by Lea Wait
“I know arsenic was an important poison historically. But you hardly ever hear of anyone being poisoned by it today.”
“You can’t buy it at a hardware store anymore. But it’s still used in some manufacturing. And since it occurs naturally, traces of arsenic are even in our drinking water. Here in Maine, and other eastern states, especially in rural areas where there were family graveyards in the nineteenth century, arsenic, which was used as a preservative for bodies of men killed in the Civil War, has sometimes leached into the ground, and then into the groundwater.”
I shuddered. But Dave was on a roll.
“During the nineteenth century, arsenic was used as a basic preservative. Angie, are there any mounted animals at Aurora? Or were there, before you cleaned the place out?”
I stared at him. “Yes. And, yes, one was a moose head.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “I don’t have to test those to know one place the arsenic could have come from. Beginning in the eighteenth century, arsenic was a basic tool of taxidermists. They mixed arsenic with plaster of paris and rubbed it into the skin and hair of animals or birds they wanted to preserve, or sometimes dipped whatever they were preserving into an arsenic solution. Either way, the arsenic prevented decay. Even moths wouldn’t harm their work. It would kill the moths or other insects.”
“So . . . you’re saying . . .”
“Someone could cut a small piece of a preserved animal, or even its stuffing, so no one would notice, soak it in water, and get an arsenic solution that could kill someone.”
Elsa Fitch had bought two of those preserved heads at the lawn sale. I hoped she knew they contained poison.
Chapter 48
Cleaning Woolwork: If the woolwork is not much soiled, stretch it in a frame and wash it over with a quart of water into which a tablespoon of ox gall has been dropped. If much soiled, wash with gin and soft soap, in the proportions of a quarter of a pound of soap to half a pint of gin.
—The Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopaedia of Artistic, Plain, and Fancy Needlework, London, 1882
“So the moose hair may have been from a preserved moose head, because of the arsenic. But that still doesn’t explain why Millie Gardener was using moose hair—poisoned moose hair, at that—in her embroidery,” I said, trying to put it all together.
“I have no idea what the connection is. Except, as you’ve said, that Mrs. Gardener suspected her daughter had been poisoned with arsenic.”
“Maybe she left it as a clue? But a clue to what?” I turned the information over and over in my mind.
“Maybe knowing the poison would help identify the killer,” Dave suggested.
“If she set it up as a puzzle, she’s succeeded. I have no idea where she’s trying to lead us,” I admitted. “But this isn’t the first time this week arsenic has shown up.”
I had Dave’s attention immediately.
“Where else was there arsenic?”
“Late Saturday afternoon a hummingbird sipped lemonade out of Skye’s drink at the lawn sale and died. The police tested the glass and found it contained arsenic.”
“Are the police investigating who poisoned the glass?”
I shook my head. “They don’t seem concerned about it. They even implied she might have added the arsenic herself to call attention to Millie Gardener’s accusations about Jasmine.”
“Maybe you should nudge them a little.”
“I did remind Pete Lambert, this morning. But I don’t think they want to hear from me right now. They’re busy trying to figure out whether the fire was arson.”
“Fire? What fire?” Dave asked, putting down his glass.
“The carriage house at Aurora burned to the ground last night. Patrick West was injured. He thought his mother was inside, and he tried to find her.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“Last I heard, he’d live, but take time to heal. He and his mother are at Mass General now.”
“And the police think it might be arson?” Dave leaned toward me, clearly concerned.
“They called in the state fire marshal to investigate. When I talked with Pete earlier today he said arson was likely.”
“Then there’ve been two attempts on Skye West’s life in the past week.”
“I agree. Maybe it’s because she’s investigating Jasmine Gardener’s death.” I paused. “Or . . . she hired me to.”
Dave stared at me. “She did what?”
“She’d planned to investigate by herself. She’d started by having that lawn sale, hoping it would attract people she felt had motives to kill Jasmine Gardener back in 1970. Then she realized I’d be in a better position to do some sleuthing, since I lived in town, and I’d worked for a private investigator. She gave me a list of people to talk to.”
“So you could be in danger, too.”
I shrugged.
“Have you found out anything?”
“Nothing significant. I’ve rounded out details about people close to Jasmine Gardener the summer she died. So far I haven’t come up with anyone with a strong enough motive to kill her.”
“Have you talked with everyone yet?”
“All but one—” I was interrupted by my phone. “Excuse me, Dave. Yes? Sarah. Did you get my voice mail? I don’t know any more than when I called earlier. Skye left me a message. Her cell phone was lost in the fire, so I can’t easily get hold of her. It sounds like he’ll have a rough recovery, but he’ll be all right.” I kept listening. “That’s strange. I’m with Dave right now. We’ll look. And that hair you found in the needlework? It was from a moose. And it had been soaked in arsenic.” I put my hand over the phone. “Sarah wants to know if she’s in any danger from the poison, since she was working with the needlework panel.”
“Tell her I don’t think so. Only trace amounts of arsenic were on the hair.”
“Did you hear that, Sarah? Dave and I will look at the panels he has. Even if the numbers are there, they’re probably just notes about what order they were hung on the dining-room wall. But I’ll get back to you.” I clicked off.
“What numbers?” asked Dave. “I assume that was Sarah Byrne.”
I nodded. “She’s been working on her two panels. She says she’s found small numbers embroidered within the designs. She wanted to know if anyone else had seen them.”
“I’ve hardly had time to look at the two you gave me,” said Dave. “School ended yesterday. I’d planned to start stitching in a day or two.”
“Let’s look at your panels. Just to see,” I said. “Sarah suggested examining them with a magnifying glass. The numbers she found were small, but distinct. And they were Roman numerals.”
“The ones you gave me are in my dining room. I keep my needlepoint stash in an old pine captain’s trunk there.”
Dave’s two panels—the fountain at Aurora and the wide view of Haven Harbor—were on top of his threads and needles and canvases. We spread them out on his dining-room table.
“I don’t see any Roman numerals,” I said.
“I have a box of magnifying glasses in my study,” said Dave. “I use them in my classes. I’ll get us each one.”
I examined the fountain panel, inch by inch. Had Sarah imagined numbers? Or were they only on her panels?
But that wouldn’t make sense. On the other hand, not a lot was making sense right now. And being up most of the night at the fire was beginning to catch up with me.
Dave returned and handed me a large glass. “Have you found anything?”
“Nothing.”
We were both silent as we examined the embroidery. “I feel like Sherlock Holmes looking for a clue,” I said in a few minutes, straightening up. “I don’t think there’s anything here.”
Dave kept looking. “Wait! I found one!” He pointed to an X on one of the sailboats in the harbor. “It’s the number ten. Sarah was right. I wouldn’t have noticed an X as a number if she hadn’t alerted us.”
“‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ as
Alice would have said. And you’re sure it’s not just an X?” I looked down at the tiny, but perfect, numeral. “Okay. Now we have to see if there’s one in my panel.”
My eyes were weary. Dave found the number on the other panel, too. An IV was hidden in the folds of the statue of Aurora’s cape.
Chapter 49
Happy the child whose tender years
Receives instructions well
Who shares the sinners Path and fears
The road that Leads to hell.
When we devote our youth to God
’Tis Pleasing in his eyes
A flower when offered in the bud
Is no vain sacrifice.
—Sampler worked by Williamina Robertson, age nine, Alexandria, Virginia, 1827
We called Sarah to tell her we’d found numbers in the needlepoint Dave had, too. Then, despite Pete’s warning and my exhaustion, I headed down the coast to Linda Zaharee’s home and studio. I kept thinking about the mysterious numbers on the needlepoint.
There were ten panels. We’d found four numbers. Chances are the other panels had numbers, too. But why? Could they be more important than instructions about how to hang the panels?
If Millie Gardener had wanted to leave directions about something like that, why not write the numbers on the back of the frames? Why go to the trouble of stitching them into the pictures? And why Roman numerals?
Too many unanswered questions.
A teenager with her hair in dreads and wearing tight jeans and a flowered T-shirt answered the door of the strikingly modern home. Most of its outside walls were glass. I could see behind the girl that at least some of the inside walls of the home were granite.
“Yes?”
“I’m here to see Ms. Zaharee.”
“Okay.” The girl took two steps into the house and yelled, “Grandma! Someone’s here to see you.” I followed her inside. The granite walls were partially covered by immense paintings—some of the sea, some portraits.
“Keisha, tell her I’ll be there in a minute. Be polite!” came a voice from the second floor. Aurora’s carved oak staircase was dark. The wrought-iron stairway here pulled the outside light in.
“Come in and sit down,” said Keisha. She gestured at a white couch near a massive fireplace. The couch could have seated six comfortably.
“Do you mind if I look at the view for a moment?” I walked to the glass wall facing the ocean. “What a spectacular place to build a house!”
“Grandma and a friend of hers planned it. She says it brings the rhythms of the sea into her life.”
“That’s exactly what I say, Keisha.” A tall, graceful woman, her long gray hair braided and pinned in a high circlet, came down the spiral stairway into the living room. “When I’m home, I like to feel as though I’m at sea.”
“You have a beautiful home, Ms. Zaharee.” I put out my hand. “I’m Angela Curtis. I’m afraid Skye West couldn’t be here today.”
Linda Zaharee frowned slightly, gesturing that I should sit down. “She could have called me to reschedule.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard what happened on the news today?” I asked.
“I try not to listen to the news. What did I miss? And, Keisha, could you get us some iced tea?”
The girl didn’t look thrilled, but she left the room.
“My granddaughter is visiting for a few weeks. Summer vacation, you know. She used to love visiting Maine, but I’m afraid it’s getting a little boring for a young teenager whose friends are in North Carolina.”
I smiled. I remembered all too well being a restless teenager. But today I had to focus on business, not memories. “As she may have told you, Skye West has bought and is restoring the old Gardener estate, Aurora, in Haven Harbor. While work is being done on the house, she and her son have been living in the estate’s carriage house. Last night the carriage house burned down.”
“Oh, no. Is she all right?”
“She is. But her son was injured. He’s at Mass General now, and she’s with him. That’s why she couldn’t make this appointment.”
“Well, I certainly understand that. Ms. Curtis, are you her personal assistant?”
I hesitated. Wasn’t that what I’d been doing for the past couple of weeks? Helping Skye organize her life and taking care of unwanted chores? “Not exactly. But she’s asked me to take care of some of the details of her life.”
“And hiring me to paint a portrait is one of those ‘details’?”
Keisha returned, put tall glasses in front of each of us, and left.
I’d used the wrong word. “No. Not at all. If Ms. West wants you to paint a portrait, then she’ll be in touch with you as soon as her son is well. But she also wanted to contact you about another matter.”
“Which was?”
“Forty-five years ago you took photographs of her. She was wondering whether you still had copies of those pictures.”
Ms. Zaharee shook her head disbelievingly. “I’m sure I don’t have the pictures she’s looking for. I was a photographer for only a couple of years. It was a way to make money until I had enough experience to be recognized as a painter. When I left to study in Paris, I put all those photographs and negatives in a storage unit. Unfortunately, I didn’t choose the location of the unit well. While I was away, it was flooded in spring storms. All my photographs were destroyed.”
“Then you don’t have any. No photos or negatives?”
“Truthfully, I only kept one photograph from that period of my life. It was a photograph of a girl. Not of Skye West. Somehow I managed to capture that moment exactly the way I’d wanted to.” She smiled. “About ten years later I painted a portrait based on that photograph. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to. You have it here?”
“It seemed a part of Maine, and of my early life. I’ve kept it for sentimental reasons. Come, I’ll show you.”
I followed Linda into her office. A wide plank desk dominated the room. The walls were lined with bookcases holding books on art and artists and photography. But my eyes went immediately to the portrait she’d hung in front of books of photography. Jasmine Gardener was nude, standing in water almost up to her waist. Her head was thrown back in a laugh that never ended, and her long hair was dripping.
“Jasmine,” I said quietly, walking over to it.
“You recognized the girl?” Linda stared at me. “But, of course. You come from Haven Harbor. You must have seen pictures of her somewhere.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the painting. “I saw pictures of her at Aurora. Pictures of her and her friends.” I turned around. “I told you Skye West bought Aurora.”
“You did. But this was a girl who lived there long ago. I didn’t think anyone would recognize her.”
“Skye would.” I finally stopped staring at the portrait. “She was Jasmine’s best friend. Her name then was Mary North. You took pictures of them together.”
Chapter 50
Precept 1: How To Get Riches
In things of moment on thy self depend,
Nor trust too far thy servant or thy friend.
With private views thy friend may promise fair.
And servants very seldom prove sincere.
—Lines stitched on a 1773 sampler, taken from Nathaniel Low’s An Astronomical Diary, or Almanack for 1772
“Jasmine’s friend. I remember,” said Linda Zaharee. “She was shy. She didn’t want me to take her picture, but Jasmine insisted. I wish I did still have those pictures. They were some of the best I took in those years. I loved that one.” She pointed at the portrait.
“The Gardeners hired you to take pictures at their big town open house that Labor Day weekend,” I continued. “Those pictures are gone, too?”
She shrugged. “Gone long ago. That summer I was staying in Camden. I didn’t know what had happened to Jasmine. I mean, I knew she’d been taken to the hospital the night of the party. But I didn’t know it was anything serious. I was taking pictures of
the fireworks when it all happened. About a week after that, I called the Gardeners to tell them their proofs were ready. Mr. Gardener told me they’d just gotten back from Jasmine’s funeral. They didn’t ever want to see the pictures. They didn’t want to be reminded of that night. He sent me a more-than-generous check for my time, and I threw out the negatives and proofs. Who else would have wanted pictures of a party?”
“Skye was hoping you’d still have them.”
“Well, you tell her I’m sorry, but no. They’ve been gone a long time.”
“Skye also told me Jasmine was angry about the pictures you took of her. She asked for them, and you wouldn’t give them to her. She threatened you with blackmail, Skye said.”
Linda sat down at her desk. “Skye West, or whatever her name was then, seems to have remembered a lot about that summer. Yes, Jasmine was a little upset about the pictures. She didn’t have any problem the day I was taking them. And, as you can see from my portrait, which is all that is left of that day, she was beautiful. Young, exuberant, full of life! But later she had second thoughts. She was afraid of what her parents or her friends would say if they knew she’d posed in the nude.” Linda Zaharee looked at the portraits and then back at me. “She was so innocent. So naive. She wanted all the pictures and the negatives. I refused. They were some of my best work at that point. I wanted to keep at least the one for my portfolio. Keep in mind, in those days I made my living as a photographer. And she’d already signed a release. I was young, but not stupid enough to take nude pictures of an underage girl without getting her permission. I should have had her parents’ permission first, I know now . . . but I didn’t. The idea of nudity came up suddenly when I was taking other pictures of Jasmine and her friend. But I did have her signature on that form.”
“So you didn’t give her the photographs.”
“I was going to. Not all the negatives, but the photographs. But then she died. And I didn’t know how to contact her friend—I didn’t even remember her name—except by going back to Mr. and Mrs. Gardener. Out of respect for Jasmine, I didn’t want to do that.”