Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  “All right, if you’re sure about that, Angie. I don’t want to look like an ungrateful guest.”

  “You won’t be, Ruth. I promise.”

  My next call was to Sarah. She agreed going to Aurora together would be best, especially for Ruth. “But also for us. Walking into a party alone is intimidating.”

  “You, intimidated?” I smiled. “Sarah, you’ve traveled to three continents, opened your own business, and are one of the friendliest and kindest people I know. I don’t believe you’ve ever been intimidated.”

  “You don’t know me as well as you think,” she assured me. “Is there room in your car for Dave? He’s going alone, too, so far as I know.”

  “I saw him yesterday and that was the plan,” I agreed. “With Ruth’s walker it’ll be a tight fit, but we can do it. Pick you up a little before five-thirty?”

  “It’s a date. Now go call Dave and pretty yourself up. Patrick’s never seen you in full makeup and a dress like that red velvet.”

  “That’s the truth. I’ve never seen myself that gussied up.”

  “You’re going to look amazing. I know. I had a sneak preview!”

  Dave agreed to go with us. I decided to pick him up first, then Sarah, and stop for Ruth last, so we could lift her over the deep drifts if necessary.

  I called Gram—my “go-to” for problem solving. “Help, Gram! The good news is I’m back in Patrick and Skye’s good graces, and I’m going to Aurora for their party tonight. But I just found out they exchange gifts Christmas Eve. I haven’t got a present for Skye! I thought she was going to be in Scotland.”

  “Thank goodness everything’s worked out, Angie. We’ll miss you at church tonight, but we’ll have tomorrow together. I always make extra cranberry bread for last-minute Christmas gifts. Look in my freezer. The gift loaves have red ribbons on them. You can wrap whichever you choose for Skye.”

  “Thank you, Gram! I knew you’d come up with something. And your cranberry bread is delicious. Skye will love it!” It was food, but it wouldn’t be for dinner. And it was better than having nothing under the tree.

  I found the loaves Gram told me about. She’d made six extra loaves. I needed to take lessons in organization from her. I wrapped the loaf with a tag from “Charlotte and Angie.” I couldn’t take full credit for Gram’s bread.

  I went and poured bubble bath and hot water into Gram’s deep Victorian tub.

  Some things the Victorians knew how to do well. Bathtubs were one of them.

  Chapter 53

  “Christmas Corset Cover! Do it Now!” (picture of corset cover embroidered in flowers) “The Corset Cover design here shown is stamped on the highest grade of Nainsook, allowing sufficient materials for any size bust measurement. Remit 75 cents to pay for the stamped cover with cotton to embroider.”

  —Advertisement placed by Edwin A. Fitch, 28 Union Square, New York, in The Modern Priscilla magazine, November 1905. (Nainsook is a soft, fine, cotton fabric.)

  I’d been in and out of Aurora since Dave’s students had decorated the tree in the front hallway and Patrick and I’d woven branches along the banister on the main stairway and hung mistletoe. The house had looked spectacular for days.

  But on Christmas Eve it was magical.

  The fire in the living room fireplace was crackling, the electric lights on the first floor had been turned down, and lighted candles were everywhere.

  Sarah’s “Wow!” covered it as the four of us walked in.

  Patrick echoed that “Wow!” when he looked at me. “Angie! You look amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress. Not a dress like that, anyway!”

  “You clean up pretty well, too,” I whispered as he pulled me under the mistletoe for our first kiss of the night. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him in a suit, either.

  Sarah gleamed in the candlelight. She’d outdone herself with that silver dress that matched her hair.

  Blaze, who was wearing a low-cut black dress, immediately befriended her. “Where did you get that incredible dress?” I heard her ask, as they headed into the living room.

  Ruth wasn’t sparkly, but assured, in a red wool sheath and pearls, and Dave looked darn good in his navy suit.

  Skye herself was perfect. No doubt she’d done some shopping in Scotland. She’d chosen to wear a long red and white Stewart plaid wool skirt, topped with a white cashmere sweater and a long scarf, also in Stewart plaid. She looked as though she’d walked out of a Christmas Hallmark movie.

  Clem Walker was there, talking to Marv by the fireplace. I’d hoped she wouldn’t come, but when she smiled and waved at me, I waved back. It was Christmas Eve, after all. I hoped she wasn’t pumping Marv for news she could broadcast later.

  I added the loaf of cranberry bread and my special gift for Patrick to the wrapped boxes already under the tree, and accepted the glass of champagne Patrick handed me. As we silently toasted each other Skye opened the door for Sergeant Pete Lambert, in civilian attire, and Carly Tremont. Had they come together? I doubted it. But everyone who’d said they’d be coming tonight was now here, despite yesterday’s storm.

  Bev was adding dishes to an elaborate candlelit buffet set on red tablecloths in the dining room. Cold dishes were displayed on the dining room table. Pâtés and cheeses, a platter of poached salmon and a bowl of shrimp, artichoke leaves covered with a spicy cheese, deviled eggs topped with—was that caviar? I tasted one. It was. I could easily have been happy filling my plate with the mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat, raw oysters and vegetables, garlic hummus, smoked trout, and stuffed olives. Many people were doing just that, and heading for the living room to sit and enjoy all the goodies.

  For those who preferred hot dishes on this cold night, Bev had covered one of the sideboards with warm food: linguini with clam sauce, tourtière, the Quebecois spicy pork pie that Mainers with French-Canadian roots ate on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning (or any other time the spirit moved them), a roast of beef, potatoes stuffed with cheese, lobster macaroni and cheese (Skye had wanted lobster for tonight’s dinner, I remembered), vegetarian lasagna, and a basket of popovers.

  “Impressive,” I said to Patrick, who was watching me scoping out the food.

  “Bev is terrific. She made sure we had the Maine dishes Mom wanted, plus the seven fishes Italians look for on Christmas Eve, and included vegetarian choices.”

  “Seven fishes?”

  “Clams, lobster, shrimp, oysters, salmon, trout, and crab,” he counted on his fingers. “The caviar is a bonus.”

  “You’ve got some crustaceans mixed in there, my friend,” I teased.

  “Shh! Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Shall we each get a plate of appetizers now?”

  “I don’t think I can manage holding champagne and serving myself,” I said, reluctant to give up my heavy flute filled with bubbles.

  “Angie, why don’t I put your glass, and Patrick’s, on the side table between the two armchairs near the fireplace,” Bev suggested, overhearing us. “They’ll be waiting for you while you fill your plates.”

  “Thank you, Bev,” I said. “I can’t believe you did all this!”

  She leaned toward me, taking my glass and stage whispering, “I haven’t slept a lot this week.” She added, “I’m so glad things worked out between you and Patrick,” before disappearing with our glasses.

  Patrick and I filled our plates. How would we ever be able to find room to sample the hot food later? I thought of the warming centers in town. They’d have food for the families there, but it wouldn’t be anything like this feast. I suspected sandwiches and pizza would fill their plates tonight.

  I’d never seen a table this spectacular except in a movie. I added an extra deviled egg with caviar to my plate and followed Patrick to the living room.

  Dave had filled Ruth’s plate, since buffets weren’t walker-friendly, and they were chatting with Thomas and Marie. I was glad Dave was watching out for Ruth, although he was sneaking some glances at Sarah and Blaze, both of whom
looked spectacular.

  I hoped Ruth was letting Thomas and Marie know how she felt about their using her plots (or Haven Harbor’s secrets) in the screenplay they were drafting. I wasn’t sure I’d convinced Skye and Patrick her concerns were serious.

  Sarah and Blaze weren’t eating, but were clearly having an animated talk—maybe about vintage clothing—and Clem had just joined them. Sarah could have found new customers.

  Carly had, not surprisingly, pulled a chair over to the small table where Skye was eating. Conversation at that table might be interesting. But Skye had been the one to invite Carly.

  The only person alone was Pete. He was standing, awkwardly holding his plate, near the door.

  “Mind if we pull another chair over and invite Pete to join us? He looks a little lost,” I suggested.

  “Good idea. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, especially in a crowd.” Patrick squeezed my shoulder lightly as he went over to talk with Pete.

  I was already feeling full. I shouldn’t have taken that final caviar-topped egg. But how often did I get a chance to eat caviar? It wasn’t exactly everyday fare, at least in my house in Haven Harbor.

  Before I’d finished the egg, Patrick was back, with Pete.

  “Merry Christmas, Angie. Quite a setup, isn’t it?” His glance covered the whole room as he pulled his chair over between Patrick and me. Every law enforcement person I knew sat with their back to the wall, in sight of the door. Pete was no exception. He was on alert, even during an elegant holiday party.

  “Before I forget: You’re officially no longer on the suspect list for killing Paul Carmichael. Your gun hadn’t been fired in months, just as you told me. I have it at the station. You can pick it up anytime.”

  “You suspected Angie of killing Paul?” Patrick looked amazed. “I didn’t know that.”

  “She was the only one here who had a gun,” said Pete. “We had to check it out.”

  Patrick looked from one of us to the other. “She wasn’t the only one. Someone else had a gun.”

  “What?” Pete dropped his fork, and I put my champagne glass down. “Who else had a gun? When I asked, no one admitted to having one. And we didn’t find one when we searched the house.”

  Patrick sighed and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what happened to it. But I drove Blaze and Mom home from the airport. Marie and Thomas took a cab, and so did Paul and Marv. Paul and Marv arrived here later than the rest of us. I overheard Blaze asking Paul why they were so late, and he said they’d stopped at a pawn shop on the way, for kicks. He’d seen the sign, and never been to one. She asked him if he’d bought anything, and he told her that—shh!—he’d bought a gun. He’d always thought it would ‘be cool’ to own one.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Ethan and I this before?” asked Pete.

  “I wasn’t there. I didn’t see the gun, and I had no proof. I figured Marv would tell you—or Blaze. They both knew about it.”

  Pete was trying to stay calm. “Where is this gun now?”

  “I never saw it. I have no idea.”

  “Since you didn’t find it in your search, maybe Paul took it with him when he went out for that walk,” I suggested.

  “He didn’t kill himself,” said Pete. “The shot that hit him wasn’t fired that close to him.”

  “If he was holding the gun, he could have dropped it outside. It’s been snowing pretty regularly,” I pointed out. “It might be out there right now, under the snow.”

  “Or someone could have turned his own gun on him,” said Pete. “Darn. This opens a whole new line of possibilities. Patrick, why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  Patrick shrugged and looked guilty. “Sorry. I didn’t think it was my information to tell. I just overheard a conversation.”

  “Which could be the key to a murder.” Pete did not look happy.

  “We can’t do anything about it right now,” I put in. “Since we’re talking business anyway, Pete, do you have any idea who laced those Christmas cookies Patrick ate? That experience has put me off cookies for a while.”

  “Not surprisingly,” Pete said. “But, no. That typed message could have come from almost any computer and printer. We’ve sent the fingerprints to the FBI for identification, but the Bureau’s especially backlogged with the holidays. We did confirm that the tin box holding the cookies was probably purchased locally. The gift shop downtown has several sizes of boxes this season for people to put cookies and cakes in. The pattern on the box Patrick got matched one of theirs. But they’ve sold twenty-seven of those in the past month, and most people paid cash. No record of who they were.”

  “I assume they don’t have a surveillance camera, either,” I said.

  “Right. No cameras. The only place in town that has one is the pharmacy.” He shrugged. “Usually there’s no need, even with all the tourists in the summer.” He went back to eating. He must like shrimp. His plate was covered with them.

  “Should I put a camera in my gallery?” asked Patrick. “I haven’t thought a lot about security. But having a camera there might discourage anyone tempted to steal. I have some pretty valuable paintings.”

  “Paintings aren’t exactly something you could slip into a pocket,” Pete pointed out. “But a camera or two for surveillance when the gallery isn’t open would be a good idea. It might discourage a potential thief. We at the station appreciate having a picture of a robbery.”

  “Understood,” said Patrick. “I’ll check into security systems in January.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes, eating and drinking. And thinking.

  “I must say, no one here seems too concerned that their friend was shot a few days ago,” Pete commented, looking around the room. “Someone in this room had access to a gun that may have killed Paul Carmichael. Ethan’s the homicide detective in charge of that investigation, of course, but I’ll let him know. We already knew not everything was roses between Carmichael and his colleagues, but without a weapon”—he glanced at Patrick—“or a witness, we were at a dead end. I’m concerned Ethan may not figure out who the killer is before these folks head out of town. When will they be leaving, Patrick?”

  “Last I heard Blaze and Marv were planning to leave the twenty-sixth to fly out to the coast for a few days to see friends and family and celebrate the New Year. The O’Days are going to hole up here to work on the screenplays they’re writing. They and my mother will fly back to Scotland January third or fourth. Of course, all plans are subject to change.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe all that’s happened in the past week. I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet of a new year.”

  “And to not having to talk about murders and poisoning in the middle of a party like this,” I said.

  “A-men to that,” Pete agreed. “Tomorrow I’ll call Ethan and we’ll get the snow in the backyard dug up to try to find that gun. In the meantime, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m off duty, and I’m going back for more food. I heard a weather forecast this afternoon saying the wind was going to pick up again tonight. With all the ice and snow out there, that could mean more outages. I’m on call, in case there’s an emergency. Christmas Eve means family issues colliding with alcohol. I want to taste a few more of those goodies before anyone decides they need me.”

  Pete got up and joined several other people now in the dining room, including Blaze, Sarah, and Clem, who’d put their discussion on hold.

  “Want more?” Patrick asked.

  I shook my head. “I took more than ample the first time around. Although I’d like to sample a couple of the hot dishes in a while.”

  “I suspect they won’t all disappear in the next few minutes,” he assured me. “But I’ll warn you, Mom will want us to take a break and open gifts soon.”

  “If that’s our only interruption, we have no problems,” I said.

  Well, almost no problems. I wished we knew who’d killed Paul and who’d poisoned Patrick.

  “I’ll refill our glasses,” Patrick
said, picking them up and heading back to the corner of the dining room he’d set up as a bar.

  I looked around the room, from the fire and candles to the pine boughs and people, many of them my friends. A year ago I could never have dreamed of being a guest at an evening like this.

  Not exactly perfect. But darn close.

  Chapter 54

  “Remember I was born to die.”

  —Stitched, along with four alphabets, in eyelet, queen, and cross-stitch with a strawberry border, in 1765 by Ruth White, aged ten, in Newburyport, Massachusetts.

  I was feeling warm and relaxed when, as Patrick had predicted, half an hour later Skye announced it was time to open gifts.

  Dutifully we all headed to the front hall, where the gifts were under the tree.

  Patrick made sure that the needlepoint set he’d chosen for Skye was one of the first gifts opened. She exclaimed over the needles and scissors and stiletto and places for other tools, and went right to the dining room to set it behind the food on the sideboard, just as Patrick had hoped.

  He was pleased with her reaction, and Sarah was thrilled.

  Patrick wasn’t as pleased when he opened his gift from his mother, although it got a lot of laughs. Skye had bought him a kilt and vest (she called it a “waistcoat”) and a sporran, a purse to be worn on a belt. “I never dreamed I’d have one of these,” he managed to say gamely. I wondered if I’d ever see him in that outfit.

  “We’ll have to go to the Scottish Heritage Day celebration next summer,” I said, quickly conscious I was assuming we’d be together then. Patrick didn’t seem to notice. He was still examining the kilt.

  The personalized needlepointed sachets were, as Skye had predicted, a hit, and she made a point of thanking each of the Mainely Needlepointers in the room, which was a nice touch. She promised she’d love Gram’s cranberry bread.