The floorboard was wrong before Genevieve Martel understood why.
She had spent the better part of the Wednesday afternoon in Elspeth Finch’s studio at 12 Elm Street, Seneca Quay, with the unfinished story quilt spread across the padded worktable and the small journal marked “Grammar of Stitches” open beside it. The block in front of her showed the old bandstand at Lakeside Park. Elspeth had stitched the scalloped roofline in tight rows of chain stitch and the white columns in straight-grain cream. The platform was pieced from a dozen narrow brown strips, except for one. That one was teal.
Genna leaned closer. The teal strip sat two planks left of center. It was the same width as its neighbors and the same stitch length, but the thread was a heavier cotton and the color belonged nowhere else in the block. She turned to the journal and found the entry for “notice.” The sample matched. One strand of teal over a two-ply base, with crossed stitches at the end. Elspeth’s note read: “when paired with a floorboard, the color means look beneath.”
She did not say it aloud. She wrote the observation in her field notebook in a steady hand. Block 17, bandstand, teal board intentional. Verify in person.
Then she picked up the telephone on the worktable and dialed Arthur Vance’s office.
“Arthur, it’s Genevieve Martel.”
“Ms. Martel. What can I do for you?”
“The old bandstand at Lakeside Park—when was it built?”
“Nineteen twelve, I believe. The original roof was replaced after the summer storm of seventy-eight.”
Genna tucked the phone against her ear and looked at the quilt block. “Does the historical society keep photographs of it?”
“To that point, yes. The archives hold several. You would need an appointment.”
“I’ll call them tomorrow. Thank you.”
“Be that as it may,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “I’ll send you the contact list tonight.”
She set the phone down. The roll of packing tape she had been using to secure a tissue overlay gave out with a rasp against its plastic ring. The empty cardboard tube spun across the table. Without tape, the overlay would smudge, so she pulled on her shoes and walked toward Main Street.
The early-autumn air was cool enough for a jacket, and the sidewalk along Elm Street was littered with dry maple leaves. At the corner she passed Mabel Henderson, who was setting a pumpkin on her front step.
“Genevieve! Are you settling in?”
“As well as can be expected,” Genna said. “The studio has more in it than I remembered.”
Mabel straightened and wiped her hands on her gardening apron. “Don’t let that big house get too quiet. The Quay Diner does a fine meatloaf on Wednesdays.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You call me if you need an extra lamp. Or sugar.” Mabel nodded toward the house next door. “I’ve got plenty.”
“Thank you, Mabel.”
The hardware store sat on the east side of Main Street, between a shuttered ice cream stand and a shoe repair shop. The sign above the door said Chen’s Hardware in white letters on a dark green board. A smaller hand-lettered card in the window advertised grape pie orders for the Founder’s Day bake sale.
A bell on the door rang as Genna stepped inside. The air smelled of sawdust and machine oil. David Chen stood behind the counter, sorting brass screws into a small divided box. He was a lean man in his early fifties with short graying hair and a faded blue apron tied over a flannel shirt. He looked up and set the box aside.
“Help you find something?”
“Packing tape, please. The wide kind.”
“Aisle three, below the box cutters.” He pointed with the handle of a screwdriver. “We got three brands.”
She found a roll wide enough for the overlay and carried it to the counter. As David rang it up, Genna noticed a rack of postcards near the register. The top card showed the lakeside bandstand before its roof had been replaced.
“You have good postcards,” she said.
“People want the lake,” he said. “The bandstand sells second best.”
“I’ve been studying that bandstand most of the afternoon.”
“Is that right?” David looked at her with quiet recognition. “You’re Elspeth Finch’s girl.”
“I am. Genevieve Martel.”
“David Chen. I was sorry to hear about Elspeth.”
“Thank you. Did you know her well?”
“Everybody knew Elspeth. She came in for brass fasteners and beeswax.” He put the tape in a paper bag. “She believed in fixing what was broken.”
“I’m working in her studio now.”
“I heard. You’re the conservator.”
“I am. I read what cloth can tell.”
“Sounds careful,” he said.
“It has to be.”
David pulled the receipt from the register and set it on the counter. “Two rolls. Seven ninety-eight.”
Genna handed him a ten. While he counted change, she said, “The store feels settled. Not many places do.”
“Well, thing is, people leave things here,” he said. “Some of it I’ve had twenty years. It’s fine if you like old.” The change landed in her palm: two ones and two pennies. “You staying long?”
“Until the estate is settled.”
“Could be a while. Old houses keep their secrets.”
“So do old quilts.”
David let out a short, dry breath. “Fair enough.” He came around the counter and opened the door for her.
As she stepped outside, he stopped her. “Just so you know,” he said quietly, “Elspeth was a wonderful woman, but she knew where all the bodies were buried. Figuratively speaking. Be careful what you go digging for around here.”
Genna looked back at him. The paper bag crackled in her hand. “Then maybe you can tell me what I’m supposed to leave alone.”
He held the door. “Not yet.”
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