Threads of Evidence (8 page)

Chapter 14

And what is friendship but a name
    
A charm that lulls to sleep
        
A shade that follows wealth and fame
        
But leaves the wretch to weep.

 

—Lines stitched by Elizabeth Keyes on her sampler, 1806, taken from Oliver Goldsmith's (1730–1774) “The Hermit,” 1765

 

 

 

The sound of my cell ringing woke me Sunday morning at eight o'clock. I pulled my pillow over my head and pretended I didn't hear it. Who would call so early? Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest. And I needed one.

I'd left a note telling Gram I wouldn't be making it to church this morning. I had a quiet day planned. Laundry. Sorting through Mainely Needlepoint messages that I'd postponed dealing with when I was at Aurora. A quiet walk to the beach to indulge in some fried clams and a view of the harbor. Sea breezes to blow the cobwebs and dust and mold of Aurora out of my brain.

The phone kept ringing. I groaned, sat up, and answered it.

“Angie? Good. I was about to hang up. I thought you might be in church this morning.” I glanced down at the caller ID. “Patrick?”

“Yeah. It's me. Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday morning. But a few minutes ago, we got a call from the Haven Harbor Police. Pete someone?”

Patrick usually sounded smooth. In control. Sophisticated. This morning his voice was like sandpaper. A late Saturday night? When Sarah and I'd left the carriage house last night, there'd been a lot of unopened champagne bottles on the table.

“Lambert.” I filled in. “Sergeant Pete Lambert.”

“Right.” Patrick paused. “Well, he didn't say exactly why, but he wants to see Mom and me. On a Sunday morning!”

As though those sworn to protect and defend our towns could take Sunday off.

“About the hummingbird?” I asked.

“Probably. But Mom's all excited. She thinks his wanting to see us might have something to do with Jasmine Gardener.”

“I suspect it's about something more current, like traffic problems with the construction trucks around Aurora. Or the hummingbird.” Mainers took traffic jams, especially traffic jams during tourist season, seriously. And if the wildlife folks thought anything untoward had happened to that hummingbird, that news could make the local paper. Maybe even the
Portland Press Herald.
Mainers cared about their wildlife.

Patrick sighed. “I know. But, still, Mom's all uptight about it. How well do you know this guy Pete?”

“A little. We've worked together. Shared lunch. He's pretty sane,” I said.

“So you know him. And you're a Mainer. Would you mind being here when he comes to talk with us? It would relax Mom, and that would make me feel better. Especially since I told Mom that you've been a private investigator.”

“But I wasn't! I said I worked
for
a private investigator,” I corrected quickly.

“Same thing. You understand about investigations and questions and all. Mom talks a lot about Jasmine Gardener, but I don't think she has a clue about what a real police investigation is like.” Patrick hesitated. “It's not like in the movies. I don't want her to make a fool of herself. Please. We need your help on this one.”

“I really don't think I can do anything,” I said.

“
Please.
As a favor.”

I still had Skye West's check in my pocket. She'd certainly been nice to Sarah and me. What choice did I have? “All right. I'll come over. When did Pete say he'd be at your place?”

“Eleven o'clock.”

“I'll be there a few minutes before then. But don't tell him you asked me specially to be there. I've happened to stop in.”

“Fine, fine. Just so you're here. I owe you! And”— Patrick's voice lowered—“don't tell anyone about this. People gossip. We don't want anyone knowing the police were here.”

The phone clicked off.

Don't tell anyone?
Patrick didn't know small-town Maine. Before noon everyone in town would know there was a police car at Aurora.

I found a pair of relatively clean jeans and an unspotted T-shirt, set the percolator to brew, and paced the living room, waiting for the coffee and wishing I could at least call Sarah. Sarah had been at Aurora as many hours as I had been, and she'd probably talked with both Skye and Patrick more than I had. But she didn't know Pete Lambert well. And she hadn't worked for a private investigator.

She'd gone out of her way to talk with Patrick. She'd be gracious, but not happy he'd called me.

Remembering the expression in his eyes stirred more than a desire for breakfast.

Stirrings I dismissed. Instead, I scrambled two eggs with a few leaves of spinach and a little grated Parmesan. Feeling indulgent, I sprinkled a piece of buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar. Being in the kitchen where I'd spent a good part of my childhood reminded me of so many little details I hadn't thought of in years. Did anyone still put cinnamon and sugar on toast? It had been one of Gram's standbys. The sweet taste and aroma took me right back to being six or seven years old.

When Mama was waitressing, Gram and I would have tea and scones or cinnamon toast or sometimes cookies as our afternoon snack. I'd tell her what had happened in school, and she'd show me how much needlepoint she'd done that day, and remind me to put away the clothes she'd washed, or we'd plan what to have for dinner. Mama was seldom home for meals, so menus were up to Gram and me.

In those days, before Gram started watching her cholesterol, and we both knew too much sugar or fat was bad for us, butter was always in the kitchen, and ajar of bacon fat stood in a covered jar on the stove. Baked beans were ready every Saturday night, as they had been last night— as they were in most Haven Harbor homes—with enough left over for Sunday dinner or supper. Molasses and raisin cookies were more common than chocolate chip, and there were no Chinese or pizza or Thai places that delivered then. Actually, as Skye and Patrick had discovered this past week, there still weren't.

I spent the rest of the morning examining the ten needlepoint panels Skye wanted preserved. Gram had removed them from their frames and spread them on our dining-room table.

She'd successfully sponged the surface dirt off them, and the three invaded by the most mildew were now in much better condition. Putting them in the sunshine seemed to have stopped the mildew's progress and killed it, I hoped.

If Sarah didn't know what we should do next, I'd call the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Their textile division should be able to head us in the right direction. And they should know where to get antiacidic backings for the needlepoints, and tell me whether the stitching itself should be treated in any way.

Skye had said, “Restore and preserve . . . but also repair.” I separated those panels that needed repair work on broken stitches, or stitching over sections that had faded or torn. I'd confirm with Gram, who'd already looked at the pictures closely, but it looked as though four of the panels (those of the Haven Harbor Lighthouse, the eagle flying over the yacht club, the staircase at Aurora, and the Haven Harbor Town Pier) were in good-enough condition to be carefully lined and reframed. Of the remaining six, two had major problems and four needed minor repairs and adjustments.

All in all, the pictures weren't in as bad condition as I'd initially assumed.

Who would be free to work on them, though? Gram had already done more than her share. I couldn't ask her to take on anything else.

Ruth Hopkins's arthritis would keep her from volunteering. Ob Winslow was focusing on his charter fishing this summer. Sarah might be able to do one or two, although she was coming up to the busiest time of the year for her store. I wasn't experienced enough to take on any of the repair work myself. That left Dave Percy, whose classes at the high school should be over this week, and Katie Titicomb. Katie was a careful stitcher, no doubt. And she'd said she was ready to take on new projects. It looked as though she and Dave would be handling these pieces. But Sarah would want to be involved, I thought, since she'd been a part of this from the beginning. I'd give her the two with the fewest challenges.

By a little after ten-thirty, I was in my little red car, headed back to Aurora, hoping my visit would be short and simple.

Chapter 15

Thine eye my bed and path survey
My public haunts and privit [
sic
] ways.

 

—Verse stitched on American sampler, 1769

 

 

 

Pete arrived at Aurora's carriage house at eleven o'clock. Right on time. His uniform was pressed and his thin brown hair slicked down. His back was straight. Even though he'd worn the same uniform when directing traffic around Aurora or collecting information about the hummingbird's death yesterday, this morning he looked much more official.

His eyes widened when he saw me, but he wasted no time in announcing why he was there.

“Arsenic. The crime lab guys said that hummingbird died of arsenic poisoning. That cup the bird sipped from contained four or five grains of arsenic.” He took a breath. “That's more than enough to kill someone.”

Skye and Patrick looked at each other.

I pointed out the obvious. “Hundreds of people drank lemonade yesterday. It was a hot day. I drank some. You did, too.”

“Yeah. I did. There's no trace of arsenic in the punch bowl or in any of the other cups we took back to the lab.”

“Then . . .”

“I'll admit, when you asked me to have lemonade tested because a bird died, I thought you were all a little—”

“Crazy?” asked Skye. “Paranoid?”

“I didn't say that. But, considering the situation . . .”

Meaning,
I suspected,
“because you're rich and famous.”

Pete continued: “We did check. The only arsenic we found was in your glass, Ms. West. Either someone was trying to kill you, or they staged the scene to look as though someone wanted to kill you.”

“‘Staged the scene'?” repeated Patrick. “As in ‘cue the hummingbird'? That's ridiculous!”

“You tell me,” said Pete. “All I know is there was enough arsenic in that cup to kill at least a couple of dozen people. We in Haven Harbor don't take kindly to that sort of a joke.”

“
Joke?
Pete, you can't believe putting arsenic in a cup where anyone could have picked it up was a joke,” I put in.

“But no one else did pick it up. Ms. West identified it as her cup. And yet she didn't drink from it. That's quite a coincidence, considering there was a table covered with identical glasses.”

True, there were Mainers who rejected those from away, especially those who had money. But Skye was trying to do everything right: hiring locals—or mostly locals, contributing to local charities, and fixing up one of the town's eyesores. What was Pete getting at?

“Someone tried to kill me yesterday,” Skye said, her voice amazingly steady. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Ms. West, we don't know that someone tried to kill you. All we know is there was arsenic in that one cup. The state crime lab says it isn't officially an attempted murder unless we know for sure who the glass was meant for and who tampered with it.”

“It was my glass. Someone tried to poison me,” Skye repeated.

“Well, if someone wanted you dead, they failed. You're still alive,” said Pete. “I'll be blunt. I've only met you once or twice. I don't know you, or why you're in town. You could choose to live anywhere in the world.” Pete paused. “You're an actress. I've heard about people like you. Celebrities. You play roles. You need attention. You like to be the center of gossip.” Pete stared at Skye. “I'm wondering if this is all a setup.”

“I've been working with Ms. West for the past couple of weeks,” I put in. “She's very sensible. Not the type to get hysterical, no matter what the movie magazines say. Why would she want you to think someone was trying to kill her? She'd want to avoid gossip, not encourage it.”

Pete looked sidewise at me, but backed up a little. A very little. “Ms. West, if you didn't set this up yourself, I can understand why you'd be nervous. Scared. But if someone wants to poison you, there must be a reason. What could that be?”

Onstage and onscreen, Skye West had probably dealt with worse, but in her own backyard?

How would anyone react?

And, yes, gossip might certainly be involved. But not gossip Skye or Patrick would have started.

Pete had asked a reasonable question—the same one I had. Why would anyone want to kill Skye West?

Chapter 16

 

—Sampler worked by Nancy Chadwick, age thirteen, 1811

 

 

 

“For right now, let's accept the supposition that you didn't stage anything. You didn't poison the cup. Then . . . who did?” Pete looked from Skye to Patrick and back again. “Do either of you have any enemies? Any problems you brought with you to Maine? Some of those paparazzi types who follow celebrities around?” Pete wasn't smiling.

“Mom must have signed a hundred autographs yesterday,” Patrick answered. “She wasn't anything but gracious.” Patrick smiled proudly at his mother. “She's good at her job, onstage and off.”

“No matter who poisoned the cup, it was lucky that hummingbird tasted the lemonade before you did. One sixteenth of a teaspoonful of arsenic would kill someone. Your cup contained many times that amount. And your cup was the only one tampered with,” Pete pointed out again.

Skye's lips pursed. “And you have no idea who did that.”

“We were hoping you'd have some suggestions. Yesterday you said you'd poured the glass, but then stepped away to talk to some people and sign a few autographs. During the time between your pouring the cup and the hummingbird's sipping from it, someone added the arsenic. We'll need a list of everyone who was near the refreshment table during that time.”

Skye shook her head. “Sergeant Lambert, almost all of the people here yesterday were strangers to me.” She threw up her hands. “Can you help, Angie?”

“I'll try to remember who else I saw in the area.” Pete handed me a pad of paper. “But I wasn't there for the whole time period you're talking about.”

“Write down everyone you can remember,” he said. “If you don't know their names, then a description of them.”

Skye stood up. “You're absolutely sure it was arsenic in my cup?”

“It's not something we see every day, but it's easy to test for. We're certain.”

She nodded decisively. “I don't know who wanted to poison me, but I can guess why.”

I looked up. Skye was calmly sipping from a pottery mug of coffee. She knew? And she wasn't panicked or fearful?

“Yes?” Pete asked. “Why?”

She turned to face him. “Because I bought Aurora to find out who killed Jasmine Gardener. Any police records about her death should include the fact that her mother was convinced Jasmine was poisoned by arsenic before she fell in the fountain. I believe whoever poisoned her is still in or near Haven Harbor. Was here yesterday. And either wanted to kill me the same way, or frighten me so I'd leave town. Convince me not to investigate.” She put her mug down decisively. “But I'm not leaving.”

Pete looked as though Skye had slipped into another reality. “Pardon me, Ms. West, but Jasmine Gardener died almost forty-five years ago. I'm not an expert on the case—it was definitely before my time—but I know that although there was some local gossip about arsenic, the police ruled Miss Gardener's death accidental. You've bought a house with a past. It might seem amusing to you to assume Miss Gardener was murdered, and to solve that murder. But forty-five years is a long time. The chances of anyone knowing something about her death that we don't already have in our files seem dubious.”

“I understand you don't believe me,” said Skye. “But the reason I held that sale yesterday was to encourage Haven Harbor residents to come here, to Aurora, to revisit what happened here in 1970, and to talk about it again. Many of them did. I asked questions, and I overheard comments. I believe Jasmine Gardener's murderer was here at Aurora yesterday, and that he or she decided it would be safer for them if I disappeared. Luckily, as you can see, I've neither died nor been scared out of town.”

“But why would anyone connect you to what happened all those years ago? Excuse me, Ms. West, but you're just an actress who bought an old house with a history. You'd never even been in Haven Harbor before a few weeks ago.”

Skye smiled, her lips tight. “There I'm afraid you're wrong, Sergeant Lambert. I have been in Haven Harbor before. I was a guest here at Aurora the entire summer of 1970. Jasmine Gardener was my best friend. I was here the night she died.”