Threads of Evidence (12 page)

Chapter 23

N
was once a little needle,
    
Needly
    
Tweedly
    
Threedly
    
Needly
Wisky—wheedly
Little Needle!

 

—Edward Lear (1812–1888), British artist and author known for his nonsensical poems,
Alphabet of Nonsense,
1871

 

 

 

I might know most of the residents of Haven Harbor, and they might know me (at least by reputation or relation), but I didn't have close friends in town. My best friend from Haven Harbor High, Clem Walker, now worked for a TV station in Portland. We texted and talked sometimes, but our current lives were very different. Clem had pulled Cindy Titicomb (now Bowers) into several lunch dates we'd managed to have, but Cindy lived in Blue Hill now. She was married with three young children; she'd moved on, although her parents were still in Haven Harbor. Her mom, Katie, was a needlepointer.

I could usually confide in Gram, but in light of her forthcoming nuptials, I didn't think this was the right time. And right now, early on a Monday afternoon, I wanted to talk to someone not connected to the Gardener family.

Sarah was a new friend, but she and I had been working so closely together in the past couple of weeks that I felt comfortable texting her: Lunch? Now?

Her answer came back almost immediately: The Gardeners addicted me to lobster rolls. The co-op?

I'd spent long summer hours at the Lobsterman's Co-op when I was a teenager. Some young people worked the take-out counter or fried clams or chicken, or they put together peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for desperate parents of kids who refused both seafood and chicken. I'd always ended up working long, sweaty hours on my feet at the steamer. I steamed lobsters. Bagged and steamed clams and mussels. Shucked and steamed corn.

Clem had worked at Harbor Lights Gift Shop, where she'd worn a skirt and blouse every day. She'd even managed to keep her nails manicured. I'd pinned my hair back and pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, no matter the temperature. The first day of the first summer I worked at the co-op, I learned burns from steam or dripping seafood direct from the steamer were more painful than the sunburn I got from working outside every day.

I suspected Sarah, who'd spent her teen years in Australia, had no idea what a place like the co-op meant to me.

I texted her: See you there.

The place had improved in one way since I'd worked there: They now had a bar, which served wine (from boxes) and bottled beer. A lobster roll and a Samuel Adams Summer Ale sounded good. And maybe Sarah would have some ideas about the bridal shower.

I pulled my car into the lot on Water Street. Sarah was walking down the hill from her shop.

“Good timing!” I called to her.

“I was about ready to forage for lunch,” she answered, catching up to me. “With the hours we've kept for the past two weeks, I never made it to the grocery store. I was about ready to share the cat's food. So glad to get your text! ‘Undue Significance a starving man attaches To Food—.'”

“Not sure I'll have a lobster roll,” I said, sniffing the air on the pier and immediately going back to summers when my clothes and I had smelled like lobster 24/7. I glanced at the board listing the day's choices and prices. “A crab roll. Want to share a bloomin' onion?”

“I'm definitely having the lobster roll, on a toasted roll with butter. But, sure, I'll share the onion. Do you believe I'd never heard of such a thing before I got to the U.S.? I think Outback Steakhouse invented them.”

“Really?” I said as we lined up to give our orders. “They're a staple of lobster piers in Maine. A lot better than the limp fries some places serve.”

“Which didn't originate in France,” Sarah said, nodding. “I love the States! They encompass the world. Are you having beer or wine?”

“If you order my crab roll and the onion, I'll stand in line at the bar for both of us. What do you want?”

“Glass of white. They don't give you much of a choice here.”

“True.” I nodded. “I'll get our drinks and save us a table.”

The tables were picnic style, equipped with large trash cans every two or three tables, umbrellas which kept the sun off at some times of day, and a large sign:
BEWARE! GULLS ARE THIEVES! DON'T LEAVE FOOD UNATTENDED!

The sign looked identical to the one that had been here years ago. Greedy gulls didn't change. Every year tourists took pictures of the sign and laughed. Then they complained when their clams or lobster or fries disappeared while they were getting a second beer or visiting the men's room.

Gulls living close to outdoor restaurants tended to be well fed. I took a deep sip of my beer. Eating here was part of Haven Harbor I hadn't revisited before now. I wasn't as uncomfortable as I'd thought I'd be.

Sarah slid onto the bench opposite me. “We're number seventy-nine.” She raised her plastic wineglass in my direction. “To us! To surviving two weeks of total chaos and dirt and emerging with checkbooks comfortably bulging.”

I'd have to tell Sarah. I didn't want her thinking I was hiding anything. “I was back at Aurora yesterday. And again this morning.”

“Whatever for?” asked Sarah.

“That poor hummingbird that died Saturday? Turns out there was arsenic in Skye's cup. Pete Lambert went to talk with her yesterday. Skye wanted me there because of my investigation experience in Arizona.”

“I don't get it. She wanted you there as a witness? A voyeur?”

I shrugged. “Pete's somehow convinced Skye poisoned her own cup to show that she's in danger from the person who killed Jasmine. I think he's crazy, but I'm not sure what actually happened. Skye thinks Jasmine Gardener's killer is still here in town.”

“She's not buying the drunk-and-drowned story?” Sarah asked.

“Nope. Mrs. Gardener believed Jasmine died of arsenic poisoning. Turns out Skye was a friend of Jasmine's.”

“She never said that last week.”

“No. She just told me yesterday.”

Sarah took a deep drink of her wine. “What did Pete say?”

I decided to simplify the story. After all, I'd told Skye I'd keep it quiet. And I'd already told Gram that Skye West was really Mary North. I hated not telling Sarah the details, but this was an investigation. “Pete didn't buy it. So Skye asked me to help her find Jasmine's killer.”

“Sometime I must have told her or Patrick I'd worked for a private investigator. And she feels that since I grew up here, people will be more likely to talk with me than they would with her.”

“She's right about that. I don't hear half the gossip you do. I open my mouth and people close theirs.”

“Number seventy-nine!” blared the loudspeaker.

“Luckily,” Sarah said, “the locals have no trouble taking my orders. Or my money!” She headed toward the pickup window to retrieve our lunches.

“So I assume you agreed to help her?” Sarah said a few minutes later, handing me my crab roll and putting the onion on the table between us.

“I did,” I said, breaking off a piece of onion and dipping it into the cup of horseradish dressing. “I said I'd talk to some of the people I knew. I'm not very optimistic about the whole thing. But she's been so generous to us, I felt a bit obligated.”

“Jasmine died in 1970, right?”

“Right. Year of hippies and ‘Make Love, Not War' and long hair and miniskirts.”

Sarah shook her head. “Good luck even finding anyone who was at that party, much less getting them to talk with you.”

“Gram was there. And according to Skye, Ruth Hopkins was, too. And Elsa Fitch, over at Mane Waves.”

Sarah took another bite of her lobster roll. “Okay, so some people may remember. I'm glad Skye didn't ask me to be involved. I'm glad to be back in my shop. Ruth was a big help, but I have tons of accounting to do. And dusting. You can't imagine what two weeks of no dusting can do to a shop, and with Ruth using her walker, I couldn't ask her to clean.”

“Can I ask you a favor about something else, though?”

“You can ask,” said Sarah. “No guarantees, though. My work is really backed up.”

“Gram announced this morning that she'd like—rather she expects—a bridal shower.”

Sarah looked at me and giggled. “Charlotte said that?”

“She did. I assure you.”

“What does she think two totally adult people need? Or is she expecting sexy lingerie?”

That had been my exact thought. But now this was too serious and close to home to kid about. “She wants a wine shower. Seems she and Tom have always wanted a wine cellar. My job is to make that happen.”

“Why do I sense you're not thrilled?”

“Because we have only two weeks until the wedding. Which means the shower would have to be next Saturday. And I'm not an expert on flowery, romantic bridal showers.”

“Okay,” said Sarah. “This can be done. Since they're not exactly blushing teenagers, why not make it a bride-and-groom shower? Call Tom and ask him about it. If he agrees, you're golden. Then get a list of all his parishioners. The church secretary probably has e-mail addresses and can send everyone an invite.”

“To a wine shower?”

Sarah shrugged. “If that's what they want. You could have it at your house, or, better yet, why not in that community room at the church?”

The room we'd gathered in a little over a month before for Mama's funeral reception. But Sarah was right. That space would work.

“I'll bet the women's organization at the church would love to get involved. There's always someone in groups like that who likes to hang crepe paper and umbrellas.”

“‘Umbrellas'?”

“It's a shower . . . see?” Sarah smiled. “You may even be able to get some of the women to bring cupcakes or cookies. Or you can order trays of goodies at the French bakery. Their pastries are fantastic. Wicked good, as a Mainer would say.”

“You make it sound easy,” I grumbled. “It sounds like a pain to me.”

“Hosting a shower is one of the most important responsibilities of the maid of honor,” Sarah said seriously. “At least it is in Australia. Isn't it here, too?”

“So I've found out. And I still have to find a dress for the wedding.”

“You're on your own for that. But I'll bring cupcakes, if you'd like.”

“Thank you. I accept. And I need to ask you, too, if you could find time to repair two of Skye's needlepoint pictures. Gram's killed the mildew, but missing threads need to be replaced.”

“I can do that,” Sarah agreed. “Not today or tomorrow, but later this week. I can work on them while I'm tending shop. It's still early enough in the season so I'm not busy every minute.”

“Great! I have the panels in my car,” I said. “Gram chose the ones of Second Sister Island and the moose in the field for you.”

“No problem,” said Sarah, finishing her wine and nibbling a last piece of onion. “I'll do what I can with the shower and the needlepoint. But the murder investigation? The arsenic poisoning? You're on your own there.”

“I know,” I said. “You don't have to remind me.”

Chapter 24

 

—Attributed to Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850)

 

 

 

After delivering the first two needlepoint panels to Sarah, I hesitated.
What priority is next?

I sat in my car and dialed the church office. Not surprisingly, no one answered. Probably the secretary was having lunch. Instead of leaving a message, I dialed Tom directly. I hoped Gram wasn't with him.

“Reverend McCully,” he answered on the first ring.

“Hi, Tom, it's me, Angie. Is Gram there?”

“Hi! No, she said she had some chores to take care of. I suspect she was planning to do some gardening this afternoon. Beautiful day, isn't it?”

“It is. And I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Ask!”

“This morning Gram told me she'd love to have a wedding shower. You know—gifts and cupcakes and rejoicing, held sometime in the next couple of weeks before the ceremony.”

“I'm familiar with the ritual.” I could hear Tom smiling. “So you want me to keep her away from your house while you set up the event?”

“Not exactly. To begin with, she said you two had been thinking of creating a wine cellar of some sort. She wanted the shower to be gifts of wine.”

“She said that?”

“She did,” I said. “So I wondered whether you'd like to be there, too, since the gifts would be for both of you to share. We could make it a couple's shower.”

“I suppose so,” Tom said, hesitating. “It's very sweet of her to think of that. A wine cellar's always been one of my dreams, but on a minister's salary . . . ”

“And would you mind if I contacted your secretary and got e-mails for the congregation so I could invite people? And perhaps held the party at the church?”

A long pause. “You could talk with Susan about addresses,” he said. “But I don't think the church is the proper place for such an event. I suppose you could have it here, at the rectory. Charlotte might not expect that.”

“Wonderful! How about next Saturday afternoon?”

Another pause. “My calendar is empty then. I'd planned to do some shopping . . . but you've given me an idea. Yes, Saturday afternoon would be fine. And I assume this is a secret from Charlotte?”

“I hope so. Although she said she'd like a shower, I didn't commit to anything.”

“Good! Let me know what time would be best, and I'll make sure she and I are here whenever you say.”

“Thank you, Tom!” I said, relieved.

“Not a problem,” he answered. “And you just solved one I had. I hadn't decided what to give Charlotte for a wedding gift. Now I know. And, by the way, have you gotten a dress for the ceremony yet? Your grandmother's a bit concerned you'll show up in shorts and an ASU T-shirt.”

“I'm working on that,” I lied. Well, it wasn't a total lie. I was thinking about it. But when would I find time to go shopping? Elegant attire could be found in Maine, but not in Haven Harbor's outdoor apparel or gift shops. “I'll let you know about the time for next Saturday.”

I put the phone down. It would work. Somehow it would all work.

When Gram had convinced me to stay in Haven Harbor and make it my home again, I'd agreed to six months. Naively, I'd assumed it would be a relaxing period. I'd be home. I'd have my old bedroom to sleep in, and Gram to make my favorite maple bread pudding when I was feeling down.

Instead, I'd found myself the director of Mainely Needlepoint and the granddaughter of an excited bride.

Not exactly what I'd planned for.

Plus, although I had no interest in following Gram to the altar, at least in the near future, I'd always enjoyed a fairly active social life. Or, perhaps more correctly, a sex life.

At every corner in Haven Harbor, there were memories of what I shouldn't have done as a teenager, and what my unwed mother had done before me, all conspiring to keep me on the straight and narrow now. But, truthfully, I hadn't exactly been turning down offers from eligible—or even ineligible—men here.

Ethan Trask, my girlhood crush, was married to a woman serving in Afghanistan and had a young daughter. Pete Lambert? Single, yes, but I suspected he had something going on with the clerk at the police department. She could have him. No chemistry there. Patrick West? Now, he might have been a possibility, but Sarah had called dibs. These days I needed a friend even more than I needed a sex life.

I looked down at my “to do” list for today. Dave Percy was next.

Now . . . Dave Percy? He was single. Straight, so far as I knew. A needlepointer, which was why I was going to head in his direction. Ex-navy. Now taught biology at the high school. Despite his hobby of growing poison plants, he was more conventional than most of the men in my “earlier lives,” which was how I was beginning to think of my life in Maine as a teenager (first stage) and then my life in Arizona (second stage).

Dave Percy. Who knew? He'd always seemed nice enough, and he'd backed me up at one very tense moment in the past month. A possibility? At this point my options were like a net in the Dead Sea. Wide-open, but no fish in sight.

I turned the car key. I had work to do.