Louise accepted Pix's offer of the chowder grateful y.
"Timing at clambakes is so unpredictable, and people always get hungry before we uncover the pit.”
After she hung up, Pix thought she'd better put in a quick cal to Faith before Sunday to ask her advice about making a large quantity of chowder. Usual y, she simply quadrupled or quintupled the recipe, but working at the catering company had heightened her sensibilities. Maybe there was some special proportion known only to dedicated cooks or foodies. She wished the Fairchilds could come up for the Fourth of July festivities on Sanpere, which actual y started the weekend before. The day itself would begin with a parade in Sanpere Vil age, fol owed by children's games in the elementary school playground, before moving to Granvil e for first the Odd Fel ows Lobster Picnic, then later the Fish and Fritter Fry run by the Fishermen's Wives Association on the wharf. The day ended back in Sanpere Vil age, with fireworks over the harbor at nightfal . But Faith was catering four different functions and couldn't get away.
Pix would miss the Fairchilds, but it might be best if they weren't around until the whole business with Mitchel Pierce was cleared up. She reminded herself to cal Earl and see when Seth could start work again. She presumed they'd been over the site with magnifying glasses, tweezers, fingerprint powder, and whatever else it was they used to find clues. They'd taken both her and Samantha's sneakers away on Sunday, so examining footprints was one activity, although it had been so dry that the slightest breeze would have long since blown away any traces in a cloud of dust.
Al right, she told herself briskly. Cal Earl, cal Faith, get out chowder recipe, make shopping list, pick up Mother at the Bainbridge's, where she is lunching, stake tomato plants, set out beer-fil ed tuna cans to kil slugs, pick up Samantha at work ... She got a pencil and made a list. Pix had lists everywhere—in her purse, in her pockets, on the wal , on the fridge, tucked into books. She'd told a friend once, "My life is one long list," and the friend had replied, "I know—and the list is never done." It had depressed Pix at the time and it depressed her now. She decided to take the dogs outside and do the tomatoes first.
The exercise and the fresh air lifted her spirits immediately and she stood up and stretched. It was a long one. Pix was not her given name, but an abbreviation of the childhood nickname "Pixie," bestowed by her doting parents when she was a wee mite of two. At four, she had shot up to the size of a six-year-old, but the name persisted.
And as she grew older, she was thankful to whatever fate had been responsible for that brief petite moment. As a name, Pix was vastly preferable to what was on her birth certificate, Myrtle—for her father's favorite aunt and her horticulturist mother's favorite ground cover. In retrospect, Pix was grateful Mother hadn't opted for the Latin and chosen Vinca Minor instead of little Myrtle. When Aunt Myrtle died, she left her namesake a cameo, a diamond brooch, and some nice coupons to clip. Everything but the cameo had long since been converted into a hot-water heater, braces for the kids, and, one particularly tight winter, antibiotics for the dogs, the cost of which had led Pix seriously close to fraud as she considered listing them under their given names of Dustin, Arthur, and Henry Mil er on the family's health insurance.
After al , what was in a name? Pix, like most people, seldom remembered she even had another one, unless she received a notice for jury duty or her mother was particularly annoyed with her. Her mother! She dropped her tools, ran into the house, hastily washed, and dashed out to pick Ursula up. It wouldn't do to be late.
* * *
Samantha, on another part of the island, stopped for a moment to look about. It was bright and sunny—a little too warm for Maine. They stil hadn't had any rain. She'd been working for several days and was beginning to get the lay of the land.
Maine Sail Camp consisted of a number of smal rustic wooden cabins plus a large dining hal that doubled as a recreation center scattered over a sloping hil ending at the shore with a large dock and boathouse. When not actual y on the water, campers could stil see it and the sailboats that were the focus of each encampment. In addition to the sailing lessons, campers were instructed in nature lore, swimming, and the al -important crafts of lariat making and pot-holder weaving. The oldest campers were thirteen; the youngest, seven. An invisible but impenetrable wal ran down the middle of the hil separating the boys' from the girls' cabins. There were campers whose parents and even grandparents had attended Maine Sail. Reunions were nostalgic affairs and camp spirit was actively encouraged.
A tear in the eye when singing "O Thou Maine Sail of My Life" was not viewed amiss. Jim Atherton, the director, was the embodiment of a Maine Sail camper. He lived, breathed, and now ran Maine Sail.
He had told Samantha her first day the camp wasn't just a camp but a state of mind. Kids returned year after year, not simply for the sailing and al the rest but for the
"experience." Samantha had noted that he seemed to be too choked up to put it into words. Final y, he'd told her,
"You'l have to feel it for yourself.”
Mostly what Samantha was feeling was tired. She was responsible for teaching ten of the youngest children beginning sailing, which was going to involve everything from knot tying, to reading the water, and final y to putting a tiny hand to the til er. Then she had to race up to the kitchen and help serve lunch, cleaning up afterward. She'd thought it would be fun to work with Arlene, but so far, they were much too rushed to do more than exchange a quick greeting in passing. Arlene stayed on with the crew to prepare dinner and clean the cabins. She told Samantha that if last year was anything to go on, the counselors would be much worse pigs than the kids. The kids had to keep their own bunks tidy. There were no such rules for the staff.
Today was as busy as the earlier part of the week had been. Samantha raced up the hil to the dining hal , swinging open the screen door, then letting it close behind her with a bang when she saw the kitchen crew surrounding Jim, al talking at once.
“Now, now, let's not get hysterical," he said. "There are mice al over the place. You know that. We'l put out some more traps”
Mabel Hamilton, Freeman's sister-in-law and the cook at the camp for so many years that local people thought of Maine Sail as "Mabel's Place," spoke above the din.
Everyone quieted down.
“We've al had mice in our kitchens. I found one poor little fel ow suffocated in a sack of flour once, but what we have not had until now are three mice with their heads cut off laid out on the counter alongside a carving knife.”
Samantha had moved next to Arlene. "Did you see them?" she whispered.
“Yeah, it is so gross."
“I think we should cal Earl." Dot Prescott's voice was firm. Everyone nodded. Dot was in charge of housekeeping and, like Mabel, had been at the camp forever.
Jim tried a jocular approach. "The police! Over a few dead rodents!" He laughed. It didn't work. A sea of tightly shut lips faced him. Mabel and Dot stood directly in front of him, feet planted solidly on the worn pine floorboards, arms folded tightly across their ample bosoms.
“Al right, al right, I'l tel Earl. Now, can we clean the mess up and feed the hoard of hungry kids who wil be streaming through that door in less than thirty minutes?”
Everyone returned to the kitchen. Mabel scrubbed the counter, muttering angrily to herself. "I don't like it. Not one little bit. Have half a mind to .. " No one learned what Mabel was going to do with half of her mind, although al hoped it wouldn't be the lobe with the recipe file. She was far and away the best cook on the island. She suddenly stopped and addressed them in a louder and determinedly cheerful voice. "Let's forget about this now. It doesn't do any good to think about such foolishness. Probably a prank somebody thought would be funny.”