by Lea Wait
“And that’s what you did?”
“Exactly.”
“When did you and Angie go out for your walk?”
He glanced at me. “About five-thirty.”
“And where did you go?”
“Left my place, walked here to Aurora, followed what is usually a path around the house, and went into the field.”
“Did you take a flashlight? It was dark by then.”
“No flashlight. The moon’s full, and it was bright enough for us to see. We weren’t far away from the house.”
“Did you see any other footprints besides yours and Angie’s?”
“Not human. A couple of deer had walked across the field, and some birds. And squirrels?” He shrugged. “I don’t know how to recognize wildlife footprints in the snow. Not yet, anyway.” He smiled at me. “Angie and I talked about how light it was, and the Harbor lights, and . . . other things.”
“And when did you find Paul?”
“I didn’t. Angie did. We were going to turn back when she saw something. She went on ahead.”
“And what did you see, Angie?” Ethan turned to me.
“A depression in the snow. A shadow. I thought someone had shot a deer and left it there.” I hesitated. “Instead, I found a man lying facedown in the snow.”
Blaze gasped, and Skye paled. I decided not to mention the blood.
“I checked his pulse. He didn’t have one.”
“Patrick wasn’t near you?”
“I told him not to come near. I didn’t want to mess up the snow.” Or the crime scene, I thought to myself. “But I took a picture of the body with my phone to show him.”
“And?”
“And he said the man was wearing the sweater he’d seen Paul Carmichael wearing earlier in the afternoon. Then I called nine-one-one. You know what happened after that.”
Ethan closed his notebook. “I have a lot more questions. But until the medical examiner rules on cause of death, there’s nothing else to do. I assume you folks are all here for the holidays?”
“We are,” said Skye.
“We’ll be talking again. Soon. In the meantime, if any of you think of something else I should know, please call me.” Ethan handed his business cards to each of us. “This isn’t Los Angeles or New York. We don’t take kindly to dead folks being found in Haven Harbor. Let’s all hope Mr. Carmichael died of natural causes. If he didn’t, you’ll be seeing a lot of me in the next few days.”
Pete had been pretty sure Paul had been shot. But until the medical examiner ruled, that question was officially open.
No one said anything for a few minutes after Pete and Ethan left. Bev Clifford came into the room. “Chowder’s hot and pizza makings are ready in the dining room. Come and get it.”
Chapter 17
“When doing very delicate work, use an ivory thimble, and if you find the warmth of your hands is running the colors of the wool or silk, wash them in hot water and bran, drying very thoroughly before again touching the work.”
—From The Ladies’ Guide to Needle Work, Embroidery, etc., by S. Annie Frost. New York: Adams & Bishop, Publishers, 1877.
Bev Clifford’s chowder was as good as it had smelled in the kitchen, thick with chunks of haddock and potato and pieces of bacon, in a rich, creamy broth she’d flavored with sherry. I had a large bowl while the others, who’d already had chowder for lunch, were choosing toppings for their mini pizzas. Patrick made one with cheese, mushrooms, and sausage, and one with cheese, sausage, and bacon. “We can share if you want more than chowder,” he explained.
I took one piece and left the rest for him. The chowder was wicked good.
Even Blaze, who’d repeated several times that she’d never be able to eat a thing, managed to finish a pizza piled high with peppers and onions and a cup of the chowder she’d declared she couldn’t eat at lunchtime. Had she reconsidered being a vegetarian? I didn’t ask.
After Marv’s toast to Paul, no one said much.
After we finished we carried our cups of coffee or tea into the living room, where Bev had put dishes of homemade fudge and penuche on the tables.
I planned to finish my coffee and go home. I’d never met Paul, and these people were mourning his loss. It wasn’t my place to stay.
Marv was all business. “Okay, before we hear any more bad news, let’s admit we have two problems. First: yes, it’s sad Paul’s no longer with us.”
Blaze sniffed loudly.
“But we need to decide what to do about the film. Write Paul’s part out? That would mean rewriting the whole script, or reshooting his scenes with a new actor. I convinced the producers this film wasn’t in the toilet and we could fix it. That’s why we’re here, and not with our families this week. What am I going to tell them now? If they withdraw support they’ll have to absorb a major loss. And I don’t want them to hear about Paul’s death from the press, which will have the news soon enough. Before I call our press rep and tell him to release the information, I want to know how Paul died—and have a plan for the future of the film.”
“If we don’t say anything, no one will know about his death,” said Marie. “Luckily for us, he doesn’t have any immediate family who have to be notified.”
“He has an agent,” Blaze reminded them.
“True enough. And she’ll be pushing for us to keep the footage we have of him. Make the film a memorial to him. His last film, and so forth,” said Marv.
“I don’t see how we can rewrite the film and leave him in,” said Thomas. “He is—was—the male lead. He was working with Skye’s character to solve the mystery. We could kill him off, I suppose—get a stunt double to play the death scene—but what happens to the rest of the plot?”
I pointed to the door. Patrick got up to follow me. No one seemed to notice, or care. We weren’t—or at least I wasn’t—part of their world.
“I’m going home,” I said. “I shouldn’t be listening to this, and I have other things to do.” Like, finish the needlepoint pillow for Patrick’s Christmas present. I was the one who’d promised to make a pillow for Paul. Now I wouldn’t need to finish it.
“Let’s get our coats,” Patrick agreed. “I don’t need to be here, either. I’ll tell Mom we’re leaving. We can see everyone tomorrow. I’ll call you when I know what our plans are.”
Tomorrow? I’d planned to bake bread and cookies for Christmas tomorrow. These people weren’t my friends or family. I didn’t need to be with them. But I’d deal with that later. For now, I wanted to get out of here and go home and feed Trixi and watch one of the sentimental Christmas movies networks ran every night during the week before Christmas.
While Patrick talked with his mother and got our coats, I looked up at their enormous Christmas tree.
One Christmas bulb had burned out. Years ago that would have meant a whole string went dark, but today lights glowed separately. The dark bulb was hardly noticeable.
A knock on the front door startled me. Who would be calling at this time of night? I glanced at my watch. Almost ten o’clock. Late for Maine, but not for most of the world.
Should I answer the door? It wasn’t my house.
Patrick came out of the living room, shrugged at me as if to say, “Who would it be?” and threw open the door.
He was met by blinding spotlights, cameras, and a microphone stuck in his face. A crowd of reporters, sound equipment, and cameras filled the drive. Several people spoke at once. “Well-known actor Paul Carmichael died here this afternoon. Can you tell us any details about the tragic death of this young star?”
Those in the living room listened. No one moved.
Luckily, Patrick was the son of a famous actress. “We have no comments at this time,” he said calmly. Somehow he managed to shut the door.
I heard cell phones ringing in the living room. So much for Marv’s plan to keep Paul’s death quiet.
Word was already out.
At least no one had used the words killed or murdered. I hoped they
would remain unnecessary. How long would the medical examiner take to determine how Paul died?
Chapter 18
“The rising morning can’t assure
That we shall end the day!
For death stands ready at the door,
To take our lives away.”
—Poem embroidered below three alphabets and surrounded by a wide border of yellow tulips and white flowers by Ann E. England in 1820. Ann lived in Pennsylvania.
“Who told the press?” Gram asked. “Do you know?”
“I don’t,” I said into my phone from the warmth and comfort of the blankets and quilts on my bed.
Patrick and I’d managed to escape from Aurora through a small back door that wasn’t lit, and struggled through deep drifts to walk around the driveway, not on it, to get to his carriage house. Luckily, I’d parked facing the road. I hadn’t turned on my headlights until I was out on the street, away from the media trucks, and headed home.
“The only people who knew were Pete and Ethan, and they wouldn’t say anything, and the people at Aurora.”
“And the crime scene folks, and those at the morgue,” Gram pointed out. “Paul Carmichael was famous. Word was going to get out sometime.”
“I know. But my feet and legs are still frozen from pushing through those drifts in the dark tonight. Why couldn’t those people from the media leave everyone at Aurora alone?”
“Did you make yourself a mug of hot cocoa?” Gram asked. Cocoa was her winter cure-all. (Lemonade was her answer to summertime woes.)
“No,” I admitted. I wished she’d been here to make it for me. Sometimes being grown up was no fun. “I fed Trixi and got out of my wet clothes and into my flannel nightgown and under the covers.” When I was a little girl and couldn’t sleep, or had nightmares, Gram would bring me a mug of cocoa and tuck me in and sit on my bed and talk with me until I fell asleep. Tonight I felt myself relax as I curled up under the covers and listened to Gram’s soothing voice.
I might be an independent woman who knew how to use the Glock I’d hidden in the front hall bureau downstairs, but I still needed my grandmother.
“You’ll be fine. What do you think happened to Paul?” she asked. “Tom had a late meeting about the Sunday school pageant. He’s taking a shower, so I’m in bed, reading. Go ahead and talk. You’re not keeping me up.”
“I don’t know what happened to him, Gram,” I said. “I don’t think he had an accident. Unless you’re walking downstairs, you don’t fall forward. And if you slip, you brace yourself. He was lying on his face. But I didn’t see any other footprints in the snow near his. And who would have wanted to kill him? The only people who even knew he was there were in the house. And Patrick and me, of course.”
“Your friend Clem could have told someone at her station that he was coming. She was at your party when Patrick told us who his mother was bringing home for Christmas. Or someone saw the plane arrive in Brunswick and asked questions.”
“You’re right. More people knew he was here than I thought. But how would they have found out he was dead?”
“I have no idea, Angel.”
“And, if I’m right and someone killed him, why? Blaze, the young actress, said they were engaged. And his death is creating major problems for the director and screenwriters—and they were already worried about the producers pulling the plug on the whole film.” I paused and thought back. “Someone said he didn’t have any close family. That’s sad. But it means his relatives don’t have to be investigated.”
“He was famous. He’d made a lot of movies recently. He was rich, right?”
Skye was rich. But she’d been a famous actress “of stage and screen” for decades. How much did a handsome young actor make? “Probably he had money. More than Mainely Needlepoint makes, or your Tom earns as a minister.”
I could hear the smile in Gram’s voice. “Ministers and needlepointers aren’t the same as people whose lives are followed by Show Business Daily.”
That program my needlepoint customer—Carly?—had said she watched. Sometime I should pay more attention to what is going on in the rest of the world. I hadn’t even heard of that program until this week, and now I knew even Gram watched it sometimes.
I heard Reverend Tom’s voice in the background. I didn’t want to keep the newlyweds apart. “You go to sleep now, Gram. I’m okay. But thanks for listening.”
“Call me when you hear something new,” she said. I pushed the off button and plugged my phone in for the night.
Patrick had said he’d call in the morning. I hoped he wouldn’t need me for anything tomorrow. I didn’t want to go back to Aurora, especially if the media was staking out the house. I wanted to stay home and make cookies.
And eat them, too. Comfort food sounded good.
I fell asleep dreaming of gingerbread children dancing on top of walls of snow, daring me to catch them.
Chapter 19
“Dear Mother I am young and cannot show
Such work as I unto your goodness owe
Be pleased to smile on this my small endeavour
And I’ll strive to learn and be obedient ever.
If all mankind would live in mutual love
This world would much resemble that above.”
—Verse stitched by nine-year-old Mary Ann Brody in 1789.
I wanted to sleep in. It was a dark day, the blue-gray sea reflecting the gray sky. Night winds had cleaned most of the snow that had sparkled yesterday off roofs and tree branches. Early-morning plows had, as always, cleared the streets, but left piles of snow near street corners and on the edges of parking lots. By February it would be hard to park anywhere.
Five days until Christmas.
I wasn’t even looking forward to the twenty-fifth.
I buried my head under my covers.
Trixi didn’t approve. She crawled under the quilts with me, gently patting my cheek with her little black paw. When I pretended to be asleep she reached out and pulled my hair.
“Ouch, cat!” I said, sitting up quickly. “What are you trying to do?”
“Squeak,” she answered, racing to the end of the bed.
She wanted breakfast. She might not be able to tell me in words, but I got the message.
“All right, all right,” I said, getting out of bed. I looked longingly at the warm blankets. I headed to the bathroom to take a fast shower. Trixi followed me. I didn’t know what she did when I was away from home—probably she slept—but when I was home she was a Velcro cat, or, more correctly, kitten. She was now about six months old. Old enough to know what she wanted, and whom she could get it from.
She watched while I pulled on jeans, a flannel shirt, and a sweatshirt. I pinned up my damp hair—it was finally long enough for an imperfect ponytail—and we headed for the kitchen.
I’d filled her bowl and put the coffeepot on when I heard someone on my front porch.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
I peeked out the glass panel on the side of the door.
Carly Tremont waved back at me. She was wearing warmer clothes than the last time I’d seen her, but she still looked cold. I hadn’t done anything about her needlepoint order. I hoped she wasn’t there to cancel it.
I opened the door.
“Angie! I thought you’d be at home this early in the morning.”
I glanced at the clock in the hall. Eight-thirty. Despite my wanting to stay in bed this morning, most days people in town would not only be up and awake at eight-thirty, but at their schools or places of work. Those still lobstering in December had probably been out on the water two or three hours by now.
It was December 21. The shortest day of the year. Only a little over seven hours of sunlight.
I was sure Carly wasn’t at my front door to discuss the winter solstice.
“I need to talk with you. Now!” She barged in. “I smell coffee!”
“Would you like a cup?”
“I’d die for a cup. Thank you!”
; I winced at her choice of words, but I got the message. “Hang up your coat”—I pointed to the coat rack in the hall—“and come out to the kitchen.”
A few minutes later we were sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee together like old friends. I didn’t have any hot food to offer this potentially lucrative customer, but I made a plate of Gram’s maple raisin oatmeal cookies left from Friday night’s party and put it on the table between us. Oatmeal was breakfast food, right?
Carly seemed to think so. She didn’t hesitate to take several.
“With the holidays, I haven’t had a chance to work on the designs for your cushions,” I said.
She shook her head. “I didn’t expect you would have. I came to ask what happened at Skye West’s home yesterday. Is her son all right?”
“Patrick’s fine,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“The Portland news this morning reported that Paul Carmichael, that handsome young actor, had died at Skye’s house. I hoped her son hadn’t been hurt either.”
I frowned. “Why would you think that?”
She sat back and gulped more of the hot coffee than I could have swallowed at one time. “I was just worried.”
“You don’t have to worry. Patrick’s fine.” Fans could be a little strange.
“But Paul Carmichael’s dead?”
“I can’t talk about him,” I said. “Maybe the entertainment news will have more about him in a day or two.”
“But he was staying with the Wests?”
I sighed. Probably everyone in the western hemisphere knew by now. “He flew into Maine with Skye and some other friends yesterday.”
“Who else was with them?”
I stood. “The Wests want their private lives kept . . . private. I’ve already said more than I should have.”