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?"
“Are you Mrs. Harding? I got your name at the post office”
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 Virgil—
that's my husband—that 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 on any of that cream I got from Marge Thomas. She sel s Avon. Anyway, Virgil says he doesn't want to smel like a perfume factory, but it has no smel I can make out. Those summer people work him to death, cutting the grass, weeding the garden. He caretakes now, you know.”
This, Pix thought, profoundly grateful, was going to be a piece of cake.
She told her story again—or rather, tried to. Mrs.
Harding—"Cal me Bessie, deah. Everybody does, even the grandkids"—tended to use Pix's every word as a jumping-off point for one of her own tangents. But after hearing about the priceless antique garnets—necklace, bracelet, earrings, and ring—Mr. Harding's mother had owned and which were promised to her, Bessie, but just because Mother had lived in their house, Mr. Harding's brother's wife, "who was no relation at al " claimed everything and she, Bessie, did not get so much as a button of her own mother-in-law's who also happened to be a second cousin, Pix was able to get on with her story.
Once Mitchel Pierce's name was mentioned, Pix didn't have to do anything else.
“I know he was no better than he should have been, but I liked the man. Always paid his rent on time and sometimes he'd come down here to the parlor—that's where we watch TV—and sit with us. Played that mandolin of his. A couple of times, he'd bring a bottle of something, not that Mr. Harding and I are drinkers, though we do enjoy a nip of something now and then. I don't know what he was doing down on Sanpere in a basement, but the whole thing is very sad and we miss him. That man could make you laugh from here to Christmas"
“Do you think it's possible he may have left some of Mother's things here in his room or maybe someplace else in the house? Mother is particularly concerned about her quilts. He said they might be valuable.”