Threads of Evidence (15 page)

Chapter 30

 

—Sampler by Lydia Frawley, age ten, Salem, Ohio, 1832 (Lydia was a Quaker, who married Hutchins Satterthwaite in 1846.)

 

 

 

Skye West was standing between two construction company trucks parked in Aurora's front drive. Roofers already had ladders up, and an empty Dumpster (how many of those had they filled already?) was standing at the ready. Few Maine homes had slate roofs. Slate cracked easily. I'd seen enough garden paths patchworked out of broken pieces to know that. Where had Skye found roofers able to repair the old roof? Replacing it would have been the easier, and less expensive, choice.

Then I noticed one of the trucks had New York plates.

They might be experts on slate roofing, but Skye and Patrick had just lost some of that local credibility they'd said was so important to them. Surely, there must have been someone in Maine who could deal with a slate roof.

How old
was
the roof on the house that would soon be mine?

Standing at the edge of Aurora's driveway I had a small wave of panic.

True, I was next in line, and I loved the house. I loved that Mama and I and Gram always put our Christmas tree up in the bay window that had been added to the living room sometime in the early twentieth century. I loved that people walking by could see the shiny tinfoil star I'd made in kindergarten and we'd put on top of our tree ever since. I hoped Gram hadn't discarded it when I was in Arizona. But, no, she'd never have done that. That was our star. My star.

I loved the wide front porch overlooking the town green, where our Adirondack chairs caught breezes from the harbor and gave us a view up close of what was happening in town. I loved the old maple tree in our backyard, where my friend Frankie and I had built a rickety tree house the summer we were nine and kept records of the planes whose jet trails we saw high overhead. We'd dreamed of someday being on one of those planes and going somewhere exotic, somewhere far from Maine. A nor'easter had taken down most of our tree house one winter, but one stalwart board was still stubbornly nailed to the tree to mark the spot where our platform had been.

I loved my house. My home. But taking full responsibility for it? Grown-ups did that.

Was anyone ever completely ready to pick up the pieces left by earlier generations . . . whether those pieces were genetic or clapboard?

Certainly, Skye West seemed capable. Of course, she was almost Gram's age. How many houses had she owned? Patrick had mentioned several. I watched her pointing at various places on the roof and the siding, while a burly man in blue overalls and a short-sleeved Yankee T-shirt listened and wrote notes on his clipboard.

Someone should warn him about being seen in town in an “Evil Empire” shirt. Haven Harbor was definitely part of Red Sox Nation.

A hand touched my back. I jumped.

“Patrick! I didn't hear you coming!” His hand touched off an electric circuit. I stepped forward.

His crinkly brown eyes laughed. “Not to worry. No murders here today, investigator lady. Talked with Mom yet?”

“Not yet. She seems pretty busy.”

“A constant state with her, you'll find.” Patrick agreed. “Mom's never bored. She's always got a project or seven to work on. This summer, of course, she has Aurora. And the carriage house.”

“And the death of her friend,” I added. “Did you know she planned to solve Jasmine's murder?”
Assuming she'd been murdered,
I added to myself.

“For years she's talked about the Gardeners. How they sponsored her scholarship at Miss Pritchard's, and later paid for her college, and helped her out when she was studying acting and only getting bit parts off-Broadway. But I didn't know about Jasmine's death, or the promise she made to Mrs. Gardener, until a few days ago.” Patrick looked up at the old house. “I suspect Mom has always been fascinated by this house. After all, she saw it when it was at its height. It was here she learned what it meant to people of a certain class to summer in Maine, with all the possibilities inherent in those words. Maybe restoring the house is like bringing back the girl she was when she was here.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I hadn't thought of that. Then she's never restored another home?”

“Not like this one, for sure. Our New York place is a loft, converted before we bought it. The L.A. house is new, too.”

“And you said the other day you had a place in Aspen.”

“We did until a couple of years ago, but I never was fond of sliding down a mountain on two boards, and Mom's schedule didn't let her get there often. So we sold it.”

“You don't like skiing. What do you like to do?” I guessed Patrick West didn't need to work. At least, work in the sense of being employed, or going to an office on a regular basis.

“I paint. I enjoy good music and good food and wine. I do some hiking. It feels good to be outside and not stuck in a building or car all the time, the way life is in L.A.” Patrick looked around. “I'd never been to Maine before. I like it here. Low-key. Lots of artists and lots of galleries. A few good museums—I love the Farnsworth. And one day while Mom was busy with the contractor, I drove up to see the collection at Colby.” He paused. “Impressive. I hadn't expected to find places like that in Maine.”

“We're not the wilderness of Massachusetts anymore,” I said.

“Not at all!” He smiled. “I've read reviews of restaurants in Portland and along the coast that sound amazing. Before I got here, I expected everyone to live on baked beans and lobster.”

“Both good basic foods,” I said, not mentioning I'd had both in the past few days—the lobster courtesy of his family. While we chatted, I kept an eye on Skye. She'd waved to let me know she knew I was waiting. “Also blueberry pie and haddock chowder and red hot dogs.”

“Red hot dogs?”

“Next time you're in the supermarket, check them out. They're hard to find outside Maine. And, yes, they're red.” Did Patrick go to the grocery store? Or did the Wests hire someone to do their shopping for them? “And fiddleheads. Don't miss the fiddleheads. It's the end of their season right now, but some restaurants still feature them.”

He looked at me quizzically. “‘Fiddleheads'? I assume you're not referring to a part of a stringed instrument.”

“Ferns,” I said. “Delicious.”

“Sounds as though I have a lot to learn about Maine cuisine,” he said, looking into my eyes in a way that made me feel too good. And uncomfortable. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“Sarah could, too,” I said. “She's also new to Maine. Perhaps you could go exploring together.”

“You don't eat? I was thinking of restaurants,” he said.

“I eat,” I acknowledged, trying hard not to be friendlier than I should. My mind kept repeating,
Sarah saw him first.
“But I'm busy now, with the needlepoint business, and the investigating your mom wants me to do. And my grandmother's getting married in less than two weeks.”

“That's right. You told me,” he said. “Sounds like fun.”

He couldn't be finagling for an invitation, could he? “Here comes your mom,” I said. “I need to tell her what I found out yesterday.”

“You do that,” he said. “I'm sure we'll stay in touch.” He definitely winked that time.

Would we? Or is he just referring to my work for his mother?
I squared my shoulders and walked across the drive. “Skye, I found out a few things yesterday afternoon,” I said. “We need to talk.”

Chapter 31

 

—Sampler worked by Elizabeth Rind Nicholls (1810–1904), age nine, Georgetown, Washington, D.C. (She never married.)

 

 

 

Skye walked to meet me. “I've been thinking about that list of people at the September fifth party. People connected in some way to Jasmine.”

“Good.” I glanced back at the men in the construction crew, several of whom were paying more attention to Skye and me than to their work. “Could we talk somewhere private?”

“I hope I'm included in that discussion,” added Patrick, who'd followed me from the drive. “I find this whole investigation fascinating.”

I gave him a dirty look as Skye called back to the work crew, “I'll be in the carriage house if you have any questions.”

“Yes, Ms. West,” said the guy I figured was in charge. He sounded a bit patronizing. I wondered how much the Wests were paying him.

“My copy of the list is in the carriage house, anyway,” Skye added. “So, what happened yesterday, after you left here?”

“I spoke with several people who were here at Aurora the night Jasmine died,” I said quietly. “They all remembered different parts of that evening. It would help if we began keeping a timeline of everything people say happened that night. Maybe some of the pieces will fit together.”

“Excellent idea,” Skye agreed as we approached the carriage house.

“I was surprised to find out how much people did remember,” I admitted. “But Jasmine Gardener's death, and the fact that it was the last party here at Aurora, helped people pinpoint where they were then.”

Skye picked a burgundy leather folder up from the coffee table. Then she and Patrick and I sat around an old country pine table stained with blue paint. I remembered Sarah once saying old red or blue paint made country furniture more valuable—the paint should never be removed. I looked at the table again. Something about it was familiar. Had it come from Sarah's store? I didn't remember seeing it here yesterday.

“Who did you talk with?” Skye asked as she looked through her folder.

“My grandmother, Charlotte Curtis. Ruth Hopkins. And Katie Titicomb. They were all at that last party, and all have slightly different memories of it.”

“Did any of them have specific memories of what Jasmine was doing or who was with her?” Skye had found her list of the people she wanted questioned.

“Gram remembered Jasmine serving punch in the afternoon. Gram was newly engaged, and focused on her fiancé. She remembered hearing screams after the fireworks. Katie was only eleven then; she ate too much and got sick before the fireworks. She said Jasmine found her at the edge of the back lawn, throwing up, took her into Aurora and helped her clean up before the fireworks started. Then Katie went back to her father. Jasmine seemed very grown-up, and very kind, to her.”

Skye made a note. “Did this Katie mention whether Jasmine was with anyone?”

“I didn't ask her that specific question. I suspect Jasmine was alone, or Katie would have mentioned that.”

“The fireworks started a few minutes before nine o'clock that night. Since you said Katie was back with her father before they began, she must have been with Jasmine at about eight forty-five. It would take a few minutes to get from the edge of the field to the house, and then inside. And she said Jasmine cleaned her up.”

“Washed her face is more like what she said,” I remembered.

“No bathrooms are on the first floor, so either she took Katie upstairs, which she might have mentioned to you, or she used one of the kitchen sinks,” Skye continued. “The kitchen would have been closer. And all the cooking was finished by then.”

“I'll double-check that with Katie,” I said, adding to the notes I was making.

“So Jasmine was alive and sufficiently sober to help a little girl at eight forty-five. But by the time the fireworks were over, about nine-thirty, she was dead.” Skye looked down at her paper. “Good work, Angie. Now all we have to do is figure out where Jasmine was and who was with her during those forty-five minutes. Or even less, since we don't know when she fell or was pushed into the fountain.”

Forty-five minutes to cover. And about two hundred of people on the estate, forty-five years ago. It didn't sound simple to me.

“I was impressed that everyone I spoke to remembered Jasmine that night. So if we go down your list, maybe they'll help us close that time period.”

Skye looked at me, a slight smile on her lips. “I'm sure all the people on my list will remember Jasmine. They were all people close to her at the time. And most of them could have benefited from her death.”

Chapter 32

 

—Alphabet and flower basket sampler stitched by Julia Ann Dellaway Georgetown, Washington, D.C., 1832

 

 

 

“One more minor mystery's come up,” I put in before Skye started talking about the people on her list. “It may not mean anything, but it's interesting.”

“Yes?” asked Patrick, who'd been listening.

“Last week my grandmother removed the needlework panels that Mrs. Gardener worked on from their frames. She's managed to eliminate the mildew.”

“That's good news,” said Skye.

“Yesterday I took several of them to people who work at Mainely Needlepoint, for them to replace the broken and rotten threads, and basically restore the actual work.”

Skye nodded.

“Last night Sarah began looking at the two I gave her. She found something interesting.”

Patrick and Skye both looked at me. “Interesting, how?” Patrick asked.

“She found hair worked into some of the stitching. Deliberately worked.”

“Hair?” That got Skye's attention.

“Dark hair,” I confirmed.

“Jasmine had dark hair,” she said immediately. “Long, dark hair.”

“That's what we thought of first,” I confirmed. “Sarah wondered if Millie Gardener had used some of her daughter's hair in the needlework as a memorial.”

“Interesting idea. Strange, but possible,” Patrick said.

“But this morning,” I continued, “I took a piece of the hair Sarah found to Dave Percy. He's another of our needlepointers, and he's also the biology teacher at Haven Harbor High. He doesn't have equipment to identify DNA. But with the equipment he does have, I hoped he could tell us whether the hair was human.” I paused. “It wasn't.”

“But if it wasn't human?” Skye looked at Patrick questioningly.

“I wondered if Mrs. Gardener had a dog or a cat—an animal whose hair might have, intentionally or unintentionally, gotten into her stitching. But Dave said the hair was from another mammal, not a dog or a cat.”

“Stranger and stranger,” Patrick said almost under his breath.

“That's for sure,” said Skye. “Because Millie Gardener was allergic to animals. I remember Jasmine complaining she never was allowed to have a pet. She couldn't even take riding lessons with her friends because her mother was afraid she'd bring some of the allergens from the horses back with her into the house.” Skye shook her head. “I remember thinking her mom must have really bad allergies.” She took a sip of her coffee. “It was a long time ago. I hadn't thought of that in years.”

“Dave told me some of his students believed Mrs. Gardener had three black cats,” I shared. “If she was allergic, then I think we can put those stories down to rumors.”

Skye rolled her eyes. “People are amazing.”

“If she was allergic, then why would she have used mammalian hair in her work? It doesn't make sense.” Patrick frowned.

“No, it doesn't. Knowing Mrs. Gardener was allergic to animals makes it even stranger,” I agreed. “Dave's going to figure out what animal the hair is from. He's at school today, but it's the last couple of days before summer vacation. He'll let us know when he has a chance to work on it.”

“Thank him for us, won't you?” Skye asked. “It's not exactly a mystery on the level of Jasmine's murder, but it's intriguing.”

I nodded.

Skye turned to her papers. “The two people on the top of my list are, of course, the two possible fathers of Jasmine's child, Sam Gould and Jed Fitch.”

I'd expected to hear those two names.

“Jed's sisters, Beth and Elsa, were also around that summer.” She looked down at the list she'd showed me earlier. “And Carole Simpson. She's local, and she was dating Jed before Jasmine was.”

“How many of those people were here Saturday?” I asked, thinking of the poor hummingbird. “I saw Elsa Fitch and her sister going into the house.”

“Jed and Carole were here, too, for sure,” Skye pointed out. “Jed, of course, was also our real estate agent.”

“So all the Fitches were here Saturday.” I made a note.

“They were.”

“I'm sure he's not a suspect, but Ob Winslow was here Saturday, and he was at the last party,” I added. “He was only ten then, but maybe he saw something. Or can suggest someone else in town who could help us with those missing forty-five minutes.”

Skye was silent. “That's fine. You ask him.”

I read the list over to myself. Considering the number of people said to have been at Aurora that night, I'd expected more people to contact than the two boyfriends, Jed's sisters, and a rival for Jed's attention. Sam Gould might have been involved—if he was, indeed, the father of Jasmine's child. But Jed had been local. The three women who'd known him well should be able to tell me more about him. “I don't know Sam Gould, so I wouldn't have recognized him Saturday.”

Skye brushed that aside. “If he was here, I didn't recognize him, either. But it's been forty-five years. He could have been here and I didn't recognize him.”

“Maybe someone else did,” I said.

“And there's one more name,” said Skye. “It's an important one. Although, like Sam, I didn't notice her at the sale Saturday. Putting her on the list might create problems for me, so I hope you'll be particularly discreet about finding out about her.”

“Yes?” I knew how to be discreet. That was one of the first skills an investigator had to have.

“Linda Zaharee.”

I'd remembered the name from Skye's list Monday. “Zaharee the artist?” If she was the one I was thinking of, Linda Zaharee, known professionally by her last name, was one of the best-known artists in Maine. I knew next to nothing about art, and even I'd heard of her. Her paintings of the sea were said to rival Winslow Homer's. She'd won international awards, and exhibited in galleries in New York and San Francisco and Europe. As I remembered, her home was down the coast.

“In 1970, Linda Zaharee was a young hippie with a camera waitressing at an inn in Camden to make ends meet. She'd met Jasmine somewhere—most likely through Sam, since he came from Camden. I don't remember. But she knew Jasmine's family had money, and Linda was saving to study in Paris. She flattered Jasmine. She said she had fantastic bone structure and could be a model. That it would be an honor to photograph her.”

“So Jasmine posed for her?”

“In July.” Skye hesitated. “Jasmine got self-conscious at the last minute. She didn't want Linda to take the photographs. So Linda asked me to come along, to encourage Jasmine.”

“Did she photograph you, too?” I asked.

“She did. That's what makes this a bit embarrassing.” Skye glanced at Patrick, who was listening intently to the conversation. “She photographed both of us. In the nude.”