by Lea Wait
Patrick wore clothes like that all the time. It was fun to hear him noticing that not many men in Maine did, unless they were doctors or lawyers, and, even then, not always. Painters and sculptors? Most didn’t even own suits.
“He’d thought last night might be the beginning of a future for him and Clem. Instead, it was the end.”
“Did he say anything about Clem’s having enemies? Problems at work?”
“Steve drank a stiff scotch, and then we shared a bottle of wine. I cooked steak and potatoes for dinner. I didn’t cross-examine him. He and I both assumed Clem had been killed by whomever left those threatening messages. Do you know anything else?”
“No. I keep hoping that there might be a reason someone would kill Clem, other than the embroidery. If that were true, then I wouldn’t be in danger.”
“Angie.” Patrick took the now-empty plate and put it on the table. I curled up with my head on his chest. “I know someone killing over an embroidery sounds crazy. But crazy people do kill sometimes. And a crazy person blew up your car today. I don’t like to think about these things either, but someone out in that world is very troubled.”
I nodded, and, cuddle over, sat up. “And that person was in Haven Harbor yesterday and today. He or she knew I was here, and somehow he or she knew Clem would be here, too. Did Steve know Clem and I were going to have lunch in town?”
“Sure.”
“So he could have told someone else. Or her parents could have. Or someone she mentioned it to at Channel 7 might have told someone else,” I said.
“Or it could be someone in town that you mentioned it to,” Patrick added. “More people than you might have imagined could have heard about your going to the Harbor Haunts. Neither you nor Clem considered it a secret.”
“Maybe we should have,” I said, cuddling against Patrick again. “If we hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, Clem could still be alive. And I’d still have a car.”
We sat there for a while.
“One more question?” I said. “Did you ask Sam Gould if anyone in his family had consigned anything to an auction?”
“I did,” said Patrick. “I told him what you’d found. He knew nothing about any needlepoint, and said no one he knew in his family had auctioned anything off.”
“Thanks for asking, anyway. There must be a lot of Goulds in Maine.”
“Probably are.”
I couldn’t just hide out at Patrick’s and pretend nothing had happened.
Or maybe I could, for right now.
Chapter 25
“Next unto God dear Parents I Addrefs
My self to You in Humble Thankfulnefs
For all Your Care and Charge on me Bestowed
The means of Learning unto me Allow’d
Go on I Pray and Let me still Pursue
Those golden Arts the Vulgar never knew.”
—Cross-stitched sampler with alphabet, numbers, and triangular floral designs in each corner, worked in 1768 by seventeen-year-old Eliza Dearn in Norfolk, England. (Now in Strangers’ Hall museum in Norfolk.)
Sarah called a few minutes later. “Angie? How are you? And Tom and Charlotte?”
“Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” I apologized. “I’m fine. Trixi and I are at Patrick’s, and all’s quiet here. Last I heard Tom was having surgery for a broken leg. He also has broken ribs, but nothing anyone seems worried about. Just a pain for a while. Gram’s coping terrifically, as always. What about you? And your antiques?”
“Pete was incredible. By the time I got back from dropping you off he’d found someone to put a plastic sheet over the space, to keep the snow out. And about an hour later someone else he knew came and replaced the glass. All I have to do is sweep up and make sure no pieces of glass are on any of the merchandise.”
“Pete’s a good guy.”
“He is,” she agreed. “And he made those calls about my store when he was in the middle of clearing the street and calming people down. Your car’s been towed, by the way. I’m not sure where, but he said they’d be looking at it to figure out what started the explosion that caused the fire. And, you won’t believe . . .”
“I won’t believe what?”
“I’m having dinner with Pete tonight at the Harbor Haunts. He said we might have gone somewhere fancier, but he has to stay close to town because of the investigations.”
“That’s great, Sarah!”
“He’s separated from his wife, right?”
“And it sounds pretty permanent. She couldn’t take being married to a cop and went home to Bangor in . . . November, I think it was. Several months ago. Pete told me she’s already with another guy.”
“Just checking. I don’t have dinner with married men unless their wives are present.”
“Nothing to fear. He’s eligible. I hope you have a great time.”
“I feel a little guilty about it. Clem dead, and you in hiding, and I have a dinner date.”
“I’m cuddling up with Patrick. All safe and sound. You go ahead and have a fun evening. I’m so glad your store is all right.”
“Me too. I panicked when everything happened at once. I did lose a few things—but not as many as I thought at first. Other than needing a little more cleaning, all is back in order. I’m going to take a shower and relax for the rest of the afternoon.”
“And put on something fetching, of course.”
“‘Fetching’? Maybe one auction was enough for you, Angie. I don’t think anyone’s used the word ‘fetching’ since the nineteenth century.”
I smiled. “Thanks again for taking me in last night, Sarah. And one more question before you head for the shower. That couple who were in your store earlier today?”
“The ones asking about the embroideries? Strange people.”
“That’s what I was thinking. I was hiding on your staircase when they were there, so I heard them, but never saw them. The man gave you an e-mail address, right? Do you remember what it was?”
“I wasn’t focusing on much besides my broken window and getting you to the hospital right then. But I did stick that address somewhere.” I heard papers shuffling. “Here it is. No name. [email protected]. Angie, I have to go. Ruggles just got into the shop, and I don’t want him to step on any little pieces of glass. I swept the store, but haven’t vacuumed.”
A few minutes later Patrick released Bette from his bedroom, and we were sitting in front of the fire in his fireplace, watching the two reunited sisters establish who was the boss of this house. So far they’d batted each other a little, Trixi had hidden under a chair for a few minutes (her tail revealing her whereabouts), and Bette had growled once. I’d never heard a cat growl before.
“Don’t take it personally,” Patrick said. “She growls at gulls and crows, too. And at me, if she wants some of my dinner and I say ‘no.’”
“Trixi’s not that aggressive,” I said. “She peeps at birds on my feeders, or at me, when she thinks it’s time for food. Which is anytime.”
“They have their own personalities,” Patrick agreed as Bette swatted at a catnip-filled felt mouse and then pounced on it. Trixi watched from behind the couch. “At least they’re not killing each other. Given cat behavior, they’ll both be sound asleep in fifteen minutes.” He rearranged a log on the fire. “Your grandmother called. Everything all right with Tom?”
“He’s in surgery. If all goes well he should be released tomorrow.”
“And how’s Sarah? Did I overhear you saying our Australian friend is going to dine with our valiant local defender of law and order?”
“So she said. I’m glad. They’re both good people. I hope it works out. Pete was wonderful today. He got someone to replace her broken window much more quickly than she’d thought possible. She did tell me one thing that was strange when I talked with her earlier.”
“About Pete?”
“No. About two people who came to her shop after the explosion and asked about the coat of arms embroidery.”
“Interest
ing timing.” Patrick frowned.
“Exactly. Of course, she didn’t tell them I had the coat of arms. They said they collected samplers and knew about the auction, and they’d seen someone from Haven Harbor on television.”
“That’s plausible,” he admitted.
“I guess so. I’m sensitive to coincidences right now. They didn’t give Sarah their names, but they did give her an e-mail, in case she heard anything about the coat of arms embroidery. I asked her for it, in case I decide to contact them for any reason.”
“So?”
“It was a strange address. [email protected]”
“What’s strange about that? E-mail addresses often include numbers. And Sarah once said lots of people are interested in samplers.”
“1757 was the year baby Charles was left at the London Foundling Hospital.”
“It’s a coincidence, Angie. But the world is full of weird things that don’t mean anything. What more could it be?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”
“You, my lady, need to relax. Forget all about needlepoint and embroideries and coats of arms. Forget that it’s February outside. Here, it’s June. And you’re on vacation.”
“What?” That stopped me. I might be at Patrick’s carriage house, but—vacation? June? Last time I checked in with myself, I was hiding out from a murderer, and it was snowing outside.
“And while you’re on vacation,” Patrick continued, “you and your handsome escort decide to have a private picnic.”
“A picnic?”
He went over to a pine chest in the corner of the room, pulled out a navy and green plaid blanket, and arranged it on the floor in front of the fireplace. Then he reached for my hand, to pull me up from the couch, and we sat on the blanket. “This is not February. There is no snow on the ground. We’re sitting on a beach, with a fire of driftwood, looking out toward the ocean.”
“There’s a sailboat out there,” I said, pointing at the flames.
“A small one, with a red sail. Very far out,” conceded Patrick. “Other than that, we’re alone.”
Trixi leapt from her hiding place behind the couch and curled in my lap.
“Except for a few friendly animals,” I agreed.
“For dinner, we’ll cook hot dogs over the fire,” Patrick said. “And toast rolls in front of it.”
“And—let me guess—make s’mores for dessert,” I put in.
“Absolutely correct, my dear.” Patrick stood. In a few minutes he was back, with hot dogs, bamboo skewers, hot dog rolls, and the makings of s’mores.
I laughed in delight.
“Mustard for the lady?”
“Of course,” I agreed, and he next appeared with ajar of Raye’s Mustard. (Mustard from Maine. Finest kind of mustard.)
“And to drink, my dear . . .” This time Patrick reappeared with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne, and two flutes.
It was the best picnic ever.
Before it was over both cats were curled together on the cushion of one upholstered chair, and Patrick and I were sticky with marshmallows and silly with champagne.
Outside, a “wintery mix” was covering the ground and buildings and trees with a lethal combination of sleet and ice. We didn’t care.
And I wasn’t thinking about murders, or exploding cars, or antique needlework.
Like Scarlett, I’d think about those things tomorrow.
Chapter 26
“Adore no other Gods but only me.
Worship no God by anything you see.
Revere Jehovah’s name; Swear not in Vain.
Let Sabbath be a rest for beasts and men.
Honour thy Parents to prolong thy Days.
Thou shalt not kill nor Murd’ring Quarrels Raise.
Adultery shun, in Chastity Delight.
Thou salt not Steal nor take Another’s Right.
In bearing Witness never tell a Lye.
Covet not what may others damnify.”
“Finished October 5, 1776, by Elizabeth
Houghton, Wells.”
—Elizabeth was seven years old, lived in Wells, England, and included an alphabet, a bird, flowers, and a geometric border on her sampler.
The next morning dawned, revealing a sparkling, ice-covered world.
“We’re lucky. We don’t have to go out today. We don’t have to cope with the roads, or with other drivers. We can stay in and enjoy the beauty of the world.” Patrick put his arm around me and kissed the top of my head as we stood in his studio, looking out at the back field, glittering with ice.
Beyond the snow-covered field, far in the distance, was the blue of the ocean.
“I’d hoped to go to Portland today,” I said. “To talk to some of Clem’s coworkers. And stop at the Maine Historical Society again.”
“I thought you were supposed to stay here. Undercover. Or—under covers, as I might prefer,” Patrick said.
“I can’t just sit here and wait for something to happen.” I started to pace. “Too many questions need answers.”
“I understand. I’ve seen your sleuth persona on other occasions. But since your car has, sadly, been murdered, and I have the only keys to mine, and the roads are awful, why not investigate from here? At least for today.”
“How?” I asked.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I was thinking of that newfangled device, the telephone.”
“The police have my computer,” I complained. “Could I use yours?”
He grimaced. “Sorry. Mine’s in for servicing. It had a nasty virus. Could Sarah or Ruth help?”
I turned to him and hugged him. “You’re right, of course. I can call Ruth, and maybe the historical society.” People had solved crimes without computers for generations. I could search on my phone, but it wasn’t a high-end model, and searches were slow and hard to read.
But I had no choice. If I was going to solve Clem’s murder I had to do it with a telephone and a little help from my friends.
And I wasn’t alone. I had Patrick. He shook his head. “Why don’t you figure out who you need to talk with? Make a list or something, while I put together bacon-and-onion omelets for breakfast?”
Trixi raced past me, in hot pursuit of Bette. They seemed to be coping well with each other.
“Omelets sound delicious,” I agreed. “And coffee?”
“As many mugs full as you’d like,” he agreed, tossing me a pad of paper and a pencil. “Here’s paper so you can organize your sleuthing.”
I curled up on one of the chairs in his living room and had started writing when my phone rang.
“Good morning, Pete. Any news?”
“Just checking in to make sure you’re all right, and still at Patrick’s.”
“I am. I heard a rumor you had a dinner date last night.”
I could hear the smile in his reply. “No secrets in Haven Harbor. But gentlemen don’t tell.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. I’d find out how the dinner had gone later, from Sarah. “Did anyone figure out what happened to my car? Was it a bomb?”
“Hard to believe, but it was a box of fireworks, hidden under a blanket on the passenger’s seat.”
“Fireworks!”
“They’re legal in Maine now, and we’ve had some accidents with them, not surprisingly. But this is the first time I’ve heard of them setting a car on fire.” He hesitated. “What looked like an embroidery needle was pinned to what was left of the blanket. Any chance you’ve been embroidering in your car?”
“No,” I said, almost whispering. “Like the needle found in . . . Clem?”
“That’s what the crime lab guys said,” he answered grimly.
“Which definitely links the murder and the explosion.”
“Yes.”
I struggled to focus on the explosion. “So wouldn’t whoever put the fireworks in my car have to have been close by when they blew up?”
“The ATF guys think the fireworks were set off by an electronic tri
ggering unit under your car that was activated by a cell phone. Whoever did it could have been anywhere. Could have been in New Hampshire.” Pete paused.
“But Tom said the explosions—the fireworks—went off when he opened the car door. Wouldn’t that mean someone activated the fireworks when they saw him at the car? Otherwise, what would have been the chance they’d go off just when someone was getting in?”
“You’re right, Angie. So the guy—or gal—wasn’t in New Hampshire when the fireworks exploded.”
“In fact, he or she must have been in Haven Harbor, and close to the car. With the sea smoke, no one could see far yesterday morning.”
“True.”
“No fingerprints on the car? Or cameras on the street?”
“No fingerprints. Your car was burned badly. And, come on, Angie. This is Haven Harbor. No cameras.”
“Some stores have them.”
“In summer months. Focused on merchandise and cash drawers. No cameras record what happens in the street.”
“My car was in front of The Book Nook. Gus saw Tom opening the door and the car seeming to explode. Did Gus see anyone else opening the car and putting a box in it? Or a blanket? My only blanket in the car was in the trunk, along with my flares and jumper cables. Nothing was on the front seat when I parked it two days ago.”
Two days ago. When Clem was still alive, Tom wasn’t injured, and I was excited about a mysterious embroidery and paper from 1757. It seemed weeks ago.
“Gus says he didn’t see anything. We asked around, and no one else saw anything either. Of course, Clem was killed two days ago. The guy who set up your car could have done it late afternoon that day, or even at night. Darkness comes early this time of year.”
“True enough,” I agreed. “But to have the fireworks explode at exactly the time Tom was opening the door couldn’t have been a coincidence.”
“You’re right. Whoever set off the fireworks was in Haven Harbor. And might still be here. You’re going to spend a quiet day, inside, at Aurora, right, Angie?”
“At the carriage house here. Yes. But I assume I’m allowed to make phone calls?”
