She must be in shock, she thought, to be thinking this way and to be thinking about what she was thinking so consciously. She was going in circles, but she wasn't frightened. Whoever had brought the body here was long gone. She tried to imagine what might have happened. An unknown man (presumably) was stabbed to death by person or persons unknown, wrapped in a quilt (why a quilt?), taken to this out-of-the-way spot either by boat or car, and buried. It would have had to have been at night. It would have been risky to come during the day, when there was a chance the construction workers might be around.
She saw the .scene vividly: the body wrapped in the quilt to keep the blood from leaving any tel -tale signs, carried from the car or boat, and placed in the basement; the digging of the grave by the dim light of a flashlight beam—make haste; make haste—final y leaving the corpse and slipping back into the role or roles played everyday, with no hint of the night's work crossing a face. Her breath was almost taken away at the audacity of it al . If Pix hadn't brought the dogs, the concrete basement floor would have covered the grave and no one would have been the wiser. The Fairchilds would be living above a crime and never know it.
But wouldn't the dead person have been missed eventual y? What kind of person has no one asking his whereabouts?
Pix stood up and walked farther away from the house.
Sketching the scene in her mind had removed some of the distance—or the shock was wearing off. She began to feel queasy and afraid. Where was Samantha?
Think about something else. There's nothing you can do. Why had she stayed behind? They both could have gone for help. But it had seemed wrong to leave that hand so exposed, untended. The sky was fil ed with the shril cries of gul s and terns. She shuddered at the notion of their beaks pecking at the hand, unearthing more of the body in the basement.
She threw her head back and gazed up at the circling birds: herring gul s; laughing gul s; two cormorants, portentous black creatures, necks bent like shepherds'
crooks as they landed on the rocks; arctic terns, streamlined and elegant, swooping graceful y among their gul cousins. She watched as one lone tern hovered over the water, then suddenly plunged headfirst after a fish. A hundred years ago, this tern would have been prey, not predator. Pix's mother invariably mentioned it at least once a season when watching the birds dart and dive.
Thousands at a time were kil ed in their summer nesting grounds and island women were hired to skin them, preparing them for the New York feather market to grace a hat or trim a dress. The terns were saved from extinction just in the nick of time by the first Audubon Societies and legislation control ing the plumage trade.
The terns were summer people. They were from
"away" and had nested on the islands at their own peril.
The corpse lying here under the sky, was it someone from away, as wel ? Someone unknown and unfamiliar to the island who could vanish without a trace? Vanish as the terns nearly had?
Samantha must surely be at the Hamiltons' house by now.
Think of other things.
It was almost July, but the long hard winter buffeting the island with snow and heavy rains until late April had delayed the already-short growing season even further. And now it was dry. There wouldn't be the traditional fresh peas to go with salmon for the Fourth of July. No one had been able to sow much of anything Memorial Day weekend because the weather had been so bad. Pix imagined what her garden would look like in August: green tomatoes that she'd have to bring back to Aleford to ripen between sheets of newspaper; lettuce; too many zucchini; the eggplant was doubtful—Her pessimistic reverie was interrupted by a loud shout.
“What the hel are you doing here!”
She hadn't heard anyone approach, and it was obviously not Freeman Hamilton, Samantha, or Sergeant Dickinson.
She jumped to her feet and ran in the direction of the shore, with some notion of trying to attract attention from a passing sailboat.
The tethered dogs were barking their heads off. As she raced down the slope toward the beach, her heart pounding with fear and from the exertion, she glanced back at the animals and caught sight of the intruder. It was Seth Marshal , glowering. His long dark hair, heavy mustache, and the anger in his eyes made him look like a pirate from a children's book il ustration.
Pix stopped abruptly and turned around. Her own anger of an hour ago returned ful force, fueled in addition by the fright he had given her.
“What do you mean what am I doing here? How about what the hel you were supposed to be doing here? I thought you were building a house. The foundation isn't even poured!”
Her voice was booming and she was almost face-to-face with him before she col ected herself. Seth Marshal knew when and where the concrete foundation was going to be poured. Seth Marshal had a handy pickup fil ed with shovels and al sorts of other digging equipment. Seth Marshal 's mother was a quilter.
“I didn't know it was you." He was almost apologizing.
"Don't want people messing around out here.”
“When were you here last?" She wanted some information before she broke the news.
“Look, Pix, I can't afford to turn work down. I told the Fairchilds that when they hired me. I've got to make enough in the spring and summer to last me al year. The Athertons needed some repairs at the camp before they could open and I've been over there the last few weeks. And I've been finishing a cottage for some people on the reach road. But we'l be here every daylight hour from now on. The soil is good and dry. We'l be able to get everything done, even the floor, by the end of the week. The Fairchilds wil have their place before Labor Day. That's a promise.”
Pix heard him with only half an ear, although that half did cause an internal comment of promises, promises, before zeroing in on the matter at hand—literal y. She'd have to watch out. Her mind was running amok. So, Seth claimed not to have been at the site for several weeks. The police could probably tel how long the soda cans and other debris had been around. Without carbon dating, it would be impossible to say when the venerable cement mixer had been set in place.
There was no point in delaying further. She had to tel him. He'd spot it the moment he walked over to the excavation, and he was moving that way.
“There's a dead body buried in the cel ar hole. My dog started to dig it up."
“What!”
Seth's bushy eyebrows rose clear out of sight, disappearing somewhere into his mane of hair.
Pix was patient. It was a lot to take in. "The dog was digging at something and when we went to see what it was, it turned out to be somebody's hand. There's a very dead person over there. Wrapped in a quilt."
“A quilt?" Seth seized on the word, the only one suggestive of normalcy.
“Yes, a patchwork quilt."
“I don't believe it!”
Pix knew he wasn't referring to the quilt. "Come and see for yourself." He fol owed her over to the edge of the pit he and his crew had dug in the spring. There hadn't been anything other than rocks in the ground then.
“Holy shit! It's a hand!”
Pix nodded. It was the third time she'd approached.
The hand was beginning to look familiar.
“We've got to get Earl out here!"
“Samantha was with me and she went to the Hamiltons' for help. They should be here soon."
“I've got a shovel and a pickax in the truck. You sit out of the way and I'l dig him up. It could be pretty nasty.”
Pix figured Seth would want to take action. Most men usual y did, however she'd been close enough to her friend Faith's sleuthing activities to know that they should leave wel enough alone. Not that she had exactly, but digging the body up would definitely be regarded by the police as tampering with evidence, and she told Seth so.