Small Plates (11 page)

The vicar assured Polly that the couple was still betrothed in his and God's eyes, so not to worry. The incident did have one happy issue out of the misfortune, however. Godfrey Ackroyd, upon hearing of it, called Fiona and Tess and told them in no uncertain words to “suck it up.” The incident in the church had been public and veered close to reflecting on him.

P
olly's final brush with injury, or worse, occurred at the hen party. She entered the spa looking drawn and confessed to Faith that she had not been sleeping well.

“I'm not superstitious, but it does seem that I keep having to walk around ladders and this morning I noticed the mirror in the bath has a large crack in it. I asked Mummy to get it replaced, and she told me I was being silly and it would have to wait until after the wedding. She couldn't have ‘people' in now doing things. Plus it's not simply raining but coming down in chunks, and someone is bound to leave an open umbrella indoors to dry. I just have to get past Saturday and then I can take a real breath.”

The couple hadn't told anyone where they were going for the honeymoon, but Polly mentioned she'd cleaned out the swimsuit department at Harvey Nichols, so Faith assumed the destination was tropical. She wasn't superstitious either, nor was Hope, but both were wishing time away. That it could skip ahead to the reception with Polly well and truly wed. Until then, ladders, mirrors, open brollies—whatever the British regarded as bad luck—were to be avoided.

“Start with a massage before the rest of the guests arrive. I promise you no male strippers dressed as Beefeaters and no crashers, male or female,” Hope said to Polly, recalling the prank Fergie and the late Princess Diana had tried to pull many years ago at Prince Andrew's bachelor party. Hope had also cautioned all the ladies not to breathe a word of the party's locale lest Fiona or Tess find out. They were
not
on the guest list.

Forty minutes later everyone had arrived. There was a cheery buzz as the guests, sipping Kir Royales, chatted while indulging in manis and pedis. The bride was still enjoying her massage. Meeting Polly's friends was like seeing an issue of
Tatler
come to life, and Faith was having a good time.

A staff member entered the room and quietly said something to Hope, who got up immediately and followed her out. When Hope returned some minutes later, she announced, “Polly is happily going to bliss out for a bit longer and said to tell everyone to drink up!”

A fresh tray of flutes and Bento boxes containing delectable-looking sushi and sashimi appeared. As the rest of the guests moved toward them, Hope drew Faith to her side.

“Fiona or some minion has struck again. One of the attendants went to check on Polly, found the door locked, and went for help. When they got inside, they found her almost unconscious. Someone had applied a facial mask—bright red—filling Polly's nostrils and virtually sealing her mouth. She was fine once they peeled it off. They're applying something that will get rid of the worst effects of the color, but from now on I'm not leaving her side until she and Ian say ‘I will.' ”

A half hour later Polly, rather pink, but otherwise appearing none the worse for wear, joined the group and cried out rather frantically, “Let's get this party started!”

L
ike sentries outside Buckingham Palace, Faith flanked Polly on one side, Hope the other. At the spa, during the rehearsal at the church—easy, as they were supposed to stand close—and afterward at the dinner at the Ackroyds'. They got up early Saturday morning and, like the handmaidens they were, helped Polly into her Lucia gown, managing the tiny buttons with the buttonhook she had thought to supply. The dress was perfect and she looked a dream. They donned their own Neville posh frocks in her room—chary about letting her out of their sight for even that long.

The church was full, sun streamed through the stained glass, and the flowers—all roses in soft shades—filled the air with their scent. Faith listened intently as the familiar service progressed, taking an occasional glance back over her shoulder to be sure nothing was amiss among the pews, especially the one occupied by Polly's family. Mrs. Ackroyd was resplendent in silver satin. Fiona and Tess, contrary to Faith's expectations, were not wearing black, but navy blue. Near enough. And hats. All the women were wearing those tea tray hats so dear to the British female.

“Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder,” the vicar proclaimed. And it was over. Polly was safely married, emphasis on
safe.

The radiant couple emerged from the church and stepped into a Victorian horse-drawn open carriage for the short ride to Lauderdale House, the site of the wedding breakfast. Truly the heavens were smiling. There wasn't a cloud in the bright blue sky.

Faith had learned enough about the difference in names for things—England and America being two countries divided by a common language—to know that “wedding breakfast” meant a dinner, not eggs and streaky bacon. The venue for the event was perfect too.

Lauderdale House in Waterlow Park on Highgate Hill had been built in 1582 for the Lord Mayor of London and had a long, colorful history—Nell Gwynne lived in it for a time. The gardens and house were soon overflowing with guests. The afternoon spiraled on through the starter of smoked salmon terrine, main course—Beef Wellington, Ian was a traditionalist—and finally the cake, four delectable tiers covered with edible flowers. Only the toasts were left, and shortly it would all come to an end. It couldn't be soon enough for Faith and Hope

T
hree women were eating large slices of cake and drinking champagne high above Central London. The bride and her two matrons of honour had left the head table and slipped off to a smaller one, momentarily empty, to the side. They were laughing.

“Oh, my darlings, how could I ever have gotten through all this without you?”

There was nothing either Faith or Hope could say to that and instead, in turn, gave Polly a hug. She'd be slipping off soon—after the toasts and then one dance with Daddy, one with Ian.

Ian was standing up now, moving toward the head table, where Godfrey Ackroyd already held a glass high, about to begin his toasts to the groom's family and the happy couple. Ian caught his bride's eye and raised his full glass to her. She stood and paused, caught in his loving gaze. They could have been the only two people in the room.

“To you, my one and only,” he called out and drank.

“To you,” Polly started to reply in kind when suddenly her words became incoherent screams as she watched her groom fall to the floor clutching wildly at his throat.

Faith dashed across the room, passing Fiona, who was sitting alone. Fiona's complacent smile stopped Faith.

“More fool, her.”

Curtain down.

I
knew Myra Peters was dead the moment I saw her. She was wedged into the rocks, the outgoing tide dragging seaweed and a few periwinkles across her poor body. A crab skittered across her forehead. I dipped my hand in the water and flicked it away. There was no point in trying mouth-to-mouth. No point in trying anything at all.

She hadn't been in the water all that long. Her husband had radioed for help the moment he'd realized Myra had gone over the side while hauling. She'd been his sternman. Had been ever since they got married, must be almost two years ago. Remember the wedding well. Myra's people put on a dandy reception at the Legion Hall, spared no expense for their only daughter. Only child. Jim Gordon, her dad, had a nice business on the island, third-generation lobstering company. At the end of the shindig, when the whole lot of us, feeling no pain, were actively saying good-bye to the bride and groom, Jim handed Myra and Brian a framed photograph and some keys. A brand-new boat. Brian had been a sternman himself. Now he was his own boss. He'd grabbed his father-in-law in a big bear hug and christened the boat
My Myra
right then and there. Now being on the
My Myra
had killed her.

The beach was almost deserted. Summer people have their own private beaches, and most tourists never find this one. Island mothers like to bring their kids later in the day after chores are done. Course it gets crowded on weekends. It is just about the only place we can use, since people from away started buying up every foot of shorefront. Bert Elkins owns it and he says he'll eat worms before he'll sell. Hope he doesn't have to.

Cynthia Stoddard was sitting under a big umbrella at the far end and I went over to her, careful not to let Hector get too close to the pictures she was painting. Hector's a good mutt and provides me with an occupation now that the doctor says I can't fish anymore. I can walk Hector, though, and that's what we do every day about this time, so Mother can get my dinner ready and do everything else that wants doing without me underfoot. Or that's what she says, anyway.

I came straight to the point.

“Myra Peters went over the side of Brian's boat early this morning and drowned. Heard it on the CB. Body's come to shore at the other end of the beach. I'm going to go back and keep an eye on her. Think you can go to my truck and call Arnold?”

Her face went as white as the paper in her lap.

“But that's terrible! How could it happen? Couldn't Brian do something?”

“Probably didn't see it happen. Engine's pretty noisy and the radio would've been on.”

“Wasn't she wearing a life jacket? Isn't it the law that you have to wear a life jacket?” Seemed like Cynthia was wanting to turn time back and buckle Myra into her vest.

I nodded. It is the law, but a lot of fishermen don't bother. Even the new jackets get in the way. We don't have a swimming pool on the island. At least none of us who really live here. I never learned to swim. Doubted Myra had—or Brian. Most of us can't. No time, and the water is too damned cold. Cynthia was a swimmer, though. Told me once she'd learned to swim here from her grandmother, who went in every day like clockwork. I could see damp marks from her wet bathing suit on the tee shirt Cynthia had on. Her long hair was wet too. When it was dry, it looked like the silk on the corn we plant every spring, hoping to have a few ears by Labor Day. Myra's hair was wet now too. Dry it was short and dark—like a cap. Working hair.

Cynthia was a summer girl. Her great-grandparents built one of those big old places out on The Point and the family's been coming to the island ever since. Swimming every day is the type of thing these people do. Also sail, cut their own brush, and generally make sure they don't waste any time while they're on vacation. They don't take the steamer from Boston anymore; have to drive five hours. In some ways the old days were better. Things took longer, but you had more time. Cynthia didn't go back to Boston at the end of last summer but decided to live here year-round. There's a few who try that. Most don't last more than a year or two. Winters can get kind of long around February. Cynthia's an artist. Sells her pictures up and down the coast—a lot here on the island at Jean Marshall's shop, The Clamshell. I could see Cynthia had had a busy morning. There was a bunch of watercolor paintings lined up against a log. I have to admire anyone with a talent like this. The only thing I could ever draw was a waterline on a boat.

“Think you could do that? Call Arnold?”

She jumped up and almost spilled the water her brushes were in.

“Of course!” The color was back in her face, but it was all scrunched up now. “Horrible. It's horrible. Her poor family!”

Cynthia took off down the beach. She had long legs—a pretty girl if you like the skinny type. Mother isn't. Better than an electric blanket on a cold night, and that's just fine with me.

I trudged on back to Myra. She hadn't moved. Didn't think she would. Not with the tide going out. I was tempted to pull her out onto dry land, but knew enough not to. We don't have a police force on the island. Too small. What we have is Arnold, Deputy Sheriff Bates, from the county sheriff's office on the mainland, who patrols here pretty regular. Plus the selectmen appoint a few of us to act as constables, which mainly means that we direct traffic on the Fourth of July, keep an eye on things during hunting season, and try to stop the kids from getting too rowdy and foolish.

The tide was going fast and the pool where Myra had come to rest was emptying out. I could smell the bait on her gloves. She was a small woman, but strong. She'd worked alongside her dad all her life, then her husband. It was a break for Brian and the Fosters that she'd washed up here so soon. I've seen some that have been in the water longer, and it's nothing kin should have to deal with—plus there's all those who never get found at all. Just a stone over an empty grave.

She was in her fishing gear of course. Only things missing were her boots and socks. Her feet looked pearly white under the water, two tiny pieces of flesh sticking out from her bright orange oil pants. In her journey through the waves, a piece of rope and some kelp had tangled themselves around her ankles. Her eyes were open. Always thought they were the prettiest thing about her. Deep blue. Everything else was fine, where it was supposed to be and all, but nothing special. A plain woman, starting to get a little plump like her mother.

I sat down on the ledge next to Myra. She and Brian hadn't got around to having any kids yet. Still kids themselves and they were saving for a house. Meanwhile they'd been living in Brian's trailer up on the quarry road. But fishing had been good this year. I'd seen Brian at the store last week and he'd kidded me some about it. Said we old-timers was wrong to say there couldn't be two such good years in a row. I was tempted to tell him that when I'd started fishing all we had was a line and a lead plus a box compass so's we could find our traps in the fog. With all the fancy equipment now, if there was a lobster anywhere in Penobscot Bay, the fishermen knew it. Instead I teased him back about the paint job he'd given
My Myra
over the winter—bright yellow with turquoise trim. He'd gotten the paint on special, and anyway, Myra's favorite color was yellow, he'd told me. I could tell he'd been getting a lot of ribbing about his “lemon,” so I shut up. Fishermen are pretty sensitive about their boats. Same with their territory. Put traps even a hair over in someone else's and they'll be gone, lines cut, before you're back at your mooring.