Threads of Evidence

by Lea Wait

  Chapter 39

  Virtue and wit, with science join’d

  Refine the manners, form the mind,

  And when with industry they meet

  The female character’s complete.”

  —Sampler stitched by Sophia Catherine Bier, 1810

  I stopped at home for a light lunch and checked my messages. Several questions had come in about Gram’s shower, and there were two inquiries about Mainely Needlepoint. I answered them all and nibbled a sandwich of fresh lettuce and an imported tomato. Local tomatoes would be ripe in about a month. They’d taste better.

  A little after two-thirty I pulled into the driveway of Haven Harbor Elementary School. My elementary school.

  Yellow school buses were lined up and about a dozen parents were there to pick up students headed for Little League practices, music lessons, orthodontia appointments, or going to Grandma’s for the afternoon.

  I hadn’t ridden the school bus until high school. I’d only lived seven blocks from the school. Most days, in fall, winter, and spring, I’d walked those blocks, often in snow or mud boots. But sometimes, if the weather was bad and she wasn’t working the afternoon shift, Mama had been in one of those cars waiting to take students home. It hadn’t happened often, but I’d always looked to see if she was there. Just in case.

  I remembered one January afternoon I’d walked home. I must have been in third grade, because it was before Mama disappeared. Snow had been heavy all day. Haven Harbor schools rarely closed. That day blowing snow and sleet made it hard to see, and my boots were full of melted snow before I’d gotten two blocks. My feet were numb, and the wet boots rubbed against my bare legs beneath the dress I’d insisted on wearing that morning. But despite the cold I’d felt hot—so hot I’d taken off my hat and scarf and stuffed them in my book bag. And my head hurt. My ten- or fifteen-minute walk seemed to take forever.

  When I finally reached home, Gram took one look at me and insisted on giving me a warm bath and putting me to bed. By the time the doctor arrived to announce I had a bad case of the flu, Gram already had lowered the shades and moved her radio into my room, tuned to soothing music.

  When Mama got home, late that night, Gram hadn’t let her see me. I was contagious, she said.

  Mama called in to me, and then went to bed. Gram sat next to me all night, and all the next day, putting cold cloths on my forehead, reading Little Women and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm out loud, and bringing me bowls of chicken noodle soup and Jell-O with whipped cream.

  I remembered thinking I was too old to be taken care of like that. I remembered luxuriating in the attention.

  Were those old snow boots still in the attic?

  Probably not.

  The closing school bell brought me back to today. Dozens of boys and girls rushed out the front door, just as I had twenty years ago, heading for school buses or cars. Then there were the “walkers,” as I’d been, running in various directions away from the school. Did any of them have single parents? Fathers who were absent or abusive? Mothers who drank too much? Childhood wasn’t always a time of innocence. I hoped they all survived it.

  As the stream of students became a trickle, I walked in the front door.

  “I’d like to see Miss Fitch,” I said to the school clerk.

  “Sign in here. Miss Fitch is in Room 201.”

  Miss Fitch had always been in Room 201. I knew where it was without looking at the map of the school the clerk handed me.

  Her straight back was to me. Miss Fitch (she’d never be “Beth Fitch” to me) was erasing the whiteboard at the front of her classroom. It had been a blackboard when I’d spent a year sitting at one of the small desks evenly lined up to face the front of this room.

  “Miss Fitch?”

  She turned around. She had a few more lines around her mouth and eyes, and the brown hair I remembered as long and straight was now short and streaked with gray, but she still favored sweater sets, slacks, and loafers. She was still Miss Fitch.

  “May I help you?” She stared at me a moment longer, as though searching her mind’s index to identify and label me correctly. “Angela Curtis?”

  I nodded.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your mother’s death. I would have come to the funeral, but it was during school hours. Come in. I’m so glad you stopped in.”

  She’d recognized me, after all these years. She’d seen me in the hallways of this building until I went to high school, but not after that. I’d changed a lot since then. But maybe not as much as I’d thought.

  She hadn’t.

  “What can I do for you, Angela? Or is this just a friendly visit?”

  A visit after twenty years?

  “I’m doing some work for Skye West.”

  “The actress who bought the Gardener place?”

  I nodded. I felt like the second grader I’d been in this room. Nervous. Afraid to make a mistake.

  “How does that bring you to Haven Harbor Elementary?”

  “You knew Jasmine Gardener.”

  Miss Fitch sat down at her desk, and gestured that I should sit down, too. The student desks were obviously too small. I perched awkwardly on top of one, feeling as though I’d been kept after school.

  “Your brother, Jed, dated her the summer that she died.”

  “He did. But I only knew her slightly. That summer I was taking a course required for Peace Corps volunteers. I was assigned Guatemala. I had to learn Spanish quickly, and study the country and culture I’d be working in. The course was in Rhode Island. I was only home a couple of weeks, maybe a month, at the end of the summer.”

  “So you didn’t know Jasmine well.”

  “I met her a couple of times. But I wasn’t pleased Jed was so involved with her. Jasmine seemed flighty and childish and demanding. When I got home, I’d expected Jed to be practicing with the high-school football team. If he had any chance at a football scholarship at a good school, he should have been working out on his own all summer, and then attending early football practices. Instead, he was hanging around the Gardener estate, mooning over that girl. I told him he was making a big mistake. He was going to be a senior in high school and he had to grow up. Plan for his future.”

  “What was his reaction to that?”

  “He laughed. Said I’d been away, that I didn’t know him anymore. That being with Jasmine Gardener would get him further than any football scholarship.” She paused. “I was furious.”

  “He meant . . . because she had money?”

  “That’s what I assumed. He told me her father had gone to Yale. Jed was planning to ask him for a recommendation.”

  “Would that have worked?”

  Miss Fitch shrugged. “I suspect not. Jed’s grades weren’t as good as his football plays. I knew how hard it was to go through college on scholarships and grants. I’d done it. And Jed wasn’t heading in the right direction, so far as I could tell. I told him he should be more like Elsa, our little sister. She was working like mad, studying, working on science projects. She was going to be president of the math club at the high school in the fall.”

  “How did he react to that?”

  “He said Elsa was a boring brain. He’d never be like her.” Miss Fitch shook her head. “I was worried about him. And then, of course, Jasmine died, and took all his high hopes with her.”

  “How did he react then?”

  “I left for Latin America a few days after her death, so I don’t know. He didn’t write often. When he did, it was about school or problems with our parents.”

  “What problems?”

  “Our mother wasn’t well, and our father wasn’t much help with her. I don’t think Jed was, either.”

  “And you were thousands of miles away.”

  “As I think back, everything fell on Elsa. But at the time I was proud to be the first in our family to graduate from college. I was excited about being in the Peace Corps. I thought if I’d been able to leave and go to college, Jed and Elsa could, too. But they
didn’t. By the time I got back here, Elsa was going to beauty school. Jed had flunked out of U Maine and was married and picking up odd jobs around town. We’d all changed.”

  “That night . . . the night Jasmine died, do you remember what she was doing? Who she was with?”

  “She was flitting about. Drinking. They all were. She’d be with her parents’ friends for a while, and then with Jed and Carole and her little nebbish of a friend from New York. She spent a lot of time playing with children, as I remember. Jed wandered about, watching her, like he was her puppy. I couldn’t take it anymore, watching him make a fool of himself. I left the party with a high-school friend I hadn’t seen in years and went down to Pocket Cove Beach to watch the fireworks and talk. By the time I got home Jed and Elsa were in bed. I learned what had happened to Jasmine the next morning. Horrible, no matter what I thought about her. Just dreadful.”

  “Jed tried to save her. He gave her CPR.”

  “He told me that. It didn’t surprise me. He’d have done anything for Jasmine that summer.”

  I got up. “Thank you, Miss Fitch. I appreciate your honesty. And your memories.”

  “Nothing I said couldn’t have been said by someone else,” she said. “How are you doing, Angela?”

  “I’m fine. I’m back, for at least six months. I’m now the director of my grandmother’s Mainely Needlepoint business.”

  “I mean, how are you really doing? Not what are you doing.”

  “I’m all right,” I answered, standing a little straighter. “Doing well.”

  “You were always a tough little girl,” said Miss Fitch. “Too brave, I thought sometimes. You don’t always have to be brave, you know.”

  I felt tears well up at the back of my eyes. I blinked quickly. “I know, Miss Fitch. Thank you.”

  I was back in my car within a few minutes. I started the few blocks toward home, and then changed direction.

  I headed out of town. Toward Aurora.

  Chapter 40

  Virtue should guard the tender fair

  From man’s deceptive flattering snare.

  —Anonymous American sampler, 1828

  Most contractors worked from seven until four o’clock. Some of those under contract to the Wests had been working longer hours. By the time I reached the gates of Aurora that afternoon, all the trucks but one were gone. I drove to the carriage house.

  Patrick and Skye were enjoying an early cocktail. It only took one invitation for me to decide to join them. “Beefeater and tonic with lime,” I requested, noting that they’d now installed a full bar in their tiny new kitchen.

  With drinks in our hands, we sat out on a small brick patio I hadn’t remembered from my visit the day before. Money could certainly equal progress. At least it did at Aurora.

  “I thought I’d check in and let you know who I’d talked with today,” I said.

  “Good. I was going to call you tonight, anyway,” said Skye. “I’ve made appointments for us to visit Sam Gould and Linda Zaharee tomorrow. Sam in the morning, and Linda in the afternoon.” Skye sat back and raised her glass to me, looking more confident than I felt.

  “How did you manage that?” I asked.

  “Since Sam now owns the shipyard his father built up years ago, I told Sam who I was, that I’d bought a place in Maine, and I might be interested in buying a boat. He bit right away. Plus, it turns out his wife is a fan. I promised a personalized autograph.”

  The power of fame! “And Linda Zaharee?”

  “I just moved to Maine and was thinking of having my son’s portrait done. Or mine. I admired her work and wanted to talk with her.” Skye raised her eyebrows. “Presto! Doors opened.”

  “Congratulations. I’m afraid my accomplishments don’t rank with those,” I said, sipping my tall drink. “I talked with my grandmother and with Ob Winslow, and with all three of the Fitch siblings—Elsa yesterday, and Jed and Beth today.”

  “Good. Any news on the mysterious hairs in the needlepoint?”

  “No. Dave was at school today. I wouldn’t expect to hear from him until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  Patrick nodded. “I’m assuming no one you talked with confessed to killing Jasmine.”

  “Afraid not! But I can add a few things to our timeline.”

  “Good!” said Skye. “Tell us.”

  “Ob was only ten in 1970, but he had crush on Jasmine, and spent a lot of time watching her. He even got her a glass of wine once. But he said he didn’t think she was drunk. He said, and it was confirmed by others, that Jasmine greeted guests with her parents and spent some of the time at the party playing with the children there—giving out balloons and teaching kids how to use Hula-hoops.” I looked up from my notes. “My grandmother remembered a woman taking pictures of Jasmine with the Hula-hoopers. That might have been Linda Zaharee.”

  Skye nodded. “Good.”

  “I learned a bit about the Fitch family, too. Beth, the oldest, wasn’t home for most of the summer. But she didn’t like Jed hanging out with Jasmine. She thought he wasn’t working hard enough to earn the football scholarship everyone seemed to think he might get. She thought he was hitching his wagon to Jasmine’s money and influence. And she might have been right. Jed told me he’d proposed to Jasmine late in the summer, but she hadn’t given him an answer.”

  “Did he say anything about her being pregnant?”

  “No. And I didn’t bring it up, because he’d wonder how I knew. But why else would he have asked her to marry him?”

  “Unless it was for her money,” Skye said, thinking. “Interesting. And interesting that she hadn’t said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to him.”

  “The family sounded troubled to me. Their mother was sickly, and sometimes demanding, and their father ignored them all. Beth had been away at college and was leaving for the Peace Corps. She’d basically removed herself from the family. Jed was expected to go to college, but his situation with Jasmine could have helped him or hurt him, depending on how you looked at it. Elsa ended up being the one who took care of her mother and went to beautician’s school in Portland.”

  “Ouch! Sorry about Elsa. I don’t remember much about her except that she kept to herself and always seemed to have a book with her.” Skye paused. “When you’re seventeen or eighteen, fifteen seems very young and unimportant.”

  “As for the timeline . . . Jed said Jasmine didn’t feel well in the middle of the fireworks and headed back toward the house. He followed her, found her in the fountain, pulled her out, and tried to resuscitate her. Everyone I spoke with said Jasmine had been drinking, but no one seemed to think she was drunk, except Jed, who said he could have underestimated how much she’d had.”

  “Did you get the feeling anyone was hiding anything?”

  “No,” I said. “They were surprised when I asked so many questions. Jed, especially, seemed genuinely sorry about Jasmine. He said he blamed himself for her death. He shouldn’t have let her drink so much, and he should have gone with her back to the house. If she hadn’t been alone, he said, she might not have died.”

  Chapter 41

  When this you see, remember me

  Though many miles we distant be

  Remember me as you pass by

  As you are now, so once was I

  As I am now, so you must be

  Prepare for death and follow me.

  —Sampler stitched by Maria Wise, age sixteen, Pike Township, Ohio, 1837

  Skye and Patrick and I each had several drinks, poured generously. Somehow there was always something to talk about.

  Skye told funny stories about her adventures in Hollywood. Patrick shared what it was like growing up with a famous mother. Skye finally suggested dinner.

  Or, rather, she suggested Patrick and I go out for dinner.

  “You young people go out and enjoy yourselves. You’ve been working hard for the past week. Get something good to eat. Enjoy the evening. I’m weary, and we have salad makings in the refrigerator. I’ll be fine here. I�
�m too tired to eat a big meal.”

  If I hadn’t had as much to drink, I might have hesitated. But we were all pretty relaxed by then, and Patrick was charming. I agreed. It was nothing serious, I’d tell Sarah, if she found out. I just happened to be here.

  The thought of a quiet dinner with Patrick was very attractive.

  We left my car at the carriage house and headed for Damariscotta in his. He’d read a review of the Damariscotta River Grill and wanted to try it. I’d never been there, but had no objections. It had been a while since I’d eaten at any restaurant other than the Harbor Haunts Café or the Lobsterman’s Co-op. Both decent places, but neither contenders for the label “fine dining.”

  The Damariscotta River Grill, on the other hand, had tablecloths and a wine list. We were seated upstairs. The walls were covered with local artists’ work. Tables overlooked either Damariscotta’s main street or its harbor, or were close to a large fireplace. That fireplace would be a big plus in January. Tonight we chose the harbor view. Before I opened the menu, Patrick ordered a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. I didn’t object.

  “But no more, Patrick. We have to drive back to Haven Harbor.”

  “We’ll drink and eat slowly,” he answered, raising his glass to meet mine. “To a lovely evening, and an even lovelier lady.”

  He did have a way with words.

  We ordered mussels in wine as an appetizer to share. Then I ordered the duck (not a common choice on a Maine summer menu) and Patrick ordered scallops.

  He asked me about my years in Arizona, and I told him about Mama and why I’d left: a story I didn’t share with everyone. I didn’t tell him about how I’d used the carriage house when I was in high school.

  He talked about private school and prep school, and how he’d first wanted to be a set designer and had studied at the Rhode Island School of Design. It was there he’d realized he was essentially a loner. He wanted to do his own art, and not be part of a production company, even though his mother’s name could have opened doors for him.