The Body in the Basement by Katherine Hall Page

lean, with elbows exposed in the warm weather that looked as sharp as the needle she was now threading. She had brought Ursula an old-fashioned, beribboned nosegay—pale pink sweetheart roses mixed with dried sea lavender surrounded by lily of the valley leaves. It graced the table now in a small white pitcher Pix had found, perfect for a tea party.
    Louise Frazier had been voted into the group some years ago and after giving Pix a warm hug sat down on the other large couch next to Mabel Hamilton and pulled out a child’s
sweater with brightly colored crayons worked on the front. “I have just got to finish this today,” she said, needles clicking away. “The sale is only six weeks away and I have two more to do!”
    After appropriate praise was given for various articles, the talk turned to how many raffle tickets each member had sold for Adelaide’s quilt.
    â€œIt’s so good of you to give it, Addie. The summer people are buying chances like crazy and now that the inn is displaying the quilt, even more people will want tickets,” Dot said.
    Adelaide Bainbridge was one of the island’s celebrities. Fame had come late in her life. She now admitted to seventy-nine and friends politely ignored the fact that this admission had been made several years ago, as well. She’d started quilting as a child, taught by her mother to while away their time on one of the small islands off Sanpere. Adelaide’s father had been a lighthouse keeper in the days before automation replaced the families who faithfully tended the beam. Pix always pictured Addie as one of those lighthouse keeper’s daughters in old storybooks, battling through the storm to keep the light burning while Papa lay tossing with fever at her feet. If her childhood had been lonely on the island with only her parents for company, she never said anything. She seemed to have learned how to do an enormous number of things well from her mother—the art of housekeeping, reading and ciphering, and sewing.
    Her quilts had become collector’s items, depicting elaborately appliquéd scenes from her childhood and island life. A few of the recent ones were more abstract—colorful shapes suggestive of trees, waves, birds, and fish. Some of the quilts were in the permanent collections of museums. No shrinking violet—her appearance alone claimed center stage—Adelaide enjoyed being the Grandma Moses of the quilting world. Just when people thought her head couldn’t get any bigger—an entire article in the Ellsworth American —“Good Morning America” included her in a special about Maine.

    She lived with Rebecca, or rather Rebecca lived with her, moving into the large white nineteenth-century farmhouse after her brother James, Adelaide’s husband, died. That was thirty years ago. Rebecca was the perfect handmaiden, basking in Adelaide’s glory. No mean quilter herself, Rebecca had already contributed two quilts to the sale, a Double Wedding Ring and a Log Cabin. Now she was turning out an endless number of counted cross-stitch Christmas ornaments, hunched over her work, looking even smaller than she was next to Adelaide’s bulk. The two were the island’s own odd couple. Adelaide ran the household and was totally down-to-earth and practical, despite the fits of fancy her quilts represented. Rebecca drifted through the day with her head in the clouds—and occasionally her purse in the refrigerator or the garden implement she’d last been using set on the table in place of a fork.
    Pix knew what she was supposed to do at these gatherings and announced that the coffee was ready. People filled their plates and she was gratified to see the cheese spreads disappearing. They put their handwork aside and sat back. Pix and Gert passed around more goodies.
    â€œMy word, but these are tempting, Ursula, how did you find the time to do all this?” Mabel asked.
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