Dangling by a Thread

by Lea Wait

  I heated a can of vegetable soup. Even diced, boiled, and salted, vegetables were good for you, right? I opened a box of chowder crackers to go with the soup.

  Gram made delicious soups. I should ask about her turkey noodle soup, and her bean soup, and . . . I was too tired to remember what else she made.

  Trixi was still sleeping soundly.

  What if she woke during the night? What if she needed more food? What if she was lonely and missed her brother and sister?

  A picture of that kitten buried in the backyard flashed through my head.

  Trixi was so tiny. So vulnerable. How could I leave her alone?

  I changed into my sleepshirt, curled up on the living-room couch, and pulled one of Gram’s afghans over me.

  Three hours later paws kneading my arm and a tail tickling my face woke me. Trixi must have decided I was her new mother. A few minutes later she bit me lightly and scurried to the end of the couch. I checked to make sure her personal bathroom and kitchen were clean and accessible, and went back to sleep.

  I wasn’t ready for morning when my phone started humming.

  First I checked on Trixi, who seemed to have mastered the art of the litter box during the night. Then I checked the text. It was from Dave. Feeling better. How are kittens? Have ideas re: birds. Called Anna. Talk?

  I groaned. Hospitals wake patients earlier than I was ready to cope.

  Dave must have been feeling as lonely as the little black kitten now following me around the living room. I headed to the kitchen for coffee. Trixi stood at the door of the living room and squeaked.

  I gave in immediately and let her follow me. The vet had said “one room for now,” but how could I explain “tough love” to a kitten so small she could fit in my hand?

  Coffee and one of Gram’s blueberry muffins for me, and kitten milk for her. While my muffin was defrosting in the oven I added water to the vase of roses.

  Gram was right. They were beautiful, but they didn’t smell.

  Fortified, I called Dave back. “Kittens are fine. Or at least mine is,” I said.

  “Yours?”

  “Gram and I thought it would be easier if three different people fostered them.”

  “So, which one do you have?”

  “The black one. Gram has the white one, and Patrick has the one he said was a tuxedo cat.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Patrick West. He called when Gram and I were at your barn. He volunteered to pay for a vet to look them over and deflea them, and said he’d love to take care of one.”

  Dave was silent.

  “We know they’re your kittens,” I said quickly. “We’re watching them until you’re home. How do you feel this morning?”

  “Better, but doctors are still worried about possible infections. Jesse’s arrow wasn’t sterile, and neither was the fabric it pulled into my muscle.”

  I winced. “So you’re still on antibiotics. Were you able to sleep?”

  “It’s impossible to sleep in a hospital. I’m used to living by myself, where it’s quiet. People here walk the halls all night, and nurses come in to take your blood pressure. I can’t sleep, and I’m bored. I don’t even have a good book to read. And I’m getting further behind on my work. Yesterday I called my boss to let him know what happened. He’s on board. But I should be organizing my classroom and finishing my lesson plans.”

  “Anything I can bring you?”

  “A pad of paper and pencils would be a help. And a paperback. I need something to keep me amused besides CNN and daytime talk shows.”

  “You’ve got it. I’ll be by a little later.”

  “Heard anything more about what happened to Jesse? I can blame hospital noise, but Jesse’s death’s the major reason I couldn’t sleep last night. I still can’t believe someone murdered him.”

  “Maybe no one did. Maybe he slipped and fell and hit his head. I haven’t heard anything one way or the other. The medical examiner and crime guys take time.”

  “I want to help, and I’m stuck in here. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Your message said you’d talked with Anna.”

  “Thanks for reminding me. The meds that are supposed to help me relax sometimes empty my brain. Anna has ideas about the cormorants. She and Ruth are coming by later. Any chance you could come then too?”

  “Will they let you have that many visitors?”

  “I have a private room. And one of the nurses used to be a student of mine.” I could almost see him smiling. “Nothing like a former student giving you a sponge bath to make you feel old and decrepit.”

  “When will Anna and Ruth be there?”

  “About ten.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  “You’re sure the kittens are fine? I was worried I’d left them alone too long.”

  “The vet said they were in great shape. Trixi’s nibbling my ankle right now.”

  “Trixi?”

  “Living creatures should have names. I named her Beatrix, but that seemed a little formal for a kitten.”

  Dave laughed. “I suspect that kitten isn’t either a feral barn cat or mine any longer. Beatrix, eh? See you at ten.”

  Chapter 30

  “Fear and Love; God Above.

  Roses will fade and tulips wither

  But a virtuous mind will bloom forever.”

  —Stitched in 1824 by nine-year-old Mary Morse, under the instruction of Mrs. Amanda Pratt. Mary married John Fisher in 1836 in Alstead, New Hampshire. They had five children.

  I put Trixi back into the living room while I scrounged for legal pads and pens and sharpened pencils for Dave. Then I carefully photographed the sampler Sarah’d completed. I could return it to her while I was downtown.

  On the advice of the owner of The Book Nook (who knew Dave and wanted to hear all the details about his injury) I bought paperback copies of Paul Doiron’s The Poacher’s Son and Kate Flora’s And Grant You Peace, two mysteries set in Maine. I was assured he’d love both.

  Then I stopped to see Sarah.

  “Thanks for getting the sampler back to me so quickly,” she said, tucking it under the counter. “I hope Mrs. Owens will like it.”

  “She’ll be thrilled! You did a great job,” I enthused. Then I updated her on Dave’s condition and Jesse’s death.

  Her lips tightened. “Count me in if the needlepointers are doing anything to help save King’s Island for the cormorants,” she assured me. “I can’t come to the meeting this morning, but I’d like to help. It’s awful to think of that island being developed. ‘High from the earth I heard a bird, He trod upon the trees, As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze.’”

  Knowing Sarah, I was willing to bet that was another Emily Dickinson quote. “I’ll let you know what Anna and Ruth have in mind.”

  “Tell Dave I’ll try to stop in to see him tonight after I close up shop.”

  “I think it’s a good sign he’s getting restless and bored.” I held up the bag containing the anti-boredom supplies Dave had asked for. “I’m taking him two mysteries and paper so he can outline lesson plans, but I suspect he’d rather have company.”

  “What about flowers? Food?”

  “Flowers and food are always good.”

  Sarah glanced at the computer screen on her desk. “You’d better get going. It’s after nine thirty, and your meeting’s at ten o’clock.”

  By the time I got to Dave’s room Anna and Ruth were already settled in the two guest chairs. I put my package on Dave’s windowsill between a spectacular arrangement of yellow and orange late summer flowers and a green plant. I pulled another chair in from the hallway.

  “Beautiful flowers,” I commented.

  “They are,” Dave agreed. “The plant’s from the high school. But I’m not exactly sure why the flowers are here. Maybe they’re a bribe.”

  “A bribe?” asked Ruth.

  “They’re from Patrick and Skye West,” said Dave, turning to me. “The note with those fl
owers thanked me ‘for Bette.’ Would you happen to know what that meant?”

  “Bette’s what he named the kitten he’s taking care of.”

  “I suspected that.” Dave sighed. “Actually, I don’t mind that you found the kittens new homes. I couldn’t keep them in the barn much longer, and it wouldn’t be safe for them near my poison garden. They’ll be safer as inside cats.”

  “Patrick did get excited about his kitten,” I said. “I think he’s lonely.”

  “A lot of us live alone,” Ruth put in. “But at my age I can’t chase a kitten. All I’d need to mess up my life would be to trip over one of those little creatures and end up in the hospital like you, Dave.” She looked over at him. “No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” said Dave. “Given a choice, I wouldn’t want to be here, either.”

  “I suspect Gram won’t want to keep Snowy,” I put in. “He could come back to live with you.”

  “So you’re keeping the one you have, too?” Dave said, grinning.

  “If it’s okay with you,” I admitted. “She’s awfully cute. Although she did get into my wool bag last night.”

  “That’s just the beginning, I assure you,” said Anna. “I wouldn’t have a cat in my house. In the barn, for mice, sure. But I don’t want any cat tearing my upholstery or getting into our needlepoint or sewing supplies.”

  “Dave said you had an idea about the cormorants,” I said, deciding we’d talked enough about kittens.

  “I talked to the director of the Maine Audubon organization,” said Anna. “She’s willing to be interviewed, if we need her. They’re pulling together a short video clip about the need for nesting grounds for endangered or threatened seabirds. I hope you don’t mind, Angie, but I told her you had a contact at one of the Portland television stations.”

  “No problem,” I said. “One of my high school friends works at Channel Seven. I’ll give her a call. When will the clip be ready?”

  “It’s Saturday now,” said Anna, checking her notes. “She promised it would be ready by Monday or Tuesday.”

  “I’ve been watching local news,” Dave added. “Channel Seven reported a body was found on an island off Haven Harbor. They didn’t mention Jesse’s name, or his cause of death.”

  “The police are probably notifying relatives first,” said Ruth. “And they don’t know his cause of death yet, do they?”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered.

  “I’ve known Jesse for about eight years, and the only living relative he ever mentioned to me was his cousin Simon,” put in Dave.

  “The cousin he owned the island with?” Anna checked.

  “And who’s staying with Skye West right now,” I confirmed. “Gerry Bentley flew him in from Chicago a couple of days ago.”

  “How did the Wests get involved with this?” asked Ruth.

  “Gerry Bentley is Patrick West’s uncle,” I said. “He was visiting the Wests when he saw King’s Island. He asked Simon to come to Haven Harbor to convince Jesse to sign off on selling the island. Bentley paid for the ticket and asked Skye to host him.”

  “Does Simon know Jesse’s dead?” Dave asked.

  “I don’t know. I told Patrick, though, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew. But the police should officially notify him.”

  “If they even know he’s in Maine,” Anna added.

  “Think that would be a secret for long?” Ruth asked. “They know.”

  I decided not to mention that Simon and Gerry Bentley had been asking questions at the police department the day Dave had been shot. The day Jesse probably died. Dave didn’t need to know they’d been thinking about having Jesse declared incompetent. Now that he was dead, that wouldn’t matter.

  “I like the idea of statewide publicity to get people excited about saving the cormorants,” said Dave. “I had an idea that fits with the film clip.”

  “Yes?” asked Ruth.

  “Visitors to Maine are fascinated by wildlife here. Moose, lobsters, puffins . . . and cormorants. Lots of tourists are also conservationists. We could educate them about seabird nesting grounds; make them part of our campaign.”

  “How?” asked Anna.

  “Earlier you said ‘save the cormorants.’ Why not put that phrase, and a picture of a cormorant, on T-shirts? Hats? Posters? Tote bags? We could needlepoint it on cushions. We could get ‘Save the Cormorants’ into almost every store in Maine. How would Gerry Bentley feel about people walking around wearing a slogan that meant, ‘Build Your Dream House Somewhere Else?’”

  “I love that!” I said. “I saw Sarah this morning. She wants to be part of anything we do. And she knows Ted Lawrence. Maybe she could get him to design a logo for us.”

  “Perfect!” said Ruth. “Ted might agree to do that. Ask Sarah to check with him.”

  “I will,” I said, taking notes. “But can we get this campaign off the ground in time? Jesse’s dead. Simon’s in town. Won’t Simon inherit the island now?”

  “I convinced Jesse to see a lawyer when this all came up. He didn’t tell me exactly what he’d done, but he did say he’d changed his will,” said Dave.

  “I wonder if his lawyer would talk with me,” I thought out loud.

  “Probably not. But he might talk to the police. Legal consultations are private. But Jesse’s dead.”

  “In Maine it takes six months to get a will through probate,” Ruth put in. “Nothing can happen to property until then.”

  “I’ll call the Audubon director back and tell her our ideas,” said Anna. “I think she’ll love them. Even if the King’s Island problem is solved”—she looked around—“one way or the other . . . preserving seabird nesting grounds is important. All the posters and T-shirts and cushions will still be important a year from now. They’ll remind people about saving our wildlife.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing. “I’ll contact Sarah about Ted Lawrence, and call my friend Clem Walker at Channel Seven and let her know about the film clip.”

  “You know Pete Lambert pretty well,” Dave added. “Make sure he knows Jesse changed his will. The lawyer he used was Aaron Irving.”

  I wrote that down. “Okay. I’m on board. And I’ll let everyone know what happens.”

  “I’m excited,” said Anna.

  “And I’ll finish my editing,” said Ruth. “I have the feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of needlepoint in the near future!”

  “One thing we haven’t mentioned,” said Dave, as the rest of us were preparing to leave. “I hate to mention it. But if Jesse didn’t have an accident . . . our whole plan could be complicated. King’s Island might be the center of a murder case.”

  Chapter 31

  “It were kindest to ignore nineteenth century needlework, but in a book treating of English embroidery something must be said to bridge over the time when Needlecraft as an Art was dead. During the earlier part of the century taste was bad, during the middle it was beyond criticism, and from then to the time of the ‘greenery-yallery’ aesthetic revival, all and everything made by women’s fingers ought to be buried, burnt, or otherwise destroyed.”

  —From Chats on Old Lace and Needlework by Emily Leigh Lowes, London, 1908.

  As I left the hospital I remembered Gram. She’d started the Mainely Needlepoint business, even if I was its director now. She was one of the first people to visit Dave at the hospital. She was concerned about the cormorants.

  And she hadn’t been included in the meeting.

  Big mistake.

  Before I called anyone on my to-do list, I headed for the rectory.

  “Come to check on Snowy?” she asked. “And how’s Beatrix?”

  “She’s Trixi now,” I said. “And she was fine a couple of hours ago.”

  Gram smiled. “I like ‘Trixi’.”

  “Maybe it should be ‘tricks,’” I admitted. “She got into my wool last night.”

  “She’s a kitten!” Gram pointed out. “Sounds as though she’s fine. Snowy’s being in the house is dri
ving Juno crazy. She keeps sniffing and scratching at the bedroom door.”

  “I was at the hospital. Dave sounded as though he’d be okay with our keeping the kittens,” I told her. “But I said I wasn’t sure about yours.”

  Gram shook her head. “Next time I see Dave I’ll tell him Snowy’s all his. Much as he’s a fun little boy, I’d forgotten how lively kittens were. I’m just fostering him. What about Patrick’s kitten?”

  “Last night it looked as though he was in love. He’s named his kitten Bette, after Bette Midler.”

  “Sophisticated name,” Gram said, smiling. “Glad he’s happy. Patrick’s had a hard time this summer. Could be Bette will help keep his mind off his problems.”

  I nodded. “Some of the needlepointers are planning a campaign with the Audubon folks, to keep King’s Island uninhabited and safe for the cormorants.”

  I told her what people were planning.

  “I’m in favor of protecting the cormorants,” she said. “But be aware. I don’t think everyone in town will be enthused about your idea. They’ll say birds can use other islands for nesting, and if Gerry Bentley moves to town he’ll bring with him money, jobs, and publicity that will help our local economy.”

  “They’d want the island turned into a home for a multimillionaire instead of a refuge?”

  “I’ve heard talk.” She hesitated. “From Tom, too. He likes birds as much as the next person. But he’s on the Chamber of Commerce. Ed Campbell’s president this year, and he’s been pressing them to think of ways to bring new businesses to Haven Harbor. Jed Fitch made a convincing pitch about how good for the town’s future it would be if Bentley built here. With Skye West already in town and the Bentleys, too, he felt that would attract Hollywood and Silicon Valley visitors. People with money to spend.”

  “Who’s Ed Campbell?” I’d only been back in Haven Harbor since May. I didn’t know everyone yet.

  “He owns a car dealership out on Route One. And he’s president of the Yacht Club.”

  “And he’s against the cormorants?”