Threads of Evidence

by Lea Wait

  “I wish her the best. Maybe it is just a hobby. But as long as she’s fixing up the house, that’s fine.” I grinned. “Maybe Jasmine’s ghost will appear to her and tell her what happened.”

  “Who knows?” Patrick said, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder. “For the moment, though, I’d better go and see whether Mom or anyone else needs help.”

  I watched him walk confidently across the grass toward where his mother was surrounded by fans and curiosity seekers.

  “The price tag on that glass-topped rattan coffee table says twenty dollars. Is that right?” a young woman was asking. I had to get to work. There were no ghosts in the furniture tent. At least none I could see.

  Chapter 11

  Needlework: a generic and comprehensive term, including every species of work that can be executed by means of the Needle, whether plain or decorative, and whatever description the Needle may be. From the most remote ages the employment of the Needle has formed a source of recreation, of remunerative work, and no less of economy, the useful occupation of time and charity, amongst all classes of women, in all parts of the world.

  —The Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopaedia of Artistic, Plain, and Fancy Needlework,

  London, 1882

  As the day wore on, I found myself both selling furniture and answering questions. A good percentage of those coming to the sale were as curious about the dark history of Aurora as Skye West was. And those that didn’t mention Jasmine Gardener’s death wanted to know about Skye herself. Since I was working there, they assumed I had an inside track to all Aurora, Jasmine, and Skye-related information.

  “Why did a famous actress buy this house? Why Haven Harbor?”

  “Was it true Jasmine died of arsenic poisoning?” (I hadn’t heard that before, but a number of Haven Harbor residents had, because several people asked me.)

  “Where was the fountain where that girl died?”

  “Is the house going to be torn down?”

  “Is the Gardener girl’s murder investigation going to be reopened?”

  “Was any new evidence in Jasmine’s murder found when the house was cleaned out?”

  “Isn’t all this talk of murder ridiculous? No one in Haven Harbor would kill anyone. Mrs. Gardener was too embarrassed to admit her darling daughter had been drunk and hit her head when she passed out.”

  Several people asked which pieces of furniture had been in Jasmine’s room. Unfortunately for those macabre types, Skye had decided to keep those pieces. I discouraged people looking for “the bed she died in” or “pictures of the crime scene.” I sent them to the tent where, I suspected, Sarah was being kept even busier than I was. She was selling the records Skye hadn’t wanted to keep and Jasmine’s faded posters.

  Women were even buying damaged needlepoint pillows, partially completed canvases, and other remnants of Mrs. Gardener’s handiwork. Sarah and I had gone through her needlepoint stash and removed any threads or yarns or floss we might need to use in restoring the panels. The bird pillows Skye liked were safely put away. But the rest of Mrs. Gardener’s work and supplies were for sale—complete with mildew.

  About noon Sarah arrived at my table. “Patrick’s taking over for a while in the other tent.

  He’s sending someone to cover for you, too,” she said. “I’m exhausted and need a break. You?”

  “Absolutely.” As soon as one of the young men who’d been helping take furniture to trucks, cars, and vans appeared with the news that I had an hour off, I closed the cash box and stretched.

  “Patrick said there’s lunch in the carriage house for us,” Sarah shared as we headed away from the crowds. A lot of people were still walking through the grounds; they were chatting and examining what was left of the merchandise.

  “How much have you sold?” I asked her.

  “I haven’t had time to add it up,” said Sarah, “but I’d guess about four thousand dollars. The silver and crystal went fast. But people are even buying the rocks Mrs. Gardener used as bookends, and the shells and pieces of driftwood that decorated the house, too.” She paused. “I don’t know if they’re looking for souvenirs of Aurora, of the Gardeners, or just want to buy something a famous actress has owned, however briefly. It’s crazy.”

  “Skye was right. People aren’t buying things. They’re buying memories. And souvenirs. I saw people carrying out the needlepoint we decided wasn’t worth restoring.”

  “A lot of people asked about Millicent Gardener’s embroideries. They’ve pawed over even the ratty, mildewed pieces. Pillow covers, wall hangings, chair cushions, even pieces only partially finished. They’ve all disappeared. Local folks knew Mrs. Gardener did a lot of needlepoint. They see her work as a fitting souvenir of Aurora. Perhaps some of them will end up coming to us to help restore them. ‘Don’t put up my Thread and Needle—I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle—Better Stitches—so.’”

  “Emily?”

  “It’s the first part of a poem she wrote about a dying woman who wished she could sew again.”

  I shook my head. “Amazing, although you’re right. Selling all this old needlepoint could mean more business for us down the line. I’ve even sold those awful animal heads.”

  “Those moth-eaten monstrosities?” asked Sarah.

  “A man from Waterville bought the moose, and Elsa Fitch, who owns the beauty parlor, bought the others.”

  “Why? I mean, why would she want them?”

  “I have no clue. But she seemed excited.”

  “No wonder it’s hard to buy antiques that will sell,” Sarah added. “You never know what idiotic thing people will buy.”

  “Are you getting lots of questions about Jasmine’s death?”

  “Almost as many as about Skye West’s next film, and whether or not she’s had face-lifts.”

  “Only a few more hours to go,” I declared. “I can hardly wait. What a week this has been! Almost everyone connected to Haven Harbor has been here today.”

  “I saw your grandmother,” Sarah agreed. “She and Reverend Tom bought a set of embroidered pillowcases. Maybe for her trousseau. All the Mainely Needlepointers have been here except Ruth, who’s down at my store. Dave Percy bought one of the incomplete pillow covers—one with herbs on it.”

  “Sounds like Dave,” I agreed. “If anyone can finish the pillow, he can. And it’ll go with his garden.”

  “And, of course, the whole Winslow family was here— Ob worked in the house, Josh was helping you with the furniture, and Anna bought two crystal tumblers.”

  “I saw Pete Lambert a few times. He and another cop are helping direct traffic.”

  “Oh . . . and Elsa Fitch, who bought the heads? She looked through all the needlepoint and then asked if we had any of the local scenes Millie Gardener stitched. She must have heard about the panels. Her brother, Jed, and his wife were here, too. He’s the real estate agent who sold the place, right?”

  “That’s right. Maybe he mentioned the panels to her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Elsa’s sister, Beth, bought four small wooden chairs for her kitchen. She’s planning to paint them in bright enamel colors.”

  Sarah frowned. “I haven’t lived in town as long as you have. Is Beth Fitch the one who teaches second grade?”

  “She was my second-grade teacher,” I admitted.

  “Then I do know her. She’s come into my shop a few times looking for nineteenth-century schoolbooks or merit cards, or other educational collectibles.” She paused. “Patrick’s invited us to stay after the sale closes at four o’clock. He mentioned champagne and tasty goodies, to thank everyone who’s helped out today.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a hot bath at that point,” I admitted. “But for champagne? I could stay a little longer.”

  “Patrick’s been wonderful, hasn’t he?” Sarah asked quietly as she and I picked out sandwiches (roast beef or chicken or vegetarian) from the coolers in the carriage house. I added a bag of barbecued chi
ps to my plate and a few carrot sticks.

  “I’ve had at least one cup of coffee every hour since dawn,” I said, choosing a bottle of soda. “I don’t need any more of that. But I still need caffeine to get through the next few hours.”

  “Sounds good,” Sarah agreed, following my lead. “I can’t believe we won’t be back here tomorrow again. They’ve hired boys from the high school to dump everything that’s left.”

  “I could sure use a late morning, and a quiet day,” I said. “And I suspect you have accounts to do at your store.”

  “You’re right. Ruth just makes out the sales slips. I’ll have to do the final accounting.” Sarah took a bite of her sandwich. “I’ll miss seeing Patrick every day. Do you think it would be too forward to ask him to dinner?”

  “I’d wait a few days. He’s got to be as exhausted as we are.”

  “Right. And we’re not really finished with Aurora, are we? We still have to talk with Skye about the needlepoint panels.”

  “You know, someone else asked me about them today. I can’t remember who it was. But it wasn’t Elsa Fitch. They said they’d heard Mrs. Gardener had done a series of pictures of the town as it was in 1970.”

  Sarah added potato chips to her sandwich. “Sounds like the ones hanging in the dining room, all right,” she said. “But they’re not for sale, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “No. What matters are the checks for fifteen thousand dollars we’ll be pocketing,” I added. “And whatever it will cost to restore those ten pictures. I’ve had no time to talk with Gram about them, but I’d like to get them farmed out to the needlepointers tomorrow or the next day. Gram’s wedding is two weeks from today. She and I have a lot to do between now and then.”

  “Is she getting excited?” asked Sarah. “I’d sure be excited if it were my wedding. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep the two weeks before! June has certainly turned out to be a lot more interesting than we’d thought.”

  “And lucrative,” I agreed. I’d never made fifteen thousand dollars carrying a handgun and a camera around Mesa, Arizona. There were a lot of different ways to make a living. But it helped to work for someone who didn’t mind writing large checks.

  Chapter 12

  Let virtue prove your never fading bloom

  For mental beauties will survive the tomb.

  —Sampler stitched by Mary Chase (1816–1832),

  Augusta, Maine, 1827

  At three-thirty, Patrick and a few of the other men helping with the sale walked through Aurora, checked to make sure everyone was out, locked its doors, and announced that the gates would be closing at four o’clock. Everyone should complete their purchases and leave.

  A crowd of last-minute townspeople gathered around the refreshment area and helped themselves to glasses of lemonade and cookies while thanking Skye for a wonderful day. Several children (and more than a few adults) left with pockets loaded down with cookies.

  At four o’clock the men made another round of the tents and grounds to make sure no one not working was on the property. A few people lined up to make last-minute purchases, and then, finally, it was over.

  Relief.

  An amazing amount of stuff had been sold, but the Dumpsters would be full again tomorrow. Sarah and I added up our sales, checked the cash and check totals, and brought them to Skye, who was sitting by the refreshment table.

  She’d taken her shoes off and stretched out her legs. She looked as tired as we felt. It had been a long week, followed by a long day.

  “What were the total receipts?” she asked.

  “Both of our tents together . . . a little under nine thousand dollars,” I answered. “We added quickly, so we may be a few dollars off, but that’s pretty close.”

  “Wonderful. That will make a nice contribution to the Haven Harbor Hospital,” she said. She handed Sarah and me our checks for fifteen thousand dollars each. “You’ve both done a great job in the past week. It took a lot of work to pull this off so quickly. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “So now the house is empty, and we can begin the construction,” said Patrick, joining us. “It’s so beautiful outside I asked the caterer to bring the champagne and hors d’oeuvres here, instead of leaving them in the carriage house.”

  I looked over and saw two men carrying a large cooler in our direction.

  “Before I indulge in any champagne, I’d like a last glass of lemonade,” I said, filling one of the red plastic cups stacked on the table. “I don’t think I’ve talked so much in one day for months. And in this heat . . . I’m thirsty.”

  “I sympathize,” said Skye. “I just had a glass myself. And I never want to see another cookie! If you or your grandmother would like some, please, please take them. After everyone takes what they want, I’ll have one of the boys drop the rest off at the assisted-living center and the nursing home next to the hospital. I’ve already told them any goodies left would go to them.”

  Skye had thought of everything. I sipped my lemonade and looked around. Suddenly a flash of red caught my eye.

  “Look!” I whispered, and pointed. We all held our breaths as a male ruby-throated hummingbird hovered over the red cups on the table. He stopped to sip one of the purple flowers in the centerpiece. He then headed for the end of the table, where he sipped out of one of the red cups.

  His colors were brilliant. We were all transfixed.

  Then, suddenly, he stopped hovering and fell to the table. Skye was closest to him. She touched his breast gently. “He’s dead!” she said, looking at all of us. “And he was sipping from the glass I poured for myself ten minutes ago.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Patrick asked. “Do you want to sit down?”

  She brushed him off. “I’m fine. But what just happened?”

  “Don’t touch anything. I’m going to get someone from the police,” Patrick said with authority.

  “That’s really not necessary,” Skye started to say. But Patrick was already gone.

  Sarah and I looked at each other and at the small, still bird. I put down my glass of lemonade. “I don’t think we should drink any more lemonade,” I said.

  “But we’ve been drinking it all afternoon,” said Skye. “Everyone’s been drinking it. No one’s been sick or complained about anything.”

  “Maybe the bird was sick before he drank it,” Sarah suggested.

  We all stood around the table, feeling helpless, until Patrick reappeared. Pete Lambert was with him. “I told him what happened,” said Patrick.

  “You’re sure the bird sipped from the cup?” asked Pete, nodding at me. I hadn’t talked to him in the past couple of weeks, but we’d gotten to know each other a month ago when I was trying to find out how my mother died.

  “We all saw the bird,” I confirmed. “He sipped from one of the purple flowers in the centerpiece,” I explained, pointing, “and then he sipped out of that cup.”

  “Everyone feels all right?” Pete asked, looking around at the few of us who were still there. “Hell, I even had a glass of that lemonade earlier this afternoon. But I’d better check it out.”

  He pulled a pair of plastic gloves and an evidence bag out of his trousers. “Never investigated the death of a hummingbird before, I’ll admit.” He took the dead bird and the cup the bird had sipped from. “I’d better take the punch bowl, too,” he said, looking around. “I have some sterile containers in my car.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Patrick, “if that won’t mess up any evidence.”

  “Evidence? Of a hummingbird’s death?” Pete grinned a little. “I doubt anyone else is in any danger.”

  “But the bird just dropped dead!” said Sarah.

  “Birds die,” said Pete. “No one else’s died here this afternoon, have they?”

  Skye smiled, but I had the feeling she wasn’t as amused as Pete appeared to be. “Everyone else is healthy. But that was my cup the bird sipped from.”

  Pete looked down at the cup, now in his hand. “
It looks pretty full. Had you drunk anything from it?”

  “No. I had a glass a little while ago, and then poured another. Several people stopped to talk with me, and I left that cup on the end of the table. I was about to go and get it when . . . the bird got there first.”

  Pete frowned. He sniffed the cup. “Can’t tell anything now. Was anyone near this cup?”

  We all shook our heads. The table had many red cups on it. Several dozen people had dropped off empty or partially full cups as they left. We’d started to clean up. Someone would have had to watch Skye closely to know that particular red cup was hers.

  “I’ll have the cup and what’s in it tested,” Pete promised. “I’ll let you know if we find anything unusual. In the meantime no one drink any more lemonade or touch any of the cups on the table! I doubt there’s a problem. But to be sure, we’ll need to test all the glasses. Does anyone remember who drank from the other glasses?”

  None of us had been paying attention. People had been dropping cups off all afternoon. Most of them had ended up in the two large trash barrels on either side of the refreshment table.

  Pete took pictures of the table and the glasses. He called his office to ask that someone come and bring more evidence bags and containers.

  The rest of us stood around and watched.

  Pete finally looked at us. “I heard you were planning a bit of a celebration after today’s sale. I suggest you all go and have your party. I know who’s here, and one of my fellow officers will be arriving anytime to help me. Why don’t you all go back to the carriage house and leave me to this?”

  “We’ll do that. And you’ll be sure to let me know what you find?”