“Pix! I just heard about Adelaide Bainbridge. Come over to the house and tel me what happened. What a tragedy!”
Pix hesitated. She was curious about the fabled abode, but she wasn't real y dressed, or even combed sufficiently, and she wanted to get home to cal Faith.
She hadn't reckoned on Samantha's reaction.
Samantha clearly regarded an invitation to the Athertons'
"Mil ion Dol ar Mansion" as a command performance for those fortunate enough to be asked. She actual y poked her mother in the back.
“Wel , perhaps for a minute. I have to get home. Mother may be cal ing. Rebecca is over at her house.”
Valerie smiled brightly. "You come, too, Samantha, unless you are needed here.”
Crestfal en, Samantha admitted she should be inside helping with lunch.
“Another time." Valerie turned to Pix and said just loud enough for Samantha to hear and swoon, "You have the most precious thing for a daughter I ever did see." Valerie occasional y lapsed into the Kappa Kappa Gammanese expressions of her col ege and deb days in the real South.
“Thank you. We like her," Pix replied, then realized it sounded a little snippy and added, "We're going to miss her terribly when she goes off to col ege."
“You're so lucky having a daughter," Valerie commented wistful y as they went down the path connecting the Athertons' house to the camp. "But then, you have sons, too." Her voice was ful of commiseration. Pix was tempted to say they had never put them through the kind of hel Duncan seemed to be inflicting on his parents, yet it seemed inappropriate to gloat, and Danny was stil young.
Pix was loath to make any predictions—or say anything out loud—that might jinx things.
Valerie led her into the huge living room with teak-paneled wal s soaring to a cathedral ceiling. The shape of the room—it swept forward, fol owing the lines of the bluff on which it was situated—and al the wood made Pix feel as if she was in a boat, a very spectacular boat, and that must have been the architect's intent. She admitted inwardly that she was indeed envious. The house was gorgeous. Every plate-glass window framed a spectacular view. One set looked straight out to sea, another to the cove. Jim's boats, including the souped-up lobster boat he'd recently purchased, were picturesquely moored there.
It looked like July on a Maine-coast calendar. The fireplace was as stunning as Samantha had described. Pix noticed a large photo on the mantel of a handsome smiling man with his arm around a much younger, and happier, Duncan.
Valerie fol owed her gaze. "My first husband, Bernard Cowley. Duncan looks a bit like his father. I wish he could act like him. Buddy was a saint. I don't think I'l ever stop missing that man. Of course," she added quickly, "Jim is just about the nicest thing on two feet I've ever met, but you never get over something like this, and Jim understands."
“It must have been a terrible time for you and your son"
“It was—and if I hadn't met Jim, I don't know how I would have survived. Coming here was just what I needed and I know Duncan wil settle down" Valerie did seem genuinely happy, more so than Pix had noted recently.
Maybe things were going better with her son. Certainly it would be hard to be depressed in these surroundings. Most of the furniture in this room was modern, with a few wel -
chosen antiques: a softly burnished cherry card table, a child's Shaker chair, and an enormous grandfather clock, the sun and the moon slowly changing places above a stately schooner on the face. Scattered about in what Pix was sure was not a haphazard fashion were old brass navigational devices, a col ection of Battersea enameled boxes, and other conversation pieces.
“Now tel me about poor Adelaide while I make coffee.
I think there are two of those devastating muffins from that bakery in Blue Hil left. I swear Jim and Duncan devour whatever goodies I bring into this house like a swarm of locusts.”
Pix begged off. The locusts could feast on her devastating muffin. She real y had to get home, so she quickly gave a brief account of Adelaide's death.
“I didn't actual y know them wel , but Jim and his family had," Valerie said. "Poor old lady. She did kind of let herself go, if you know what I mean.”
Pix looked at the svelte figure graceful y draped across the leather couch before her and did indeed. Valerie Cowley Atherton would never let herself go. Pix saw her twenty years hence with face as smooth as plastic surgery could make it, body as trim as aerobics and a diet of lettuce and Perrier would supply.
She left and promised to return for a ful tour of the house.
“It's beautiful, Valerie, and everything you've done is perfect"
“Thank you" Her hostess flashed a wel -satisfied smile.
"I've always wanted to live in a modern house. Buddy's family, bless their hearts, would have a conniption over this place. The Cowleys are an old family and they never let anyone forget it. You can't imagine the inconvenience they put up with in order to stay authentic!”
Pix laughed. She had often heard Faith on the same subject with regard to New Englanders. She hoped the heat was breaking in Aleford, although it wasn't here. She stil felt guilty about the question of air conditioning at the parsonage.
“I can imagine. I'm afraid in my family, we may tendin this direction ourselves. Thank you for showing me the house. I'l take a rain check on the coffee."
“Bring Sam. We'l make it something else and al go into the hot tub," Valerie cal ed after her. Pix waved goodbye. You'd have to put a gun to Sam's head to get him to disport in that kind of revelry.
A hot tub sounded particularly unappetizing at the moment. A cold shower would be more like it. The temperature was up over ninety again. No one could remember such a long stretch of searing hot days.
But everything, including bodily comfort, took a backseat to her most important task; she was rewarded by Faith's answer on the second ring. What was more, Ben was at a friend's house and Amy was napping.
Faith was shocked at the news. "I know who Addie Bainbridge is. She's the fat one who runs the bed-and-breakfast and makes those incredible quilts, right? Her sister—what's her name again? She lives with her."
“Yes, except it's her sister-in-law. She's a Bainbridge, too, Rebecca. They've lived together for over thirty years."
“Oh, the poor thing. What wil she do now?"
“Her main worry at the moment, besides getting Adelaide buried, is keeping her garden watered, so I think she'l be al right. She's got something to focus on. Then, too, she may not real y be taking it al in. Rebecca's always been a bit scatterbrained and it's become more pronounced recently."
“Total y gaga?"
“I wouldn't go that far, definitely bordering on eccentricity though."
“Wel , so are most of the people I know, including you.
There's nothing wrong with that, but what is going on up there? I think I'l pack up the kids and come this weekend.
There has to be a connection between the two quilts. Let me know as soon as you find out whether there's a mark on the latest one and what kil ed her."
“I wil —and it would be lovely to have you here" At least Pix thought it would be, wouldn't it? A tiny voice was whispering that these were her murders, but she valiantly ignored it.
“The only problem is, we promised to go to Tom's sister's for a big family picnic, since everyone couldn't get together on the Fourth, and you know how they are about these things.”
Pix did know, having listened to Faith to these many years. Fairchild gatherings were sacrosanct, as wel as invariable. They were a family that celebrated—birthdays, major holidays, and then their own specific South Shore rituals: First Spring Sunday Raft Races on the North River, Al -Family Autumn Touch-Footbal Saturday, and so forth.