by Lea Wait
Patrick frowned. “I wish you’d relax and let the police take care of this. It’s their job, not yours. One of these telephone calls of yours could put you in more danger. We don’t know who killed Clem, or how that person knew she’d be in Haven Harbor that day. Assuming the same person left the fireworks in your car, how did he or she know it was your car? And who was walking around this house while we were sleeping? I’ll take a wild guess and assume that person wasn’t looking for me. But how did he know you were here?”
“I don’t know the answers to any of those questions. But being here? You’re well-known, Patrick, because of this estate, and your mother, and now your art gallery. I’d be surprised if there was anyone in Haven Harbor who didn’t know who you were and where you lived. Or even that you and I have been seeing each other. And if I’m not at my home, and not with Gram and Tom . . . where else would I be? This is a logical place for me to have gone, especially with the locked gate.”
“Which, thank goodness, is now being watched by a state trooper.”
“Someone is still out there?”
“If no one were there I’d have called your friend Ethan. I even checked in the middle of the night. I’m not afraid of much, Angie, but I don’t like the idea that someone can wander around and look in my windows, and who knows what else? I’m glad my car is locked in the garage, or maybe whoever it is would blow it up, too, and it would take the carriage house with it.”
I took Patrick’s hand. It was still misshapen and scarred from last year’s fire at the original carriage house. Sometimes I forgot Patrick’s introduction to Haven Harbor had included that awful scene of pain and destruction less than a year ago. “Would you feel better . . . safer . . . if I went somewhere else?” He’d rebuilt not only the carriage house, but also a new life for himself. But what had happened last year was still very real to him. Every time he looked at his scarred hands and arms he was reminded.
“No! I don’t want you to be somewhere else. I want you right here, with me. What I want is for Pete and Ethan and whoever they’re working with to find out who’s doing all these things, and lock him—or her—up. I don’t want you to be in danger.”
This time I was the one who reached out and held him. “It won’t be much longer. I think I’m close to finding out what happened to Clem, and why someone seems to be looking for me. I need to talk to a couple more people.”
“I know you, Angie. You’re strong, and determined. But you scare me, too. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Hey, I’m the one with the gun, remember?” I said. “I’ll be all right. I promise.”
I hoped I was telling the truth.
Chapter 34
“Beauty soon grows familiar to the eye
Virtue alone has charms that never die.”
—Mary Hall (1789–1868) of Groton, New Hampshire, the eldest of thirteen children, stitched this sampler including the dates of the births and deaths of her siblings. Mary never married.
I gave Patrick another hug, and then called the Augusta Auction House. A man answered.
“Could I speak with Jessica Winter, please?”
“Just a minute.”
I heard whoever had answered yelling, “Hey, Jessie? Phone for you. Don’t take long. We need to get through this inventory before lunch.”
It didn’t sound like a good time for her to check something for me. But I’d called; I wasn’t going to give up now.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jessica. This is Angie Curtis. Clem Walker’s friend?”
“I remember.” Jessica’s voice lowered. “Have the police found out who killed her yet?”
“No. But they’re getting close.” At least I hoped they were. “I’m helping with the investigation. Clem was my friend, and whoever killed her has been threatening me too.”
“No! Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know. But it seems to have something to do with the embroidery I bought at the auction last week. I’m wondering if it might also have something to do with someone I saw at the auction. He bought quite a few lots. Could you check that for me? He bought a carved mahogany bed.”
“Not right now,” Jessica said, quietly. “My boss is on a rampage this morning. We’re trying to get an auction catalog printed, and we’re behind schedule. Could I call you back?”
“Sure. The name of the man I’m wondering about is Seaward Holgate.”
Jessica gasped. “Him? Sure, he was here. I remember him, because he was one of the Holgates—a bunch of them were here—but he had such a weird name.”
“That’s all I needed to know, Jessica. Thank you. You don’t need to call me back.”
“But, wait! There’s something else.”
“Yes?” I asked.
“That Seaward Holgate? I remember him, too, because he called asking for your name and address. The name and address of the person who bought that coat of arms embroidery.”
I took a deep breath. “When did he call, do you remember?”
“It was right after you called asking about the names of the consigners. We talked about your knowing Clem, and how you two were going to have lunch that day. But, then, that didn’t happen.”
“No, it didn’t. Did you tell Seaward Holgate who I was?”
“No. I figured he’d seen you and Clem on television, like I had. So I told him you were a friend of Clem’s. In fact”—she paused—“I may have told him you were going to have lunch together.”
“Did you tell him where?”
“I wouldn’t do that! I just said in Haven Harbor. That was all right, wasn’t it?”
“Fine, Jessica. Thank you for telling me.”
Only one restaurant was open in Haven Harbor this time of year. Now I knew how Seaward Holgate had known Clem would be there that day.
Her self-proclaimed biggest fan had probably caused her death.
My hands were shaking. So, Seaward Holgate, multimillionaire and Holgate family outcast, had, for whatever reason, killed Clem and was looking for me.
I was certain, even if Sarah hadn’t been. Had Pax had a chance to look at his picture? I couldn’t wait any longer. I called the post office again.
“Haven Harbor post office.”
“Pax, this is Angie Curtis again. I know it’s soon, but have you had a chance to check the picture of Seaward Holgate online yet?”
“Impatient, are you? I was getting to that, Angie. Betsy Flannery brought in six boxes she was sending to her grandkids overseas, and we got to talking. You want to hold on while I check now?”
“Please, Pax.”
A couple of minutes later he was back. “Sorry, Angie. I don’t know. That man who was here asking for you was just a regular fellow. The sort of person you don’t look at twice. That Seaward Holgate, he’s an important person. I can’t say it was him. But I can’t say it wasn’t, either.”
“Thank you for checking, Pax.”
“No problem. If I can help in any way, you let me know, Angie. No one else has come looking for you in the past couple of days.”
“That’s good.”
“Nope. One woman wanted to know where Patrick lived, though. That was funny. People stop in all the time asking about his mom. Famous actress and all that. But this woman asked about Patrick.”
“What was she like, Pax?”
“No competition for you, Angie. Not a good-looker, or even young. She must’ve been almost as old as I am. Maybe fifty-ish? I’m wicked bad at guessing ages. Brown hair, going gray. Looked like a regular Mainer. Not a Hollywood type, or even someone from away.”
“Did you tell her where Patrick lived?”
“Nah. Never do. But I suspect she could’ve stopped anyone on the street, and they would’ve told her. Plus, I was downtown the other day and saw he had a ‘closed’ sign on that gallery he owns that used to be Ted Lawrence’s.”
“Right.”
“Well, right there on that sign he’d put his telephone number. I’m no computer
expert, Angie, but even I know there’s reverse lookup on the Internet. Anyone putting in that phone number could get Patrick’s address.”
I swallowed hard. “Good point, Pax. I’ll mention that to Patrick. When was that woman in the post office?”
“Seems to me it was the day after they found poor Clem Walker’s body down at the wharf. Real sad when that happened. Haven’t seen Mr. or Mrs. Walker since then. You happen to know when services for her will be?”
“No. I haven’t heard,” I said. “Thank you, Pax.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he said.
“You’ve been a big help.” Probably more than he knew.
It was time to pull all this together.
Chapter 35
“All friends must part but if they love
Their Saviour god who reigns above
Their souls will meet again on high
And friendship reign beyond the sky.”
—Caroline Emerson, born July 14, 1820, stitched an elaborate floral border on her sampler, which included the names and birthdates of her parents and siblings. She lived in Walpole, New Hampshire, and was fourteen when she finished this work. In 1838 Caroline married Silas Angier, a farmer from Alstead, New Hampshire.
Patrick had left me to my phone calls and gone into his studio.
My mind was buzzing.
I stood, stretched, and changed the water in both Trixi’s and Bette’s water dishes. Not a major accomplishment, but at least I’d done something.
I debated whom to call next. I decided on Sarah.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice sounded happier than I’d expect on this cold, dark morning. “How are you and Patrick?”
“We’re fine,” I said, deciding not to tell her that one reason we were fine was the Maine state troopers who rotated shifts outside Aurora. “I think I know who killed Clem and has been stalking me.”
“Wow! Pete and Ethan have figured that out so quickly?”
“No. I have. But I don’t have proof.”
“Who do you suspect?”
“A member of the Holgate family: Seaward Holgate.”
“The one you had me looking for online yesterday.”
“Exactly.”
“But I couldn’t identify him. Did someone else?”
“No one’s identified him by sight,” I admitted. “I asked Pax Henry to check online, like you did, and he couldn’t be sure Seaward was the man who’d asked about me at the post office.
But I talked to that assistant at Augusta Auction House again, and she said he’d been at the auction when we were, and he called after Clem and I were on television and asked for the name and address of the person who’d bought the coat of arms embroidery.” I paused. “She also told him Clem and I were having lunch together that day. In Haven Harbor.”
“Where there’s only one restaurant open this time of year,” Sarah said, immediately understanding what that might mean.
“Yes.”
“Have you told Pete or Ethan?”
“No. But I’m going to.”
“And have you figured out why all this happened?”
“No,” I admitted. “That’s where I’m stuck. Ruth found some information online, so I know Seaward’s mother was disowned by her father for having an illegitimate son—Seaward, I’m assuming, since Ruth didn’t see information about any other children. But they were Holgates. That would explain why Seaward was at the auction. He bought several family pieces, bidding against other members of his family.”
“But it’s a big family, I assume,” said Sarah. “And anyone could have bought that embroidery. I bought several. The Saco Museum bought the best one. Why wasn’t he interested in those?”
“Because of the paper I found in back of the embroidery? I don’t know. But even though you couldn’t identify him, I think he was the one who came to your shop. The woman with him could have been his mother, Barbara.”
“At the time I wondered if the pair might be a mother and son,” Sarah admitted. “The woman was the one who seemed most interested in the embroideries.”
“But he was the one who gave you the e-mail address, right? For you to use if you found out anything about the coat of arms.”
“Yes. I haven’t used it, of course. I gave it to you, and it’s still on the desk in my shop.”
“I want to find out for sure why he wants the embroidery. Would you send him a short note saying you have information about the embroidery, if he could meet you at your shop at three thirty this afternoon?”
“What? You want me to set up a meeting with someone you think killed Clem? Angie, you’re crazy. I won’t do it.”
“But I’d be there, too. And if Holgate agreed to meet you, Pete and Ethan would come, too. We could record our conversation on one of our phones. If things got sticky, then we’d have the police with us.”
“Isn’t it illegal to record conversations without both parties giving permission?”
“In Maine it’s legal if one party to the conversation knows and agrees.”
“I don’t have a good feeling about this, Angie. It’s a little crazy. I know you’ve solved other murders, but you’ve always figured out why someone was killed. This time we have no clue.”
“If I get Pete or Ethan or, preferably, both of them, to agree, will you send the e-mail?”
“I guess.”
“Then I’ll call Pete and let you know.”
“Angie, Pete is here, with me. I’ll put him on.”
Interesting!
“Angie? I heard Sarah’s side of the conversation. You think Seaward Holgate, the rich guy who announced he’s giving an arts center to Maine, killed Clem?” Pete sounded skeptical, to put it mildly.
“Listen, Pete. Seaward was an outcast of the Holgate family. He was at the auction where Sarah and I bought embroideries. And he called the auction house the day after Clem and I were on TV and asked who’d bought the coat of arms. An assistant at the auction house told him Clem and I planned to have lunch together at the Harbor Haunts that day.”
“Interesting. But it doesn’t mean the man is guilty of murder.”
“Have you found any other suspects?”
Pete was silent. “Not at this point. We’ve ruled out Clem’s colleagues at Channel 7. Frankly, we’re stymied at this point.”
“Then why not give this a try? Sarah can send Seaward Holgate an e-mail saying she knows where the embroidery that he’s interested in is. He’ll meet Sarah and I at the shop this afternoon and we’ll try to find out why he’s interested in it. You can be there . . . either posing as a customer, or, better yet, standing in the staircase to the second floor. I was there when Holgate and his mother visited Sarah’s shop before, and he had no idea anyone was listening. You could record the conversation, or Sarah or I could. And if there were any problems, you’d be there.”
“I don’t like it. You could be putting Sarah and yourself in danger.”
“Have you any other ideas on how to get him to talk? To explain his interest in the embroidery? We know he wanted it. He asked both the auctioneer’s assistant and Sarah about it.”
“Angie, let me talk to Ethan. The state homicide department is in charge of this case. I can’t take a risk like this without his approval.”
“Then call him. Or I’ll call him.”
“I’ll do it, Angie. You get a little carried away sometimes. And you have to promise not to do anything in the meantime to put yourself or Sarah in danger. Keep in mind, if you plan on accusing this man of doing something illegal, that he has a lot of money and influence. Anyone he sued could have a major problem.”
“If you’re talking about his suing me, he wouldn’t get much. I don’t even have a car anymore.”
“You have a house, and a business.”
Pete was right. I’d be risking things important to me, and to others, too. But if Seaward Holgate had killed Clem, and was threatening me . . . “I still think we should do it. No one else had a motive
.”
“Seaward Holgate had a motive?”
“He must have had one. Even if we can’t figure it out now. Maybe if we meet him and talk to him . . . Not accuse him of anything, just talk to him. He might open up to us. Sarah and I aren’t very threatening.”
Pete laughed. “Sarah isn’t, Angie, but I’ve seen you in action. You’re going to have to prove to me you can handle this calmly and discretely.”
“I will, Pete. I promise.” He couldn’t see my fingers crossed.
“I’ll talk to Ethan. That’s all I’ll commit to right now. I’ll tell Sarah not to send any e-mails until we all agree on a plan.”
“You’ll get back to me soon?”
“As soon as I can.”
I dropped the telephone on the couch. My hands were shaking. What if Ethan wouldn’t agree? No one else was doing anything.
I walked to the window and looked out at the wall in front of the estate, and the iron gate with the state police car in front of it.
Wherever Seaward Holgate was right now, he wasn’t a prisoner.
I was.
I had to change that.
Chapter 36
“Harriet let Virtues charmes be thine
Charmes that will increase and shine
They will cheer thy winters bloom
They will shine beyond thy tomb.”
—Stitched by Harriet Peverly, aged thirteen, in Canterbury, New Hampshire, in 1826. Unusually, she used a black outline stitch to define the flowers and birds and trees that border her sampler.
“You’re going to do what?” Patrick stood in front of me, holding the spatula he’d been using to flip the blueberry pancakes he’d made for our lunch.
I dropped my phone onto the chair where I’d been sitting. And planning. “Pete is going to talk to Ethan. If he agrees, at worst, we’ll be convinced Seaward Holgate has nothing to do with Clem’s murder.”
