Boxed In Page 6

  “Well, that certainly sped up the process,” muttered Annie, a little disappointed. Her eyes darted around the room to make sure she hadn’t disturbed anyone. She’d been so intent on her search, she’d almost forgotten where she was. The Stony Point Library Reference Room was beginning to feel too much like home. Mentally crossing off the possibility that the poem had been copied from a published piece, Annie felt comfortable with her conclusion that the poem had been a private composition. How to discover who the author was and why the verse was in Gram’s attic was another story.

  Not yet satisfied with her research for the day, Annie switched her focus. As teenagers came and went after posting statuses on their Facebook pages, and adults checked movie schedules or sent employment applications, she cast a line to see if she could hook some more information on the Passamaquoddy people. Her second effort was more successful than her first. In addition to links from the Abbe Museum, state government, newspaper, and various cultural websites were sources to be explored. She even found links for an old Disney movie, Pete’s Dragon. So that was why something had been buzzing in the back of her memory when she had looked at the exhibits at the museum. She had heard the word Passamaquoddy sung and spoken when LeeAnn and she had watched the movie on video together so many years ago.

  With the hint of a smile hovering around her mouth, Annie began to read and read. At times there was little to smile about in the stories of devastation by new diseases brought to the land by European settlers—her own ancestors—or the neglect of government-paid employees and land agents. Then she stumbled on photos of art pieces that delighted her, and a video showing a Passamaquoddy artist weaving with nimble hands. She might have read on until Grace Emory, Josephine Booth, or whoever was scheduled to be the last staff member to leave that day came to shut down the computers. But her stomach had other plans, growling louder and louder until Annie was sure she was bothering others in the room.

  Reluctantly she closed out the Google website and packed up her notebook and pen. As she walked across the Great Room, she waved to Grace who was behind the front desk, scanning books that had been returned. On her way down the porch steps she realized she had not checked out The Penobscot as she had planned. It was sitting tucked next to the computer. Reassuring herself that she would have plenty of time to stop in at the library after lunch, she continued on to cross Oak Lane, heading for The Cup & Saucer.

  Annie thought she would be eating at a time when free booths were hard to come by, but when she pulled the door open, she was surprised at the low volume of conversation. Noting the amount of open seating, she glanced at the clock hanging beneath the high shelf populated with ivy-filled giant teacup planters. “Three o’clock!” Annie couldn’t hold in her gasp.

  A familiar chuckle reached her ears from the second booth from the door. Ian Butler leaned out and waved to Annie.

  “Mysteries can be time hogs, and I hear you found a doozy.” Ian slid out of the booth. “Want to share with me what you found over a late lunch, Annie?”

  Annie patted her tote bag. “I’d love to, Ian. In fact, I was thinking of you at the library this morning.” Realizing too late how that might sound, she hurried on before the mayor could comment. “When I was in Wiscasset before my trip, I saw signs on the library door stating the new hours of operation. The town has had to cut the hours due to the economy. I was wondering today what magic you and the town commissioners have conjured to keep our Stony Point Library open regular hours, and without staff reductions too.”

  “Are you wondering what ‘we’ves gots in our pocketses?” Ian’s voice morphed into a high-pitched, nasally rendition of one of Tolkien’s fantasy creatures from The Lord of the Rings movies.

  “Not exactly, Mr. Gollum. But I do appreciate your efforts very much. I wanted to make sure I thanked you. And the other officials, of course.”

  Before Ian could respond, Lisa, the swing-shift waitress, hurried over to take Annie’s order. “Hi, Annie, You’re really late today. What can I get for you?”

  “I’m late and starving! And I’m also craving a Cobb salad with a cup of tea.”

  “Coming right up.” Lisa handed the order over to the cook and began refilling the condiments at each table in preparation for the dinner crowd.

  Ian leaned forward. All signs of Gollum were erased, leaving just a curious man. “Now, please tell me what you’ve found!”

  “What? Haven’t you been given a detailed description already?” Annie couldn’t imagine the Hook and Needle Club members being able to keep the information to themselves after the trip.

  “Not much,” Ian insisted. “And I’m sure it was painful for Peggy and Mary Beth too. With the end of the tourist season and the transition to autumn come lots of meetings. Which is why I was almost as late to lunch as you were. Peggy was already gone.”

  Annie nodded. “She’s probably working a split shift today.”

  “Mary Beth charged out of the store when she saw me coming for lunch. She gasped out that she’d given Kate some time off to take Vanessa shopping for school clothes, so she couldn’t properly get me up to speed on the new mystery. Instead she left me with the command to ‘look at Annie’s photos!’ Then she threw up her hands and darted back into the shop. She must have gotten a phone call or something.”

  “That does sound painful for Mary Beth.” Annie smiled at the thought as Lisa brought her tea with a wedge of lemon and a honey bear. She pulled the photos from her tote bag and placed them before Ian. As her friend examined the photos as carefully as he did the town budget, Annie squeezed the lemon into her tea and followed it with a quick squeeze of honey. After a refreshing sip she continued.

  “The birch-bark box was tucked away on the top shelf of a baker’s rack. The beadwork and the torn notepaper were inside it. I don’t remember ever seeing them during my summers with Gram. Do they look familiar to you at all?”

  Ian slowly shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the photos. “No, I’m sorry to say they don’t. I have seen birch-bark boxes and baskets in various places around Maine, but the designs were different. This one looks quite old.”

  “Kezi Vance, the curator of collections at Abbe Museum thinks all the items are dated at least from the turn of the twentieth century, and quite possibly earlier.”

  “What exactly is this?” Ian lightly tapped the edge of the photo showing the beadwork.

  “Kezi was very confident that it’s an American Indian regalia collar for a woman. She thinks it was most likely made by a Passamaquoddy woman.”

  “It’s beautiful. The craftswoman would have been worthy of the Hook and Needle Club.” Ian paused. “I know you’ve found some pretty amazing things in the attic, but I’m having a hard time accepting that Betsy would keep something like this hidden.”

  “You’re not the only one, Ian. Not even Stella has seen the box or collar before. Gram and Grandpa told me story after story about our family’s heritage without any mention of American Indian tribes. It just wouldn’t be like them, if these are family heirlooms.”

  “What if Betsy discovered it late, not long before she died?”

  “Then I think she would have shared it with someone—Alice or Mary Beth or even Kate. And I think especially she would have shared it, somehow, with me.” Annie took a deep breath, wondering if the guilt she felt was earned. “I couldn’t visit as often as I wanted in those last years, with running the dealership with Wayne and all, but I was always close with Gram.” Annie stopped when her voice caught and lowered her head.

  Ian reached his hand across the table and gently placed it under Annie’s chin. “Hey,” he said softly, lifting her chin to look her in the eyes. “You’re right, Annie. Betsy would have shared it with you, no matter what or when.”

  “You’re just saying that so this overly emotional woman will get a grip,” Annie turned her head away from Ian’s cupped fingers to dig into her tote for a tissue. She dabbed at her eyes.

  “No, I’m saying it because your poin
t makes complete sense. Besides, I have much more interesting techniques for overly emotional people of both genders, developed from years of on-the-job-training.”

  Lisa stepped quietly over to the table with Annie’s Cobb salad and a roll. “Just let me know if you need more dressing or tea.” Annie had no doubt Lisa had heard enough of their conversation to pass it on to Peggy. She could only shake it off and focus on her meal. Maybe that was the source of her unexpected emotional roller coaster—low blood sugar.

  “Did you read the lines of the poem I copied?” Annie redirected the conversation before taking a bite of her salad. “Have you ever read anything like it?”

  Ian read the lines again. “I’m beginning to feel like a broken record, but no, I haven’t.”

  “I spent time at the library looking for any poetry book with that poem in its collection, or any reference to the lines on the Internet. Came up empty. But something surprised me,” Annie said before taking another bite. With each bite she realized just how hungry she was. If she’d been home with only Boots for company, she would have wolfed it down in record time.

  “What was that?”

  “I had to work hard to find any books on American Indian tribes in Maine. Finally I searched for Maine Indians and still came up with only two pamphlets and one nonfiction book on the Penobscot. That’s it. No poetry or even story collections at all. With Stony Point’s proud history, I expected more, I guess.”

  “I have to admit, I’ve not had those issues brought up to me, and I haven’t thought about them even in my years as mayor, or when I was growing up here,” said Ian, looking pensive.

  “Maybe that’s why Stella suggested the American Indian theme for Harvest on the Harbor. It was a way to bring them up. I’m fascinated with what I’m learning.” Annie shifted her empty teacup to the edge of the table to make it easier for Lisa to give her a refill. “After the poetry and literature book search came up empty, I turned to the Internet. I still didn’t find references to any of the lines of the poem, which leads me to conclude that it was a personal composition. But I found several places to learn more about the Passamaquoddy tribe and other Maine American Indian tribes.”

  Ian abruptly moved his head forward. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner?! Annie, I know who you should talk with! Oh, sorry to interrupt.”

  “Interruptions are allowed for special cases, and this is one of them. Who do you think could help?” Annie asked eagerly, putting her fork down.

  “There’s a member of the Passamaquoddy tribe right here in town. His name is Cecil Lewey, and he lives at Ocean View Assisted Living. My brother Todd introduced him to me years ago. Let me call him first, but I’m sure he’d be pleased to talk with you. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

  “Oh, Ian, I can’t thank you enough. Maybe he’ll recognize the patterns on the box or the beadwork, or even know the artist!” Annie picked up her cup of tea in salute. “Here’s to late lunches and public servanthood.”

  8

  The next morning Annie’s answering machine was blinking at her when she came in from a morning walk on the beach. She deposited the two new pieces of sea glass—one amber and one blue—into the sweetmeat dish before listening to the recorded message.

  “Good morning, Annie!” boomed Ian’s voice. “I spoke with Cecil Lewey earlier, and he would very much like to visit with you. If you’re free today, he’ll be available. Keep me posted on the mystery.”

  Boots strolled in as the message was playing and rubbed against Annie’s denim-covered legs. Squatting, Annie ran a hand down Boots’s back and gave her a good thorough chin and head rub. The cat had made it quite plain that she had not appreciated Grey Gables being empty so long yesterday and guilt lingered in the back of Annie’s mind.

  “If I knew you’d behave, I’d bring you with me,” she told Boots. “But you have to admit you’re a bit unpredictable at times, even for a cat. And Cecil might be allergic to cats.” Boots stared at Annie, a furry statue. “I promise to stay home with you tonight.” Boots looked none too convinced, but at least she did not try to block Annie’s way upstairs to shower and change for the trip to Ocean View Assisted Living.

  An hour later, Annie’s Malibu was pulling up to the security gate of the facility. A white van with the name of an electrician emblazoned on the sides was stopped ahead of Annie’s car, the driver talking to a man dressed in a polo shirt with the Ocean View logo stitched on the pocket. Looking around as she waited, Annie noticed a familiar Cadillac sedan pull up behind her. She smiled and waved into her rearview mirror at Gwendolyn Palmer. The van rumbled forward. Annie turned into the visitors’ parking lot and, as she slid out of her car, Gwen steered her car into the space next to her.

  “Hello, Annie!” Gwen’s hair, slacks, and sweater set were impeccable. Annie knew the interior of her sedan was also. “Are you coming for the volunteer training? I’m helping Nora with the training session today.”

  “They picked the perfect assistant with all your experience, Gwen,” said Annie, “but to answer your question, no; I’m here to visit a resident.” The two friends followed the wide flagstone walkway to the front doors.

  “Oh, who are you visiting?”

  “Cecil Lewey.” Annie pulled the right side of the large double door open, noticing that the colorful summer wreath that had hung there had been replaced with an artistic arrangement of dried maize. “When I told Ian about what we learned from the Abbe Museum curator about the box and collar, he asked Cecil to visit with me. I brought the photos to show him.”

  “I never thought of Cecil!” exclaimed Gwen. “Leave it to our mayor to know the best local resource for you.” Inside, to the immediate left of the door, a small but gracious sitting room gave residents a more formal place to meet various professional people or wait for taxi pickups close to the door.

  Annie saw that the room was empty and was pleased that Cecil apparently had chosen a less formal place for them to become acquainted. “So do you know Cecil? What’s he like?”

  “I don’t know him very well. He’s been here about five years; he’s very quiet for the most part.” Gwen paused, glanced around, and continued with a lower voice. “John calls him ‘a strange old bird,’ but he’s always been pleasant to me.”

  A petite woman with jet-black hair hurried up to Gwen. “I’m so glad you’re here early. Can you help me finish up the packets? The copier gave me fits this morning.”

  “Of course I can, Nora.” Gwen turned to Annie. “The receptionist should be able to tell you where to find Cecil. I hope he can give you insight into the mystery. See you soon!” Gwen followed Nora down the main hall. “Nora, are the name tags and markers set out yet?” Annie heard Gwen ask as they hurried along, turning left to enter another wing of the building.

  At the reception desk Annie was told Cecil was outside on the observation landing. The receptionist pointed her to a side door, leading to a narrow stone path. Annie followed it, thanking herself for wearing sensible shoes. On a foggy or rainy day the path would have been slippery, but on a bright, almost autumn morning it gave her a small thrill of adventure. When she reached about halfway to the observation deck, Annie could see a man sitting on a bench, a walking stick held lightly between his hands. As she came closer she noticed the man’s posture, straight with shoulders back, with no hint of stiffness. Annie could picture him as the star of a chiropractor’s demonstration video on proper posture. A couple more steps down and Annie could see glimpses of dark shapes dotting a wide ledge close to the water. Harbor seals.

  When Annie reached the deck, the man turned his head toward her. “You must be Annie.” His Maine accent mixed with a melodious quality. He stood to greet her. Looking up into his dark, peaceful eyes, Annie smiled back.

  “And you must be Mr. Lewey. Thank you for sharing your time with me.” Annie sat down on the bench.

  “Please call me Cecil.” The aged man gestured at the harbor seals. “I don’t believe they will be offended, and my family gene
rally only visits on evenings and weekends.”

  “Have you seen any white-furred holluschickie this year?” As soon as it popped out of her mouth, Annie inwardly winced at how silly she must have sounded. But Cecil chuckled in recognition.

  “Not this season. Kotick would have a difficult time finding Sea Cow around here. You are a reader of Kipling?”

  “When I was a girl visiting here in the summer, my grandfather would read The Jungle Book stories to me. I was particularly fond of the voice Grandpa used for Sea Catch. ‘Empty clamshells and dry seaweed!’” Almost four decades later, the joy of the shared stories warmed Annie.

  “I have lived in Stony Point for over thirty years. I wonder if I know your grandfather.”

  “His name was Charles Holden. He passed away several years ago.”

  “Charlie!” Cecil exclaimed. “Yes, he would be one to read Kipling to his grandchild.” He squinted into the bright sunlight as though he was looking back across the years. “I used to help your grandfather sometimes in his veterinary practice. He understood animals better than most.”

  “I was convinced he knew everything there was to know. My fourth-grade teacher was quite impressed when I informed her what a pinniped was during the first week of school. We didn’t have many of those in Brookfield, Texas. Except at the zoo, of course.” As a child, Annie had been fascinated with the animals her grandfather had introduced her to on the Maine coast, and the harbor seals with their sweet faces were one of her favorites.

  “Your photo always hung in his office. You were wearing a college T-shirt in the last one I remember. He always said he had hoped you would end up in veterinary science.”

  “I almost did. Then I realized that I preferred observing and learning about animals to cutting them open. So I decided to keep my thread and needlework limited to handcrafts like crochet and knitting.”