Threads of Evidence (17 page)

Chapter 36

—Anonymous saying

 

 

 

Gram had outdone herself for dinner. Pan-fried scallops (in panko, light Japanese bread crumbs, to cut down on calories), homemade (of course) tartar sauce made with bread-and-butter pickles, and a salad. And, most important, generous slices of strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. “It's the season,” she announced. “Fruit is healthy, right?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, serving myself another slice.

Gram looked at me sidewise. “I like what Elsa Fitch did with your hair. It was getting a little straggly.”

I nodded, mouth full of pie.

“Elsa's a mite strange, but she's a good hairdresser.”

“You've been going to Mane Waves for years.”

“Ever since she opened her own place. She cut my hair before that, too, when she was at another salon. I can't even remember the name of that place now.”

“She and her sister, Beth, my second-grade teacher, came to the sale Saturday,” I said. “And she told me she was at that last party the Gardeners had.”

Gram nodded absently. “Lots of people in town were there that night.”

“Do you remember seeing Elsa, or anyone in her family?”

Gram thought a minute. “Her brother, Jed, was a little younger that I was. He and Jasmine were together a lot that summer. I saw them at the yacht club. Beth was older than I was. She'd been away at college. Then she left for the Peace Corps. I didn't really know her until after she came back and started teaching in town.”

“Jed went to college?”

“The next year. University of Maine. Football scholarship. He'd hoped to go to a Big Ten school, but the Black Bears offered him the best deal. He didn't stay all four years, though. I vaguely remember hearing he'd lost his scholarship. Flunked out. For a while he went back to working for his dad as a stern man, but then he started doing small repairs for people in town. He still paints rooms and fixes drains and such for folks. But about ten years ago, Cindy, his wife, convinced him to get a real estate license, so now he sells real estate, too.”

“Those jobs go together. Help someone fix their house up to get it in shape to sell, and then do future repairs for the new owner.”

“True,” Gram acknowledged. “He'll never make a fortune, but he's a good, steady worker. Same as Elsa and Beth.”

“Elsa said she'd wanted to be a marine biologist or an astronaut,” I shared. “I wonder why she changed her mind and became a hairdresser, instead.”

“Simple answer to that,” said Gram. “Her mother was sickly. Migraines and stomach problems and such. Enough complaints to keep her to her bed a lot of the time. Today someone might say she was depressed. I'm no doctor. But she never seemed to get her life together. Elsa was the youngest. With Beth in the Peace Corps and Jed in college, their father expected Elsa to stay home and take care of their mother and the house. There was some talk about it at the time, but Elsa agreed to commute to beauty school in Portland instead of going to college. Once she got started in that direction, she didn't turn around.”

“She seems to have done well enough.”

“True. Sometimes life interferes with the plans people have.”

I could tell she was thinking of other people, not just Elsa. Of Mama, who'd gotten pregnant too young? Or herself, who'd been widowed early? Or me, who'd had to cope with the fallout from Mama's disappearance and never considered college? (Unless you counted the couple of courses I took at Arizona State, which bored me to death.) Would I have made different choices if I'd had a father, as well as a mother? Or if Mama hadn't been murdered?

Maybe. But maybe not.

Gram finished stacking plates in the sink to wash and turned toward me. “Does your friend Skye really think she can find out about Jasmine all these years later?”

“She isn't sure,” I said. “But she hopes so. It's her house now, and she's curious about what happened there.”

“Well, I have nothing more to add except what I told you the other day. I saw Jasmine earlier in the evening. She was playing with some of the toddlers at the party, handing out balloons and balls.” Gram stopped and smiled. “She had a dozen or so Hula-hoops, and she tried to show some of the six- or seven-year-old girls how to use them. I remember thinking it made a pretty picture—Jasmine with all the little girls and the Day-Glo Hula-hoops. In fact, I remember a woman taking pictures of them.”

“Did you know the woman?”

Gram shook her head. “It could have been anyone. I remember the flashes of Hula-hoops in the sun, and someone with a camera.”

Linda Zaharee, perhaps?
Children and Hula-hoops might be a scene she'd have photographed.

“Then Jasmine wasn't with her friends all the time.”

“I think one friend was with her. Another girl.” Gram frowned, trying to remember. “It was a long time ago, Angel. Jasmine was usually at the center of a group of young people. She wasn't one to stay alone for long. Most of the time that summer she was with Jed Fitch and his friends.” She hung her dishcloth on a hook near the sink. “I told you. I wasn't paying much attention to other people then.”

I nodded. Gram had remembered something new from that evening: Jasmine playing with Hula-hoops. And a photographer. But that wouldn't have been in the last hour of the party. It would have been getting dark by eight-thirty at the beginning of September.

If Jasmine had been drinking heavily, she would have started earlier than the last hour of the party, though. Would she be playing with children and Hula-hoops if she was high? Who knew?

Too many unanswered questions.

Chapter 37

—
The Ladies Work Table Book,
1845

 

 

 

I slept in a little the next morning. When I got up I found two messages waiting for me. Susan, the church secretary, said she had the names and e-mail addresses of the church members and would be happy to send out shower invitations to everyone. Was two o'clock on Saturday a good time?

I hadn't thought of inviting everyone, but she was right. Reverend Tom's church family would be Gram's family soon, if it wasn't already. Including everyone would be the right thing to do.

Even better, she'd be sending out the invitations, not me. I texted her back, thanked her, and told her to go ahead and send the invitations. Short notice, but I hoped people would understand. Then I called the patisserie in town, threw myself on their mercy, and ordered all the cupcakes and cookies and éclairs they could bake and deliver to the rectory late Saturday morning. I still had to deal with punch (for those who didn't choose to imbibe spirits) and wine (for those who did). But I was beginning to feel the shower would happen. Thank goodness Katie Titicomb had volunteered to decorate.

The second message was from Ob. I'd called him late last night, hoping to reach him, but hadn't. He said he had an afternoon charter, but he would be home this morning if I wanted to drop in.

I did.

No word from Dave Percy about the hairs woven into the needlepoint panels, but I hadn't expected to hear from him quickly.

Today my plan was to talk with Jed Fitch and his sister Beth. Beth wouldn't be through with school until afternoon, but Jed might be in his office this morning. I'd risk dropping in.

When I got downstairs, Gram was looking through a thick paperback. From a distance it looked like a tourist guide. She put her hands over the cover and dropped the book into her lap as I came in.

“Honeymoon planning?” I asked. “Why such a secret?”

“No real need for it to be secret. Not from you, anyway. Tom doesn't want everyone in the congregation knowing exactly what we're doing.”

“I can understand that. It
is
your honeymoon,” I agreed. “And I promise not to call his cell number unless it's a real emergency.” Gram didn't have a cell. I suspected that was a temporary situation.

“I certainly hope you do call, should there be any emergencies or problems,” Gram said immediately. “We're not disappearing. We're . . . Oh, you might as well know.” She picked up the book hidden in her lap and held it up so I could read the title:
Quebec City.

“You're going to Quebec!” I said. “I've heard the old section of the city is like a bit of Europe in North America.”

“Neither of us has ever been there,” Gram confided. “We wanted to go someplace new to both of us. And Quebec's only about a five-hour drive from here. The guidebook says the old part of the city is full of French restaurants and galleries and shops and museums.”

“You don't speak French,” I pointed out.

“No. But Tom speaks a little. And the book says people in the tourist industry speak English. We'll be fine. Tom's made us a reservation at one of the small hotels.”

“Isn't Quebec the place with the castle-like hotel?”

“The Frontenac,” she agreed. “We thought about staying there, but decided we'd rather spend money on food and wine, and maybe buy something to bring back as a remembrance of our trip.”

“I see listings of antique shops,” I said, looking over her shoulder at the guidebook. “They might have old Ouija boards.”

“I'm sure we'll check that out,” said Gram. “Adding to Tom's collection would be fun for him, but I'd rather bring home a painting or something made by a local craftsman as a souvenir.”

I suspected they'd do both.

“Sounds wonderful! I look forward to hearing about your adventures after you get home,” I said. “And I promise not to tell anyone where you've gone.”

“Thank you, Angel. I feel more comfortable with your knowing what direction we're heading. Although it is fun to keep our destination mysterious for most people we know.”

“You deserve your privacy,” I agreed.

I left Gram researching Quebec restaurant menus on the Web, French dictionary at hand, and headed to the Winslows' house.

Men were swarming over Aurora's roof and four construction trucks were parked in the driveway there when I drove past. Ob's farmhouse, ell (the rooms connecting the house to the barn) and barn itself were a good size, but not on Aurora's scale.

Anna answered the door almost immediately. “Angie! Good to see you. Although we've seen your car across the street a lot recently.”

No secrets in Haven Harbor. Plus, of course, Ob had worked at Aurora last week, too, pointing out the idiosyncrasies of the place, and then acting as part tour guide, part guard during the sale Saturday.

“Sarah and I were helping the Wests set up their lawn sale. That's over now. I can get back to focusing on Mainely Needlepoint and Gram's wedding. Did you get a call from the church or an e-mail? We're having a shower for Gram and Reverend Tom on Saturday afternoon.”

Anna hadn't heard, but she immediately volunteered to bring oatmeal-raisin cookies. I accepted her offer. We couldn't have too much food or drink, and I had no idea how many people would show up. (Especially now that we were inviting the entire congregation.)

“Is Ob around?”

“He's out in the barn, painting some buoys for a friend,” she said. “You go on and find him there. He mentioned you might stop in.”

Ob was, indeed, painting buoys. Usually a winter obligation, but when a friend needs a hand . . . “Orange and light blue?” I commented. “I didn't think lobstermen went for blue buoys. Too hard to see.”

Ob shrugged. “Said they were his kids' favorite colors. Whatever the man wants. And no one else has.”

I nodded. “Didn't get to talk with you Saturday. We were all wicked busy.”

“True enough,” he agreed. “All those folks looking to capture a long-gone past.”

“The Wests seem to want to bring the place back.”

“They're spending enough to bring back Abe Lincoln,” he said. “But they're not taking the time to do it right. Authentically. The way the Gardeners would have wanted.”

I suspected he was right. “At least they're trying.”

“Trying.”
He nodded.

“You told me you were at the party in 1970, that you knew Jasmine.”

“Yup. I knew her. Course, she was seven years older than me. Don't think she would have said she knew me.”

“What was she doing at the party?”

“Being seventeen, far as I could see.”

“I mean, did she spend time with her parents? Her friends?”

“She was there to greet guests, like her folks expected her to be. They'd put her in charge of the kids' activities. Balloons, a clown or two, Hula-hoops. She did that for a while. Then she partied with people her age.”

“Eating and drinking with them?”

“She was Jasmine Gardener. If she wanted anything to eat or drink, someone would bring it to her.”

“You mean the staff?”

“Not always.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Once I overheard her say she'd like another drink, and I took her a glass of wine.”

“So you were close by.”

Ob looked at me almost shyly. “She was the prettiest girl I knew. Sometimes I hung around near her when I could.” He shook his head. “Crazy, I was.”

“That doesn't sound crazy. It sounds sweet.”

“Mebbe so. But my father caught me watching her, and he told me off. Said she was none of my business. I should stick with kids my own age.”

“But you got her a glass of wine . . .” I suddenly thought about that. “How could you do that? You were only— what—ten? The bartender served you wine?”

“Nah. I went over there, but, you're right, they wouldn't give me any. Then I saw Elsa Fitch. You know her—she's a hairdresser now. Anyway, she looked older than she was. Hell, Jasmine wasn't old enough to drink legally. But it was a private party. Elsa got me a glass of wine and I gave it to Jasmine. Spilled a little on the way—I was so excited. I was afraid my father would see me with the glass and take it away before I could give it to her.”

“When was that?”

“About the time the fireworks began. Nine o'clock or so. It was dark, so I figured no one would see me with the wine.”

“Had Jasmine been drinking much before that?”

“She'd been holding a glass most of the time. I don't know how much she'd had to drink. What does a ten-year-old know about such things?”

A ten-year-old knows when someone's drunk,
I thought.

“Who was Jasmine with then? At nine o'clock?”

“Jed and Beth Fitch, and another guy I didn't know. And her friend Mary from New York. Carole Simpson was there, too. Maybe other people. I was watching Jasmine, not her friends.” He rubbed his chin, as though that would bring back the answer. “It was a while ago, you know.”

“Do you think Jasmine had so much wine she slipped and fell into the fountain?”

Ob stood up straight. “I don't. If I believed that . . . If I believed the wine I gave her had somehow ended up with her death . . . then I couldn't live with myself. I've gone over and over it in my mind, all these years. And I walked over that property hundreds of times when I lived on the estate, and after. Never did figure what Jasmine was doing in the front of the house at that time, anyway. Everyone was on the back lawn, watching the fireworks. To get to where they found her, she would have had to leave in the middle of the show. If she did, then someone was with her. She wouldn't have left on her own. At nine o'clock she was laughing with her friends. Half an hour later she was dead.” He stared at the wall in back of me, remembering. “I still have nightmares about that night.”

“She fell into the fountain.”

“Jed Fitch found her there.” Ob leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I figured he was with her all along.”