by Lea Wait
“And what did Patrick West say when you showed him the picture you’d taken.”
“He said the sweater the man was wearing looked like the one Paul Carmichael had been wearing that afternoon. You know what happened then. I called nine-one-one and we waited for you, Pete.”
“Did you see anyone besides you and Patrick outside the house either before or after you found the body?”
“No, Skye and Blaze came to the front door, but we called to them to stay inside. We were waiting for you.”
“And had you seen Blaze Buchanan before that?”’
“No! I told you, I hadn’t met any of Skye’s friends. Patrick told me the woman with Skye at the door was Blaze.”
Ethan turned to Pete. “Can you think of any other questions to ask Angie?”
He shook his head. “No, not now.”
“Angie, is there anything else we should be questioning you about?”
“No, I had nothing to do with Paul Carmichael’s death. I just found his body!”
“Then that’s it for now. If we need to clarify anything, we’ll get back to you.”
I got up from the table feeling drained.
Why had they been questioning me so closely? Sure, I’d found Paul’s body. But they knew me. I wouldn’t hide anything from them.
And what was all that about Skye and Patrick having guns?
I needed to talk with Patrick.
Chapter 25
“My dear Rose,” said Miss Tremaine, smiling, “I think you are working quite too steadily upon that embroidery of yours. If Doctor Summerville were here, he would lecture you for working and me for letting you work so steadily. I think I must send for him, to come and impress some sanitary restrictions upon your use of your needle.”
—From “Mademoiselle,” a short story by D.R. Castleton, published in Harper’s Magazine in 1862.
I felt like taking a hot shower after getting out of the solarium.
I’d questioned people myself. After all, I’d worked for a private investigator, and often that involved asking questions. But I’d never been “in the hot seat” myself.
Bev was no longer in the kitchen. I heard movement from upstairs. I glanced out the window; the crime scene investigators’ truck was still here. They must be checking the bedrooms.
I headed for the living room.
Skye and her guests seemed more relaxed than I’d assumed. The television in the corner was turned on, and everyone except Marv was watching a soccer game. The afternoon after a murder, and they were watching sports. Marv was reading a book. Patrick wasn’t there.
“Ms. West, we’d like to talk with you now,” Ethan said, following me into the living room. She got up and followed him to the solarium.
I sat next to Blaze, who was yawning. I suspected soccer wasn’t her choice of entertainment. But where was there to go when investigators were everywhere?
“Do you know where Patrick is?” I asked her softly.
“Carriage house. The police wanted to search it, too.”
Why would they want to search the carriage house? But why had they asked me whether Patrick or his mother had guns?
I doubted Patrick could shoot easily with his burned hands. I should have mentioned that in the solarium. The question had never come up before.
“How are you coping?” I asked Blaze. “It must be painful to lose the man you loved.” I’d be distraught if anything happened to Patrick, and we’d never used the word love.
“Paul and I were engaged,” she said, without blinking. “Not married. And I’m sorry he’s dead. I’m worried about who they’ll get to take his place in the film. I finally get a big break and work with a box office star and he goes and gets himself killed.” She shook her head. “But I may get some sympathetic publicity from it.”
“You didn’t love him?”
“Don’t be naïve. I loved the attention we’d get from fans and producers who saw our pictures together. It’s business. I mean, the guy was okay most of the time. But did we have happily-ever-after romantic love?” She looked amazed that I’d ask. “No way!”
“Did he have a gun?”
That startled her. “What? You think he shot himself? He had a gun on the set; a prop. That’s the only gun I ever saw him with. He wouldn’t hurt himself. He loved himself too much.”
“You knew him well.”
She thought back. “He once told me he’d hunted when he was a kid. The prop guy didn’t have to show him how to handle the gun. But a real gun? Paul was too wimpy. Besides, guns are hard to get in the UK. I never saw anyone with one in Scotland. Not even our security guys.”
“How about you? Can you shoot?”
“What’s with the gun questions? No, I don’t shoot. I also don’t swordfight or box or”—she gestured at the flat screen in the corner—“play soccer. I can sing a little and dance a little and I work out a lot. And I act. I mean, really—do you have a gun?”
“Actually, yes, I do.”
She hadn’t expected that. “For protection? Because you’re a woman alone?”
“I used to work for a private investigator. I needed a gun for my work.”
“A private investigator! Awesome. Is that why you’ve been asking me all these questions? Are you investigating Paul’s death?”
A good question.
I answered it with a smile and a touch on her shoulder as I left the room. Pete and Ethan couldn’t have meant me when they told people to stay in the house. I was going to find Patrick.
Chapter 26
“To clean ribbons: Take one tablespoon of brandy, one of soft soap, and one of molasses. Mix thoroughly together; place the ribbon upon a smooth board, and apply the mixture with a soft brush, after which rinse in cold water and roll up in a cloth until nearly dry. Iron with a flat-iron, not too hot.”
—From The Farm and Household Cyclopedia: A Complete Reference Library for Farmers, Gardeners, Fruit Growers, Stockmen and Housekeepers, Published by F.M. Lupton, 1885.
I was halfway down the drive to the carriage house when I felt my phone vibrate. Had Ethan or Pete discovered I’d left Aurora and wanted me back? They’d told us not to talk to each other, but I assumed that meant it was forbidden before they interviewed us.
Patrick and I had both survived that.
I pulled out my phone, to check.
A text from Carly Tremont, the woman from Texas. She’d stopped to see me and I hadn’t answered my door. Had I heard anything more about Paul Carmichael? How was Skye coping? Was she still at her house? Was Patrick there? Where was I?
Sorry, Carly. I don’t wait around for Skye’s fans to drop in so I can divulge her location.
Carly was harmless enough, but she seemed obsessed. If there wasn’t so much drama at Aurora, I might have tried to figure out a way for her to (briefly) meet Skye. After all, she was going to pay Mainely Needlepoint thousands of dollars.
I’d answer her text later. I had more important situations on my mind right now.
Blaze had been right. One of the crime scene vans was at Patrick’s house. Under the circumstances, I walked in.
He was making coffee in his kitchen.
“Enough for two?”
“Definitely. Good to see a friendly face. I figured someone would tell you where I’d gone.”
“Blaze did.” I looked around. “Where’s Bette?” Bette was Trixi’s sister. Dave and Patrick and I had adopted kittens from the same feral litter.
“She’s in her carrier, in the studio. I didn’t want her to get in the way of the investigators.” Patrick lowered his voice. “Those crime scene guys are looking through the bedrooms and studio. Since the guest bedroom isn’t finished—it only has cartons of art books in it—and I haven’t been using the studio much, they shouldn’t take much longer. They took my computer and phone, though. You won’t be able to call me tonight.”
They hadn’t taken my phone. But I probably hadn’t been at Aurora when Paul was killed. Had they estimated his time of dea
th? If so, they hadn’t shared it. But there was a short interval between when he was eating lunch at Aurora at about 4:30 and I found his body at 6:00.
I kept my voice low. “They asked me whether you or Skye had guns.”
He turned away to pour our two mugs of coffee.
“I assume Paul was shot,” I added.
“They asked me about guns, too,” he said, handing me a mug.
I started toward his living room.
“Why don’t we stay here in the kitchen? I don’t think they can hear us from here.”
We sat at the small table near his kitchen window. “I told them you and Skye didn’t have guns. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Of course. I don’t have a gun. Never did. Mom’s had to shoot in a couple of her films, but she’s never owned a gun. At least not that I’ve ever seen or heard about.”
I relaxed. “Good. Because Ethan was insistent when he was questioning me. And if Paul was shot . . . it might make a difference.”
“But all guns are different, right? You know more than I do about them. The police could tell what gun killed Paul. Just because someone had a gun doesn’t mean they killed him.”
“Of course not. I’m no forensics expert, but I know if they recover the bullet they can tell the make and model of the gun it was shot from. To tie the bullet to a specific weapon, they would have to have the gun.”
“A lot of people here in Maine have guns, right?”
“Sure. Most for hunting, but people have them for protection, too. It’s easy to get a gun in Maine. No background checks unless you buy one at the local branch of a national retailer. They have to meet federal standards. Why all the questions? Thinking of getting one?”
“Paul was killed in my backyard. That’s scary. And even my girlfriend has a gun.”
“Your girlfriend’s pretty tough,” I smiled. “You don’t need a gun.”
“Mr. West?” A man in a crime scene jumpsuit stood in the doorway between the kitchen and main room. “We’re finished here. Sorry about the mess we made. Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
“Are you taking anything other than my computer and phone? And when can I get those back?”
“We removed the trash in your wastebaskets. Assuming there aren’t problems, we should have your computer and phone back to you in a few days.”
“Thank you.”
Patrick’s voice sounded different, somehow. I glanced at him. He looked pale.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said, gulping his coffee. “Never had my house searched by the police before.”
“Why don’t I help you clean up?” I suggested. “If he said they’d made a mess, I suspect they did.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m tired. I’ll rest for a while. You go on home. I know I interrupted your plans for Christmas, and you don’t have anything to do with this.”
“I found the body.”
“Thank goodness. Or we would have been calling the police looking for a missing person when Paul didn’t show up for dinner. But, I’m serious. Please, go home. I need some time to think about all this.”
Something was wrong, but I had no idea what it was. Maybe Patrick was spooked. A man had been killed near his home. That was scary, especially since we had no idea why.
I started to drive home, then made a slight detour and drove to Gram’s house.
When I had a problem, she was my rock.
I wasn’t sure I had a problem now. But I needed to talk with someone. Someone who hadn’t been at Aurora yesterday and wasn’t a murder suspect.
Chapter 27
“The earliest sampler known is dated 1643, unfinished, and worked by Elizabeth Hinde. It is only six inches by six and a half inches, and is entirely lacework . . . a lady in Court dress holds a rose to shield herself from Cupid, a dear little fellow with wings, who is shooting his dart at her heart. Perhaps poor Elizabeth Hinde died of it.”
—From Mrs. Lowes’ Chats on Old Lace and Needlework. London: T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd., 1908.
“Angel! I didn’t expect to see you today.” Gram’s cheek was smudged with flour and her home smelled of ginger and vanilla and pine. Christmas carols were playing softly in the background.
Here was the Christmas I’d missed during my years in Arizona.
No one here was talking about guns, or wearing three-inch heels. No bodies were in the backyard.
“Come, help me decorate the gingerbread people,” she said, pointing me to the kitchen. “My back is driving me crazy, sitting here and putting candies in the dough.”
“Sounds like fun.” I hadn’t decorated gingerbread people since I was twelve or thirteen.
“I was crazy to volunteer to bring four dozen to the Christmas Eve pageant reception,” said Gram. “I’d forgotten how much work they were.”
I’d be at Skye’s party Christmas Eve. I’d miss the children’s pageant. I’d been an angel in the cast one year when I was about seven. I touched the gold angel on my necklace and smiled, remembering. I’d been so proud of my wings.
“How’s Patrick? And Skye? I assume you’ve been out at Aurora the past couple of days.”
“They’re fine,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table and starting to sort raisins and candies for the gingerbread people’s faces and buttons. “You haven’t heard what’s happened there?”
“I saw your friend Clem on television the other day, talking about all the celebrities converging on Haven Harbor. Nothing since then.”
I’d always been blunt with Gram. “One of those celebrities is dead. Murdered. I found the body.”
Gram put her floury hand on mine. “Oh, Angel. How awful. And at Christmastime!”
“They questioned me, Gram. I can’t be a suspect. But Patrick’s been acting strange, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to me,” she commanded. “And keep putting eyes on the gingerbread people. I’ll do the buttons.”
I told her about finding Paul (“That poor man! Handsome is as handsome does, of course, but he sure was a looker.”) and calling the police, and today, hearing he’d been killed. “It didn’t surprise me, Gram. But it was still awful. They’re treating everyone in the house as a suspect. They questioned me, and Patrick. Even Bev Clifford is on their list.”
“Poor Bev. This is an awful time of year for her, anyway.” Gram shook her head.
“She asked me to thank you for recommending her. She complains sometimes. But she’s glad to have the job.”
“No doubt. She doesn’t earn a lot running that inn. I’m glad the job worked out.”
“Why is this a hard time of year for her?”
“Her husband died on Christmas Eve, a few years back.”
“That’s awful!”
“It was. And being questioned about another death won’t be easy for her, even though I’m sure she had nothing to do with this young man.”
“I want to help Patrick. He’s more upset than I would have thought.”
“We never know exactly how we’ll react to tragedies—our own, or even others’. All you can do is be there for him, Angel. He’s had a hard year. Is he painting yet?”
“I don’t think so. He’s getting better at holding things, but slowly. I don’t mention it.”
“Wise woman. He moved to a new place, and then spent two months in a hospital or rehab center, knowing his hands, the hands he depended on to paint, would never be the same. His life was his art.”
“Now he has the gallery. I hoped that would help.”
“I’m sure it does. But it’s also a reminder he may never be able to paint the way others do. Every day he works with those paintings must remind him of what he’s lost.”
“You’re right. I don’t notice his hands anymore. I’m taking it for granted that he’ll be fine. He has money. He lives in a beautiful place and has a business.”
“And he has you.” She put up her hand. “Maybe not forever. I’m not pushing anything, Angel. I don�
�t know what will happen between the two of you. But for now, he isn’t alone. And that’s important. Remember, he may be more concerned about how he looks than you know. After all, he grew up in a world focused on looks as well as talent.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way. He’s a good man, Gram. But I think he knows something about Paul’s death that he isn’t telling anyone—or at least not telling me. That means it isn’t anything good.”
“Angel, there’s nothing good about a young man dying too soon. And being murdered? It’s horrible. I hope they find out who did it so everyone else at Aurora can relax, and you can enjoy the holidays.”
“I do, too, Gram. Although I know that’s selfish. At first I resented everything Patrick wanted me to do to prepare for his mom’s coming home and bringing guests. I’d planned Christmas this year, and I didn’t want to change any of those plans. It’s been a long time since I was home in Haven Harbor for Christmas.”
“Ten years. I know. But Patrick didn’t create this situation. He didn’t ask his mother to come home, and I suspect part of him resents all he’s having to do—not for her—but for her colleagues. The best thing you can do—besides taking that tray of gingerbread people out of the oven right now!—is be there for him, relax, and help him enjoy his first Haven Harbor Christmas.”
I pulled the tray of cookies out of the oven.
“I will. And to start—could I have two of the gingerbread children to take to him?”
“You can. One boy and one girl. Choose your favorites. And try to get him to come to the Christmas Cheer festival tomorrow. Who can resist seeing Santa and his moose arrive by lobster boat?”
“No one,” I agreed. “Ethan and Pete should have finished talking with everyone by then. Patrick should be able to get away for a little while.”
Without the others, I added to myself.