by Lea Wait
“Looked as though he’d slipped and fallen at least once,” said Pete. “But I don’t think he was hurt. The fall didn’t seem to slow him, although, of course, we couldn’t tell exactly when the tracks were made.”
“He must have had a flashlight or lantern,” I said. “February nights are dark, the snow covers a lot of brush, and that woods is full of downed branches and trees. No clear paths lead through it.”
“I was going to get some tree guys to clear out those woods in the spring,” Patrick said. “Now I’m tempted to leave them as they are. And maybe we need an electric fence around the whole property.”
“I don’t think you need to go to that extreme based on this,” said Pete. “It could have been some harmless person curious to see the estate. Before your mother bought it last spring, kids—and adults, too—sometimes came over here to look at what they called ‘the ghost house.’”
“And sometimes broke into the carriage house and partied. I know,” said Patrick.
I didn’t mention that ten or twelve years ago I’d been one of those kids.
“That was then. This is different. Who goes wandering around in the woods in the middle of a February night in a sleet and ice storm, and just happens to peek in the windows of the place where a woman who’s been getting death threats is staying?” Pete pointed out.
I didn’t say anything.
Pete turned to me. “Angie, I don’t want to worry you, but you got more of those nasty notes on your computer yesterday afternoon. Our computer geeks tried to trace the sender, but so far they haven’t been able to. Whoever sent them is angry, and wants that embroidery and the paper you found with it.”
I shuddered. So the messages hadn’t stopped. “The first messages didn’t say he wanted anything other than Clem and I to die. Maybe he’s getting more focused.”
“That’s exactly what Ethan and I are hoping. The more focused, the easier it should be to trace him. Where’re the embroidery and the paper now?”
“I have them with me,” I said. “In the bedroom.”
“Good. They should be safe there. I’m going to make sure someone’s watching this house and your house downtown tonight, Angie. Both of you, stay here. No sneaking out to see a movie in Brunswick or Boothbay.”
No one smiled. If Pete was joking about our going to the movies, right now it didn’t seem funny.
“Ethan’s in Portland talking to some of Clem’s colleagues at Channel 7. She was the golden-haired girl to the bosses there, he says, but she didn’t have a lot of friends among her peers. Ethan said she might not have been the most popular girl on the block, but he doesn’t think anyone she worked with had anything to do with her death. Everyone she worked with alibied one another out. They were all at the studio working the day she died.”
“That’s good,” I said. I’d planned to talk to people at the station. Sounded as though Ethan had covered the possibility anyone there had killed Clem.
“Since someone rigged those fireworks in your car, it’s seems pretty clear that, for whatever reason, whoever is doing this is focused on the embroidery and the paper, strange though that seems. If someone was just angry at Clem, why would he rig your car so you could be hurt? Why continue sending messages and threats?”
“Unless someone’s trying to cover Clem’s murder with some crazy story about an embroidery,” Patrick put in. “But I honestly don’t care what they think they’re doing. I want Angie to be safe, wherever she is. Right now she’s here. Are you sure you have someone to watch the house tonight?”
Patrick and I both knew the Haven Harbor police department was small. Assigning one officer to a single location would reduce their effectiveness.
“Last summer when there were problems out here I got one of our retired officers to help out. But since this time we’ve already had one murder, Ethan promised he’d get one of the Maine State guys over here if I thought it was necessary.” Pete looked at Patrick. “I’ll tell him we need someone tonight.”
“Thank you, Pete,” I said.
“I’m going to send pictures of the footprints to the crime lab. They might pick up something we missed,” he continued. “Within an hour someone should be here to patrol the place. After I leave, close the gates again. You should both be all right for now.”
Of course, Clem had been shot in her own car in the middle of the day in downtown Haven Harbor. I didn’t mention that, but I suspected we were all thinking it.
“Don’t worry, Angie,” said Pete. “We’ll get this fellow. We just need a little more time.”
Time. It had been forty-eight hours since Clem died. The more time that went by, the harder it would be to get new information.
We all knew that. No one pointed it out.
Chapter 29
“May Spotless innocence & truth my every action guide and guard my unexperienced youth from arrogance & pride.”
—In April of 1797 Betsy Davis of Providence, Rhode Island, finished this elaborate sampler that includes eight detailed people, animals, a house, trees, birds, and flowers. She was probably a student of Mary Balch, a Providence teacher who emphasized her students’ use of the rococo stitch.
The afternoon was quiet. No cookies; no phone calls. I even managed to take a nap—something I hadn’t done in years. But the past few days had been exhausting, and the stress wouldn’t be over until the killer was found.
Patrick painted the edges of two of his paintings, and then marinated the steak he planned to broil for dinner. I’d convinced him to bake the enormous potatoes he’d bought instead of microwaving them, and was pleased to see he had both sour cream and butter in waiting.
Last night’s dinner had been fun, a game. Tonight we were going to have serious food.
A state police car was parked nearby. We had protection. Would we need it tonight? Would I be able to go home tomorrow?
By five-thirty Patrick had put the potatoes in the oven and opened a bottle of burgundy. I wasn’t an expert on wines, but this one seemed perfect. As Patrick added wood to the fireplace, I began to relax. “Would you mind if I turned the news on?” I asked. “I feel out of touch with the rest of the world.”
“Under the circumstances, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he suggested, handing me the remote.
“Local news only,” I promised. “If the rest of the world has come to an end, I don’t want to know about it tonight.”
“Makes sense to me,” he agreed.
I didn’t turn on Channel 7. That broadcast would just remind me of Clem. I skipped the stations broadcasting in French and chose Channel 5.
A fire in Grey. A multiple car pileup on the Maine Turnpike. A wheelchair basketball tournament. Temperatures might reach above freezing tomorrow. The usual local news.
Then I sat up, straight. The burgundy in my glass sloshed, spilling red drops down my red and gray plaid flannel shirt.
“What is it?” asked Patrick, looking from me to the screen and back again.
“Shush! I recognize that man.”
“We’re pleased to welcome to our studio this evening Mr. Seaward Holgate. As many of you know, Mr. Holgate founded the EveningPromises.com Web site, an internationally famous site that matches people and events for romance, companionship, or just for the fun of it. Thank you for joining us tonight, Mr. Holgate.”
“I’m pleased to be here, back in my home state,” said the man sitting on the blue couch next to the interviewer. He looked as though he was in his thirties, and was wearing a well-tailored suit. “I may live on the West Coast now, but my roots and my heart are always in the Pine Tree State.”
“And today you’re here to make a special announcement,” the pretty young anchor continued.
“I am. While I was growing up in this wonderful state, my mother and I didn’t have a lot of money, but she valued music and drama, and somehow she managed to take me to concerts and plays several times a year. My joy at attending those events gave me the idea for EveningPromises.com. I wanted everyone
to have the opportunity to enjoy the arts and to share those occasions with others who also value them. I’ve been lucky that EveningPromises.com has become a success, and I’ve decided to give part of that success back to Maine. I’ve purchased land in Westbrook, just west of Portland, where I’m going to build a state-of-the-art concert stage and theater, with practice halls and flexible space for music, theater, and dance practices. It will be called the Barbara Holgate Theater Complex, in honor of my dear mother, and ten percent of the seats at each performance will be donated to schools, churches, hospitals, or other nonprofit organizations, so that all Mainers, no matter what their incomes, can participate.”
“That is truly exciting news, Mr. Holgate. Thank you for joining us tonight so we could share it, live, with our viewers.”
“I might add, construction on the Barbara Holgate Theater Complex will begin in a few weeks, and will be providing jobs to many Mainers. I’m looking forward to watching the construction, and to making my mother’s dream of making the performance arts available to all come true.”
The station cut to a commercial for a Maine ski resort.
“Holgate. I heard that. He’s a Holgate,” said Patrick. “How do you know him?”
“I saw him at the auction,” I said. “A couple and a woman who was alone were bidding against each other for some of the same items. I’d heard the couple talking during the preview; they were members of one of the consigning families. I assumed the other woman was, too, and they were trying to outbid each other for family pieces. Then that man—that Seaward Holgate—came in and outbid both of them.”
“If he was a Holgate, why wouldn’t he have inherited the items he was bidding on?”
“Sarah told me sometimes a family puts all of an estate up for auction. Members of the family bid against one another to determine who gets what. Items no one in the family wants, of course, are bought by other people. It’s one way of settling disputes. Or giving a number of family members the chance to go home with family treasures, instead of them being left to one or two people.” I thought for a moment, trying to remember all that Ruth had found out. “Wait! Senator Holgate’s husband had a sister who was disinherited. I think her name was Barbara. That man—Seaward—could be her son.”
“And you saw him at the auction? That would make sense. But why is that important?”
“Patrick, the day Clem was killed a tall man was asking about me at the post office. And after my car burned, a tall man was looking at samplers in Sarah’s shop, and asking about the auction in Augusta and the needlepointed coat of arms. I’m wondering if all those men could be Seaward Holgate.”
“You think a multimillionaire would care about an old piece of embroidery, enough to kill someone?” Patrick shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing makes sense,” I agreed. “But I’m pretty sure Seaward Holgate is Clem’s killer.” I hesitated a minute. “Or, if he isn’t, then he’s somehow connected to what’s happened. After all, it all started at that auction.”
“The Holgate family had an interest in the auction, so I believe you. He was there. But why didn’t he buy the coat of arms, as he did the other lots he wanted? And those other times people saw ‘a tall man’ in Haven Harbor? A lot of tall men live in Maine.”
“I know. Maybe I’m crazy. But now I’m curious about the man.”
“Seaward Holgate. He’s got a strange name,” Patrick commented, lifting his wineglass toward the television set, in tribute.
“Not so much in Maine, Patrick. ‘Seaward’ is an old Maine name. Not used too much today, true, but it was in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.” I finished my glass of wine, and Patrick refilled it.
“I know you’re anxious to solve Clem’s murder, but you’re stretching your imagination a little too far to think the killer might be a dot-com giant. You’re the one who’s always told me that a murderer has to have MOM.”
“Motive, Opportunity, and Method.”
“I can’t see how that man would have any of those.” Patrick stood. “The potatoes should be baked by now. I’m going to keep them warm, and broil the steak. You can stay here and figure out why a man with that much money would be wandering around Haven Harbor setting off fireworks in your car or tramping around the carriage house, to mention two of his lesser crimes, or you can join me in the kitchen and kibitz.”
“I’d like to make one fast phone call to Ruth, all right? Then I’ll join you, and promise no more talk of murders tonight.”
We clinked glasses.
“It’s a deal,” he said. “But be careful you don’t get involved in a thirty-minute discussion with Ruth about people who died hundreds of years ago.”
“Promise,” I said, blowing him a kiss as he headed for the kitchen. Trixi jumped up and settled herself on my lap. “Trixi, I have to make one telephone call. Then I’ll be yours and Patrick’s all evening.” She squeaked her assent, curled up, and fell asleep. I wished I could fall asleep as quickly.
“Ruth,” I said, when she answered her phone, “did you see the news tonight? The interview with Seaward Holgate?”
Chapter 30
“This Needlework of Mine Can Tell
When A Child Is Learned Well
That By My Elders I Was Taught
Not to Spent My Time For Naught.”
—Words worked into the earliest known sampler from Rhode Island, stitched by ten-year-old Mary Burges in 1725. Her sampler is similar to those made in England at the end of the seventeenth century, a long rectangle that included short lines of patterns and letters as well as a moral verse.
“Seaward Holgate?” Ruth asked. “I didn’t watch the news tonight; I did a little more research for you, and then I proofread one of my manuscripts for the rest of the afternoon. My eyes find more mistakes when I read out loud, so right now my voice is as tired as my eyes. I was about to get a little sherry, scramble myself two or three eggs, and find an old movie. Tell me what I missed.”
“Patrick thinks I’m crazy, Ruth.”
“You’re creative. So is he. Maybe you’re both a little crazy. But that’s not bad, and it makes for an interesting life. So what did you see on television?”
“Seaward Holgate was announcing that he’s building an arts center for Maine, in Westbrook. He said he grew up here, but made money with a Web site matching people who liked to go to arts events.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Ruth. “Is his business called Evening Promises?”
“Yes! That’s it! How did you know about it?”
“Read about it in a People magazine article a few years back. I wrote it into one of my books. Of course, in my book the promises were for more than seeing ballet together.”
“I can imagine,” I said, sipping my wine and grinning to myself. Ruth’s erotica was probably not exactly what Seaward Holgate had in mind when he dreamed of publicity for his site. “Anyway, he’s a Holgate. That name keeps popping up. I think I saw him at the auction in Augusta. I’m just checking—didn’t you say Senator Holgate had a sister named Barbara? Because that’s the name of this Seaward Holgate’s mother.”
“He could be Barbara’s daughter. She had a son out of wedlock. But you think this philanthropist Holgate is a murderer?” Ruth sounded as skeptical as Patrick had been.
“I know—it’s not likely. But he did look like the man I saw at the auction. And Pax Henry at the post office said a tall man was looking for me. And then a tall man and a shorter, older woman were at Sarah’s shop yesterday, asking about the coat of arms embroidery after my car exploded.”
“My eyes are too tired to do any searching tonight, but I’ll see what I can find out about him tomorrow. I remember Barbara Holgate had a son, but I didn’t check to see what his name was.”
“Thank you, Ruth.”
“Are Pete and Ethan any closer to finding out who killed Clem?”
“If they are, they haven’t shared it with me. I’m caged up at Patrick’s house. It’s a great place, an
d he’s a wonderful host, but I’m anxious to get on with my life.”
“Of course you are.”
“Two minutes to dinner!” Patrick called from the kitchen.
“Got to go, Ruth. Patrick’s made dinner, and I have to go and eat.”
“And appreciate the moment, Angie dear. Don’t forget to appreciate today. You never know the future.”
Ruth was right, but under the present circumstances, her advice sounded a little grim.
But I wasn’t going to have any trouble being appreciative of a steak and baked potato and another glass of burgundy. I might sometimes feel as though I were in prison. But the food and company here couldn’t be beat.
Trixi and Bette had gotten to the kitchen ahead of me.
The steak was resting, awaiting our forks and knives, the potatoes were on the table, with complements of sour cream and chives, and Patrick had also cooked frozen peas and decanted another bottle of burgundy. The kitchen table was set with an ocean-blue tablecloth and napkins and white plates. Three candles were lit in the middle of the table.
“Wow,” I said, handing him my empty wineglass. “My car should blow up more often.”
“You’re welcome any time, my dear,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “Don’t people eat like this every night?”
Ruth was dining on scrambled eggs accompanied by a glass of sherry tonight. She’d been looking forward to her supper, but she would be alone. I was lucky. My evening was special because of the company as well as the food. I was almost embarrassed at the attention Patrick was paying to me, and even to my cat, as I realized he’d cut a piece of steak into tiny pieces and divided it between two dishes in the corner of the room. Trixi and Bette were both gobbling.
I could get spoiled being here. My cat already was. Another cat to antagonize and play with, enormous windows to see the world, and steak for dinner?
