Free The Body in the Birches by Katherine Hall Page

a treasure hunt with hidden clues. There she was again, back in some sort of novel, a mystery novel? One thing was clear. Having the meeting early would make for a much better holiday. Or would it?
    Quelling that notion, Sophie took the memo pad that was stuck to the fridge with a lobster magnet to write a shopping list both for today and tomorrow. She loved making lists. Cold cuts and bulkie rolls to make sandwiches for lunches. They had plenty of mustard and other condiments, but she should check anyway; jars had a way of accumulating with only a teaspoon left at the bottom. Tomorrow’s picnic would by definition be messy. They’d need more paper goods plus plenty of butter to melt for the lobsters and clams.
    Paul and Priscilla, and earlier generations, had hosted theclambake picnic for the entire Point each year. The method for the main course was unvarying. It had originated with the first summer people, the Abenakis, who came down to these shores each year from Canada. Tonight a group would dig a pit well above the high tide mark on the beach, lining it with rocks and driftwood, adding charcoal if there wasn’t enough wood. Early in the morning, they’d light it. The rocks had to heat up for at least five hours before the food was layered in between wet rockweed, which would steam it to perfection. A tarp, weighted down with more stones, covered the bake.
    The Proctors, and then the McAllisters, always had provided the lobster, clams, and corn, omitting the chicken and sausages some bakes included. The rest of the households on the Point brought variations of chicken and sausage, as well as traditional picnic fare like deviled eggs, potato salad, coleslaw, chips, dips, hot dogs for the kids, and desserts galore. Blueberry pie was a given, as were chocolate chip cookies, but the rest could be anything from coconut layer cake (that family was from the South originally) to Pavlova (a son had married an Aussie).
    Sophie found herself getting excited. The Fourth of July was her very favorite Sanpere/Birches tradition. Up early for the pancake breakfast at the Sanpere Village town hall to raise money for the volunteer fire department and ambulance corps, then the parade—a short one, as dictated by the island population, turning around at the top of the hill by the Congregational church to come back through town again. After the parade and games for children in the field by the elementary school, they would head back to The Birches for the clambake that would last until dusk. Will Tarkington was in for a treat. He’d probably never even had a real lobster. A Maine lobster. Knowing him, he’d want grits with it. Grits!
    She finished her list and dried the pots and pans from breakfast that were in the dish drainer, hanging each on the pegboard that covered a good part of one wall. Years ago a tidy person hadoutlined the various kitchenwares with a bright blue marker to indicate where they should go, and no one had ever changed it. No changes. That’s what was so special about The Birches. That there had been so few, if any, changes. Sophie knew if she left a sweater or a book one summer, it would be there when she returned—possibly in the same spot. Just like the scrapbook with the ferns she had pressed and labeled as a child and the ones her mother, Simon, and Sylvia had made—Priscilla many years earlier, too. Along with family photo albums, they were all stacked on the bottom shelf of the big bookcase in the living room. Some of the books’ pages were crumbling—as were the ferns and other flora—but no one had thrown them away. At least not yet.
    This was all so terribly hard, she thought. Why couldn’t they simply share the house? Allot times, if that became a problem? Draw straws to choose dates? She turned toward the people still sitting at the kitchen table.
    â€œDoes anyone need anything from the market? I’m going into Granville for a few