by Cathy Elliot
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Medals in the Attic
Copyright © 2010 DRG.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means--electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise--without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. For information address DRG, 306 East Parr Road, Berne, Indiana 46711-1138.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
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Library of Congress-in-Publication Data
Medals in the Attic / by Cathy Elliott
p. cm.
I. Title
2009908722
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AnniesMysteries.com
800-282-6643
Annie’s Attic Mysteries
Series Creator: Stenhouse & Associates, Ridgefield, Connecticut
Series Editors: Ken and Janice Tate
1
“Maybe this is the one!” Annie Dawson tore open another dust-covered cardboard box and pulled out the contents. More table linens. Disappointed, she refolded the cross-stitched napkins and arranged them on the matching tablecloth. Lovely, but not what she wanted. “It’s just got to be in one of these boxes. Gram told me she packed it away.”
“When was that? Thirty years ago?” Alice MacFarlane, Annie’s childhood friend, asked as she sorted through boxes nearby. “After more than an hour of searching, be happy we found that toy china set--the moss rose pattern. And by accident, I remind you.” She separated the container with the tiny tea service from the others and placed it atop an old bird’s-eye maple dressing table.
“Believe me, I’m thrilled to find them. It’s like a miracle. I mean, look at this clutter.” Annie waved her arms to highlight the attic’s jumble of furniture, clothing, and stacks of boxes with who-knows-what inside.
Annie was sure that one of them contained a small doll’s afghan she’d crocheted as a young girl under her grandmother’s guidance. She pictured Gram’s crochet hook darting in and out as she demonstrated the techniques. At the time, Annie couldn’t know what a rarity it was for her grandmother to teach the technique. Gram’s instructional time was usually reserved for cross-stitching. But because of Annie’s strong interest in crochet, Betsy had put aside her own preference to teach the child her chosen craft. And crocheting had become Annie’s lifelong creative pursuit.
“Let’s keep looking. I’d love to find that afghan. It could be a perfect gift for my granddaughter.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Alice said, eyeing the mess. “Why don’t you give her the dishes, instead?”
Not a bad idea. Annie considered it. “Joanna’s only five years old. That’s a bit young for china. She can’t break the afghan.”
“OK, makes sense. So what wonderful memento will you find for the other twin? Got an old set of Grandpa Holden’s camping gear hidden around here for John?”
Annie stood up and stretched, getting the kinks out of her legs. “Maybe there’s something over there he’d like,” she said, gesturing toward a different stack of boxes. “We could dive into those.”
“No diving in the attic. I’m sure Betsy used to say that. Besides, weren’t we looking for an object d’art to donate to the auction next weekend?”
“True. I guess I have gotten a little distracted. It’s just so hard to give any of Gram’s things away. Like I’m tossing aside an important piece of her life somehow.” Annie frowned and bit her lip.
“That’s just natural, Annie. After all, Betsy passed away only a short time ago. You want to hold on to her possessions--to what reminds you of her. Maybe you could donate something less personal?”
Alice pointed across the room, beyond some sheeted shapes that hinted at high-back chairs. “Over near that old washstand. Take a look in that trunk. It’s bursting with books and some really nice prints. I put one on the top for you to check out. It’s a signed Wallace Nutting. Might bring in a good price. It’s for charity, you know.”
“I know,” Annie agreed. “I guess I can donate something Gram collected as long as I don’t have to give up anything she actually made. Too close to the heart.”
“If you add the old print to the gorgeous afghan you’re crocheting, it’s a very generous donation. I still don’t know what I’m going to give.” Alice restacked some wayward boxes and then paused. “Much as I hate to miss out on any more amazing archaeological finds, my friend, I gotta go. Even the storm outside does not daunt when duty calls. I have a Divine Décor party to host later.” She brushed away dust that had adhered to her T-shirt like Christmas tree flocking. “What am I? A lint magnet?”
“No. You’re a friend magnet.” Annie said, removing a cobweb from Alice’s auburn hair. “This was fun. Thanks for your help.”
“Any time. It makes me remember all our tea parties on that mismatched china. You never let me use the moss rose set. Hmm. I wonder why.”
“Maybe because you were a bit clumsy, as I recall. I kept those dishes for my dollies. Sorry.” Annie looked apologetic. “But we did have fun dressing up, remember?”
“Weren’t we just too glamorous wearing your grandmother’s old clothes? What a wealth of memories is in this attic.”
“Memories I wouldn’t trade for anything,” Annie said. “And the good news is, we still have more to make.”
“I’m so happy you came back to us, Annie. Except for the reason … Betsy’s passing. But don’t forget, tomorrow is Tuesday, Hook and Needle Club time. I’ll be by to pick you up.”
“Come early for tea,” Annie said. “And crumpets. If I can figure out what a crumpet is …”
“Let the crumpet sound!” Alice said, grinning. She picked her way through the “aisles” and headed down the stairs. “Remember. Look in the trunk.” She waved and closed the attic door.
Annie shook her head and smiled. She hadn’t realized when she returned to Stony Point, Maine, to settle her grandmother’s affairs, that she would inherit more than the old Victorian house, Grey Gables. She would also reunite with her childhood friend. Annie had been given much in a very short time. Her heart was full of gratitude. And sadness.
Sighing, she navigated over to the trunk, touching familiar objects fondly along the way. Each piece had a story, she imagined. What secrets did they hold?
A gray shadow flitted across the path, making Annie jump. But it was only Boots--Gram’s sometimes finicky feline--inherited with the old house. She must have slipped in when Alice opened the attic door. No matter. A little cat company was always welcome.
Seated on a squat stool, Annie gazed at the old hand-tinted photo she had just liberated from the trunk. It had lain on top of the pile of pictures stacked inside. Framed simply, it depicted a genteel lady in nineteenth-century dress, gloved han
d outstretched to help down a friend from a stagecoach. Or perhaps she was about to climb on board and embark on a marvelous journey.
Annie knew a bit about journeys. It hadn’t been that long since she also bravely set out from her home in Brookfield, Texas, for unexpected adventure right here in Stony Point. She’d never dreamed …
A loud crash startled her and she lost her grip on the picture. Fumbling at the frame, Annie caught it before it clattered to the floor. She clutched it to her chest, heart pounding, and whirled around to find only Boots. The cat sat on the tiny window seat, frantically grooming her cobweb-covered coat. A fallen Victorian lamp with beaded fringe splayed about must have caused the racket. But Boots didn’t know anything about that. No, ma’am.
“Boots! Are you all right?” Annie returned the picture to the trunk and picked her way across the chaos. There wasn’t much room between the boxes and booty stacked in every attic opening, but she managed to reach Boots without mishap and scooped her up. Scratching behind the feline’s ears and finger combing dust from the soft gray fur, Annie asked, “Did that nasty lamp try to get you?”
Enclosing the cat in one more comforting snuggle, Annie deposited the four white paws on the floor and gave Boots a little push. “Off with you, troublemaker.” The cat scooted toward the stairs.
“I’ll be glad to clean this up for you, Miss Boots,” Annie called after her. She hadn’t planned to spend any time in the attic today, much less straightening up after her pesky pet. But the stormy afternoon had changed her hopes of a trek into Stony Point for more merino wool. And maybe, if she was lucky, a bit of conversation at A Stitch in Time, the local yarn shop. The wool would have to wait.
Looking for a project, the two friends had decided to search for something among Gram’s attic treasures for Annie to donate for the annual community center auction.
And now, thankfully, the print proved promising. In mint condition, it should fetch a good price for the building fund. Even signed by the photographer. A little sparkling up would make it irresistible to the most reluctant bidder.
Annie righted the lamp and carried it to a safe corner, the beaded fringe tinkling like tiny chimes. There didn’t appear to be any damage to the fine old piece. A rolled-up Persian rug propped nearby must have cushioned its fall. Annie examined the carpet, running her hand along its back. The exposed inside edge showed a bright and colorful pattern, but the outside looked more like a cat scratching post. Annie heaved away the heavy roll to make it less accessible to somebody’s claws and noticed a small cardboard box buried beneath.
Intrigued, she let the rug fall to the side and sat cross-legged on the floor. Lifting the box, she spotted a scrawl on the sides: “Keep.” Annie caught her breath. This must be something special of Gram’s. Wouldn’t it be great if it were the little doll afghan? Blowing away bits of dust and trying not to sneeze, she pried open the top.
She pulled away a layer of crushed newspaper to reveal some cotton cloth covering a rectangular shape. Not the afghan, but interesting anyway. Annie lifted it from the cozy nest and carefully pulled off the cloth. Underneath the wrinkled cotton, one of Gram’s cross-stitched tea towels, rested a carved wooden case. The glass top exposed what appeared to be two medals. Military medals. Awed, she stared at them. How stirring.
And how strange.
Grandpa Holden’s World War II medals were displayed in the living room in a shadow box, along with other of his wartime memorabilia. So whose medals were these?
Annie contemplated the case. They must belong to Grandpa. Who else? If they were indeed his medals, why were they packed away? Why not celebrate them with the family?
“Maybe it’s a secret!” Her voice cut through the patter of rain on the roof. But why would Gram and Grandpa keep such spectacular honors a secret?
That was a good question. With no instant answer.
The medals were mounted on a backdrop of black, velvety fabric. One, a heart-shaped medal, hung from purple ribbon. In the center of the heart, a likeness of George Washington silhouetted in gold. Annie knew what this medal represented. It wasn’t awarded for frostbite or the flu but given only to servicemen wounded in battle. Or killed.
The Purple Heart.
Grandpa often said how much he appreciated his guardian angel. He’d gotten through the war years without a scrape. So it couldn’t be his, could it?
She didn’t recognize the other medal. A gold, five-pointed star--it reminded her a little of the Stony Point sheriff’s badge--attached to a blue ribbon by a clasp imprinted with thirteen stars. Very handsome. It looked important. But again, why wasn’t it on display with the others?
Annie repacked the box, securing the case inside, and stood, glad to end the session on these old wooden planks. She grabbed the box containing her childhood tea service and set the medals on top. Remembering the Nutting print, she removed it from the trunk and let the lid close with a clank. Then, cradling the box under one arm and clutching the print with her empty hand, she took one last look at the cluttered room.
It being filled with years of memorabilia and memories, she felt closer to Gram in this room than any other. Revisiting tea parties and other enchanting attic adventures with Alice today helped bring her old, unburdened self closer too--before all the loss. Within these walls were precious things long forgotten--enduring evidence of lives richly lived.
And secrets.
The baffling box of medals proved that.
Looks like you’ve given me another mystery to solve, Gram.
2
Boots waited at the top of the stairs, tail twitching. Then, she sauntered over and rubbed against Annie’s jeans, the scolding apparently forgotten. With both arms full of rescued treasure, her mistress couldn’t attend to Boots. Undeterred, the assertive cat threaded through and around Annie’s legs as she took the steps, one by one.
“Really, Boots. It’s impossible to walk down this staircase with you tripping me up.” She shoved the cat aside with one foot, a gentle slide toward the wall. Acting insulted, Boots avoided eye contact and pondered her paw before loping down to the next floor.
Unable to grasp the stair rail, Annie leaned against it, glad it seemed sturdy. She hadn’t noticed it loose before. There really wasn’t much repair required indoors at Grey Gables. But she’d had no idea the old Victorian would need any sprucing up at all when she’d inherited it from Gram only months before. Thank heaven for wonderful Wally Carson, her handyman. The outside already showed the fine results of his skills.
When Annie’s heel caught on the next step, she reached for the railing, whacking the picture frame against the wood. Great. Now she had probably broken the wonderful old swirly glass that had lasted for how long? Eighty years, give or take a decade. If she replaced it, the picture wouldn’t be mint anymore. It would have replacement glass. And the value would plummet. For it to earn any real money for the auction, someone would have to bid just out of kindness.
I guess that someone would be me.
Two trips might have been a good idea.
Arriving at the landing, Annie turned to see her reflection in an antique mirror hung above a petite chair. Blond hair, recently trimmed to chin length and dulled by the dust picked up in the attic. How did that happen? She hadn’t mopped the floor with her head. Yet it looked more cobwebby than Alice’s. Even Annie’s sparkles, what the grandchildren called her ever-encroaching gray hair, were lackluster.
Thinking of Joanna and John’s creativity gave her heart a twinge. In the mirror, her green eyes softened. How she wished they were here at Grey Gables. This very minute. Good heavens, they could help carry these hefty boxes down the stairs. Or at least summon help if she stumbled.
It then occurred to Annie that if she fell and broke a leg, or worse, both legs, she would be trapped between floors. Alone. With only Boots to the rescue. Maybe she could drag herself to the bedroom and pull the phone to the floor. It painted a desperate picture. Had Gram worried about this very thing? That may be why th
e attic was so unkempt. In her final years, had the risk of taking the extra flight of stairs been too great?
A familiar guilt incriminated Annie, one felt often since coming to Grey Gables. Why hadn’t she come sooner? While Gram was still alive? Since her husband’s death last year, Annie hadn’t had the heart to do anything but miss Wayne: their home together in Brookfield, those wonderful times raising LeeAnn, the years working with him at their Chevrolet dealership. She still missed him every day. Such a deep, deep loss, built on her mother’s passing five years before, followed by her father’s two years later. And now Gram was gone. Still so many unspoken words left to say to all these dear ones.
Annie shook her head. Regret too often her companion, she resolved to think on the sweetness of her memories and continued down the stairs.
Once in the living room, she released the boxes to the safety of the sofa and scrutinized the print. The glass wasn’t cracked, nor the frame. The scene captured her anew, feeling a kinship with the woman in the picture.
Annie nestled into the sofa and bumped against the medals. Putting the print aside, she reopened the box. This time, she smoothed out crumpled newspapers, noting they were pages from the The Point, dated from the 1950s. Would she find a clue in the columns, leading her to the owner of the medals? She didn’t know but resolved to save them to devour later, if only for history’s sake. It would be fun to see what the Stony Point neighbors were doing during that decade. Or rather, what their parents had been doing--a perfect rainy-day activity.