The Map in the Attic

by Jolyn Sharp

  “Tourist art?”

  “For the tourist market—objects made to be sold to tourists.” He straightened up and smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean that derogatorily. Or, not necessarily. Art needs its patrons, and Maine’s been a tourist mecca since the Vikings first set foot here.”

  “What about the seal and the cormorant and the sun and moon?” Annie asked.

  “Decorative embellishments. They would have increased the value.” He tapped the muslin. “There are some interesting contradictions here. The intricate samplers—that is, the pieces women made for their own homes or as gifts—usually have the embroiderer’s initials incorporated into the design, as you see here in the corner.” Gus St. Pierre pointed to the tiny letters YSP embedded in the splash of water around the seal. “But the intricacy of the stitch work and the almost photographic quality of the representation makes me think that one person perhaps drew out the design but then had a few hired girls do the actual embroidery. So probably more than one person worked on this.”

  “I see. And what do you think of the Xs?” Annie asked.

  “Yes.” He drew the word out with a puzzled tone. “Not a part of the work as planned, I think. They may have been something the embroiderer put in to mark a space, something she, or they, would have taken out when it was finished.”

  “It looks complete to me,” Annie protested. Then she forced herself to smile. She was grateful for his insights, but she couldn’t help but feel that this erudite and charming man was holding something back.

  “Tell me again how long this has been in your family?”

  “Oh—oh.” Annie was caught a little off guard. “No, I wouldn’t say it like that. I found it in my grandmother’s attic.”

  “That’s right, excuse me. You said it was hidden in an old cookie jar. What did the jar look like?”

  “Ah, boy,” Annie stammered. “Not hidden. I don’t think my grandmother knew it was there. It was in a box of dishes, each individually wrapped in paper. I doubt the person who had wrapped up the dishes even knew it was there. Knowing my grandmother, I think she bought the entire box of dishes at a yard sale without inspecting them carefully.”

  “Yard sale? Where? There wouldn’t have been a sales receipt for the box, by any chance?”

  “Receipt?” Exasperated, Annie laughed, and began to fold up the muslin, trying to make her actions seem as innocent as possible, but in truth, this Gus St. Pierre was starting to make her uncomfortable with his persistent questions. “Really that was just speculation on my part. I was hoping I could learn more about the piece’s history from you.”

  “Yes. Of course. You must forgive my ‘historian’s curiosity.’ ” He bowed his head a little. “In cases like this, one must act like a detective, you see. The smallest clue could make the connection that yields the object’s secrets.”

  Mollified, Annie chalked his behavior up to his passion as a historian.

  Gus nodded and absentmindedly scratched his chin. After a moment, he said, “Do you think I might hang onto the piece for a while?” He watched her face carefully as he said this. “Perhaps show it to some colleagues,” he continued, quickly adding, “I will be happy to give you a receipt for it, of course.”

  Annie clutched the felted tote to her ribs and explained that she had already promised to lend the embroidery piece to the Stony Point Historical Society and that they planned to exhibit it. She hadn’t mentioned Hank’s name, but she noticed Gus stiffen slightly at the mention of the Historical Society. He seemed about to say something, thought better of it, and instead suavely responded that he understood.

  “Perhaps I’ll come see it again there. If I may?”

  As they walked back through the gallery, Gus pointed out to Annie the Center’s small book corner. They did seem to have a decent selection packed into a small space, though as she quickly scanned the titles, Annie noticed that there were no copies of Hank Page’s works. Taking up one of his own local history pamphlets, Gus presented it to Annie as a complimentary copy.

  “I wrote my master’s thesis on maritime commerce in Maine,” he explained, tapping its cover. “Subsequently, I removed the boring parts, leaving me with this small volume.” Annie thought the self-deprecation sounded a tad rehearsed, but he insistently pressed the tract into her hands until she accepted it.

  She smiled and thanked him as graciously as she could, but she was strangely glad to pass through the Center’s doors back into the bright sunshine of the day.

  7

  The wonderful Two Ewe yarn was now completely sold out at A Stitch in Time. In its place, Mary Beth had assembled a display of sock yarn, tacking to the top and sides of the cubbyholes a colorful assembly of mittens, socks, and hats that could be made with just one or two skeins. Most of the items, Annie knew, had been made by Mary Beth’s customers, many under her expert guidance, and they had lent their projects just for this display. The effect was that of a stage curtain that invited shoppers in to touch and compare colors and weights, and start planning simple “weekend” projects.

  “Ah, but one has to think ‘fall’ when knitting in the spring,” Stella said, a little wistfully, and Annie turned to see her loading up a basket with an assortment of green and brown earth-toned yarns.

  “What are you thinking of doing?” Annie asked. She enjoyed hearing about her friends’ projects as much as she enjoyed crocheting herself.

  “Fair Isle mittens, and those—what do you call them? Gloves that have no fingers?”

  “Fingerless gloves,” floated the voice of Mary Beth from somewhere beyond the yarn.

  Annie cocked an eyebrow at Stella, and they followed the voice deeper into the store.

  “Yes, yes, fingerless gloves,” Stella muttered, settling into her usual seat for the Hook and Needle Club’s weekly meeting.

  No sooner had all the women shown off what they had been working on over the week than Kate blurted out, “Well, Annie. Tell us about the map. Have you figured out whodunit yet?”

  Annie chuckled. “Well, let’s see … everyone I’ve talked to agrees that it is indeed a map of the coast around the Stony Point area, but so far, I have gleaned just a few educated guesses about its origins. It could be ‘tourist art,’ or it might have been lovingly made for a husband away at sea. It could date from the late eighteen hundreds, or it could have been made in the 1920s. But in any event, I do seem to have help now. At the Historical Society, Hank Page has promised to help me look into it, as did the man who runs the Maine Folk Arts Center in West Waring.”

  “That would be one of the St. Pierres. August, I think,” Gwendolyn mused.

  “Gus, right,” Annie confirmed. “Inquisitive fellow—”

  “Acquisitive, I think you mean,” Stella interjected. That was followed by an uncomfortable silence in the room. “Well, the St. Pierres are well known in these parts,” she added defensively.

  Gwendolyn noticed Annie looking a little lost at this turn in the conversation and explained, “The St. Pierres are from away—Canada, to be more specific. The family had a reputation for doing business under the table, but really, Stella, that was years ago, before young Gus’s time. Gus has done us all a tremendous service by supporting local artists the way he does with the Folk Arts Center. And his sister Vivienne revived the West Waring Garden Club, and they’ve been sprucing up the town with their annual lilac festival and plantings.”

  “Besides, the St. Pierres were never as bad as their cousins,” added Alice. “They suffered by their association with the Burkes.”

  “The Burkes were a bad lot,” agreed Stella.

  Annie frowned. “Gus mentioned a woman named Burke, an artist.”

  “Really?” Stella asked sharply. “I thought they’d all left the area.”

  “It’s true the St. Pierres have come up in the world,” Peggy said, “but in the process, they’ve also hurt people with their snobbishness. I don’t mean to speak ill of them, but the minute a St. Pierre comes into The Cup & Saucer, the vibe suddenly turn
s chilly. Not that they deign to stick their noses in our door except once in a blue moon.”

  Dropping her knitting in her lap, Gwendolyn said, “I’m afraid Peggy’s right, but their own family was once ostracized too. Some of what seems like snobbery may just be a form of self-protection. That’s the sort of thing that can get handed down in families.”

  “Gwendolyn, you’re too fair,” Stella said, foisting her knitting over to her. “Now will you be my angel? I’ve dropped a stitch, and I’m having trouble seeing it. Here’s a crochet hook. Can you see if you can bring it up for me?”

  “Back to my embroidery piece—” Annie began, to which the women responded encouragingly. “The good news is the Historical Society wants to display it; I guess they’re going to create some sort of exhibit. The hope is that when they do so, someone may come forward with new information. I delivered it to Liz Booth yesterday so she can get a display ready for it.”

  “Liz does a terrific job with the Historical Society exhibits,” Stella said. “It’s in good hands now, Annie.”

  “Will she have one of her openings for the exhibit?” asked Gwendolyn. “Those are always exciting events. Remember the one she did for the exhibit of old tools? It was the social event of the season.”

  “Oh, yes, and she had that contest to guess what some of the odder tools were,” Alice said. “That was so much fun. What was that one that nobody could guess? A scrap? Something like that.”

  “At least there were no fights at that one,” Stella said.

  “Stella, that wasn’t a fight!” Peggy protested. Turning to Annie, she explained, “Another year, there was a little disagreement over whose family had been the first in the area to use engines in their lobster boats.”

  “Well, I don’t know about an opening,” Annie said. “She didn’t say anything about that. But Hank Page gave me a JPEG of the picture he took so I can—”

  “A what?” Stella asked.

  “An electronic copy of a picture he took with his cell phone. It’s a pretty good picture. I downloaded it onto my computer to use as my desktop image, and I e-mailed it to my daughter to show her what kind of trouble I’ve been getting into.”

  To Annie’s surprise, the idea of using the picture as a desktop image was popular among her fellow stitchers, who all asked for a copy—all but Stella, who guffawed and insisted that Annie was now speaking some foreign language.

  Kate jumped up when she saw a customer approaching the cash register and returned with the news that someone had managed to find one last Two Ewe skein tucked in among the bulky yarns and had just bought it.

  “Speaking of yarns,” Mary Beth segued somewhat pointedly, “where are we with the projects for the Coynes?”

  “Well, Stella and I met over the weekend and put the finishing touches on the mitered-corner afghan,” Gwendolyn volunteered.

  “And I finished the curtains with some piping that I think adds some interest,” Peggy said, pulling out some muted sand-colored fabric that was bordered with the same deep red Stella had used in some of her mitered squares.

  “Lovely,” Mary Beth exclaimed. “Peggy, you are so clever with fabric.” Peggy was an avid quilter, often warning those who expressed interest in the craft of its addictiveness.

  When the group had the projects, including the cookie jar, gathered together on a table, it was obvious that their collection would be too much for one box. As the women went about refolding and arranging the items into two boxes, Mary Beth pulled Annie aside.

  “I’m going to let Kate handle the store for a while and go right on over. Why don’t you join me? Laura Coyne is expecting us.”

  Annie was a little taken aback by the sudden suggestion, but the fact was, she’d been wanting to meet the Coynes’ daughter ever since she saw her in the library.

  “I’d be happy to help. Oh—” Annie hesitated, suddenly feeling insecure when she saw Peggy gently nestle the cookie jar among some knitted throw pillows. “Do you really think the cookie jar is appropriate right now? I mean, it has a chip in the back—”

  “Believe me,” Mary Beth assured her, “Laura will love it. She had quite a collection of old dishes, and she loved the heavy diner mugs and creamers. Now, all of it is gone.” Mary Beth snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

  “You know, Annie,” Alice piped in, “I bet she would love to have some of the other items you found in that box. Not that I mean to be giving away your possessions.” Alice laughed at herself. “It’s just that they are all of a similar style as the cookie jar, and now that they are settled someplace, presumably they will need more housewares.”

  “I would love to see someone who enjoys old dishes take them. I think my grandmother would too. I was just thinking. When we saw the Coyne girl in the library, I believe she was holding an Agatha Christie novel. If she likes mysteries, I’ve got a few good ones I can include.”

  “Great!” Mary Beth bellowed, startling a customer near the front of the store, who left hurriedly without buying anything. “We’ll just drop by your place on the way over and pick them up.”

  That settled, the other women slowly began to leave. Gwendolyn stopped by the sock-yarn display and picked out a self-striping variegated yarn and a hat pattern. At the cash register she commented to Kate that pompoms weren’t exactly her forte.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make them for you when you are ready to put on the finishing touches,” Kate assured her.

  ****

  In her SUV, Mary Beth followed Annie home and supervised Annie’s repacking of the dishes in a bigger box. She helped select a handful of paperbacks, tossing aside any that were deemed too dark or “infernal” for a young mind who’d just experienced a tragedy. Then the two women set out together in Mary Beth’s car for the Coynes’ new apartment.

  Mary Beth took a small detour to her own house as well. Annie waited in the car while she ran in, and then as they resumed the trip, Mary Beth pulled to the curb across and just down the street from the blackened remains of the Coynes’ home. She sat and stared at it for a moment.

  “I didn’t really know David Coyne before the fire, only Laura and Megan mostly, but I’ve come to have a lot of respect for that man, and what they are saying about him just breaks my heart.”

  “From what I heard last week, it sounds like people are resisting the uglier speculations,” Annie said. She knew Mary Beth held strong opinions, and she didn’t want to say anything that would upset her the way Stella had earlier at the stitching group. “The truth will come out eventually.”

  “That’s right,” Mary Beth sighed. Her hands were poised to start driving again, but her thoughts seemed to be far away. “What I haven’t said to anyone, Annie, is that I have seen David poking around what’s left of the house. Both by himself and with the insurance adjuster. Annie, he always looks so defeated. I think he’s just tormenting himself. There’s obviously nothing to be found here.”

  But as Mary Beth spoke, another car, an old and battered black van with Massachusetts plates, pulled to a stop in front of the Coynes’ home, facing the opposite direction. A short man with sunglasses, a black goatee, and tattoos on his bare arms got out, stretched his back as he looked around, and then sauntered over to the remains of the house. Though the spring sun was warm, Annie thought it still too chilly for the man’s T-shirt.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Don’t know.” The two women watched the stranger squat down on his haunches and survey the footprint of the house. “I’m going to find out, though,” Mary Beth said, unlatching her seatbelt.

  “Mary Beth!” Annie tried to protest, but as her friend was already charging across the street, Annie felt that all she could do was follow her.

  At the sound of the car door shutting, the goateed man stood up and turned his head. When he realized that Mary Beth was headed in his direction, he quickly stepped to the van and jerked open the door.

  “Excuse me, young man,” Mary Beth bellowed as the door slammed and the van wh
ined to a start. “Are you from around here?”

  But the van roared off with a squeal of its tires. Annie saw the man bent low over the steering wheel, looking unswervingly ahead. After it rounded the corner at the end of the block, Annie wondered fleetingly if she should have tried to make note of the license plate number.

  “Well.” Mary Beth stood in the middle of the street with her arms akimbo. “I don’t like that!”

  Back in the car, Mary Beth explained that Stony Point’s police chief himself had visited the shop to ask if she’d noticed anyone poking around the fire. “I almost threw him out of the shop. I thought he was looking for evidence against David, and of course, I have seen him there. It’s only a natural human reaction to want to revisit a tragedy, to try to understand it somehow. But this fellow here is another matter.”

  “Chief Edwards, I’m guessing, didn’t share the nature of his inquiry with you?” Annie probed.

  “No. If he had, I might not have been so testy with him.” Mary Beth started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “I guess a visit to the police station this afternoon is in order, and perhaps an apology.”

  ****

  Annie was shocked at the dreariness of the Coynes’ temporary apartment in a complex pretentiously named the Youngstown Arms. It was on the opposite side of town from their home, so she imagined the kids didn’t get to play with their usual friends, nor did the complex look particularly kid-friendly, evidenced by a swing set sporting a single chain and a broken, dangling seat. Beyond the unpaved parking lot, barren except for an old car with a flat tire, two vinyl-sided buildings were crowded by hemlock trees, casting them in a gloomy shadow.

  Laura Coyne was home and expecting Mary Beth and Annie. What Laura Coyne hadn’t expected were the two boxes Mary Beth and Annie presented.

  “Oh, oh, I don’t know what to say!” she cried, covering her mouth with her hands. Her eyes started to tear up, but at that moment the teakettle whistled, and she disappeared into the kitchen to compose herself.