The reading room of the Seneca Quay Historical Society, in the old library on Main Street, smelled of paste and old paper. Genevieve Martel set a cardboard box of Elspeth Finch’s papers on the long oak table and turned to the volunteer behind the desk.
“Arthur Vance said the public records should come here eventually.” Genna tapped the box. “I’m archiving first.”
The volunteer, a small woman in a navy cardigan, peered over the box. “Elspeth’s things. I still expect her to walk through that door.”
“I keep expecting her at the house.” Genna held out her hand. “Genevieve Martel.”
“Louise Brennan. I volunteer on Thursdays.” Louise pushed a clipboard toward her. “Sign in, please. Are you researching anything specific?”
“The bandstand at Lakeside Park. Construction photographs and the roof work.”
Louise nodded. “Drawer seven, second cabinet. The folders are dated. Photocopies are twenty-five cents a page.”
“I brought a notebook.” Genna signed the log. “I’d like to look before I decide what to copy.”
“Help yourself. The light’s better by the windows.” Louise pointed toward the front table.
Genna carried the bandstand folders to the window. She opened the first one. The 1912 photograph showed the bandstand with delicate gingerbread trim and unpainted steps. A later photograph, stamped 1978, showed scaffolding and a roofline stripped to bare boards. She held the two images side by side. New shingles. New floor planks. Nothing teal. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The door latch clicked behind her.
“Genevieve. I thought I might find you here.”
Genna turned. A trim woman in a lilac scarf stood at the end of the table. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Beatrice Cole. I serve on the historical society board.”
The name clicked. Beatrice Cole. Julian Croft’s girlfriend, in the Tribune photographs from 1994. Samuel Gable’s name had appeared in those same clippings as the friend who found the boat. Genna closed the folder. “I read your name in Elspeth’s files. I’m sorting what belongs here from what was personal.”
Beatrice pulled out the chair across from her and sat. “Elspeth was very dear to this town. She built this society from a card table. Her eye for detail was extraordinary.”
“That’s why I’m moving slowly.”
“Of course. No need to rush.” Beatrice smiled without showing her teeth. “The past can wait, don’t you think?”
“I think the past keeps its own schedule.” Genna spread her hands over the folder. “The bandstand photographs came up because of an inventory question.”
Beatrice glanced at the photographs. “The bandstand is just a bandstand. The roof was replaced years ago. Not much to those pictures.”
“Nineteen seventy-eight,” Genna said. “The date matches some of Elspeth’s tax files.”
Beatrice tilted her head. “You are thorough.” She stood and smoothed her scarf. “The Founder’s Day committee meets tonight. If you’re still in town, we could use someone who knows how to handle old textiles. The banners are a mess.”
Genna said nothing. The offer sat between them.
Beatrice picked up Genna’s pen, wrote a number on a receipt from the desk, and slid it across. “My cell. For the banners.” She turned toward the door. “Give my best to the old place on Elm Street.”
Genna waited until the street door settled. Then she gathered the box and left the folders for Louise to refile. Outside, the early-autumn air had a clean, cold edge. She stopped at the Wegmans in Geneva on the way home and bought a turkey sandwich and a slice of grape pie. While the car idled in the lot, she called Chen’s Hardware.
“Chen’s Hardware.” David’s voice was flat.
“David, it’s Genevieve Martel. I just met Beatrice Cole at the historical society.”
“Beatrice.” He paused. “Sharp woman.”
“She offered me a spot on the Founder’s Day committee.”
“What’s the real question?”
“She steered the conversation away from the bandstand the moment I mentioned 1978.”
“People around here don’t like questions about that old pavilion.”
“Why not?”
“Easier to leave some stories alone.” A drawer closed on his end. “You’re not going to do that, are you?”
“I came here to archive papers.”
“Then do that.” David’s voice lowered. “Don’t ask about Beatrice Cole’s memories. She’s had thirty years to build a wall around them.”
Genna didn’t answer.
“You there?”
“I’m here.” She started the car. “I don’t like walls.”
The line went silent for a moment. “Neither did Elspeth.” Then David hung up.
Back at 12 Elm Street, she put the grape pie in the refrigerator and left the sandwich on the counter. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. She carried her tools from the studio sidebar—the green-handled tweezers, a bamboo skewer, a small lens brush—and rolled the unfinished quilt to the bandstand block. The teal floorboard sat exactly where the journal had indicated.
She switched on the magnifying lamp and tilted the glass toward the bandstand roof. Under magnification, each stitch separated into individual threads. Most lay flat, evenly spaced. One line of dark green thread sat higher than the stitching around it. The tail end had been tucked under twice, not once. A shadow fell beneath the raised fibers.
She turned the lamp to a stronger setting. The dark green thread was not the same twist as the neighboring roof stitches. It was finer, smoother, with a slight sheen. Elspeth had been too exact to leave a single uneven casing line. The dark green was not a repair. It was a covering.
Genna set the bamboo skewer aside and picked up the tweezers. The tip found the place where the dark green thread crossed the roof edge. She tugged gently. The thread lifted, one pale stitch at a time. Beneath it, a single line of bright red thread ran straight through the block.
Red did not belong in the bandstand roofline. Every other roof stitch was green, gray, and brown. This red was not a knot, not a mistake. It had been deliberately covered over.
A story that had been deliberately stitched over.
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