by Lea Wait
I picked up my phone.
“Hi! I was about to call you. How was your day?” Patrick’s cheerful voice was too much. I started crying again. “Hey, Angie. What’s wrong?”
“Clem’s dead.”
“What?” Patrick hadn’t heard.
“Remember, I told you we were going to have lunch at the Harbor Haunts? She didn’t make it. Someone found her in her car at the town wharf parking lot. She’d been shot.”
“That death threat last night,” Patrick immediately connected. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. The police say I shouldn’t go home for a while. I’m at Sarah’s.”
“Good. You’re not alone. What about Trixi?”
“Pete Lambert is going to feed her when he and Ethan stop to get my computer.”
“Your computer? Why do they need that?”
“Because I got another threat this morning, through the Mainely Needlepoint Web site. They want to see if they can trace it.” And see if any more threats came in this afternoon. “How was your lunch with Sam Gould?”
“Good. Meeting went well. Sam’s doing a nice job with Mom’s boat. I had a couple of suggestions, but not many. He knows a lot more about boats and yachts of all sizes than I do. I’ve only been on a few, and I never paid much attention to them.”
Of course, Patrick would have been on yachts. His uncle had sailed one into Haven Harbor a few months ago. My experience with boats was limited to small sailboats, skiffs, and lobster boats. I’d never paid much attention to yachts either.
“Will the boat be finished by next summer?”
“That’s the plan. Mom’s hoping to be in Maine then. There’s talk of making a movie nearby.”
“I thought she was against that.”
“She was. She is. But two producers are enthusiastic about it. But that’s not important now; you’re important. Did you say Pete and Ethan don’t want you to go home?”
“Maybe not for several days. They’re afraid whoever hurt Clem might be looking for me.”
“Then you’ll come stay with me,” he said firmly. “We can roast marshmallows in the fireplace and drink champagne.”
My tears had stopped at the yachts.
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Mind? No way. I’d mind if you didn’t come.”
The line was silent for a few seconds. I suspected we were both thinking that my staying with him was a new step. One, maybe for different reasons, we’d both been avoiding.
“Not sure about the marshmallows and champagne combination. But, yes, tomorrow? I’m going to stay at Sarah’s tonight. Maybe tomorrow you could go to my house and get Trixi and some of my clothes.”
“That should be interesting. Trixi and Bette together again. A reunion of sisters.” Patrick’s voice dropped. “Seriously, Angie, are you all right? Are you sure you don’t want me to come and get you now?”
“I’m fine. Really. And Sarah’s good company.”
Sarah walked by and gave me a high five.
“We’re going to have a girls’ night. Talking boys and makeup and murder. The usual stuff.”
“I’m glad you’re smiling. But . . . Clem. Does Steve know?”
“I assume so. Pete called Clem’s parents. Before all this happened Steve was planning to join Clem at her family’s house for dinner.”
“I’ll call him, make sure he’s okay,” said Patrick. “He may need someone to talk to. And if he wants to stay in the area, maybe he’d feel more comfortable staying at my place tonight than with Clem’s family.”
“That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “Offer, even if he turns you down.”
“Call me if you need anything tonight, or if anything else happens. I’ll talk to you first thing in the morning, and you can tell me what you need from your house besides Trixi.” He paused, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Does this mean I get to go through your unmentionable drawers?”
“Very funny,” I said, smiling back. “I’ll make a list. Have a good evening. See you tomorrow.” I’d be staying with Patrick tomorrow night. My first night at the carriage house. I should be excited. Under these circumstances romance wasn’t a priority. And yet . . .
“Sounds like you have tomorrow organized,” said Sarah. “I made pasta puttanesca and a salad. Dinner is served!”
Thank goodness for Sarah. “Smells delicious,” I said. Then I added, hesitantly, “Would you mind if we turned on the Channel 7 news? I’d like to know if they are covering Clem’s death.”
Sarah didn’t hesitate. “The pasta can wait.” She turned on the television.
Tonight’s snowstorm would only result in four to six inches. (My friends in Arizona would have been freaked out by that much, but in Maine it was only borderline “plowable snow.”) Nothing to worry about. Besides, Sarah and I were inside, Patrick was home. And Clem . . .
Dara Richmond was at the anchor desk after the weather. “Tonight we have sad news. A member of our Channel 7 family left us today.” A smiling picture of Clem filled the screen. “Features reporter Clem Walker died in her hometown of Haven Harbor this afternoon. As we have more details, we’ll bring them to you. For now, we send sympathies to her family and many friends.”
A commercial was next, advertising a sale on used cars.
I turned off the set. “No details. She didn’t even say Clem was killed.”
“Maybe the police asked the station to keep that quiet for now,” Sarah suggested.
“Maybe,” I said, almost to myself. “I wonder how her ‘Channel 7 family’ is reacting off-air. Clem only worked there a short time, and she once told me some of her coworkers resented the amount of airtime she was getting.”
“They can’t resent that now,” Sarah pointed out.
“With Clem gone, I wonder who’s keeping track of telephone calls about the embroidery,” I added. “If any more calls came in.” The helpful kind or the unhelpful kind. Would Clem’s killer call to brag about what he did? “I don’t even know who to call to find out. If messages are still coming in, I could still be in danger.”
“Pete and Ethan seemed to think so,” Sarah agreed as she set her kitchen table with ceramic pasta bowls and salad plates. “They’re in touch with the studio. The studio knew she was dead.”
“But Pete and Ethan didn’t tell me they’d heard of any new messages or threats.”
“If they had, would they? They probably wouldn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m all grown up. And it’s my life. If Clem died because of the embroidery I bought . . .” I sat and unfolded my bright cotton napkin. “I know I’m supposed to stay away from my house and downtown Haven Harbor. But no one said I couldn’t go to Portland.”
“What are you thinking of doing?” Sarah added oil and vinegar dressing to her salad and handed the cruets to me.
“Going to the studio myself. I could talk to Dara Richmond. She and Clem might not have been best of friends, but she might know what was happening about any messages.”
I took a bite of the pasta. “Delicious, Sarah. I don’t think I’ve ever had this. Cooking the garlic and anchovies and red pepper together melded them.”
“Pasta puttanesca is easy. It’s a meal I make for myself when I want something comforting, but with a little spice. I’ll give you my recipe,” Sarah promised, pouring us each a half glass of red wine. “If you get weepy again, we’ll go back to tea. But red wine with pasta is required.”
I didn’t disagree.
“You’re right. Dara Richmond might know what was happening there. She might even have ideas about anyone who didn’t get along with Clem. Ethan asked you questions about that. But would Ethan want you going to Portland?”
“He didn’t say I had to stay at Patrick’s twenty-four /seven,” I pointed out. “Clem had a strong personality. She could be abrasive sometimes. She and Dara might have competed at the station. That could have resulted in conflict that had nothing to do with embroidery.”
“‘Success is counted sweetest / By tho
se who ne’er succeed,’” Sarah said quietly.
Another Emily Dickinson quote, I was sure. I liked that one.
“You’re right. Her ambition might have had something to do with her murder,” Sarah continued. “Although we’ve all been assuming she was murdered because of what you said on television yesterday.” She took a sip of wine. “To be honest, Angie, I’m hoping Clem was killed for some reason totally unrelated to the coat of arms you bought. After all, I’m the one who took you to that auction. But I couldn’t help overhearing what Ethan said about that embroidery needle. That does sound like a reference to embroidery. If your going with me to that auction resulted in Clem’s death, I’d feel responsible.” She looked at me. “But I’m selfish. If anyone kills you, I’ll be devastated.”
My telephone rang. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone but Sarah. But cell phone calls followed you everywhere, unless you turned the phone off, and I didn’t want to miss any calls from Gram or Patrick. Or Pete or Ethan.
At first I didn’t recognize the name that appeared. J. Winter. Then I connected. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but this is Jessica. At the Augusta Auction House? We talked this morning?”
“Yes, I remember, Jessica.”
“Is it true? What was just on the news? Is Clem Walker dead?”
“I’m afraid so. She died early this afternoon.”
“Oh, no! What happened? She looked fine on the news last night, and you said you were going to have lunch with her today. I’m so upset. After I talked to you I thought, maybe someday I could meet her. And now . . . I had to call you. You were her friend. Her real, in-person friend. And, oh, you must be so devastated.”
“Jessica, how did you get my number?”
“This morning you told me the number of the lot you’d bought, and of course I could cross-reference it to the information you gave us when you registered for a bidding number.”
Of course. “It wasn’t on the news. Not yet. But Clem was murdered.” I knew Pete said we shouldn’t give out any details, but Jessica had helped me this morning, and she was a big fan of Clem’s. I couldn’t lie to her.
“No! But, why? She was so young, and smart, and beautiful.”
“The police are investigating, of course. They don’t know much right now.”
Jessica sounded as though she was crying. “Who would kill someone like Clem Walker? I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry, Jessica. But it’s true. Thank you again for giving me the information on the consigners this morning. That will be a help.”
“Not help in finding Clem Walker’s killer!”
I didn’t disagree. But she might be wrong about that.
“I’m sure there’ll be more details about Clem as they develop. I’m afraid I can’t talk right now.”
“It’s all so awful.”
Yes. It was.
“Who was that?” Sarah asked.
“The young woman I talked with this morning who works at the auction house in Augusta. She was a major fan of Clem’s, and gave me information she wasn’t supposed to because I knew Clem. She heard on the news tonight that Clem was dead.”
Sarah shook her head. “I know Patrick’s mom has fans, some of whom are a bit over the moon, but it never occurred to me that local television reporters would have fans, too.”
“The world is full of strange people and events,” I agreed.
Chapter 18
“Not always must we think while here to share
Pleasures unmingled with corroding care,
The rose its thorn, the sweet its bitter yield,
And blended good and ill, spread o’er life’s field.”
—Stitched by Esther Warrington at the Westtown Boarding School, a Quaker school in West Chester, Pennsylvania, in 1808.
Sarah and I vowed not to think about murders anymore that evening. Instead, we watched You’ve Got Mail and The American President and Notting Hill. Romantic comedies that were light and funny. If life worked out as well for real people as it did for those fictional characters, the world would be a different place.
I couldn’t forget what had happened to Clem, or that I could be in danger, too, but I tried to focus on the movies, not on what had happened today . . . or what might happen tomorrow.
We said good night after midnight. I collapsed on Sarah’s fold-out couch and slept better than I’d expected. Ruggles joined me at some point and slept on the pillow next to me. Did he sense my anxiety and want to comfort me?
By morning the snow had stopped and been replaced by sea smoke . . . winter fog that lingered over the ocean and nearby land. Beams of sunlight only occasionally shone through the billows of white, low-hanging clouds close to the dark blue harbor water.
My home was only a few blocks inland, but far enough from the harbor that I rarely saw sea smoke from my windows. Seeing the swirling mists outside Sarah’s windows was a treat. When I was a child I’d loved fog in the summertime and sea smoke in the winter. Both seemed like nature’s magic, covering the world, and making parts of it appear and then disappear.
Sea smoke was still hypnotic. Only the tantalizing smell of coffee pulled me away from the window.
Sarah brewed coffee dark, the way I liked it. We ate cinnamon toast and didn’t say much. Last night’s wine was slowing us down.
After breakfast and putting Sarah’s couch back together I made a list of what Trixi and I would need if we stayed with Patrick for a couple of days. I hoped it wouldn’t be more than that. Patrick might try to make my visit amusing or romantic, but the reason I needed to stay with him wasn’t fun. And, although Pete and Ethan wanted me out of Haven Harbor, if anyone in town was asked about me, they’d say Patrick and I were together. Most people in town knew me, and since Patrick was Skye West’s son, and now owner of the gallery in town, people knew him, too. Secrets were hard to keep in small towns.
Sarah peeked over my shoulder. “How long a list are you giving him?”
I hadn’t been focusing on the list. “Do you think Trixi and Bette would use the same litter pan? Or should he bring Trixi’s with him?”
“I vote you let the cats work that out. If it doesn’t seem to be working, he can always go back another day for your litter box. Does Patrick have a key to your house?”
“He does. Like you do. Last fall I got nervous about living alone.”
Sarah looked at me oddly.
“I know, I know. You live alone. Patrick lives alone. Dave and Ruth live alone. Pete lives alone, since his wife left him.” I glanced over at Sarah to see if she’d reacted to that. She hadn’t.
“And I lived alone in my apartment in Arizona. But I have a big house, and there are funny noises. Anyway, I gave you a key, and Patrick one, and Gram already had one. I figured, if I were ever in trouble, someone could get in to help me.”
“Not a bad idea, actually,” Sarah agreed. “You have a key to my place, but no one else does anymore. I should think about that.”
I suspected Ted Lawrence had had a key to Sarah’s apartment. Or maybe someone else I didn’t know. Sarah had her secrets, too.
I went back to my list.
A few basic toiletries, and, yes (sigh), underwear. Flannel shirts, a fresh pair of jeans, a nightgown. I hesitated about that, but then added, specifically, “flannel nightgown.” That would be more comfortable than sleeping in my underwear. And I didn’t want to take the sleep shirt Sarah had loaned me for last night. I didn’t need much. Toothbrush, comb, hand lotion, lip moisturizer. What I wanted most was my computer, but Ethan and Pete had already taken that.
When Patrick called, my list was set.
“I’ll pick you up about noon. What about your car? Is it near Sarah’s?”
Oops. I’d forgotten my car. “Yes. But Pete and Ethan said I couldn’t go near it, in case someone knows it’s mine and is watching it. I’ll ask Gram or Tom to move it.”
“Do they have your car keys?”
“Gram has an extra set, in cas
e I lock myself out of the car. I’ll call her.”
Patrick’s voice lowered. “Steve’s here with me. He spent the night. That’s why I won’t be by for a little.”
“How’s he doing?”
“All right, considering the circumstances. I can’t say much now.”
Of course. Patrick’s carriage house, where he lived on his mother’s estate, Aurora, was relatively small. If Steve was there, he could hear Patrick’s end of our conversation.
“Everything okay with you?” Patrick asked.
“Fine. I’ll see you when you get here.” I turned to Sarah. “Steve spent the night at Patrick’s place. Patrick won’t be here to get me until noon.”
“No problem here,” said Sarah. “But I’m going to open the store today. I have some new inventory items to put out, and some accounting to do, and that’s easier to do downstairs. I might as well put the ‘open’ sign on the door since I’ll be there. You can come along or hang out here.”
“I want to call Gram and ask her or Tom to move my car,” I said. “I’ll call Ruth, too. And I should let Dave know what’s happening, since just about everyone else knows.”
“Fine,” Sarah agreed. “If you find out anything interesting, let me know.” She pointed at the inside steps to her shop. “You might leave a message for Patrick to pick you up at the shop. Avoids the slippery outside steps, and he’d look like a customer, since the store will be open.”
“Good thought,” I agreed.
The apartment was quiet without her. Ruggles came over and rubbed against my legs. I guess his sleeping next to me meant we were now friends. What would Trixi think when she smelled him on my jeans?
First call was to Gram. “Good morning, Angel! I’ve been thinking about you. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Sarah and I watched movies and relaxed as much as we could last night.”
“You’re still at her apartment?’
“Right. But I’m moving to Patrick’s at about noon. He’s going to get Trixi and some of my things and then get me.”
Gram was silent for a second or two. “Sure you don’t want to come here, Angie? I know you’re all grown up, but being with family is important.”
