by Lea Wait
—The Ladies Work Table Book, 1845
I slept in a little the next morning. When I got up I found two messages waiting for me. Susan, the church secretary, said she had the names and e-mail addresses of the church members and would be happy to send out shower invitations to everyone. Was two o’clock on Saturday a good time?
I hadn’t thought of inviting everyone, but she was right. Reverend Tom’s church family would be Gram’s family soon, if it wasn’t already. Including everyone would be the right thing to do.
Even better, she’d be sending out the invitations, not me. I texted her back, thanked her, and told her to go ahead and send the invitations. Short notice, but I hoped people would understand. Then I called the patisserie in town, threw myself on their mercy, and ordered all the cupcakes and cookies and éclairs they could bake and deliver to the rectory late Saturday morning. I still had to deal with punch (for those who didn’t choose to imbibe spirits) and wine (for those who did). But I was beginning to feel the shower would happen. Thank goodness Katie Titicomb had volunteered to decorate.
The second message was from Ob. I’d called him late last night, hoping to reach him, but hadn’t. He said he had an afternoon charter, but he would be home this morning if I wanted to drop in.
I did.
No word from Dave Percy about the hairs woven into the needlepoint panels, but I hadn’t expected to hear from him quickly.
Today my plan was to talk with Jed Fitch and his sister Beth. Beth wouldn’t be through with school until afternoon, but Jed might be in his office this morning. I’d risk dropping in.
When I got downstairs, Gram was looking through a thick paperback. From a distance it looked like a tourist guide. She put her hands over the cover and dropped the book into her lap as I came in.
“Honeymoon planning?” I asked. “Why such a secret?”
“No real need for it to be secret. Not from you, anyway. Tom doesn’t want everyone in the congregation knowing exactly what we’re doing.”
“I can understand that. It is your honeymoon,” I agreed. “And I promise not to call his cell number unless it’s a real emergency.” Gram didn’t have a cell. I suspected that was a temporary situation.
“I certainly hope you do call, should there be any emergencies or problems,” Gram said immediately. “We’re not disappearing. We’re . . . Oh, you might as well know.” She picked up the book hidden in her lap and held it up so I could read the title: Quebec City.
“You’re going to Quebec!” I said. “I’ve heard the old section of the city is like a bit of Europe in North America.”
“Neither of us has ever been there,” Gram confided. “We wanted to go someplace new to both of us. And Quebec’s only about a five-hour drive from here. The guidebook says the old part of the city is full of French restaurants and galleries and shops and museums.”
“You don’t speak French,” I pointed out.
“No. But Tom speaks a little. And the book says people in the tourist industry speak English. We’ll be fine. Tom’s made us a reservation at one of the small hotels.”
“Isn’t Quebec the place with the castle-like hotel?”
“The Frontenac,” she agreed. “We thought about staying there, but decided we’d rather spend money on food and wine, and maybe buy something to bring back as a remembrance of our trip.”
“I see listings of antique shops,” I said, looking over her shoulder at the guidebook. “They might have old Ouija boards.”
“I’m sure we’ll check that out,” said Gram. “Adding to Tom’s collection would be fun for him, but I’d rather bring home a painting or something made by a local craftsman as a souvenir.”
I suspected they’d do both.
“Sounds wonderful! I look forward to hearing about your adventures after you get home,” I said. “And I promise not to tell anyone where you’ve gone.”
“Thank you, Angel. I feel more comfortable with your knowing what direction we’re heading. Although it is fun to keep our destination mysterious for most people we know.”
“You deserve your privacy,” I agreed.
I left Gram researching Quebec restaurant menus on the Web, French dictionary at hand, and headed to the Winslows’ house.
Men were swarming over Aurora’s roof and four construction trucks were parked in the driveway there when I drove past. Ob’s farmhouse, ell (the rooms connecting the house to the barn) and barn itself were a good size, but not on Aurora’s scale.
Anna answered the door almost immediately. “Angie! Good to see you. Although we’ve seen your car across the street a lot recently.”
No secrets in Haven Harbor. Plus, of course, Ob had worked at Aurora last week, too, pointing out the idiosyncrasies of the place, and then acting as part tour guide, part guard during the sale Saturday.
“Sarah and I were helping the Wests set up their lawn sale. That’s over now. I can get back to focusing on Mainely Needlepoint and Gram’s wedding. Did you get a call from the church or an e-mail? We’re having a shower for Gram and Reverend Tom on Saturday afternoon.”
Anna hadn’t heard, but she immediately volunteered to bring oatmeal-raisin cookies. I accepted her offer. We couldn’t have too much food or drink, and I had no idea how many people would show up. (Especially now that we were inviting the entire congregation.)
“Is Ob around?”
“He’s out in the barn, painting some buoys for a friend,” she said. “You go on and find him there. He mentioned you might stop in.”
Ob was, indeed, painting buoys. Usually a winter obligation, but when a friend needs a hand . . . “Orange and light blue?” I commented. “I didn’t think lobstermen went for blue buoys. Too hard to see.”
Ob shrugged. “Said they were his kids’ favorite colors. Whatever the man wants. And no one else has.”
I nodded. “Didn’t get to talk with you Saturday. We were all wicked busy.”
“True enough,” he agreed. “All those folks looking to capture a long-gone past.”
“The Wests seem to want to bring the place back.”
“They’re spending enough to bring back Abe Lincoln,” he said. “But they’re not taking the time to do it right. Authentically. The way the Gardeners would have wanted.”
I suspected he was right. “At least they’re trying.”
“Trying.” He nodded.
“You told me you were at the party in 1970, that you knew Jasmine.”
“Yup. I knew her. Course, she was seven years older than me. Don’t think she would have said she knew me.”
“What was she doing at the party?”
“Being seventeen, far as I could see.”
“I mean, did she spend time with her parents? Her friends?”
“She was there to greet guests, like her folks expected her to be. They’d put her in charge of the kids’ activities. Balloons, a clown or two, Hula-hoops. She did that for a while. Then she partied with people her age.”
“Eating and drinking with them?”
“She was Jasmine Gardener. If she wanted anything to eat or drink, someone would bring it to her.”
“You mean the staff?”
“Not always.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Once I overheard her say she’d like another drink, and I took her a glass of wine.”
“So you were close by.”
Ob looked at me almost shyly. “She was the prettiest girl I knew. Sometimes I hung around near her when I could.” He shook his head. “Crazy, I was.”
“That doesn’t sound crazy. It sounds sweet.”
“Mebbe so. But my father caught me watching her, and he told me off. Said she was none of my business. I should stick with kids my own age.”
“But you got her a glass of wine . . .” I suddenly thought about that. “How could you do that? You were only— what—ten? The bartender served you wine?”
“Nah. I went over there, but, you’re right, they wouldn’t give me any. Then I saw Elsa Fitch. You know her—she’s
a hairdresser now. Anyway, she looked older than she was. Hell, Jasmine wasn’t old enough to drink legally. But it was a private party. Elsa got me a glass of wine and I gave it to Jasmine. Spilled a little on the way—I was so excited. I was afraid my father would see me with the glass and take it away before I could give it to her.”
“When was that?”
“About the time the fireworks began. Nine o’clock or so. It was dark, so I figured no one would see me with the wine.”
“Had Jasmine been drinking much before that?”
“She’d been holding a glass most of the time. I don’t know how much she’d had to drink. What does a ten-year-old know about such things?”
A ten-year-old knows when someone’s drunk, I thought.
“Who was Jasmine with then? At nine o’clock?”
“Jed and Beth Fitch, and another guy I didn’t know. And her friend Mary from New York. Carole Simpson was there, too. Maybe other people. I was watching Jasmine, not her friends.” He rubbed his chin, as though that would bring back the answer. “It was a while ago, you know.”
“Do you think Jasmine had so much wine she slipped and fell into the fountain?”
Ob stood up straight. “I don’t. If I believed that . . . If I believed the wine I gave her had somehow ended up with her death . . . then I couldn’t live with myself. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, all these years. And I walked over that property hundreds of times when I lived on the estate, and after. Never did figure what Jasmine was doing in the front of the house at that time, anyway. Everyone was on the back lawn, watching the fireworks. To get to where they found her, she would have had to leave in the middle of the show. If she did, then someone was with her. She wouldn’t have left on her own. At nine o’clock she was laughing with her friends. Half an hour later she was dead.” He stared at the wall in back of me, remembering. “I still have nightmares about that night.”
“She fell into the fountain.”
“Jed Fitch found her there.” Ob leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I figured he was with her all along.”
Chapter 38
May heaven to thee her bliss impart
And be your guide in every art.
May learning be your chief delight
And learn to live and act aright.
—Sampler worked by Fanny Abrams, age ten, Monhegan Island, Maine, 1821
Jed Fitch. His name kept coming up. Gram and Skye had said Jasmine spent a lot of time with him that summer. Skye thought he might be the father of Jasmine’s child. Jed had been with Jasmine at the party, at least some of the time. And Ob was the second person who’d said Jed was the one who found her in the fountain.
I‘d planned to go to the elementary school this afternoon to see Miss Beth Fitch, sister of Elsa and Jed. School wouldn’t be out until two-thirty.
But I had time before then. I headed for the real estate office where Jed Fitch worked.
I was lucky; he was there.
“Angie!” he said, coming around the desk and shaking my hand with both of his. “I heard you were back in town. So good to see you!”
Although I knew who Jed Fitch was, I was pretty sure I’d never spoken to him before.
He was a big man. But the muscles he might have had as a young man had turned to fat, and the stomach hanging above his belt was only partially covered by his suit jacket.
“I got back about a month ago,” I answered. “It’s good to be home.”
“No place like Haven Harbor,” he agreed. “So, what can I do for you today? Thinking of buying a place of your own? We’ve got some great deals on homes right here. Some even have ocean views.”
He was smart enough to know I could never afford shore frontage. “Ocean view” was the second most expensive category of home on the Maine coast. “Not at the moment, no,” I said. “Although if I’m ever in the market, I’ll be sure to call you.”
“That’s all I can ask,” Jed said, handing me his card. “Keep this for your files. Just on the chance.”
I slipped his card into my pocket. “Actually, I’m here doing a little research.”
“‘Research’?” He frowned and ran his hand through the little hair he still had. “About what? Maine real estate?”
“Indirectly,” I said. “I’ve been doing some work for Skye West. You were the one who handled her purchase of the old Gardener estate.”
“True. Lovely lady, Ms. West.”
And I bet a lovely commission for Jed Fitch.
“She’s asked me to take on a project for her. She’d like to have a history of Aurora, which, of course, means a history of the Gardener family. I wondered if you could help me fill in some details.”
“Me? Why not check the library? I’m no expert on the Gardeners.” Jed’s smile stiffened.
“Several people in town said you were a close friend of Jasmine Gardener’s. I hoped you wouldn’t mind telling me a little bit about her.” I pulled a notebook out of my bag. “For Ms. West’s project. She told me how wonderfully you were handling the sale. She said she’d recommend you to any of her friends interested in Maine real estate. She was sure you could help me.”
Jed leaned back in his chair. “I knew Jasmine, yes. We were about the same age. But that was a long time ago.”
“I’ll bet you knew her better than about anyone else in Haven Harbor. That’s what people have said. They’ve said she had a real crush on you back then.”
Jed sat up and straightened his tie. “We were close that last summer, yes. Who knows what might have come of it if Jasmine hadn’t died so tragically?” He looked into my eyes. “Her death was devastating. Just devastating. It took me years to get over. I kept blaming myself, wondering what I could have done differently that day.”
“People say Jasmine was drinking at the party. Did you think she was drunk?”
“Drinking? Sure. We’d all had a few. No one was paying attention, and it was the last party of the season. But— drunk? I didn’t think she was drunk. But she must have been. How else would she have stumbled into the fountain and hit her head and drowned?”
“Ob Winslow mentioned you were the one who found her.”
“Ob said that?” Jed hesitated. “I suppose it’s part of the police record, too. Yeah. The fireworks were almost over. Jasmine said she didn’t feel well. Maybe what people said later was true, and she’d had too much to drink. But I didn’t notice. She headed for the house. When she hadn’t come back in a few minutes, I followed her. She wasn’t inside. One of the maids said she’d seen Jasmine heading for the driveway. I found her, lying in the fountain, her head under the water. I pulled her out, shouted for help, and started CPR.” He sat back again. “I’d been a lifeguard at the YMCA pool in the winter. I had my certificate. All I could think was ‘Thank goodness I know what to do.’”
“So you gave her CPR. That might have saved her life.”
“All I wanted was to get her to breathe again.”
“Someone called an ambulance then?”
He nodded. “One of the cops the Gardeners had hired to direct traffic and check for drunken drivers wasn’t far from the front gate. I yelled for help. He ran toward us, saw what I was doing, and radioed for an ambulance.”
“Lucky he was nearby.”
“It was. I was on top of her, giving her mouth-to-mouth, you know, the way they used to recommend. The sky was all lit up with the last firework display—the gold one that was always the biggest. It seemed to take forever for the ambulance to get there, but it must have been only a few minutes. The paramedics whisked her away.”
“What did you do then?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Gardener went with Jasmine in the ambulance. Everyone was leaving the party. The word was spreading about Jasmine’s being taken to the hospital. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there. Finally my friends found me and Carole drove me home.” He stopped. “Mr. Gardener called me the next morning to thank me for trying to save Jasmine. He’s the one told
me she hadn’t made it.”
“You said you sometimes blamed yourself.”
“I shouldn’t have let her drink. She was little. Only about five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds. She shouldn’t have been drinking as much as the rest of us. And I should have gone with her when she said she didn’t feel well.”
“How had you and Jasmine been getting along that summer?”
“We were close. Really close.” He hesitated. “I’d even asked her to marry me.” He hesitated, as though deciding how much he’d tell me. “She hadn’t given me an answer. I’d thought she would that night. I asked her again during the party, but some little kids interrupted us. We were never alone. Never had a chance to talk.”
“So if she’d said ‘yes,’ you wouldn’t have gone to college?”
“Jasmine was more important to me than college.”
Jed sounded sincere. I decided not to ask him whether he’d known Jasmine was pregnant. It would explain why he’d asked her to marry him. But she hadn’t agreed. Was she waiting to hear from Sam Gould, the other young man Skye suggested was also a possible father-to-be?
“Did you know Sam Gould?”
Jed hesitated. “Sam Gould. That name’s familiar. He may have a shipbuilding business up the coast. Years ago, Sam was a friend of Jasmine’s.”
“Then you did know him.”
“Met him once or twice that summer. Jasmine and I tried not to talk about people we’d dated in the past. Now I see his ads in Down East.”
“So you knew he and Jasmine had been dating in New York City.”
“Sure. Like she knew I’d dated Carole.”
“Carole Simpson.”
“Right.”
It was my turn to hesitate. I looked at the picture on the wall, near Jed’s computer, of Jed and his wife and their two sons. “When did you and Carole marry?”
“Several years later. It had nothing to do with Jasmine or the Gardeners.” He stood up. “I’ve told you everything you need to know, everything I remember about back then.” He hitched up his pants. “It was a long time ago. Life went on after Jasmine Gardener died. I went on.”