wasn't a member of the group, although they graciously al owed her to sit in when it was at Ursula's. Membership was a closely guarded affair, bestowed infrequently and only to women of a certain age and level of skil . The Sanpere Stitchers were very proud of their handiwork, and their annual sale in August to raise money for the Island Food Pantry was sold out by ten o'clock.
Pix's role began the night before with a cal from Mother.
“You remember, dear, that tomorrow is Sewing Circle at my house, don't you?”
Since Ursula had managed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways to work this into the conversation every day since last Friday, Pix did indeed remember. It was written down on several lists.
“Yes, of course, and I'l be there early to help. I know you want my big coffee urn. Is there anything else you need?'
“Not real y. Gert has things under control. She's been baking since Tuesday and cleaning since last Tuesday. But it occurred to me that you might bring some savories—a cheese spread, some crackers, you know the kind of thing.
Perhaps arranged on a nice plate with some grapes, for those who don't want just sweets.”
Pix developed a bowline in the pit of her stomach.
Mother wasn't talking about a Wispride spread or Cheez Whiz. Her reputation was at stake.
“I'l see what I can do,' she promised, vowing to cal Faith as soon as Ursula hung up. This was an emergency.
Faith, knowing Pix's culinary expertise, gave her two very simple recipes* and told her to go to the foreign- food section, one shelf, at the IGA and pick up some Carr's water biscuits and Bremer wafers.
“Basical y, these are cream-cheese spreads. For the first, blend some of the goat cheese from the farmers'
market with an equal amount of cream cheese. That goat cheese by itself is too crumbly. If you don't have any, it's Mrs. Cousins who makes it, and you can go to her house.
Try to get the kind she puts herbs in. For the other spread, take some of the green-tomato chutney you put up last year
—you must have some left; you made vats of it—and mix it into the cream cheese. Don't make it too gooshy; taste it as you go along. Then put each in a pretty little bowl and decorate the top with a nasturtium or some other nonlethal posy from your garden. Put them on a platter and arrange the crackers and grapes around the bowls with more flowers.”
The next morning, Pix stepped back from her creation and was tempted to take a picture for Faith. The platter looked beautiful—and tasty. Julia Child, watch out. She decided to go early to Mother's and show off.
“Isn't that lovely!' her mother exclaimed. One of the nice things about Ursula was that she expressed her appreciation, even if it was for something she herself could have done with one hand tied behind her back, especial y in earlier years. This was a woman who stil gathered her grandchildren and their friends together at Easter to make the sugar eggs with the frosting scenes inside from scratch.
'Gert, come see what a good job Pix has done.”
Pix usual y felt about twelve years old on Sewing Circle days. Today it might be ten.
The ladies started arriving promptly at one o'clock, bearing work bags and projects, some to display, some to complete. Pix scurried around fetching chairs and even a footstool or two for those who needed them—like Adelaide Bainbridge. She was an immense woman and said the blood ran better in her legs if her feet were up. She took up two spaces on the couch, further claiming territory as she spread out her work. There was a tiny corner left to sit in and she cal ed over to her sister-in-law, seated in one of the multitude of Boston and Bar Harbor rockers, 'Rebecca, there's plenty of room here and I need you to thread my needles. My eyes aren't what they used to be,' Addie explained to the group. Rebecca obligingly gathered her things together and squeezed into the space. Fortunately, she was spare and lean, with elbows exposed in the warm weather that looked as sharp as the needle she was now threading. She had brought Ursula an old-fashioned, beribboned nosegay—pale pink sweetheart roses mixed with dried sea lavender surrounded by lily of the val ey leaves. It graced the table now in a smal white pitcher Pix had found, perfect for a tea party.
Louise Frazier had been voted into the group some years ago and after giving Pix a warm hug sat down on the other large couch next to Mabel Hamilton and pul ed out a child's sweater with brightly colored crayons worked on the front. 'I have just got to finish this today,' she said, needles clicking away. 'The sale is only six weeks away and I have two more to do!”
After appropriate praise was given for various articles, the talk turned to how many raffle tickets each member had sold for Adelaide's quilt.
“It's so good of you to give it, Addie. The summer people are buying chances like crazy and now that the Inn is displaying the quilt, even more people wil want tickets,'
Dot said.
Adelaide Bainbridge was one of the island's celebrities. Fame had come late in her life. She now admitted to seventy-nine and friends politely ignored the fact that this admission had been made several years ago, as wel . She'd started quilting as a child, taught by her mother to while away their time on one of the smal islands off Sanpere. Adelaide's father had been a lighthouse keeper in the days before automation replaced the families who faithful y tended the beam. Pix always pictured Addie as one of those lighthouse keeper's daughters in old storybooks, battling through the storm to keep the light burning while Papa lay tossing with fever at her feet. If her childhood had been lonely on the island with only her parents for company, she never said anything. She seemed to have learned how to do an enormous number of things wel from her mother—the art of housekeeping, reading and ciphering, and sewing.
Her quilts had become col ector's items, depicting elaborately appliqued scenes from her childhood and island life. A few of the recent ones were more abstract—
colorful shapes suggestive of trees, waves, birds, and fish.
Some of the quilts were in the permanent col ections of museums. No shrinking violet—her appearance alone claimed center stage—Adelaide enjoyed being the Grandma Moses of the quilting world. Just when people thought her head couldn't get any bigger, an entire article in The El sworth American—'Good Morning America'—
included her in a special about Maine.
She lived with Rebecca, or rather Rebecca lived with her, moving into the large white nineteenth-century farmhouse after her brother James, Adelaide's husband, died. That was thirty years ago. Rebecca was the perfect handmaiden, basking in Adelaide's glory. No mean quilter herself, Rebecca had already contributed two quilts to the sale, a Double Wedding Ring and a Log Cabin. Now she was turning out an endless number of counted cross-stitch Christmas ornaments, hunched over her work, looking even smal er than she was next to Adelaide's bulk. The two were the island's own odd couple. Adelaide ran the household and was total y down-to-earth and practical, despite the fits of fancy her quilts represented. Rebecca drifted through the day with her head in the clouds—and occasional y her purse in the refrigerator or the garden implement she'd last been using set on the table in place of a fork.
Pix knew what she was supposed to do at these gatherings and announced that the coffee was ready.
People fil ed their plates and she was gratified to see the cheese spreads disappearing. They put their handwork aside and sat back. Pix and Gert passed around more goodies.
“My word, but these are tempting, Ursula, how did you find the time to do al this?' Mabel asked.
Credit where credit was due. 'Oh, Gert and Pix did most of it.' Her self-deprecating smile hinted at the possibility that she might have sliced a lemon or two and put out the milk.
The talk drifted away from the sale to what was uppermost on every islander's mind these days—Mitchel Pierce. Most people were regarding it as an isolated incident, so it wasn't stirring up anyone's fears. Talk about it tended to the matter-of-fact.
“And the police don't have any leads? You'd think someone would have seen something,' Adelaide Bainbridge declared emphatical y after consuming one of Gert's cream puffs in two bites.
No one seemed prepared to respond. Al eyes turned to Pix. She was certain that they knew as much as she did but supposed her discovery of the body conferred some sort of mantle of expertise.
“I'm sure the police have leads that we don't know about. Mitchel hadn't been seen on the island for some time, so they're concentrating around Camden and Bar Harbor. As for seeing something, anyone could have landed on the Point at night—or even driven out there without being noticed. There were no signs of a struggle, so they are
