The Body in the Lighthouse (20 page)

“Poor Roland. He must be sorry he ever got involved in all this,” Pix said.

“Maybe, although he has to be happy with the way the play is shaping up, and Linda's sets are beautiful. Still, he has been looking a little frazzled.”

They talked a few minutes more and then Faith hung up. Everyone else was at church and she was supposed to be resting. Churchgoing came with her marital territory and, feeling not at all wicked, she was glad for a Sunday off. The call had been a surprise. Everyone had left just before the phone rang. The Millers were heading into Canada and Pix wanted to leave word for Ursula. Arnie, Pix's brother, had insisted on an answering machine several summers ago. Pix had been equally surprised that anyone was at home, it being Sunday morning, and Faith had had to tell her the whole story, eliciting Pix's immediate resolve to be at her friend's side as soon as the wings of man could carry her.

Faith went back upstairs, crawling into the unmade bed. Why was it that this always felt so
good? The decadence of it all? Of course a made bed—especially one made up by someone else—with crisply ironed sheets felt wonderful, too, but you couldn't burrow down in them, pull them up around your shoulders, find the comfortable hollow in the mattress from the night before, and fall into a daytime sleep. A made bed was for night—or illness.

She'd pulled up the shades and now the sun filtered through the lawn Priscilla curtains on either side of the window. The room was furnished with bits and pieces from several generations and locales. Faith and Tom had been sleeping in a large spool bed. A Chinese screen hid a door that connected to the next room, the old nursery, presently the quarters of Pix's brother and his wife. An East-lake dresser took up almost one wall, and a simple pine bookcase—the work of one of the family, Faith suspected—took up half of another. All the books you would ever want to read were there: mysteries, of course—classics by Christie, Sayers, and Stout, and modern ones by Maron, Tapply, Wolzien, and Langton; lots of Trollope, lots of Thirkell; all of John Gould; Eudora Welty—Ursula's favorite; Nancy Mitford; E. M. Delafield; and many much-beloved children's books, covers worn. Faith had picked up
A Wrinkle in Time.
It lay beside her, but before she could pull her arm from its warm cocoon and reach for it, she was asleep.

 

She was going to the Town Hall to check on the figures for Tom. That was all.

Well, maybe not quite all.

She didn't even have to concoct a story for Mabel, who opened the bottom of the Dutch door that led into her cubbyhole of an office—the top part had never been closed since the day it was installed—and sat Faith down at the table, the ledger conveniently in front of her.

Mabel's plants were also in front of her, each one set squarely on a crocheted doily. Drought was not a problem here, and the carnations, geraniums, and roses bloomed as brightly in August as they did in December, stuck into pots and religiously dusted every week. Photos of several graduates, brides, grooms, and grandchildren, highlighted by blue backgrounds and shiny brass frames, were scattered among the posies.

Duty first. Faith turned to the listing of their parcel of land and noted the valuation, taxes, what they'd paid, footage, everything that was on the page. Then she paused. Who first?

The Classical Wave station was on the radio, soft classical in the background. Mabel was working on another doily. Probably for the fair. Faith started with Harold's holdings and was not surprised to find they were considerable. He had been paying a lot in taxes. Linda was in the same part of the book; her piece was tiny, but she had quite a bit of shore frontage, which raised her rate. What about the Osborns? The only other KSS members she knew for certain. Now, this was a surprise. They owned virtually the entire point of land opposite Sanpere Shores. There were a
few holdings in between theirs—the lobster pound was one—but by and large, the Osborns were directly across from all of the future McMansions. No wonder Donald and Terri were so opposed to it. Faith wondered which came first—KSS or the Sanpere Shores project? That would be interesting to find out.

She was about to turn to Persis's page, when Mabel spoke to her.

“Came back at the crack of dawn. Waiting on the steps for me to open up.”

“Mrs. Hapswell?” Who else? Besides, there was that tone in Mabel's voice, that “no better than she should be” tone. Faith had heard it many times in her career.

“Ayuh.”

Trying not to get too excited at having actually heard a native utter this word, Faith decided
Romeo and Juliet
could wait. She'd dropped the kids off at camp and had planned on spending only a half hour at the Town Hall before going to the rehearsal.

“What would you say to a cup of coffee and one of Mrs. McHenan's doughnuts?” The IGA was a few steps down the street.

“I wouldn't say no,” said Mabel, adding a purple skein to the white ones in her lap.

She'd obviously been dying to tell someone, and Faith was associated closely enough with the island to qualify.

Going for coffee and doughnuts was but the work of a moment.

Mabel stopped tatting at Faith's return. “Her big black car was out in front. I noticed it right away. Mercedes, just like you said. So you could say I
was
surprised and I
wasn't
to see her there in front of me when I went for my keys.”

“What did she want?” Faith was enjoying the suspense—and the doughnut. Not greasy, it had a hint of nutmeg and was still warm.

“Wanted to know if I was a notary. Well, of course I am, and I said so. She said I was the right person, then—
that
was some reassuring to hear—and we had to wait for somebody else to arrive. You'll never guess who it was!”

Mabel was certainly getting more than her share of dramatic moments lately. Tempted as Faith was to answer Stephen or Angus King, she settled for an appropriately breathless “Who?”

“Persis Sanford, that's who! She comes along about five minutes later. Meanwhile, Mrs. Whoever is wandering to hell and gone, picking up copies of the
Town Report,
fiddlin' with the blinds. Then Persis waltzes in and they greet each other like they haven't seen each other since kindergarten. I'm pretty sure what I'll be notarizing, so I get out my seal and go to my desk.”

Faith knew her lines. “What was it?”

“Purchase and sale agreement, of course.”

Of course.

“But how could they have one already? The will couldn't have been probated this fast.”

“My thought exactly, but I kept my mouth shut. Persis knew what I was thinking, though. ‘Now,
Mabel,' she says, ‘this isn't a P and S'—that's real estate talk—‘it just says that Mrs. Hapswell will be selling the following properties to me as soon as her late husband's affairs are settled.' At least the widow wiped the smile off her face that she'd had since Persis hove in, and put on something a little more dignified.”

Faith couldn't help asking; plus, Mabel's words had been her cue. “What was she wearing?”

“Not much, and it was bright red.” Mabel apparently felt that described the outfit. “So I dragged the first person off the street I could find, happened to be old Joe Sanford, Persis's mother's cousin, and he witnessed their signatures and I stamped it.”

“Did Persis buy everything? Sanpere Shores, the lots in Bonneville, the lighthouse?” Faith was now well acquainted with Harold's holdings.

“The whole shebang, except for one lot excluded from the Sanpere Shores piece.”

The dream house.

Faith felt like crying. Sanpere Shores was going to be developed anyway, but the lighthouse! Ursula would be so upset. She was comfortable—although Faith had learned that this word in New England could mean your family had enough for every generation to live in style until the next millennium or that it simply had enough for Locke-Ober's a few times a year. In any case, Ursula, even with money from the rest of the family, wouldn't have enough to meet what Persis would be asking for the lighthouse. Their only hope was
pressure from the community. But again, as Ursula had so aptly pointed out, she was a summer person. Persis wasn't. It was hard to predict where the line would be drawn. It wouldn't be simple—or pretty.

And there was no question that Linda Forsythe would be getting new neighbors—and the Osborns a new vista.

Having ascertained that no dollar amount was stipulated in the agreement, Faith left Mabel to her various tasks and drove to the school. Thoughts of how steeped in passion and greed the land beneath her had become plagued her journey.

 

Roland, normally so calm, was delivering the notes in a frantic manner.

“We open in ten days, people! Remember someone's great idea to have a sneak preview for the dress rehearsal on Thursday night and charge admission? That's two hundred and forty hours from now, and yesterday's run-through was pathetic! Some of you still don't have your lines down and you're going to look pretty foolish come opening night.”

Faith knew he was talking in particular about Persis, who was gleefully winging her role, depending on body language for laughs and murdering the Bard's words in the process.

“Now don't blow a gasket, Roly.” Persis was the only one who could get away with that nickname. “I'm going to spend the next couple of days doing nothing but learning my speeches.”

Since she'd arrived, she'd looked like a cat who had cream for breakfast every day. The others might not know the reason for Persis's glee, but after this morning's chat with Mabel, Faith certainly did. Ms. Sanford was going to make a killing. She'd be the richest woman on the island after developing Harold's properties. The man was not in shape to roll over in his grave, but his ashes must be swirling about like the funnel of a tornado. His widow had retrieved them from the Durgen brothers, restoring their prized view, and announced her intention to inter them in whatever cemetery was closest to Sanpere Shores. No memorial service was mentioned. With all the wheeling and dealing she was doing, Faith reasoned, Victoria was probably too busy to think about something that didn't directly concern her own best interests—interests with a pretty high rate of return.

Persis's words appeared to mollify Roland. “You're all doing a fabulous job, but the days will fly by. That's what I'm trying to say. I need to talk to the stage manager and her crew for a moment now, so why doesn't everyone take ten. Get some fresh air.”

Before they had a chance to break up, Kenny Sanford walked onto the stage. He must have come in through the rear door. He was carrying a FedEx envelope.

“Jeez-zuz, Kenny, don't you know any better than to crash into a rehearsal like this?” his mother snapped at him. “What are you thinking
of, walking across the stage? Never mind. You don't know how to think. I most forgot that.”

He mumbled something about the FedEx might be important and held it out to her, avoiding her eye. She snatched it from his hand and waved him away. She didn't say another word.

Feeling desperately sorry for him, Faith started to follow him out. He didn't look any different from the way he usually did, and she realized he must be used to his mother's treatment. Still, she wanted to say something—to try to take away the sting of those other words. But Linda beat her to it and the two walked toward the door together.

Kenny nodded at something Linda said and Faith was gratified by the shy smile he gave her. Watching the two of them go outside, Faith decided that what Kenny needed was a wife. If not Linda, then there must be other candidates. Faith made a note to speak to both Jill and Pix about it. A steady worker, not bad-looking—a little bumbling maybe—yet still a catch.

When Faith arrived at their house later that afternoon, it was instantly apparent that the miracle she'd been waiting for had occurred. She hadn't seen the work for several days and the house had been transformed. With the cabinets installed, counters and appliances in place, suddenly Faith had her kitchen. All the painting was finished and the paint colors worked. As she went from room to room, her impatience grew. She was tempted to move in and camp again, just to be there. Home.

“When do you think it will be ready for us to move in?” she asked Lyle. Arnie and Claire, Pix's brother and his wife, were coming for the last week in August. Although Ursula insisted there was room for everybody, Faith wanted to be out by then and give them a real vacation.

“Depends on what you call ready,” he answered.

She looked around at the detritus—paint-spattered drop cloths, boxes of nails, many soft-drink cans, much sawdust—and decided broom-clean was what she would call ready. She'd do the fine tuning herself.

Lyle figured they should be out by the weekend. There was some grading to be done on the outside and the deck expansion, plus new steps. But this could be accomplished with the Fairchilds in residence.

Faith was envisioning their first party, a house-warming on Labor Day. School started on that Wednesday, and Tom had already declared his intention to stay until the last minute. Their lives would be governed by the school calendar for more years than she cared to contemplate. The new year now started in September, not January. She was happy to stretch out their stay on the island as long as possible, too.

But the house was virtually done. She beamed at Lyle. It was perfect.

“Aren't you happy? You did such a terrific job.”

“Looks pretty good,” Lyle effused—or what passed for effused Down East.

“Better than that. Take some credit. Your suggestions are what's made it so special. I don't know what Tom is going to do now, though. He's going to have severe withdrawal pains.”

“Can work for me anytime. I've told him that. Might get tired of being a preacher.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Faith said, although a tiny doubt was nagging at the back of her mind. Tom had been so happy to be away from the pulpit. Too happy? Her mind skipped back to a conversation they'd had last week. They'd taken the Rowes' Boston Whaler and gone a short way down the Reach at sunset. It was a warm night and the sea was calm. As they approached the arching suspension bridge from Sanpere to the mainland, Tom had commented, “Such a fragile-looking connection from here, yet a virtual life-line.” Faith had replied, “I feel a sermon coming on,” and Tom had snapped back, “Why do you always say that? That's not my whole life, you know.” She hadn't pressed him. He seemed to want to enjoy the view quietly, but she had filed it under To Be Continued.