The Body in the Lighthouse (2 page)

“Elwell doesn't even take to dogs,” said Lyle. He was smiling, although Faith couldn't see there was much to smile about. “He was out of here in no time. Said to call him when they're gone.”

Amazed at the inactivity before her, Faith stated the obvious, “Well, shouldn't we be getting rid of them
right away
?” It was a miracle the mother hadn't sprayed the house when Elwell, whichever one he had been, had made his inauspicious discovery.

“That's what we're out here studying to do,” Lyle said. “Want to keep an eye peeled for the Home Depot truck, too. Can't put the delivery in the house now.”

“Tom!” Faith wailed. She had been looking forward to the month of August since the last snow-storm—in April—had unpleasantly arrived in Aleford, bringing power outages and leaving sooty ice-encrusted remnants well into May. She'd dreamed of Sanpere. The house would be done, the kids would be at camp, and she'd have Tom all to herself—time together. Or when he was work
ing on his book, a study of the impact of chastity on Western thought, she'd have time for herself. Both kinds of time were as rare as unicorns.

She had reluctantly given in to the blandishments of her husband and the Millers that first summer some years ago and agreed to a rental on Sanpere, instead of in the Hamptons or on the Vineyard. One thing had led to another, and now the Fairchilds were home owners. She should have been firmer to start with. If she had, they wouldn't be in this predicament. Sure, there were skunks in Edgartown and East Hampton, both the two-and four-legged kinds, but there were solutions easily at hand. It went without saying that there were no exterminators on Sanpere, no service that could be called. No little man to take care of everything. She sat down on the grass, took out a bag of store-bought cookies, Pepperidge Farm Milanos, grabbed one, and passed the rest around. She'd known she wouldn't be baking in the next few days. She hadn't known she might not be baking—or cooking—for weeks.

“Anybody have any ideas?”

Many alternatives later, her husband emerged from beneath the house and declared triumphantly that all they had to do now was wait. The skunks had entered through a small open vent under the deck, a space that Lyle had not closed in yet. It was too high for them to get out the way they'd come in; ergo, all they had to do was provide a means of egress, along with bait. They'd slid a board loaded with bits of Milanos
embedded in sticky peanut butter at intervals through the vent opening. Lured by the treats, the skunks would literally walk the plank and scamper off to tell the tale to their forest friends.

“They'll be gone before morning,” Lyle said confidently, getting into a pickup Faith couldn't help but notice was brand-new and loaded with extras. He charged by the hour, and she wondered if the skunk conferencing had been billable. “You can move around in the other part of the house; I'd try not to go directly overhead. They'll come out tonight when it's dark.”

Goody, thought Faith, glancing at her watch. What with finding space in the garage for the Home Depot delivery and providing haute cuisine for the skunks—they'd added banana slices in peanut butter at the last minute for the fruit lovers—it was almost time to pick up the kids.

“Guess we'd better bed down in the living room,” Tom said. “I'll move our stuff. And we'll go to Lily's Café to eat. I don't want you to have to bother.”

Faith had not intended to bother. She'd already called ahead to find out what the specials were, planning to get to Lily's early. She'd also called the one motel, one inn, and one bed-and-breakfast on the island, only to find, as she'd expected, that all three were booked through Labor Day.

“I'm sorry,” said Tom. His cheek was warm from the sun as he pulled her close. “Someday, we'll laugh about all this.”

“Soon, I hope,” Faith said.

“Soon. They'll be gone by morning—and I don't think we'd better mention anything to the kids. You know Ben. He'll want to go down and make pets out of them.”

Faith did know Ben. He was exactly like his father.

 

Again, the kids were up early. Again, Faith ached in joints she hadn't known she possessed. But there were no early-morning workers. And the skunks were still in residence. Tom had bravely flashed a light down the hatch in the closet.

“I can see their eyes, and the plank is as clean as a whistle. I think they like it here.”

Faith didn't need this evidence. She'd heard the sound of tiny feet scratching all night. So had Ben.

“I think there's an animal under the house, Mom. I'd better go look.”

“No, you'd better not. You don't want to be late for camp.”

“It could be hurt. It could need our help!”

Seven is a passionate age, Faith thought. “Dad and I will investigate while you're away. Don't worry.”

“But I
am
worried. Very worried,” Ben mumbled.

Tom left with the kids, and Faith sat on the deck with a second cup of coffee. A lone gull flew overhead. She'd planted some perennials in front of the house last July, with Pix acting as overseer,
and added some very rich loam to the claylike soil. The result was gratifying, spectacular for a nongardener like Faith. The scents of the old-fashioned flowers—phlox, delphinium, a rainbow of daylilies, Shasta daisies, and
Rosa rugosa
—wafted toward her, mixing pleasantly with the smell of her strong coffee. Then the scratching began again, and she tucked her legs up away from the edge of the deck. She sniffed once more. Only coffee and floral scents. So far so good.

But she was very worried, too.

“Mothballs will do it.”

Faith had picked up the phone on the third ring, racing in from the deck.

“Mothballs. I hear you have skunks.”

“Ursula, is that you?”

“Of course it is. And why are you staying there anyway? Your house is far from finished. You'll come here to the Pines.”

Faith didn't know which subject to approach first, but it was clear that Ursula Lyman Rowe, Pix Miller's redoubtable octogenarian mother, had the Fairchilds' life under control. Ursula's grandfather had built the Pines in the late 1890s, when the journey from Boston took two days by steamship. Ever since, the family had spent part or all of each summer on Sanpere.

“That's very kind of you, but we're managing fine here, except for the skunks.” Faith had no desire to descend on Ursula with two lively children, although Ursula was used to the Millers' progeny and dozens of nieces, nephews, and
their offspring. The Pines had spawned the Birches and the Balsams, creating a family enclave on a large point of land jutting out into Eggemoggin Reach on Little Sanpere, an island attached to its larger kin by a paved causeway. You hit Little Sanpere first after crossing the bridge from the mainland. The bridge had been a WPA project, and there were still a considerable number of Sanpere residents who lamented its construction—and a considerable number who had not been across it more than a few times in their lives, if at all. “Never had to,” Fred Sanford had told Faith the previous summer. “Everything I need is here, and if it isn't, I don't need it.”

“Nonsense,” Ursula said firmly. “It's no bother. I'm rattling around this ark of a place until Arnie and Claire come at the end of the month, and you'll be settled in your own house by then.” Arnold Rowe, Ursula's son, was an orthopedic surgeon. He and his wife, Claire, lived in New Mexico. “You could go to Pix and Sam's, but they gave it to my cousin's granddaughter and her new husband to use for their honeymoon.”

Faith knew this. The Millers' house wasn't far away. She'd taken the kids to the beach and woods in the opposite direction yesterday, loath to intrude on the couple's first weeks of connubial bliss. Besides, they might be planning to be parents themselves someday.

“Go to Barton's and get a couple of boxes of mothballs. Then go down to Island Supply for some bait bags, or get Freeman to give you some,
though his might smell too high. It's easier to clean up after the skunks are gone if you put the mothballs in the bait bags. And don't get moth flakes. You'll never get rid of the smell. And be sure you have flour.”

“Flour?” Faith poured another cup of coffee. The caffeine suited her mood perfectly.

“They hate the smell of mothballs, so they'll go. But if you want to be absolutely sure they're gone, you sprinkle the flour outside the opening. Then you'll see their tracks.”

Of course.

“Now, I'll expect you for dinner. Or why don't you come with your things when you pick Benjamin and Amy up at camp?”

Faith hadn't mentioned any plans to Ursula. Had not, in fact, seen her or spoken to her for weeks, yet apparently Faith's life was an open book. It was pointless to ask how Ursula knew about day camp, just as it would have been to question how she'd heard about the skunks and state of the Fairchilds' remodeling job.

“I'll talk to Tom about it,” Faith conceded.

“Good, it's one of Gert's days, and she's making pies. Lemon meringue is his favorite, isn't it?”

Gert Prescott “did” for Ursula several days a week and had probably carried the news from Ghent to Aix, now that Faith thought about it.

“Yes, it is.” She knew when she'd been licked.

If it hadn't been for the skunk problem looming over them, it would have been a wonderful morning. Tom returned with boxes of mothballs,
beer, and a garden preparation called “synthetic dried blood.” He'd been deluged with suggestions when he dropped off the kids at camp. Then, when he'd stopped at Barton's for a tube of caulking, everyone there had had an opinion, as well.

“Len offered to come over and shoot them, but I was able to convince him that we just couldn't take the chance of a bullet ricocheting off a wall and hitting him, crouching down as he'd have to be to get into the space. I knew the notion of the slaughter of innocent creatures wasn't going to do it, and I was right. I emphasized the word
crouching
, so the picture of where the bullet might end up was what probably did the trick. After he left, Velma—you know her, the nice brunette at the counter—told me Len gets a little antsy when it's not hunting season, especially lately. Seems he lost the moose lottery last year; thought he'd had it all sewed up.”

Tom was beginning to sound like a native, Faith reflected. But even she knew what the moose lottery was. Tourist draw that they were, the moose population could outnumber the camera-toting gawkers if it wasn't checked, and hunters with visions of a really big set of horns to hang on the wall entered the lottery. You could only enter once, but a family member could enter his or her name with you as the designated hitter, so to speak. Len had a big family, and his wife, a transplant from Aroostook County, had an even larger one. Len had been in on the moose shoot
every year since its inception, until last year. He was firmly convinced that some skullduggery in Augusta was to blame. He planned to travel off island and make the ninety-seven-mile trip to be there in person at the statehouse when they drew the names this year. The state auctioned off twenty-five of these golden chances to the highest bidders, but Len said he couldn't get a foot in the door that way—too rich for his blood—and added a comment or two about money always talking. A damned shame, too.

Faith was more concerned with small game at the moment.

“We have to get bait bags. Ursula called and gave me precise instructions on how to proceed, down to capturing their paw prints in flour, should we be missing any valuables in the future.”

They spent a pleasant morning driving to Granville, the largest of the two main villages on the island. Away from the unfinished house, and uninvited guests, Faith relaxed and allowed herself to feel like a vacationer. They ate fish chowder at the Harbor Café, which Tom followed up with Grape-Nuts pudding, one of his favorites. “Cereal is cereal,” Faith told him as she dug into it, nevertheless, savoring the rich real whipped cream piled on top. Tom had asked for two spoons. He was very good about sharing food, which was Faith's number one criterion in evaluating a candidate for marriage. Forget communication, compatibility in bed, solvency, et cetera. Will this potential partner for life give you a
bite—or say something like “If you wanted it, you should have ordered it”? It was a simple, easy test, one that answered all the other questions. Selfish with food, selfish with…

Back at the cottage, Tom pitched the mothball-laden bags gently into the crawl space while Faith packed up their things for the stay at Ursula's.

“They're nocturnal, so we won't know until morning if they're gone. I told Lyle I'd call him before six. Everyone's ready to get back to work once they get the all clear.”

Faith felt oddly reluctant to leave. It was so beautiful—and it was theirs. The evergreens, birches, bayberries, even the invasive alders—and the view. She wanted the crew to finish as soon as possible. If the mothballs didn't work, they'd try the other stuff. Beer? Get the skunks pie-eyed and trap them? Dried blood? Gross them out? And then there was always Len…

 

How could she have hesitated for even one second before deciding to come to the Pines? Faith wondered as she finished cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. Gert had left the pie, also fresh haddock, which Faith had pan-fried in one of the iron skillets that hung on the wall. They ranged in size from one just right for a single fried egg to a behemoth that took up two burners. She had also steamed some new potatoes and added them to the pan when they were soft, letting them get crusty in the sizzling butter. Pix and Ursula had put up dilly beans last summer, and these com
pleted the meal. Neither kid had spilled milk at dinner, and in general, they had behaved beautifully, as was always the case when it was not their boring—or worse—same old family alone. Tom had taken them to explore the tide pools and the old lighthouse farther up the beach while Faith got dinner. Ursula had set the table, then come into the kitchen to keep Faith company. Now she was playing Chinese checkers with Ben while Tom put Amy to bed. It was all like something out of Gene Stratton Porter. And there were plenty of her works, as well as those by everyone from Will Shakespeare to Louise Dickinson Rich, lining the bookshelves all over the house. It was one of those houses where nothing that came in ever went out, unless consumed, and vintage Lincoln Logs cohabited happily with LEGO Technics on the shelves devoted to children's amusements. That's how Ursula had referred to them, turning the kids loose. “These are the shelves filled with children's amusements.” To amuse themselves, the adults had the books, of course—and jigsaw puzzles, board games, flower presses, shell collections, material to make a quilt, knit a sweater, embroider a tablecloth, build a model boat, carve a bird, and paint or take a picture. The efforts of a number of generations decorated the house. Faith thought of the apartment in Manhattan that had been her childhood home, where her parents still lived—a prewar duplex on the Upper East Side. Suddenly, she would have traded its tasteful appointments—Jane Sibley had exquisite taste—for a
wall hung with odes to the woods scrawled in childish hands and framed by birch bark, as well as with photographs of everyone lined up on the front porch, the uncomfortable wicker and Bar Harbor rockers in the same places as they had been when Faith had walked up the stairs that afternoon—only the photo was from 1925. Was this what mid-thirties meant? The chronological age, that is? Was she suddenly going to start a fern collection, save
all
the kid's drawings, not just the best ones? Was she going to become hopelessly sentimental, in the name of posterity? Maybe.