Free The Body in the Basement by Katherine Hall Page Page A

she considered listing them under their given names of Dustin, Arthur, and Henry Miller on the family’s health insurance.
    After all, what was in a name? Pix, like most people, seldom remembered she even had another one, unless she received a
notice for jury duty or her mother was particularly annoyed with her. Her mother! She dropped her tools, ran into the house, hastily washed, and dashed out to pick Ursula up. It wouldn’t do to be late.
    Â 
    Samantha, on another part of the island, stopped for a moment to look about. It was bright and sunny—a little too warm for Maine. They still hadn’t had any rain. She’d been working for several days and was beginning to get the lay of the land.
    Maine Sail Camp consisted of a number of small rustic wooden cabins plus a large dining hall that doubled as a recreation center scattered over a sloping hill ending at the shore with a large dock and boathouse. When not actually on the water, campers could still see it and the sailboats that were the focus of each encampment. In addition to the sailing lessons, campers were instructed in nature lore, swimming, and the all important crafts of lariat making and pot-holder weaving. The oldest campers were thirteen; the youngest, seven. An invisible but impenetrable wall ran down the middle of the hill separating the boys’ from the girls’ cabins. There were campers whose parents and even grandparents had attended Main Sail. Reunions were nostalgic affairs and camp spirit was actively encouraged. A tear in the eye when singing “O Thou Maine Sail of My Life” was not viewed amiss. Jim Atherton, the director, was the embodiment of a Maine Sail camper. He lived, breathed, and now ran Maine Sail.
    He had told Samantha her first day the camp wasn’t just a camp but a state of mind. Kids returned year after year, not simply for the sailing and all the rest but for the “experience.” Samantha had noted that he seemed to be too choked up to put it into words. Finally, he’d told her, “You’ll have to feel it for yourself.”
    Mostly what Samantha was feeling was tired. She was responsible for teaching ten of the youngest children beginning sailing, which was going to involve everything from knot
tying, to reading the water, and finally to putting a tiny hand to the tiller. Then she had to race up to the kitchen and help serve lunch, cleaning up afterward. She’d thought it would be fun to work with Arlene, but so far, they were much too rushed to do more than exchange a quick greeting in passing. Arlene stayed on with the crew to prepare dinner and clean the cabins. She told Samantha that if last year was anything to go on, the counselors would be much worse pigs than the kids. The kids had to keep their own bunks tidy. There were no such rules for the staff.
    Today was as busy as the earlier part of the week had been. Samantha raced up the hill to the dining hall, swinging open the screen door, then letting it close behind her with a bang when she saw the kitchen crew surrounding Jim, all talking at once.
    â€œNow, now, let’s not get hysterical,” he said, “There are mice all over the place. You know that. We’ll put out some more traps.”
    Mabel Hamilton, Freeman’s sister-in-law and the cook at the camp for so many years that local people thought of Maine Sail as “Mabel’s Place,” spoke above the din. Every, one quieted down.
    â€œWe’ve all had mice in our kitchens. I found one poor little fellow suffocated in a sack of flour once, but what we have not had until now are three mice with their heads cut off laid out on the counter along side a carving knife.”
    Samantha had moved next to Arlene. “Did you see them?” she whispered.
    â€œYeah, it is so gross.”
    â€œI think we should call Earl.” Dot Prescott’s voice was firm. Everyone nodded. Dot was in charge of housekeeping and, like Mabel, had been