Boxed In Read online

  “So what is this amazing thing you have to show me?” Alice asked before she even made it to the porch steps. “I forgot to ask you on the phone. I’m far too easily distracted by food conversation.”

  “Something I found in the attic while I was organizing. And that’s all I’m telling you until the tea water has boiled.”

  “Betsy’s attic strikes again! Sounds like we might have spoken too soon this morning at the meeting.” Alice grinned as she climbed the steps, holding the dish in both hands.

  “I should know better by now, shouldn’t I?” Annie said sheepishly as she held the door open for Alice. “But I have to admit, the timing of this is pretty cool. I’m making chai for myself. Would you like that or something else—chamomile, decaf Darjeeling, oolong?”

  “I’ll have the decaf Darjeeling. I don’t know if I’ve seen a decaf variety before.”

  “The twins gave me a wonderful tea sampler for my birthday. I suspect they had a little help picking it out. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about them every time I have a cuppa.” The friends could hear the kettle whistling as they entered the kitchen. On the counter next to the stove stood two small ceramic teapots, one blue with sailboats, and the other a soft green, dotted with dainty flowers. “Can you tell which twin picked out which pot?” Annie filled each infuser with tea and poured water from the kettle over it.

  “Joanna definitely strikes me as a boat gal.” Alice feigned total seriousness. “Now, are you going to show me the amazing find or not?” Alice tapped a foot and put her hands on her hips.

  “It’s in the living room,” Annie gestured for Alice to follow her. “After a few hours of sorting and rearranging I came across Gram’s old oak baker’s rack. Remember that?”

  Alice paused to think and then nodded. “Yes! She had it in the kitchen for years, loading it with jars and jars of food from her garden. That is, until after Charley died, and she became too weak for all that work. I think she had it moved to the attic so she wouldn’t feel guilty about not being able to fill it up.”

  “That sounds like Gram, definitely,” Annie agreed. “And she would never have been able to sell something that had such a large place in her daily life for so many years. Well, I want to bring that old rack back to the kitchen where it belongs and do my best to at least put up some rose-hip jelly in Gram’s honor.”

  “A delicious idea,” quipped Alice. “But seriously, what a wonderful tradition to continue with your grandchildren. And if you find yourself with an extra jar or two, I can suggest a willing home for them. Especially if you have Betsy’s recipe.” She resisted the urge to smack her lips at the sweet memory of Betsy’s jelly.

  “We have a couple of weeks to find it before hip picking begins. Anyway, I wanted to check the stability of the rack to make sure it was still sturdy enough for frequent use. So I shook it and then rocked it. Look what slid off and bumped my head.” Annie stepped away from where she stood in front of the rococo table, revealing the box.

  “Whoa! Look at that workmanship.” Alice knelt down to get a closer look. “The detail of the etchings blows me away.” She ran the fingers of her right hand lightly over the deer, moose, and birds. “This is birch bark, in case you don’t recognize it.”

  “I thought it might be. Remember, Gram and Grandpa took me all over Maine during my visits. Grandpa loved showing me all the flowers and trees that don’t grow down in Texas. Do you think the box was made locally?”

  “I think it could have been made in Maine,” Alice replied, her eyes on the patterns of the box. “But birches grow in many other cold-weather areas. Russia, for instance. Not that I think this is Russian.”

  “There’s more.” Annie lifted the lid and gently retrieved the beaded piece. She laid it on the table right under Alice’s eyes and watched the spark of delight flare even brighter.

  “Oh, Annie, the artistry!” Alice said, her voice lowered in awe. “Just think. If you hadn’t remembered the baker’s rack or had just left it there, instead of testing it for a move downstairs, you may never have found these. You’re going to show the other club members, aren’t you?

  Annie remembered her strong feeling of Gram’s presence in the attic but didn’t mention it to Alice. It would sound too much like an episode of Ghost Whisperer, and she was no Melinda Gordon. “Of course, I took some photos of the pieces. Oh, and a sheet of writing paper was tucked inside. A kind of poem was written on it in old-fashioned script. I copied down the words.” She pulled the notepaper out of her jeans pocket and handed it to Alice. “The sheet was torn, so I don’t know how the poem ends.”

  Alice stood up, her lips moving in concentration as she read the lines. “I’ve never heard these words, have you?”

  “No, but I’ve never been a huge reader of poetry either, so that’s not saying much. I’m planning to bring the photos and the poem copy on the road trip. Maybe one of the others have heard it before and can tell us how it ends and who wrote it.”

  “And maybe someone will know why those things were in the Holden’s attic. This is going to be one rocking road trip!”

  “Having the baker’s rack project to keep me busy until next Tuesday is a blessing, or I think I’d go totally bonkers.” Annie put the beadwork back in its nesting box. “The tea must be nice and strong now. Let’s go eat!”

  5

  The moment Annie entered A Stitch in Time, Mary Beth greeted her with, “Did you bring those photos of your latest mystery?”

  Annie patted her tote bag. “Of course I brought them. You’ve been tortured enough for one week, having to wait several days since Alice told you about them.” Annie had been strict with herself, keeping to her plan of whipping Grey Gables lovingly into shape for Thanksgiving. She had known if she spent too much time in town, little would be accomplished before the road trip.

  “Yes, I have been. So out with them, dear!” Mary Beth leaned over the counter and called, “Kate, Peggy, Gwen! Annie’s brought the photos.”

  “Isn’t Stella here?” It was a rare day when Annie could make it to the Hook and Needle Club meeting before its most veteran member.

  “Stella is going to meet us at the museum. She told me she has a stop to make on the way,” Mary Beth explained as the three other women came in from the meeting room.

  Peggy squealed, “Oh, I just knew it wouldn’t be long before another mystery came along! Let us see!” The gleam in their eyes told Annie that Kate and Gwen were as eager as Peggy.

  Annie laid the photos in a line on the counter, showing the box and lid, then the beadwork, and finally, the poem with her printed copy next to its photo. All four heads bent simultaneously like a tiny congregation called to prayer.

  A soft gasp escaped from Gwen, “Oh, this beadwork is exquisite, Annie. Beadwork can be so tricky, and these seed beads look so tiny.”

  “Exquisite is exactly the word I thought, too, Gwen,” Annie said.

  “What perfect colors,” Kate murmured. “The dark background makes them sparkle like fireworks at midnight.”

  “Have you seen these etchings on the box yet?” Peggy nudged Mary Beth’s arm. “I don’t think I’d be surprised if the crunchah jumped right off the bark and started galloping down the counter!”

  “Crunchah?” Annie asked.

  “You would probably say, ‘cruncher,’ Annie. It’s a wicked big deer,” Peggy informed the Texan.

  “Annie,” Mary Beth said, after carefully examining both box and lid, “do you have any idea what you have here?”

  ”Not exactly,” admitted Annie. “Last night I wondered if Grandpa had made the box. But if I remember right, he enjoyed working with substantial blocks of wood. Something like this etching would have been too nerve-wracking for him. He had enough delicate surgery in his veterinarian practice.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this on the drive,” Kate suggested in her quiet voice, almost apologetically. “I’d hate to keep Stella waiting on us, if she arrives much before us.”

  “I cleaned
out the backseats of the SUV, so we can all ride together,” Mary Beth said. “You can chalk that up to a late summer miracle!” Mary Beth’s vehicle was usually a rolling miniature version of her store, so the women were duly impressed by her efforts. Annie gathered up her photos, not bothering to put them back in her bag. She knew they’d all be discussing them for a fair portion of the ride.

  Just as the group reached the door of the shop, Alice breezed in through it. “Whew! Made it by the skin of my teeth … whatever that means. A new client called right as I was picking up my car keys. And wouldn’t you know, at eight fifteen in the morning she was totally confused about the hostess gift program. Go figure.” While Alice’s voice sounded a bit harried, her eyes had not lost their usual twinkle.

  “For her heroic efforts to get here, come hostess or high water, I think Alice should be the one to ride shotgun,” declared Annie.

  “Ayuh,” Peggy said in agreement. The others nodded.

  “Thank you. Thank you.” Alice solemnly bowed to the group. “I will do my best to live up to this honor which you have bestowed upon me.”

  Mary Beth gave her a playful shove on her back. “Walk and talk, Alice, or you’ll have Stella to answer to.”

  “Oh, we can’t have that!” Alice strode to the passenger side of the SUV and climbed inside as soon as Mary Beth unlocked the doors. Once everyone was settled into their seats, Alice asked over her shoulder, “What do you think of Annie’s photos? Does anyone recognize any of the items?”

  “As I was going to tell Annie before we left, I’m convinced the etched birch bark is an American Indian design because I’ve seen some other birch-bark boxes and baskets with similar types of construction over the years. But I couldn’t tell you where they came from, or when they were made.” Mary Beth kept her eyes on the road as she spoke, guiding the SUV along Main Street to head north on U.S. Highway 1.

  “I’ve read a couple of articles about the beading traditions among American Indian tribes, but I’ve never seen anything like Annie’s piece before. Stunning work,” said Kate.

  “Annie, may I see the writing and poem copy?” asked Gwen. Annie handed the photo and poem over the seat to Gwen.

  “Read it for us, Gwen,” said Peggy, who was gazing at the photo of the box lid.

  Gwen did as she was asked, her clear voice precisely enunciating each word with the exception of the words “sister” and “otter.” Those she pronounced as her Maine-rooted family always had, “sistah” and “ottah.” Annie hid a smile, thinking it wouldn’t be too hard to teach Gwen a good Southern drawl, if she had a mind to learn it.

  Gwen turned around after finishing the poem. “Peggy, you were in school more recently than the rest of us. Do you remember this poem from any of your classes?”

  A light blush dusted Peggy’s cheeks. “Well, no. But I was busy with cheerleading … and convincing Wally that he really was the only guy I wanted to date. Made it hard to concentrate in class.”

  “I, for one, am thankful for all your hard work,” said Alice. “I can’t imagine Stony Point without the Carson family.”

  “I agree. The Carsons are an important part of our community,” said Gwen. She lifted the photo in her hand, waving it gently. “I‘m looking at the photo with the handwriting. My guess is that this was written no later than the turn of the century—the twentieth century, that is. It reminds me of some of the DAR displays I’ve seen, as well as my father’s family Bible. The entries from the Civil War years used flourishes similar to this handwriting.”

  “My first reaction was that it was over a century old too.” Annie couldn’t help staring out the window as she spoke—the highway to Bar Harbor always delighted her with its scenery. “Which leaves me wondering if the box and its contents were already at Grey Gables when Gram and Grandpa bought it. Or did they buy them at an antique store or craft show?”

  “Are you sure they’re not part of your family’s history? Maybe the Holdens brought the pieces with them when they moved in,” Kate said.

  “I’ve thought about that. But one of the things I loved doing every summer I visited was sitting next to Grandpa while he whittled on the porch of Grey Gables. As he turned the wood in his hands, he would tell me stories about the Holden family. How Justinian Holden had come to New England from Lancashire in England in the early 1630s, and how the family eventually settled in Maine. He told me about all sorts of folks in our family line, some noble and some rascals. He firmly believed there should be no such things as skeletons in the family closet.” Annie sighed. She missed Grandpa.

  “Maybe they came from Betsy’s side,” Peggy said, her cheeks now back to their usual hue.

  “But Gram was the same way as Grandpa; she liked to tell family stories too, usually while we were picking rose hips or walking on the beach, looking for sea glass. I’d go home chock-full of stories of Gram’s family from Scotland, and I loved it. Mother and Father told me stories too, but mostly stories from their mission work. I simply have a hard time believing that Gram wouldn’t have shared such beautiful artifacts, if they held a place in our family’s history.” Annie missed them all.

  Mary Beth smiled up into the rearview mirror and spoke softly, “Yes, you’re right, Annie. Both Betsy and Charlie were like that.”

  “They were safe confidants for those who needed someone to talk to,” Alice continued the theme, “but they were open books about themselves.”

  “Which leads us right back to a big fat mystery,” Peggy proclaimed.

  “I guess we can just pack away the questions until we get to the museum. Hopefully, someone there will have more information that will shed some light.” Annie gathered the photos and poem that Peggy, Gwen and Kate handed her, tucked them back into her tote, and settled down into her seat to soak in the beauty of the small towns, rocky shore and wildflower fields they traveled past.

  ****

  “We’re almost there. I’ve just turned onto Mount Desert Street.” Mary Beth’s voice pried its way into Annie’s reveries. Annie sat up straighter and peered out the window again.

  Bar Harbor featured a village green, not much different from Stony Point’s town square, even down to the gazebo shape and color. But Annie had spent enough time in the small Maine town to realize each community had its own unique combination of spirit, history, and personality. Just past the green on the left, Annie saw a red and gold flag waving in front of a white shingle-style building with dark green trim. “Oh, there it is! What a charming building!” she exclaimed.

  “The building has the feeling of the summer homes of families like the Vanderbilts or Carnegies, only smaller, doesn’t it?” said Gwen. She closed the book she’d been reading.

  “Much smaller.” Kate carefully gathered the crochet she had been working on during the ride and slipped it into a bag. She bent over to slide it under the seat. “But I like it. Makes me wonder what’s hiding in the dormers.”

  Peggy started to make her way out of the van but stopped, pointing out the window. “There’s Stella’s Lincoln Continental, heading back down Mount Desert. Looks like Jason has already dropped Stella off.”

  “Stella probably hasn’t been here long, then. That’s a relief,” Alice joked, wiping imaginary sweat from her forehead. She slid her purse over a shoulder and jumped out of the SUV.

  The group walked past the stone and metal museum sign. The bright flag swayed in the soft breeze. Peggy stopped to watch it for a moment. “The red and gold on the flag really pops. Whatever design I find, I hope those colors will work with it.”

  “I’m partial to how they created the logo with the cutouts in metal,” said Kate. “The tree would lend itself beautifully to crochet.”

  Annie paused to say over her shoulder, “Kate, just about anything would end up beautiful if you made it in crochet. And I’m not just saying that so you’ll teach me new techniques.” Kate smiled her thanks.

  Entering the museum, the first person they saw was Stella. She stood before the admissions desk, deep
in discussion with the young woman behind it. A broad smile on her face, the woman handed Stella a small stack of brochures. Stella nodded her thanks and then turned to greet the other Hook and Needle Club members.

  “Rose tells me we’ve come on a good day. Both the curator of collections and the curator of education are on-site today and available for any questions we may have.” Stella handed a brochure to everyone.

  “Great! Maybe they will know something about the items Annie found in her attic,” Alice said. “You haven’t seen the photos yet, have you, Stella? Perhaps you’ll remember them!”

  “I don’t know that I can be much help.” Stella turned to Annie. “The attic has revealed another mystery, has it?”

  Annie dug the photos and poem out of her purse. “Do you remember ever seeing these or hearing Gram talk about them?” She fanned the photos out like a hand of cards and extended them to Stella.

  Settling her sensible reading glasses onto her nose, Stella thoroughly examined each of the photos and read the poem portion. She shook her head. “Sorry to say, I don’t. That beadwork looks extraordinary, and I can’t imagine why Betsy would not have displayed it prominently at Grey Gables.” A shadow passed over her features, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “But, as you know, there were decades when I was not a part of her life, through my own foolishness. I wasn’t even living in Maine again until five years ago. I would assume she came into possession of these things during that time. How odd she never showed them to the other members of the handcraft community.” Stella handed the photos back to Annie. “Do make sure you show these to one of the curators before we leave today. I am sure she would be helpful. Both curators are meticulous in their research and knowledge of American Indian culture and art. Rose mentioned that a good time would be around two o’clock this afternoon.”