The Body in the Basement by Katherine Hall Page Read Free Book Online Page A

not unknown on Sanpere, having spent time living there off and on while he was working at his purported craft: the restoration of old houses. But Mitchell also lived all along the coast from Camden past Bar Harbor, depending on where he was working. And to complicate matters still further, he was known to disappear for months at a time, purportedly (again) to the Pacific North-west. Purport, in various forms, was a word that turned up often in conversations about Mitch. In addition to his restoration work, he dabbled in antiques, buying and selling. In fact, he bought and sold almost anything from Mercedes coupes to odd lots of canned goods. He was a man who lived by his wits and it was a well-known fact that these wits often took him close to the law. Provenance was something that Mitch defined broadly, as it suited his own needs. An exquisite piece of folk art could have been made in 1890 or 1990. What mattered, Mitch was quick to point out to his detractors, was that it was exquisite.
    In another era, Mitch might have sold snake oil, and the pitch he made to new purchasers of old houses was not unlike the slippery patter of his antecedents. His charm was hard to resist and levelheaded Boston businessmen found themselves uncharacteristically turning their houses and charge accounts at Barton’s Lumber over to Mitch so he might bring the dwelling back to its pristine glory. Mitch got free rent and free rein. Sometimes the customers were satisfied. Mitch did know what he was doing. And sometimes they returned in the spring to find hide nor hair of him, their pipes burst, and an astronomical bill waiting at Barton’s. Still, he kept getting jobs.
    It wasn’t that he was particularly good-looking. Short, with
a wide widow’s peak, the adjacent bald patches threatening to spread back across the dome of his head, he’d developed a paunch at thirty; now at forty, it could be described less kindly. He had an impish grin, an infectious laugh, took no one, including himself, seriously, and was wonderful company.
    He’d done some work on The Pines a few years ago and Ursula stood over him the whole time. He’d expected nothing less and they parted friends, but Pix hadn’t fallen under his sway. She didn’t trust him—not on her tintype, and especially not on his.
    It was Mother who called to reveal who the dead man was, of course.
    Ursula was miffed that Pix hadn’t informed her immediately about her grisly find, but Pix had always been a good little girl. So when Earl told her to keep her mouth shut, she took it as a sacred trust.
    â€œBut certainly you could have said something to your own mother!”
    â€œI didn’t even tell Sam. Now, of course, I can, since everyone seems to know even more than I do and I found him.” Pix often found being good didn’t shower one with the rewards implicitly promised.
    â€œWhy don’t you come over here for tea and we’ll talk about it. How is Samantha?”
    â€œShe slept when we came back and seems fine now. Arlene and her boyfriend asked her to go to the movies in Ellsworth and that should take her mind off it. And it will help when she knows who it was. I doubt she ever met him. If it had been someone she knew, that would have been worse.”
    â€œAll right, then. When she leaves, you come on over.”
    Pix agreed and hung up. She really ought to call Sam now and most certainly should call the Fairchilds. Tom was probably out on parish business. Maybe it would be better if they were both together and she could tell Sam at the same time, because the first thing he’d do after hanging up would be to
run next door. Besides, her mother might have picked up some more things and Pix would have further information for them. She’d wait until she came back.
    Feeling like the abject coward she knew herself to be, she waved good-bye to Samantha, whose color was back, and set off for tea and maybe sympathy.
    The tea