“Wel , it is odd. Let me know if anything of a nursery-rhyme nature occurs again. There isn't anything in Mother Goose about a body in the basement, is there?"
“Probably. Some of the rhymes were pretty violent. I'l ask Mother."
“Speaking of violence, what's happening with the investigation?”
Pix told her everything she knew, including Mitchel Pierce's present whereabouts.
“I agree with you. It is sad. And it certainly gives new meaning to the phrase òn the shelf.' If no one has claimed him by August, he should be interred someplace on the island. Tom can do the service," Faith said, cavalierly offering her spouse. "If relatives or friends haven't turned up by then, they would be unlikely to later."
“As soon as they calculate his estate, they're going to advertise—not the amount, of course, although Mitch couldn't have had much just that you could hear something to your interest. If this doesn't bring someone forward, nothing wil —or there's no one to be brought. I'm not saying it wel ."
“You're saying it wonderful y. Why, I don't know, but the whole thing reminds me of the time I went in the backyard and saw this man scattering ashes on the rosebushes. It must be the ashes," Faith added parenthetical y.
“You never told me about this!" Pix exclaimed, surprised at the incident and even more at the fact that she hadn't known about it.
“It was shortly after we were married, and I didn't know you as wel then as I do now. I probably thought you'd be scandalized, because I was furious with him. I mean those were our roses! He could at least have had the decency to ring at the front door and ask permission. It turned out that he was a former parishioner who was passing through and just happened to have his aunt Til y in the car and thought she'd like literal y to be pushing up roses."
“Her name wasn't real y Til y."
“Possibly not. I don't remember. Of course I ended up feeling sorry for him. He finished his sprinkling and I gave him something to eat. I think it was some leftover blueberry tarte."
Faith's food memory was flawless.
“I want that recipe, remember. We're going to have a bumper crop this year and the wild strawberries in the meadow are already ripe. I should have plenty for jam."
“Don't make me jealous. I wish I hadn't accepted al these jobs for the Fourth. I'l never do it again.”
Pix got her chowder advice; it wasn't complicated, simply good old multiplication. Faith suggested she might like to sprinkle fresh dil on top, but Pix told her this was a chowder purist crowd, eschewing even oyster crackers.
Faith then asked Pix's advice on how to stay sane while Amy was determinedly learning to walk, reeling around the house on feet that looked too tiny to support any kind of movement, let alone something as complicated as standing erect unaided.
“I want to give her knee and elbow pads, plus a helmet.
Ben never went through this self-destructive phase. Sure he pul ed himself up on things a lot, but he basical y just sat, then started walking when he was about fourteen months."
“You just don't remember. It's a merciful forgetting. Al that fal ing down”
They talked and laughed about the kids some more.
Pix had yet to receive one of the stack of self-addressed stamped postcards she had sent off to camp with Danny.
She had wanted to do the same with Mark but dared not.
She'd have to pray for col ect cal s. She told Faith about Samantha's Valerie worship, was reassured—and realized she needed it—by Faith's own loyal remarks as to Pix's superiority, despite her lack of a subscription to Vogue.
“It wouldn't hurt to put on a little lipstick occasional y, though. I know what happens to you in Maine. Squeaky-clean is not al that intriguing. And leave a fashion magazine or two around the house with your cow-manure manuals or whatever you're reading these days"
“I'd rather have manure on my roses than what's on yours," Pix retorted.
“That was years ago. Besides, they've bloomed like crazy ever since.”
It was very difficult to get the last word with Faith. Pix said good-bye and went to bed but not to sleep. They were showing movies at the old Opera House in Granvil e again and Samantha had gone with a group of friends.
As she lay listening for the sound of a car door, she thought about putting up another trel is in the garden for morning glories, across from the one that now sported a lush purple clematis. Building. House building. Earl wasn't sure when Seth could get back to work again. Bang.
Samantha was home. Pix turned out her light and was almost startled into wakefulness by remembering.
She'd forgotten to tel Faith what she stil didn't know—
that Seth hadn't done anything at al since May. Forgotten to tel her again.
The Sanpere Stitchers, which was what the Sewing Circle had decided to cal itself about twenty-five years before, was meeting at The Pines this month. Many island routines were disturbed by this sacrosanct meeting. Louel a closed the bakery for the afternoon; Mabel Hamilton left a cold dinner for the camp; and Dot Prescott's daughter went over to fil in for her mother. Anyone in residence at Adelaide and Rebecca Bain-bridge's bed-and-breakfast would find the doors locked. A note affixed to the shiny brass front knocker announced their return at five and suggested a long walk or drive to Granvil e until then.
When the ladies convened at her mother's house, Pix's life was not her own for about twenty-four hours. She wasn't a member of the group, although they graciously al owed her to sit in when it was at Ursula's. Membership was a closely guarded affair, bestowed infrequently and only to women of a certain age and level of skil . The Sanpere Stitchers were very proud of their handiwork, and their annual sale in August to raise money for the Island Food Pantry was sold out by ten o'clock.
Pix's role began the night before with a cal from Mother.
“You remember, dear, that tomorrow is Sewing Circle at my house, don't you?”
Since Ursula had managed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways to work this into the conversation every day since last Friday, Pix did indeed remember. It was written down on several lists.
“Yes, of course, and I'l be there early to help. I know you want my big coffee urn. Is there anything else you need?"
“Not real y. Gert has things under control. She's been baking since Tuesday and cleaning since last Tuesday. But it occurred to me that you might bring some savories—a cheese spread, some crackers, you know the kind of thing.
Perhaps arranged on a nice plate with some grapes, for those who don't want just sweets.”
Pix developed a bowline in the pit of her stomach.
Mother wasn't talking about a Wispride spread or Cheez Whiz. Her reputation was at stake.
“I'l see what I can do," she promised, vowing to cal Faith as soon as Ursula hung up. This was an emergency.
Faith, knowing Pix's culinary expertise, gave her two very simple recipes* and told her to go to the foreign-food section, one shelf, at the IGA and pick up some Carr's water biscuits and Bremer wafers.
“Basical y, these are cream-cheese spreads. For the first, blend some of the goat cheese from the farmers'
market with an equal amount of cream cheese. That goat cheese by itself is too crumbly. If you don't have any, it's Mrs. Cousins who makes it, and you can go to her house.
Try to get the kind she puts herbs in. For the other spread, take some of the green-tomato chutney you put up last year
—you must have some left; you made vats of it—and mix it into the cream cheese. Don't make it too gooshy; taste it as you go along. Then put each in a pretty little bowl and decorate the top with a nasturtium or some other nonlethal posy from your garden. Put them on a platter and arrange the crackers and grapes around the bowls with more flowers.”