“Please don’t worry,” she said quickly, and then she jumped up. “Let me fill that tea glass.”
Before he could respond, she had darted into the house to get the pitcher of tea. While she was in the kitchen, she took several molasses cookies from her cookie jar. They too, had been baked by Alice. If she could keep him focused on Alice’s baked goods …
When she walked back out on the porch, Ian was standing near the top of the steps. He was gazing out toward the restless water of the ocean, and the breeze stirred his hair. Annie felt a pang knowing she probably had hurt his feelings—something she did not want to do.
“Here’s more tea!” she said cheerfully. “And some of Alice’s soft molasses cookies. That girl keeps me in treats.”
Ian turned, and the smile he gave was half-hearted at best. She felt like kicking herself, but she knew it would be far crueler to encourage a more-than-friends relationship between them.
“Annie, thank you for the tea and the cream puffs, but I need to be going. Tartan needs his walk and his dinner.”
She set down the tray and hid her discomfort.
“All right. Would you take some of these cookies with you? I can wrap up some …”
He eyed the plate then shook his head. His smile never faltered.
“I’ll buy some at the party.” His smile slid away, and he looked into her eyes. She read his heart and dropped her gaze.
“See you later, Annie. Good luck at Papa Dexter’s tomorrow. Let me know what you find out.”
With that, he strode down the steps and to his car. Annie retreated into the house so she would not have to watch him drive away.
7
It was almost dark by the time Annie put the final plant in the ground and watered the area thoroughly. The growing season and the soil in Maine differed greatly from what she was accustomed to in Texas. She stood beside her new flower garden and offered a prayer that these tender new beginnings found root and thrived.
After a shower and light supper of soup and salad, she crocheted a couple more blocks for the sampler afghan while watching her favorite detective show on television, and then went to bed early.
After the full day she’d had, she expected to fall asleep quickly and deeply. Instead, her mind circled all the puzzles the last couple of days had created. Of course there was the music box—its origins, its creator, its contents. How had Gram come to own such a lovely and mysterious antique? Where had she found it? Or had it been a gift? Had she bought it somewhere? Had she known what lay inside, and was that the reason it had been on the highest shelf? Maybe Betsy Holden herself had hidden the object. But why? What secret would she want to hide from everyone so badly that she’d virtually sealed it in a wooden casket? Did Ian’s concern have any basis in reality? If Annie exposed something someone wanted hidden, even many years later, would she be putting herself in danger—again? But that just seemed absurd, and she did her best to dismiss it from her mind.
Then Annie’s mind jumped into other thoughts. Why had Grady Brooks, a man she had not seen, or barely thought of, in thirty years or more called her? How had he traced her to Stony Point? How did he know her married name? Why did he hang up before she could reach the phone? Why didn’t he leave her a message? Why hadn’t he called again?
Annie sat up and fluffed her pillows. She readjusted the bedclothes, and then she lay down again, wishing she could shut off her mind. No such luck.
Annie still had his number in her phone’s memory. In fact, those digits all but flashed in front of her eyes as she lay in the dark. As she lay there, once again she batted around the idea of calling him. Maybe she would tomorrow.
But what would be the point of that? she asked herself. Why bring up old times and resurrect the memory of a silly schoolgirl crush? A crush she would be too embarrassed to admit to now. All that mooning after him and doe-eyed sideways glances at his handsome face made her writhe in discomfort just to think about it.
Unfortunately, this line of thinking brought her back to her conversation with Ian earlier that day. What would she do if Ian ever declared deeper feelings for her? How would she handle that situation?
Oh! All those thoughts kept exploding in her brain like bottle rockets, disrupting her rest, and giving her a headache.
She pulled the pillow over her head, trying to shut out the internal sounds of her questions, and at some point the sandman dragged Annie, figuratively screaming and kicking, to slumber land.
The telephone dragged her awake the next morning.
“Annie!” Alice’s voice barked into the phone. “Where are you? I thought we were leaving at ten!”
Annie sat up fast. She looked at her alarm clock. 10:15! Good grief! How did it get to be that late, with her snoozing away like a fat bear in the dead of winter?
“I … I’m, uh, running a little late. Give me a few more minutes, Alice, would you, please?”
“Sure. I’ll keep the coffee simmering.”
Annie believed she took the fastest shower in the history of shower-taking. She threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt so quickly it made her dizzy. She slapped on some lipstick, brushed a touch of mascara to her lashes, pulled her hair back in a cute blue clasp, thrust her feet into a pair of sandals and was out the door before she had time to think—or to fully wake up, for that matter.
“What happened to you? You’re hardly ever late to anything!” Alice said the moment Annie stepped on her porch. She had been sitting in a small white rocker, waiting like a spider for the fly—at least in Annie’s estimation.
“Sorry. I’m here now. Shall we go?”
“Where’s the music box?” Alice asked as soon as she got in the Malibu. She turned to look in the backseat.
“The music box?” Annie asked, and Alice turned back around, gawking at her.
“As if you’ve never heard of such a thing! What is wrong with you this morning? You act as if you just woke up.”
I did. Less the fifteen minutes ago. But Annie refused to admit this aloud.
“Sorry,” she said again. “I just walked right out of the house and left the music box behind. Won’t take me a minute to run in and pick it up.”
Inside Grey Gables, Boots sat in the middle of the floor and gave Annie the most baleful look a cat could bestow on a lesser being.
“I forgot to feed you!” Annie cried. “Oh, poor Boots!”
She ran to the kitchen, poured the cat a bowl of kibble and set it on the floor. Boots attacked her meal as if she had been starved for a week instead of going without a full bowl of her crunchy food for less than a few hours. She did not deign to offer a purr of gratitude. The indignant twitching of her tail as she ate told Annie everything she needed to know about the cat’s state of mind.
She was back out on the porch and nearly to the steps when she remembered that she had forgotten the music box for the second time.
“Good grief,” she muttered, going back inside. “I hope Alice didn’t see that. She’ll have me settled in Seaside Hills Assisted Living before the week is out if I keep this up.”
“Sorry,” she said as she opened the backseat door and carefully stowed the music box in the backseat. “Boots demanded her breakfast.”
“Yes. Cats can be so unreasonable sometimes,” Alice murmured, giving Annie a narrow gaze. “Are you all right?” she asked as Annie got behind the wheel.
“I’m fine,” Annie assured her. “I just didn’t get a very good rest last night, that’s all.”
They were on the highway when Alice asked, “Something bothering you, Annie? And don’t bother saying no because I can see for myself that something is wrong. What’s on your mind?”
Annie refused to engage in speculation about Grady or her precarious emotions concerning Ian, but she was more than willing to discuss the music box.
“Ian said something yesterday that has me, well, not worried exactly, but concerned.”
“This sounds serious, Annie. What was it?”
Annie felt a feathe
r of disquiet as she recalled Ian’s concerns. She drew in a deep breath and asked, “Do you think we’re doing the right thing by trying to get inside the music box?”
“Well, of course! Why would you think it’s not the right thing?”
“Do you think whatever is inside it might be something that should remain secret and untouched?”
“Is that what Ian told you?” Alice shuddered. “That sounds a little dark and disturbing, don’t you think?”
Annie nodded.
“I hardly think it’s anything sinister, if that’s even what he meant,” Alice said after a few moments to think about it. “If it were something that had been hidden away in the last few years, perhaps Ian would have had a point. But that box has been in Betsy’s possession since before either of us can remember.” She paused. “Right?”
“Right.”
“Whoever did hide it is long dead, I’m sure, or at least very old. Honestly, Annie, if that’s what has kept you awake, please put it out of your mind.”
Annie let her friend’s words sink in and some relief trickled into her mind.
“I’m sure you’re right, Alice. That’s exactly what I’ve been telling myself. Still, Ian’s caution makes sense, and he was worried.”
“He cares about you, Annie. He likes you.”
“I know.” She did not want to discuss it.
“And you like him too, don’t you?”
Annie did not reply to that. Instead, she asked, “How far away is Dexter Cove? Why haven’t I heard of it before?”
Alice gave her an exasperated look, but she did not pursue the topic.
“Dexter Cove is not a town, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Alice said. “It’s just what Papa Dexter calls his place. It’s about ten miles from here. I’ll show you where to turn when we get close.”
Dexter Cove turned out to be a small, weathered-gray house that overlooked the ocean. The view was similar to the view from Grey Gables, but more rugged and wild. The house looked like it had sprung from the shoreline after a shipwreck. Driftwood and shells, the hull of an old boat, and more miscellanea than Annie could catalog at first glance cluttered the area where grass might have once grown had it been allowed. Cluttered it was, but it was also tidy and somehow welcoming.
The door in the center stood wide open, and Annie could see that sunlight stretched a square across the stone floor inside.
Carrying the music box carefully, she followed Alice up the crushed shell pathway toward that open door. The wind blew briskly that close to the blue water, and it was cool and damp enough to raise chill bumps along her skin. The fragrance of coffee and bacon came through the doorway and windows that had been opened. It mingled pleasantly with the smell of the sea.
“Papa Dexter!” Alice called as they reached the front door. “Are you home?”
Annie heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, and a moment later a sturdy older man appeared in the door. His thick, white hair gleamed in the sunlight and beneath straight, silvery eyebrows, his bright blue eyes shone like sea glass. A neatly clipped white beard looked to have been on his chin and jawline all his adult life.
“Is that Alice MacFarlane standing at my threshold?” he asked, squinting into the bright daylight.
“It is!” Alice said merrily. “And I’ve brought a friend.”
“Well, come in, come in!” the old man cried, smiling broadly and displaying a good set of teeth that time had made slightly dingy. “I’m just finishing a late breakfast. Would you ladies like something to eat?”
Alice declined for both of them as they entered the small home, but added, “If you have some extra coffee, we might take some of that.”
“Indeed I do.” He looked at Annie with a bit of curiosity. “And who might this lovely young woman be?”
“I’m Annie Dawson,” she said, shaking his hand. “Did you happen to know Betsy Holden, Mr. Dexter? I’m her granddaughter.”
He studied her face, and she saw recognition leap into his expression.
“Of course you are! It’s in the eyes. And please, call me Papa. Everyone does.” He swept his hand toward the ancient living room. “Please sit down, ladies, and I’ll bring you some coffee. Sugar? Cream?”
“Just black,” Annie said.
“A bit of sugar today, please,” Alice added.
They sat on a sofa that might have been new in 1952. Its nubby mauve fabric was textured but not a bit threadbare. Other furniture was just as old, but in excellent condition. Like the outside, the house, though cluttered, seemed extremely clean.
Unusual paintings and wall hangings caught Annie’s eye and interest until the man returned, a thick white mug of coffee in each hand.
“I’m not one for formality,” he said, handing the mugs to each woman in turn, “but if you’d like something else to drink, or a bite to eat, just ask for it.”
“Thank you,” Annie said, taking the mug from him, “but this morning, I think I need some coffee before I can even think about food.” She sipped the strong richness and felt a little stir of welcome energy.
The old man settled in a comfy-looking vintage armchair. The three of them chatted like old friends for a few minutes, talking about the weather and his business/hobby. Alice and Papa Dexter discussed the health of a mutual elderly friend in Ocean View Assisted Living.
Finally he turned to Annie, and looked at the wrapped music box on her lap.
“Well, now, I don’t think you’ve come all the way from town just to sit around and have a cup of coffee with old Papa. What do you have there?” He dipped his head to her package.
“It’s something Gram had in her music box collection.”
“Ah! One of Betsy’s treasures, eh? A music box? Well, let’s see what you have.”
He leaned forward as she stripped away the papers. She handed the box to him.
“What can you tell me about this?”
He took it to a small table in the sunny front window. He studied it in the same way everyone else had, examined the carvings, gave the key a cursory jiggle, and finally looked up.
“Well, Miss Dawson—or is it Mrs. Dawson?”
“It’s Mrs., Papa Dexter. I’m a widow.”
He lifted his bushy silver eyebrows.
“You are much too young to be a widow, if you don’t mind me saying,” he said gently. “My condolences, my dear.”
She blinked back a sudden and an unexpected sting of tears.
“Thank you. My husband—his name was Wayne—and I were very close. Losing him was … well, it was unexpected, to say the least, and extremely difficult.”
“Indeed, I’m sure it was. I lost my dear Sally forty years ago, but there are days when it feels like just yesterday that she left me. We grieve for our loved ones and mourn our own solitary state.”
Annie nodded. She gave him a small smile, but she did not trust herself to speak further without weeping. Papa Dexter seemed to recognize this and turned his attention to the music box.
“Mrs. Dawson, this is indeed a treasure. It is the first Malcolm Tyler box I’ve seen in at least thirty years, if not longer.”
“Malcolm Tyler?” she repeated.
“Who’s he?” Alice asked.
“He was an artist back in the 1920s,” he said. “No one ever knew too much about him, even back then, other than that he was quite eccentric. Some say he was from Canada, some say New York state. Still others believe he was from Down East, but no one seems to know for sure. He wandered from place to place, living with whoever would take him in or sleeping in the open.”
“I find that peculiar,” Alice said.
“Many artists are very peculiar,” Papa Dexter said. “It’s part of the artistic temperament, I think.”
“Well, yes, you have a point there,” Alice agreed, “but how did he create his work if he was homeless?”
“Itinerant is the better word to describe him, I think, rather than homeless. People say he stayed in one place only long enough to m
ake money to move on.”
“Didn’t he have any family?” Annie asked.
“Yes. Yes, he did. In fact, I read something about them a few years ago in an art magazine. I believe they are somewhere in New England, if I remember correctly. Let me think a minute.” The old man was lost in thought for a while, and then he shook his head. He offered an apologetic smile.
“My memory is not what it used to be, I’m afraid, but the name of the place will come back to me. Probably about two in the morning.” He laughed softly. “If you leave me your phone number, Mrs. Dawson, I’ll call you when I remember where they live.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Only I won’t call you at 2:00 a.m., I promise.” He looked at the music box again, and patted it gently. “Only a few of his music boxes exist. Some are in museums. There might be more, but they are privately owned. I don’t think he made very many.” He glanced at the two women. “There is something intriguing about some of Malcolm Tyler’s boxes that most people do not realize, even some of the collectors.”
More secrets? Annie and Alice exchanged an expectant look.
“What’s that?” Annie asked.
“Yes, tell us, please,” Alice said eagerly.
“They have hidden clasps and hinges, like secret doors in old mansions.”
Annie could feel her eyes growing bigger. This might be a significant step in solving the puzzle about the music box.
“I’m sure that one does,” she said eagerly, “because no one can find a way to get to the music cylinder inside.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously, “I’m sure too.” He shook the box and whatever was inside slid back and forth. “Something is in there. But I assume you already know that.”
“Yes! We’ve been chasing all over Stony Point trying to find someone who can get inside.”
“Someone actually suggested we might have to break the box to get to it,” Alice said with considerable indignation.
Papa Dexter looked alarmed. He all but clasped the music box to his chest as Annie had done when Mike mentioned breaking into it.
The Unfinished Sonata Page 6
