by Lea Wait
Pete sighed. “You’re allowed to make phone calls. Just don’t tell everyone in the State of Maine where you are.”
“I promise, Pete.”
“Hi, Pete!” Patrick said loudly, next to me. “Angie needs to eat breakfast now.”
“Have a good breakfast,” said Pete. “I’ll check with you later if there are any developments.”
“So,” Patrick said as he headed me toward the kitchen, where our omelets were waiting. “Did he and Sarah have a nice evening?”
“I think so,” I said. “He wouldn’t say. I’ll talk to Sarah later, Maybe she’ll tell me more. First, I have breakfast to eat.” I sniffed. “Love the smells of bacon and onion.”
Patrick was a good cook.
“While you’re making a list of people to call, you should make a condolence call to Clem’s family, if you haven’t already,” he reminded me as we sat to savor our omelets.
He was right. I’d been focusing on what was happening in my life, and on who would have had a reason to kill Clem.
My first call of the morning was to her parents.
“Mrs. Walker, this is Angie Curtis. I called to tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Clem.”
“You have some nerve, calling here to say that, when Clem’s death was all your fault. It was that piece of embroidery that started all this. If Clem hadn’t done that segment on the news, she’d still be alive.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Walker.” Had she put the telephone down? “Mrs. Walker?”
“This is Mr. Walker. My wife is too upset to talk with you. We know you were Clem’s friend, but we blame you for her death. Although, I’ll admit we weren’t surprised she ended this way. We did what we could for her from the beginning. But maybe it was fated.”
“Fated?”
“Biologically. Nature stronger than nurture. That’s what they say. We did everything we could to raise that girl right, but it was a struggle all the way. After she graduated college and went to Portland, we hardly ever saw her. She didn’t appreciate what we’d sacrificed for her over the years.”
“She was your daughter, Mr. Walker. I’m sure she loved you. She was focused on her career. She told me she wanted to see you more often.” Well, she’d told me something like that.
“When we decided to adopt, people said we’d never know what we’d be getting. If she’d stayed at home, like we wanted her to, none of this would have happened. But, no. She had to go and change herself, looking like someone who’d never lived here. She didn’t care for anyone but herself, and we knew it. She should have stayed to home and helped her mother, like any decent girl would have done.”
“I didn’t know Clem was adopted, Mr. Walker. She always spoke of you and your wife with love, and respect.”
“Respect? And then she tells us she’s bringing home a man for us to meet, and the guy shows up, and he’s a sculptor. Not even a serious sculptor. Someone who collects junk and welds it together! That’s the man she chose to be in her life? No wonder she seemed focused on her career. She was probably supporting the guy.”
This was getting more horrible by the moment. “Mr. Walker, I called to let you and your wife know how sorry I was. And I am.”
“After what you’ve done, I hope you don’t come to her funeral. It would be too upsetting for Clem’s friends and family to see the woman responsible for her death.”
I dropped my phone. The call was over.
“Hard call?” asked Patrick, who’d been putting dishes in the dishwasher while I’d been on the phone. “Condolence calls always are.”
“Her mother wouldn’t talk to me, and her father yelled at me. They both said I was responsible for Clem’s death. Her father told me not even to come to her funeral.” I put my head down on the table. I wanted to forget everything her father had said to me. “He was angry at me, and he sounded angry at Clem, too. Said, if she’d stayed home like she should have, she’d still be alive.”
“Whew. Wicked harsh. Did you know her parents felt like that?”
“She never talked about them. I assumed everything was all right. But her father sounded a little crazy. He said something about ‘nature versus nurture.’” I looked over at Patrick. “I didn’t know Clem was adopted, but that shouldn’t have made any difference.”
“Of course not. Some people need to find someone or something to blame when there’s an unexplained tragedy.”
“They found someone to blame all right. Me.”
I’d felt guilty about Clem’s death before, but that conversation with her parents was beyond anything I could have imagined.
“Clem’s death wasn’t your fault. You know that. You could have put something in motion . . . or not. Until Ethan and Pete figure it all out, we don’t even know that. Life isn’t easy. It isn’t always fair.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to deal with horrible things if there’s someone to blame.” For years I’d blamed myself for my mother’s disappearance. I’d thought she didn’t want to be with me anymore. That I’d cramped her social life. For ten years I’d lived with that guilt, until I’d found out what really happened.
“You were curious about an old sampler—a coat of arms. That’s all. It’s crazy that Clem’s dead, and you’re in hiding. But neither of you did anything wrong.”
“I’m going to call Gram,” I said.
“Okay. But try to relax, Angie. You have all day to make telephone calls. I’m going to leave you to your calls and go into my studio. If you need me, call, or come and get me.”
“Thanks.”
Patrick was right. But my mind was spinning right now. Maybe Gram would help me slow it down. Besides, I should check in and see how Tom was doing.
“Good morning, Gram. Are you at home or at the hospital?”
“Good to hear your voice, Angie. I’m home. I had trouble sleeping last night, between what happened to Clem, and then to Tom, and worrying about you. And the roads are bad this morning. I talked to Tom. He didn’t have a good night, either. Of course, his leg hurts, despite the pain medications. The doctor told him they’d like to keep him one more night, which he’s not at all pleased about. I’m not going to visit him for a few hours. I’ll let him sleep a little more, and make sure the roads are clear first. How are you? Still at Patrick’s?”
“I am. Planning to stay in today; that’s what Pete and Ethan want me to do, and I can talk to people on the phone.”
“Sounds reasonable. Tom won’t be expecting you to visit him. He knows you’re keeping away until they find whoever it was who killed Clem.”
“I called Clem’s parents this morning.”
“You didn’t! Oh, I should have warned you about that, Angie. It was kind of you to call them, but . . . how did they react?”
“They’re blaming me for Clem’s murder—not claiming I killed her, but saying my embroidery put her in danger. Plus, Mr. Walker sounded angry at Clem. He said she shouldn’t have left home and moved to Portland. She should have stayed home and helped her mother.”
Gram sighed. “The Walkers and Clem have had their issues over the years. When Tom went over there the night Clem was killed, they were full of blame and anger, and, even then, just after they’d heard about her death, they were angry with you, too, Angel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You did the right thing by calling. But I’m sure they didn’t respond the way they should have.”
“Mr. Walker said Clem was adopted. I didn’t know that.”
“No reason you should have. I didn’t know the family until you and Clem were in fourth grade together. I saw her mother at school meetings and such, and one day she blurted it all out. They’d lived in South Portland when they were first married, and about a year or two later they had a little boy. I don’t remember what was wrong with him, but he wasn’t well. Something genetic. He died before his first birthday.”
“Sad.”
“They took it hard, from what Jeannine said. They decided not to have other children because of the genetic probl
em. But a few years later Oliver felt Jeannine needed a child to keep her company while he was traveling for work. So they adopted Clem. Shortly after that they moved somewhere in the Boston area. I’m not sure what they expected, but Jeannine said Clem was never an easy baby or child. I suspect by then Jeannine had an idealized fantasy of a child that no real daughter could have lived up to.”
“That must have been hard—for Clem and for her mother.”
“It was,” Gram confirmed. “By the time they’d moved back to Maine, here to Haven Harbor, things were a little better, Jeannine said. But she always referred to Clem as her ‘adopted daughter.’ Never just her daughter. That struck me as strange, and unfortunate.”
“Clem wasn’t happy in high school,” I said. “But I didn’t know she had problems at home.”
“She had all the basics—a mother and a father, a house, a peaceful community, and so forth—but she wasn’t the child they’d dreamed of.”
“Their son who’d died. Or other biological children.”
“Exactly. That wasn’t fair to Clem, of course. And then Clem went off to U Maine and then moved to Portland. Steps many families would have been proud of. But Jeannine and Oliver somehow expected Clem to stay home and take care of her mother.”
“That’s practically Victorian!”
Gram laughed. “Not quite that long ago, but, yes. Clem and her parents had different expectations of parent-child relations. I hoped they were resolving them. I know her parents watched her on television, and I’ve heard her father tell people how well she was doing there. But her death must have brought back all the pains of their past.”
“When Clem died they lost a second child.”
“Exactly. That can’t be easy, no matter what a family’s relationships are.”
“I wonder why Clem never mentioned she was adopted.”
“Maybe she was embarrassed. Certainly her parents treated adoption as a problem, not the blessing it is for so many families.”
“Thank you for telling me all that. It helps me understand why the Walkers were so upset this morning, and so angry with me.”
“The past doesn’t excuse their behavior, Angie. But I suspect they’re mourning not only the death of their daughter, but the death of their dreams of having a family. Don’t take it personally. You have your own situation to deal with today. Any word on progress from Pete or Ethan?”
“I talked with Pete earlier this morning. He said the explosions in my car were caused by remotely activated fireworks.”
“Fireworks?”
“So he said. I don’t know exactly how it worked, but it totaled my car and hurt Tom. I’m glad more people weren’t hurt. The fire engine and ambulance got there quickly.”
“I’ll tell Tom. It was bothering him that he didn’t know exactly what had happened.”
“I hope we will know more than that, soon,” I said. “I hope we’ll know who rigged the fireworks to begin with.”
Chapter 27
“To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty.”
—From Chapter 2 of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (1775–1817), published in 1814.
After talking to Gram I felt better about my call to Clem’s family, but sad about what I’d learned about Clem’s life. I’d been lucky. Mama might have had her problems, as most people in Haven Harbor knew, but I’d never doubted that she’d loved me, and Gram’s love and care had made up for anything I’d missed. I wished Clem had had the same love and acceptance.
If I were ever a mother (not something I was planning in the near future), I hoped I could be as good a parent as Gram had been.
I sat on Patrick’s couch, thinking about families. Trixi and Bette raced around the room in some mysterious kitten race. They seemed to be getting along, although once in a while Bette nipped Trixi. Bette was definitely the dominant kitten. I hoped the two wouldn’t miss each other once Trixi and I returned home.
I’d decided to call Ruth, when Sarah called me.
“So, how was the dinner?” I asked.
“Very nice,” Sarah said. “Pete and I agree that mustard on haddock is gross—we saw someone near us combining the two—that Shipyard is the best Maine beer, and that Haven Harbor is a wonderful place to live, but there have been too many murders here recently.”
I couldn’t disagree with any of that. “So . . . are you going to see him again? Socially?”
“I think so,” she said. “We were both a little nervous last night. Pete said I was the first woman he’d asked out since his wife left him. I’m afraid he still misses her, which could be a problem. But I was nervous, too.”
“Why were you nervous?”
“Pete’s your friend, Angie. I kept thinking that if he and I went out for a while and didn’t get along, then it might get in the way of our friendship. Or of your relationship with him.”
“Sarah, you’re thinking too much. Pete’s a good guy, and we’ve been involved in some police situations together in the past months. But Pete’s not my best buddy. You are! I want you to be happy. If you and Pete are happy together, that’s great. If not . . . that’s too bad, but not a problem for me.”
“Okay. You’re right. Maybe I was nervous because I hadn’t dated anyone recently. Both Pete and I were out of practice.”
“You’re going to see him again?”
“Maybe after he and Ethan figure out who killed Clem, and whether anyone is stalking you.”
“Good. And other than my car burning . . .”
“Which was not by chance,” Sarah put in.
“Other than that, nothing seems to be happening. I’m at Patrick’s, and he’s confining me to the house today, which is what Pete wanted.”
“It started out a beautiful day, but now it’s dank. Cloudy, and the top layer of snow and ice turned to slush. You’re better off staying inside. I’m going to finish cleaning the shop, and then relax and make cookies. I need a calm day after the last two.”
“Cookies! Yum. That sounds like a good idea.”
“You can do that, too, if Patrick has the right ingredients. Snickerdoodles aren’t complicated.” Sarah reeled off the ingredients.
“I’ll keep them in mind.” Patrick would probably like me to bake something. He’d done all the cooking so far.
“How are you doing, staying at the carriage house? With two cats?”
“The cats are getting along remarkably well.”
“And you and Patrick?”
“Not bad. He’s working in his studio now.” I lowered my voice, in case he could hear me. “Last night we cooked hot dogs in his fireplace, and made s’mores, and drank champagne.”
Sarah laughed. “Sounds wonderful. Romantic and practical at the same time.”
“Definitely romantic,” I whispered. Then I raised my voice. “I’m going to call Ruth and see if she’s found out anything more about the families we’ve been researching. Maybe call the Maine Historical Society, too. The guy I talked to there said they could help with family research if we had more information. Ruth may have found what they need.”
“So you’re still working on the coat of arms.”
“I can’t just sit here, Sarah. Not when someone may be stalking me.”
“But you could make cookies,” she pointed out. “You shouldn’t sit around stewing and trying to solve Clem’s murder. Ethan and Pete will do that.”
“I could do both,” I said. “I can’t forget what’s happened in the last couple of days.”
After Sarah hung up I poured myself another mug of coffee. Did Patrick have ingredients for cookies? I wasn’t Sarah; I didn’t often make cookies. I was pretty sure Patrick didn’t either.
He had sugar. And butter. But no cinnamon. No flour. The snickerdoodles had sounded good, but they needed cinnamon. And even sugar cookies required flo
ur. I was pretty sure I’d need vanilla, too, and I didn’t see any. If I was going to stay here a few more days, I should give him a shopping list.
I shuddered. A few more days? A shopping list? I wasn’t moving in. I was trying to solve my friend’s murder.
Back in the living room I sipped coffee and called Ruth.
“Good morning, Angie! I heard about your car. How’s Tom doing?”
Nothing in Haven Harbor stayed a secret for long. I’d known that since I was old enough to eavesdrop on grown-up conversations. “Tom’s leg was broken. He had surgery yesterday, but should be getting home tomorrow.”
“Poor man. And I’ll bet he’s more worried about the state of his congregation than he is about his body.”
“That’s possible,” I agreed. “Gram’s on the case. Between her and the church secretary, they’ll have everything in place. She’s already lined up a guest minister for Sunday.”
“Good for her! And how about you, Angie? You’re carless. Where are you? At Patricks’, as you’d planned?”
When Pete told me not to tell anyone where I’d be staying he couldn’t have meant Ruth. “I am,” I told her. “Just for a day or two. Until Ethan and Pete find whoever killed Clem and blew up my car.”
“Good for you. Try to enjoy your time together. And you do have the gates locked, right?”
“We do,” I assured her. Patrick and his mother had the only gated home in Haven Harbor. I hoped Pete or Ethan was driving by periodically to check it anyway. “I was wondering if you’d found out anything more about the Gould or Holgate families.”
“I may have found your Charles.”
“Baby Charles? The one left at the Foundling Hospital?”
“That very one. Now, I’m not positive it’s him. Charles wasn’t an unusual name in the eighteenth century. But remember Jonathan Holgate? His daughter Verity married Joshua Providence in 1788.”
“Right.” I needed a chart to remember all these relationships. Ruth probably had made one.
“Jonathan was married, of course—we know he had a daughter, Verity. But he also had a sister, named Letitia.”
