Boxed In(19)

“When you’ve solved the mystery, please let me know what you found.” The phone on Kezi’s desk began to beep. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to answer this.”

Annie nodded and waved her final thanks. As she walked down the hall, she could hear Kezi saying, “Kezi Vance, how may I help you?” No sooner had Annie stepped through the door into the front hall, her friends surrounded her.

“Did the curator help?” Alice asked.

“What did she tell you?” Peggy chimed in at the same time. Gwen and Stella looked at each other as though they were being indulgent with young children, but Annie knew they were just as interested as the others.

“Let’s go out into the courtyard,” Annie suggested, not wanting to disturb the other museum visitors. Once out in the fresh air, Annie revealed what she had learned from the curator.

“A Passamaquoddy regalia collar,” Peggy said. “What in the world would Betsy be doing with one of those?” Her bangs shifted across her eyes as she shook her head in wonder.

“And neither she nor Charlie ever mentioned any American Indian heritage to you. That does seem quite mysterious,” said Kate.

“Did the curator have any information on the poem you found?” asked Stella.

“I never had the chance to show her the poem,” Annie admitted. “We were caught up in the other two things, and then she had to answer a phone call. But I think I’ll be paying a visit to the Stony Point Library tomorrow to see if I can find anything out about the poem.”

“This was the best Hook and Needle Club road trip ever,” Alice declared. “We found tons of ideas and another mystery!” The other members all agreed. Even Annie.





7

Annie strode up the steps of the Stony Point Library, grateful that the uncertain economy had not resulted in hours being trimmed off the community mainstay. Patting a pillar as she passed, she wondered how she would have concentrated on anything else if the library had not opened first thing in the morning. So many community libraries in Maine were having to trim time or days from their weekly operations.

I need to send some notes of appreciation to Ian and the town commissioners for their hard work on the budget, she thought. How they’ve managed to keep the library salaries and expenses the same is a miracle of management. Annie pulled open the glass door. Note-writing would have to wait. Today was to be devoted to the mystery of the poem.

Even at the end of summer, when it might be expected that folks would be spending as much time as they could on the water or beach, or that teens would be sleeping late before school started up again the following week, the Great Room had an air of quiet occupation. An interesting mix of patrons draped across chairs reading magazines or with books spread before them on the oval tables. But Annie was confident she would be able to snag a computer in the Reference Room after looking through the poetry books the library had in circulation.

Annie tracked down an empty computer devoted to searching the library’s collection. Clicking on the “Search by Topic” button, she typed “Passamaquoddy poetry” into the box and clicked “Search.” A long list scrolled down the page. Excitement began to stir until she took a closer look at the items on the list. Starting with “passing,” the list included passion, Passover, pasta, and pastel, among others. Not one Passamaquoddy.

Maybe I’m being too specific. Annie thought as she went back to the search box and typed “American Indians poetry.” This time “first words” topped the list, followed by fiscal policy, fish, fish as food, fisheries, and Fishers, as in Jonathan Fishers. With an entire page filled with fiction and nonfiction dedicated to fisheries alone, it wasn’t hard to deduce the importance of marine resources to the state of Maine. But it wasn’t helping solve this mystery. Annie glanced around to make sure another patron didn’t need the online catalog. Other than some young children scampering toward the Children’s Room with their mothers frantically whispering for them to slow down, everyone else seemed to have found what they were looking for or were quietly perusing the rows of books in the stacks.

Annie thought back to the conversation she had had with her friends the day before as they described their education about Maine’s American Indian tribes. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard again. “Maine Indians.” This time the list showed four individual nonfiction books. Two were pamphlets from the early 1900s, one entitled “The Problem of the Red-Paint People” and the other, “Indian Tribes of Maine.” The Penobscot appeared to be the only book the library held on local American Indians. Although there was nothing in the listing to indicate the book explored the subject of American Indian poetry, Annie jotted down the call number. An advanced search reaped only repeated harvests of “unable to find results based on criteria.”