The Stolen Canvas by Marlene Chase

information, and your hands can be just as busy as all those hands out there. What do you think?”
    “Sure,” Tara said, warming to this woman who seemed to understand her awkwardness.
    “And you’ll gradually feel free to talk. Believe me, they may appear daunting, but they’re pussy cats. All of them.”
    Mary Beth placed her near Annie, Alice and Kate. Tara began reading the information Mary Beth had given her.
    “Did you see the kittens?” Kate asked, eyes gleaming.
    “Yes. They’re so cute. Especially the tiny black one,” Tara agreed.
    “If the mother cat could see them, I bet she’d be sorry she’d abandoned them, don’t you think?” asked Kate.
    Annie cleared her throat, and frowning at Kate, said, “The mother could very easily have been injured or caught by some predator. Maybe she couldn’t care for her young. It happens, you know.” She glanced across the circle. “Stella knows that Stony Point has its share of wild animals. She was raised here and knows this part of Maine forward and backward.”
    “I believe what she means is that I’m old as dirt,” the venerable aged woman said, but without bitterness. A smile leaked from her eyes. “What Annie says is true, but it’s useless to speculate. We all know Mary Beth will turn over every rock in Stony Point to find homes for those kittens.”
    “Stella and my grandmother were good friends when they were young,” Annie explained to Tara, giving Stella a fond look.
    “I wonder if you might have known my mother at some point,” Tara began shyly. “Her name was Claire Andrews. I don’t think she lived here exactly; she might have just come for a summer.”
    Stella’s eyebrows inched up. She pursed her lips and resumed knitting. Tara wondered what had offended her.
    Kate whispered in her ear, “Stella’s a little hard on the summer people, especially the ones who aren’t respectful of our traditions and sacred cows.”
    “It might have been a long time ago,” Tara continued. “My—my mother was only fifty when she died, but she knew Annie’s grandmother. I found some letters she wrote to her. I came to thank her for being kind to my mother, but I didn’t know she had passed away.”
    Stella cleared her throat. “The name doesn’t ring any bells. Do you have a picture?”
    Of course. Anyone pretending to be looking for information about someone would show a picture around. Every daughter had a photo of her mother, didn’t she? Tara felt her chin tremble. An unexpected lump rose in her throat. She had only a picture in her mind and the awareness that she was no longer acting. She really did want to know about her mother.
    “You can bring a picture next week, Tara,” Annie said quietly.
    A chorus of voices assured the eagerness of the women to uncover the history of Claire Andrews.
    “You said you could stay a while,” Annie added. “It will give us time.”
    Tara swallowed hard. She’d been in Stony Point exactly one week. It had been a surprising ride so far with people who seemed to care about her. What would the passing time bring? Days of pretending, snooping, scheming? If only she could get Jem to forget about the canvases. If she could find work, make some money, maybe he would be satisfied, and they could go away. It was hard to stay focused on Jem’s plan when these people around her were being so kind. She hadn’t expected to like them so much.

8
    Ian rounded the corner past Dress to Impress and realized he wasn’t—dressed to impress, that is. But it was Saturday, and even a mayor should be allowed a day to relax in his most comfortable clothes, hence his ten-year-old Dockers and faded blue polo shirt. He dropped a hand into a cozy pocket.
    Should a man who’d never played polo in his entire life wear a polo shirt? He grinned at his trivial turn of mind. He’d never even known a polo player. He had, however, played a round of golf at 5 a.m., and managed to beat Ira Heath and Mike Malone. They were