Boxed In Read online

  When Annie and Alice arrived at A Stitch in Time, Mary Beth and Kate had their heads together behind a large box sitting on the front counter. “Look at these coconut-shell buttons,” Kate marveled. “Lattice, embossed, flower-printed, abstract—and they’re so light. I’m going to use these in my next jacket design.”

  Mary Beth nodded. “A nice addition to our horn, bone and bamboo buttons.” She then noticed the two arriving club members. “We’ll get started in a couple minutes. Peggy should be here soon.”

  Stella Brickson and Gwendolyn Palmer, the two knitters of the group, greeted Annie and Alice from their seats in the circle. Stella was working a sleeve on her size 4 straight needles.

  “Stella, what a striking pattern!” Annie dropped her tote bag on a seat and drew closer to investigate. “Is that silk yarn?”

  The eighty-three-year-old widow allowed a hint of a smile to cross her lips. “Yes, it’s one hundred percent silk. There’s a Japanese feather pattern around the cuffs and along the hem of the body too.” She dipped her needles slightly to point at her knitting bag where a sleeveless tunic was neatly folded.

  “Alice, that honey color would set off your hair gorgeously,” Gwen commented with her usual gentle smile.

  “Since I can’t knit a stitch, I guess one of you two will have to make me a honey of a hat,” said Alice.

  Annie returned to her seat, making a mental note to ask Mary Beth to set aside some of that same yarn. She might not knit, but she knew her way around a crochet hook.

  “You didn’t start without me, did you?” Peggy’s energetic voice preceded her to the circle of chairs.

  “Well, if we did, we also started without Kate and Mary Beth,” Alice teased as Peggy appeared in the circle.

  “Annie!” Peggy hurried over and threw her arms around her surprised friend. “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you enough! Emily twirled and twirled when we told her she won’t have to stop her dance lessons this winter.”

  “Thank Wally,” Annie said as she hugged back. “His lobster boat sold itself. All I did was bring the order list back to Stony Point.”

  Peggy dropped onto a chair. “And you didn’t let on at all yesterday at the diner.” She narrowed her eyes into a glare.

  “Wally asked me to keep it a secret until he could tell you. If he hadn’t, I would have given you every detail before the coffee even filled the mug. It was no easy feat, I tell you.” All the ladies laughed, even Stella.

  The last button box unpacked, Mary Beth and Kate joined the group. “It sounds like you’ve kept yourselves entertained while we finished up,” said Mary Beth. “Are we ready to come up with an interesting theme for this year’s Harvest on the Harbor? Annie, this is your first Harvest project. How about you start us off?”

  Guilt flashed across Annie’s face. “Umm, well … I confess, I got occupied yesterday and forgot to think about it. But, being from the South, I’m rather partial to autumn leaves since we don’t get much of that in Texas.”

  “Autumn leaves are a perfect idea,” said Gwen.

  “So perfect that we chose to do them last year,” Mary Beth finished, “and it was a huge success. But you’ve got the idea, Annie, even if you were preoccupied.”

  “Were you working on a new mystery, by any chance?” asked Peggy. Annie’s knack of becoming embroiled in mysteries that had started in the attic of Grey Gables had often been the source of both entertainment—and sometimes discomfort—to the community of Stony Point, and particularly the members of the Hook and Needle Club.

  “No!” Annie threw up her hands. “I don’t have time for a new mystery! Preparing for a visit from my family and working on the Harvest project is all I have time for.”

  “How about apples?” Peggy suggested. “The orchard owners inland would like that, I think.” In her years working at The Cup & Saucer, Peggy had gotten to know the people who came to the Harvest on the Harbor celebration very well. She was also a huge fan of apple pie.

  “Would that give enough scope for variety?” asked Mary Beth.

  “We could do cornucopias,” offered Kate. “That adds a little variety with both fruits and vegetables.” She pursed her lips as she pictured the possibilities. “But I’m still not sure it’s enough.”

  “I was thinking about scarecrows.” Alice patted her sewing bag. “I found an adorable scarecrow cross-stitch pattern book last year at a flea market.”

  “I’ve heard that Wiscasset is hosting a scarecrow contest this year.” Stella had not missed a stitch as she followed the discussion. “Might it seem like we’re copying or competing? Wiscasset is our county seat, after all.”

  “Hmmm, that’s something to think about,” said Mary Beth. “Any other ideas that would compete less?”

  “Kate’s cornucopia idea has me thinking about the Pilgrims,” said Gwen. “Harvesttime was so vitally important to them.” As a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Gwen felt a strong connection to the early settlers of New England.

  “How would a Pilgrim theme be worked out in needlecraft?” Peggy asked. “I guess I could use a Log Cabin quilt pattern. Would that be Pilgrimy enough?”

  Stella lowered her knitting into her lap. “Drawing our theme from the past certainly fits the spirit of the day, but how would you like to do something a little more daring?”

  All eyes were fixed on Stella. Although Stella had lived many years in New York City—and since she had enough money to pretty well do whatever she wanted to do—the club members didn’t generally associate her with “daring.”

  “In my work with various museums over the years I’ve been fascinated with the culture and art of the American Indian tribes of New England. In the five years since I’ve been back in Stony Point, I’ve never seen any of the American Indian tribes of this area acknowledged for their contribution to the survival of the early settlers or their sacrifices during the Revolutionary War. Wouldn’t the Harvest festival be an appropriate time to do that?” Stella lifted her knitting and added stitch by stitch. For a moment, the only sound to be heard in the circle was the clicking of needles.

  “I, for one, love the idea.” Alice was the first to give her opinion, not an uncommon occurrence. “Except, I know absolutely nothing about the American Indian tribes around here.”

  “I feel the same,” added Kate. “I’ve seen some amazing patterns in native artwork, but I need to learn much more to do the project justice.” The other women nodded their agreement.

  Mary Beth turned to Stella. “Do you have suggestions of where we might find the guidance we need to do this successfully? It’s an exciting project idea, and we’d want to do it well.”

  “That’s right,” said Peggy. “It would be embarrassing to get it wrong.”

  Stella nodded. “I would suggest the Abbe Museum in Bar Harbor. They have put together an impressive collection of Maine American Indian history, art, culture, and archaeology.”

  “Does this mean what I think it means?” Peggy grinned.

  “Road trip!” The Hook and Needle Club answered in unison.

  “I’ll ask as soon as I get back to work about switching my days so I can go to Bar Harbor.” Peggy gathered her things and stood up. “And I better get back to start buttering up the boss.”

  “Hey, for once we’re investigating something other than one of Annie’s mysteries!” Alice observed.

  “Give her time.” Kate winked. “She just got back into town.” Laughter danced around the shop.

  “The only two mysteries I’m working on for the foreseeable future are what crochet item I’m going to craft for the Harvest project and how to ready Grey Gables for two Texas cyclones named John and Joanna,” Annie reassured them. “I’m starting on the second one as soon as I get home.”

  And she did.

  4

  Annie tightened the red bandanna that covered her hair as she gazed around the attic, that was brightened by the early afternoon sun. “Boots, where in this wild pandemonium of Gram’s curiosi
ties should I start?” Sitting at Annie’s feet, Boots raised a dainty white paw for a quick clean. “Why are you bothering? You’re going to pick up a lot of dust, if you stay up here long.” She chuckled as Boots gently set the paw down, only to raise another one for similar treatment. “Fine, go ahead. It’s your saliva.” Annie’s eyes again wandered from pile to pile. “How I wish this attic was as easy to tidy as your paws.”

  She decided to start by pinpointing the areas that seemed most likely to collapse under the impact of curious children. Some of the stacks appeared to defy gravity, forming shapes that would have impressed Solomon Guggenheim. Annie almost felt guilty to be modifying the delicate balances, but the safety of John and Joanna came first. She dove right in, disassembling and repositioning the first pile of objects which included a wire birdcage, an ancient camera tripod, and a tramp-art wall mirror with cracked glass. The pile was as tall as Annie.

  That possible avalanche diverted, Annie moved on to her right, clapping dust off her hands. “Next time I come up, a dozen microfiber dust cloths are coming with me!” The next hulking silhouette belonged to a wooden rack with four shelves. The color of the oak wood whispered familiarity to Annie.

  “Where have I seen you?” Annie’s head tilted to one side in contemplation. “Ah! The kitchen, of course!” She lifted a flap of old linens draping over the side of the second shelf from the top. Embossed in black were the words: Dresden Bakers Company, ME, 1912. Annie pictured in her mind’s eye that same shelf and the one above it filled with jars of home-canned goodness. When Annie first arrived each summer, she was greeted by the last two jars of rose-hip jelly. Betsy always made sure to save them for her granddaughter to savor on toast during the summer. In the last week before Annie had to return home for school in Texas, Annie and Betsy would pick the first batch of rose hips and make jelly.

  Annie ran her fingers lightly along the wood, feeling as though she’d just found a long-lost friend. It had been years since the taste of rose-hip jelly had touched her tongue, but she could still taste the tangy sweetness. Like cheery sheep, beach roses ranged along the hill outside Grey Gables to the rocky shore. She realized it would only be a couple of weeks before the rose hips would be ripe enough for picking. The desire to introduce her grandchildren to that flavor of her own childhood charmed her.

  “Now, Gram, I just have to figure out where you put the recipe.” Annie’s murmur had a rueful note to it. She knew that just because recipes would generally be thought of as a kitchen item didn’t mean Betsy stored them there. At one time, books on cooking, gardening, and homesteading had lined the bottom shelf of the baker’s rack, balancing the weight of the army of jars above. Now boxes of veterinarian tools and supplies that belonged to Annie’s grandfather lay there instead.

  The more she thought, the more she wanted to bring the baker’s rack back to its former place in the large kitchen. While she might not fill the shelves with as many varieties of canned vegetables, Annie was determined to make a good showing of rose-hip jelly. The first step was to make sure the piece was still sturdy or if it was in need of repair. After making a visual check to ensure there weren’t any glass items on the shelves, she placed her hands on either side of the rack. The shake from side to side told her the maker of the rack had built it to last.

  Next, Annie decided to give it the “tip test.” Scooting a box on the bottom shelf over a few inches, Annie placed her right foot in the space she had just made. Then, she pulled the rack forward just a little to test how easily the tall piece might topple with its load. The light pull barely moved the rack, so she kept her foot in place and jerked harder. Something launched off the top shelf, skimmed off Annie’s head, and tumbled onto the dusty floorboards.

  Boots padded over to sniff the object that had attacked Annie. “Maybe it would have been better if I’d looked at that top shelf more closely.” Annie leaned over to scoop the box from under Boots’ nose. Round and very light, the box was made from a dark, reddish-brown bark. Annie turned the box slowly in her hands; along the sides, etched deer and moose roamed among grass with birds flying overhead. The lid’s rim was etched with vertical lines spaced about a half inch apart, and the top featured double geometric shapes and leaves.

  When she had first picked up the box, it was so light Annie had assumed it was empty. But as she turned it to look at the designs she heard movement inside. Taking off the lid, Annie laid it gently on the soft stack of linens. She carefully drew out what was nestled inside. Tilted toward the afternoon sun coming in the attic window, light caught colorful beadwork. “How exquisite!” On a slightly faded black fabric background periwinkle blue and soft rose wildflowers bloomed among delicate green leaves. The long rectangle was less than three inches wide. “Hmmm, I wonder,” Annie murmured. She gently lifted the beaded strip to her forehead to wrap the piece around her head. “Either I’m as big-headed as I am hard-headed, or this was not made for a head, even a child’s head. A little lower, perhaps.” The ends of the beautiful beadwork met around Annie’s throat. “That’s more like it.”

  She looked around for a mirror and remembered the broken tramp-art mirror in the pile she had just rearranged. Tilting the mirror for a better angle, Annie caught a look of herself and the beaded flowers adorning her neck. “Gram, how did this find its way to your attic?” Annie supposed it was silly to keep asking Betsy questions, but she always felt so close to her grandmother whenever she ventured up to the attic. She almost expected to see Gram winking at her from behind the old vanity in the corner, just like she used to when they played hide-and-seek together during Annie’s first summer in Stony Point. And almost as though Betsy had whispered a reminder, sending it along on the sunbeams, Annie remembered there was something else in the intriguing box.

  A folded sheet of paper was curled along the inside wall of the box. When Annie opened it, she realized the bottom third of the sheet had been torn. The writing was old-fashioned and finely flourished, much different from her own utilitarian script. Though not titled, the words on the page formed a poem—or at least part of a poem. Annie read aloud:

  Sister Otter, water dancing

  Sun splashes over circles you draw.

  If love took you to desert dry,

  Where would you dance?

  Sister Rabbit, thicket thriving

  Rain nurtures the chokeberries you eat.

  If love took you to ocean deep,

  There the lines ended, the words silenced in midthought. The handwriting revealed a writer who had been taught long before electric typewriters or computers. Was the poem copied as a penmanship exercise? Or had it flowed from heart to pen? Where was the rest of the page?

  Betsy was well remembered as a person who loved beauty in all dimensions; Annie could not imagine her hiding away these pieces of art in her attic without a good reason. But what that reason could possibly be was beyond her. Annie tucked the poem back into the box, taking care to be gentle with the aging paper. The knowledge she had gained from her grandparents’ love of antiques and her parents’ international travel in their ministry convinced Annie the designs were not European, Asian, or African. Rubbing her finger over the texture of the wood, she decided her friends at the Hook and Needle Club might enjoy seeing the box and beadwork, and Annie hoped that between them all they could puzzle out their origin.

  “Come on, Boots. I think we’ve had enough time up here for the day.” Annie maneuvered her way through the attic maze to the door. Boot darted ahead, down to the second floor. Stopping in the cozy sitting room off her bedroom, Annie retrieved her camera from its perch on a double corner shelf. Boots meandered into the master bedroom, springing effortlessly onto the plump quilt of the bed. Annie set the box and camera on the chest of drawers. Her hands free, she rummaged through the shallow top drawers to find a white handkerchief. “This should do.”

  Spreading the handkerchief—all white except for a small navy blue monogrammed “CH” for Charles Holden, her grandfather’s name, in one corner—on th
e quilt, Annie placed the beaded strip on it and took several photos. The box with the lid received the same treatment. Last, she took photos of the poem to highlight the style of handwriting. Boots remained a bored witness to her photographic efforts, renewing her interest in fur hygiene. After returning the camera to the sitting room, Annie sat down at the small writing desk to copy out the lines of the poem. Finally, she tucked the box, with its treasures nestled inside, into her tote bag.

  A glance at the clock surprised her with the news that it was well past dinnertime. Too excited to sit nibbling crackers and cheese alone, she punched Alice’s number into the phone. At Alice’s cheery “Hello!” Annie blurted out, “Have you eaten dinner yet? I have something amazing to show you!”

  “Lobster soufflé? Baked Alaska?” Alice replied.

  “I said show you, not feed you. Besides, I’ve been in the attic all afternoon and totally forgot to plan for dinner,” Annie admitted. She heard her friend chuckle.

  “It just so happens that I made a delicious lemon tarragon roasted chicken earlier, and I’d be glad to share it.”

  “You are too nice to me, Alice. But why would you make a whole chicken if you weren’t already planning to have people over? Testing a new recipe for a Divine Décor party?”

  “No, I actually made it for myself. See, this way I cook one night, and then I have several meals done for the rest of the week. And the recipe tastes as delicious cold as it does right out of the oven. It really comes in handy for those days when I’m double-booked with demonstrations.”

  “It also comes in handy when you have absent-minded friends next door. So when can you come?”

  “Turn on the porch light, put on some tea, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  While Alice was spooning up the chicken, roasted potatoes, and vegetables, Annie brought the box down to the living room and put the kettle on to heat. She slipped out onto the porch to enjoy the sights and sounds of early evening, including the crunch of gravel under foot as Alice made her way to Grey Gables.