Threads of Evidence (11 page)

Chapter 21

 

—Sampler worked by Susanna (Sukey) Merrill in 1793. She was 14 years old and lived in Newburyport, Massachusetts.

 

 

 

When I arrived at Aurora the next morning, I could hear hammering from the house, but all was quiet at the carriage house end of the property. Patrick opened the door. “Salutations,” he said, gesturing that I should enter. The navy blue sweater he was wearing was probably cashmere. My orange T-shirt was cotton.

His jeans fit well, I noted as he headed back to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he called back to me.

“Please. Black,” I answered.

Skye was sorting through papers scattered over the coffee table. “Thank you for coming. That scene with the policeman yesterday was humiliating. I can't believe he thought I tried to poison myself.”

I sat down across from her. “There was arsenic in that cup. Even if the police had doubts about what happened in 1970, they should have paid more attention to what happened here Saturday.”

She picked up her coffee mug. “Thank you for believing me. For not thinking I'm crazy.”

“No one said you were crazy, Mom,” said Patrick, handing me a steaming mug and joining us at the table. “I just don't think they expected to connect two events so far apart. That cop had probably never even read the file about Jasmine's death.”

“That's possible,” Skye acknowledged. “But it doesn't explain why he wouldn't be willing to consider what I said a possibility. Arsenic isn't as easy to get hold of today as it was years ago. Don't you think it was strange not only that my cup was poisoned, but poisoned with the
same thing
that might have killed Jasmine?”

“I do,” said Patrick. “But I suspect I know a lot more about the history of this house and Jasmine Gardener's death than that policeman does. Now at least we have Angie to help us investigate. She'll listen,” he added confidently.

“I'll do what I can,” I said cautiously, “but I can't do it full-time. I have my business to run, and a wedding to prepare for.”

“You're getting married?” asked Patrick, glancing at my naked left hand. Maybe I imagined that he looked a little taken aback. “Congratulations!”

“Not me,” I answered his look. “My grandmother, actually.”

“Well, good for her,” said Skye. “You're never too old for love, I always say.”

“You do indeed, Mom,” Patrick said with a wry smile.

“My grandmother was here at Aurora, at that party in September 1970,” I added.

“She was? How wonderful! Maybe she'll be able to help us put the pieces together,” said Skye. “Have you asked her what she remembers? Who she talked to? Who was here? Maybe we met.”

“She was newly engaged to my grandfather. She didn't mention talking with anyone else. But I can ask her again,” I added, seeing Skye's face drop. “I told her you were here. She knew Jasmine. Not well, but she knew who she was. She didn't remember you.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Skye. “Not many people will remember me.” She paused. “Although a few might. So, for now, please keep what I'm going to tell you to yourself.”

This wasn't my first investigation. Everyone had secrets.

“Remember, I wasn't Skye West then,” she continued. “I was Mary North. I was here all summer, but I spent most of my time at Aurora. Skye had friends here in town, and they weren't interested in me. She was rich and fun-loving. I was quieter. I stayed at home, reading and writing poetry.” Skye grimaced. “I was a bit of a nerd in those days. Jasmine would go out with her friends and then come home and tell me about her adventures—what they'd done, and what they shouldn't have done, and how they'd get in big trouble if anyone found out.”

“I see,” I said.

“Oh, I went sailing with her sometimes, and to the beach. And I went for long walks by myself. I loved Haven Harbor. Although, of course, it all ended horribly, and I went back to New York. At first, I was surprised Millie— Mrs. Gardener—kept in touch with me. But maybe she felt safe talking with me because I was an outsider. By then, she realized there was a lot about her daughter's life she hadn't known until after Jasmine's death.” Skye sighed. “I promised her I'd try to take the pieces of the puzzle she'd found, and what I knew that summer, and put them together. It's taken me years, I know. I was working long hours in different places, and it never seemed the right time. After Millie died, I called a real estate agency here in Haven Harbor and asked about Aurora. I was told it wasn't for sale. Mr. Gardener wanted to leave it as it was. He could never stand to come back to it, but he didn't want anyone other than a Gardener living here. And, of course, I wasn't a Gardener.” She looked at Patrick. “Every year or two, I'd check to see if Mr. Gardener was still alive. After he died, I contacted the agency again, but the estate was tied up in trusts. I left word that if the house was ever free for purchase to let me know. About two months ago I got that call. That's how I ended up here.”

“Mom's talked about this place as long as I can remember,” said Patrick. “We had no idea the Gardeners had let it get so run-down.”

“When I first saw Aurora the way it is today, it was so awful. I knew I had to bring it back. Restore it. Make it at least close to the way it was when Jasmine and I were two very different teenagers who somehow balanced each other. The way we were in the summer of 1970. The house should be a memorial to happy times. Not to death.”

I needed more details. “You and Jasmine sound very different.”

“We were. Her parents donated a wing to the school and sponsored several scholarships. I didn't live on the Upper East Side like Jasmine and most of the other students. I lived in Greenwich Village. The East Village, to be precise. In those days it wasn't a great neighborhood. My mom was an artist, and so were most of her friends. Or . . . that's what they called themselves. They were aspiring artists or writers or musicians or singers or actors. We had a two-room walk-up apartment. Fifth floor, in the back. I never knew exactly who'd be sleeping there when I got home from school every day, but I was sure the place would smell of grass and wine and paint. Not necessarily in that order. On good days someone would buy a pizza or a box of sugary cereal.”

“Grandma was a hippie,” summarized Patrick.

“True,” said Skye. “She loved me, but she had interesting ideas about parenting. Our world was the city. She didn't want me to grow up in what she termed the ‘ticky-tacky suburbs.' But she'd get involved with her friends or her painting and forget details, like having food in the refrigerator or paying the electric bill. When the power would go off, I had to ask her friends for donations so I could go to Con Ed and get the lights and stove turned on again.” She shook her head. “Mom wasn't embarrassed when that happened. She was proud of me. She called me ‘self-reliant,' which was high praise. I was on my own from the time I was old enough to walk to school. And I loved school. It was quiet and I could focus there. And sometimes the lunch I got there was all I ate. When I was in high school I spent a lot of time at the Jefferson Market Library doing my homework. It was too crazy and noisy at home for studying.”

“I'm guessing not many students at Miss Pritchard's came from backgrounds like yours. How did you end up there?”

“My sixth-grade teacher was impressed by what she termed my ‘self-motivation.' She submitted an application. By some miracle I got it. You're right about my life being different from those of the other students. From the time I was twelve, I took the subway every day to another world. Miss Pritchard's changed my life.” She paused. “In so many ways. I'd always wanted to act. But where I lived, that was a common ambition. I joined the drama club at school, and I saw productions—Broadway, as well as the off-Broadway previews, filled with those of us who could get free tickets.”

“Did Jasmine want to act, too?”

“No, no. Once I convinced her to try out for a small part in the school's production of Lorca's
The House of Bernarda Alba,
and she kept forgetting her lines. She talked about singing or playing the guitar or acting, but she didn't need to look for a job or a career. She partied instead of focusing on her future.”

“I saw the peace posters in her room,” I said. “Was she anti–Vietnam War?”

“Of course. By 1970? We all were,” said Skye. “College boys weren't being drafted, and most of the young men Jasmine knew in New York weren't as worried about the war as were boys in other places. But she had friends here in Maine who'd been drafted, or were about to leave. She talked and sang a good story about getting out of Vietnam. She believed in the peace movement. But she wasn't a political activist. She was upset about the war because it changed the lives of people she knew.”

Jasmine sounded pretty selfish, but she'd been Skye's friend. And it had been a long time ago.

“I suspect one reason I was invited here that summer was because the Gardners thought I'd be a calming influence on Jasmine. We were going to be seniors that fall. I'd already chosen several schools to apply to. Jasmine hadn't even taken her SATs junior year. She'd had a headache that day.”

“Would she have gone to college, if she'd lived?”

“Probably. Somewhere. But she might have graduated and she might not have. I sometimes wonder what would have happened to both of us if Jasmine had lived. It's impossible to know.”

Skye looked off into a distance only she could see, and then down at the papers on the table. “I've made a list of people I remember our being with that summer. People I know were at that end-of-season party. Some of them were locals—Haven Harbor young people. Some of them still live here. I'll add your grandmother to the list. She might think of other people who were here then, and are still here now. What was her name then?”

“Charlotte Owen. Soon to be Curtis,” I said. “I'll ask her if she remembers anyone else. Ob Winslow was there, too, with his parents.”

“That's a start,” said Jasmine, writing down the two additional names. Then she handed me her pad. “Do you know any of these other people?”

I looked at the list. “I do. I definitely do.”

Chapter 22

Now in the opening, spring of life
    
Let every flowret bloom
        
The budding virtues in thy breath
        
Shall yield the best perfume.

 

—From sampler worked by Charlotte Clubb, age twelve, Washington City (D.C.), 1813 (Charlotte never married. She died in 1846.)

 

 

 

Skye's list now included Gram and Ob.

Some of the others on her list were interesting. She'd done her homework:

I read the list over again. “I don't know all these people. Ned and Patsy Fitch, for example.”

“They were the parents of Elsa and Jed and Beth,” Skye said.

“I'm pretty sure they both died a while back.” I read the list again.

Skye added, “Sam Gould lived in Camden then, and I checked. He's still there. Took over his father's shipbuilding business.”

I made a note. “Ruth Hopkins is still in town. In fact, she's one of the Mainely Needlepointers. Elsa Fitch owns Mane Waves, the hair salon in town.”

Skye nodded.

“Elsa's brother and sister are Jed and Beth. Beth Fitch was my second-grade teacher. She's still teaching second grade. You've already talked to Jed. I don't know Carole Simpson.”

“She's now Carole Fitch. At least she hoped to be the last I heard of her. She had a real crush on Jed that summer.” Skye looked a bit amused. “But Jed was definitely more interested in Jasmine.”

“So, which guy did you like then?” said Patrick.

Skye shrugged. “None of them, really. I listened to Jasmine talk about them. Maybe because of all the men in my mother's life, I kept my distance from most boys. From what I'd seen, they didn't stay around long. And most of the boys Jasmine and the other girls at Miss Pritchard's dated weren't interested in a girl from the Lower East Side.”

“I thought the sixties and seventies were supposed to be a time of freedom. Love. Acceptance,” he said.

“Maybe downtown. Or in San Francisco. But on the Upper East Side people's expectations hadn't changed that much,” said Skye. “In any case Jed wasn't interested in me or in Carole. He was interested in Jasmine.”

“You said she was also dating this Sam Gould guy from Camden,” I said, looking down at the list again.

“Oh, she was. Hot and heavy. But that was in the city. Here in Haven Harbor it was another world. Sam was working for his father and wasn't free to play with Jasmine. Jed was here in town, though. So even though he worked long hours, he was available.”

“And both Sam and Jed were here for the party?”

“They were,” Skye confirmed.

“Do you mind if I take this list and ask my grandmother about the people on it?” I asked. “See if she remembers seeing or hearing anything else. She waitressed at the yacht club that summer, and says she remembers Jasmine and her friends there.”

“That would be a good start,” Skye agreed. “I'd like to put together a patchwork picture of what happened at the party that night. Different perspectives. Millie Gardener wrote to me, just before she died, that she'd finally figured out who'd poisoned Jasmine, and that the killer was still in Haven Harbor. If she was right, then we can eliminate anyone who died before then.”

“I'll talk to Gram,” I promised. “And this afternoon I'm going to see several of the Mainely Needlepointers. I'll ask them.”

Could we really solve a forty-five-year-old crime, even if, as Skye believed, the killer was still in Haven Harbor?

I wasn't convinced, although I was willing to give it a try. People who live in small towns often know a lot more about their neighbors than they volunteer to the police. Or to people from away.

Luckily, my family credentials dated back a couple of hundred years.

Folks in town knew me. Maybe knew too much about me. But they also knew Gram, and she was about to marry the minister at the church most of them attended. If they'd talk to anyone, they'd talk to me.

I hoped.

Thinking of which, I remembered I'd better start inviting people to that surprise bridal shower Gram wanted. A wine shower for the minister's intended.

This week was getting more interesting by the hour.