by Lea Wait
Josh and a friend of his lugged furniture, drapes, and boxes of books and pottery and even decorative rocks. (“Someone might find it amusing to buy one that had been in Aurora,” Skye said. Sarah and I didn’t argue.)
Who’d pay money for rocks and shells you could find down on Pocket Cove Beach? But Skye was the boss. What she said was what happened.
Even Patrick stayed out of her way, especially in the mornings, when she gave out instructions for the day. She and Patrick were still living in the motel, but they’d be living on the estate sooner than I’d assumed. The first floor of the carriage house had been gutted, and Patrick had scouted the area for both old and new wicker furniture and Adirondack chairs to be used as informal living-room furniture as soon as the walls were replaced and painted. The Wests planned to move in the day before the sale.
To ensure his future studio would be warm enough, Patrick had its walls insulated. He hired a mason to build a chimney for the woodstove he’d chosen. Electric heat was being installed on the second floor.
It was amazing how fast work could be done when you were willing to pay overtime.
After our first day at the house, I forgot about looking elegant. Jeans or shorts and old T-shirts worked fine. My arms were scratched from all the trash and treasures I carried from the house to the Dumpster or the trailer or the tent. Sarah, on the other hand, appeared every day with makeup in place, wearing a coordinated outfit. Corporate casual, I suspected it would have been called in Phoenix.
“Patrick talks to us,” she confided, concerned. “But we have so much to do, there’s no time for real conversation. I’d hoped to really get to know him. Maybe once the lawn sale is over?”
Once the lawn sale was over, I saw no reason we should be at Aurora, unless we were discussing the needlepoint panels. But I didn’t point that out to Sarah. She was besotted. And having checked the man out myself, I could hardly blame her. Although when tall, dark, handsome, and charming also came with money . . . I didn’t trust it.
Truthfully, I wasn’t so sure about trusting men on general principle. Or on specific principle, either. I had a history. It might not be as checkered as some people in Haven Harbor imagined, but I hadn’t exactly behaved like a nun in a convent.
Gram’s intended was more interesting than I’d imagined a minister would be. Better-looking, too. Although I hadn’t had any personal experience with ministers, I’d imagined they saw life a little differently than the rest of us. They were more rarefied—more head in the heavens, less feet on the ground.
Reverend Tom broke all my imagined rules. He’d even introduced me to Ouija boards. (He collected them, and he and Ruth occasionally spent an evening with spirits. And, I suspected, with a glass or two.)
Bottom line: I liked (and trusted) him. So maybe Patrick would break all the rules for tall, dark, handsome, and the world at his fingertips. I hoped so, for Sarah’s sake.
It would be nice to know a couple of good guys under the age of sixty. (Even if they were other women’s guys.)
Skye had set the date of the sale for a Saturday.
“More people should be able to come on a Saturday,” she declared.
I didn’t point out that most people in Haven Harbor worked several jobs, especially between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Weekends were work days here.
Word spread quickly: A famous actress had bought Aurora and was going to restore it. People wondered if it was to be a summer home or a full-time residence. How bad was the house’s condition? How long would it take to fix up? How much money would it cost? How much of that money would be spent in Haven Harbor?
Sarah and I arrived at six the morning of the sale. Dozens of people were already in line outside the closed gate. Wisely, Skye had decided to discourage early birds and dealers arriving predawn to scout the merchandise.
Sarah called Patrick. He appeared quickly and let us in.
The sale was to start at seven. We’d set up two tables, one in each tent, where Sarah and I would play cashier. We each had stacks of “sold” stickers to hand out, and Ob’s son, Josh, and a friend of his were at another table to arrange to pick up any heavy furniture and deliver it. For a fee, of course.
Tables and chairs were set up between the large tents. Free iced tea or water or lemonade or coffee and piles of cookies awaited early-morning customers there. I walked through “my” tent (the one with the furniture). There’d be more questions about the “smalls,” as Sarah called them, and she was better equipped with answers.
Then I got a cup of coffee and a cookie or two before the hordes descended. After the past week’s work, I could use all the caffeine and sugar I could get.
Skye was checking coolers of water and cartons of cookies still to be unpacked. She’d bought some from the patisserie in Haven Harbor, but I also noted boxes marked: STANDARD BAKING COMPANY, PORTLAND. The local patisserie might have been overwhelmed by the size of her order.
I poured my coffee as Skye looked at her watch. “It’s almost six-thirty. I called the high school to find several girls there who’d come to help with the refreshment table. They should be here at any time.”
She’d thought of everything.
“I have to ask,” I said, between munching a molasses cookie and taking sips of coffee. “We’ve been racing so fast to get all this set up. But . . . why? Why not take anything of value to a local auction house and throw the rest out?”
She smiled as she added sliced lemons to an enormous punch bowl of lemonade. “Because I want people from Haven Harbor to come to Aurora the way they did when the Gardeners entertained. I want them to see I’m an ordinary person, not a pompous celebrity from California.” She paused and looked out toward the gate. “And because I’m hoping people who were at that last party in 1970 come today.”
“Why?” I blurted. “That was years ago! I’m sure the majority of people who were here that day don’t even live in town anymore.” If they are even still alive, I thought.
“Some do,” Skye said knowingly. “And those who don’t may hear about the sale and decide to come.”
“My Gram was here that night. She’ll probably stop in today. But who knows exactly who was here that night?”
“I’ve heard many people in town talking as though they were here,” Skye said. “Maybe it’s like everyone who was young in 1969 claiming they were at Woodstock. But I think those who need to come, those who knew Jasmine best, will be here today.”
“And?” I couldn’t help feeling that wasn’t a complete answer.
“It will be the first time most of them have been back since that night.” She leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I don’t believe Jasmine drowned accidentally. I believe someone killed her.”
I stared at her. I hadn’t expected anything like that. This lawn sale was about Jasmine Gardener?
“If no one comes forward today to share information, then I’ll talk with them later. But I’m going to find out what happened that night. I’m going to find out who killed Jasmine.”
Chapter 10
While beauty and pleasure are now in their prime,
And folly and fashion expect our whole time,
Ah, let us not these phantoms our wishes engage.
Let us live so in youth that we blush not in age.
—Sampler stitched by Mary Ann McLellan
(1803–1831), Portland, Maine, 1807
(Collection of the Portland Museum of Art)
Patrick opened the gate at seven o’clock on the dot, and the long line of potential customers flooded in.
“Here they come!” Sarah said, watching with amazement. “We’d better get to our posts. Skye was right. Everyone in town is coming.”
I raised my cup of coffee in her direction and headed for the furniture tent. I suspected Sarah would need reinforcement at some point. More people would be interested in small items they could take with them than would be fascinated by pieces of furniture that needed refinishing or reupholstering. Or both.
&
nbsp; To my surprise, Patrick followed me.
“You did it!” he grinned, looking around the giant tent sheltering all the motley pieces of furniture that one week before had been inside Aurora. “And the weather’s on all of our sides. Mom was worried rain would keep the crowds down.”
I looked out the end of the tent. “You’re right. It’s a gorgeous June day,” I said, glad I’d worn a sweater. “The sun should warm us all up in a few hours.”
The stream of people coming through the estate’s gate divided. Guided by signs we’d printed by hand the night before, some people headed to the “smalls” tent, some walked toward the house itself (to get a peek at the inside), and a very few (dealers, I suspected) raced toward us.
“This tent won’t be the first stop for most people unless they’re looking for a specific piece of furniture. Or,”—I watched as two men turned a table upside down, shook their heads, and left it on the ground—“they’re people who know old furniture and are looking for a bargain.”
“Mom and I’ve been impressed with how hard you and Sarah worked to get this ready so quickly. We know it wasn’t easy. We’ll eventually end up with a spectacular new home. You guys just get to collapse.”
With large checks in our pockets, I thought. “Collapsing will sound pretty good by the end of today, I suspect,” I said. “Setting this all up has been an experience.”
One I wouldn’t want again. But, then, if the money was equally as good, who could say?
“For all of us,” he acknowledged. “Mom’s bought other places before. She has a home near L.A., a place in New York City, and for a while she had a retreat in Aspen. But she usually hires someone to direct any construction or decorating she wants. She keeps in touch by phone. Sometimes she asks me to go and check on the work. I’ve never seen her as involved as she is here.”
“You live with her, then? All the time?” Not to be nosy, but shouldn’t a thirtysomething guy have his own place?
“It’s not what you’re thinking. First of all, Mom’s often on location somewhere else in the world, so all our homes are empty. I can use them—however I choose, whenever I choose. In L.A. I have a studio nearby. That’s where I spend most of my time, working. When I’m really involved with a project I sleep there. If I want to entertain, I invite a friend or three there, or I can be more formal at the big house. It’s good to have options.” He smiled, almost shyly. “Mom and I get along pretty well. I have my own friends. I don’t get involved with all the Hollywood parties and gossip. Being an artist is convenient. People tag me ‘creative’ and I have a built-in excuse for not doing what I don’t want to do.”
“And you’ll have a studio here.”
“Exactly!” He nodded. “When we finish it, the carriage house should be perfect for what I need. It will be a place to paint and store my work, a place to sleep, a small kitchen for any cooking I feel in the mood to do. I’m a genius at pasta dinners and pancake breakfasts, and I can even turn out a mean frittata.” He looked at me and winked. “Sometime I hope you’ll let me demonstrate.”
He glanced at me. . . . He did have dark eyes! And he continued talking before I thought of an appropriate response. What would Sarah think of his invitation? But maybe Patrick was just being friendly. Maybe he’d invited Sarah for frittata, too.
For more than a moment, I wished she hadn’t seen him first.
“I’m tired of Southern California, and was never into the Aspen scene. But here?” He threw open his arms. “A beautiful location, quiet for most of the year, and, from what I’ve heard, an active art community. Before Mom bought this place, I made a scouting trip to check out galleries in Boston and Portland. I have no time this summer, with all the work that needs to be done here, but next fall I plan on visiting more of the galleries, checking out their openings, and introducing myself.”
“So you plan to spend the whole year here.”
“I do,” he answered, nodding. “Although I’ll reserve judgment on the word ‘whole’ until I’ve lived here awhile. I can see making a trip to the islands, or the Mediterranean, or even back to L.A., in January or February, if the snows get too high to see out the windows here.”
A woman came up to my table holding a gold-framed Victorian mirror. The mirror itself was damaged, but the frame was fabulously elaborate, with cupid faces peeking out from a vine pattern.
“This is marked fifteen dollars. Is that right?” she asked a little cautiously.
I checked. “Yup. It’s fifteen dollars.”
“Then it’s sold!” She grinned. “A new piece of mirror and it’ll be perfect for my downstairs bathroom.” She rested the mirror on the ground while she dug a ten and a five out of her wallet. “This is a fantastic sale! I’ll put the mirror in my van, but I’ll be back! I see other possibilities, but I have to measure them. And I haven’t even been in the other tent yet.”
“Great,” I said, tucking her money into the tin cookie box I was using as a cash box. “If you’re interested in any larger pieces, we have people who can help get them to your vehicle.”
“At your service.” Patrick bowed toward her.
She looked him up and down and actually giggled as she picked up her mirror. “Now I’ll definitely be back.”
“First sale from this tent!” I said. “Hope everyone is as pleased as she was.”
“The tent will be empty by noon,” Patrick promised optimistically. I wasn’t as sure.
“So, how hard are the winters here?” he asked, getting back to our earlier conversation. “Seriously.”
I laughed. “Contrary to popular wisdom, it doesn’t get that bad here. We’re on the coast. We don’t get as much snow as inland. But, sure, we get our share of cold and ice.”
“I’ll be disappointed if there isn’t a lot of snow,” said Patrick. “I was looking forward to a classic New England white Christmas. In fact, Mom is already planning to be here for the holidays.”
“Could be a white Christmas,” I agreed. “Certainly a better chance of it than you’d have in L.A.! I’m kind of hoping for snow then, too. I’ve been away a lot of winters, and December twenty-fifth never really seemed like Christmas when temperatures were over seventy degrees.”
“Where were you?” he asked.
“In Mesa, Arizona. Just outside Phoenix,” I said.
“School?”
“Briefly. Mostly, I was working.”
“As what?”
“For a private detective.” I didn’t say I was used to carrying. Or that I’d only come back to Maine after my mother’s body had been found.
He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting work.”
“Sometimes.”
We watched Skye greeting people at the side of the house. She was signing papers—autographs, I guessed— and posing for pictures.
“Doesn’t she ever get tired of smiling?” I asked, changing the subject from my past to our present.
“She likes acting. She likes the money she earns. Being photographed and talked about is one way she pays for doing a job she loves. By now, she’s used to it. Her idea was that by inviting everyone here for the sale, she could establish herself as a new member of the community. A contributing member. Not someone you might invite for dinner once a week, of course, but someone who’s accessible.”
And she wants to learn more about Jasmine Gardener, I told myself, thinking of my earlier conversation with Skye.
“I’m glad you had the construction crew put boards over the weak spots in the floor of the house,” I added. “Most people are heading inside before checking out what’s for sale.”
“Last night we closed off the third floor,” Patrick said. “We put up a sign saying it wasn’t safe and there was nothing up there. The old guy who used to be the caretaker— Ob Winslow?—is up on the second floor, making sure no one heads farther up into the house.”
“Your mother seems fascinated by Jasmine Gardener’s story.”
He shrugged. “She does. It’s a little spooky, but she l
oves stories. She’s made several movies about ghosts, you know. Jed Fitch, the real estate guy, told her all about Jasmine. Not a lot of people want to buy a house where there was a mysterious death. But Mom wanted this place, despite all the work it’d take. She’s been thinking about getting a place in Maine for years. Several of her friends have places along the coast . . . John Travolta, Patrick Dempsey, Stockard Channing, and probably some others I don’t remember, or don’t know about. I remember Tony Shalhoub praising the state, too. I think he went to the University of Southern Maine. They all said Mainers were good at maintaining the privacy of well-known people. That meant a lot to her. She’d visited here a long time ago and loved it then. That was what encouraged me to check out the art scene. I didn’t have anything to do with her choosing to buy this property. However, when I heard it had a carriage house, I was sold.”
“Why do you think she’s so fascinated with what happened to Jasmine?” I asked, keeping my eye on a couple checking out chairs that had been in Mrs. Gardener’s bedroom.
Patrick shrugged. “All she ever said to me was that she and Jasmine were about the same age, and she didn’t like to see a murder go unsolved.”
“Maybe she’s been in too many crime movies, where all the answers are tied up at the end,” I suggested. “Unfortunately, life isn’t like that.”
“Philosophy from the needlepoint queen,” said Patrick. “But you may be right. I think it’s just a phase, in any case. How could she solve a murder forty-five years old? If it even was a murder.”
“She told me she’s convinced Jasmine didn’t die accidentally,” I said quietly.
“That’s what she believes. I don’t know why. Somehow she thinks she’ll be able to solve a possible crime the police and townspeople and Jasmine’s mother, all of whom tried for years, couldn’t even definitely determine was a murder.” He leaned over and lowered his voice. “Truthfully, I hope she forgets the whole thing. Once, she decided to raise prize Dalmatians. That only lasted a year or so. She didn’t have the time to get as involved as she wanted, so she lost interest. She ended up giving all the dogs to a shelter.” He shook his head. “This Jasmine Gardener thing is probably like that. A passing interest. As soon as she gets back to work, she’ll be researching a new role and forget all about it.”