The Body in the Ivy (4 page)

“Mrs. Fairchild?” A man dressed in Dickies, work clothes Faith had come to associate with New England workmen, reached for her bags as she stepped onto the platform. His trousers' knife-point creases and shirt's total lack of wrinkles set him apart from those familiar to her, though. The clothes weren't new—no sheen on the fabric—but they had been ironed to a fare-thee-well.

“Yes?”

“Barbara Bailey Bishop asked me to meet your train and drive you to the dock.” He looked middle-aged, which meant he could be anywhere from forty to seventy in these parts, and lifted her bags easily, even the one loaded with her knives and other special kitchen equipment. They walked along the platform toward the terminal, and he paused at the door before going outside.

“Are you hungry? There's plenty of time. Or do you need—”

Noting the start of a faint blush, Faith interrupted him before he had to say whatever euphemism he employed.

“I'm fine. We can get going now if you like.”

He nodded and she followed him out to an old woody parked at the curb. The station wagon, in mint condition, was attracting a lot of attention. He opened the door for Faith to sit in the rear. She would have preferred the front—after all, she was part of the help, too—but she followed his slight nod and got in. He closed the door firmly behind her, put her bags in the back, and got behind the wheel. She had the feeling there wouldn't be much conversation on this trip. He wasn't Owen, or Mr. Owen—whether it was a first or last name had never been established. Their voices were completely different. Both Yankees, but one from above and the other from below the salt. She wondered how long the trip would be and was about to ask, then decided to let herself be surprised. Long or short, there wasn't anything she could do about it.

The train ride had been relaxing. Now she felt her calm ebb as she mentally went over her checklists of supplies, menus, possible catastrophes. There was a caretaker/gardener who would help her clean up, she'd been told. Was he also her chauffeur? If so, he'd make an unusual sous chef. Not that she needed one for such a small group, but it was always good to have an extra pair of hands around. She didn't know any Pelham grads except for Hope's friends, and like Faith's sister they had only a nodding, or dialing, acquaintance with
food preparation. Perhaps in this older Pelham group, she'd find a kindred spirit, or at least a foodie or two.

They were well away from the station and into the country before Faith turned her attention from her thoughts to the views through the side window. The road soon narrowed, and after a turn at a large salt marsh, it disappeared altogether, becoming a dirt strip running parallel to the shore. A great blue heron watched them pass, briefly looking up from the mud flats. The tide was out. Then suddenly they were in the woods, the pines so dense, only a few rays of sunshine managed to struggle through. After several murky minutes, they were in the open again. But now it really
was
the coast. Faith could see a long dock ahead and moorings, white and bright pink mooring balls of all sizes bobbing in the water. The fishermen's spots were empty, awaiting their return with the day's catch, which would be soon. When you started as early as they did, 2:00 p.m. was getting close to supper and bed. The other moorings were filled with pleasure boats, sail and motor, waiting for weekenders or their summer owners. This was deep water, unaffected by the tide and no place for herons. A single dark line of cormorants was perched on the roof of a long, low wooden building. An ornithological Greek chorus. Screeching gulls and terns wheeled about overhead.

“This is it. You're the first.” Her driver pulled the woody into a spot beside the building and stopped.

He got out and retrieved her bags. As she walked toward him and he toward her, they almost ran into each other. She supposed she should have waited to be fetched.

“I can run you over to the island now. No point in hanging around here. Could be hours.”

“Thank you.”

“Might want a sweater. Cool on the water.”

She had thought of that and pulled a fleece L.L. Bean jacket from the oversized handbag she'd kept with her. Her companion waited for her to put it on, then walked off toward the dock. She quickened her pace to keep up with him, looking about. Save for the two of them, she didn't see another human being. Plenty of birds, but no people.

Ms. Bishop must be into vintage accoutrements, Faith thought as she stepped into a large mahogany Chris-Craft runabout that was waiting at the bottom of the ramp moored at a float marked private. There were no other places to tie onto, except for the one currently in use. She wished Tom were with her. The car would have been a treat, but the boat would have provided a major life experience. She could hear him now: “Do you know how rare these are? And this one looks as if it's never been in the water!” Like the skipper, the boat seemed to date from the 1940s.

She sat in front before she could be waved anywhere else and put on the life jacket draped across the seat. The sky was blue, not a cloud to be seen, and the smell of the salt water was as intoxicating as any French perfume or brandy. Faith took a deep breath and smiled at the man next to her, who had effortlessly started the boat, no sputtering false chokes. He favored her with one in return.

“Like being on the water?”

“Very much,” Faith answered.

“Good thing. We've got a ways.”

Thirty minutes later Faith began to think the description “a ways” was not mere New England under-statement, but actual fact. Before too long, they'd hit Nova Scotia. At this point, she had no idea whether the island was off Maine, New Hampshire, or, considering the distance, Massachusetts.

Lobster boats returning home had passed by them earlier, the one-handed wave from the figures in oil-skins a greeting, but more important, a signal that all was well. She hadn't seen another boat for fifteen minutes or more.

Faith was glad she had her jacket. There was only a slight breeze, but the speed of the boat increased its effect, and she was almost cold.

They were in open water, far away from the mainland. No more points of land with clusters of small and, in some cases, obscenely large houses—McMansions even here. Islands like green pincushions dotted the horizon and Faith began to speculate on which one might be the author's private retreat.

“Is Ms. Bishop's island one of those?” she asked, pointing starboard.

“Nope, Indian Island is further out.”

“Indian Island?”

“Bishop's Island now. Folks around here still call it by the original name.”

Maybe there was a shell heap on the island. Last summer Ben had become interested in the Abenaki, who had summered on Sanpere Island long ago, as did the Fairchilds now. They left traces, which were mostly in museums off island, although a few artifacts remained on
display at the Sanpere Historical Society in one of the old schoolhouses, open from 1 to 4 on Wednesdays and Saturdays in season and otherwise by chance.

Almost an hour now. Perhaps there was a helipad. She couldn't imagine Bishop doing this trip often—to have a meal with friends on the mainland, say, or to see a movie.

A tiny, lone speck directly in front of them was getting larger.

“That's the island.”

When the boat came close to the dock, Faith could see a figure waiting. Her employer? But upon closer view, she saw it was another man, looking much the same as the one beside her, except he was wearing well-pressed denim overalls.

He grabbed the line and made the boat fast. Suddenly the air was warm again, and sweet. A gentle breeze was carrying a smell like lilacs or some other old-fashioned flower past the rockweed and kelp swept up by the tides, lining the long rocky beach in front of her. Her bags were handed out, and after carefully placing the life jacket as she'd found it, Faith followed. The two men nodded to each other and moments later the line was back in the boat and the Chris-Craft was headed back the way it had just come.

“Good-bye!” Faith called. “Thank you!”

The skipper raised one hand and gunned the engine.

She turned to the man next to her.

“Hello, I'm Faith Fairchild. I'll be doing the cooking this week.”

“Name's Justice—Brent Justice. She left a note for you up at the house.”

Apparently that was going to be the extent of the present conversation, and in light of it, Faith's expectations for the future were low. Once again she fell into step. They walked down the long dock and around a good-sized boathouse. Faith stopped. She had to take a moment. Justice looked at her quizzically, but she didn't say anything. She was too busy staring at the house. It was absolutely beautiful—and absolutely perfect.

It sat in understated splendor on a rise above the beach. A long screened-in porch stretched across the front of the dwelling, a simple white farmhouse with gables in its mansard roof, a slightly elegant touch that did not seem out of place. It graced the structure like a becoming hat on a beautiful woman. A simple, almost geometric, gingerbread railing on each side of the porch added some further embellishment. Rough granite steps led up to the door in the center. Pale pink, white, and deeper pink
Rosa rugosa
bushes—beach roses—had been planted several deep, the source of that ineffable smell.

She realized her companion was still looking at her. She laughed.

“I'm sorry. It's just that the house is so wonderful. I've never seen one like it—and in such a fantastic setting.” She knew she was gushing. When she'd thought about the house at all with its multitude of bedrooms, baths, a spa, pool, she'd pictured something more like the monstrosities they'd passed on the way out.

“Yup. Nice place. Cost a pretty penny and took a while to build what with everything having to come from the mainland. Wasn't much on the island before, but she wouldn't hear of getting rid of even one shingle.
Amos Hardy kept sheep out here in the forties and fifties. We even remade his old boathouse.”

Perhaps she had been wrong about Brent Justice's laconic nature. He was a veritable font of information. They started walking again.

“When did Ms. Bishop build her house?”

“Let me see. Must have been eighty-three or eighty-four.”

“So she's been here a long time.”

Justice didn't seem to think the statement required an answer. Faith quickened her pace. She couldn't wait to see more of the place.

The porch was filled with Bar Harbor rockers and wicker made comfortable with plenty of soft cushions. There were planters at either end, overflowing with flourishing patriotic red geraniums, white nicotiana, and blue lobelia. Passing through the house's front door, Faith entered a room that reminded her a little of the all-purpose living rooms turn-of-the-twentieth-century rusticators from Boston and New York had scattered in their “cottages” along the coast. Windows for “the view,” lots of furniture—sofas, chairs, bookcases, tables, tables for meals and always tables for jigsaw puzzles. The difference between those rooms and this one, aside from the absence of the smell of mold, was that the furniture wasn't a motley assortment of Great-aunt Martha's things too good for the Salvation Army, and the couch Cousin Alec's second wife replaced with a new one, even though that one was just fine. This furniture matched. Not in a complete set from Ethan Allen way, but as in all in perfect shape and all eclectically expressing the same theme—comfort. Form might follow function, but here
in Barbara Bailey Bishop's home, comfort added three letters to form. There was grouped seating large enough for a dinner party's postprandial coffee and liqueurs—and nooks with small window seats flanked by bookcases for a cozy solo read on a foggy day. The ceiling was high and the room was wide. Faith could see an adjoining dining room, a table large enough for twelve set next to a bay window overlooking the view to the side of the house. The floors in both rooms were oak, covered in part by Orientals, a rainbow of color. The far end of the living room was completely taken up by a granite-faced fireplace with a gray driftwood mantel.

“Note's over there, kitchen's through that door, and your room's up the back stairs. She's working. Be back later.”

Faith came down to earth with a thud. She'd almost forgotten why she was here. The kitchen, then the back stairs—a back bedroom. Not a scullery maid's airless box room in an attic, but not one of the front rooms facing the water.

She picked up the note, set in plain view on what she was sure was a Nakashima coffee table from the 1950s, a free-form slab of exquisite black walnut, and went through the door Brent Justice had left open into the kitchen.

It was like her first glimpse of the house. She stopped dead in her tracks. Hope had been right. It
was
her dream kitchen. But there would be time to gloat over the Wolf stove later. And what kind of stone could the counters be made of? She'd seen plenty of black granite, but never any with threads of gold and flecks of cerulean blue.

“Propane, gas generators, some solar.”

“Excuse me?” Brent's words interrupted her thoughts, and it took a moment for her to grasp the context. “Oh, how it's powered, because of course there isn't any electrical service out here.”

He nodded, and they continued on.

The house seemed to go on forever. Faith glimpsed what looked like a solarium, as she walked down the hall off the kitchen, then followed her guide up a broad staircase that had been carpeted—for comfort and safety, she supposed. It ended at another hallway, this one with a series of closed doors. It could almost have been a hotel—or dormitory. The landing was big enough for more comfy chairs, which were set next to a window. An old chest was covered with an assortment of the latest magazines and today's newspapers—Faith had the same copy of the
Times
in her bag. An arrangement of wildflowers in a beautiful blue and white Ming vase had been placed off to one side on the deep windowsill. Faith looked at the handyman with renewed respect. Who else could have been responsible for the flowers? These and all those in the living room downstairs. And more in the kitchen on the center island, calendulas in a bright yellow Provençal pottery pitcher. Or were there elves like the shoemaker's who did the flowers, fetched the papers, arranging everything before dawn? Then again could it, in fact, be the hand of Bishop herself?