The next morning, Pix stepped back from her creation and
was tempted to take a picture for Faith. The platter looked beautifulâand tasty. Julia Child, watch out. She decided to go early to mother's and show off.
“Isn't that lovely!” her mother exclaimed. One of the nice things about Ursula was that she expressed her appreciation, even if it was for something she herself could have done with one hand tied behind her back, especially in earlier years. This was a woman who still gathered her grandchildren and their friends together at Easter to make the sugar eggs with the frosting scenes inside from scratch. “Gert, come see what a good job Pix has done.”
Pix usually felt about twelve years old on Sewing Circle days. Today it might be ten.
The ladies started arriving promptly at one o'clock, bearing work bags and projects, some to display; some to complete. Pix scurried around fetching chairs and even a footstool or two for those who needed themâlike Adelaide Bainbridge. She was an immense woman and said the blood ran better in her legs if her feet were up. She took up two spaces on the couch, further claiming territory as she spread out her work. There was a tiny corner left to sit in and she called over to her sister-in-law, seated in one of the multitude of Boston and Bar Harbor rockers, “Rebecca, there's plenty of room here and I need you to thread my needles. My eyes aren't what they used to be,” Addie explained to the group. Rebecca obligingly gathered her things together and squeezed into the space. Fortunately, she was spare and lean, with elbows exposed in the warm weather that looked as sharp as the needle she was now threading. She had brought Ursula an old-fashioned, beribboned nosegayâpale pink sweetheart roses mixed with dried sea lavender surrounded by lily of the valley leaves. It graced the table now in a small white pitcher Pix had found, perfect for a tea party.
Louise Frazier had been voted into the group some years ago and after giving Pix a warm hug sat down on the other large couch next to Mabel Hamilton and pulled out a child's
sweater with brightly colored crayons worked on the front. “I have just got to finish this today,” she said, needles clicking away. “The sale is only six weeks away and I have two more to do!”
After appropriate praise was given for various articles, the talk turned to how many raffle tickets each member had sold for Adelaide's quilt.
“It's so good of you to give it, Addie. The summer people are buying chances like crazy and now that the inn is displaying the quilt, even more people will want tickets,” Dot said.
Adelaide Bainbridge was one of the island's celebrities. Fame had come late in her life. She now admitted to seventy-nine and friends politely ignored the fact that this admission had been made several years ago, as well. She'd started quilting as a child, taught by her mother to while away their time on one of the small islands off Sanpere. Adelaide's father had been a lighthouse keeper in the days before automation replaced the families who faithfully tended the beam. Pix always pictured Addie as one of those lighthouse keeper's daughters in old storybooks, battling through the storm to keep the light burning while Papa lay tossing with fever at her feet. If her childhood had been lonely on the island with only her parents for company, she never said anything. She seemed to have learned how to do an enormous number of things well from her motherâthe art of housekeeping, reading and ciphering, and sewing.
Her quilts had become collector's items, depicting elaborately appliquéd scenes from her childhood and island life. A few of the recent ones were more abstractâcolorful shapes suggestive of trees, waves, birds, and fish. Some of the quilts were in the permanent collections of museums. No shrinking violetâher appearance alone claimed center stageâAdelaide enjoyed being the Grandma Moses of the quilting world. Just when people thought her head couldn't get any biggerâan entire article in the
Ellsworth American
â“Good Morning America” included her in a special about Maine.
She lived with Rebecca, or rather Rebecca lived with her, moving into the large white nineteenth-century farmhouse after her brother James, Adelaide's husband, died. That was thirty years ago. Rebecca was the perfect handmaiden, basking in Adelaide's glory. No mean quilter herself, Rebecca had already contributed two quilts to the sale, a Double Wedding Ring and a Log Cabin. Now she was turning out an endless number of counted cross-stitch Christmas ornaments, hunched over her work, looking even smaller than she was next to Adelaide's bulk. The two were the island's own odd couple. Adelaide ran the household and was totally down-to-earth and practical, despite the fits of fancy her quilts represented. Rebecca drifted through the day with her head in the cloudsâand occasionally her purse in the refrigerator or the garden implement she'd last been using set on the table in place of a fork.
Pix knew what she was supposed to do at these gatherings and announced that the coffee was ready. People filled their plates and she was gratified to see the cheese spreads disappearing. They put their handwork aside and sat back. Pix and Gert passed around more goodies.
“My word, but these are tempting, Ursula, how did you find the time to do all this?” Mabel asked.
Credit where credit was due. “Oh, Gert and Pix did most of it.” Her self-deprecating smile hinted at the possibility that she might have sliced a lemon or two and put out the milk.
The talk drifted away from the sale to what was uppermost on every islander's mind these daysâMitchell Pierce. Most people were regarding it as an isolated incident, so it wasn't stirring up anyone's fears. Talk about it tended to the matter-of-fact.
“And the police don't have any leads? You'd think someone would have seen something.” Adelaide Bainbridge declared emphatically after consuming one of Gert's cream puffs in two bites.
No one seemed prepared to respond. All eyes turned to
Pix. She was certain that they knew as much as she did but supposed her discovery of the body conferred some sort of mantle of expertise.
“I'm sure the police have leads that we don't know about. Mitchell hadn't been seen on the island for some time, so they're concentrating around Camden and Bar Harbor. As for seeing something, anyone could have landed on the Point at nightâor even driven out there without being noticed. There were no signs of a struggle, so they are probably assuming the murder occurred someplace else. If you were lucky and no one was picnicking, you could even get away with bringing in a body in broad daylight.”
“And Seth hadn't started working out there yet,” Gert added.
“I know.” Pix still found it hard to keep the irritation from her voice whenever she thought about it. If Seth had stuck to his promised schedule, or what Pix had assumed was promised, the foundation and basement would have been poured and the murderer would have had to find someplace else for the body. Yet with Seth's mother sitting across from her, hard at work on a smocked baby's dress, Pix couldn't give vent to her true emotions.
“Poor Mitchell, he was a likable soul,” Louella said.
“But he swindled you out of all that money!” Pix's emotions found an outlet.
“I know, I know, still I'm going to miss him.” It was the first real expression of mourning Pix had heard. “It hasn't been easy to make up the loss, but he intended to pay me back, I'm sure. He simply didn't have it.”
“Well, he'd have it now if he could've taken it with him,” Ursula commented dryly, “Seems like there's quite a fortune in his bank account in Bar Harborâclose to half a million dollars.”
This was news, and for an instant the ladies were too amazed to comment, then everyone spoke at once.
Mother has been holding out on me again, Pix thought, and
after I slaved away all morning concocting gourmet cheese spreads for her party!
Ursula's voice cut through the fray. “I found out just as you were all arriving and haven't had a chance to tell anyone.” She gave her daughter an apologetic look. “Nan Hamilton called to say she'd be late and told me Freeman had heard it from Sonny, who picked it up on the police band.”
This was an impeccable source, and the obvious question was voiced by one of the Sanfords, “Where in this world would Mitchell Pierce get all that money?”
It was what Pix was asking herself. Less than a year ago, he was skipping town to avoid his debts and now he was on easy streetâor would be if alive. Either he'd been restoring houses at breakneck speed up the coast or he'd been branching out into some other lines of business. The multitude of coves and inlets on the coast brought to mind several illegal possibilities.
Jill offered a suggestion. She was younger than the other members, but she had come so often with her aunt, who had raised her, in days gone by that when the aunt died, it seemed only right to ask Jill to take her place. “He did sell a lot of antiques and maybe he came across something really valuable.”
“That's possible,” Pix agreed, “but the police would have discovered that by now.”
“How do we know they haven't?” Jill asked.
“Well, if you don't know, no one on this island does,” Dot teased her, and Jill obliged by turning red.
“Has anybody claimed him yet?” Serena Marshall asked. “Because when they do, you march right down, Louella, and get your money back.” Serena was partial to Court TV. Cable had changed the landscape of the minds of islanders forever. “They have to settle his debts from the estate.”
Everyone nodded and they moved away from the topic of Mitch to the consideration of a new member.
“She hasn't lived here that long, but she does beautiful work and they are year-round now.”
Pix assumed they were talking about Valerie Atherton. She said Samantha was enjoying her work at the camp.
“Oh no, not Valerie”âMabel laughedâ“though she'd liven things up. I don't believe that girl has ever even threaded a needle in her life. We're talking about Joan down to the inn.” Joan Randall and her husband, George, owned the Sanpere Inn. Smiles of the “silly old Pix” variety crossed some lips and Pix lowered her age to five. She loved these womenâbut one at a time.
“I don't see why we shouldn't have her,” Louise said. “There's a space open.” Everyone grew silent for a moment as they remembered their friend who'd died the year before. “Joan's eager to join and she's a gifted quilter, although a bit shy about her talents. I've seen her quilts. In some of them, she's taken the traditional patterns and given them a new twist by using contemporary fabrics. She has a wonderful sense of color.”
It was agreed that Joan would be the newest Sanpere Stitcher and informed of this signal honor as soon as possible so she could contribute to the sale.
The afternoon drifted on. A lot of coffee was drunk, some gossip conveyed, and a surprising amount of work accomplished. The only note of discord had been struck when Adelaide misplaced her scissors and, finding that her sister-in-law was sitting on them, chewed Rebecca out in no uncertain terms, “I do believe you are getting scattier by the minute, Rebecca! You know you put cream that had turned in the gravy last week.” Rebecca appeared not to hear her and just went on working. It was something she'd grown adept at over the years. The other women ignored Addie, too. They'd also heard it all before.
After the last woman left, Ursula looked about at the wreckage of half-filled cups and crumb-laden plates and said, “Don't you wish we could leave all this until tomorrow?” Unfortunately, Gert had had to leave, as it was her evening to do
for the Bainbridges. Besides Ursula, Gert seemed to do for most of Sanpere.
“Why don't we? Come to my house for supper and leave everything,” Pix suggested. She had no problem with it, yet she was sure what her mother's response would be.
“Getting up and seeing a pile of dirty dishes in my living room would be worse than seeing a ⦠well, let's just say would be unpleasant.”
Pix knew what her mother had intended, but she didn't agree. Seeing a body would be far worse. And she, Pix, should know.
It didn't take as long as they thought to clean up. Ursula turned down Pix's offer of supper. “Maybe it's the noise, but all I ever want on Sewing Circle days is a boiled egg and early bed.”
Pix kissed her mother good-bye and headed home. She felt like talking to Sam and hoped her husband would be around. She'd always thought it was one of life's little inequities that when a man was left on his own, he was showered with dinner invitationsâthe poor thing. When Sam was out of town, kids home or not, no one so much as offered her a casserole.
Samantha was in the living room reading. Pix was glad to see it was Alice Hoffman and not Martha Stewartâthis after Samantha's remark the other evening that their soup bowls didn't match. It had never come to her attention before, and the bowls had been around as long as she had. She'd be tying ribbons around their napkins next.
“How was your day, sweetheart?”
“I like the teaching part, but it's boring standing around while they eat, then it's a big rush to clean up. The kids are great, except it's kind of sad.”