Threads of Evidence

by Lea Wait

  “What happened to the pictures?”

  “I kept the one, as I told you—the one I based the portrait on. The others were in those files that were destroyed.”

  I looked at the portrait again. “Skye would love to see that.”

  Linda Zaharee stood up. “When her situation is more relaxed, tell her to call me again. I’m here year-round, except when I have commission work that I have to do somewhere else. Or sometimes in January or February, I go to Sanibel Island in Florida. I have a small home and studio there.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll like hearing about the portrait. She’ll be calling you.”

  “I look forward to that.”

  On my way back to Haven Harbor, I passed fields of purple and pink and white lupines. Lupines grew wild. When I was a child, the woman who lived next door would plant lupines every year. They’d never come back. Lupines grew where they chose to grow. Their independence was one reason Mainers loved them so much.

  My sleepless night was catching up with me. I’d also skipped lunch. I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts for a large black coffee and a bagel.

  All I wanted to do was get home and go to sleep.

  Our house was still, except for Juno’s meowing welcome.

  Gram had left a note. She was having dinner with Reverend Tom.

  I was glad. I didn’t want to eat or talk with anyone.

  I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

  Sarah’s call woke me four hours later. I looked at the clock. Only eleven.

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  “I called Katie. She’s checked. Her panels have numbers on them, too. Hers are VI and IX. What about the panels your grandmother kept?”

  “I haven’t checked. I was exhausted. I was up all last night.”

  “Why?”

  Oops. I hadn’t told her about the dinner with Patrick. “Yesterday afternoon I met with Skye about the investigating that she wants me to do. The meeting went on into the early evening. She was tired, but Patrick wanted to go out to eat. So the two of us went.”

  Sarah was silent.

  “Have you heard anything more about how he is?”

  “Nothing since this morning.”

  “Did you have a nice dinner together?”

  Darn. “All we did was eat together.” Or was it a date?

  “He’s at Mass General, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Shall we send flowers?”

  “Why don’t you check with the hospital? The burn center may not allow flowers. But if they do, sure. Go ahead. I’ll reimburse you for my share.”

  “The numbers in the needlepoint are important, Angie.”

  “I know. I’ll check the panels that are here. Promise.”

  “And you’ll let me know?”

  “I will.” Her silence hurt. “Sarah, it wasn’t a date.”

  “I understand. Be sure to let me know about the numbers, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I fell back asleep. Visions of fighting Roman numerals filled my dreams. Roman numerals that ran, like people did. And they were entwined in every tree and cloud.

  Hallucinations. And I hadn’t even had a drink in twenty-four hours.

  Chapter 51

  Merit should be forever plac’d

  In Knowledge Judgment Wit and Taste.

  —Stitched by Sarah May Horwell, age eight, Alexandria, Virginia, 1807, taken from the poem “Cadenus and Vanessa,” 1713, written by Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

  “Gram, do you have a magnifying glass?”

  It was morning, and Gram was pouring orange juice. I was sipping black coffee and looking to see if any of Gram’s cranberry muffins were left in the freezer. There weren’t.

  “Angel, even with a magnifying glass, you won’t find any more muffins. And we won’t get any blueberries for another month.”

  By which time Gram would be living at the rectory and I’d be on my own for muffins. Which reminded me I still had work to do for her wine shower tomorrow. I’d had a text from Susan at the church office that over fifty people had RSVP’d. Katie was going to decorate. I’d ordered éclairs (my favorites) and cookies from the patisserie on Main Street. But I still needed to get a gift—not to mention that maid of honor dress that wasn’t hanging in my closet. Yet. I closed the freezer door.

  “The magnifying glass isn’t for the muffins. Yesterday, Sarah and Katie and Dave found Roman numerals in the needlework panels I asked them to work on. We wondered whether there were numbers on the panels still here.”

  “Roman numerals?” Gram poured herself a cup of tea and pointed at the bread box. No muffins this morning. Toast.

  I put two slices in the toaster and found a jar of wild-blueberry jam. It was the closest to Maine blueberries there’d be until late July. “Tiny Roman numerals. That’s why I thought a magnifying glass would help. And something else is strange. Sarah found strands of hair in her panels, and Dave checked them. They’re moose hair. Soaked in arsenic.”

  “Arsenic!” said Gram. “However could that be?”

  “He said they could have come from a moose prepared by a taxidermist.” I shrugged. “It sounds crazy, but Skye was almost poisoned by arsenic. The police found it in her glass at the house sale. And she says Millie Gardener suspected Jasmine was killed with arsenic—that poison caused her to fall in the fountain and hit her head.”

  “I remember hearing rumors about that,” said Gram, looking through the drawer near the back door that contained anything and everything that didn’t have another place in her house. She held up a magnifying glass. “I knew there was one in there somewhere. I used it to check the panels for mildew after I had them in the sun for a few days.” She handed it to me. “Arsenic found in two places? Sounds strange to me.”

  “I agree,” I said, buttering my toast before I topped it with jam.

  “I don’t know whether it’s what you’re looking for, but when I was checking the panels, I did notice a couple of marks on the top of the Haven Harbor Lighthouse. I thought they were shading, but they might have been a Roman numeral.”

  “We’ll check after breakfast,” I said.

  “Have you heard from Skye again? I’ve been thinking about her, having to stay down at that hospital, waiting to see how her son is.” Gram took a bite of her own toast. “Not to speak of her losing the carriage house. Thank goodness it wasn’t the big house. Maybe one of the construction people left behind some combustible materials, or a wire was left ungrounded. When work is done as fast as she wanted it finished, sometimes it’s not done as carefully as it should be. And I heard some of those construction people were from New York.”

  Because, of course, New York contractors would be more careless than Mainers.

  “I talked with Pete Lambert yesterday. Inspectors from the state fire unit were there. Pete said it looked as though the fire was set.”

  “Set? You mean intentionally?”

  I nodded. “‘Why’ would be the question.”

  Gram shook her head. “Horrible. Who would do such a thing? The Wests just arrived in Haven Harbor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they packed up their money and moved back to California after this.”

  “It’s lucky no one was hurt worse than they were. Patrick was burned, but from what his mother said, he’ll eventually be all right. And Skye wasn’t hurt at all.”

  “I’m glad you’ve been able to help them, Angel. They should know not everyone in Haven Harbor is the sort who’d set fire to their home.”

  “Or put arsenic in Skye’s drink,” I added.

  Gram took a last sip of her tea. “We’re not accomplishing anything sitting here talking about it all. Let’s take a look at those needlepoint panels.”

  Gram focused the magnifying glass on the marks she’d remembered seeing in the stitches of the Haven Harbor Lighthouse. “You take a look. See if it’s a II,” she said.

  I agreed. It was definitely a II.

  “Here,” said Gram, handing me another of
the panels and the magnifying glass. “Check the eagle flying over the yacht club. Your eyes are younger than mine.”

  I didn’t tell her I hadn’t yet found one of the numbers. Sarah and Dave and Katie had been the ones with the good eyes.

  While I was looking carefully at every stitch on the yacht club building and the shore, Gram got a piece of paper.

  “So the lighthouse panel is number two,” she said. “I assume there are ten numbers, since there are ten panels.” She listed the numbers one through ten.

  “Sarah found the number five in the panel of the moose,” I said. “And a seven on Second Sister Island.”

  Gram wrote that down.

  “And Katie said there was a six on the fireworks panel, and a nine on the panel of the church. When I was at Dave’s house yesterday, he found a four on the statue of Aurora, and a ten on a sailboat in the harbor.”

  Gram stared at the list she’d written as I continued staring at the panel she’d given me.

  “Wait! I’ve found a one,” I said. “It’s woven into the feathers on the eagle’s back. You look.”

  “You may be right,” said Gram, after taking the panel close to the window and adjusting the glass. “But the Roman numeral for one is just I. That shape could be in a lot of designs.”

  “Let me look at another of the panels, then,” I said.

  She handed me the one of Aurora’s main staircase. That one I saw immediately. “I think it’s the three . . . but, like the one, it’s hard to tell. It’s a part of the staircase,” I said. “If Sarah hadn’t seen the seven and the five, I don’t think we would have seen the one or two or three.”

  “Agreed,” said Gram, writing down what we’d found. “But if we’re right, the last panel we have, the one of the town pier, has to have the number eight.”

  This time she looked. “And, yes, it does. VIII is on the ramp.”

  I picked up her list and added the pier:

  1 – Eagle

  2 – Lighthouse

  3 – Staircase

  4 – Aurora statue

  5 – Moose

  6 – Fireworks

  7 – Island

  8 – Town Pier

  9 – Church

  10 – Haven Harbor

  “But why the code? Why the Roman numerals?” asked Gram.

  I stared at the list. “She was trying to tell us something. But she didn’t want it to be obvious. Maybe Arabic numerals would have been too easy to see.”

  “Maybe,” said Gram. “It’s a puzzle, though.”

  We were both staring at the list when my telephone rang. “Good morning, Sarah! Gram and I are looking at her panels. We’ve found the rest of the numbers. No, I haven’t heard from Skye or Patrick.” I hadn’t expected to hear from Patrick—not while his hands were badly burned, not unless he used a speakerphone. “Among all of us, we’ve now found the numbers one through ten. But, of course, we’ve always known there were ten panels. We don’t know why the numbers. Gram and I were wondering why Millie Gardener chose to use Roman numerals instead of regular Arabic ones. What has Rome to do with Haven Harbor?”

  I put Sarah on speakerphone. Her voice came through clearly. “I’ve been thinking about that. Aurora was a Roman goddess, wasn’t she?”

  “Of course.” I looked over at Gram. “Aurora was the Roman name for the goddess of the dawn. And the name of the Gardeners’ house. So that’s it. She chose to honor Aurora by using her number system.”

  Sarah’s voice was sure. “Aurora was also the place Jasmine died. And Mrs. Gardener was determined to prove she’d been murdered.”

  “True,” I agreed. “Skye told me Millie Gardener was sure she’d figured out who’d murdered Jasmine. But she didn’t have proof.”

  “She didn’t tell Skye who she suspected?”

  “No. If she had, Skye wouldn’t have needed me to talk to so many people about Jasmine’s death. Although after talking with everyone on her list, plus a few more, I’m no closer to knowing what happened in 1970.”

  “Well, if you figure it out, let me know. I’m beginning to think Millie Gardener sent us a secret message.”

  “That’s what Gram thought, too,” I answered.

  “I have to go and open the shop. If you hear any news from Boston, call me.”

  I turned to Gram, who’d been studying the list we’d made. “You heard. Sarah thinks there’s a code in the panels, too.” I said.

  “She’s right,” said Gram, staring at the list she’d made. “I’ve even figured it out. But I have no idea how anyone could prove the person Millie’s named killed her daughter. Or why.”

  Chapter 52

  Finger: A measure of length, employed for every description of textile for wearing apparel or upholstery, etc. It comprises 4½ inches and is much in use by needlewomen.

  —The Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopaedia of Artistic, Plain, and Fancy Needlework, London, 1882

  Gram pointed to the list. “Look at the subjects of the panels. That couldn’t be a coincidence.”

  I looked at where she was pointing. All those Sundays doing the acrostic puzzles in the newspaper had paid off. Gram had seen something where I’d seen nothing. But once she’d shown me where to look, it was all clear.

  “The first letters of the words spell a name,” I said, incredulously. “And that person was at the party in 1970, and at the house sale. And had access to Aurora while Millie Gardener was alive.”

  Gram nodded. “I can hardly believe it, though. Why would Elsa M. Fitch kill anyone? I’ve known her for years. She’s a decent hairdresser. But other than a few haircuts people might have wanted to kill her for, Elsa’s a sweetie. Took care of her mother for years. The needlepoint panels may say who Millie Gardener believed was guilty. But that doesn’t mean she was right. Elsa was younger than I was in 1970, and you said Mrs. Gardener couldn’t prove anything. Maybe Millie Gardener was losing it a bit in her later years, living all by herself in that big house.” Gram shuddered. “Putting Elsa’s name in the needlework doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No. But I talked with Elsa, and with her brother and sister. So she knew Skye was trying to reopen the investigation of Jasmine’s death. To stop the investigation, she might be trying to kill Skye. That would explain the arsenic in the cup, and the fire in the carriage house.”

  “I’m not convinced Elsa’s the one you’re looking for. But if anyone did those things, then Skye is still in danger,” said Gram.

  “She’s probably safe so long as she’s in Boston. But she could decide to come home at any time.” I thought a few minutes. “The local police didn’t listen when they found the arsenic in Skye’s cup. But now there’s been the fire, too. And these clues. Could be they’ll finally listen.” I dialed Pete Lambert’s number. “Pete? Angie Curtis. I need to see you as soon as possible. It could be a matter of life or death.” I hoped he checked his messages often.

  “A little melodramatic?” Gram remarked.

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “And very serious. If Pete doesn’t call back in half an hour, I’m going to call Ethan Trask. He’s with the homicide unit of the Maine State Police. But first I’m going to talk with Ob and Anna Winslow. We might need their help.”

  I left Gram staring at the pad of paper on the coffee table.

  Pete called back in ten minutes. I needed to talk with the Winslows first, so I agreed to meet Pete at the station in forty-five minutes. In the meantime I called my old high-school friend Clem Walker, who worked at Channel 7 in Portland. I’d need her help.

  The Winslows hesitated, but they agreed. And Clem said she’d do what she could.

  It was all set.

  I just needed to get Pete on board.

  Luckily, the Haven Harbor Police Station was a short drive.

  Pete’s desk was covered with stacks of papers and binders. I sat in the chair opposite his. “Paperless society?”

  He winced. “Not exactly. No one here trusts computers, so everything is in duplicate. Or trip
licate. Or whatever comes after that. And I’m always behind. But you didn’t come here to talk about paperwork.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know who tried to poison Skye West, and who set the fire in the carriage house two nights ago. And I know how we can prove it.”

  “I’m listening.” Pete leaned toward me.

  “And Jasmine Gardener was murdered, just as her mother thought.”

  “Angie, that’s an old rumor,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Stick to what’s happening now.”

  “Listen to me! When that hummingbird died at Aurora, you didn’t think it was important. But I’m convinced someone wanted to get rid of Skye. Kill her, or scare her enough so she’d leave town.”

  “So you figured this out while you’ve been going around town, asking people questions about what happened forty-five years ago?” Pete did not look happy.

  “I have. And I’ve found out a lot. I think the person who killed Jasmine Gardener in 1970 is trying to kill Skye West now.”

  “For sure you’ve stirred up everyone’s memories, good and bad. But can you prove that this mysterious person— I’ve noticed you haven’t named anyone—is guilty of all these things?”

  I hesitated. “I’ll admit my suspect doesn’t sound likely. But she fits! Millie Gardener thought she was guilty. She left clues in her needlework. I even think this person might have killed Millie Gardener after she knew Mrs. Gardener suspected her. Or at least she contributed to Mrs. Gardener’s death. Was Mrs. Gardener’s body ever tested for arsenic?”

  “So far as I know, the old lady was never autopsied. She lived alone. She died. No one had a reason to question her death.”

  I nodded. “That’s what I thought. But she’d figured out who killed Jasmine. When she couldn’t find proof, she got discouraged. She told the Haven Harbor Police Department what she thought, long before your time on the force. She wrote to Skye and told her she suspected someone. What if she told someone else in town, or what she told the police got back to the killer?”