“I can't believe it!” Faith turned away from the phone, “Tom, get on the extension. Quick!”
“We had trouble believing it ourselves, but …”
“This is going to put us terribly behind schedule,” Faith wailed.
From the extension, Tom asked, “What is?”
“Pix found a body buried in our future basement, and I know how the police work. It will be weeks before they'll let us continue. We may have to get all sorts of new permits and getting the ones we have was like something out of Dickens.”
Pix graciously decided Faith must be in shock. She also decided she needed to get back into the conversation.
“The man who was killed was Mitchell Pierce. I don't think your paths ever crossed. He never had a permanent place on the island.” Until now, she added silently. “He restored old houses, sold antiques, and tended to move around a lot.”
“Isn't he the one who left Louella Prescott holding the bag?” Faith had become friendly with the baker.
“Yes, that was Mitch.”
“I can't see Louella committing murder over a few crullers, though.”
This time, Tom interrupted.
“How are you and Samantha? It must have been terrifying for you.”
Pix felt a warm glow, a combination of Tom and Johnnie Walker.
“It was at first, but we're all right now. Fortunately, the dog only unearthed a hand.”
“Oh, Pix”—now it was Faith's turn—“I've been such a jerk, thinking of my own petty concerns when you and Samantha have been through a horrendous day. What can we do? Should I come up?”
“No,” Pix and Tom said in unison, Pix adding, “There really isn't anything you could do, and I know how busy you are getting ready for all those Fourth of July parties.”
The Fairchilds' doorbell rang audibly in the background.
“That's probably Sam,” Pix told them.
“Why don't you get it, sweetheart,” Faith said.
Tom said good-bye and hung up the phone.
“Now, Pix,” Faith said sternly, “I know you've seen me get involved in a number of murder cases, but it's not something I recommend, and I think you should stay out of all this as much as possible.”
Pix found herself feeling somewhat annoyed. Who had located Penny Bartlett missing in Boston last year? It hadn't been Faith, but none other than her faithful friend and neighbor. Surely this same friend and neighbor should be able to ferret out a few salient details about Mitchell Pierce's death here on Sanpere, where she knew not only the names and characteristics of all the flora and fauna but the two-legged inhabitants and their habits and habitats, as well.
“Please, Pix, listen to me. It could be dangerous. I'm sure it's a total coincidence that someone picked our particular cellar hole, but you can't be too careful.”
It was all Pix could do to refrain from comment, something referring to Faith's possible reactions upon hearing these same words. But Faith had become her dearest friend, and if she was a bit insensitive, a bit self-absorbed, a bit like a steam roller, other sterling qualities more than made up for it.
So she said, “Yes, Faith” as meekly as she could muster and hung up with promises to stay in touch with everyone on the hour every hour if necessary. Sam had picked up the extension and both he and Tom were exhorting her along the same lines Faith had.
She hung up, drained her glass, and then remembered: She had totally forgotten to tell Faith that Seth hadn't done any work since Memorial Day.
It would just have to wait.
No one claimed the body.
After the medical examiner finished the autopsy and established that the cause of death was most certainly due to multiple stab wounds, the state police let it be known that whoever wanted to was free to take Mitchell and hold whatever last rites deemed fitting and proper. The remains were transported to the back room of Durgen's Funeral Home in Granville, pending the wishes of the near and dear.
Those wishes were still pending at the end of the week, by which time Donald Durgen had sensibly opted for cremation. Aside from the obvious reason, Donald told his brother and partner, Marvin, “We don't know how long we're going to have Mitch's company. Could be quite a while, and you know we need the space.” He conscientiously labeled the cardboard box and placed it next to their tax receipts from 1980 to 1985. If someone wanted to come along and pay for an urn, why
then they'd be only too happy, but for the moment, Mitch would stay filed.
That Mitchell Pierce had been stabbed to death with a hunting knife did not make the investigation any easier. On Sanpere, hunting was not merely a sport but a passion, and in many cases, a necessity. Finding a household without a hunting knife would be as surprising as the use to which this particular one had been put. Far in advance of opening day, knives and guns were honed and oiled, stories told and stretched. The winners of the state moose lottery, those fortunate individuals who got the chance to track a really big creature, were targets of envy for weeks.
But the fact remained: No one seemed to be in a hurry to claim any kinship with Mitch. He seemed destined to remain at Durgen's, not even perched by the one window in the room where his spirit would have had an unobstructed bird's-eye view across the harbor to the old granite quarries on Crandall Island and straight out to Isle au Haut, rising from the sea in the distance—with its Mount Champlain resembling some sort of Down East version of Bali Hai. Durgen's was one of the best vantage points in Granville.
Pix was expressing her surprise at Mitchell's lack of earthly ties to Louise Frazier who had called to remind the Millers about the Frazier's annual Independence Day clambake on Sunday.
“The police have tried to track down a relative or even a close friend, but so far no luck. There's got to be somebody. It's really very sad. I told Sam we ought to bury him and hold a small service. There's plenty of room in the plot, and I don't imagine mother would mind. I can't stand thinking of him on some shelf at Durgen's for eternity, but Sam is sure someone will turn up. He told me to wait.”
He'd also told her that there was no way Ursula was going to let a nonfamily member eavesdrop on their conversations in the next life, particularly when they had been careful to avoid revealing more than where to replace a two-by-four in
this. Pix was sure her mother would be more accepting, but Sam convinced her to let things lie for the moment.
“It is odd,” Louise agreed, “but Mitchell was a loner. He seemed to know everybody—and he certainly knew a lot about everybody; he was a wonderful gossip—but I can't ever remember his having a good friend. Nobody lived with him whenever he was on the island, although he lived with plenty of people.”
It sounded illogical, but Pix knew what Louise meant.
“He was certainly adept at mooching a place to stay when he needed one, but when he was working on a house and living on the premises, you're right: He was always alone. He lived with other people only when he couldn't live in the house. The time he was restoring that barn in Little Harbor, he lived with one of the Prescotts.”
“And didn't he board with John Eggleston once?”
“Very briefly. I don't think he was there a week before they quarreled and John threw him out. I'd forgotten that.” Pix made a mental note to talk to John. A former Episcopal priest, now a wood sculptor, he might have evoked some revelations of a confessional nature from Mitch before things went awry. It would be interesting to discover what had happened to cause the heave ho, although it would no doubt turn out to have been something like Mitch's using John's towel or drinking milk from the carton. In Pix's experience, this was usually why roommates parted ways—nothing dramatic, just irritating little everyday things that piled up to actionable proportions.
Pix continued: “Jill told me that Earl told her the state police have been trying to find out about Mitch's past from his tax returns and Social Security. It seems everybody has a paper trail. He was born in Rhode Island, but his parents are dead and there were no siblings. His permanent address was a post office box in Camden. They got all excited when they went over the court records—you know, he's been sued a number of times. They found a lawyer's name and got in
touch with him, but he says Mitch never told him anything personal, just hired him by the case. Never, apparently, made a will, either—at least not with this guy. Now they're going over his bank records, seeing whom he may have written checks to and if he had a safety-deposit box anywhere. The last place he was living was a rented room in a house in Sullivan, and there wasn't much in it except a few clothes and a whole lot of paperback mysteries.”
“It does seem amazing to us. We're so embedded in our families, our relationships, and yes, our legal affairs.” Louise laughed. “What I'm saying is, people like us don't often think of people like Mitch—someone with no roots.”
Louise came from a large South Carolinian family, bringing with her to Maine softened speech, a penchant for drinking iced tea all year long, and an endless supply of stories about various family members. She had a tendency to talk of the living and the dead in the same tense, so Pix was never sure whether Aunt Sister, who dressed all in white and spent fifteen minutes every day of her life with slightly dampened bags—which she fashioned herself from silk and rose petals—on her closed eyes, was still alive or had passed on. Surely, however, Cousin Fancy, who saved the sterling from the Yankees by burying it in the family plot, moving Grandaddy's stone to mark the spot—merely for the duration, you understand—was no longer rustling along the sidewalks of Charleston in her hoop skirts.
Pix accepted Louise's invitation, hoping that Sam would be able to be there with her. He liked to help Elliot prepare the pit. It was an old-fashioned clambake always held in Sylvester Cove, with half the island in attendance. She offered to bring her usual vat of fish chowder, her grandmother's cherished, but not particularly closely guarded, recipe—unlike some she could name, she told Louise, both women having tried unsuccessfully for years to get Adelaide Bainbridge's recipe for sherry-nutmeg cake. Pix had tried not so much because she wanted to make it, but because of the principle of the thing,
and besides, her mother would like it. Louise wanted it because it was a favorite of Elliot's.
Pix always thought of the Fraziers as ospreys, the large fish hawks that were once more returning to the islands, building their enormous nests on rocky ledges, high atop spruce trees, and occasionally even balanced on a channel marker. Ospreys were birds who mated for life. She'd told her theory to Sam, who agreed, commenting that Elliot was actually beginning to look a little beaky as he got older. Whatever the name or the comparison, the Fraziers were a devoted couple.
Louise accepted Pix's offer of the chowder gratefully. “Timing at clambakes is so unpredictable, and people always get hungry before we uncover the pit.”
After she hung up, Pix thought she'd better put in a quick call to Faith before Sunday to ask her advice about making a large quantity of chowder. Usually, she simply quadrupled or quintupled the recipe, but working at the catering company had heightened her sensibilities. Maybe there was some special proportion known only to dedicated cooks or foodies. She wished the Fairchilds could come up for the Fourth of July festivities on Sanpere, which actually started the weekend before. The day itself would begin with a parade in Sanpere Village, followed by children's games in the elementary school playground, before moving to Granville for first the Odd Fellows Lobster Picnic, then later the Fish and Fritter Fry run by the Fishermen's Wives Association on the wharf. The day ended back in Sanpere Village, with fireworks over the harbor at nightfall. But Faith was catering four different functions and couldn't get away.
Pix would miss the Fairchilds, but it might be best if they weren't around until the whole business with Mitchell Pierce was cleared up. She reminded herself to call Earl and see when Seth could start work again. She presumed they'd been over the site with magnifying glasses, tweezers, fingerprint powder, and whatever else it was they used to find clues. They'd taken both her and Samantha's sneakers away on Sunday, so examining
footprints was one activity, although it had been so dry that the slightest breeze would have long since blown away any traces in a cloud of dust.
All right, she told herself briskly. Call Earl, call Faith, get out chowder recipe, make shopping list, pick up Mother at the Bainbridge's, where she is lunching, stake tomato plants, set out beer-filled tuna cans to kill slugs, pick up Samantha at work … She got a pencil and made a list. Pix had lists everywhere—in her purse, in her pockets, on the wall, on the fridge, tucked into books. She'd told a friend once, “My life is one long list,” and the friend had replied, “I know—and the list is never done.” It had depressed Pix at the time and it depressed her now. She decided to take the dogs outside and do the tomatoes first.
The exercise and the fresh air lifted her spirits immediately and she stood up and stretched. It was a long one. Pix was not her given name, but an abbreviation of the childhood nickname “Pixie,” bestowed by her doting parents when she was a wee mite of two. At four, she had shot up to the size of a six-year-old, but the name persisted. And as she grew older, she was thankful to whatever fate had been responsible for that brief petite moment. As a name, Pix was vastly preferrable to what was on her birth certificate, Myrtle—for her father's favorite aunt and her horticulturist mother's favorite ground cover. In retrospect, Pix was grateful Mother hadn't opted for the Latin and chosen Vinca Minor instead of little Myrtle. When Aunt Myrtle died, she left her namesake a cameo, a diamond brooch, and some nice coupons to clip. Everything but the cameo had long since been converted into a hot-water heater, braces for the kids, and, one particularly tight winter, antibiotics for the dogs, the cost of which had led Pix seriously close to fraud as she considered listing them under their given names of Dustin, Arthur, and Henry Miller on the family's health insurance.
After all, what was in a name? Pix, like most people, seldom remembered she even had another one, unless she received a
notice for jury duty or her mother was particularly annoyed with her. Her mother! She dropped her tools, ran into the house, hastily washed, and dashed out to pick Ursula up. It wouldn't do to be late.
 
Samantha, on another part of the island, stopped for a moment to look about. It was bright and sunny—a little too warm for Maine. They still hadn't had any rain. She'd been working for several days and was beginning to get the lay of the land.
Maine Sail Camp consisted of a number of small rustic wooden cabins plus a large dining hall that doubled as a recreation center scattered over a sloping hill ending at the shore with a large dock and boathouse. When not actually on the water, campers could still see it and the sailboats that were the focus of each encampment. In addition to the sailing lessons, campers were instructed in nature lore, swimming, and the all important crafts of lariat making and pot-holder weaving. The oldest campers were thirteen; the youngest, seven. An invisible but impenetrable wall ran down the middle of the hill separating the boys' from the girls' cabins. There were campers whose parents and even grandparents had attended Main Sail. Reunions were nostalgic affairs and camp spirit was actively encouraged. A tear in the eye when singing “O Thou Maine Sail of My Life” was not viewed amiss. Jim Atherton, the director, was the embodiment of a Maine Sail camper. He lived, breathed, and now ran Maine Sail.
He had told Samantha her first day the camp wasn't just a camp but a state of mind. Kids returned year after year, not simply for the sailing and all the rest but for the “experience.” Samantha had noted that he seemed to be too choked up to put it into words. Finally, he'd told her, “You'll have to feel it for yourself.”

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