something else. 'How's your uncle Enoch doing?' asked in the right tone of voice would be enough to elicit the information that he was drying out up to Bangor and how the hel did you know, anyway?
Al this was running through Pix's mind, along with the inevitable conclusion that she couldn't figure anything out, island mores or no, until she had found out who the corpse had been for a start. She abandoned her previous line of inquiry.
“So, this is definite? You're going to start work tomorrow?'
“If Earl wil let me,' Seth replied.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. There was a slight breeze and the leaves in the aspen grove behind them rustled softly. Seth took a pul on his bottle of beer, then asked, 'Did it seem like it was attached?”
Pix knew what he meant. 'I think so.'
“Could be part of him is here, part someplace else.'
“I hope not,' Pix said, her queasiness returning at the idea of dismembered body parts turning up at construction sites from Kittery to Calais.
They were quiet again, subdued by the grisly suggestion, but Seth couldn't stay stil for long.
He smacked his forehead dramatical y. 'I must be losing my mind. I've got a CB in the truck. I can cal Earl myself and find out what's keeping him.' He walked rapidly toward the pickup and soon Pix heard the crackle of static and Seth's muffled words. He was back within minutes.
“He's already on his way. But I bet Freeman beats him.”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when Freeman's truck pul ed in and screeched to a halt, sending gravel flying in al directions and starting the dogs barking again. Samantha flew out her door and was at her mother's side before Freeman had even opened his. When he stepped out, Pix could see he had his Sunday clothes on, which meant several less layers than usual. His fisherman's tan—forearms, face, and neck—was a deep mahogany color, contrasting with his thick mat of light gray-white hair.
Samantha spoke, her voice ful of concern: 'Mom, the police wil be here right away. Are you okay?”
Considering the only danger had been from her own overactive mind, Pix was able to answer, 'I'm fine. How about you?”
Freeman answered for her. 'She was a little wobbly when she first got to me, but she's calmed down some. Nan came home and that helped.' He did not seem surprised to see Seth and nodded to him. 'Hel o, Seth. Where's this body of yours now? Lucky I decided to fix Nan's washer today instead of going fishing with Charlie Porter.'
“It's over here, in the foundation. And it's not mine,'
Seth added snappishly.
The two men went over to the edge of the excavation.
Pix decided she'd seen enough of the hand to last her a lifetime and returned to her perch on the rock, making room for Samantha and holding her near. Her daughter stil looked very pale and seemed to he shivering in her jeans and T-shirt despite the warmth of the sun.
“Gorry,' they heard Freeman exclaim. 'Think someone cut him up in pieces?”
Seth's speculation and Freeman's further reaction were cut short by Sgt. Earl Dickinson's arrival. Uniformed, tal , and ramrod-straight, he looked very official. And with his closely cropped light brown hair and deep blue eyes, he looked very handsome. He addressed Pix and Samantha first. 'Show me where you found it and how you got down and up”
Earl Dickinson was a man who always went straight to the point. When it became apparent that the earth had been disturbed by both of them, as wel as Artie, the sergeant jumped in the hole himself, inspected the evidence, and climbed back out. 'No one else been in there?”
Pix answered for them: 'No.'
“Al right, then, stay out of it. I've got to cal in to report, then we can talk. The state police are sending a unit.”
He was back in a few minutes with his notebook out and pen clicked. They sat on and around Pix's boulder, at his feet like so many schoolchildren. First he wanted to know exactly when the Mil ers had arrived and how the body had been partial y unearthed, then he asked al the questions Pix had. Did Seth have anyone new working for him? When had Seth been at the site last?
After he was finished, he closed his notebook with a sharp snap and buttoned it into his pocket, along with the pen. 'Not a whole lot you folks can do here, so I suggest you go home and keep your mouths shut as much as is humanly possible when everyone on this is land wil be asking you what's going on. Until we dig him out, we don't have anything to go on, except that somebody appears to have used a perfectly good quilt as a shroud.”
The sergeant's vocabulary was taking on a new richness, Pix noted. Maybe it was Jil 's influence. But he had hit upon the thing bothering her, too. Yankee thrift being what it was, why not wrap the body in an old tarp or burlap?
She wanted to tel him about the mark she'd found on the quilt, yet heeding his caution, she decided to wait until they were alone. Not that she didn't trust Freeman and Seth, especial y Freeman.
“Then Samantha and I wil be going. I'd like to get her home.' And into her nice secure little bed with a cup of chamomile tea, she thought.
“I'l take you,' Freeman offered. Seth looked a bit lost and said he'd stick around to keep Earl company until the staties showed up.
“No, you go along, too. We know how to get a hold of you if we need you,' Earl said. Effectively dismissed, Seth mumbled what could have been a good-bye and roared off in the pickup.
“Needs a new muffler,' Freeman commented.
Earl nodded and Pix half-expected him to take out his notebook and make an entry, but most of the pickups on the island needed new mufflers. It wasn't considered a citable offense, unless you were caught drag racing on the old cemetery road in Granvil e, a road so blackened by burned rubber that local y it was cal ed 'the speedway.”
So they went their separate paths to spend the afternoon trying not to think about what was uppermost in their thoughts: Who was the body in the Fairchilds'
basement—and who had put it there?
* * *
The dead man turned out to be Mitchel Pierce. While not exactly an island resident, he was not unknown on Sanpere, having spent time living there off and on while he was working at his purported craft: the restoration of old houses. But Mitchel also lived al along the coast from Camden past Bar Harbor, depending on where he was working. And to complicate matters stil further, he was known to disappear for months at a time, purportedly (again) to the Pacific Northwest. Purport, in various forms, was a word that turned up often in conversations about Mitch. In addition to his restoration work, he dabbled in antiques, buying and sel ing. In fact, he bought and sold almost anything from Mercedes coupes to odd lots of canned goods. He was a man who lived by his wits and it was a wel -known fact that these wits often took him close to the law. Provenance was something that Mitch defined broadly, as it suited his own needs. An exquisite piece of folk art could have been made in 1890 or 1990. What mattered, Mitch was quick to point out to his detractors, was that it was exquisite.
In another era, Mitch might have sold snake oil, and the pitch he made to new purchasers of old houses was not unlike the slippery patter of his antecedents. His charm was hard to resist and levelheaded Boston businessmen found themselves uncharacteristical y turning their houses and charge accounts at Barton's Lumber over to Mitch so he might bring the dwel ing back to its pristine glory. Mitch got free rent and free rein. Sometimes the customers were satisfied. Mitch did know what he was doing. And sometimes they returned in the spring to find neither hide nor hair of him, their pipes burst, and an astronomical bil waiting at Barton's. Stil , he kept getting jobs.
It wasn't that he was particularly good-looking. Short, with a wide widow's peak, the adjacent bald patches threatening to spread back across the dome of his head, he'd developed a paunch at thirty; now at forty, it could be described less kindly. He had an impish grin, an infectious laugh, took no one, including himself, seriously, and was wonderful company.
He'd done some work on The Pines a few years ago and Ursula stood over him the whole time. He'd expected nothing less and they parted friends, but Pix hadn't fal en under his sway. She didn't trust him—not on her tintype, and especial y not on his.
It was Mother who cal ed to reveal who the dead man was, of course.
