by Lea Wait
Chapter 3
With fingers weary and worn
With eyelids heavy and red.
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread.
—Thomas Hood (1798–1845)
The Song of the Shirt, 1843
I kept thinking about Jasmine Gardener on my drive home. She’d died when she was only seventeen. Today she’d be sixty-two. Thirty-five years older than I was. She might have been married and had grandchildren by now. Or had a great career as . . . what? I couldn’t guess. All I knew about her was she’d been a rich girl and she’d died.
She might have made a major contribution to the world. Or she might have lived an ordinary life. Or a disastrous one. She didn’t have a chance to choose. To die at seventeen meant all her possibilities were wasted. Canceled. Gone.
I’d been seventeen ten years ago. What had I accomplished with those years?
It was a depressing thought.
I’d felt like an average, ordinary girl, growing up not-rich-and-not-destitute in a harbor town in Maine until Mama disappeared, when I was almost ten. Then I became the subject of whispers; I was someone to be pitied. I was someone whose mother, many said under their breaths, was a slut. As a teenager I’d raged, followed in some of Mama’s footsteps, and hated everything and everyone. I certainly hadn’t made life easier for Gram, or for anyone else in Haven Harbor. Or, I was beginning to admit now, for myself.
Then I’d spent ten years in Arizona. Had I made a difference to the world? A difference, perhaps indirectly, to our clients whose spouses I’d tracked and who’d ended up winning in divorce court. No differences I was proud of, although my work had paid the bills.
And here I was, back in Haven Harbor. After all these years Mama’s body had been discovered a month ago, and I’d been able to find her killer. I’d committed to staying in town six months. I wasn’t ready to sign up for more small-town life than that.
Being back home opened some chapters of my life I’d tried to close forever. Meant confronting the memories and nightmares I’d grown up with.
But it also meant I was close to the rocks and sea I’d always loved. Back where the familiar screech of hungry herring gulls woke me in the morning, and the spring peepers kept me company at night. I could indulge in the seafood and fresh New England produce I’d missed in Arizona. For me, Mexican food would never replace haddock chowder, a lobster club sandwich, or, at this time of year, rhubarb crisp or strawberry-rhubarb pie, with vanilla ice cream.
I hoped Gram’d made something sweet today. Maybe her maple bread pudding. One sniff of her kitchen and I was back to my childhood. The good parts of my childhood. What would I do after she married Reverend Tom and moved to the rectory? I’d existed on fast food in Arizona. Someday I’d have to learn to cook.
I pulled into the driveway in back of Gram’s car, opened the door, and inhaled. The smell and the taste of salt breezes were better than any tranquilizer or massage.
I wouldn’t have minded a glass of wine or two, though. Or a gin and tonic.
For the moment I was living chastely, by chance if not by choice. But I hadn’t given up all my vices. Wine, beer, cognac, gin . . . I didn’t discriminate against any of them.
Those chairs Gram and I repainted last week looked inviting on the front porch. A glass in my hand, a copy of the Portland Press Herald, and a seat protected from strong sea breezes and overlooking Haven Harbor’s Green—that’s where I was headed.
“Gram? I’m home,” I called into the front hall. Juno, Gram’s enormous yellow coon cat, padded into the hall from the living room and greeted me with a yowl.
“In the kitchen, Angel,” came Gram’s response. “With Sarah. Come join us.”
Gram and Sarah Byrne, the youngest member of the Mainely Needlework crew (except for me), were sitting at the table. I hadn’t decided whether it was Sarah’s blond hair streaked with pink and blue, her Aussie accent, or her frequent quoting of Emily Dickinson that made her the most memorable member of the Maine Antiques Dealers Association. Her excellent needlework made her a valuable member of our Mainely Needlepoint team. She and I also had agreed to establish a sideline to the business: identifying, conserving, and restoring old needlework. Was that why she was here today? It would have taken something important to convince her to close her antique shop on a June afternoon.
“Iced tea?” Gram asked. She and Sarah already had glasses. “I made a couple of pitchers this morning. They’re in the refrigerator. Green pitcher’s black tea. Clear pitcher’s herb.”
Iced tea wasn’t exactly what I’d been thinking of. I poured myself a glass of the caffeinated variety. When I was growing up, Gram had only made that kind, complete with fresh lemons and mint from the garden and an amount of sugar I didn’t want to guess at. Now she’d discovered green and herb teas and left both varieties unsweetened.
I added a packet of artificial sweetener to my glass and fleetingly wondered if it would be too obvious if I walked to the dining room and added gin. But I was still Gram’s little girl. She did indulge in a glass of wine now and then—something she hadn’t done while I was growing up—but I didn’t think she’d be sympathetic to gin in iced tea.
I’d have to wait for a more serious drink.
In the meantime I joined Sarah and Gram at the old pine kitchen table.
“You were over to Ob and Anna Winslow’s place, right?” asked Gram.
“Delivered that needlepoint kit Anna ordered, and gave Ob the last of the checks we owed him. He’s hoping to fill his summer with fishing charters, not needlework.” I took a deep drink. Gram did make good iced tea. “Seems to be something going on at the old Gardener estate. Ob said someone’s bought the place.”
Sarah and Gram exchanged glances. “That’s what I was saying before you arrived,” said Sarah. “Although that place gives me the willies. It reminds me of Emily’s line— ‘I know some lonely Houses off the Road.’ But if it’s fixed up, it could be a stunner. Exciting to think of it, isn’t it?”
“I’ve always loved it,” I answered. “Never saw the inside, of course.” (Except for the carriage house, I reminded myself privately.) “It’s a shame it’s been left to decay so long. No one can afford to build houses like that today.”
“I don’t know,” said Sarah. “Maybe no one in Haven Harbor could, but there are wealthy people in the world.” She looked from Gram to me. “People from California, for instance.”
“Why do I have the feeling you know something more about it?” I asked.
“Last week, when I was having my hair done at Mane Waves, Elsa Fitch said she’d heard the old place was for sale. I didn’t even think to mention it to you. We weren’t going to buy it, and places in that condition can be on the market for years,” Gram said.
Sarah grinned. “I know all about it. I was sworn to secrecy, but I have to tell someone! And I even have an excuse to tell both of you.”
“So? What did you hear? Talk, lady!” I said.
Sarah was almost bouncing in her seat. It must be exciting news, or Gram had made the caffeinated iced tea a lot stronger than usual.
“Well,” Sarah said in a dramatic whisper, leaning over, “Aurora, the old Gardener place, has been bought by Skye West!” She leaned back as though she’d just announced the Messiah would be dropping in for lunch.
“Skye West, the actress?” I asked hesitantly. Among the many areas of culture I didn’t keep up to date with were Hollywood figures. But I was pretty sure I’d heard of Skye West. “Didn’t she win an Oscar a couple of years ago?”
“And a Tony last year.” Sarah added.
Gram shook her head. “Sorry. Maybe I need to spend more time at Mane Waves reading People magazine. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of her.”
Sarah looked disappointed. We weren’t as excited as she’d thought we’d be. “How’d you find that out?” I asked. Whether or not Gram knew who Skye West was, I was pretty sure. And no one but Sarah seemed to have heard she plan
ned to buy a place in Haven Harbor. Sarah’d only lived in town a few years. I wouldn’t have guessed she had an inside track to Haven Harbor gossip. Mainers took a while to welcome people from away into their inner circles, and Sarah had come from about as far away as you could get.
“That’s even more exciting!” Sarah went on. “Late this morning I couldn’t help spotting a fantastic-looking bloke in his early thirties looking through the stuff in my shop. I’d never seen him before. I sat in back of the counter doing needlepoint like mad and sneaking looks at him.”
“So,” I said, “a good-looking guy came into your shop. And . . . ?”
“A couple there at the same time was looking at my inventory as though it was a museum exhibit. Lots of looks and no purchases. When they left, the handsome hunk—”
“Hunk?” I asked. “Really?”
“Well, he wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I’ll bet he lifts weights in his spare time.” Sarah shot me a look that said, “Let me tell my story, my way.” I shut up. “He asked me how long I’d been in business and where I came from. Then he asked me how much I knew about needlepoint.”
“Yes?” Gram said, now paying closer attention.
“Of course, I told him about coming from Australia, and about Mainely Needlepoint. He said his mum’s best friend was from Australia, too. I could have fallen through the floor when he said her best friend was Nicole Kidman!”
“And so who was this perfect man?” asked Gram. I suspected she didn’t know who Nicole Kidman was any more than she’d heard of Skye West.
“I’m getting to that! He’s Skye West’s son, Patrick. And he’s single and an artist, and he wants me to come and look at Aurora and appraise what’s in there. He said his mum is buying the estate and plans to fix it up, and he’s going to put a studio in the carriage house.”
“So the place is being sold as is, with the contents?” asked Gram.
“Patrick says the place is a bit of a wreck, but they don’t want to throw out anything valuable, so they were looking for an antique dealer to give it a walk-through. All I could think of was ‘Mansions! Mansions must be warm! Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions much exclude the storm!’”
(Poetry isn’t my thing. But I knew when Sarah said something odd, she was quoting Emily.)
“He said a lot of stitchery is in the house. Most of it’s in poor condition, but his mother wants some restored.”
“Ob mentioned Mrs. Gardener was a serious needlepointer,” I said. “It would be fantastic if they’d pay us to restore all of it! They must have tons of money to even attempt the work that cottage will need.”
“That’s what I thought. And I couldn’t keep that possibility to myself. Plus, I’m a bit nervous about taking on such a large job. I haven’t been an antique dealer for too long. So I asked Patrick if I could bring a friend when I do the appraisal—a friend who’s an expert in needlepoint.”
“Who’re you going to bring?” I asked.
“You, of course!” Sarah grinned, brushing a strand of pink hair back from her face. “But remember, I saw Patrick West first!”
Chapter 4
I can be safe and free from care
On any shore, if thou be there.
—Words stitched on a sampler by an anonymous American girl, perhaps an immigrant, 1802
We were both nervous. Sarah had never done an appraisal of a whole house, and I was less experienced than that. I volunteered to photograph everything.
Camera taken care of, we got down to our most difficult decision: what we should wear. After several texts, balancing what we’d heard about the inside of the house with what rich people from Hollywood might expect appraisers to wear, Sarah decided on a preppie look, with navy slacks, a red blazer, and a white shirt. My wardrobe didn’t present many choices, but I came up with tan slacks and an almost-matching sweater. Good thing June mornings in Maine were cool.
Focusing on wardrobe options took our minds away from being nervous about what we hoped would be our biggest needlework preservation job yet. We had no idea whether we’d be looking at nineteenth-century (or earlier) samplers and stitchery, or the product of Mrs. Gardener’s long years of living at Aurora with only her needlepoint to keep her company.
Plus, what else might be in a house empty for so long? I wasn’t superstitious, but I shivered a little thinking about what might be inside.
“Hey, it isn’t as though Jasmine Gardener’s body is going to be there,” Sarah assured me as we headed out to the estate. “Besides, if it were there, it’d be all dried up by now. A mummy, I’d think.”
“That’s reassuring?” I asked. “Besides, Maine’s too damp to allow for mummification.” I changed the subject. “Let’s not think about Jasmine. Let’s focus on what we have to do inside that house.” I’d always been curious about the inside of Aurora, but today I felt as though those tiny Spring Azure butterflies were fluttering inside my stomach.
“Besides,” Sarah continued, “I heard the fountain where Jasmine died was destroyed. There’s nothing left to preserve evidence.”
“Evidence? Of what?”
“Of whether she was murdered or died accidentally, of course.” Sarah grinned as she turned and drove through the open iron gate in the gray stone wall surrounding the property. We parked on the oval pavement, now cracked and broken, in front of the house.
Up close the place was in even worse condition than I’d imagined.
Paint had peeled off once-white clapboards, leaving the mansion grayed from sea air and winds. Old shutters, which must have been collected after they fell, were stacked against one corner of the building. I suspected Ob had put them there years ago. Tall strands of witchgrass had grown up around and through the shutters’ slats.
Sarah and I looked up at the precariously tilted balcony above the massive front door and the broken slate roof tiles littering the yard. Could we still back out of this job? Then two people walked around the side of the house and joined us.
“Sarah! Good to see you again,” said the man.
Sarah was right. Patrick’s loosely waved dark hair and deep brown eyes definitely put him in the “tall, dark, and handsome” category.
“And this must be your friend. Angie, am I right?” He had a firm grip and covered my hand with both of his, a strangely familiar gesture. His fingernails were stained with paint. “And this is my mother, Ms. West.” He indicated the handsome woman with him. Her casually pinned-up hair was gray, with streaks of white. She was almost as tall as her son and walked as though she was a model. Maybe she had been. “Mom, these are the women who’re going to appraise what’s in the house.”
“Please call me Skye. After all, we’re going to be neighbors,” she added, her smile taking in both Sarah and me. “Thank you for taking a look at what’s left in the house.” She wasn’t what I’d expected a movie star to be. Her voice was low and calm and she wasn’t wearing makeup. I guessed she was a well-preserved sixty and had spent a lifetime slathering on sunblock and antiaging creams.
I should give Gram a facial for a prewedding gift.
Skye’s designer jeans and Haven Harbor T-shirt looked new, but she made no attempt to hide the streak of dirt across the front of the shirt. “I’ll warn you—this place is a mess. We’ve already arranged for a couple of dumpsters. Most of what’s inside the house will end up being junked.” She paused. “It’s sad. You can still imagine what Aurora was in its heyday, but dampness, combined with cold winters and hot summers, has destroyed almost everything.”
“Not to mention the birds and bats and various animals that have invaded it over the years,” Patrick added. “And died there.”
“Don’t alarm Angie and Sarah even more than you have to,” Skye put in, turning to us. “I assure you we’ve already removed the dead animals and birds. The damage they did, sad to say, wasn’t as easy to do away with.”
Sarah and I exchanged a glance. How bad was this place going to be inside?
“Sarah mentioned
there’s a lot of needlepoint,” I said. “Are you thinking of having it all restored?”
She shook her head. “Sadly, no. You’ll see. Some of it’s in impossible shape. But I’d like to keep a few pieces, if you think they can be salvaged. Souvenirs of the history of this place.”
While Sarah explained how we planned to divide the work, I got out my camera and lenses.
“I’ll go with you,” Skye was saying.
“Watch out for holes and rotten places in the floors. And some ceilings are on the verge of falling,” Patrick added. “We’re hoping the house will still be standing after we get all the ruined furnishings and torn wallpaper and chunks of fallen plaster into the Dumpsters. Taking the wallpaper off some walls will take the plaster down, too.”
“I understand,” Sarah said. “But an appraisal is going to take us a while. Why don’t you give us a basic tour of the house, pointing out anything you want us to pay particular attention to, and then leave the two of us. That way we can focus on each room slowly. Make sure nothing is missed.”
And not be distracted by either of you, I added to myself.
Skye hesitated. “That makes sense. Patrick, would you stay here?” She turned to Sarah. “The first two Dumpsters are going to be delivered this morning—one for the main house and one for the carriage house. I’m sure there’s nothing worth saving in the carriage house, so you don’t even have to look there. We’re going to gut most of it so we can get a couple of rooms fixed up quickly. That’ll be our home while work on the house is progressing. Patrick plans to make that building his studio eventually, but our priority now is moving out of our motel and onto the estate.”
Sarah gave Patrick a quick glance. She would rather have had Patrick accompany us on our tour.
“I’ll catch up with you if you’re still in the house after the Dumpsters arrive,” he assured us. “But I also have to deal with the construction crew due later this morning. They’re going to remove the old plumbing and kitchen fixtures in the carriage house today.”