by Lea Wait
Chapter 28
“The most famous of all English queens is Katherine of Aragon, who came from a land [Spain] celebrated for its Embroideries and Lace, and who enlivened the many sad hours of her life by instructing her maids of honour and the poor people living near her palace in the art of making Lace and Embroidery.”
—Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopaedia of Artistic, Plain, and Fancy Needlework by Sophia Frances Anne Caulfeild and Blanche C. Saward, London: L. Upcott Gill, 1882.
I helped Gram with the rest of the gingerbread people. We talked about her plans for the holiday and what she was cooking for Christmas dinner, and sat near her Christmas tree, drank tea, and watched Juno, her coon cat, batting a low-hanging light.
Juno was an old, sedate cat. Gram didn’t worry about broken Christmas balls the way I did with Trixi.
By the time I left for my house I felt much better.
I checked Trixi’s food and made sure all Christmas balls were in place as I turned on my tree lights and candles. I planned to wrap a few presents, indulge in a simple dinner of cheese and crackers, and not think about what was happening at Aurora.
I started to call Patrick, then remembered the police had his phone.
Instead, I called Sarah.
“I’m closing the store up for the night,” she said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you, with all the doings up at Aurora.”
“Tonight they’ll be doing without me,” I declared. “I plan to stay home and wrap presents and listen to Christmas music and take it easy.”
“Any chance you’d like to join me for dinner first? I have nothing in my apartment but cookies, and I’m sick of cookies. I put a plate out for my customers and I’ve been nibbling them myself all day. I’d like to go to the Harbor Haunts for an early dinner and then finish up the needlepoint pillow I’m working on for Skye.”
I had a fleeting vision of stilton and brie, the cheeses I’d planned to eat. Then I thought about a warm dinner with Sarah. “Meet you there in half an hour?” I suggested.
To get to that warm dinner, I had to put on boots and a scarf and heavy jacket and walk downtown. Parking was limited there to begin with. Taking my car that short a distance would be a hassle.
In the summer and fall I’d loved walking downtown, especially in the early morning, watching the lobstermen taking their boats out while the sun rose over the Three Sisters, the three islands that protected Haven Harbor’s port from the North Atlantic. Now days were short. Dawn was at about seven in the morning.
Tonight the streets that had been filled with vacationers and locals earlier in the year were empty, but the moon was full, and the silent storefronts, many of which would close after the holidays, were lit with colored or white lights that were reflected in the snow.
It was peaceful. My nose crinkled with cold, but my feet were cozy in wool socks inside my boots, as I inhaled the frosty sea air blowing inland from the ocean.
Christmas would come, even after the worst of times.
Whatever was bothering Patrick couldn’t be horrible. I was sure he hadn’t killed anyone. He was probably just tired after everything that had happened in the past few days. Tonight he’d rest and clean his house, and tomorrow I’d convince him to come downtown for Haven Harbor’s Christmas Cheer festival.
The Harbor Haunts was only half full. I wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t July. This was an early evening a few days before Christmas.
Sarah waved from a table near the fireplace. The fire made the room feel welcoming.
On my way to her table I nodded to several people I knew. Not everyone in town was Christmas shopping at the Maine Mall in Portland, or at home baking cookies and breads or decorating trees.
“So glad you called,” said Sarah as I slipped into the chair opposite her. “I love it when the fire is burning. I sometimes come here alone, but it’s more fun with two of us.”
“Agreed,” I said.
A waitress appeared behind me. “Drinks, ladies?”
“A glass of pinot noir?”
“Make that two,” said Sarah. “I wanted to tell you—I’m glad you came into the shop when you did to pick out a gift for your Gram. Those needleworking tools are selling even better than I expected. I’m glad I got them in time for Christmas. I keep wrapping them up for people and thinking. . . in a way, I’ll be under their Christmas trees this year.”
“I like that thought,” I agreed. “You’re coming to Skye’s Christmas Eve party, and to Gram’s for dinner on Christmas Day, right?”
“Looking forward to both. How does Aurora look? I can hardly wait to see it. I haven’t been inside since we ran that enormous yard sale for Skye last June, when the wallpaper was torn and plaster was falling off most of the ceilings.”
“You won’t believe what it looks like now,” I assured her. “Spectacular. And yet comfortable. She decorated the way I would, if I had her money.”
“And how’s Patrick?”
“Tired, but okay. I suspect he would have liked more notice before his mom flew in with guests. But so far so good.” I lowered my voice and glanced around to make sure no one else was in hearing distance. “Except for the murder.”
Sarah stared at me. “What? What murder?”
“I’m glad you haven’t heard. Gram hadn’t, either. That means neither the ladies of the church nor the businesses downtown have gotten the word. The media people know someone died, but not that it was murder. The police are trying to keep it quiet as long as they can.”
“Who died? Where? Anyone we know?”
“One of Skye’s guests. Paul Carmichael.”
“Have you ladies decided what you’d like to eat?” The waitress put our glasses of wine on the table and looked at us expectantly. Tonight she was wearing a reindeer sweater and tiny red Christmas balls as earrings. ’Twas the season.
Sarah and I knew the menu well. “A cup of onion soup and the fried oysters sandwich,” I decided.
“A cup of haddock chowder and the broiled scallops with sweet potato fries,” Sarah ordered.
“We’re not going to be hungry for a while,” I commented.
Sarah leaned toward me. “So—details! What happened to Paul Carmichael? After I left your tree-trimming party the other day I Googled everyone Patrick said would be at Skye’s party Christmas Eve. Paul was the good-looking actor, right? The one with a drinking problem?”
“He’s the one,” I agreed. “You must have seen the same sites I did. Ethan and Pete haven’t officially said he was shot, but they’re asking a lot of questions about guns, so I’m assuming that’s what happened. He was in the field in back of Aurora, only a few hours after he’d arrived. Patrick and I found his body.”
“No! Too many people have been killed around here in the past six months. Does Ethan have any idea who did it?”
“I don’t think so. He and Pete have been questioning everyone at Aurora, including Patrick and me. They asked whether Patrick or Skye had guns.”
Sarah turned her head. “Speaking of whom . . . guess who just walked in?”
Ethan and Pete were taking seats at the far end of the bar, where they could see the entrance. Automatic seating decision for cops.
“Guess they’ve finished interviewing everyone at Aurora. I hope they found out something. I get along with them pretty well, but this morning I felt as though I was a suspect, or at least they thought I knew something that would lead to the killer.”
“You have a gun,” Sarah pointed out.
“True. And it’s hidden at home, where it is most of the time. I didn’t take it to Aurora the day Paul was killed.” I sipped my wine. “And as far as I know, neither Patrick nor Skye have guns.”
“Everyone else at Aurora flew in from Edinburgh at the same time, right? On the same plane?”
“And as far as I know went straight to Aurora.”
“It’s pretty unlikely anyone would have brought a gun from Scotland. I’ve been in the UK. Their gun laws are incredibly strict compar
ed to those here.”
“In Maine you can buy a gun from a local dealer or pawn shop or friend and not even go through a background check,” I agreed. “Hard to be more open about guns than that.”
“So who managed to get one?”
“I can’t imagine. You’re the one who Googled everyone. Any ideas?”
“Let’s see. We’ll pretend it’s a game. Blaze Buchanan, the pretty actress?”
“She announced to everyone yesterday that she and Paul were engaged. Then this morning she told me their relationship was all for the publicity. She didn’t seem horribly disturbed by Paul’s death, despite her histrionics when she first heard about it. She also told me she didn’t know how to shoot.”
“What about the director, Marv Mason? Maybe he was jealous of Blaze and Paul. He had a reputation of liking to work with the young and the beautiful.”
“Paul’s death could be the end of the film they’re making. He’d lose a lot of money, I suspect. Doesn’t make sense.”
“The screenwriters? Maybe the guy, Thomas, is secretly bisexual and was having an affair with Paul he didn’t want his wife to know about. Paul threatened to tell everyone, so—bang!”
I started to giggle. “Not a chance. Thomas and Marie go around holding hands.”
Sarah threw up her hands dramatically, almost overturning her wineglass. “I’m out of ideas. Guess you and Ethan and Pete will have to solve the case yourselves. Does Paul’s death mean the party Christmas Eve is off?”
“As far as I know, everything is still on.”
The waitress delivered our soups, and neither of us said anything for a few minutes.
“Will you be coming to the Christmas Cheer festival tomorrow? I’m hoping the day inspires last-minute Christmas shoppers. The parade goes right by my shop, so I won’t miss it.”
“I’m hoping to get Patrick to come. He seemed troubled this afternoon—especially after those crime scene folks left his house in a mess.”
“You didn’t mention that. What were they looking for?”
I shrugged as the waitress removed our empty bowls and put our main courses on the table. “A gun that wasn’t there, I guess. They took his computer and telephone, too, along with all the laptops and telephones from Aurora. So I can’t call him to see what’s happening tomorrow.”
“Guess you’ll have to go out there and see.”
“That’s what I’ll do. In the morning.”
Chapter 29
“There was an Earthquake on the 8 of September 1692 in the city of London but no hurt tho it caused most part of England to tremble.”
—Sampler inscription signed by Martha Wright, 26 March 1693. She embroidered her memory of an unusual event below two alphabets.
Sarah’s and my conversation turned to more important topics, like what we were planning to wear Christmas Eve, as the waitress brought us maple bread pudding for dessert. Christmas wasn’t a time to diet, I told myself, thinking of all the cookies I’d consumed in the past week.
“I’m sure Skye’s planning an elegant evening. I’ve collected a few vintage cocktail dresses at antiques shows and auctions. I’m planning to wear one of those. I even have a mink coat.”
“A mink coat?” I looked at her. Sarah? My friend who lived on tomato soup and tuna sandwiches? “I’ve never seen you wearing anything like that!”
“A present to myself. I bought it at an auction last summer. It’s really old—the lining’s ripped a little, and it hasn’t been cared for well. But it’s mink, and warm.”
“How much, may I ask, did you pay for it?”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you? Jewelry and furs and personal items can go really low at auctions. Not for pennies, but below appraised value. Some people aren’t into secondhand.”
“You mean, vintage?” I’d hung around Sarah long enough to pick up some of the lingo.
“Exactly.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “My mink cost a hundred dollars.”
“Wow! I should start going to auctions!”
“Let me know if you’re serious about that. After the holidays, I’ll be going to a lot of them, collecting inventory for next summer. I’ll only open the store Tuesdays through Thursdays in January and February. Most of the good auctions are Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. I’d love your company. What are you going to wear to Skye’s Christmas Eve party?”
“A red sweater and black pants. That should be seasonal.”
She looked doubtful. “You should ask Patrick how dressy it will be. If we each wear what we’ve planned, one of us will be underdressed, or one of us overdressed.”
“You’re right. I should ask Patrick.” If the evening called for a dressy outfit, I was in trouble. I didn’t own anything dressier than a decent sweater.
“I’d love to sit and talk, but I have a needlepoint pillow to finish,” Sarah said. “‘We talked as Girls do—Fond, and late—We speculated fair, on every subject . . .’”
“Emily?”
“Of course. She always had the right words. And you said you have Christmas gifts to wrap,” Sarah reminded me.
“True enough.” I raised my hand to get the waitress’s attention. As I looked around the room I caught Pete’s eye. He was alone. Ethan had vanished.
“You take care of the check,” I said to Sarah, handing her my credit card. “Tell her to divide the bill, as usual. Let me talk to Pete for a moment.”
Sergeant Pete Lambert, as the local Haven Harbor detective, couldn’t officially work homicides—that was up to the Maine State Police, the law enforcement agency Ethan Trask worked for. But Ethan knew Pete longed to someday be a state trooper, so he let Pete help him out when there was a local homicide.
Ethan would never tell me any details about his cases, but sometimes Pete gave me hints. It was worth a try, anyway. I perched on the high bar stool Ethan had vacated.
“Saw you with Ethan. He’s left?”
“Went home to put his little girl to bed.” Pete looked at the beer in front of him. “I decided to have one more before I head out.”
“Doesn’t your wife have a list of Christmas tasks for you?” I teased.
Pete didn’t smile. “I haven’t told a lot of people, but the wife and I are separated. She went home to her family in Bangor.”
“Ouch. Sorry. I didn’t know, Pete.”
“She couldn’t deal with being married to a cop, and I wouldn’t change professions. It happens, I hear from other cops.”
“How’re you doing?”
“As well as can be expected. Don’t mind working over the holidays this year, for sure.”
“How did it go this afternoon at Aurora?”
“About as Ethan figured. No one knew anything; no one saw anything. Everyone loved Paul Carmichael.”
“Based on the questions you asked me this morning, I assume he was shot.”
“Sure was. Don’t know why he was wandering around in the snow wearing those expensive cowboy boots, or why anyone would have shot him. Ethan’s beginning to think a hunter was trying to get a deer and missed, and the bullet hit Carmichael. There were footprints in the woods on the far side of the field.”
“It’s not hunting season. And the Wests’ land was posted.”
“That wouldn’t stop someone desperate for venison. And you and Patrick saw deer prints in the snow.”
True enough. When I was a child a hunter shot and killed a young mother hanging clothes to dry in her backyard. He said he didn’t see her; he was aiming at a deer.
I wasn’t the only Mainer who wore blaze orange during deer hunting season, even when I was in town, and especially at dawn and dusk, when deer were most likely to be spotted.
The sun went down about four on December afternoons. Paul Carmichael was shot at dusk, or a little after.
“What’s going to happen now?”
Sarah slipped my credit card into my purse and waved as she headed home.
“It’s a celebrity case, so Ethan’s dotting every i and crossing e
very t. He doesn’t want questions from any of those media folks when he doesn’t have good answers. It’ll take a day or two to get the results from what the crime scene folks took today. Until then, looks like life will go on as usual.”
“You’ll be at the parade tomorrow?”
“Expecting most of the town, and some from out of the area. Haven Harbor’s getting known for its Christmas Cheer festival. All members of the force will be around, in case anything happens.”
“Like, Santa gets kidnapped?”
“More likely a lost kid or a shoplifter. Or someone looking for a place to park who blocks traffic.” Pete paused. “My wife always liked Christmas Cheer.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Maybe she’ll change her mind and come home.”
“Not likely. She’s wicked set on starting over.”
I got up. “Good to see you. And thanks for the update about Carmichael. Horrible though it is, I hope all the evidence points to a hunter. See you tomorrow at Christmas Cheer!”
“Merry Christmas, Angie.” Pete took another deep swallow of his beer.
I headed for the door. I had Christmas gifts to wrap, and I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
If Paul Carmichael had been accidentally shot by a hunter, everyone at Aurora could relax. They’d still have to deal with the media, and with what they were going to do with the end of their film, but at least none of them would be arrested.
I hoped they’d examine the evidence quickly. It was darn inconvenient not to be able to call Patrick.
Chapter 30
“Seek first the Lord be timely wise
Truth Virtue and religion Prize
For these extend beyond the tomb
And will through endless ages bloom.”
—In 1822, Eliza Ann Wallingford (1809 – 1838) of Dublin, New Hampshire, stitched this sentiment, along with several alphabets, a house, and a frame of flowers, in silk threads on linen. She died, unmarried, at the age of twenty-nine.