Katherine Page - The Body In The Basement

“Wel , whoever did kil him must be an exceptional y nasty person."

“I think we can assume that," Pix said.

“No, besides being evil. Drunkard's Path—it's just plain nasty to cal attention to Mitchel 's drinking problem.

He'd been fighting it for years”

Ursula must have grown very close to Mitchel over the dry rot, Pix speculated. There didn't appear to be much she didn't know about the man. No reason not to take advantage of Mother's winning ways.

“Did he have a family? I never heard that he was married."

“No, he never married. I don't think he was real y very interested in women—or men. Just things. He definitely liked things, especial y beautiful and valuable things. Of course he must have had a mother and father, but he never spoke of them—or any brothers or sisters. He did mention that he grew up in Rhode Island, though."

“We should tel Earl that. It might be a lead."

“I wil , or you can tel him. Mitchel knew a great many people on the island, but not many people knew him. He minded his own business.”

And probably for very good reasons as far as Mitchel was concerned, Pix thought.

“Seth knew him best, I'd say."

“Seth!"

“Yes, when he was a teenager, he worked for Mitchel .

I've often heard Seth say he learned everything he knows about building and restoring houses from Mitch. They were very close for a time. You know the way boys that age look up to someone a little older who seems to know everything.

I think Mitchel even lived with the Marshal s one winter.

Maybe Seth can repair the latticework. I hadn't thought of him."

“Not until he finishes the Fairchilds' house," Pix said firmly. "The latticework has needed repair for several years and it can hold out a little longer.”

She took another cup of tea, turned down her mother's offer of sherry as sunset drew nigh, and set off for home to make her phone cal s.

The Pines was across a causeway connecting Sanpere and Little Sanpere. It was a short road, but it twisted and turned precariously above the rocky shoreline.

It was another favorite place for the local kids to drag and had witnessed several tragedies over the years. There were no guardrails. Large rocks had been set on either side and this year they were painted with bright white luminous paint to help keep drivers on track. It wasn't a road she liked to think of Samantha negotiating at night.

She passed through Sanpere Vil age with its lovely old ship captains' houses, some with widow's walks, facing the sea. Her friends El iot and Louise Frazier lived in one, and Louise was planting geraniums in a huge old blue-and-white stoneware crock in the fading daylight. Pix waved and continued on. The Fraziers belonged to the same group that Pix fancied her family did—people not orginal y from Sanpere who either now lived here year-round or had been coming in the summer for so long that the line between native-born and "summer person" had blurred. They weren't islanders, but they were close to it. El iot Frazier had been the postmaster for years and both he and Louise had served on many of the town's boards. They were even further across the line than the Mil ers and Rowes, although if there had been an honorary islander award, Pix's mother would have won it years ago. Being admitted to the Sewing Circle amounted to the same thing.

As Pix drove across the island on one of the three roads that connected the loop Route 17 made around the circumference, she thought about al these distinctions and wondered why people always found it so necessary to put other people in neat little categories, and why indeed she prided herself so much on her own label.

Many of the summer people actively fought the moniker—buying their clothes at the fishermen's supply, driving beat-up old trucks, and studiously avoiding the vacation community on the island. These same people tended to count how often they received the traditional island road greeting—a few fingers casual y raised from the top of the steering wheel and maybe a slight nod as vehicles passed.

The rusticators, families who had been coming for generations, had always hired local people to work for them as caretakers and cooks, and they didn't pretend—or in some cases want—to blend in. Their ways had been set by a grandmother or grandfather in '02 and successive generations found no reason for change. They sailed. They took vigorous walks. They picnicked—with the same immense wicker hampers outfitted with thermos bottles, china, utensils, a rug to spread on the ground, and a folding camp stool if required by an elderly member. They wore squashed salt-encrusted, white canvas sun hats that did not prevent their faces from turning a ruddy bronze, complete with peeling nose, by August.

Where did Mitchel Pierce fit into the social scheme?

Pix wondered. He wasn't a summer person, but he was from away. He was more intimate with the native population of Sanpere, since he'd boarded in various island homes at times. These people general y spoke approvingly of him, even after some major disaster when a foundation he had finished crumbled because there was too much sand in the concrete. He loved to listen to the old-timers' stories and could recount the history of the island better than most who had grown up here. He played the mandolin passably and was a popular addition for musical evenings, where he was sure to be asked for "Rainbow" and "The Girl I Left Behind Me" Yet his last series of misadventures had left an unpleasant taste even in the mouths of these supporters.

He'd been working on a large Victorian mansion original y constructed by a shipyard owner in Sanpere Vil age. The current owners, wealthy summer people, lived in Chicago during the winter. Mitch had charged not only building supplies at Barton's but also food at the IGA and bread and other baked goods at Louel a Prescott's. Louel a ran a smal bakery from her kitchen and had learned the same delectable recipes from her mother that her sister, Gert, had. Both women were noted especial y for their pies, and in Louel a's case, the best anadama bread in Maine, or perhaps anywhere.

Mitch had disappeared midwinter and was sighted up in Northeast Harbor with a booth at an antiques show. He told someone there that he planned to return to Sanpere to finish the job and settle his accounts, but he never again crossed the bridge to anyone's knowledge—and there were plenty of people looking for him. Bar-ton's was a big outfit, and in any case, the owners of the house he was working on would be forced to cover the bil , since they'd given Mitch carte blanche. But Louel a, and Vincent at the IGA, had trouble absorbing the loss. Mitch had run up quite a tab. His habit of turning up on your doorstep with a pie in one hand and a few pints of the expensive ice cream Vince stocked as a luxury item didn't seem the generous and kindhearted gesture it once had. Local opinion was that Mitch should come back and face the music.

Pix could almost hear what people were no doubt saying now. Wel , old Mitchel is back, but the only music he's facing is harp music, and that might be doubtful.

She added another category for people like Mitch.

The Fairchilds were clearly going to be summer people, arriving for a vacation, pure and simple, leaving only their footsteps behind.

Samantha's employers were a blend, since Jim's family had been coming for such a long time, plus they were now living here year-round. But Valerie's southern accent alone would keep them at arm's length as outsiders for years.

Jil Merriwether drove past Pix on the opposite side of the road. They'd reached the two steep up and down hil s that were so much fun to drive, like a rol er coaster. Jil gave more than the laconic salute—a big smile and a wave. Had she heard about Mitch?

Pix suddenly remembered that Jil had added antiques to her shop. She'd talked about it during the Memorial Day weekend and mentioned that Mitch was one of her suppliers, so she must have known how to get in touch with him. Pix made a note to herself to talk to Jil and try to find out where Mitch had been living.