The Body in the Lighthouse (17 page)

“No!” exclaimed several voices, and Faith set the plate of sandwiches down on the nearest table before she dropped it.

“You can imagine my surprise.” Everyone nodded. They could.

“‘Oh dear,' I said. ‘I'm sorry to tell you that Harold isn't missing. He passed on last week. Are you family?' She just stood there for a moment. I was going to offer her a cup of water from the cooler, but she started to walk out, then stopped and said, ‘Damn straight I'm family! I'm his wife!'”

“Passed on? You mean dead? That's impossible! There wasn't a thing wrong with him. He was supposed to meet me at my house on Monday. I've been calling and leaving messages; then I decided I'd better come on down here. Now, where is Harold?' she said, and meanwhile I'm wondering what more I could tell her. She seemed to think I had him hid in the closet.”

The room was hushed. You could have heard a whole paper of pins drop. Mabel had the women in the palm of her hand.

The Sewing Circle, and the entire island, knew where Harold was. In a cardboard box on a shelf in the office window of Durgen's Funeral Home, a great inconvenience to Donald and Marvin Durgen. Space at their establishment was at a premium, and this particular spot had afforded their last clear view down Granville's Main Street. The
two brothers were accustomed to keeping their fingers on the pulse of the community. Gazing down at the comings and goings of the local citizenry was not only a favorite pastime but also an occupational necessity. Harold Hapswell wasn't in an urn, because the Durgens were waiting for a relative to step forward and make an appropriate choice—and appropriate payment. The box, not as bulky as their most popular urn—brushed bronze with a perpetual guarantee—was just large enough to get in the way.

As she listened, every woman in the room put herself in Mabel's place—face-to-face with a strange woman, who was obviously in shock, unwilling to admit that Harold's trip to the pearly gates was a fact. How to convey his present whereabouts, as well as the sad circumstances of his demise?

It was Faith who broke the silence. Faith who stepped forward and asked a question—a question already answered in her own mind.

“What did she look like?”

Mabel flushed. “Well, she's tall, pretty, lots of blond hair like Farrah Fawcett has”—time stood still for icons like this on Sanpere—“and she…Well, you know the styles today. She had on one of those little shirts, a white one, which stopped before her belly button, and white pants that started pretty far below.”

“Was she tan?” Faith asked.

“Just like she'd spent the whole winter in Florida, or maybe owns a tanning booth.”

It was the woman in the Mercedes. And she had been on the island at least twice before. Sunning herself on Harold's beach, or, since she was his wife, maybe it was her beach, too. Then at the Planning Board meeting. The Planning Board meeting the night before Harold died.

“Why do you ask, Faith dear?” Ursula said. Nobody minded Faith, or Pix, around when Sewing Circle was at the Pines. Daughters, granddaughters, and nieces filled the same shoes when it was someone else's turn. But aside from a few polite phrases called for by the job, they weren't supposed to speak unless spoken to. Obviously, a lot of things were topsy-turvy on Sanpere lately.

“I saw her first on—let me see. Yes, it was a week ago Tuesday. I had taken the children to the big beach on the point, where Sanpere Shores is going in. When it was time to leave, a black Mercedes was blocking our way. I went to look for the owner. It belonged to that woman. I found her on one of the smaller beaches.”

Louella snorted. “I remember when it was a sight to see a clean car in the summer, let alone all these fancy ones. Four or five families could survive for a year on what that must have cost. But who is she? I'd have thought Harold would have said something if he'd gotten hitched. Came to the bakery every morning same time until the day he died, to get a doughnut or scone to go with the coffee he picked up at Sam's place. Guess this wife of his wasn't up to making him breakfast.”

Sam Marshall sold gas, coffee, beer, cigarettes,
Uncle Henry's Weekly Swap Guide,
and the other necessities of life in a small store at the top of the hill going from Sanpere Village toward Granville. Louella's bakery was a half mile beyond.

“Then,” Faith continued, “she was in the back of the room at the Planning Board meeting last Thursday night.”

“Oh
that
woman. I should have put two and two together.” Mabel sounded annoyed with herself. “Heard all about her, but nobody seems to know why she was there.”

“To give Harold some moral support, and you know he needed it, not to speak ill of the dead,” Louella said. “The loonies weren't the only ones with a few questions about that Disneyland he was going to put up.”

“How do we know she's telling the truth? About being married to Harold? She must have known him, or else what was she doing at the meeting? But she could have read about Harold's death and decided to try to get her hands on his money,” Gert speculated. “Was she wearing a ring, Mabel?”

“Uh-huh. Would have been hard to miss. A rock so big, you'd think she'd have trouble lifting her hand. And there was a thick gold band to match.”

Faith was puzzled. The woman hadn't been wearing any rings when Faith had seen her on the beach. She'd noticed her hands, envious of the French manicure the woman managed to main
tain. Perhaps she'd taken the rings off before going to sunbathe. But there hadn't been any tan marks. When Faith took her own rings off to slather the kids and herself with sunblock, she had two bright white lines on her ring fingers. There was another explanation. If married—and there was no reason, Gert notwithstanding, to doubt the woman's assertion—the marriage was a recent event.

Mabel took the floor again. “I told her that he'd slipped on some rocks and hadn't suffered at all, and that Durgen's Funeral Home down the street had taken care of the arrangements. I asked her if she wanted me to call someone, a friend or relative. Said I was sorry for her loss, but she still kept saying it was impossible. Finally, I called the state police myself, and while I was talking to some ten-year-old there who wasn't getting a thing I said, Earl walked in. I've never been so glad to see him in my life, and she was, too. Kind of raced over to him, grabbed his arm, and said, ‘What's all this about my husband being dead?' Well, Earl never lets on much, calm as a clock, though he must have been surprised. He took her to his office and told me I could lock up. So I did, and here I am.”

Mabel sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. Everybody started talking at once, stopped, and then started again. Faith picked up the plate and passed the sandwiches, which were eagerly consumed. Nothing like a juicy piece of gossip to whet an appetite. As she moved about the room, she heard snatches of conversation.

“Always was a sly one, that Harold. Probably has wives all over the state!”

“What do you think she'll do with Sanpere Shores? Maybe she'll give it to the Island Trust,” Louise Frazier said. The Fraziers were active members of that group.

“Hope springs eternal, Louise, but from the sound of the car and the ring, this is someone who's out to cash in, not out.”

“No doubt about it. She'll be rich as Croesus.”

Mabel had taken out the Sunbonnet Sue baby quilt she was working on, somewhat spent after her time in the limelight. Faith took the last of the sandwiches over and offered to get some of the jam tarts and shortbread from the kitchen.

“These will do just fine, dear. Maybe later.”

Questions were nagging at Faith, and she slipped one in before retreating from view, “You said she didn't believe that Harold was dead, but did she seem upset, like she was going to cry?”

“No, I wouldn't say that exactly. Maybe she broke down when Earl talked to her. She just kept on insisting I was wrong. Like I was to blame for him being missing. You know, the way some people think we don't speak English here and say things real slow, so we'll get it.”

Faith nodded. She'd witnessed a tourist asking Freeman for directions, using a combination of sign language and carefully enunciated simple phrases. Freeman told her after he'd set the woman on the right course that in situations like that he was tempted to give the wrong directions or fall back on
the old “You can't get there from here” line. Either one would reinforce the stereotype nicely.

Loading the cake plate in the kitchen, Faith looked at the clock. The ladies would be here another hour at least; then she'd have to pick up the kids. It would be quite a while before she could get to Earl.

 

“She's done very well for people. I don't know what you're suggesting, Louella!” Vera Hamilton exclaimed.

“Just think it's an interesting coincidence that she seems to have been so close to the deceased in every case just before they pass on,” Louella defended herself. “That's all I said.”

“She certainly does seem to make a quick sale,” Mabel added. “Sold Helen's house before we even waked her.”

“That's because she has all these customers lined up. She gets everyone a good price. And she visits a lot of people. So don't we all, and nobody's accusing us of anything.” Vera increased her knitting speed, until the needles were a blur.

“I'm not accusing Persis. She's my own cousin once removed. Just pointing out the coincidences, that's all.” Louella, in contrast, was taking her time with the mittens she was making, her needles slow and steady—
click click
…
click click.

Faith entered with a fresh pot of tea, and the talk instantly turned to Serena Marshall's sister-in-law's hip replacement.

Persis. They'd been talking about Persis. Faith
felt a deep chill, although the afternoon shadows had not yet lengthened. Ursula had been worried about the recent increase in deaths, the deaths of her friends, older friends. Persis Sanford was certainly one hell of a real estate agent, but was she also the real estate agent from hell? Title Mary, as opposed to Typhoid Mary? In some twisted way, might she be justifying her actions—leaving a box of sugary jelly doughnuts on diabetic Helen Marshall's kitchen table, say—by assuring herself she was helping the needy families of these relatives, who would be on their way out in the not so distant future anyway?

Looking at the food arranged on the big round table, Faith felt sick herself. Harold Hapswell,
Mrs
. Hapswell, the fires, the slogans, the dummy, the feuds, now this. Ursula had been right, not Freeman. Something was very wrong on Sanpere this summer.

 

Faith had just finished washing the last of Ursula's teacups—old Spode, the Buttercup pattern. Ursula's grandmother had brought it to the “cottage” to use for occasions that called for finer china than their everyday white ironstone. Despite many calls for its use, the Spode had survived intact. Nervously, Faith put the last saucer away, thinking about what it would cost to replace it. Tom had turned up as the ladies were leaving, his jeans covered with splashes of Cozy Melon, Alpine Lace, and Oslo. The first coat had to dry, he'd explained, so they'd quit early. The
color choices were approved—what they could see of them—and the Sewing Circle departed. It had been quite an afternoon. Amy went down for a nap. Faith had hoped Ben would continue this practice until middle school at least, but he'd drawn the line at kindergarten. Admonished not to tell his sister about this—or the Easter Bunny, although Santa was still real for Ben—Ben had complied, and Amy continued to fall asleep reliably every afternoon. The two male Fairchilds set out in the dinghy for more rowing practice and parts unknown. Tom took a fishing line and told Faith to get ready for a school of mackerel for dinner. With the knowledge that she had a seafood lasagna in the fridge, Faith told him that would be some good, for sure. Then she suggested Ursula lie down, too, and after a mild protest, she had gone to her room, saying, “I don't know why I should be tired. I didn't do a thing. Thank you for everything, Faith.”

Faith was a little tired herself. It hadn't been much work, but the constant chatter of the women and the sound of their knitting needles still seemed to fill her ears. The volume and tempo had been increased by Mabel's startling revelation—Harold Hapswell, recently deceased, a married man.

The phone rang and Faith grabbed it, hoping it hadn't awakened Ursula.

“I thought you might like to have someone talk to you woman-to-woman, so to speak, after an afternoon of the Sanpere Stitchers. Was it totally infantilizing?” It was Pix. Faith had been in
Ellsworth, under the spell of Home Depot, when Pix had called earlier in the week. Ursula had informed her about Faith's discovery of Harold's body, and Pix had immediately dashed out and told the family not to strike camp—they were in Glacier National Park, about to head even deeper into the wilderness—until she'd had a chance to talk to Faith directly. That talk had been brief but very comforting, and here was Pix on the line again, the rest of the Millers scaling some glacier, no doubt. Faith was extremely happy to hear her friend's voice so soon after their last conversation. Even before finding Harold's body, Faith had been wishing Pix were here on Sanpere.

“Only partially, because there was big news, and everyone's attention was on that. They even let me ask a question.”

Faith related Mabel's account of Harold's mystery wife.

“I'd always wondered why he wasn't married. He was very good-looking when he was younger—and not too bad even now,” Pix commented.

Faith thought of Harold as she had last seen him. He hadn't been even remotely good-looking.

Pix was continuing in the same vein. “Really, he was quite the hunk when he was young. Of course, he was older than I am, but I remember all the girls were after him. And after Don Osborn, too. They were quite a pair. Their families used to spend summers here, and I'm sure they had no idea how their sons were carrying on.”

“Donald Osborn?”

“He was thinner then—a whole lot thinner—and the two of them were part of a group that partied hearty with the island kids.”

Pix had teenagers, Faith reminded herself, and her friend picked up a phrase now and then that sounded totally out of character.

“It's interesting that they both ended up here. And, in the end, on opposite sides of the fence,” Faith said.