by Lea Wait
Dave got right to work. After all, poison was his thing. “Has anyone else shown symptoms?”
“No. We’re all fine,” Patrick answered.
“Did the lobster bake include clams or mussels?”
“Both,” I said.
“Who bought them?”
Patrick and I looked at each other. “We did,” we said simultaneously.
“Where?”
“Down at the co-op,” I said. “But—no. That’s wrong. We bought the lobsters and mussels there. They were out of clams. Jeremy, Luke, and Michael went clamming this morning and brought some back.”
Dave got up and spoke to the man at the registration desk. A few minutes later Dr. Mercer came out to see him. She glanced at his leg. “No crutches? You’re doing well, Dave.”
“Thanks to your good care, and the surgery I had here,” he said.
By now everyone in the room was listening. Sarah was the only other person there who knew Dave.
“When I was here last month, do you remember our talking about my garden?”
Dr. Mercer brightened. “Of course. You have a poison garden.”
“Angie Curtis”—he gestured at me—“called me tonight and told me you suspected Ted Lawrence might have been poisoned. She thought I might be able to help. I may know why he’s sick.”
Dr. Mercer took a breath, and looked around the room. “I’m sorry. I was on my way to tell all of you. Mr. Lawrence died a few minutes ago. He never regained consciousness.”
Sarah began crying. Michael looked as though he was in shock. “He’s dead? Really dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Dr. Mercer. “We don’t have many people in Emergency tonight, so if any of you would like to come and see him, you’re welcome to.”
Luke and Michael went past her into the ER. Jeremy sat, staring at the wall. Abbie looked at Silas and said what everyone was thinking. “What do we do now?”
“There’ll be an autopsy to determine cause of death,” said Dr. Mercer. “We’ll call the medical examiner tonight, but I doubt the exam will take place until Monday. You should be able to make funeral arrangements after that.” She looked around the room. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Dave, would you come with me? I’d like to hear what you think.”
He and Dr. Mercer disappeared into the Emergency Room.
“We’re the drivers. We’ll wait for Luke and Michael and then take everyone back to The Point,” said Patrick quietly. “There’s nothing we can do for anyone here.”
I nodded.
A few minutes later Dave came back.
“So?” I asked. “Did you figure out what it was?”
“I think so,” he answered. “Although we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to make sure. It could be something else. But I think he died of paralytic shellfish poisoning.”
“Red Tide,” I said.
“It might just have been one clam. But his system was already weakened by cancer. Make sure no one eats any clams that might be left at the lobster bake.”
I wasn’t worried. I suspected the gulls had enjoyed the rest of our dinner. Had any of them died, too?
Toxic algae blooms didn’t only kill people.
Chapter Twenty-three
“As this fair sampler shall continue still
The guide and model of my future skill.
May Christ the great exemplar of mankind,
Direct my ways and regulate my mind.”
—Section of genealogical sampler stitched by D.T. (Deborah) Phillips (1810-1885) in 1824 in Portland, Maine. Deborah became the second wife of botanical physician Moses Lunt in 1842.
Patrick and I drove everyone back to the Lawrences.
Those of us not staying at the house promised to come back in the morning with trash bags to clean up the remains of the ill-fated lobster bake. It didn’t seem right to leave that mess with the three who’d just lost their father, even if their relationships with him weren’t close.
I worried most about Sarah. “Would you like to stay with me tonight? Or have me stay at your place?”
“No. I just want to be alone. I need to think,” she said, climbing into her van. “And I want to take my grandmother home and find a place for her.”
The portrait. I’d forgotten about that. So much had happened in one day.
“I’ll come back about nine in the morning?” asked Patrick.
“I’ll be here,” I promised.
Sarah nodded, and Jeremy shrugged. “Guess we’d all better come. There’s safety in numbers.”
Patrick and I watched as Jeremy headed for his car. “That’s a strange reaction,” I said.
“Who knows? Everyone’s stressed tonight.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Department of Marine Resources sent someone here tomorrow to find out where those clams came from,” I added. “Ted’s children planned to leave tomorrow. They’ll have to make other plans.”
“I suspect there’ll also be a few discussions about the will Ted didn’t have time to make out,” said Patrick. “I’m assuming his earlier one, whatever it said, was more favorable to his children, since he didn’t know Sarah then.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” I said. I hoped Patrick would suggest that he’d follow me home, or that I should follow him. But I understood. This was not a day to take another step in our relationship. This was a day to accept and go on, and do what we could for those who’d lost someone close to them.
True to her word, Gram had been at my house. She’d left the porch and living room lights on for me, and Trixi’s food and water dishes were full. My little black kitten seemed glad to see me, rubbing herself around my ankles.
Then I realized I probably smelled of seafood. She might be bonding with me. Or she might be hoping I’d brought back some lobsters or mussels or . . . clams. I didn’t want to think about the whole situation anymore. I wanted to take a deep bubble bath and collapse into bed.
But I’d promised to call Gram.
“Are you home?”
“I am. Thanks for taking care of Trixi for me.”
“That was simple. I was thinking of taking a walk tonight anyway. How’s Ted?”
I hesitated. But Gram always wanted news straight. “He died, Gram. Dave suspects he ate a clam poisoned by Red Tide. Your idea to call him was a good one. There’ll still have to be an autopsy, of course.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t know Ted well, but he and his father have been assets to Haven Harbor for the past half century. How awful! I assume someone went clamming on their own.”
“Three people, actually.”
“They must feel awful. They probably skipped that little nuisance step of getting a license or checking to see what flats might be closed. Although closed flats should have been posted.”
“You’re probably right. But Ted was the only one to get sick.”
“And to die right after he’d told his family about Sarah. I don’t know his children well—they went to private school, and there was a bit of a scandal about his daughter, when she got pregnant and took off to marry someone she’d just met. But I suspect they’re not welcoming Sarah into the family fold with open arms.”
Gram was right. But I didn’t feel like rehashing the past two days. “Abbie was pregnant? She didn’t mention having any children.”
“Well, maybe it was all gossip. It was years ago, Angel, but I’m pretty sure there was a child involved. I wonder if any of Ted’s children will move back to Haven Harbor and live on The Point. Abbie lives up in the County, right?”
“Caribou. She teaches kindergarten there. The oldest son, Luke, works on Wall Street. He’s married to an actor.”
“Doesn’t sound as though their lives would transfer to Haven Harbor.” Gram paused. “Abbie was such a beautiful child. I remember thinking Ted’s wife, Lily, had been reborn. She and Abbie looked like an ad for the perfect mother and daughter.”
“I heard Lily drowned.”
“Down at their beach. I’ve always told yo
u, Angel, never to swim alone. That’s what she was doing. Maybe she got a cramp, or an undertow pulled her out. They found her body tangled in a lobster line just outside the harbor.”
I shuddered.
“Don’t think Ted ever quite got over her death. Never had another woman in his life, far as I heard.”
And if Gram hadn’t heard Haven Harbor gossip, it hadn’t happened.
“What’s Michael doing these days?” she asked.
“Writing poetry. Going to NYU.”
“Goodness gracious, girl, he’s been doing that for twenty years. Man should get his life together and grow up one of these days.”
“Maybe he will now.”
“You’re right. Maybe he will.”
“And Gram, there’s more. Right after Ted told us Sarah was his niece, he told us he had lung cancer. Stage four. He didn’t have long to live. Maybe the wine he was drinking interacted with his pain meds. But even if not, his cancer might be one reason he died so quickly. His body couldn’t fight back.”
“So sad.”
“And his dying tonight meant he didn’t make out the new will he’d planned. The will leaving Sarah all of Robert Lawrence’s paintings. Probably his earlier will left everything to his children.”
Gram sighed. “So Sarah went from being an heiress back to being an antiques dealer in twenty-four hours.”
“Right.”
“How’s she doing, Angie?”
“Pretty well, all things considered. I’m going to meet her at The Point tomorrow morning with Patrick and Jeremy to clean up what was left of the lobster bake.”
“Gulls will have gotten most of it.”
“I’ll take garbage bags. Lots of garbage bags.”
“I must say, Angie. Since you’ve come back to Haven Harbor, nothing here’s been boring.”
“Was it ever?” I said, remembering Mama. “Thanks again, Gram. Love you.”
“Love you, too. As always, for always.”
I hung up.
As always, for always. That’s what families should be.
I hoped the Lawrences were supporting each other tonight.
Chapter Twenty-four
“May my fond genius as I rise
Seek the fair fount where knowledge lies.
On wings sublime trace Heavens abode
And learn my duty to my God.”
—From sampler made in 1803 by Dorcas Shaw (1788-1879), probably at the school of Elizabeth Dawes in Portland, Maine. In 1810 Dorcas married Samuel Marshall in Augusta. A few years later they moved to Corinth, Maine, where they lived for the rest of their lives and had five children.
The beach was as messy as I’d imagined, but we weren’t the first to get there. Two men from the Department of Maine Resources Biotoxin Monitoring Program (it said on their cards, which they’d left nailed to a white pine next to the path to the beach) had arrived at The Point at dawn. They’d managed to wake Luke, who’d told them they could take whatever they wanted from the beach.
They’d bagged all the clam shells (between the partiers and the gulls, they hadn’t found any actual clams, but they had found one dead bird) and cross-examined Luke, and then Jeremy, who’d been the first of the cleaning volunteers to arrive, about exactly where they’d dug the clams so they could check the flats.
The clammers had tried several locations, so it wouldn’t be as simple as the Marine Resources folks had hoped. They planned to post every flat a clam might have come from yesterday, and test them all. Apparently on general principles they also posted the Lawrences’ beach, despite knowing no clams were there.
The rest of yesterday’s mess was still on the beach. Patrick had trouble picking up garbage, so Jeremy and I did most of that, while Patrick and Sarah filled in the pit and pulled wagonloads of supplies and garbage up the hill to the Lawrences’ barn.
Luke came outside and thanked us briefly before disappearing. We assumed the other Lawrences were either in bed or in mourning.
“Or hung over,” Sarah commented.
By a little after noon we were all exhausted and filthy, and the beach was as close to clean as it would be until winter tides had swept over it.
“The other Lawrences,” Jeremy said, “are probably toasting each other with the leftover champagne and congratulating each other on their inheritances.”
“I wonder what Ted’s earlier will said,” I said, out of curiosity.
“I don’t know,” said Jeremy. “He never told me. He once said I’d be a good person to take over his gallery someday, but I assumed he was referring to his retirement in the distant future, not his death.”
“Most parents divide their estates between their children equally,” Sarah pointed out.
“But Luke has plenty of money; Abbie works hard but has almost nothing—Ted pretty much cut her off after she married Silas—and he was still writing checks pretty regularly to Michael,” Jeremy said.
“How did you know all that?” asked Patrick.
Jeremy shrugged. “I worked in the gallery for years. I heard a lot. And for the past couple of years I’ve been keeping the books for the business. I don’t know everything, but I kept my eyes open.”
“Interesting. Who was Ted’s lawyer? He or she would probably have a copy of the will.”
“Lenore Pendleton took care of his legal business,” said Jeremy.
“Lenore Pendleton was murdered in early July,” I pointed out. “I don’t know who’s taken over her practice.”
Jeremy shook his head. “Ted sounded as though he was working with someone.”
“Glenda Pierce might know what happened to Lenore’s records,” I mused. “She was Lenore’s secretary.”
“But wouldn’t he have kept a copy of his will here, at home? Maybe in his safe?” asked Patrick. “My mother has several lawyers, for different parts of her business, but she always keeps copies—or originals—of important documents either in her safe in Los Angeles or at her bank. You don’t expect your lawyer to be murdered, of course, but people do die or retire.”
“I’m worried about the gallery,” Jeremy admitted. “Should I open the gallery as usual Tuesday morning? Or will Ted’s children, who clearly know nothing about art, and care less about anything but money, assume I’m breaking in to steal their inheritance?”
Sarah hadn’t said anything. Then, “We’re standing here, outside their house. We’ve just cleaned up their beach. We should be able to ask them if they have a copy of Ted’s will, and what will happen to the gallery. I know I won’t be in the will. But Jeremy needs to know whether he should be looking for a new job.”
Jeremy’s skin noticeably paled. “You’re right. You too, Patrick. You may not have a job anymore either.”
We all knew Patrick’s job wasn’t necessary to cover his food and rent expenses. But yes: he’d been working at the gallery and I assumed he was being paid.
“Sarah and I don’t have any reason to know about the distribution of the estate. But you both do. I agree. Patrick and Jeremy should knock on the door and ask them if they know what’s going to happen. What is happening now. They deserve to know.”
“And once they find out, I need to go home, take a shower, and open my shop,” said Sarah. “I’ve already lost several days’ income.”
Sarah seemed the one of us most affected by Ted’s death. She’d been holding up well, but her eyes kept tearing. She needed to get away from The Point and mourn in her own way.
Jeremy hesitated. “They could be in there right now, packing up all the Robert Lawrence paintings. Damaging them. Not one of them even knows how to crate a painting.”
“Jeremy, those paintings aren’t ours. They’re responsible for the Lawrences now,” Patrick reminded him.
“I’ve spent fifteen years of my life sitting in this dumb little town, taking care of those paintings. Protecting them for Ted, and for posterity. Those ingrates are just going to ship them off to Sotheby’s as a group. I know it. They won’t get top prices because they’ll al
l be sold at once. They don’t know what they’re doing! I hate it! I hate them!” Jeremy sat down on a granite bench next to the driveway. “I can’t believe this is happening. It makes no sense. Ted would hate everything they’re doing.”
“We don’t know for sure what they’re deciding,” Patrick pointed out, putting his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go and find out?”
That was when we heard a gunshot, and glass shattering.
Chapter Twenty-five
“The high honour bestowed upon Needlework in ancient days when it was considered one of the chief spoils of the conqueror, and a fitting gift to be presented to kings, is fully shown by its frequent mention by the sacred writers and by Homer, Pliny, Herodotus, and others.”
—The 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.
All four of us ran into the Lawrences’ kitchen, hoping no one was hurt. I touched the shoulder holster I’d put under my sweatshirt that morning. No, I don’t usually wear my Glock when I’m planning on cleaning up a beach.
But Silas’s threatening Sarah and I with his gun yesterday had made me uneasy. Very uneasy. When I feel that way, I carry. And since I didn’t want anyone with me to know how uneasy I was, I concealed my weapon.
Maine law now let me do that.
Unfortunately, they let everyone else do it, too. Occasionally I walked through the supermarket, wondering how many shoppers and clerks were secretly armed.
Although I’d learned to shoot, and started carrying, when I’d worked for a private investigator in Arizona, I wasn’t a fervent Second Amendment supporter. I wasn’t against legal hunting. But truthfully, I’d feel a lot safer if, as Sarah had once said, our country was like Australia, and no one had guns.
On the other hand, as long as someone like Silas could drink and shoot, I wanted to be able to defend myself and my friends.