by Lea Wait
She’d miss all this when we got home.
I would, too.
Chapter 31
“Catherine of Aragon, one of the unfortunate queens of Henry VIII, was a notable needlewoman, and spent much of her short, unhappy time as Queen of England in embroidering. The ‘Spanish Stitch’ was introduced by her from her own country, and many examples of her skill in embroidery are to be seen in the British Museum and the various homes belonging to our old nobility.”
—From Chats on Old Lace and Needlework by Emily Leigh Lowes, London: T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd., 1908.
Patrick finally accepted (or said he did) the possibility that the multimillionaire Seaward Holgate I’d seen on television might be the same person I’d seen bidding at the auction. But he insisted Holgate couldn’t be the man who’d been in Haven Harbor the day Clem had been killed, or at Sarah’s antiques store after my car had blown up.
“It’s too big a coincidence, and there’s no logic,” he insisted. “Why would someone like that ask questions at a post office or—even less likely—kill Clem or blow up your car? It doesn’t make sense.”
Motive? Okay. I admitted that wasn’t at all clear.
Means? Well, the man could have afforded fireworks—a whole yacht full if necessary—and could have gone wherever he wanted to.
Opportunity?
I hadn’t seen the “tall man” postmaster Pax Henry had talked to, or the man who’d been at Sarah’s store. Before I did anything else, I needed to know if either Pax or Sarah could identify him.
“Sarah?”
“Hi, Angie. Did you make cookies this afternoon?”
“No. Patrick didn’t have any flour. But would you do me a favor?”
“Sure!”
“Look up a man named Seaward Holgate on your computer. See if you recognize him.”
“Right now?”
“If you can.”
“Hold on a minute. My computer isn’t even turned on. I was taking the afternoon off. Cookies, hot tea, and Casablanca. I always cry when Ingrid Bergman flies away.”
I could hear Sarah’s computer turning on. “I’m putting you on speaker, Angie, so I can use both hands on the keyboard.”
“Fine. I appreciate this.”
“What do you want me to look for?”
“I want you to Google a man named Seaward Holgate and see if you recognize him.”
“Funny name.”
Sarah’s fingers were hitting the keys.
“It’s an old Maine name.”
“I’ve never heard it,” she said. “Okay. Seaward Holgate. He’s on Wikipedia. Dot-com millionaire or billionaire, born in Maine.”
“Do they have a picture of him?”
“Yes. Very corporate, suit and tie.”
“And?”
“I’m trying to think where I might have seen him. I’ve never been to California, where he lives.”
“Look at his face.” I didn’t know what picture Sarah was looking at, or how old it might be.
“I’m thinking. I’m thinking. He does look a little familiar. Angie, I really don’t know for sure. But he does look a little like that man who was in my store the other day, the one who was with the older woman, who was interested in samplers.”
Yes! “Are you sure?”
“No. But he might be that guy. Isn’t Holgate one of the names you were having Ruth research? One of the families auctioning things in Augusta?”
“Yes. And I saw him at the auction. Do you remember a tall man in the back of the auction hall who bid up several of the expensive lots?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention to the people. I was focused on what I wanted to buy.”
“Okay. I hoped you’d remember him, too.”
“Sorry, Angie. But he might have been the guy here yesterday. I was so worried about the broken window, and the snow blowing in, and getting you to the hospital, that I didn’t pay much attention to that couple.”
“I understand.”
“How did you connect him with Seaward Holgate?”
“I saw Holgate on the evening news. He’s donating an arts center to the town of Westbrook.”
“Great. I wish I could help you more. But I can’t be certain. I gave you his e-mail address. Why don’t you write to him and ask him? That guy wanted me to let him know if I found out anything about the coat of arms embroidery. You could tell him you have it.”
“What if he’s the killer? I already have enough problems. I need to be more certain it was this Holgate before I do anything like that.” But it was an idea.
“Are you all right, Angie? You sound upset.”
“Of course I’m upset! Clem’s dead; my car blew up; someone wants the embroidery I have; Tom’s in the hospital. Last night a prowler walked around Patrick’s house and probably looked in the windows, and I’m stuck trying to figure out how everything is connected without leaving the house!”
“How does Patrick feel about all this?”
“He thinks I’m crazy. He made us a great dinner, with wine and steak and candles, and all I could think about was Seaward Holgate. Now he’s cleaning the kitchen.”
“Hey, friend? Go out there and dry dishes or something. Try to relax. Patrick’s trying hard to make this as easy as possible for you. Don’t mess up your relationship by obsessing about someone who was more likely talking to his investors or his architects during the past couple of days than following you around Haven Harbor.”
I sighed. “You’re right, Sarah. I’ll try. But I can’t help thinking that guy is somehow connected to this whole mess.”
“Hold on a minute. A whole list of articles popped up when I searched for his name. There aren’t a lot of people with the name Seaward. Let me see if any of them look interesting.”
“Thanks.”
Sarah was silent for a few minutes. Trixi and Bette batted an orange plastic ball around the living room. It ended up under the couch, where they couldn’t reach it.
“Okay, Angie? The articles on the first page are all about his business. He seems to be very successful. It’s now listed on the New York Stock Exchange. He recently bought a large home near Westbrook. That’s where you said the arts center would be, right?”
“Right.”
“There’ve been a couple of articles about him in financial publications. Look boring. I don’t see anything that would connect him to embroidery or Haven Harbor.”
“Okay, Sarah, thanks for checking. Go watch your movie!”
“If I can help with anything else, let me know. But do try to relax, Angie.”
“I will.” I fished the plastic ball out from under the couch to the delight of the cats, and took Sarah’s advice to go and help Patrick in the kitchen.
I wanted to call Pax, to ask him if he’d recognize Seaward Holgate. But I’d wait until the post office opened in the morning. There was nothing else I could do tonight besides worry.
Sarah had said the man in her store looked somewhat like Holgate. I wasn’t ruling my idea out yet.
Chapter 32
“The sisters of King Ethelstan were famous for their skill in spinning, weaving and embroidery, their father having educated them to give their entire attention to letters first, and afterwards to the distaff and needle. The queen of Edward the Confessor was well known as an expert needlewoman, and the celebrated Bayeux tapestry, worked by the wife of the Conqueror, is a grand proof of what can be done with that feminine implement, the needle.”
—From The Ladies Guide to Needle Work, Embroidery, Etc., being a Complete Guide to all Kinds of Ladies’ Fancy Work by S. Annie Frost. New York, Adams & Bishop, Publishers, 1877.
Patrick and I cleaned the kitchen and settled in to watch the Celtics play the Cavaliers. I hadn’t paid much attention to sports since I’d returned to Maine, but practically everyone in the state stopped whatever he or she was doing when the Celtics or Patriots or Red Sox or Bruins—depending on the season—played. I hadn’t known Patrick had become addicted to the Celtics. Livin
g with someone, even for a short time, you learned details about their lives you hadn’t known before.
Ruth called at halftime. “Angie? Hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Not at all. Patrick and I are watching the Celtics.”
“Right. It’s halftime. The Red Sox are my team. But when the baseball season is over, the Celtics do fine. Do you have a minute? Despite my eyes, I took a few minutes to check that Holgate you told me about.”
“Absolutely.” I moved into the kitchen, so I wouldn’t disturb Patrick’s viewing when halftime ended.
“Remember I told you Senator Holgate’s husband had a sister who was disowned?”
“I remember. And his sister Barbara had a son.”
“Exactly. Seaward Holgate is that son. The Internet is a wonderful tool, Angie. I found one of those ‘personal details about the life’ articles about business tycoons published several years ago.”
“Seaward Holgate certainly is a tycoon. Sarah told me his dot-com has gone public.”
“This article was written before all that happened. It was about several multimillionaires who’d made their money in Silicon Valley. There were only a few paragraphs, but it said Seaward Holgate had grown up in Maine, the son of a single mother who struggled to keep food on the table and her son in school. He’d gotten scholarships, and then had the idea for his company. He was basically a self-made man. He hadn’t married; he worked all the time. The first thing he’d done when he had money was buy his mother a house.”
“Interesting. So even though Seaward had wealthy cousins—or at least a wealthy uncle—he made all his money himself.”
“Right. I did find second and third cousins in the Holgate family, but he’s the only one in his generation who’s a close relation to the senator’s husband.”
Maybe the women at the auction bidding on the Holgate items were the cousins. “I’d be angry if I’d grown up with nothing, and my mother worked hard, and she had a brother who was a philanthropist to the world, but didn’t give me or my mother a penny.”
“Agreed. Although from what you said, he’s a philanthropist now, too.”
“He’s naming the arts center after his mother.”
“Sweet of him to do that. A real tribute.”
“Ruth, after I saw him on television I recognized him. I’d seen him at the auction where I’d bought the needlepoint. Since he’s a Holgate, that would make sense.”
“It would,” Ruth agreed.
“I also wondered if he was the man Pax Henry had seen at the post office, asking for me, or the man who’d been in Sarah’s store, asking about samplers. I called Sarah, and she wasn’t sure, but she said it might have been him.”
“Was he alone in her store?”
“No. He was with an older woman. It could have been his mother, Barbara, I guess.”
“If it was him, he might be the man you’re looking for. But we still don’t know why he would kill Clem. Maybe he wanted the needlepoint you bought. Especially since you found papers in back of it that probably no one knew were there before you found them. But to kill for them?”
“I agree. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“I’ll call Pax in the morning and see if he recognizes a picture of Seaward. And the man in Sarah’s store gave her an e-mail address. I could write and ask him if he’s Seaward Holgate.”
“Be careful, Angie. Make sure you tell Pete and Ethan what you’re doing. I don’t know if Seaward Holgate is the man you’re looking for, but someone killed Clem Walker and has been stalking you. Whoever it is, you don’t want to fool around with him.”
“I know, Ruth. I’ll be careful. I promise. But if it should be Seaward Holgate, I can’t let him fly back to California and disappear.”
“He won’t disappear, Angie. His mother is here. And if he wants that embroidery you have, he won’t leave without it. Anyone who’s climbed out of poverty to become wealthy is persistent. He won’t give up easily.”
“You’re right, Ruth. But neither will I.”
Chapter 33
“In Books or Works or healthful Play
Let my first years be past that
I may give of every day some good
Account at last.”
—From large sampler stitched by Elenora Ainslie in 1825. Elenora was born in Roslin, near Edinburgh, Scotland, July 26, 1816. Her family emigrated to America, but she stayed with her grandmother in Roslin until she was an adult. In 1863 she married Colin Campbell, a tailor who had also been born in Scotland, in Louisville, Kentucky. Although Elenora had no children, her husband had two sons from a previous marriage. Her sampler includes her family home, a thistle, several trees and flowers, and initials of many family members and friends.
The next morning Patrick convinced me to call Pax, not to go to the post office. “In case you’re right,” he pointed out. “That guy went to the Haven Harbor post office once. He might do it again. Ask Pax to do what Sarah did: check that Seaward guy’s picture on the Web.”
“I know you’re not convinced he’s the man I’m looking for.”
“I’m not. And Sarah couldn’t identify him for sure. I know Ruth’s connected him, but his last name is Holgate, so that doesn’t surprise me. I’m sorry, Angie. I know you want to tie up all the ribbons and solve this case. But I can’t believe anyone—much less a wealthy man—would bother to shoot a television reporter and blow up your car to get an old piece of embroidery, even if the embroidery and the paper in back of it did have something to do with his family. He could have just offered you a lot of money for it.”
“I agree. But it’s the only lead I have, and I have to check it out. Murders never make sense, do they?”
“Not to me. But if you find out anything more definite about this guy, promise me you’ll let Pete and Ethan know. It’s their job to follow up.” Patrick put his arms around me. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Patrick’s voice was soft, and his arms were reassuring. But I was determined.
“I’ll be careful. I promise. And, of course, I’ll tell the police if I find out anything definite. Right now they’d laugh at me, the way you do.”
“I’m not laughing, Angie. I’m worried.”
I gave him another hug and phoned the Haven Harbor post office.
“Good morning, Pax? This is Angie Curtis.”
“Good to hear your voice, Angie, after all that’s been happening in town. And you haven’t gotten your mail for the past couple of days. Your mailbox is full. I was beginning to worry about you.”
“Can you hold my mail for me, please? Just for another day or two, I hope. I’m staying somewhere else right now.”
“Hope it’s somewhere good, with a friend. Can’t be too careful these days.”
“I agree. Pax, a fast question. Last week you mentioned that someone you didn’t know was asking for my address.”
“I remember. Skinny fellow.”
“Would you recognize him from a picture?”
Pax hesitated. “Not sure I could. Didn’t pay much attention. As I recall I was sorting mail at the time. Have you got a picture for me to look at? I’d be happy to check it out.”
“I don’t, Pax. But I have the name of someone it might be. Sarah Byrne told me there’s a picture on his Wikipedia page.”
“He’s a big deal, then?”
“The guy with the page is, yes. But I don’t know if he’s the one who was in Haven Harbor. Would you mind taking a look?”
“Can’t do that right now. Got to get the mail set to be delivered. Might have time in a couple of hours, though.”
“That would be fine. As soon as you can. The man’s name is Seaward Holgate.”
“Good old-fashioned name, that. I had a great uncle named Seaward. Passed away back in 1967 or thereabouts. Seaward Holgate. Got it written down, Angie. I’ll let you know. And I’ll hold your mail until you tell me different.”
“Thank you, Pax.�
� I hung up. More hours to wait.
“I take it he wasn’t going to look right away,” said Patrick.
“He had to organize today’s mail. He’ll check when he can.”
“Don’t be too disappointed if Pax doesn’t recognize him, Angie. He saw the man days ago, for a few minutes.”
“I know. I keep hoping someone else who saw him can identify him for sure. I was so positive when I saw him on television that he was the same guy I saw at the auction house.”
“Which he could have been. He’s a Holgate, and Holgate lots were being auctioned. But even if he was there, that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with what happened in Haven Harbor later.”
“True enough.”
Trixi took a big jump and landed on my lap. She turned around and looked at Bette as if to dare her new friend to follow her. But Bette headed for her food dish. Trixi jumped down and joined her. They’d been sharing their food dishes.
“Auctions keep records of who consigns lots and who purchases them, right?” I asked.
“I’m no expert on auctions. But I assume so. For tax purposes, if for no other reason. When you registered to bid, did you give them your name and address?”
“Sure.”
“Then they have a record of who you are, and what you bid on. I predict you’ll get your own personal notice of their next auction.”
I picked up the phone again.
“Who are you calling now?”
“Last week I talked to a woman at the auction house. Jessica Winter. She’s the one who told me the Holgates and Goulds were the families whose possessions were being auctioned. She was a big fan of Clem’s, and she called me when she heard of Clem’s death on the news. Maybe I can convince her to tell me who bought the carved mahogany bed—one lot I remember that man buying.”
“Wouldn’t that information be confidential?”
“She gave me names last week that she shouldn’t have. If she won’t tell me, I’m no worse off than I was before.”
