Threads of Evidence (16 page)

Chapter 33

 

—Robert Burton (1577–1640),
The Anatomy of Melancholy,
1621

 

 

 

“And Linda was at the party?”

“She was. Someone told Mrs. Gardener she was a good photographer. I think she'd done a wedding for one of Millie's friends. Millie asked her to come and photograph the party. I think only Linda, Jasmine, and I knew she'd taken the earlier photographs. I saw Linda with her camera at the party, but I never saw any photographs she took there. I'd hoped when you and Sarah were collecting all the photographs in the house you might find the ones Linda took that night, and they might give us some clues about what happened. Unfortunately, all the pictures you found were taken earlier.”

I must have missed something. “So the reason you want to contact Linda Zaharee is that she might have kept negatives or pictures taken at a party forty-five years ago?”

“That can be our excuse for contacting her,” Skye said, “but I consider her a suspect, too. After Linda took those earlier pictures, the nude ones, Jasmine panicked. What if her parents saw them? Or our friends? Jasmine called Linda and asked for both the prints and the negatives— everything she had. She promised to pay well.”

“And, of course, she had the money to do that.”

“Not as easily as you might think. She certainly lived in a style that said ‘money,' but her parents paid her expenses. Jasmine was on an allowance. A generous allowance, of course, by most people's standards, but an allowance, just the same. They wanted her to learn to manage money. Jasmine didn't have access to as much money as she promised Linda.”

“How was she going to get it?”

“She talked about that for days. She debated calling her father's lawyer and seeing if he would send her money privately. Maybe stealing one of her mother's checks. She even considered taking a few pieces of the silver at Aurora—pieces they rarely used—and pawning them.” Skye shook her head. “None of her ideas sounded good. Her parents weren't oblivious. They'd know she needed money for something.”

“So, what happened?”

“I don't think Linda thought much about the photos until Jasmine panicked. Then she realized how valuable they might be, to the society press in New York or to Jasmine's parents, who might pay to keep the photos private. She refused to give Jasmine the photos or the negatives.”

“And?”

“Jasmine threatened her. Remember, she'd just found out she was pregnant. She knew her parents would have to find out about that eventually. She didn't want them discovering anything else foolish she'd done.”

“Photographs, even nude photographs, aren't exactly the same as pregnancy,” I said.

“Maybe not to you. But despite her pregnancy, Jasmine wasn't a free spirit, like some young people were then. People think of the late sixties and early seventies as free love. Peace to the people. Drugs. If Jasmine had been more into all that, she might not have been so upset. But she was desperate. And she focused on those pictures rather than on her pregnancy.” Skye bit her lip.

“So, what did she threaten to do?”

“She planned to talk to Linda at the party. Threaten her, that if she didn't give us all the pictures and negatives, then she'd tell her parents, and the police, that Linda was a lesbian. She'd say Linda had forced us to pose for her, and planned to publish the photos as pornography.”

I frowned. “Were the photos . . . sexual?”

“We didn't think so at the time. Most of them were taken when we were skinny-dipping in a small, private cove. No one else was around. But there were a few where she posed us touching each other. We'd had a little wine to loosen us up before the shoot. We didn't see any harm in it at the time. But the photos might look different to someone else.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know,” said Skye. “I don't even know for sure Jasmine talked to Linda at the party. I never saw Linda after that night, and I never saw the photographs. But if Jasmine threatened Linda, and Linda got angry—”

“Linda might have killed Jasmine.”

“It's possible. That's why her name is on my list of possible suspects.”

“And I assume you wouldn't want those photographs, if they still exist, to get out. Say, to the press.”

“Exactly. I don't know if Linda kept the photos, or if she knows I became Skye West. She may have destroyed them all after Jasmine died. I hope so. But I don't know.”

“So we have three reasons to talk with Linda. See if she still has the photographs she took of the party that night. See if she has the photographs of you and Jasmine.”

“And see if she's a murderer,” said Skye.

Chapter 34

 

—Stitched by Betsey Hathaway, age fourteen, Freetown, Assonet Village, Massachusetts

 

 

 

I looked down at the list of possible suspects. “I can contact most of these people,” I said. “I know the Fitch family, at least slightly. They attend the same church my family does. I'd also like to talk with Ob Winslow again, and I'll call Katie Titicomb, as you suggested, to check on the timeline.”

Skye nodded. “I'll trust you on that. But what about Linda Zaharee and Sam Gould?”

“We could both talk with them. They should remember you if you tell them you're Mary North. And having two of us there would mean there'd be a witness, in case the meetings turn out to be important.”

“I'd be happy to go with you on any of your interviews, Angie.” Patrick leaned forward. “That way you'd always have a witness.”

As though anyone in town would talk to me when Skye West's son was hanging around in the background. “I don't think that'll be necessary, Patrick. But thank you. If one of these people did kill Jasmine, we don't want to alert them.” I turned to Skye. “I'll say you're curious about the history of the house you've bought, and you're trying to document it. Jasmine Gardener's history is part of that.”

“Excellent,” agreed Skye, standing up dismissively. “When can you start?”

“I'll make a few calls this afternoon,” I suggested.

“I'll call Sam Gould and Linda Zaharee. Both of them,” Skye volunteered. “I'll make up some story. My acting skills may come in handy. I'll let you know when we can go to see them.”

I hoped Skye wouldn't get her hopes up too high. If there was a killer, he or she had managed to keep quiet all these years. Why would the murderer suddenly open up to me or Skye now?

I stopped at Ob's house, across the street from Aurora. No one was home. He and Josh were probably out on the
Anna Mae.
Anna could have been anywhere.

A wave of exhaustion hit me. I'd been working long hours for over a week, and had now taken on an investigation. What I needed more than anything else was quiet—and time away from everyone.

I drove to Pocket Cove Beach. I didn't even get out of the car. I put my windows down and looked out at the sea.

Three lobster boats were working the pots in the harbor, and one sailboat was visible farther out. By next week, with schools ending and tourists arriving, there'd be more activity here. There'd be small sailboats, kayaks, and skiffs.

Waves broke over the rocky beach and below Haven Harbor Lighthouse, farther down the harbor. Those waves looked as they always did. Like snowflakes, no two were alike, but swirled in an endless pattern. I'd seen those waves when I'd come here as a child with Mama and I'd played in the sand. Even after Mama'd disappeared, they'd still been here, reminding me that life, and time, went on. And here they were again. They still calmed me. I felt my breaths coming easier.

Jasmine Gardener had been an unwed teenager, like Mama. Maybe she'd come to this same spot to watch the waves. Maybe she even dreamed of bringing her son or daughter here someday.

Had someone ended that dream? Skye West thought so.

I didn't know. But I understood why Skye needed to know.

Jasmine's death, like Mama's, had been sudden, and undeserved.

I'd demanded justice for Mama. Skye wanted justice for her friend.

I sat for a while more, watching the waves break on the shore. Then I picked up my cell and called Mane Waves, Elsa Fitch's salon, and made an appointment to have my hair trimmed.

It was time to start talking with the people on Skye's list.

Chapter 35

 

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892) The king's soliloquy from
The Princess: A Medley,
1847

 

 

 

I slipped into a chair at Mane Waves Beauty Salon, Haven Harbor's finest of its kind. (And
only
salon, too.) “Thank you for taking me on such short notice, Elsa,” I said. “I only need a trim.”

She picked up a piece of my hair and scrutinized it. “I'd suggest more than a trim, Angie. You need to let me cut off these split ends. They're hiding the whole shape of your cut. That will mean taking off a couple of inches.”

I swallowed. Hard. It had taken me a while to grow my hair long enough to pin it up during the summer. But those had been Arizona summers. This was Maine. And my hair did look out of control.

“I use lots of conditioner,” I said, a defense I knew was lame.

“Maybe a little too much,” declared Elsa. Her own hair was cut short. I suspected it was never out of place. Messy hair wouldn't have been good for business.

I gave in. “Then take off the ends. And reshape it.”

Elsa walked a couple of steps away and looked at my head. “A little layering would help.”

I nodded. “Do what you have to do. But not too short, please.”

“I've been doing your grandmother's hair for thirty years. She never complained. Got her appointment all set for the day of the wedding. I suppose you'd like me to fit you in that day, too?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

Gram's hair looked okay, but Gram wasn't me.

“Don't be taking too long to make up your mind. This time of year, with all the summer folks wanting to be streaked and blown out, my time's tight,” she reminded me.

“I'll let you know,” I assured her.

I spent the next few minutes under the tap, being shampooed and (lightly) conditioned. I tried to think of a way to bring up a party forty-five years ago. But it turned out I didn't have to; Elsa did.

“I was over to the old Gardener place Saturday.”
Snip. Snip.
“Saw you there, hobnobbing with that actress.”

“Sarah Byrne and I helped her run her lawn sale.”

“
Humph.
Not much of a sale, so far as I could see. A lot of junk. Nothing there worth buying.”
Snip.

“Sorry you didn't find any bargains.”

“Got a couple of things. But Millie Gardener's been gone years now. You'd think someone would have had the sense to clean that place out before now. Millie always kept her home spotless. She'd turn over in her grave if she knew what it looked like now.”

“Then you knew Mrs. Gardener?”

“Did her hair all the years she lived here. At first, she'd come into the salon, like other folks. But at the end, when she was poorly, I went over to her place. Did her hair in her own bathroom. She was sweet. And generous.”

“Did she ever talk about her daughter?”

“Didn't talk about much else.”
Snip.
That strand of hair that just hit the floor was longer than two inches. “She had nothing else on her mind I could see. She'd watch the news on the television and
Jeopardy!
—she did love that
Jeopardy!
—and she thought about better times, when her Jasmine was little.”
Snip.
I couldn't see what hit the floor that time.

“Did you know Jasmine?”

“Oh, Lordy, I did. Course, she was older than I was, by a couple of years. But she spent a lot of time with my brother, Jed, that last summer, and with me, and with Beth, after she got home.”

“What was she like? Jasmine?”

“Millie, may she rest in peace, didn't see it, of course, but Jasmine was a rich tease. She knew she had more than the rest of us. She wanted Jed because he was a star. That year he was handsome, and good at football. But he wasn't the brightest in the family. I wasn't surprised he went for Jasmine.”

“So, who was the brightest in your family?”

“Well, Beth did well enough. Complete ride for college. She was only home for a month that summer before she headed to Guatemala in the Peace Corps. Taught English there a few years before she came back home and started teaching second grade. She wasn't dumb. Not by a long shot. But I was the smartest back then, if I do say so.”

“You must have been fourteen or fifteen that summer, right?”

“Fifteen. Had won first place in the county science fair two years running. I couldn't decide whether to be an astronaut or a marine biologist back in those days.” Elsa paused between clips. “Funny to think of that. It was so long ago.”

“But, instead, you decided to open your own business.”

“Went to beauty school down to Portland. I've done fine.”

“I don't remember when there wasn't a Mane Waves. Mama brought me here to have my hair done before my First Communion.”

“I've been here over thirty years now. I saved, and then I inherited a little. I've worked hard and made do.” She backed off a bit. “See how nice your hair's falling now? A little more layering on the side and you'll be ready for a blow-dry.”

“Were you at that party? The last party at Aurora?”

“I was.”

“What was it like?”

“Big and expensive, like every year. Nothing special or different about that last time.”

“Did you see Jasmine that night?”

“She was there, greeting people with her dad and Millie. Later she went with a group of us who took plates of food down to the back lawn to eat.”

“You were with her, then?”

“There was a whole crowd of us. Some friends of Jasmine's I didn't know, and Jed and Beth and Cindy and me.”

“Was she drinking?”

“I don't tell tales. But we were all pretty happy that night. Jed and Jasmine, they'd had an argument earlier. But by the end of the evening, they seemed pretty cozy.”

“So you were with them the whole time?”

“When they were eating. Then Jed and Jasmine went for a walk, and Beth was talking to someone she'd gone to high school with. Carole tried to get me to talk about how Jed felt about Jasmine. Carole'd been his girl the year before that. But I didn't think it was her business. I decided to go for a walk of my own.”

“Where did you go?”

“Around that back field. Waited for the fireworks to start. And they were right on time.”

“Did you see Jasmine after that?”

“Why're you asking all these questions? Jasmine's dead forty-five years now.” She pulled the black cape off my shoulders. “And your hair's done.”

I looked in the mirror. My hair was a little shorter, about chin length, but it was no longer straight. Instead, it fell in loose waves around my face. I touched my hair lightly, to see if the curls would stay. They did. Not bad!

“Thanks, Elsa. You did a good job.”

“I do the best I can.”