Threads of Evidence (14 page)

Chapter 27

 

—Sampler worked by Sarah Hupman, age eighteen, Mad River Township, Ohio, 1846 (Sarah never married and lived to be eighty-four.)

 

 

 

Katie Titicomb—she'd been on Skye's list of people who'd been at the Gardeners' last party. And she'd definitely seen Jasmine.

“Did Jasmine seem drunk to you that evening?” I had to ask. The answer to that question seemed key to understanding what happened that night of September 5.

Katie shrugged. “I was young. Only six years younger than Jasmine, though. I was focused on being sick . . . and embarrassed. If she'd had a couple of drinks, I didn't realize it. She certainly seemed in control. She realized what had happened to me, she took charge, and she helped me. If she'd been drinking heavily, which a lot of the young people were doing, then I doubt she'd have been able to do all that.”

“That makes sense.” Katie had only been eleven. She might not have noticed. But when I was younger than that, I'd known when someone had drunk too much. I'd seen and smelled my mother after a late night, and I'd watched from my bedroom window as a few of her “gentlemen friends” stumbled from our door at odd hours. Eleven-year-olds were young, but they weren't oblivious.

I thanked Katie for sharing her story and, needlepoint panels delivered, decided to stop and visit Ruth Hopkins. She was probably tired from her two weeks of tending Sarah's shop. In the past year she'd started using a walker instead of a cane, afraid her knees or hips would give out and she'd fall.

Ruth's house was in the shadow of the church steeple.

I gave her plenty of time to answer her door.

“Angie! I didn't expect company this afternoon,” she said when she finally saw me. “Come in! Come in!”

Ruth's living room was arranged so she could easily maneuver her walker to the chair with the highest seat, where she was most comfortable. “I have some lemonade in the refrigerator. If you'd like a glass, feel free to go in and pour yourself some. I'm a bit weary today, so I'm giving myself a day off.”

“No, thank you. I'm not thirsty. And you deserve more than one day off! It was kind of you to help Sarah and me out for the past two weeks.”

“I'm glad Sarah called. Shopkeeping for her was fun. I've gotten used to staying at home by myself, between the ‘Arthur Itis,' as my aunt used to call it, and my writing. I should force myself out more often. I liked talking with the customers. I even managed to make a few sales.”

“Which she was very pleased about. I'm sure she's told you.”

“She has. And she even insisted on paying me for my time. At first, I wouldn't accept anything, but then I decided I would. I did lose writing time, and she would have lost sales if I hadn't been there. Plus, I missed three afternoon Red Sox games. That requires compensation,” Ruth deadpanned.

“You're absolutely right,” I said. Two weeks out of Ruth's schedule was a good chunk of time. “Have you a manuscript deadline soon?”

“Only one I set myself,” she answered. “I'm doing my books digitally now. Saves the hassle of dealing with an agent and editor. After publishing for forty years, I know what I'm doing. Plus, a lot of my readers don't want the evidence of what they're reading to be sitting on their coffee tables. They love e-readers.”

I was one of the few in Haven Harbor who knew seventy-nine-year-old Ruth wrote erotica. It wasn't something she advertised widely, except to her fans online. “I haven't downloaded one of your books yet. But I plan to do that. Soon. After Gram's wedding. Also, her wedding is one reason I'm here.” I explained about the shower, and Ruth accepted her invitation quickly.

“That should be fun. And the rectory is close enough so I can walk there, unless we have a heavy storm that day.”

“You know,” I said, changing the subject, “Sarah and I spent the past week at the old Gardener house. People there talked about Jasmine Gardener's death. I understand you were there, at the final party they had, back in 1970.”

“I was. Ben, my husband, and I were there together. It's strange that some events in your life are forgotten, and others assume much more importance in memory.”

“And that's one you remember?”

“Oh, yes. Because of Jasmine's death, of course, and because that was the last Gardener party. But also because Ben and I had been married about ten years by then. They weren't easy years. At first, we had so many plans. We wanted children, a house. I wanted to write . . . and Ben wanted to support me. He didn't want me to work. But life didn't work out that way. He was one of the first drafted and sent to Vietnam. Instead of starting our life together, I lived with my parents here in Haven Harbor. And then Ben was injured. Badly. He lost a leg, and we lost the possibility of ever having children together. I went out to Texas to stay with him while he recuperated.”

“That must have been horrible.”

“It was hard on both of us, for sure. I'd started writing and publishing while he was away, and he wasn't happy about that. But we needed the money. And we weren't sure he could get a decent job with his disability. In those days they didn't have the wonderful prostheses they have today. He'd always been an outdoor sort . . . fishing and camping and hiking.” Ruth looked off into the distance, remembering. “It was a hard time. But we came back to Maine, and because of my writing, we were able to buy this little house in the summer of 1970. Our life was beginning to work out. I remember our going to the Gardeners' party, drinking wine, eating lobsters and corn, and laughing a lot.” She paused. “That night was one of the best times we'd had in a long time.”

“Do you remember seeing Jasmine there?”

“Oh, yes. When we arrived, she was greeting people, with her parents. Later on, I saw her handing out balloons to the children. She was laughing and joking with them. Everyone loved Jasmine.”

“Was she drinking?”

“Heavens, Angie, don't look so moral. Everyone was drinking! She was at her own home. We were all outside, in a beautiful place, with people we knew and cared about. No one seemed to mind.”

“Did you see Jasmine with anyone in particular?”

“She was with several people I didn't know. I assumed they were from outside Haven Harbor. And with young people from the yacht club. Someone told me Jasmine and Jed Fitch had been dating that summer.” She shook her head. “If she hadn't died, I wouldn't have remembered. Truthfully, I didn't pay much attention. I was focused on Ben and on our life, finally together and independent of hospitals and parents and wars. I remember making sure we didn't sit near where a lot of parents had small children. I was still dealing with the loss of the child I'd dreamed of having.”

Nothing Ruth said clarified what happened that night, or what happened to Jasmine. But I'd learned a lot more about Ruth. What would it have been like for so many of your dreams to be destroyed by a war that half of America didn't believe in? I couldn't imagine.

My phone sounded. I glanced down at the text. It was Sarah Byrne: Call me ASAP re: needlepoint panel.

“I'm tired. You go and answer your call,” said Ruth. “I can't remember any more. I think I'll lie down for a bit.”

“Can I help you with anything?” I asked. “Get you something?”

“I'm fine, dear. Thinking about the past sometimes wears me out more than living in the present. One of the many frustrating parts of old age, I'm afraid.”

I smiled. “You know I'd be happy to help you anytime. Groceries, mail, drive you somewhere. Just let me know.”

“Oh, heavens, dear, I'm not that feeble yet. One reason I want to lie down now is so I'll have plenty of energy to watch the Red Sox tonight. Can't miss a Red Sox–Yankee game, can I?”

“I'll be in touch,” I said, getting up. “Enjoy the game. And thank you for sharing your memories.”

“Nice to know there's anyone still interested in them,” said Ruth. “I'll see you at Charlotte and Tom's shower on Saturday. I'll be the one with bells on!”

I smiled as I headed back to my car. Ruth was more than ten years older than Gram, but she was still working and taking care of herself. I hoped Gram would be able to do the same.

When she was my age, Ruth had been married to someone who'd been badly injured. Her life had changed, and she'd adapted. Would I have been as strong? I hoped so. But I wasn't sure. So far, I hadn't even had enough faith in myself or anyone else to make a lifetime commitment to another person. Would I ever feel that strongly about someone?

Before I thought about sharing my life with someone else, I had to figure out who I was and what I wanted. Then, if my life changed, the way Ruth's had, I'd have to rethink everything. That was a task I wasn't ready for. Not yet.

In the meantime I dialed Sarah's number. What could be so urgent about the needlework I'd dropped off with her a couple of hours ago?

Chapter 28

 

—Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton (1809–1885), “Good Night and Good Morning,” 1859

 

 

 

“Sarah? What's the problem with the needlepoint?”

“Has anyone else looked at the panels? Looked closely?”

“Gram cleaned them and left them in the sun to kill the mildew. She and I looked at them. I left panels today with you and Dave and Katie. That's it. Is there a problem?”

“I don't know. Probably not. Just something curious.”

“Curious?”

“After I got home, I decided to take a good look at the panels you gave me. To check colors and flosses—those you gave me and any I might have—because once I take something to the shop to work on, I don't like to leave. Even if I do just live upstairs.”

“Yes?” I was getting a little impatient.

“I had the panel over by the window, to get the best light. And I found something strange.”

“What?”

“Along with the embroidery floss Mrs. Gardener used, she stitched in strands of hair. Not a lot, you understand. But once in a while, I could see one. I got a magnifying glass out to check.”

“Hair? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. I'm not an expert on hair. But it definitely isn't silk floss, or yarn, like the rest of the panel.”

“Mrs. Gardener was getting older. Maybe her hair was thinning and a few pieces fell out. Maybe she didn't notice and stitched them into the pattern along with the floss.”

“That's a lot of ‘maybes.' And I found more than one or two pieces of hair.”

I sat back in the car. “You're right. That's weird. I can't imagine why anyone would stitch hair into needlepoint intentionally.”

“They did in the nineteenth century,” said Sarah. “Not needlepoint exactly, but people, usually women, collected hair from those they loved, especially ones who'd died. They wove the strands into flowers and swirls and made them into jewelry or wreaths.”

“Sounds creepy,” I said.

“Here in America, weaving with hair was especially popular during the Civil War and after, during the Victorian period. Both men and women wore mourning jewelry made of, or holding, hair of deceased loved ones. The wreaths some women made were incredibly elaborate. They often included hair from many friends and family members so they could work with different colors.”

“Interesting. But I'm not sure how that's relevant to the needlepoint.”

“Maybe Mrs. Gardener took some of her daughter's hair and wove it into the pictures.”

“I suppose that's possible,” I said. “It would mean she planned those pictures before Jasmine was buried, though. I thought she'd made them years afterward.”

“But we don't really know, right?” said Sarah.

“Right,” I agreed. “It would be cool if Jasmine's hair was in the panels. We could check DNA to find out if it was hers.”

“So we need to find someone who could test for DNA,” Sarah said excitedly.

“Even if we could get someone to agree to do a DNA test, we'd need to have something of Jasmine's, or at least of her mother's, to compare it with. We threw out almost everything at Aurora. We didn't exactly leave a toothbrush to be tested for DNA.”

“You're right.” Sarah's voice went down.

“Why don't you work on the other panel first,” I said. “Let me think about this a little longer. Maybe there's some way to get a DNA sample.”
It doesn't seem likely,
I thought as I headed for home. Plus, police labs took weeks to analyze DNA. They wouldn't do it out of curiosity. Finding hair in the needlepoint was interesting. But I didn't see how it would help figure out how Jasmine Gardener died. Or who killed her.

And that was what Skye and Patrick and I were trying to do.

Chapter 29

 

—Laura C. Holloway,
The Hearthstone; or,
Life at Home: A Household Manual,
L.P. Miller & Co., 1888

 

 

 

Somehow I managed to get my laundry done, talked with Gram without revealing anything about the proposed shower, and still got to bed before midnight.

My mind was still turning circles. But my body was exhausted.

By dawn I'd decided what to do next. First I called Sarah; then I called Dave Percy.

Admittedly, Sarah looked at me a bit strangely when I arrived to collect a couple of the hairs she'd promised to pull out of the needlepoint. But she handed me an envelope. “Be sure to let me know what you find out,” she said. “I have a feeling about these hairs.”

Then I turned my car toward Dave's house. He'd said classes were on a short schedule. But when would he have to be at school?

He was waiting at his door. “Come in! Come in!”

I handed him the envelope and followed him to his study. I'd never been in that room before. Papers were neatly stacked on top of an old oak office desk. Bookshelves were full of books on everything from protozoa to echinoderms, from birds and fish to humans, and, of course, poison plants. A human skeleton I hoped was a fake hung over the door.

Dave went straight to a metal table in the corner equipped with a microscope, test tubes, and bottles of chemicals.

“It will take me a minute or two to set this up and adjust it,” he said, carefully removing one hair from the envelope, putting it on a glass slide, and then taking a piece of silk floss, separating out the strands, and also putting it on the slide.

I nodded and waited.

“Very interesting indeed,” he said after a minute. “You're sure Sarah found these hairs woven into the needlepoint?”

“That's what she said.”

He looked through the eyepiece again. Then he turned to me. “Here, take a look at this.”

I peered through the eyepiece of the microscope. I'd never figured out how to use one of those things, although my high-school biology teacher had certainly tried to teach me. My eyelashes always got in the way.

“I'm sorry, Dave. I'm no good at microscopes. I see two lines, but they're blurry. Tell me what I'm supposed to be seeing.”

“You're right. Two lines. One of them is a piece of silk thread from the lighthouse panel you gave me. The other is what Sarah found.”

“But is what Sarah found also floss?”

“Definitely not. She was right. It's hair.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me. I've seen a lot of hair under the microscope. It's one of the beginning microscope exercises I assign my classes.”

“Maybe one of Mrs. Gardener's hairs fell out while she was stitching, and she never noticed and stitched it into her needlepoint.”

“That would make sense, of course,” said Dave. “It would make sense if the hair was human. This one is not.”

My head spun. Sarah and I had wondered if the hair might be from Jasmine. Or, most probably, from Millie Gardener. Not human? “Then what
is
it from?”

“I can't tell right off. Hairs from different mammals are all different. I'll have to compare this hair to those from other animals.”

“Can you do that?”

“Of course. Just not right now, because I have to get off to school.” He looked at me. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have the patterns for all mammalian hair in my head.”

“Maybe Mrs. Gardener had a cat or dog,” I suggested. “Those hairs could get mixed in with floss.” I'd even heard of people knitting sweaters from their dog's hair.

“The hair isn't from a dog or a cat. Students often bring those to class. I'd recognize them.”

“You'll let me know when you figure out what animal the hair is from?” I said as we walked together toward his front door.

“Of course. I may even have time to do it later today.” He hesitated. “Why is this so important to you, anyway?”

“I'm curious,” I admitted. “It doesn't make sense. I like my world to be logical. Animal hair woven into an embroidery panel isn't logical. Or, at least it isn't logical until we figure out why it's there.”

“I'm with you. That's why I love science,” said Dave. “I promise to let you know as soon as I can. But right now I have to get to school.”

Back in my car I realized I'd never reached Susan, the church secretary. That shower I'd been inviting people to attend wasn't officially “on” until we were on the church calendar. No one answered—it was only about seven-thirty—so I left a message for her to call me back as soon as she opened the office.

In the meantime I had plenty of time and nothing to do. I headed for the Harbor Haunts Café.

In the summer they opened for breakfast, and I'd been craving crabmeat eggs Benedict. Living in Haven Harbor had its challenges: solving crimes, digging up old secrets, even figuring out why an animal hair was in a needlepoint panel.

But fresh seafood (and farm-fresh eggs and cheeses and vegetables) was definitely one of the reasons I loved Maine.

In Arizona they hadn't even heard of crabmeat eggs Benedict.