and so on.
“Mom, what are you thinking about? You have the funniest expression on your face."
“Do I? I was thinking maybe I ought to get a new car, something smal er.”
Samantha shook her head. "Your car is always loaded now. If it was any smal er, you'd have to get a trailer. Make Daddy let you drive his more. I wish I could. It must be a blast," she added longingly.
They stopped outside the church and hurried in, sliding next to Ursula just as the bel in the steeple began to tol .
“Such a perfect day for the clambake," Ursula whispered. "I figured Sam would be with El iot, but I was beginning to wonder where you two were.”
At one o'clock, Pix was helping Louise set up. Sam had started a smal er fire, let it burn down, and placed a gril on top for the huge pot of chowder Pix had made. They lugged it over and gingerly set it in place. Sam took off the cover and inhaled. "Sweeter than al the perfumes of Araby.
I believe this is going to be the best ever. Why don't I get a cup and give it a try?"
“You say the same thing every year!"
“That's not true. I don't remember ever comparing your chowder to perfume before."
“Possibly, but the rest. Anyway, by al means get a cup.
You know me—a bottomless sink for reassurance when it comes to cooking.”
Sam got a cup and ladled some out. He took a heaping spoonful. "It's ... wel , how can I describe it?”
“Good or bad?"
“Superlative.”
Pix heaved a sigh of relief. He always said superlative, too, but it was comforting to hear. The perfume simile was new, though: "Al the perfumes of Araby" Wasn't it
"Arabia"? Macbeth. Lady Macbeth scrubbing at her hands.
She wished he'd picked something else.
It was impossible to forget that only a week ago on such a day as this, a corpse had turned up. As people began to arrive, struggling with food, sports equipment, and smal children, she wondered whether the guilty one walked among them. She had to put it out of her head. Sonny Prescott had provided the most logical answer. Mitch had gotten in with the wrong business partners.
“Pix, Pix, could you help set these out?" Louise always became mildly flustered at the start of the clambake. She was nervous that the food wouldn't cook until it was too dark to eat, although the rare years when El iot had miscalculated and they did eat late, nobody had minded a bit. Eyeing what Louise had provided and others were bringing, Pix thought the problem would be finding room to eat anything else ·when the tarp was taken off and the fragrant layers of food exposed.
“There's enough to feed an army here!" she said, gesturing to the tables they'd constructed from planks and sawhorses, then covered with red-checked oilcloth.
“Good," a voice behind her commented, reaching for a deviled egg—Louise's great-aunt Lily Sue's prized recipe.
It was Earl, and Jil was by his side, Pix noted happily.
They were carrying paper plates, napkins, and other necessary objects. For the next hour, Pix was busy ladling out her chowder, which was disappearing fast. The party was in ful swing. The vol eybal net had been set up and there was a ferocious game of over forties versus unders going on. The younger children were exploring the shore, climbing over the rocks, oblivious of the sharp barnacles and other hazards that threatened their bare feet.
Samantha and some of her friends were with them. Arlene and her boyfriend had put in an appearance, politely tasted the chowder, then left for the Prescott clambake. There were time-honored functions occurring al over the island and the problem was not having enough time, or room in one's stomach, to visit them al .
The actual day of the Fourth was so crammed ful of activities that years ago, islanders had started celebrating early with their family picnics, usual y clambakes.
Seth Marshal had also dropped by with his parents.
He didn't partake of any of Pix's chowder. Maybe he was saving room for the next clambake. And maybe he was avoiding her. The crime site was stil sealed off by the police, so this was unlikely. But when she waved him over to ask him how quickly he could start once the police gave the word, he was so engrossed in conversation with Jil that he appeared not to see Pix's gestures. Overseeing the Fairchilds' cottage could be more work than she had envisioned. The first, almost overwhelming task was proving to be getting it started.
Pix reached up to mop her brow. Her T-shirt was beginning to stick to her back. It was getting unpleasantly hot, especial y standing over the chowder. She was glad she'd worn her bathing suit under her clothes. The cove was on deep water, which explained why the yacht club had selected the spot roughly eighty years ago—a yacht club that consisted of a venerable equipment shack, some moorings, and a few life buoys with SANPERE YACHT
CLUB stenciled on them. Some people were already in the water, and Pix was amused to see friends who expressed amazement at the Mil ers' tolerance, even enjoyment, of the cold temperature, bobbing about and cal ing others to join them.
The Athertons had arrived laden with pies and Valerie and Jim promptly joined the vol eybal game—on opposite sides of the net, Pix noted. She glanced around. Duncan, who she recognized from Samantha's description, was at the other end of the beach. It was hard to see him. He was sitting high up on a granite ledge at the point where it met the woods. His somber attire blended into the shadows of the trees. A figure of melancholy, a figure of gloom. Of doom? A mouse kil er. Pix firmly shoved back al the morbid thoughts that persisted in crowding into her conscious mind and joined the vol eybal game—on the over-forty side. Away from the chowder fire, she felt ten degrees cooler, and giving a good hard thwack to the vol eybal felt terrific.
During a break, Sam brought her a cold beer. "Who's that guy with the Bainbridges?”
Pix turned to look. Adelaide was settled into a monstrous lawn chair with al sorts of cushions, rugs, and satchels strewn about her. Rebecca was pressing sun-block on her. "You know how you burn, Addie."
“Oh, can't you let a body be? I'm fine. You'd think I was a two-year-old." This last comment was made to the man Sam had wondered about.
“I think he's staying at their bed-and-breakfast. I've seen him in the post office. But it would be odd for them to bring one of their guests to the Fraziers' clambake. I'l ask Louise.”
Pix walked over to her hostess, keeping the unknown visitor in view. He was very slim, attractive, with dark closely cropped curls and a smal neatly trimmed beard but no mustache. His clothes were appropriate and looked expensive. His jeans were pressed. Faith would be able to tel the brands and how much he'd paid instantly, but al Pix could determine was that his shirt might be silk. He'd knotted a raspberry-colored cotton sweater about his neck and there wasn't a drop of perspiration evident anywhere on his body. Pix's own damp hair told her what she looked like. After her swim, she'd get the fresh shirt she'd left in the car and put it on. Looking at this guy was having this kind of effect on her. He was tan and the only jewelry he wore was a watch. Maybe if she got closer, she could see what kind.
Faith always said that you could tel almost everything about a person by his or her watch and shoes. Pix looked down.
He was barefoot. Her own feet were clad in serviceable white Keds.
Louise was drinking a glass of white wine, not a good sign. "I don't know when we'l be ready to eat," she announced. "I've decided not to let it bother me, though."