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 al the rest but for the
'experience.' Samantha had noted that he seemed to be too choked up to put it into words. Final y, he'd told her,
'You'l have to feel it for yourself.”
Mostly what Samantha was feeling was tired. She was responsible for teaching ten of the youngest children beginning sailing, which was going to involve everything from knot tying, to reading the water, and final y to putting a tiny hand to the til er. Then she had to race up to the kitchen and help serve lunch, cleaning up afterward. She'd thought it would be fun to work with Arlene, but so far, they were much too rushed to do more than exchange a quick greeting in passing. Arlene stayed on with the crew to prepare dinner and clean the cabins. She told Samantha that if last year was anything to go on, the counselors would be much worse pigs than the kids. The kids had to keep their own bunks tidy. There were no such rules for the staff.
Today was as busy as the earlier part of the week had been. Samantha raced up the hil to the dining hal , swinging open the screen door, then letting it close behind her with a bang when she saw the kitchen crew surrounding Jim, al talking at once.
“Now, now, let's not get hysterical,' he said. 'There are mice al over the place. You know that. We'l put out some more traps”
Mabel Hamilton, Freeman's sister-in-law and the cook at the camp for so many years that local people thought of Maine Sail as 'Mabel's Place,' spoke above the din.
Everyone quieted down.
“We've al had mice in our kitchens. I found one poor little fel ow suffocated in a sack of flour once, but what we have not had until now are three mice with their heads cut off laid out on the counter alongside a carving knife.”
Samantha had moved next to Arlene. 'Did you see them?' she whispered.
“Yeah, it is so gross.'
“I think we should cal Earl.' Dot Prescott's voice was firm. Everyone nodded. Dot was in charge of housekeeping and, like Mabel, had been at the camp forever.
Jim tried a jocular approach. 'The police! Over a few dead rodents!' He laughed. It didn't work. A sea of tightly shut lips faced him. Mabel and Dot stood directly in front of him, feet planted solidly on the worn pine floorboards, arms folded tightly across their ample bosoms.
“Al right, al right, I'l tel Earl. Now, can we clean the mess up and feed the hoard of hungry kids who wil be streaming through that door in less than thirty minutes?”
Everyone returned to the kitchen. Mabel scrubbed the counter, muttering angrily to herself. 'I don't like it. Not one little bit. Have half a mind to .. ' No one learned what Mabel was going to do with half of her mind, although al hoped it wouldn't be the lobe with the recipe file. She was far and away the best cook on the island. She suddenly stopped and addressed them in a louder and determinedly cheerful voice. 'Let's forget about this now. It doesn't do any good to think about such foolishness. Probably a prank somebody thought would be funny.”
Samantha wasn't sure. She also didn't think it should have been cleared away until Earl had had a chance to look at it, but no one was asking her, and she didn't feel she knew anyone except Arlene wel enough to offer an unsolicited opinion. Besides, she was a kid and they were mostly grown-ups.
She had been unable to keep herself from looking at the gruesome sight. The tiny creatures were neatly laid side by side in a row, with their gory heads tidily set above each carcass. Samantha had seen dead mice before, even a mouse who had met its demise in a trap, but this precise carnage was worse than al the rest put together.
She watched as Mabel scoured the carving knife.
Mitchel Pierce had been kil ed with a hunting knife.
Carving knives. Hunting knives. It suddenly seemed that there were an awful lot of knives in the news on Sanpere.
She felt a bit dizzy and shook her head.
“Sam, are you okay?' Arlene was loading bread into baskets. The diet at Maine Sail leaned toward a carbohydrate overload. Today's entree was macaroni and cheese. Dessert was bread pudding. There was a salad, though, lemon Jel -O with shredded carrots and mayonnaise dressing on an iceberg lettuce leaf.
Samantha nodded. 'I'm fine. It's just creepy, especial y after Sunday.”
Arlene nodded knowingly and put an arm around Sam's shoulder. Since she'd started going steady, she'd begun to adopt a kind of big-sister attitude that Sam wasn't sure she total y liked.
“It is creepy, but I know who did it, and he's a harmless creep, believe me.'
“You know who did it!'
“Wel , I'm almost positive. It's got to be Duncan, of course. He's like stuck in the third grade or something, and I bet he thought this would be a real y great joke on us and Jim. He hates it here. Maybe he thinks if he does enough weird stuff, they'l send him away. They should send him away al right—to the loony bin. It would serve him right.”
Samantha hadn't given much thought to Duncan Cowley, whom she had yet to meet. Given everything she'd heard, though, Arlene's theory made sense. Samantha was wil ing to bet this had occurred to her employer, too. It certainly would explain why he wanted to make light of the incident.
She was about to ask Arlene to tel her some more about Duncan when one of the doors to the kitchen opened and a woman walked in. It wasn't the way her mother walked, Sam immediately observed—those purposeful strides meant to get you someplace. This walk was more like a glide. A dancer's walk. A beautiful walk.
The woman had very short, very fair hair that hugged her head in a silken helmet. Her eyes, or her contact lenses, were turquoise blue.
“It's Valerie,' Arlene said in a low voice. 'She's so awesome. Dunc had to have been switched at birth. He just can't be her son.”
Valerie Atherton was speaking to Mabel Hamilton, then came over to the counter where the two girls were working.
“You must be Samantha Mil er. I'm Valerie Atherton.'
Her voice was as smooth as the sea on a dead-calm day when you sat in the boat anxiously watching the drooping sail for a hint of tautness. Nothing was taut about Valerie, except her trim body and unlined face, shadowed by a large straw hat with a big red poppy pinned to the brim.
Sam's mother had three hats: a floppy white sun hat with something that was paint or rust on it, a black hat for funerals, and a yel ow rubber rain hat that made her look like the old salt on the package of Gorton's fish sticks.
“Hi.' Samantha, star of the debate team, lead in the junior class play, searched for some other words, something that would make an impression on this witty and urbane woman, a woman Arlene worshiped. Sam had heard so much about Mrs. Atherton, she felt she already knew her—her clothes, her car, her cat, Rhett Butler.
Valerie hailed from the South and what was a hint in Louise Frazier's speech was a ful -blown answer in Valerie's.
“Hi,' Samantha said again, now ready with a remark.
'I'm Samantha Mil er.”
She met Arlene's eyes and turned scarlet with embarrassment. Someone else might have said, 'I know. I said that, stupid,' but Valerie appeared to find it new and delightful.
“I just adore your grandmother and your parents. It's lovely of you to be helping us out this summer. I hope you'l come by the house real soon. We can't show it off enough.
It was in such bad taste to build such a big place and we have no excuse, except we al seem to take up so much space and if the house was any smal er, Jim and I would probably end up getting a divorce, so real y we're helping to change those terrible statistics about failed marriages.”
Mabel Hamilton, who'd been beaming since Valerie came into the kitchen, burst out laughing. 'I have to remember this. Maybe if I tel Wilbur it's to save our marriage and set a good example for folks, he wil final y winterize the porch so I can have my sewing room.”
