another room. There were several customers browsing and one turned at the sound of their voices to greet them. 'Pix, Jil ! 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 Jil had begun to seem like a week.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I'm stil looking for a table for my guest room and Jil was able to come along.”
Not wanting to keep the owner waiting, Pix fol owed 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 Jil 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 al angles.
“Take your time, ladies,' the owner said. 'I'l 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 old— and also by the fakes.”
Was it her imagination or did Jil give a sudden start?
“I'm a quilter and very interested in al 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, especial y 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'l 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 real y interested in crib quilts—not for a long time to come
—but 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 Sul ivan?' she asked Jil . 'And can you come with us?' she added to Valerie.
“That's going to be a little far,' Jil 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,' Jil 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 Jil '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 cal it a day herself and drive Jil home.
But at this point, she was compel ed to keep going, even though she didn't have the slightest idea where Mitchel Pierce had lived in Sul ivan. A quick stop at the post office should take care of that. Mitchel Pierce—it had al started with him, Mitch and antiques. Antiques—and antiques dealers—were cropping up regularly.
She paid for her quilt top and impulsively asked the owner, 'Did you ever have any dealings with Mitchel Pierce?'
“Everybody in this business had dealings with Mitch and most of us wish we hadn't, however I don't want to speak il 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 Jil and Valerie and drove north to Sul ivan. Without Jil , her mind raced from subject to subject, trying to figure out a way to link Mitchel , Addie, Jil , Seth, Duncan, and John, plus God knew who else, together in one pat solution. As she pul ed up in front of the Sul ivan 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 Mitchel 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 ful 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 Mitchel 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, especial y 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?'
“Mitchel got himself planted in somebody's cel ar 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 tel my mother?' This last bit was genuine enough. 'Isn't it possible that they could stil be in his house?'
“I doubt it. He boarded with the Hardings just up the road. Didn't have a place of his own'
“Wel , I'm glad I came. At least we know now why we didn't hear from him. Thank you for al your help.' He nodded in acknowledgment.
It was nice to find some humor in al this, Pix thought as she started the Land Rover. Faith was going to love the post office story.
The Hardings had thoughtful y 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 yel ow, the bottom dark brown, the shutters white. The yard was fil ed 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?'
