Threads of Evidence

by Lea Wait

  “I will,” said Pete. “It won’t be a secret. But I doubt anyone here is in danger.”

  The guys picked up the cooler they’d brought out and we all trooped back to the carriage house. But the mood was broken. Despite the champagne and French bread and shrimp toasts and salmon pate and other goodies, no one seemed hungry.

  After a glass or two and a few bites, we all headed home.

  It had been a long day. A long day with an odd ending.

  The death of a hummingbird.

  Chapter 13

  This work in hand my friends may have

  When I am dead and in my grave

  And which when’er you chance to see

  May kind remembrance picture me

  While on this glowing canvas stands

  The Labour of my youthful hands.

  —Sampler wrought by Elizaetta Wray,

  age fourteen, 1752

  Gram’s note was on the kitchen table, along with her purchases from the lawn sale:

  Tom and I’ve gone out for dinner. Thought you might be eating at Aurora tonight. If not, baked beans and coleslaw are in the fridge. See the treasures we found at your sale? Fun day, thinking back over the past.

  The only one home to greet me was Juno, who meowed her greeting, and stood plaintively by her supper dish. Gram always left dry food for her, but opened a can of wet food for Juno’s dinner. She must have left without filling Juno’s expectations.

  Feeding a cat was about all I had the energy to do. I opened a can of mackerel and liver. Juno expressed her appreciation by ignoring me and happily slurping her way through every ounce. She was not a deprived cat.

  Then it was my turn. Despite the two glasses of champagne I’d had at Aurora, I poured myself a serious shot of vodka, adding an olive to turn it officially into a martini.

  Baked beans and coleslaw. The classic Maine Saturday-night supper.

  I put the pot of beans in the oven to heat and started nibbling on the coleslaw. Gram varied the traditional dish by adding thin slices of red onion and horseradish dressing. I was hungrier than I’d thought. The coleslaw disappeared before the beans heated, but not before I’d poured myself a second drink.

  I worked hard this week, I told myself. I deserve it.

  Besides, no one was here. I wasn’t driving. And I definitely planned to sleep in tomorrow.

  I found a box of chowder crackers in the cabinet and started nibbling those before the beans were ready. A strange supper, but it filled my stomach. Couldn’t drink on an empty stomach. While I was snacking, I looked over what Gram and Tom had purchased at Skye’s sale.

  Sarah had told me about the Waterford vase—a treasure for their new home together. The pillowcases delicately embroidered with daffodils and lilies of the valley were lovely, but not my style. I smiled to myself, wondering if Dave Percy had seen them.

  Dave’s hobby (aside from needlepoint) was his poison garden, which he used to interest his students and warn them of the dangers local plants could hide. He’d begun to teach me some things, too. That was why I knew daffodil bulbs and lilies of the valley were both beautiful, but poisonous.

  I decided not to mention my newfound knowledge to Gram.

  I used to see the world that way, too. Beautiful and full of hope and promise. But that was before Mama disappeared.

  Of course, now I knew that wasn’t exactly what had happened.

  But I couldn’t change history.

  I’d also learned a lot about the rotten side of human nature in Arizona. Back here in Haven Harbor, I’d been able to put my gun away and focus on Gram and her custom needlepoint business. And now Gram’s wedding.

  Domestic issues I hadn’t thought would be part of my life ever again.

  Finally the smell of molasses and maple syrup filled the kitchen. I took the bean pot out of the oven, spooned out a plate full, and dug in. Worth waiting for. I could have microwaved them, but that wouldn’t have felt authentic.

  One of my high-school friends had loved cold baked beans; she’d eaten sandwiches of cold baked beans for lunch every Monday. But although I didn’t insist on my beans sizzling, I did prefer them warm.

  I should have bought something for myself at the sale. Something other than the cartons of needlework books and magazines that now filled the luggage compartment and backseat of Sarah’s car. I hadn’t even thought of choosing something for myself. Soon this house I’d grown up in would be mine. The parish house was already furnished. What would Gram take with her to her new life? In Arizona I’d furnished my tiny apartment from Goodwill, and, with the exception of a desert painting I’d bought and asked my neighbor to ship to Maine, I hadn’t taken anything with me when I’d left. The painting now hung in my bedroom. It looked a little out of place in Haven Harbor, but it represented part of my life. It would stay there.

  I looked at the check Skye had given me. Fifteen thousand dollars. I might never see another check that large. How much money must she have? I couldn’t imagine.

  Not the kind of money private investigators or directors of needlepoint companies earned. That I knew for sure.

  I filled another plate with beans and sipped my vodka. Not gourmet, but tonight it worked for me.

  I still needed to find an outfit to wear to Gram’s wedding. No question I’d be able to pay for one now. And I should find something to give her. I’d already given her a microwave. But I wanted to find something more special. More lasting. Maybe fancy wineglasses? Gram and Tom both drank wine.

  And tomorrow I needed to spend some time with Gram, figuring out what to do with those needlepoint panels for Skye. It was time to assess the damage and figure out whom to give the pieces to for restoration.

  I finished the vodka and the beans and headed upstairs to bed. My stomach was bloated (I had overdone it with the beans) and my head and feet were aching.

  The next week would be a full one: a trip to Portland, and getting caught up with the paperwork and calls for Mainely Needlepoint.

  At least, except for those panels, I was through with Aurora. I needed to get on with the rest of my life.

  I took two B12 tablets to help combat any effects of the vodka, as well as an aspirin, just in case the B12 wasn’t enough.

  What I needed most was sleep.

  Chapter 14

  And what is friendship but a name

  A charm that lulls to sleep

  A shade that follows wealth and fame

  But leaves the wretch to weep.

  —Lines stitched by Elizabeth Keyes on her sampler, 1806, taken from Oliver Goldsmith’s (1730–1774) “The Hermit,” 1765

  The sound of my cell ringing woke me Sunday morning at eight o’clock. I pulled my pillow over my head and pretended I didn’t hear it. Who would call so early? Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest. And I needed one.

  I’d left a note telling Gram I wouldn’t be making it to church this morning. I had a quiet day planned. Laundry. Sorting through Mainely Needlepoint messages that I’d postponed dealing with when I was at Aurora. A quiet walk to the beach to indulge in some fried clams and a view of the harbor. Sea breezes to blow the cobwebs and dust and mold of Aurora out of my brain.

  The phone kept ringing. I groaned, sat up, and answered it.

  “Angie? Good. I was about to hang up. I thought you might be in church this morning.” I glanced down at the caller ID. “Patrick?”

  “Yeah. It’s me. Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday morning. But a few minutes ago, we got a call from the Haven Harbor Police. Pete someone?”

  Patrick usually sounded smooth. In control. Sophisticated. This morning his voice was like sandpaper. A late Saturday night? When Sarah and I’d left the carriage house last night, there’d been a lot of unopened champagne bottles on the table.

  “Lambert.” I filled in. “Sergeant Pete Lambert.”

  “Right.” Patrick paused. “Well, he didn’t say exactly why, but he wants to see Mom and me. On a Sunday morning!”

  As though those swo
rn to protect and defend our towns could take Sunday off.

  “About the hummingbird?” I asked.

  “Probably. But Mom’s all excited. She thinks his wanting to see us might have something to do with Jasmine Gardener.”

  “I suspect it’s about something more current, like traffic problems with the construction trucks around Aurora. Or the hummingbird.” Mainers took traffic jams, especially traffic jams during tourist season, seriously. And if the wildlife folks thought anything untoward had happened to that hummingbird, that news could make the local paper. Maybe even the Portland Press Herald. Mainers cared about their wildlife.

  Patrick sighed. “I know. But, still, Mom’s all uptight about it. How well do you know this guy Pete?”

  “A little. We’ve worked together. Shared lunch. He’s pretty sane,” I said.

  “So you know him. And you’re a Mainer. Would you mind being here when he comes to talk with us? It would relax Mom, and that would make me feel better. Especially since I told Mom that you’ve been a private investigator.”

  “But I wasn’t! I said I worked for a private investigator,” I corrected quickly.

  “Same thing. You understand about investigations and questions and all. Mom talks a lot about Jasmine Gardener, but I don’t think she has a clue about what a real police investigation is like.” Patrick hesitated. “It’s not like in the movies. I don’t want her to make a fool of herself. Please. We need your help on this one.”

  “I really don’t think I can do anything,” I said.

  “Please. As a favor.”

  I still had Skye West’s check in my pocket. She’d certainly been nice to Sarah and me. What choice did I have? “All right. I’ll come over. When did Pete say he’d be at your place?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there a few minutes before then. But don’t tell him you asked me specially to be there. I’ve happened to stop in.”

  “Fine, fine. Just so you’re here. I owe you! And”— Patrick’s voice lowered—“don’t tell anyone about this. People gossip. We don’t want anyone knowing the police were here.”

  The phone clicked off.

  Don’t tell anyone? Patrick didn’t know small-town Maine. Before noon everyone in town would know there was a police car at Aurora.

  I found a pair of relatively clean jeans and an unspotted T-shirt, set the percolator to brew, and paced the living room, waiting for the coffee and wishing I could at least call Sarah. Sarah had been at Aurora as many hours as I had been, and she’d probably talked with both Skye and Patrick more than I had. But she didn’t know Pete Lambert well. And she hadn’t worked for a private investigator.

  She’d gone out of her way to talk with Patrick. She’d be gracious, but not happy he’d called me.

  Remembering the expression in his eyes stirred more than a desire for breakfast.

  Stirrings I dismissed. Instead, I scrambled two eggs with a few leaves of spinach and a little grated Parmesan. Feeling indulgent, I sprinkled a piece of buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar. Being in the kitchen where I’d spent a good part of my childhood reminded me of so many little details I hadn’t thought of in years. Did anyone still put cinnamon and sugar on toast? It had been one of Gram’s standbys. The sweet taste and aroma took me right back to being six or seven years old.

  When Mama was waitressing, Gram and I would have tea and scones or cinnamon toast or sometimes cookies as our afternoon snack. I’d tell her what had happened in school, and she’d show me how much needlepoint she’d done that day, and remind me to put away the clothes she’d washed, or we’d plan what to have for dinner. Mama was seldom home for meals, so menus were up to Gram and me.

  In those days, before Gram started watching her cholesterol, and we both knew too much sugar or fat was bad for us, butter was always in the kitchen, and ajar of bacon fat stood in a covered jar on the stove. Baked beans were ready every Saturday night, as they had been last night— as they were in most Haven Harbor homes—with enough left over for Sunday dinner or supper. Molasses and raisin cookies were more common than chocolate chip, and there were no Chinese or pizza or Thai places that delivered then. Actually, as Skye and Patrick had discovered this past week, there still weren’t.

  I spent the rest of the morning examining the ten needlepoint panels Skye wanted preserved. Gram had removed them from their frames and spread them on our dining-room table.

  She’d successfully sponged the surface dirt off them, and the three invaded by the most mildew were now in much better condition. Putting them in the sunshine seemed to have stopped the mildew’s progress and killed it, I hoped.

  If Sarah didn’t know what we should do next, I’d call the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Their textile division should be able to head us in the right direction. And they should know where to get antiacidic backings for the needlepoints, and tell me whether the stitching itself should be treated in any way.

  Skye had said, “Restore and preserve . . . but also repair.” I separated those panels that needed repair work on broken stitches, or stitching over sections that had faded or torn. I’d confirm with Gram, who’d already looked at the pictures closely, but it looked as though four of the panels (those of the Haven Harbor Lighthouse, the eagle flying over the yacht club, the staircase at Aurora, and the Haven Harbor Town Pier) were in good-enough condition to be carefully lined and reframed. Of the remaining six, two had major problems and four needed minor repairs and adjustments.

  All in all, the pictures weren’t in as bad condition as I’d initially assumed.

  Who would be free to work on them, though? Gram had already done more than her share. I couldn’t ask her to take on anything else.

  Ruth Hopkins’s arthritis would keep her from volunteering. Ob Winslow was focusing on his charter fishing this summer. Sarah might be able to do one or two, although she was coming up to the busiest time of the year for her store. I wasn’t experienced enough to take on any of the repair work myself. That left Dave Percy, whose classes at the high school should be over this week, and Katie Titicomb. Katie was a careful stitcher, no doubt. And she’d said she was ready to take on new projects. It looked as though she and Dave would be handling these pieces. But Sarah would want to be involved, I thought, since she’d been a part of this from the beginning. I’d give her the two with the fewest challenges.

  By a little after ten-thirty, I was in my little red car, headed back to Aurora, hoping my visit would be short and simple.

  Chapter 15

  Thine eye my bed and path survey

  My public haunts and privit [sic] ways.

  —Verse stitched on American sampler, 1769

  Pete arrived at Aurora’s carriage house at eleven o’clock. Right on time. His uniform was pressed and his thin brown hair slicked down. His back was straight. Even though he’d worn the same uniform when directing traffic around Aurora or collecting information about the hummingbird’s death yesterday, this morning he looked much more official.

  His eyes widened when he saw me, but he wasted no time in announcing why he was there.

  “Arsenic. The crime lab guys said that hummingbird died of arsenic poisoning. That cup the bird sipped from contained four or five grains of arsenic.” He took a breath. “That’s more than enough to kill someone.”

  Skye and Patrick looked at each other.

  I pointed out the obvious. “Hundreds of people drank lemonade yesterday. It was a hot day. I drank some. You did, too.”

  “Yeah. I did. There’s no trace of arsenic in the punch bowl or in any of the other cups we took back to the lab.”

  “Then . . .”

  “I’ll admit, when you asked me to have lemonade tested because a bird died, I thought you were all a little—”

  “Crazy?” asked Skye. “Paranoid?”

  “I didn’t say that. But, considering the situation . . .”

  Meaning, I suspected, “because you’re rich and famous.”

  Pete continued: “We did
check. The only arsenic we found was in your glass, Ms. West. Either someone was trying to kill you, or they staged the scene to look as though someone wanted to kill you.”

  “‘Staged the scene’?” repeated Patrick. “As in ‘cue the hummingbird’? That’s ridiculous!”

  “You tell me,” said Pete. “All I know is there was enough arsenic in that cup to kill at least a couple of dozen people. We in Haven Harbor don’t take kindly to that sort of a joke.”

  “Joke? Pete, you can’t believe putting arsenic in a cup where anyone could have picked it up was a joke,” I put in.

  “But no one else did pick it up. Ms. West identified it as her cup. And yet she didn’t drink from it. That’s quite a coincidence, considering there was a table covered with identical glasses.”

  True, there were Mainers who rejected those from away, especially those who had money. But Skye was trying to do everything right: hiring locals—or mostly locals, contributing to local charities, and fixing up one of the town’s eyesores. What was Pete getting at?

  “Someone tried to kill me yesterday,” Skye said, her voice amazingly steady. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Ms. West, we don’t know that someone tried to kill you. All we know is there was arsenic in that one cup. The state crime lab says it isn’t officially an attempted murder unless we know for sure who the glass was meant for and who tampered with it.”

  “It was my glass. Someone tried to poison me,” Skye repeated.

  “Well, if someone wanted you dead, they failed. You’re still alive,” said Pete. “I’ll be blunt. I’ve only met you once or twice. I don’t know you, or why you’re in town. You could choose to live anywhere in the world.” Pete paused. “You’re an actress. I’ve heard about people like you. Celebrities. You play roles. You need attention. You like to be the center of gossip.” Pete stared at Skye. “I’m wondering if this is all a setup.”