by Lea Wait
“You? How do you know?”
“The Mainely Needlepoint site had a nasty death threat on it this morning, written in on that spot where it says ‘contact.’ And Pax Henry said a tall man was asking about me at the post office this morning. The man wanted to know where I lived.”
“Did Pax give him your address?” Sarah frowned.
“No. But he told the guy I lived on the green.”
“How many homes are on the green?”
“The church and the rectory and Ruth’s house are at the far end, and then, let me see, six houses on each side. And another five on the east end, near Main Street.”
“Not that many,” Sarah concluded.
“No. And several of those homes are owned by people who’re in Florida or North Carolina for the winter. Their drives are plowed, so at first glance the houses don’t look empty, but anyone paying attention could figure out pretty fast that no one was there.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Pete said to stay here right now. He’s calling Ethan and the crime scene folks.”
“You’re welcome to stay here, of course. My couch folds out,” Sarah said. “But what about Trixi?”
“She’ll be all right today,” I said. “I left her plenty of food. She won’t be happy, but she won’t starve.”
Sarah nodded. “Ruggles doesn’t forgive me right away if I leave him overnight. But he’s my best friend again after I open a fresh can of cat food.”
I looked around. “Where is Ruggles?”
“Probably under the bed. He’s shy when I have guests. He’ll join us later.” She went back to our original subject. “Clem’s parents are here in town, right?”
“She was going to the dentist this afternoon, and then going to have dinner with them and Steve.” I shuddered. “Pete said he’d call them and tell them what happened.” Should I tell Sarah Pete had asked about her? Maybe. But this wasn’t the right moment.
“What an awful thing to have to tell parents. To tell anyone,” said Sarah. “I can’t believe we saw her on television last night—you saw her in person—and now she’s dead.”
“And . . . why? It doesn’t make sense why finding a piece of old embroidery—I’m sorry, Sarah, antique embroidery—would cause someone’s death. Much less Clem’s.”
“So, it would make more sense if you were the one to be killed?”
I started pacing. “Yes, in a weird way. If there’s some secret in the embroidery, I’m the one who bought it and am investigating. Clem just used it as a filler on the news.” I hesitated. “So, yes, I feel guilty.”
“I sympathize. But the whole thing is crazy. And from what you’ve told me, Pete’s right. You could be in danger. So, take it easy. Did you ever eat lunch?”
“I had some tea, but I was waiting for Clem before I ordered food.”
“Then what about a bowl of bean soup? I made it yesterday; it’s hearty and tastes good, too.”
“The old-fashioned kind? Starting with dried beans?”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe your grandmother gave me the recipe.”
“I’d love some. Thank you.”
Sarah headed for the kitchen to heat the soup, and I followed. “How do you think whoever killed Clem even knew she was in town? She lives and works in Portland, right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “At the moment I don’t know anything.”
“Relax. Take deep breaths. You’re safe here.” Sarah glanced at her door. “Both doors downstairs are locked, and this one will be, too.” She slid the bolt shut.
I tried to keep my voice even and calm. “Ruth is checking online for genealogical records about the Holgates and Goulds. I didn’t recognize the names either. Although Patrick told me he was going to Camden today to meet with Sam Gould, the shipbuilder, and I remembered I’d talked with him last summer. He’d known Skye and her friend Jasmine back when he was in college in New York City.”
“A shipbuilder? Doesn’t sound like someone who’d kill Clem over your buying an embroidery.”
“Agreed. Besides, Sam Gould would have been in Camden with Patrick when Clem died. But, still, he’s the only Gould I’ve heard of. Although I’m sure there are a lot more people in Maine that have that name now, and were more in the past.”
“Isn’t there a Senator Holgate?”
“Ruth said that, too. She’s going to try to find any genealogical connections between the Providence family, since their names are on your needlepointed samplers, and the Holgates or Goulds.”
“If anyone can do that, it’s Ruth.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Sarah put a steaming bowl of soup in front of me with a package of crackers and some cheddar. She sat across from me and cut herself a piece of cheese as I started eating.
“Up to your standards?” she asked.
“Definitely. A little hot, but I can cope with that.” Gram’s bean soup had been a staple of winter lunches when I’d been a child. Delicious, filling, nutritious, and, thinking back, inexpensive. Filling my spoon again I was comforted in a way I must have been when I was little, and cold weather was my only enemy.
I focused on the soup and tried to forget why I was at Sarah’s.
Gram’s call interrupted my focus on food. “Angie! Are you all right? Mrs. Walker, Clem’s mother, just called Tom. Have you heard?”
“Pete told me,” I said, swallowing the last of my bean soup and giving Sarah a thumbs-up. “I’m at Sarah’s.” Of course, Gram would be one of the first to hear. The Walkers were members of her husband’s congregation.
“Good. Then you’re not alone. I knew you and Clem were going to have lunch together. I still can’t believe what happened. Tom’s gone over to be with the Walkers. I don’t think they’re coping well.”
How could they? Their daughter had been killed. “I’m still trying to understand how this could have happened. Clem was late for our lunch date, so I was a little worried, but I never dreamed she’d been killed.”
“Does Pete know about the threats you were both getting?”
“Yes; I told him. He suggested I stay at Sarah’s, at least for today, in case this crazy person is looking for me, too.” Saying it out loud made it sound even scarier than it was.
“How are you, Angie? Really?”
“Nervous. Still finding it hard to believe Clem’s gone.”
“Is Sarah okay with your staying at her place?” As always, Gram was worried about bothering other people.
“For now, yes. I don’t think I’ll be here long.”
“You’ll be here for the night, at least,” Sarah put in, loudly, so Gram would be sure to hear her.
I could almost see Gram smiling. “You thank Sarah for me.”
“She just heated me a bowl of bean soup she’d made, following your recipe. I feel like I’m at home.”
“Good. And you’re keeping in touch with the police?”
“Pete Lambert’s going to check on me. I’m all right, Gram.”
“You let me know if you need any help from Tom or me, hear? You’re welcome to stay with us, too. Any time. Do you need me to get Trixi?”
I hesitated. But I hadn’t told Gram one of the threats also included my family. I didn’t want her near my house. “Trixi will be fine for now. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
“I’m so sorry about Clem, Angie,” she said. “Sometimes life isn’t fair.”
She was right about that.
Sarah’d already washed my soup bowl. “What’s next?” she asked, heading us both into her living room. “Who else should know what’s happening?”
I looked out her front window. I couldn’t see the wharf, but cars were parked in areas near the waterfront that had been empty earlier. The crime scene van? More police, including Ethan? Had anyone called Channel 7 to tell them they’d lost a reporter . . . and maybe their next anchor?
Sarah came and stood next to me. “‘By my Window have I for Scenery / Just a Sea.’�
��
She, and Emily, were right.
And Clem was dead. I still couldn’t believe it.
Chapter 14
“Liberty Peace and Prosperity Ever Prevail in America.”
—Stitched within a border of hearts and flowers by Hannah Jones in 1801.
“Why don’t you call Patrick? He’ll be worried about you if he hears what happened to Clem,” Sarah suggested.
“You’re right. I should call him. But he was going to Camden. He may still be having lunch with Sam Gould. I’ll call Ruth first. She may have found some genealogical information that would help us.”
Sarah nodded as I settled myself on her couch.
“Ruth? I didn’t want you to hear it on the news. Clem was shot this afternoon.”
“No! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m at Sarah’s,” I assured her. “The police know about the threats.”
“And how is Clem?”
I hadn’t been clear about that. “Clem’s dead,” I told her. “Her body was found in her car, at the town wharf parking lot.”
Ruth didn’t say anything. Then, “She was so young! Bad enough if something like that happened to an old bird like me. But she had so much of her life ahead of her. Angie, I’m so sorry. I knew Clem, but not well. Selfishly, I’m glad you’re all right.”
“I am,” I assured her. At least for now. I was trying hard not to worry about whether whoever had killed Clem would now be looking for me. “Have you found out anything about those names connected with the embroideries Sarah and I bought?”
“Not much so far,” Ruth answered, her voice still shaking a little. “But all the families—Providences, Goulds, and Holgates—were originally from England, and I’m pretty sure some members of each family were in the District of Maine before the American Revolution.”
“That sounds as though you’ve gone back a lot of years in a few hours,” I said. Ruth’s research skills were amazing.
“I didn’t start with now and go back. I checked Maine data for early families. All three were listed. The Holgates were one of the families to whom the English king awarded Maine land grants back in the sixteen hundreds.”
That fit what Jonas Beale at the Maine Historical Society had suggested.
“Most of those that got land grants never came to the States—or, colonies, as they were then. And the farmers and fishermen and lumbermen who settled on the land didn’t pay attention to what was happening in England. There were no maps or borders or guards to say, ‘Don’t settle here.’”
“That was when they marked the pines, right?” I remembered some things from my Maine history classes at Haven Harbor Elementary.
“Exactly. The tallest and straightest white pines in the Maine woods were claimed by the English king for his navy. They were marked with large Xs; only agents of the crown were supposed to cut them.”
“But some people did.”
“Representatives of the English crown weren’t exactly guarding them. Some of those trees were included in the land grants.”
“What about the Goulds?”
“I still have to check some sources. The first mention I found of a Gould here in Maine was in 1774.”
Almost twenty years after that London Foundling Hospital billet dated 1757. “Englishmen were still immigrating to the wilderness of Maine then?”
“Either that, or they’d been here for a while, but their presence wasn’t recorded before that,” Ruth explained. “Records were scarce then.”
“What about the Providence family?”
“The first Holgates were the earliest of the three. The Goulds came next, and the Providences, just after the Revolution. So the three names you’re looking for were all here—or had been here—by eighteen hundred.”
“What do you mean, ‘had been here’?”
“I have a lot more work to do on this, Angie, but the Holgates seem to have disappeared for a while during and after the Revolution. Despite the earlier references, I can’t find anything more about the family until eighteen ten, when a Geoffrey Holgate married in Gardiner.”
“Gardiner’s not far from Hallowell or Augusta,” I pointed out. “At least one of those estates was supposed to have come from near Augusta.”
“You’re right. Gardiner’s not far down the Kennebec from there,” Ruth agreed. “I’m sorry I haven’t found information helpful to you or Sarah. Or, unfortunately, to Clem. Even if the coat of arms embroidery you have is connected to one of those families, I can’t imagine why someone today would care about it, or be so angry about your finding out about it that he—or she—would kill anyone.”
“Let me know if you find out anything more,” I said.
“I’m not giving up,” said Ruth. “I’m going to take a break for a little while to rest my hands—carpel tunnel, you know, from all the hours I spend on my computer—and then I’ll get back to it. I’ll let you know. And, Angie, I’m so sorry about Clem. Take care of yourself, now.”
“I will,” I promised, although I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that. I wasn’t going to hide in Sarah’s apartment for the rest of my life.
Chapter 15
“Diligence and Perseverance are the Keys to improvement and Subdue all difficulties.”
—Stitched by Mary Ann Lewis, eight years old, at Miss Pierce’s School in New Haven, Connecticut. It also includes three alphabets and a row of cross-stitched flowers and strawberries.
“What did Ruth find out?” Sarah asked, coming back into the living room after washing my lunch dishes. She stopped for a minute and glanced into my canvas bag, but then kept going.
“The Holgates and Goulds were in Maine before the Revolution. The Providences arrived after that. None of the families seem to be connected. Or at least Ruth hasn’t found any connections yet.”
I glanced down as my cell rang. “Yes, Pete?”
“Everything all right where you are?” he asked.
“Quiet as a snowy day,” I answered.
“Snowy day wouldn’t be quiet for me. Wicked bad accidents happen when stupid people drive on snowy roads,” he answered. “You still at Sarah’s?”
“I promised I’d stay here. What’s happening at the wharf?”
“I’m on guard duty at the moment, freezing my rear off. Crime scene folks are here; medical examiner arrived about ten minutes ago. Ethan’s on his way. With his wife back from Afghanistan, he spends as much time at home in Hallowell with her and Emmie as he can. Used to be easier on me when he and Emmie stayed with his parents here in the Harbor.”
“I understand that,” I agreed.
“I don’t know any more than I told you earlier. But under the circumstances, I still think you should stay away from your house right now. Maybe for a few days.”
“Pete!”
“Until we know whether whoever killed Clem is looking for you. I know you’d rather be at home. But do you have somewhere else you could stay?”
“Sarah said I can stay here tonight, and I will.”
Sarah nodded at me.
“But she doesn’t have enough space for me to stay long. I could go to Gram’s.”
“Better not at your grandmother’s. The rectory is too close to your house. Someone might see you—or even go to look for you.”
I shivered. “What about Gram and Tom?”
“I’ll call them and make sure they know to keep a low profile. Aren’t you seeing Patrick West? He lives far enough out of town that no one would look for you there.”
“Unless they knew I was . . . dating . . . him. I’ll ask him,” I said. Stay with Patrick? How would he feel about that? How would I feel? That would be crossing our unwritten red line. On the other hand . . . “Gram might stay out of sight. But a minister can’t hide. Last I heard Tom was over with Clem’s parents.”
“I’m glad. The Walkers were wicked upset, of course. They also said they expected a friend of Clem’s . . . a Steve Jeffries . . . to be arriving there soon. What do you know about hi
m?”
“He’s a sculptor. Lives in Biddeford. He and Clem have”—I corrected myself—“had been seeing each other for a couple of months.”
“Any problems there you know of?”
Could Pete be thinking Steve killed Clem?
I didn’t understand the relationship Clem and Steve had. When she’d talked about him it had seemed private, personal. But when you’re murdered, nothing is private. “Yesterday she told me she and Steve were breaking up. But then this morning she said he’d be here in Haven Harbor to have dinner with her and her parents tonight. So I don’t really know how close they were.”
“She say why they were breaking up? Was he violent? Ever hit her?”
“She never said anything like that!” I’d only met Steve a couple of times. He hadn’t seemed the violent sort, although you couldn’t always tell. “Clem was trying to get Patrick to show Steve’s sculptures at the gallery here in Haven Harbor. But she said they disagreed on future plans.”
“I’ll talk to him myself,” Pete said. “Seeing as how Clem’s future plans are now limited. Ethan’ll want to talk with him too, and with the Walkers. They might know if Clem had been having problems with anyone outside of this embroidery situation.”
“You think the death threats about the embroidery weren’t serious?”
“I have to take them seriously, since they were followed up by someone’s being murdered. But I can’t see why anyone would kill over an old piece of stitching.”
Me either.
“So, talk to Patrick, and see if you can stay out at his place a couple of days. And I know you’ll want stuff from your house. Make a list of what you’ll need and have him get it for you, or I’ll do that. I don’t want you at your place even for an hour.”
“Yes, Pete.” I raised my eyebrows at Sarah. Patrick going through my clothes and toiletries would be bad enough. I didn’t want Pete doing it. “Let me know if you hear anything.”
