Threads of Evidence (19 page)

Chapter 40

Virtue should guard the tender fair
    
From man's deceptive flattering snare.

 

—Anonymous American sampler, 1828

 

 

 

Most contractors worked from seven until four o'clock. Some of those under contract to the Wests had been working longer hours. By the time I reached the gates of Aurora that afternoon, all the trucks but one were gone. I drove to the carriage house.

Patrick and Skye were enjoying an early cocktail. It only took one invitation for me to decide to join them. “Beefeater and tonic with lime,” I requested, noting that they'd now installed a full bar in their tiny new kitchen.

With drinks in our hands, we sat out on a small brick patio I hadn't remembered from my visit the day before. Money could certainly equal progress. At least it did at Aurora.

“I thought I'd check in and let you know who I'd talked with today,” I said.

“Good. I was going to call you tonight, anyway,” said Skye. “I've made appointments for us to visit Sam Gould and Linda Zaharee tomorrow. Sam in the morning, and Linda in the afternoon.” Skye sat back and raised her glass to me, looking more confident than I felt.

“How did you manage that?” I asked.

“Since Sam now owns the shipyard his father built up years ago, I told Sam who I was, that I'd bought a place in Maine, and I might be interested in buying a boat. He bit right away. Plus, it turns out his wife is a fan. I promised a personalized autograph.”

The power of fame! “And Linda Zaharee?”

“I just moved to Maine and was thinking of having my son's portrait done. Or mine. I admired her work and wanted to talk with her.” Skye raised her eyebrows. “Presto! Doors opened.”

“Congratulations. I'm afraid my accomplishments don't rank with those,” I said, sipping my tall drink. “I talked with my grandmother and with Ob Winslow, and with all three of the Fitch siblings—Elsa yesterday, and Jed and Beth today.”

“Good. Any news on the mysterious hairs in the needlepoint?”

“No. Dave was at school today. I wouldn't expect to hear from him until tomorrow at the earliest.”

Patrick nodded. “I'm assuming no one you talked with confessed to killing Jasmine.”

“Afraid not! But I can add a few things to our timeline.”

“Good!” said Skye. “Tell us.”

“Ob was only ten in 1970, but he had crush on Jasmine, and spent a lot of time watching her. He even got her a glass of wine once. But he said he didn't think she was drunk. He said, and it was confirmed by others, that Jasmine greeted guests with her parents and spent some of the time at the party playing with the children there—giving out balloons and teaching kids how to use Hula-hoops.” I looked up from my notes. “My grandmother remembered a woman taking pictures of Jasmine with the Hula-hoopers. That might have been Linda Zaharee.”

Skye nodded. “Good.”

“I learned a bit about the Fitch family, too. Beth, the oldest, wasn't home for most of the summer. But she didn't like Jed hanging out with Jasmine. She thought he wasn't working hard enough to earn the football scholarship everyone seemed to think he might get. She thought he was hitching his wagon to Jasmine's money and influence. And she might have been right. Jed told me he'd proposed to Jasmine late in the summer, but she hadn't given him an answer.”

“Did he say anything about her being pregnant?”

“No. And I didn't bring it up, because he'd wonder how I knew. But why else would he have asked her to marry him?”

“Unless it was for her money,” Skye said, thinking. “Interesting. And interesting that she hadn't said ‘yes' or ‘no' to him.”

“The family sounded troubled to me. Their mother was sickly, and sometimes demanding, and their father ignored them all. Beth had been away at college and was leaving for the Peace Corps. She'd basically removed herself from the family. Jed was expected to go to college, but his situation with Jasmine could have helped him or hurt him, depending on how you looked at it. Elsa ended up being the one who took care of her mother and went to beautician's school in Portland.”

“Ouch! Sorry about Elsa. I don't remember much about her except that she kept to herself and always seemed to have a book with her.” Skye paused. “When you're seventeen or eighteen, fifteen seems very young and unimportant.”

“As for the timeline . . . Jed said Jasmine didn't feel well in the middle of the fireworks and headed back toward the house. He followed her, found her in the fountain, pulled her out, and tried to resuscitate her. Everyone I spoke with said Jasmine had been drinking, but no one seemed to think she was drunk, except Jed, who said he could have underestimated how much she'd had.”

“Did you get the feeling anyone was hiding anything?”

“No,” I said. “They were surprised when I asked so many questions. Jed, especially, seemed genuinely sorry about Jasmine. He said he blamed himself for her death. He shouldn't have let her drink so much, and he should have gone with her back to the house. If she hadn't been alone, he said, she might not have died.”

Chapter 41

 

—Sampler stitched by Maria Wise, age sixteen, Pike Township, Ohio, 1837

 

 

 

Skye and Patrick and I each had several drinks, poured generously. Somehow there was always something to talk about.

Skye told funny stories about her adventures in Hollywood. Patrick shared what it was like growing up with a famous mother. Skye finally suggested dinner.

Or, rather, she suggested Patrick and I go out for dinner.

“You young people go out and enjoy yourselves. You've been working hard for the past week. Get something good to eat. Enjoy the evening. I'm weary, and we have salad makings in the refrigerator. I'll be fine here. I'm too tired to eat a big meal.”

If I hadn't had as much to drink, I might have hesitated. But we were all pretty relaxed by then, and Patrick was charming. I agreed. It was nothing serious, I'd tell Sarah, if she found out. I just happened to be here.

The thought of a quiet dinner with Patrick was very attractive.

We left my car at the carriage house and headed for Damariscotta in his. He'd read a review of the Damariscotta River Grill and wanted to try it. I'd never been there, but had no objections. It had been a while since I'd eaten at any restaurant other than the Harbor Haunts Café or the Lobsterman's Co-op. Both decent places, but neither contenders for the label “fine dining.”

The Damariscotta River Grill, on the other hand, had tablecloths and a wine list. We were seated upstairs. The walls were covered with local artists' work. Tables overlooked either Damariscotta's main street or its harbor, or were close to a large fireplace. That fireplace would be a big plus in January. Tonight we chose the harbor view. Before I opened the menu, Patrick ordered a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. I didn't object.

“But no more, Patrick. We have to drive back to Haven Harbor.”

“We'll drink and eat slowly,” he answered, raising his glass to meet mine. “To a lovely evening, and an even lovelier lady.”

He did have a way with words.

We ordered mussels in wine as an appetizer to share. Then I ordered the duck (not a common choice on a Maine summer menu) and Patrick ordered scallops.

He asked me about my years in Arizona, and I told him about Mama and why I'd left: a story I didn't share with everyone. I didn't tell him about how I'd used the carriage house when I was in high school.

He talked about private school and prep school, and how he'd first wanted to be a set designer and had studied at the Rhode Island School of Design. It was there he'd realized he was essentially a loner. He wanted to do his own art, and not be part of a production company, even though his mother's name could have opened doors for him.

We talked through the appetizer and our main courses and continued talking while we sipped espresso and shared a piece of chocolate lava cake.

I found myself laughing at his jokes—and looking into his eyes. I hadn't had a dinner like that in . . . a while.

On the way back to his car, he took my hand. A little sappy, but I liked it. The night was beautiful, and it was getting late. As Patrick had promised, we'd eaten slowly, savoring our food and being together. We were one of the last couples to leave the restaurant.

On the way home Patrick focused on the road and I considered where, if anywhere, this evening might end up.

We returned to Aurora. After all, I'd left my car there.

Patrick saw the flames first.

He slammed on the brakes, almost swerving his car into a tree, and jumped out. “Call 911! I'm going to find Mom!” The roof of the carriage house was burning.

It took me a split second to connect. Then I pulled out my cell and dialed the Haven Harbor Fire Department. They were all volunteers; it would take a few minutes for them to arrive.

The smoke and flames from the roof were increasing.

I got out of the car and watched as one section of the roof collapsed.

Patrick and Skye were inside. Would he get her out? Instinctively, I touched my gold angel pendant. But the angel was meant to keep me safe. Who would help the Wests?

I ran across the street, toward Ob's house. Ob must have a hose, even if he only had well water.

Before I got to his barn, Ob ran toward me. Skye was with him, dressed only in a long nightgown.

“Skye! Thank goodness. You're all right!”

“I'm a light sleeper. The smoke woke me. I ran downstairs and out and stupidly left my phone inside. I came over here so Ob could call for help.”

She looked at me as we headed back toward the carriage house. “Where's Patrick?”

Chapter 42

 

—Sampler stitched by Mary Muir (1805–1881), age twelve, Alexandria, Virginia, taken from poem attributed to English poet Mary Masters (1694–1771), published in 1733

 

 

 

“Patrick! He went inside the carriage house to find you.”

Skye screamed as she and Ob and I ran faster, back toward the carriage house.

The first firefighters, arriving in pickups and jeeps as well as fire engines, got there when we did. A police car pulled up seconds later.

“There's a man inside!” I yelled to the first firefighter on the scene. He took one look at me and at Skye, who had stopped screaming and was staring at the burning house. He pulled on his mask and gestured to his partner. They pushed their way through the large door, which had once led to where the horses, carriages, or cars had been housed.

I held my breath, trying not to breathe the smoke, trying not to think about what was happening in the carriage house.

Anna arrived, carrying a bathrobe. She draped it over Skye's shoulders. “You poor dear. Don't want no one taking pictures of you looking like that,” she said. Skye didn't seem to hear her. Her eyes were blank, focused on the house.

Firefighters were pointing their hoses at the roof, which increased the smoke. In the dark the only light was from the moon and the spotlight on one of the fire engines. It was hard to tell whether the water was making a difference.

An ambulance pulled in behind the trucks. The EMTs ran out, checked with the policeman, and then stood. Waiting.

Just as Skye and Ob and Anna and I were.

Another section of the roof crashed in. Had Patrick been under it? What about the two men who'd gone in after him?

Sparks from the fire ignited branches of a tree nearby. It started to smolder.

Finally, through the smoke, we could see figures emerging from the house. The two firefighters were carrying someone.

Skye and I ran toward them, but we were stopped by the policeman. “He needs medical attention. Don't get in the way.”

Skye sobbed and covered her mouth. I felt in shock. I'd had an almost-romantic evening with a handsome man. How could Patrick be that limp form the EMTs were putting on a stretcher? I put my arm around Skye's shoulder, but she didn't seem to feel it. Her body was tight.

“They'll take him to Haven Harbor Hospital,” I said. “I'll drive you there.”

Then I realized my car was blocked in by all the emergency vehicles. I ran over to the policeman. “Please, can his mother ride to the hospital in the ambulance? My car's blocked.”

He hesitated, but then he looked at Skye. “Make it quick, then. In the front, not the back.” Skye nodded and climbed into the front seat of the ambulance. A second or two later, it pulled away, sirens on and lights flashing.

They were gone.

“Was that the actress?” asked the cop.

“Yes. Skye West,” I answered. “The injured man was her son, Patrick.”

I stood watching. The firefighters did their best, but they couldn't save the carriage house. It burned to the ground.

“Under construction,” I heard someone say. “Maybe flammable materials left inside.”

“Could have been electrical.”

“Nah. Seemed to be centered on the stairway to the second floor. Spread faster than it should.”

“They'll be calling the arson guys in on this one, for sure.”

When only one truck was left to oversee the carnage and put up barriers so no one would get near the fire site, I was finally able to reach my car. The sun was beginning to come up. It was going to be a beautiful June day.

I drove to the hospital.