by Lea Wait
THE BODY IN THE SNOW
I heard Patrick impatiently stomping his feet to keep them warm. He was right; we should go in.
But I was too curious to turn around. I was shivering, but not only from the cold.
The shadow I’d seen wasn’t a deer.
In the moonlight I saw a man’s body face down in the snow. He was wearing a black and white patterned sweater, jeans, and cowboy boots. A darker shadow was under his head, and parts of his body were lightly covered with recent snow. I knelt to check his pulse.
There wasn’t one.
“What’re you doing? Let’s get back to the house!” Patrick called again.
“Just a minute,” I yelled back. I pulled out my cellphone, snapped several pictures, and walked back toward Patrick.
“There’s a body,” I said as calmly as I could. “We need to call the police.”
This was not the beginning of a Merry Christmas . . .
Books by Lea Wait
TWISTED THREADS
THREADS OF EVIDENCE
THREAD AND GONE
DANGLING BY A THREAD
TIGHTENING THE THREADS
THREAD THE HALLS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Thread the Halls
Lea Wait
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
THE BODY IN THE SNOW
Books by Lea Wait
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Bev Clifford’s Tourtière (French-Canadian Pork Pie)
Acknowledgments
Books by Lea Wait
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Lea Wait
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U. S. Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0630-0
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: November 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0631-7
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0631-5
First Kensington Electronic Edition: November 2017
Chapter 1
“As some fair violet, loveliest of the glade
Sheds its mild fragrance on the lovely shade
Withdraws its modest head from public sight
Covets not the sun nor seeks the glare of light,
So woman born to dignify, retreat, and be unseen,
Fearful of fame, unwilling to be known,
Should seek but Heaven’s applause, and her own.”
—Stitched by Eliza Ely in 1881, somewhere in New England.
After ten years of not celebrating December 25 other than by listening to carols on my car radio during surveillance gigs, I was determined this Christmas would be perfect. It wouldn’t be magical, like it was when I was a child. But I needed it to come close.
When I was young, Christmas had always made up for the other 364 days of the year that, despite Gram’s efforts, had been memorable in other ways.
“Gram, where’s my star?” I called to her. “It has to go on the tree first.”
“It’s in a gold box, Angel,” she answered from the dining room, where she and Reverend Tom (I still had trouble calling her new husband “Tom,” no matter how often he told me to drop the Reverend) were adding to the bowl of eggnog.
Gram was the only one who called me “Angel.” I liked the old nickname.
“It’s probably in the same carton as the lights,” she added.
Boxes of red and blue and gold Christmas balls were stacked near the fireplace, next to ornaments I’d made in elementary school, and a few needlepointed ones I’d added to the collection this year.
This tree was my first as a grown-up, on my own. I hadn’t bothered to have a tree in my Arizona apartment. Life there had been temporary. Last Christmas had meant white lights twinkling on saguaro cactuses and dinner with my boss in a Mexican food diner.
As usual, Gram was right. The gold box was under a string of colored lights.
I opened it carefully, hoping my star would be the way I remembered it.
I’d made the large, lopsided ornament in kindergarten, covering coat hanger wire with aluminum foil. I’d proudly brought it home and given it to Mama. Her perfume had mixed with the scent of pine as she lifted me up so I could put my star on the very top of our tree.
Sometimes I imagined the star still held a trace of her fragrance.
When I was a teenager I’d talked about replacing my star with something more elegant. But, secretly, I loved it and the years it represented: Christmases with Mama.
I stared into the box. In the past ten years the star’s silver foil had crackled, and pieces had fallen off.
Gram saw me looking at it. “Nothing lasts forever, Angel. Maybe you can cover it with fresh foil.”
She didn’t understand. “I want it the way it was,” I said.
I’m twenty-eight. I knew I was being silly. But I wanted this Christmas to be the same as the Christmases I remembered as a child. After all, Christmas meant tradition. Even if not every Christmas was traditional.
I climbed the paint-spattered stepladder and wound the now-rusted wire around the base of my star and the top of the tree.
Curtis family traditions in Haven Harbor, Maine, meant Santas on the mantel, a tree that touched the ceiling, and wreaths on every door and window.
I secretly believed one of my Victorian ancestors had added our bay window to frame their Christmas tree. Yesterday, Patrick, the new man in my life, and I had donned our blaze orange (hunting season was over and his land was posted, but you never knew), cut my tree in his woods, and then stood it in the Christmas tree stand Mama and Gram had used before me.
> Sharing the holiday with a special man was one change I welcomed.
Other changes were harder to accept. I remembered the excitement and anticipation of early Christmas mornings in a flannel nightgown, nibbling ribbon candy before breakfast while Gram made blueberry pancakes in the kitchen. Now Gram was married and living down the street in the rectory with Reverend Tom. They’d invited me to spend Christmas morning with them, but they were finding new ways to celebrate together.
Most of their plans didn’t involve me. They were part of his ministerial duties and were shared with the rest of his church family.
Gram was taking their first Christmas as a married couple in stride.
I wasn’t.
But I was trying. Today I’d invited my friends from Gram’s (now my) Mainely Needlepoint business to a tree-trimming party. I hoped new traditions would keep me from missing old ones.
When I was seventeen, hating Maine and all it stood for, and hating Mama for disappearing when I was ten, leaving me to deal with rumors and pity, I never could have imagined someday my life would be like this. After ten years of working for a private investigator in Phoenix, learning to handle a gun and “follow and photo,” I’d come home.
Mama’s body had been found, and I’d found her killer. I’d finally answered the questions I’d lived with for seventeen years.
Tonight I was surrounded by friends: Patrick West, the guy who wasn’t perfect, but who made me smile; Sarah Byrne, who’d moved to Maine from Australia, had a rocky few months recently, but had become my closest friend; Dave Percy, who taught high school biology and whose poison garden intrigued me; Captain Ob and his wife, Anna, who’d had a difficult summer, but were now ready to ring in a new year; Ruth Hopkins, who did needlepoint when her arthritis allowed, and wrote books when it didn’t; Katie Titi-comb and Dr. Gus, parents of one of my high school friends; Clem Walker, a high school friend who lived in Portland and worked for Channel 7, but was now home for the holidays with her family; and, of course, Gram and Reverend Tom.
And Trixi. As the tree began to shake I realized I’d been lost in the past and hadn’t seen her for a few minutes.
I reached through the wide branches and caught her, one small black kitten, on her way to the top. She jumped from my arms and skittered to her favorite hiding spot behind the couch.
As I climbed down from the ladder Patrick’s arm went around me. “Penny for your thoughts? You look as though you left us for a while.”
“I’m here,” I said, smiling into his eyes. “Very happy to be right here right now.” I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. Who needed a kissing ball or mistletoe when I had Patrick?
He looked around the room, took a deep breath, and announced, “This is as good a time as any for me to invite all of you to Aurora for a dinner party Christmas Eve.”
Aurora was Patrick’s mother’s estate. She was an actress, making a movie in Scotland.
“Skye will be back for Christmas?” I asked.
“She thought she’d have to work through Christmas, but they’ve had weather delays and script problems. Last night she called to tell me they’d decided to close the set for the holidays. She’s coming here with some of the others working on the film.”
“Really?” Clem asked. “Anyone famous?”
Clem was the only one of us who’d never met Patrick’s mother, who’d bought Aurora as a retreat, far from the pressures of Hollywood. We’d all made it an unwritten rule that Skye should have the privacy she valued.
Patrick looked at Clem. He’d remembered my old friend was also a part of the media. By issuing a general invitation to his mother’s party, he’d included her. “Paul Carmichael is coming, and an actress I don’t know, Blaze Buchanan. And Thomas and Marie O’Day, the screenwriters, will be here re-working the end of the script with Marv Mason, who’s directing.”
“Wow!” Clem breathed. “I’m a real Paul Carmichael fan. He’s gorgeous. And Marv Mason’s won two Oscars!”
“Sounds like a working holiday,” Ruth Hopkins pointed out.
“Exactly. Mom said besides the script, they’ve had personnel problems on the set they hope to work out while they’re here. She sounded distracted. And here’s my challenge. She wants me to decorate the house in what she termed ‘traditional Maine Christmas fashion,’ so all is ‘as she dreamed’ when she arrives.” Patrick smiled, but looked tense. “Her plane gets in December twentieth.”
“She wants you to decorate the whole house in two days?” I gasped. Skye’s home was enormous.
Reverend Tom shook his head. “Sounds as though she’s been watching old Christmas movies. This is Haven Harbor. Not a movie set.”
“Exactly,” Patrick agreed glumly. “She even rattled off a list of what she wants—garlands everywhere and an enormous tree, of course. And that’s just the beginning. She wants a horse-drawn sleigh and carolers. And an elegant buffet dinner Christmas Eve, including lobster.”
Silence. A horse-drawn sleigh? Did Patrick’s mother think Maine was still in the nineteenth century?
Captain Ob Winslow was the first to speak. “I’ll help with the tree, Patrick. What are neighbors for? But Anna and I’ve planned a quiet Christmas this year, just the two of us. I’m afraid we’ll have to pass on the invite to your fancy party.”
“Gus and I’ll be heading to Blue Hill for Christmas with the grandkids,” said Katie. “We won’t be in town Christmas Eve.”
“I’d be happy to come,” Sarah said quickly. “And you’ll be here then, right, Dave?”
“I’d planned to spend the holidays in Boston. But, sure. I can come Christmas Eve.” Dave looked cornered.
“I’ll come,” said Ruth, quietly.
“I’ll be there for sure,” Clem put in.
Patrick glanced at her and then me, and shrugged.
“I’ll help decorate,” I put in. Like Ob and Anna, I’d looked forward to a quiet Christmas day, mine with Gram and Tom. And Patrick, of course. But I could manage Christmas Eve. I’d miss the children’s pageant at the church, but I could do that. I glanced at Patrick’s hands. Last June they’d been badly burned in an accident. The delicate task of hanging ornaments would be hard for him.
“I’ll bet I can find some sophomores from my bio class who could use extra spending money over the holidays. School’s out already. You get the tree and ornaments, and I’ll find decorators,” Dave suggested.
“I’d really appreciate that,” Patrick said with relief, squeezing my hand. “Thank you, Dave.” He looked around the room. “I have to warn all of you. I know most of Mom’s friends in the movie business. I’m afraid there may be more drama at Aurora this Christmas than Haven Harbor’s used to.”
“As long as any dramas stay at Aurora,” said Reverend Tom quietly. “Here in town we’re pretty set in our ways of celebrating. After all, Christmas is a religious holiday. A time for families to be together. Not a spectacle.”
“I understand.” Patrick nodded. “I do.”
His hand tightened on mine.
He might understand. But did his mom and her Hollywood friends? My dream of a quiet, perfect, Maine Christmas was fading fast.
But Skye seemed to picture Haven Harbor as a Currier and Ives scene. And nothing bad ever happened in a Currier and Ives print. Right?
Chapter 2
“Sacred to the memory of Jonathan Prat,
Born July 14, 1801, Died August 22, 1803, Aged 2 years.”
—Silk embroidery in metallic thread stitched by Harriet Pratt (1797 – 1880) of Oxford, Massachusetts, at Abby Wright’s School in South Hadley. Harriet’s picture depicts a marble memorial to her brother. Her father (aged thirty- three), her mother (aged thirty), her younger sister (aged four), and Harriet herself (aged six) are weeping next to it. Harriet married William Dana on July 12, 1812, and on August 30 their son Jonathan was born.
“I have a children’s pageant and a candlelight service scheduled for Christmas Eve,” said Reverend Tom. “But I could probably get some of
the choir members to go to Aurora and sing a few carols between the services.” He looked at Patrick. “We’ve been needing some new choir robes.”
I liked Reverend Tom. He treated Gram with love and kindness. It might sound crass to take advantage of the Wests’ wealth, but it was practical. And he’d be asking the choir to interrupt their Christmas Eve to sing for a group of people from away.
Patrick didn’t blink. He got the message. “Mom would be happy to make a donation to the church,” he assured Tom. He and Skye were used to paying for what they wanted. And getting it.
Carolers were taken care of. “What else can we help with?” I put in, before anyone else found a reason they couldn’t come to Skye’s party.
Patrick looked embarrassed. Then he hit us with another of his mother’s requests. “I hope some of you have a little time between now and Christmas. Mom would like to give each of her colleagues—all five of them—small balsam fir pillows embroidered with a Christmas tree and their names.”
No one said anything. We Mainely Needlepointers looked at one another. Skye and Patrick had no idea how long needlepointing took.
Anna was the first to speak. “I’m the newest needlepointer, but if they’re small, I’ll try to do one. Time is tight this time of year.”
“Small is fine,” Patrick assured her.
Sarah shrugged. “Count me in. I’ll be at my shop hoping for Christmas shoppers between now and Christmas. What about you, Dave?”
“Sure,” he said, reluctantly. “School’s already out for the holiday, so I don’t have lesson plans or papers to grade.”
Ruth shook her head. “My arthritis is acting up. I couldn’t finish one in—what is it? Six days?”
“And I’m booked with church activities. Sorry,” said Gram.