Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  Blaze gave each of her colleagues tartan berets, which they immediately put on. Marv gave them mittens to match; they must have coordinated their purchases. And Skye gave everyone in the room, including Bev, who watched the proceedings from the kitchen doorway, cashmere scarves from Scotland. She must have bought dozens. The one she’d picked for me was a plaid in several shades of blue. (“A Princess Diana tartan,” she explained, as I unwrapped it.) It was soft and luscious, and I loved it. Even Pete got a scarf. His was dark maroon, and he grinned and draped it over his shoulder rakishly.

  Thomas gave Marie a stunning Scots Victorian pin of different shades of agate and granite set in sterling silver, and Marie gave Thomas an engraved cell phone case.

  Patrick drew me aside as other gifts were being opened and exclaimed over. “I saw you’d put a gift for me under the tree. I have one for you, too. But I’d like us to exchange them later, in private, if that’s all right.”

  I nodded. “Better than all right.” I hoped we could slip away in a little while. I was dying to know what Patrick would say when he saw the pillow I’d stitched for him.

  After the gifts, Patrick and I served ourselves small plates of hot food. Bev’s tourtière was delicious. I hadn’t tasted any since I’d left Maine. The roast beef was rare, the way I liked it. (Blaze made a face at it and served herself a small portion of the vegetarian lasagna.) Patrick’s favorite was the lobster mac and cheese. Pete took a little of everything.

  We hadn’t finished eating when a loud boom resounded through the house and the lights flickered and went out. Blaze screamed, and Pete headed for the door. The room wasn’t completely dark. The fire had been refreshed during the evening, and most of the candles, set out for atmosphere, kept the rooms from being pitch-black.

  “Mrs. Clifford? Would you bring us some flashlights from the kitchen?” Skye called.

  I followed Pete, who’d gone outside for a moment and returned. “Sounded like a substation blowing,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Wind took down a large maple across the street. It took wires with it. That blew the power.”

  I turned back toward the room. Patrick’s back was to me; he was gathering dishes to take to the kitchen. Bev was coming into the living room with several flashlights.

  Carly, who’d been quiet the whole evening (Skye had even given her a scarf), was standing, walking toward Patrick. That’s when I saw candlelight reflected in something silver in her hand.

  “Pete! It’s a gun!” I didn’t wait for him. As Carly raised her weapon I threw myself on her back, knocking her (and a table) over.

  All I wanted was to get that gun. She was stronger than I anticipated. We rolled on the floor, knocking over a lamp and two candles. Someone rushed to stamp out the candles before they started a fire. Someone else screamed, but I was focused on Carly’s hand holding that gun.

  Pete stood over us, yelling that she should drop the weapon. She didn’t. I was on top of her, holding her wrist, when suddenly she twisted; then she was over me. I tightened my grip and twisted her wrist. A gun fired. I didn’t know if it was Carly’s or Pete’s. Then Carly’s gun rolled toward the fireplace.

  Suddenly the room was silent.

  Thomas said, quietly, “I’m bleeding.”

  Pete was still looking down at Carly and I. “Get up, slowly,” he said. “Both of you.” He picked up Carly’s gun and handed it to Patrick, who held it away from his body as though it were a dangerous animal.

  “You shot me,” Carly said clearly. “I’m getting blood all over my cashmere scarf.” I managed to pull myself up. I was fine, just bruised. Carly’s shoulder was bleeding. It didn’t look critical, but she stayed on the floor, trying to get the scarf she’d tied around her neck away from her wound.

  Pete took control. “Who else said they were bleeding?”

  “I did,” said Thomas. “My side.” He held up his hand, which he’d been pressing to his right side. It was covered with blood. “Was I shot, too? Or stabbed? What the hell is happening?”

  Chapter 55

  “Remember Thy Creator in the days of thy youth Before the Evil Days.”

  —Small sampler decorated with strawberry border. Undated and unsigned, in the Newport Historical Society collection. Quotation based loosely on Ecclesiastes 12.

  “I’d like to know, too,” said Pete. “Bev, would you get some clean dishcloths from the kitchen?” Bev started for the door.

  “Don’t let her leave the room,” said Thomas. “She’s the one who stabbed me.”

  “What?” said Skye. “What would she stab you for?”

  “Because he was about to ruin my life, that’s why,” said Bev. “He was about to tell my story to the world. Ruth, I didn’t even know you wrote until I heard Ms. West talking to Patrick and Angie yesterday. She said Mr. O’Day would change everything. That no one would know. But everyone in Haven Harbor would recognize what happened, and that’s the only world I care about.”

  “Your story?” said Skye, obviously confused.

  “My son was the one who killed my husband, on Christmas Eve, a few years back. It was a nightmare of a scandal, and I had to live through it all, with everyone in town watching and saying they were sympathetic. I knew they all thought I’d messed up both my marriage and my son’s life, or else he’d never have done it. I’ve lost my husband to the grave and my son to state prison, and finally my life was coming together again. And you two”—she pointed at Thomas and Marie—“you were going to turn my life into a movie, and Haven Harbor into Peyton Place. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’ve been cleaning up after you rich folks and cooking for you and coming when you called, and in return you were going to ruin my life.”

  “Bev, what did you stab him with?” Pete asked, calmly, moving back so he could see both Bev and Carly. “Where is it?”

  She dropped the stiletto from Skye’s Victorian needlepoint tool kit on a table. “Here it is. And I’m not sorry!”

  “I know how you feel. I do. Only you struck a true blow, where I’ve now failed three times.” Carly was still sitting on the floor.

  “Get up,” Pete told her. “Angie, would you call nine-one-one and get an ambulance out here? And police backup.”

  I went to the hallway and called. Looking back at the candlelit room, I felt as though I were watching a play.

  Carly pulled herself up and sat on a chair. She was sobbing and using her skirt to dab at her bleeding shoulder.

  “So what’s your story? Who were you trying to hurt, and why?” asked Pete.

  “Skye’s son. I wanted him to die,” Carly blubbered. “I wanted to make Skye suffer, the way she made me suffer. I thought I’d killed him a few days ago. In the dark, I couldn’t see clearly, and I shot that other man. It was a mistake.”

  “She shot Paul!” Blaze blurted.

  “I did! I’m a damn good shot. I just didn’t shoot the right person. Then I borrowed the kitchen of the B and B where I’m staying and made those cookies for Patrick. But he didn’t eat enough of them. And now—I’ve failed again.”

  “Who are you?” said Skye, going over to stand protectively next to Patrick. “How could I have made you suffer? I’d never seen you before yesterday!”

  “You may not remember me, Skye West, but you probably remember my husband. Ben Prince was the name he used. He acted with you in the cast of A Day Too Long.”

  “Ben Prince. I haven’t thought of him in years.”

  “You thought a lot of him back then. You led him on, made him believe you loved him, and then you dropped him. He followed you from Texas to California. Do you remember that? He begged you to stay with him. But you were having none of it.”

  “Ben was your husband,” Skye repeated, as though she was trying to remember. “Where is Ben now?”

  “Dead. He left me for you and drank himself to death. You ruined his life and mine. I wanted to ruin your life by killing someone you loved. Dying is easy. Living with the pain of losing someone is forever.” Carly burst
into tears, crying into her now-blood-soaked cashmere scarf from Scotland.

  Chapter 56

  “Adam alone in Paradise did grieve,

  And thought Eden a desert without Eve,

  Until God pitying of his lonesome state

  Crowned all his wishes with a loving mate.

  What reason then hath Man to slight or flout her,

  That could not live in Paradise without her?”

  —Mary Gates stitched these words in 1796 New England.

  As if on cue, Aurora’s lights came back on.

  “The generator most have kicked in,” said Skye. “Thank goodness for generators.”

  A few minutes later the police and ambulance arrived to take Thomas and Carly to the emergency room and Bev to the county jail. Pete assured Carly she’d be joining Bev there as soon as the hospital released her. Marie borrowed Patrick’s car and followed the ambulance to Haven Harbor Hospital.

  “Poor Bev,” said Ruth. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t written her story in one of my books, this never would have happened.”

  “Poor Bev? She stabbed Thomas!” said Blaze. “Maine is a crazy place. I’ll be glad to get back to the sanity of Los Angeles in a couple of days.”

  Skye stood, confused about everything that had happened so quickly.

  Clem had left. No doubt we’d be on the eleven o’clock news. She had an exclusive.

  “Let’s get this place cleaned up,” said Sarah. “There’s enough food in the dining room for several days. Come on, Blaze. We’ll cover the food, put it the refrigerator, and set aside some to take to one of the warming centers tomorrow.”

  “The dishes can go into the dishwasher,” said Blaze, joining Sarah. “Growing up, my sisters and I were always the ones who had to clean up after big dinners like this. I’m an expert.”

  “We didn’t even get to the desserts,” said Skye, sitting next to Ruth on the couch.

  “Mom, everything’s okay,” Patrick assured her. “I’m fine, Thomas will be fine, we’ve all had plenty to eat, and drink, and Angie and I’ll help Sarah and Blaze clean up. You sit and enjoy the fire. Relax.”

  “You could have been killed,” she said to him.

  “But I wasn’t,” he pointed out. “And we can begin the new year with all mysteries solved.”

  Dave went to help the kitchen crew. “I’m an expert at washing pots that don’t fit in the dishwasher.”

  Patrick pulled me aside, behind the Christmas tree, and held me. “This party was a little more dramatic than we’d planned,” he said, not letting me go. Despite his soothing words to his mother, he was shaking. Carly had tried to kill him three times. Thank goodness she’d failed.

  “As soon as things are cleaned up, I’m going to take three of your guests home,” I pointed out. “Before the snow gets heavy again. So would you like your Christmas gift now?”

  He smiled. “I would. I put both our gifts in the coat closet back here.” He picked up my gift to him and shook the box the way a little boy would. “It doesn’t sound like marbles, and it’s too big for diamonds,” he teased, as I smiled, crossing my fingers.

  “Open it.”

  He pulled off the wrappings, and the expression on his face was worth all my hours of stitching. “I don’t believe it! How did you manage this? It’s a perfect copy of my painting!”

  “You once said you’d like a needlepointed pillow in your living room. I took a picture of your painting and made a pattern,” I told him. “I’m still slow at stitching. It took me a couple of months.”

  “I love it! It’s perfect.” He held me and the pillow for a few minutes and kissed me. Then he put the pillow on the hall table and reached into the closet again. “This is for you.”

  My box was also large, and light. I opened it carefully.

  It was a painting of Haven Harbor, showing Sarah’s shop, and the wharf where I’d worked in my teens, and Pocket Cove Beach and the Light. “Did Ted Lawrence do this?” Patrick owned Ted’s gallery now.

  “No,” Patrick smiled.

  I looked carefully. “It’s realistic. Or—almost realistic. It’s like Robert Lawrence’s work.” Robert Lawrence had been Ted’s father. And one of the most famous American artists of the twentieth century.

  “You know how to compliment a guy,” said Patrick. “But Robert Lawrence was an influence.”

  Then I saw the initials, PW, in the lower right corner. “You painted it!”

  Patrick grinned. He turned over the canvas, where he’d written, “To new beginnings, in art and in life. For Angie, with love from Patrick.”

  Love. We’d never used that word.

  It didn’t look like the painting I’d copied. That painting was brighter; modernist, he’d once called it.

  “You painted this?” I repeated. “You’re painting again!” I still couldn’t believe it was true—and he’d been able to hide it from me.

  “And I’m going to paint a lot more in the new year.”

  The painting slipped slowly to the ground between us as we kissed.

  I heard carols outside the front door. Reverend Tom had sent the church choir, just as Skye had wanted.

  This was the most perfect Christmas ever.

  Bev Clifford’s Tourtière (French-Canadian Pork Pie)

  Tourtière is a classic French-Canadian dish made of pork, or a pork and beef combination, served either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Families have their own traditional ways of preparing it. Although Bev uses seasoned breadcrumbs, some people use mashed potatoes, and some meat and spices alone. A traditional tourtière is, of course, made with homemade pastry, but Bev, like many busy cooks today, uses a frozen pie shell.

  Ingredients

  2 pounds ground pork

  1 cup diced yellow onion

  2½ cups apple juice or apple cider (apple cider makes the pie sweeter than apple juice)

  ½ to 1 cup seasoned breadcrumbs

  3 teaspoons allspice

  2½ teaspoons cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon ground cloves

  2½ teaspoons sea or kosher salt

  2 teaspoons ground pepper

  1 nine-inch frozen pie shell (both top and bottom)

  Day before Serving

  Brown ground pork in large skillet, then add diced onion and apple juice or cider and mix thoroughly. Reduce heat to medium-low, stir occasionally, and allow to cook until mixture is moist, but not watery. If liquid remains in the skillet after an hour, mix in enough breadcrumbs to absorb moisture.

  Remove from heat. Mix spices together and then add to pork and stir well. Refrigerate mixture at least 12 hours—preferably overnight.

  Day Served

  Preheat oven to 450°F.

  Fill pie shell (homemade or defrosted) with pork mixture and cover with pastry. (Don’t forget to poke holes in top of the pastry to allow steam to escape.)

  At this point the pie may also be frozen and cooked later.

  Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until crust is golden and filling is sizzling. (May take longer if your tourtière has been frozen.) Bev serves her tourtière warm, but it is also good at room temperature, and her recipe is easily doubled so she can have one pie now, and one in the freezer for later.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thank you to my agent, John Talbot, and editor, John Scognamiglio, without whom no one would be reading about Haven Harbor. Shout-outs also to the production and art departments at Kensington Publishing, who provide wonderful covers, copy edits, and proofing . . . and to Megan Eldred, who gets the word out about the Mainely Needlepoint series.

  Thank you to Leslie Rounds, Executive Director, and Tara Raiselis, Director, of the Dyer Library and Saco Museum in Saco, Maine, for their expertise and extensive collection of samplers from New England, which inspire me.

  Thank you to my husband, Bob Thomas, who, despite a challenging year, continued to run errands and cook (including tourtière!), enabling me to focus on writing. And, most of all, for his patience in listening to me unt
angle plot points, being my first reader, and telling me he loves me, even on days when my mind is in Haven Harbor. Love you back, always and ever!

  To the Maine mystery writers who blog with me at http://www.mainecrimewriters.com, you are my kitchen cabinet and support system on good and bad days, and with whom I often speak at libraries, bookstores, and conferences. (Thank you to everyone who’s invited us!) A special thank you to Kate Flora, for opening her home for a small writers’ retreat, which gave this manuscript a boost along the writing way.

  Unending thank-yous to the many fans who’ve written to tell me about their family samplers and needlepointed treasures, and encouraged me to learn more about their fascinating history, and the people who created them.

  To JD and Barbara Neeson, neighbors extraordinaire, who supplied friendship, encouragement, snacks, and even the laptop this manuscript was written on.

  Thank you to Tom and Marie O’Day, screenwriters in Thread the Halls and, in real life, stalwart supporters of mystery writers and of Malice Domestic, a special conference for readers and writers held annually in Bethesda, Maryland. If you love traditional mysteries, it’s the place to be! (See you there?)

  Thank you to Paula Keeney and Ann Whetstone, very special mystery fans who run Mainely Murders, a bookstore in Kennebunkport, Maine, who’ve told countless people about Angie Curtis (and Maggie Summer, of my Shadows Antique Print Mystery series). Love you guys!

  Thanks to Henry Lyon, who keeps my Web site up to date, to my sister Nancy Cantwell, needlepointer and second reader, and, most of all, to everyone who buys, reads, and reviews my books. Your support keeps me writing.

  Please friend me on Goodreads and Facebook so we can keep in touch, and check my Web site (http://www.leawait.com) for a printable list of my books and links to prequels of the Mainely Needlepoint series. And send me an email at leawait@roadrunner.com with your e-mail address if you’d like to hear when my next book is published! See you then, if not before!