Small Plates (25 page)

“Look, I know Miriam is here with the baby. You are going to be in major trouble for hiding them if you don't get them right now!” He glared at Mary and, raising his voice, shouted, “Miriam, come here this instant!” There was no answer.

He broke the silence. “My daughter, Miriam, is mentally unstable. I don't know what kind of story she's told you, but she's not fit to raise a child. She's a thief, a drug addict, and an alcoholic, just like her mother. A pathological liar too. I'm only thinking of the baby. My grandson.”

Mary had listened and watched impassively, her hand still on the phone.

“I don't know anything about your daughter,” she said calmly. “She is not here. And, as I told you before, there are no babies in this house. I'd say you were welcome to search the premises, but then I'd be the liar. You're not welcome at all. You came into my home under false pretenses and now I want you out.” She was dialing as she spoke the last words. When it answered, she said into the phone, “Earl, I have a man here bothering me. Could you come over right away? And, Earl, bring your gun.”

R
alph and Duane. How could they have connected her to the missing money? Bruce was in Canada and couldn't have known it was missing from the storage container. And when he did find out, he wouldn't connect her with it. He didn't think she knew about the one down in Brewer.

Miriam had hidden behind the Dumpster in the parking lot of the convenience store across from the apartment until she'd seen the two thugs leave. They had only been to the apartment once before. Mostly Bruce met them down in Bucksport or in Bangor. He didn't want them at the apartment. Too risky.

She watched them go to the end of the block in either direction and circle the house. Ralph screamed, “Bitch, we know you're out here, so listen up. We will find you!” Duane took out his cell phone but put it back in his pocket right away. Miriam assumed he was trying to call Bruce wherever he was, and she blessed Maine's erratic cell service. Her mind was racing. Bruce must have come back, gone to Brewer to stash the prescription drugs he'd brought across the border—that very long border impossible to patrol, just as Maine's very long coast was in better weather. By land or by sea, Maine had always been a smuggler's dream and a law enforcement nightmare. He must have found out that the money was missing sooner than she thought he would—she hadn't taken it all—and sent Duane and Ralph to grab it, and her.

The two got in their pickup and roared off. It was tricked out with flames airbrushed on the sides. Perennial adolescents: totally amoral, psychopathic ones. But she couldn't think about them—or Bruce—now. She had to get down to Sanpere and make sure her father hadn't taken the baby away.

It didn't take long to walk to Cindy's apartment and pick up her car keys. Cindy was living with her boyfriend and using Miriam's address for her parents. She stopped by to pick up the mail every week and score some dope. Miriam figured Cindy owed her. Her parents never called, because dutiful daughter that she was, Cindy had arranged a weekly time when she would call them, saving them the cell phone minutes, since “I'd probably be in the library anyway and you'd just get my roommate, Miriam.” Cindy had had Bruce take a picture of Miriam and her on the couch with a stack of books on the coffee table, so she could send it to her parents. They lived in Duluth, and it was highly unlikely that they'd be dropping by unannounced. Miriam had been impressed by Cindy's thoroughness, but college students in general were a pretty crafty bunch, she'd noticed—or maybe it was that parents just wanted to believe.

M
iriam was passing through Orrington when she saw her father's car pass. It wasn't hard to miss. There weren't too many silver Mercedes S500s (have to have a killer car to impress the buyers and sellers) around at this time of year. The summer people were going for the SUV version in the absurd belief that they were blending in rural-wise. To really blend in, they'd have to drive an at-least-ten-year-old pickup with vanity plates that combined your name with your wife's or one of your kids'.

Miriam thought fast. Her father had obviously been down to Sanpere if he was coming this way. He might or might not have Christopher. Suddenly she was furious. She pulled into the deli Freshies' parking lot, did a quick U-turn, and followed him. He wouldn't know Cindy's car, or any other car Miriam might be driving. Her hopes for one as a high school graduation gift—even a used one—had been dashed when neither her father nor stepmother turned up for the ceremony. Returning home, she'd found a note on the front door telling her to pack her things and be gone by the time they came back from their weekend. There had been a fifty-dollar bill inside. She'd supplemented the money with Brenda's jewelry, some of which had been Miriam's mother's. Because she didn't consider herself a thief, but thought of the whole thing as making up for a lot of years of gifts like tube socks, Miriam saved her mother's, pawned the rest, and put the tickets in an envelope, which she left in Brenda's jewelry box before leaving for good herself.

It was easy to keep the big silver car in sight. If her father didn't have Christopher that would mean the baby was still safe with Mary. If he did, she would take the baby back, and when he resisted, as she was sure he would, she'd either grab Christopher and run or—failing that—make a scene and get somebody to call the police. Christopher was her baby, not his.

She was surprised when he didn't turn south toward Portland. What was going on? Where was he going? He was speeding up too. Well, so would she. Except she'd have to stop for gas. Damn. She followed for a couple more miles and saw him turn. Okay. She was sure she knew where he was going now. But why?

T
he car loaded with baby things, Faith Fairchild passed both Daniel and Miriam Carpenter. She took note of the Mercedes. It was so unusual to see one out of tourist season, but the man driving it meant nothing to her. And Miriam's borrowed Toyota didn't even register. Faith was thinking of how pleased Mary would be. Now they knew the baby's mother's name and address. They'd be in touch with her by phone, meet her—and find out what was going on.

The afternoon light was fading fast. Faith speeded up. She hated driving at night in Maine. Even in the summer the dark was very dark. She wanted to get home before night fell and even your high beams couldn't pick out the twists and turns in front of you.

M
ary Bethany had been sure her words would get Dan Carpenter out of the house. Bullies were usually cowards. She was eager to tell Faith what had happened and especially looking forward to telling her all about the call she had put through to the small Granville library, knowing it was closed, and not Lieutenant Earl Dickinson. Earl
did
patrol the island, in fact he lived here, but Mary hadn't wanted him around any more than she had wanted Daniel Carpenter.

She went to the barn and decided to stay there until dark, when it would be easy to see headlights, although she wasn't expecting anyone. But she hadn't been expecting Miriam's father either. Better to err on the side of caution. She'd told Faith to wait until tomorrow to bring the baby things over. The poor woman hadn't had hardly any time with her family these last few days. This meant that any lights Mary saw would not be welcome ones.

Christopher was sleeping so soundly, a warm little bundle against the straw in the manger, that she didn't want to disturb him by moving him to the basket. The nannies were content for once and continued to greet her cheerfully. Christopher didn't move a muscle, so Mary turned her full attention to the herd, starting with Dora, her oldest goat—the queen. Then she spent time with each of the others in order of age. You had to do it this way or they got upset and confused. It was the same order for milking, grooming, everything. Each goat knew her place. No one tried to squeeze ahead. They all got along together and with her. Faith was going to bring her some baby books, which would be a help, but Mary thought raising goats and raising children were much the same. Of course she wouldn't have to make ear splints for Christopher. Sometimes Nubians were born with folded ears and they had to be splinted for a few days, otherwise they'll stay that way. She looked at the herd with pride, shining coats and straight ears.

Christopher weighed about as much as a newborn kid too from the heft of him. Could be he was even a little more. She'd made a kind of sling from her shawl and carried the baby close to her body when he wasn't in the basket. Mary had had to do that for one of her kids once after the kid had opened up her muzzle on a nail she'd worried loose. Goats are very curious, and childproofing a house would be child's play—Mary smiled to herself—compared to goat proofing the barn and pasture. And the nannies were social creatures, like people—except me, she thought ruefully, and the enormity of what she was contemplating struck her.

She continued to sit and reflect on the last forty-eight hours, stroking the youngest goat, Sheba, who had a particularly appealing face. Trusting, innocent. Yes, it was in the Bible, but Mary never could understand the Almighty's choice of a goat to bear the sins of the world, abandoning it with all that wickedness in the wilderness—the scapegoat. Why not a scapeox or a scapesheep? Those were around back then too.

Christopher gave another of those sweet little baby sneezes and Mary decided it was time to get moving, although the barn was warm as toast and she hated to leave it. Besides the coziness, it was the way the place smelled. Nannies didn't stink the way bucks did, just gave off a kind of living-things aroma.

The second milking done and goats fed, Mary went back into the house with the baby. She would have to make cheese tomorrow. The nannies were giving more milk than usual, and even with Christopher's consumption, she had too much.

Mary loved making cheese. Anne Bossi at Sunset Acres Farm over in South Brooksville had given her the recipe years ago, and Mary had taught herself, soon turning out a soft, spreadable chèvre. Every time she added the rennet and returned the next day to her curds and whey, she was as pleased at the way nature worked as she had been the first time. Faith had been the one to suggest adding herbs besides salt and eventually sun-dried tomatoes and mixed peppercorns for two more varieties.

In the kitchen she stoked the woodstove and settled back in the rocker to feed the baby. The house seemed very quiet. The creaking of the rocker on the old linoleum began to get on her nerves, as it never had before. She got up and went into the parlor to finish the feeding, turning on the small television she'd bought for her B and B guests. The early news was on, and she settled into the sofa to watch while the baby drank. His mother must have bottle-fed him, Mary realized. He wasn't missing her teat.

She hadn't watched the news in a while and had forgotten how tedious it could be. First they tantalized you with the weather, not actually telling you what was predicted lest you turn to another station or, heaven forbid, switch the set off. It was going to be—something. Then there was more about Afghanistan. Mary thought about a twenty-year-old Christopher going off to fight some war and prayed that by that time the world could come to some sort of truce. Not like each other—that was impossible. Just a truce.

“This just in. Police are investigating a homicide in Orono and we are live at the scene. Steve, are you there?”

Mary sat up straight, unmindful of the baby on her lap for the moment. A reporter was standing in front of a shabby-looking multifamily dwelling, the sidewalk cordoned off with those yellow crime scene plastic ribbons. Yellow ribbons for hope; yellow ribbons for despair. She'd never thought about it before.

“Yes, I'm here, Rosemary. Police are not releasing the name of the victim pending notification of next of kin, but according to our sources here, he was a Caucasian male in his twenties who lived in the building behind me in an apartment on the top floor with several other people. Again, the police have not released any information other than they are treating the death as an apparent homicide.”

“Do we know anything about how and why this might have happened?”

“Our preliminary sources have indicated that the cause of death was a stab wound in the chest, but police are neither confirming or denying that. We have also been told that drug paraphernalia and a large quantity of heroin were found in the apartment.”

“Thank you, Steve.” The picture shifted back to the studio, and the anchor, face carefully composed in a serious expression of regret—and condemnation—said, “A homicide in Orono. We're at the scene and will keep you informed. Now, how about those Bruins, Larry?”

Mary reached for the remote and muted the sound. It wasn't just that it was in Orono, it was what she had seen as the camera panned past the flashing blue lights and knots of curious—or prurient—onlookers to a small block of stores. Sammy's 24 Hour Store was right on the corner.

She had to call Faith.

H
ad she waited for the weather report, Mary would not have been surprised at the way the wind picked up an hour later, nor at the snow that began falling in horizontal sheets shortly after. She gathered flashlights, candles, and blankets, setting up camp in the kitchen. There was plenty of stove wood. The house's wiring hadn't been replaced—in her lifetime anyway—and she often lost power in just a stiff breeze, so the possibility was not alarming. Possibility became probability as the howls from the heavens increased their ferocity.

The phone rang and it was Faith. Mary had left a message with Tom for her to call, and Tom, who had heard the weather report, was very worried about his wife.

“How could it take her so long to go to Ellsworth and back?” he'd said when Mary had called.

“I don't know,” Mary had replied honestly.

“This could be a big storm, Mary. I'm going to come and get you and your nephew. We're bound to lose power and you could be snowed in for days.”