Threads of Evidence (7 page)

Chapter 12

 

—Sampler stitched by Mary Chase (1816–1832),
Augusta, Maine, 1827

 

 

 

At three-thirty, Patrick and a few of the other men helping with the sale walked through Aurora, checked to make sure everyone was out, locked its doors, and announced that the gates would be closing at four o'clock. Everyone should complete their purchases and leave.

A crowd of last-minute townspeople gathered around the refreshment area and helped themselves to glasses of lemonade and cookies while thanking Skye for a wonderful day. Several children (and more than a few adults) left with pockets loaded down with cookies.

At four o'clock the men made another round of the tents and grounds to make sure no one not working was on the property. A few people lined up to make last-minute purchases, and then, finally, it was over.

Relief.

An amazing amount of stuff had been sold, but the Dumpsters would be full again tomorrow. Sarah and I added up our sales, checked the cash and check totals, and brought them to Skye, who was sitting by the refreshment table.

She'd taken her shoes off and stretched out her legs. She looked as tired as we felt. It had been a long week, followed by a long day.

“What were the total receipts?” she asked.

“Both of our tents together . . . a little under nine thousand dollars,” I answered. “We added quickly, so we may be a few dollars off, but that's pretty close.”

“Wonderful. That will make a nice contribution to the Haven Harbor Hospital,” she said. She handed Sarah and me our checks for fifteen thousand dollars each. “You've both done a great job in the past week. It took a lot of work to pull this off so quickly. We couldn't have done it without you.”

“So now the house is empty, and we can begin the construction,” said Patrick, joining us. “It's so beautiful outside I asked the caterer to bring the champagne and hors d'oeuvres here, instead of leaving them in the carriage house.”

I looked over and saw two men carrying a large cooler in our direction.

“Before I indulge in any champagne, I'd like a last glass of lemonade,” I said, filling one of the red plastic cups stacked on the table. “I don't think I've talked so much in one day for months. And in this heat . . . I'm thirsty.”

“I sympathize,” said Skye. “I just had a glass myself. And I never want to see another cookie! If you or your grandmother would like some, please,
please
take them. After everyone takes what they want, I'll have one of the boys drop the rest off at the assisted-living center and the nursing home next to the hospital. I've already told them any goodies left would go to them.”

Skye had thought of everything. I sipped my lemonade and looked around. Suddenly a flash of red caught my eye.

“Look!” I whispered, and pointed. We all held our breaths as a male ruby-throated hummingbird hovered over the red cups on the table. He stopped to sip one of the purple flowers in the centerpiece. He then headed for the end of the table, where he sipped out of one of the red cups.

His colors were brilliant. We were all transfixed.

Then, suddenly, he stopped hovering and fell to the table. Skye was closest to him. She touched his breast gently. “He's dead!” she said, looking at all of us. “And he was sipping from the glass I poured for myself ten minutes ago.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Patrick asked. “Do you want to sit down?”

She brushed him off. “I'm fine. But what just happened?”

“Don't touch anything. I'm going to get someone from the police,” Patrick said with authority.

“That's really not necessary,” Skye started to say. But Patrick was already gone.

Sarah and I looked at each other and at the small, still bird. I put down my glass of lemonade. “I don't think we should drink any more lemonade,” I said.

“But we've been drinking it all afternoon,” said Skye. “Everyone's been drinking it. No one's been sick or complained about anything.”

“Maybe the bird was sick before he drank it,” Sarah suggested.

We all stood around the table, feeling helpless, until Patrick reappeared. Pete Lambert was with him. “I told him what happened,” said Patrick.

“You're sure the bird sipped from the cup?” asked Pete, nodding at me. I hadn't talked to him in the past couple of weeks, but we'd gotten to know each other a month ago when I was trying to find out how my mother died.

“We all saw the bird,” I confirmed. “He sipped from one of the purple flowers in the centerpiece,” I explained, pointing, “and then he sipped out of that cup.”

“Everyone feels all right?” Pete asked, looking around at the few of us who were still there. “Hell, I even had a glass of that lemonade earlier this afternoon. But I'd better check it out.”

He pulled a pair of plastic gloves and an evidence bag out of his trousers. “Never investigated the death of a hummingbird before, I'll admit.” He took the dead bird and the cup the bird had sipped from. “I'd better take the punch bowl, too,” he said, looking around. “I have some sterile containers in my car.”

“I'll help you,” said Patrick, “if that won't mess up any evidence.”

“
Evidence?
Of a hummingbird's death?” Pete grinned a little. “I doubt anyone else is in any danger.”

“But the bird just dropped dead!” said Sarah.

“Birds die,” said Pete. “No one else's died here this afternoon, have they?”

Skye smiled, but I had the feeling she wasn't as amused as Pete appeared to be. “Everyone else is healthy. But that was my cup the bird sipped from.”

Pete looked down at the cup, now in his hand. “It looks pretty full. Had you drunk anything from it?”

“No. I had a glass a little while ago, and then poured another. Several people stopped to talk with me, and I left that cup on the end of the table. I was about to go and get it when . . . the bird got there first.”

Pete frowned. He sniffed the cup. “Can't tell anything now. Was anyone near this cup?”

We all shook our heads. The table had many red cups on it. Several dozen people had dropped off empty or partially full cups as they left. We'd started to clean up. Someone would have had to watch Skye closely to know that particular red cup was hers.

“I'll have the cup and what's in it tested,” Pete promised. “I'll let you know if we find anything unusual. In the meantime no one drink any more lemonade or touch any of the cups on the table! I doubt there's a problem. But to be sure, we'll need to test all the glasses. Does anyone remember who drank from the other glasses?”

None of us had been paying attention. People had been dropping cups off all afternoon. Most of them had ended up in the two large trash barrels on either side of the refreshment table.

Pete took pictures of the table and the glasses. He called his office to ask that someone come and bring more evidence bags and containers.

The rest of us stood around and watched.

Pete finally looked at us. “I heard you were planning a bit of a celebration after today's sale. I suggest you all go and have your party. I know who's here, and one of my fellow officers will be arriving anytime to help me. Why don't you all go back to the carriage house and leave me to this?”

“We'll do that. And you'll be sure to let me know what you find?”

“I will,” said Pete. “It won't be a secret. But I doubt anyone here is in danger.”

The guys picked up the cooler they'd brought out and we all trooped back to the carriage house. But the mood was broken. Despite the champagne and French bread and shrimp toasts and salmon pate and other goodies, no one seemed hungry.

After a glass or two and a few bites, we all headed home.

It had been a long day. A long day with an odd ending.

The death of a hummingbird.

Chapter 13

 

—Sampler wrought by Elizaetta Wray,
age fourteen, 1752

 

 

 

Gram's note was on the kitchen table, along with her purchases from the lawn sale:

The only one home to greet me was Juno, who meowed her greeting, and stood plaintively by her supper dish. Gram always left dry food for her, but opened a can of wet food for Juno's dinner. She must have left without filling Juno's expectations.

Feeding a cat was about all I had the energy to do. I opened a can of mackerel and liver. Juno expressed her appreciation by ignoring me and happily slurping her way through every ounce. She was not a deprived cat.

Then it was my turn. Despite the two glasses of champagne I'd had at Aurora, I poured myself a serious shot of vodka, adding an olive to turn it officially into a martini.

Baked beans and coleslaw. The classic Maine Saturday-night supper.

I put the pot of beans in the oven to heat and started nibbling on the coleslaw. Gram varied the traditional dish by adding thin slices of red onion and horseradish dressing. I was hungrier than I'd thought. The coleslaw disappeared before the beans heated, but not before I'd poured myself a second drink.

I worked hard this week,
I told myself.
I deserve it.

Besides, no one was here. I wasn't driving. And I definitely planned to sleep in tomorrow.

I found a box of chowder crackers in the cabinet and started nibbling those before the beans were ready. A strange supper, but it filled my stomach. Couldn't drink on an empty stomach. While I was snacking, I looked over what Gram and Tom had purchased at Skye's sale.

Sarah had told me about the Waterford vase—a treasure for their new home together. The pillowcases delicately embroidered with daffodils and lilies of the valley were lovely, but not my style. I smiled to myself, wondering if Dave Percy had seen them.

Dave's hobby (aside from needlepoint) was his poison garden, which he used to interest his students and warn them of the dangers local plants could hide. He'd begun to teach me some things, too. That was why I knew daffodil bulbs and lilies of the valley were both beautiful, but poisonous.

I decided not to mention my newfound knowledge to Gram.

I used to see the world that way, too. Beautiful and full of hope and promise. But that was before Mama disappeared.

Of course, now I knew that wasn't exactly what had happened.

But I couldn't change history.

I'd also learned a lot about the rotten side of human nature in Arizona. Back here in Haven Harbor, I'd been able to put my gun away and focus on Gram and her custom needlepoint business. And now Gram's wedding.

Domestic issues I hadn't thought would be part of my life ever again.

Finally the smell of molasses and maple syrup filled the kitchen. I took the bean pot out of the oven, spooned out a plate full, and dug in. Worth waiting for. I could have microwaved them, but that wouldn't have felt authentic.

One of my high-school friends had loved cold baked beans; she'd eaten sandwiches of cold baked beans for lunch every Monday. But although I didn't insist on my beans sizzling, I did prefer them warm.

I should have bought something for myself at the sale. Something other than the cartons of needlework books and magazines that now filled the luggage compartment and backseat of Sarah's car. I hadn't even thought of choosing something for myself. Soon this house I'd grown up in would be mine. The parish house was already furnished. What would Gram take with her to her new life? In Arizona I'd furnished my tiny apartment from Goodwill, and, with the exception of a desert painting I'd bought and asked my neighbor to ship to Maine, I hadn't taken anything with me when I'd left. The painting now hung in my bedroom. It looked a little out of place in Haven Harbor, but it represented part of my life. It would stay there.

I looked at the check Skye had given me. Fifteen thousand dollars. I might never see another check that large. How much money must she have? I couldn't imagine.

Not the kind of money private investigators or directors of needlepoint companies earned. That I knew for sure.

I filled another plate with beans and sipped my vodka. Not gourmet, but tonight it worked for me.

I still needed to find an outfit to wear to Gram's wedding. No question I'd be able to pay for one now. And I should find something to give her. I'd already given her a microwave. But I wanted to find something more special. More lasting. Maybe fancy wineglasses? Gram and Tom both drank wine.

And tomorrow I needed to spend some time with Gram, figuring out what to do with those needlepoint panels for Skye. It was time to assess the damage and figure out whom to give the pieces to for restoration.

I finished the vodka and the beans and headed upstairs to bed. My stomach was bloated (I had overdone it with the beans) and my head and feet were aching.

The next week would be a full one: a trip to Portland, and getting caught up with the paperwork and calls for Mainely Needlepoint.

At least, except for those panels, I was through with Aurora. I needed to get on with the rest of my life.

I took two B12 tablets to help combat any effects of the vodka, as well as an aspirin, just in case the B12 wasn't enough.

What I needed most was sleep.