The blue crosses were no laundry mark, as she'd speculated to Earl. They must be an indication to those who knew that these quilts were not the real McCoy. Had Jill seen the mark on Pix's quilt when it was spread out on the ground and later come into the house and removed it?
Jill was talking and Pix realized with a start that she hadn't heard a word the woman had been saying. She forced herself to concentrate. Jill was suggesting where they might go.
“There's that barn right outside Blue Hill as you head up the hill toward the fairgrounds. I found a wonderful bamboo easel at a very reasonable price last spring. Why don't we stop there first, then go farther up the coast?”
“Sounds fine to me,” Pix answered. Anything was fine at this point, when her main worry was how she was going to get through this trip without coming unglued.
The barn door was firmly shut and they didn't have much luck in Ellsworth, either: no quilts to examine and nothing else tempting. Pix knew why nothing appealed to her, but Jill seemed just as restless and disinterested. Maybe she had simply needed to get away because of Addie's death and the antiquing was an excuse. Whatever it was, neither had bought anything by eleven and Pix suggested they drive straight to Beal's in Southwest Harbor for an early lunch. A big bowl of their chowder consumed at the pier while looking across the water at Acadia's Mount Cadillac was exactly what she needed to soothe her troubled mind, and perhaps it would do something for Jill's too. Pix had noticed that whenever Jill wasn't speaking, her fingers were finding their way to her mouth and her cuticles looked red and sore.
Many of the tables at Beal's were already full. In tacit assent, they took their food to the one farthest away from the groups noisily cracking open the lobsters they had picked out of the tank.
A cool breeze was coming off the harbor and for a while they sat in silence consuming the delicious chowder thick with clams. Pix was in no hurry to get back into the car. Eating gave her something to do and think about other than what was pressing most on her mind.
“Coffee and pie?” Jill asked. Beal's was known for their blueberry pie.
“Sure, we came all this way. We can't leave without pie.”
More silent enjoyment followed, or rather, Pix thought, more silence. The pie was as good as ever, yet it was beginning to turn to ashes in her mouth. She had to say something to JillâJill, who had been a friend for years.
“Maybeâno, probablyâit's none of my business, but you know how much we care about you, both of you. Do you want to talk about what's gone wrong with Earl?” Pix decided to start with this trial balloon to gauge Jill's reaction before attempting to discuss such matters as antiques fraud and breaking and entering, although Jill had always been free to walk into the Miller's unlocked house whenever she pleased.
Jill frowned. “I don't know why everyone thinks something's wrong between us. Goodness, if you don't happen to be climbing all over someone every minute of the day, the whole island assumes you've broken up, and of course it's not true. No one's bothered to remember we both have jobs. I've been busy and Earl's been even busier with all that's happened. We haven't had time to see each other.”
She jammed a large forkful of pie into her mouth. Some of the juice dripped onto the front of her gauzy white blouse.
“Damn,” she said, rubbing at it with a paper napkin, which only made it worse. She seemed close to tears. It didn't seem the moment to mention Earl's remarks or the fact that Pix had been there herself when Jill had turned her swain down the day after she was spotted dining with another. Nor was Pix inclined to raise anything else. They finished eating quickly, paid, and got into the car.
“Are you game for some more or do you want to head back?” Pix asked, hoping Jill, like she, had had enough.
“Let's keep going. Doris can stay until she has to go to work at the inn.” Jill's chin jutted out. “Besides, I haven't had any luck yet.”
Nor have I, Pix thought dismally.
They retraced their steps and went into a large antiques shop in Trenton. It was one Pix had frequented before, but Jill said she had never been there. They walked in and the owner greeted Pix warmly. The shop was free of cobwebs and dust. Everything was shown to its best advantage. It was quite a contrast and at the moment a welcome one. When Pix asked about nightstands, he said he thought he had the very thing and led them into another room. There were several customers browsing and one turned at the sound of their voices to greet them. “Pix, Jill! I never expected to see you two playing hooky again so soon.” It was Valerie, and contrary to her earlier impulses, Pix was delighted to have a third wheel. This day out with Jill had begun to seem like a week.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I'm still looking for a table for my guest room and Jill was able to come along.”
Not wanting to keep the owner waiting, Pix followed him to what was in fact “the very thing,” except not the very price. Even with some friendly dickering, she knew it would be way out of her range. Valerie and Jill joined them. Pix said she liked it but would have to wait for something less expensive.
“It is a lovely piece,” Valerie commented, “Are you sure you're not going to take it?”
“Yes. Saying no to this price tag, besides saving my marriage, gives me something to keep looking for this summer.”
Valerie was on her hands and knees, examining the chest from all angles.
“Take your time, ladies,” the owner said, “I'll be in the front of the store.”
“Do you have any quilts?” Pix asked before he left.
“I have a crib quilt and a nice quilt top from the thirties but nothing else at the moment. Good ones are getting harder and harder to come by. The market in general has been hurt by the foreign imports that look oldâand also by the fakes.”
What it her imagination or did Jill give a sudden start?
“I'm a quilter and very interested in all this,” Pix told him. “How do you spot the fakes?” It was too much to hope that he would say they were marked with a little blue cross, but she might learn something.
“It's very difficult, especially now that the fabric companies make so many reproduction fabrics. I look at the stitching, examine the material, and mostly consider the source. I get pretty suspicious when someone comes in with an armload of quilts they just happened to find in an old trunk that hasn't been opened since goodness knows when in Grandmother's attic.”
“They aren't marked in any way, then?” Pix felt her investigation was going nowhere and she had to ask.
He laughed. “That would make it easy, now wouldn't it? No, they aren't marked. Do you want to see what little I have?”
Pix did and so did the others.
“I think I'll take the stand, if you're absolutely sure you don't want it,” Valerie said.
“Absolutely sure. I can visit it at your house.”
“Anytime.”
The crib quilt was precious, Valerie declared, and that was the word for the price, too, Pix thought. She wasn't really interested in crib quiltsânot for a long time to comeâbut she did like the quilt top with its bright 1930s prints. It wasn't particularly unusual. Someone had simply machine-pieced the rectangles together, yet it was someone who had had a good eye for color. Pix figured she could tie it rather than quilt it and have an attractive cover for Samantha's bed in Sanpere. If Samantha didn't want it, Pix would keep it for her own room. The price was reasonable and her spirits lifted.
“Do you have time to head up to Sullivan?” she asked Jill. “And can you come with us?” she added to Valerie.
“That's going to be a little far,” Jill said. “I can't cut it too close with Doris or she may not want to help me out again.”
“Why don't you ride back with me?” Valerie suggested. “There's only one place I want to check in Surry and it won't take long.”
“Thanks,” Jill said. “Then I won't feel like I'm spoiling Pix's fun.”
Pix felt a major stab of guilt. How could she suspect such a nice person? And instead of talking to her about Addie and Jill's feelings about the death, Pix had pried into her private life, upsetting her further. Certainly she did not look any better for the outing. If anything, she seemed more perturbed. Pix was tempted to call it a day herself and drive Jill home.
But at this point, she was compelled to keep going, even though she didn't have the slightest idea where Mitchell Pierce had lived in Sullivan. A quick stop at the post office should take care of that. Mitchell Pierceâit had all started with him, Mitch and antiques. Antiquesâand antiques dealersâwere cropping up regularly.
She paid for her quilt top and impulsively asked the owner, “Did you ever have any dealings with Mitchell Pierce?”
“Everybody in this business had dealings with Mitch and most of us wish we hadn't, however I don't want to speak ill of the dead. You do know about that, don't you?”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Pix said. But not enough.
She waved good-bye to Jill and Valerie and drove north to Sullivan. Without Jill, her mind raced from subject to subject, trying to figure out a way to link Mitchell, Addie, Jill, Seth, Duncan, and John, plus God knew who else, together in one pat solution. As she pulled up in front of the Sullivan post office, she was sure of only one thing: She needed to talk to Faith.
She had prepared what she hoped was a plausible story on the drive. It was hard enough to pry information from taciturn
Mainiacs without the complications of whatever oaths postal employees swore. Not that this ever seemed to bother the ones in Aleford, who considered return addresses and what was written on a postcard public information.
“Hi,” she said in as self-confident a voice as she could muster, and it wasn't half-bad. “I'm looking for someone named Mitchell Pierce. I understand he lives here.”
“Lived” was the laconic reply from the other side of the counter.
“You mean he's moved?”
“You might say.”
Pix waited, then, when that appeared to be the full extent of the reply, asked, “Do you have a forwarding address for him?”
“I have my ideas, but I'd rather not say.”
Just as she was beginning to wonder whether she was dealing with yet another would-be “Bert and I,” the recording of classic Down East humor, her informant turned inquisitor.
“Why are you so interested in Mitchell Pierce?”
The story came out smooth as a new dory down the slip into the water. “Mr. Pierce took some old things my mother wanted to get rid of on consignment. He told her they might be worth something, especially the quilts.” Pix planned to mention quilts whenever possible. “He gave her a receipt and his phone number and said he'd be in touch, but that was over a month ago and she hasn't heard a thing. The number must have been wrong, because a recording says it's no longer in service.”
Maybe it was the word
mother
or the tale itself, but it unleashed a veritable fountain of information.
“He's dead. Guess if you want to find out what happened to your stuff, you'd better talk to the police.”
“Police?”
“Mitchell got himself planted in somebody's cellar hole down to Sanpere. It's a police matter. And I wouldn't hold out any great hopes of finding your things.”
“Oh dear, what am I going to tell my mother?” This last bit was genuine enough. “Isn't it possible that they could still be in his house?”
“I doubt it. He boarded with the Hardings just up the road. Didn't have a place of his own.”
“Well, I'm glad I came. At least we know now why we didn't hear from him. Thank you for all your help.”
He nodded in acknowledgment.
It was nice to find some humor in all this, Pix thought as she started the Land Rover. Faith was going to love the post office story.
The Hardings had thoughtfully painted their name in white on their mailbox, which jutted out into the main road. It was a neat little house, the upper story painted bright yellow, the bottom dark brown, the shutters white. The yard was filled with machinery in various states of repair, several pot buoys, and broken traps. Whatever Mr. Harding did, it wasn't fishing. She knocked on the back door, noting the bright pink and purple petunias that grew profusely in the planters made from old tires on either side.
An elderly woman in a flowered housedress with a bib apron covering most of it answered.
“Yes?”
“Are you Mrs. Harding? I got your name at the post of fice.”
This appeared to be vetting enough.
“Yes, I am. Why don't you come in, deah, and sit down? It is too hot for man or beast today. I told Virgilâthat's my husbandâthat he was to stay in the shade as much as possible and keep his hat on. He's bald, you know, and bald people have to be very careful not to get burned. He won't let me put any of that cream I got from Marge Thomas. She sells Avon. Anyway, Virgil says he doesn't want to smell like a perfume factory, but it has no smell I can make out. Those summer people work him to death, cutting the grass, weeding the garden. He caretakes now, you know.”