The Body in the Lighthouse (10 page)

“Hi, Faith—is that you?” called someone not at all British from the other end of the beach.

Returning to the present with some difficulty, Faith saw it was Linda Forsythe, and she waved. Stage manager Linda. KSS member Linda. What else Linda?

Linda made her way to where they were sitting. As she watched her approach, Faith tried to figure out whether Linda's bulk was due to girth or some odd fashion notion of the appeal of layers.

“It is wicked hot,” Linda said, her roundish face shiny with sweat. Maybe it wasn't layers—of fabric, that is. “I thought I'd go for a swim, and
this is the best spot. My rocks aren't bad, but the barnacles can cut your feet to ribbons getting in and out. I keep meaning to buy some of those water shoes, only I never seem to get off the island.”

Faith started to commiserate, then realized that for Linda not leaving Sanpere was a badge of honor and she'd announced this fact with pride.

“Oh well then, here you are.” She sounded like Lady Lupin. It was the type of thing she said. “I mean, don't let me interfere. Go have your swim.”

But Linda seemed disinclined to move. Inertia. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, Faith thought, proud of her recall, since physics had been one long nightmare of ohms, joules (the wrong kind), and newtons (again, the wrong kind).

“You've been such a help,” Linda said. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't turned up. I think everything's going well, don't you? Roland is a marvel.”

Faith agreed, “He is, and the whole island will be astonished. Your sets are perfect, too. Have you done much of this sort of thing before?”

“Not really, but I am a painter, and Maine—Sanpere—has been my subject for years. The sets aren't that different, only larger, and with broader brushstrokes.”

“I'd like to see your work sometime. Is it in any of the local galleries?”

“Yes. I'm a member of the Granville Artists Cooperative, and we have a gallery on Main Street. I
also have work at various places up and down the coast, but why don't you come to the house? I have some pieces there—ones I can't part with and some I did earlier this summer. It's not far. I live about a ten-minute walk from here.”

“From here? You mean you live on this point?”

Linda nodded. “I'm the only one at the moment. There were a couple of other people, but everyone else sold out to Harold. He's developing this obscenity called Sanpere Shores. You must have seen the sign.”

“I did. I'm sorry. It will be horrible for you—and the island.”

An obstinate expression crossed Linda's face.

“Maybe it will and maybe it won't. But do come. I'd love to show you my work, and the view is very special, too.”

“Can I take a rain check? I have to get the kids home. And besides, I'm sure my husband, Tom, would like to see your paintings, too.”

“Why don't you both come to dinner tomorrow night? Nothing fancy. I get halibut from a fisherman I know, and there are plenty of vegetables in my garden.”

Vegetables. Could she possibly mean tomatoes?

Faith's face must have revealed her thoughts, because Linda said, “I have such a deep well that the pipe acts as storage; plus, I collect rainwater, so I've been able to keep things going. I even have tomatoes.”

“You said the magic word. We'd love to come. I'll bring dessert.”

“Ben and Amy will enjoy meeting Rufus, my cat. He loves kids.”

“Ben and Amy will meet him another time. They'll be with a sitter.”

Faith firmly believed that children did not belong at dinner parties, no matter how casual and
intime.

“Fine. See you tomorrow at rehearsal and then later. Say six o'clock?”

“Six will be fine.”

Sanpere's dining hours were as quixotic as Aleford's.

Driving back down the narrow dirt road to Route 17, Faith came upon a parked car blocking the way. It was empty.

“Damn,” she said to herself. “We could be stuck for ages.” The car was a large black recent-model Mercedes, miraculously free of the dust that covered Faith's and everyone else's vehicles. It must be someone inspecting his future house lot, she thought bitterly as she got out of her car, telling the kids not to move a muscle. They were near one of the new side roads—actually, very long driveways. Why couldn't the person have pulled in there?

“Hello,” she shouted. “Hello, I need you to move your car.”

There was no response. She noticed the car had Maine plates, which was odd. It was out-of-staters who were buying properties like this.

“Hello,” she called again, then resigned herself to a search, kids in tow.

“We have to go see if we can find out who belongs to this car,” she told them, unstrapping Amy, who was beginning to drowse off.

“I'd like to belong to it,” Ben piped up. “It's so cool. I want to have a car like this when I grow up.”

Not sure whether to quash his materialism or encourage his ambition, Faith settled for saying, “That's nice, dear. Now let's see if we can find the owner and get it moved.”

Ben and Amy joined her, shouting more hellos as they walked down the new drive, heading in the direction of the water.

Their quarry was sunbathing on a flat rock, her position suggestive of an offering to the gods. Her already-bronzed body was glistening with oil. They could see a lot of it. Three small triangles inadequately covered the appropriate areas. Faith doubted she could qualify as a vestal virgin.

“Wow,” Ben gasped, then, catching his mother's eye, had the sense to be quiet.

The woman stood up.

“Yes?” She was what Freeman would call “a long drink of water.” She was also what he would call “a real looker.”

“Is that your car in the road, a black Mercedes?” Faith asked. She'd been about to apologize for disturbing the woman, but the arrogant tone of voice and thoughtlessness in blocking the road kept Faith from saying more.

“Is there a problem?” She reached down and took a swig of Evian from a bottle that was leaning against a rock in the shade.

“You're blocking the road and we can't get out.”

The woman shoved her feet into a pair of espadrilles and sauntered off. No “I'm sorry,” no nothing.

Faith was fuming.

“Is she mad at us, Mommy?” Amy asked. Ben chimed in: “She sure seems mad. She didn't even say hello.”

“Maybe she's had a hard day. Don't worry. Now, let's scoot.” Faith put her arm around her son. She was already carrying Amy, who now seemed on the verge of howling.

A hard day. Deciding bikini or monokini, coconut oil or Bain de Soleil, Evian or Perrier—tough choices. Then there was the question of where to park. Where to place her car in order to cause the greatest possible inconvenience to others.

Faith caught up with her.

“You may not know it, but someone lives farther out on this point. The road goes there.” Faith didn't want to mention the beach. They'd probably been trespassing.

The blonde—she had to be a blonde—unlocked the car and got behind the wheel. Just before she pulled the door shut in their faces, she said, “Oh yes, I know someone lives out there.”

 

Faith awoke, startled, and reached for the light. A hand was grabbing her shoulder. Completely alert before the bulb went on, she realized it was a small hand. A flash of lightning outside the
window explained everything. Ben. It was Ben, instantly transformed from seven-year-old world conqueror and ogler of babes to a very little boy. He was terrified of thunderstorms. Had been from infancy. Amy—and her father—slept through anything.

She pulled him into bed and he snuggled down under the covers.

“You know there's nothing to be afraid of, but it does sound loud.” She could feel his body relax. “I'm going to turn out the light now.”

“Okay,” he answered tremulously.

In the dark, the lightning crept around the corners of the shades, turning the rocker where Tom had flung his clothes into an eerie shape. But in the light, Faith could see that Ben had already closed his eyes. Roller-skating in heaven hadn't satisfied him when he was younger, and scientific explanations didn't work in this case. He'd have to outgrow it.

“Think how wonderful it will be for all the flowers and vegetables to get this rain,” Faith murmured. She was falling back to sleep herself. The claps were getting fainter; the storm was moving away, but the rain continued. There was nothing so cozy as sleeping in an old house with the sound of rain falling on the roof. She waited to make sure Ben was in a deep sleep before carrying him to his own bed. Otherwise, by morning, she and Tom would be squeezed to one side, with Ben sprawled out, taking up all the space.

Back in her room, Faith went to the window to look at the downpour. Slow and steady—a good drenching. She'd heard Sanpere had had only an inch and a half of rain during all of July. What they needed now were days and days of precipitation like this. She thought about how the lighthouse must have looked during past storms, when its beacon meant safety. Whoever had slept in this room would have become accustomed to the long sweep of light filtered through a curtain or around the edge of a shade. Constant, it would have become virtually unseen in time, like the train whistle, unheard now, in Aleford, which had kept her awake at first every night. On the rare occasions when it did waken her, it had become as comforting as a heartbeat. But there was no steady beam outside this window anymore, although the distant red light of the channel pole, its replacement, was clearly visible. Aesthetically, it was no substitute. She was about to let the shade fall, when she realized that there was a car parked by the lighthouse. She hadn't seen one after dinner, when they were sitting on the porch. The sunset had been spectacular, and it was not unusual for a car or two to be there. The spot was well known for the view. Tonight, though, the only cars visible had been the Fairchilds' own in Ursula's driveway. As Faith watched, this car's headlights went on and it drove off. Probably teens looking for a place to neck. Romeo and Juliet? Getting back under the quilt—there was a small hollow, still warm, where Ben had crawled
in—she glanced at the clock—3:00
A.M
. Late for anyone to be canoodling on the island, and about an hour before the fishermen and others were abroad. But if it hadn't been lovers in the car, who else could it have been?

“We have a major problem!” Jill Merriwether's panic traveled straight through the telephone lines, hitting Faith's ear with such a wallop that she switched sides.

It was impossible that the groom was getting cold feet after all these years of trying to get one in the door. Jill herself, once her mind was made up, seemed blissfully happy—and totally committed. Surely the state hadn't suddenly canceled Earl's time off? The wedding
was
Labor Day weekend, after all, and he'd told the Fairchilds he'd practically had to “get a grant from God,” but he would only miss a day and a half of work.

“Shellfish. She's allergic to shellfish, and Earl's mother just thought to tell me. Also told me it would be a shame to make her feel bad by serving something different just to her!” Jill wailed.

“Earl's mother is allergic to shellfish? I thought I saw her eating clam fritters at the Fish 'n' Fritter Fry last summer.”

“No, she's fine. It's his great-aunt Wilma from Presque Isle! What are we going to serve as a first course
now
?”

Jill had been adamant that Faith would attend the wedding as a guest and not as the caterer. Therefore, the reception was being catered by the inn. They would handle the entire thing, but Jill had not been shy about asking Faith for advice, and Faith had been happy to give it. Guests would begin with hot and cold hors d'oeuvres and champagne outside, weather permitting, then move in for the meal, starting with the first course—lobster bisque.

“Do I have to change the mini crab cakes, too, and the Thai scallops and veggie skewers?” Jill asked.

“I'm afraid so. You don't want to have your wedding ruined when Wilma is rushed to Blue Hill Hospital after nibbling one by mistake.” She didn't add what she was thinking: And have everyone remember your nuptials for writhing Wilma, rather than jubilant Jill.

“But don't worry,” she told her friend. “Call the inn and tell them right away. You have plenty of time to make this kind of change. They'll have some suggestions. If you like, I can come up with more; then we can sit down and decide. Probably the sooner the better. It's been so hot, I was thinking a cold soup might be better anyway.”

“Faith, you're an angel. Could you come this morning? No, wait, the play. Could you come for lunch? I'll get sandwiches from Lily's.”

Even without the enticement of Kyra Alex's sandwiches, Faith would have agreed, but the prospect of a Russell's Special—melted Havarti, salami, artichoke hearts, lettuce, and a mustardy vinaigrette on crusty homemade French bread—or maybe Ethel's Barbecued Pork—pork loin simmered in a raspberry barbecue sauce and served on their sourdough bread—was definitely an added incentive.

Salivating slightly, she said, “I'll be at the store at noon.”

All morning while she was working on the play, Faith went through her mental recipe Rolodex and came up with a number of alternatives. She agreed with Earl's mother, although it was an inconvenience. Knowing about a food allergy ahead of time, it was so much more gracious to work the menu around it, rather than call attention to it.

When Faith arrived at the store, Jill hung a
CLOSED
sign on the door of the Blueberry Patch and they went upstairs to her tiny apartment. They sat at a table overlooking the one and only street in Sanpere Village, the harbor beyond stretching toward the islands dotting Penobscot Bay. The sea was flat today. There wasn't a ripple of a breeze.

“I like the idea of a cold soup,” Jill said, blowing at her bangs, which were clinging damply to
her forehead. “It would be too much to hope that the temperature will drop before then. What do you suggest?”

“There's always vichyssoise or a fruit soup, but I'd go with avocado bisque. (See recipe in
The Body in the Bookcase.
) It's a beautiful pale green color, and I spike it with a little white rum. We can serve it with a rosette of sour cream and sprinkle a little caviar on top of that. Very elegant. Perfect for a wedding.”

“Great! And the little girls' dresses have pale green flowers against a creamy white background, so they'll match—or is that too Martha Stewart?” Jill's brow crinkled.

“It's not too anyone, except you,” Faith reassured her. The only attendants were going to be Earl's small nieces, dropping rose petals, and Earl's small nephew, clutching a pillow with the rings.

“Now for the hors d'oeuvres.”

“Dean said it would be easy to replace the scallops with chicken, and we don't have any others with chicken. We'd wanted to avoid it, but now maybe we shouldn't,” Jill said. Dean Barth, the innkeeper, was an island favorite and from the beginning had treated Jill's wedding as if it were his own daughter's.

“People like eating things on sticks. It seems exotic, and I'm sure the inn has done these often, so make your life simple and substitute the chicken.”

Faith was unabashedly licking barbecue sauce from her fingers—she'd gone for the pork loin—while Jill wrote the change down.

“Now that just leaves the crab cakes,” Faith said. “You could do mini Bries
en croûte,
mushroom tartlets, or
gougères,
very yummy cheese puffs. I also like the idea of smoked trout on a small spear of endive. You're not having any fish at all now, so maybe we can do something fishy for one of the starters. It's only shellfish she's allergic to, right?”

“Right. I double-checked. Too bad about the crab cakes. I love crab cakes.” Jill was not a cook, and she sounded wistful.

“I'll make crab cakes for you and Earl as soon as we move back to our own house. That's a promise. Of course, you could simply have mini fish cakes. The remoulade would work with them, too.”

“Why don't I mention all these to the inn and see what will be best for them—and we don't want to add to the cost at this point.”

“Eliminating the lobster bisque will help, but I think that's the best idea. Ask Earl, too. He seems to have pretty definite ideas about all this.”

“Don't I know it!” Jill said.

Earl had insisted on prime rib for the main course—and a chocolate wedding cake. The icing could be white or any variation thereof, so long as what was underneath was dark and rich.

“I want people to go away from this wedding fat and happy,” he'd told Jill and Faith at an early planning meeting. “No three little dabs of something on the plate, connected by a coulis.”

Unlike Jill, Earl loved to cook and had read his way from Child to Waters.

The food settled, Faith reached for one of the blondies Jill had also bought for their lunch. She'd be fat and happy herself if she didn't watch it. Happy was good, but fat…

“Has Earl said anything about the fire at Seth's, and the horrible dummy?” she asked Jill. Now that the wedding crisis had been averted, Faith's mind went back to Sanpere's recent disturbing events.

“He doesn't tell me about anything to do with work until the whole island knows, and by then, I've heard it. But he did show me something pretty upsetting, which makes me think he believes KSS really
is
behind all the attacks. With this dry weather, I know he—and everyone else—is worried to death about more fires. Come here and I'll show you.”

Jill wiped her hands on a napkin and walked over to her desk, where there was a laptop set up. After connecting to the Net, she entered an address.

“Just wait,” she told Faith, who was peering over her shoulder.

It took a while to load and then, to Faith's horror, a burning building filled the screen. Above the image appeared a message: “Every Night Is Earth Night!”

“Earl says it's Vail. They planted some sort of incendiary device and caused twelve million dollars' worth of damage in 1998. The irony is that what they burn down is merely replaced by something bigger and more invasive. All these places are heavily insured. Now more than ever.”

She clicked some more, and up came an ad for a guide on how to set fires with electrical timers: “The Policies and Practicalities of Arson. Down-to-Earth Advice.”

Faith gasped. “First amendment, yes—I may not agree with what you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it—although this is pretty heavy stuff.”

Jill nodded, then clicked some more. By the time she shut down, Faith had learned enough about the ecoterrorists to believe KSS was with them in spirit, if not in fact.

“Earl says these people are organized like other terrorist organizations, in cells, so nobody knows anybody else. Anyone can act in their name and claim responsibility. There are no leaders, dues, membership cards. After something happens, the media gets an anonymous communication claiming responsibility.”

“But they haven't harmed individuals, right? Just property?”

“So far, and in statements made after various attacks, they're quick to point that out. But what if someone had been in an office when they burned Agriculture Hall at Michigan State as a protest against research on genetically modified crops?”

In the news articles Faith had just read, the movement's lack of belief in political means, combined with their own brand of spiritual ethics—that any action was justified to prevent human beings from bringing the Earth to mass extinc
tion—spelled anarchy. The difficult part of it all was that she agreed with much of what they said about their targets. She and Tom worried constantly about the kind of world Ben and Amy would be living in—global warming, the destruction of rain forests and forests in the United States, and, very close to home at the moment, sprawling luxury homes, with no thought given to long-term implications. A recent letter to the
Island Crier
had laid it on the line, describing a massive 250-foot complex on the Sellers Point high head—“an inconceivable monument to excessiveness that now sits prominently for all to see as it blights the landscape for miles.”

“KSS has identified itself as a group, so Earl thinks it's unlikely that it aligns itself as such with ELF, but individuals in KSS may.”

“And the other members wouldn't know.”

“Exactly.”

 

The rain from the night before had continued all morning, bringing joy to one and all, then stopped as abruptly as if some unseen hand had turned off a spigot. Now the temperature had climbed back into the eighties. During the late afternoon, it was so hazy and humid that Faith regretted having accepted Linda's invitation. A cold shower, a minimal dinner, and a gin and tonic were all she wanted for the evening. She took the shower and by 5:30 felt better. It had cooled off, as it almost always did in the evenings on Sanpere. Tom was home and eager to see not only Linda's
work but also her house and a part of the island he didn't know as well. Gert Prescott had numerous nieces and nephews glad for the extra cash baby-sitting brought in, which was why Faith had felt so secure in immediately accepting Linda's invitation. Tonight, the sitter was Lisa Prescott. She'd come before and was a favorite. Lisa moved into the kitchen with the kids to get dinner on the table, displaying a maturity beyond her tender years. She shooed the elder Fairchilds out the door. At thirteen, she was the oldest of five, and it showed.

Tom and Faith turned off Route 17 at the Sanpere Shores sign.

“A pustulous pockmark on the face of Sanpere,” Tom said dramatically as they passed the new drives extending from the existing dirt road. Faith raised an eyebrow. Perhaps her husband should hang up his hammer for a part in the play—boards for boards.

“I don't see any power lines, unless they're underground, and they're only doing that with new construction,” Tom observed. “Linda's lived here for some years, hasn't she?”

“She must have power. How can she live?” Faith was appalled. No electricity, no phone. Suddenly, a vision of what dinner might be crossed her mind, and she was glad Gert had left a meat loaf large enough for leftovers. Gert made very good meat loaf—just the right bread-crumb-to-meat ratio, and with a slight mustard tang.

Soon they saw an artfully carved sign pointing
the way—
FORSYTHE
—and followed the grassy track.

“Whatever does she do in the winter?” Faith wondered. “No town plow would come this far, and it must cost a fortune to hire someone.” Used to city services, erratic as they were, Faith had been amazed to discover that people in New England had to dig themselves out, except for the main roads.

“Paints a lot, I'd say,” answered Tom, and stopped the car.

The house was a small log cabin, surrounded by pines, except for the large garden. It all looked like something from a fairy tale—one of the cheerful ones. Linda's scarlet runner beans were gaily climbing up the wooden tepees she'd constructed. Vines were laden with tomatoes of all sizes; mounds of squash and melons were scattered in between, as well as other varieties of beans, lettuce, and other vegetables. Faith felt as if she'd entered a Burpee ad as she walked past the produce to the front door, which was framed in cascading morning glories. Linda rushed out, drying her hands on a dish towel, her usual bumptious manner raised up a notch. Maybe she didn't have guests often.

“I'm so glad you could come. I hope you like ratatouille. It's really just a mishmash of all sorts of things from the garden. You must be Tom.”

“I am, and thank you for inviting us. Now, is the house from a kit, or was it built without one?”

Having summarily dispensed with the ameni
ties, he was obviously eager to get to the important subject—construction—Faith noted with amusement.

“Not a kit, although that probably would have been simpler. Or at least we should have had plans. I built it with Seth Marshall. Maybe you know him. He's a fine carpenter and has done a lot of houses on the island, but he did this with me about ten years ago, when he was first starting out. I paid for the materials and he exchanged his labor for artwork, a lot of meals, and a lot of vegetables.”