by Lea Wait
Patrick put his arm around me. “I can’t imagine anyplace more beautiful than here. Or anyone else I’d want to share it with.”
I didn’t quibble. I was the one sharing; this was the town where I’d grown up, after all. Patrick had only been here six months.
But when I turned to kiss him, it didn’t seem important that I was a native and he was from away.
We walked a little farther, toward the woods that ringed the sides of the property. The woods where we’d cut our Christmas trees.
Patrick stopped, looking from the scene in front of us to the house.
“It’s time to go in and see Mom and the others. I have to set up the bar.” He turned back.
He was right. We’d have to go in. But I needed a few more minutes.
The snow was six or seven inches deep except where the winds had blown deeper drifts near the house and trees. “I love the designs the wind draws in the snow.” I pointed farther down the hill, where the snow lay in semicircular patterns. “They remind me of quiet waves heading inland at Pocket Cove Beach.” Our footsteps marked the snow like drops of ink on a white sheet of paper. The only other tracks were those of two deer that must have passed by earlier; their tracks were almost covered by more recent snow. Occasionally a car or truck passed by on the road in front of the house and a snowplow’s blade hit the pavement. Other than that, the night was silent.
As Patrick turned back, I stayed, silently enjoying the peace. Then, about thirty feet ahead, I saw a change in the shadows.
“Did you and Ob leave any trees or branches on the field when you brought your mom’s tree to the house?” I called to Patrick.
Patrick turned and shook his head. “We piled the tree and the smaller branches we’d cut on top of Ob’s sled. He and one of his friends pulled it, and his other friend and I walked alongside to make sure nothing slid off. It’s snowed enough so the traces we made are gone. Com’on Angie. Time to go in.”
“Something’s on the snow ahead.” I pointed to the shadow.
Patrick shrugged. “Can’t imagine what. Nothing was there yesterday.”
“I want to see.” I started toward the shadow. “Maybe someone else was cutting trees in your woods.”
“Don’t worry about that tonight. I’ve posted NO HUNTING OR TRESPASSING signs,” Patrick called after me. “We should be heading inside. Mom will be waiting for us.”
“No one’s lived here for years,” I called back. “Could be someone’s gotten into the habit of using the land.” I’d seen a lot of snow, and shadows, in my life. Something about this one wasn’t right. “You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Forget it, Angie! Whatever it is isn’t important.”
Something was in the snow. A deer someone had decided could fill their freezer this winter? That wouldn’t be unusual. But deer hunting season was over. And no hunter would leave a deer they needed for meat.
The snow near the shadow had drifted. It filled my boots.
I heard Patrick impatiently stomping his feet to keep them warm. He was right; we should go in.
But I was too curious to turn around. I was shivering, but not only from the cold.
The shadow I’d seen wasn’t a deer.
In the moonlight I saw a man’s body facedown in the snow. He was wearing a black and white patterned sweater, jeans, and cowboy boots. A darker shadow was under his head, and parts of his body were lightly covered with recent snow. I knelt to check his pulse.
There wasn’t one.
“What’re you doing? Let’s get back to the house!” Patrick called again, less patiently now.
“Just a minute!” I yelled back. I pulled out my cell phone, snapped several pictures, and walked back toward Patrick.
“There’s a body,” I said as calmly as I could. “We need to call the police.”
“A body?” Patrick looked confused. “How could there be a body?” He walked toward it.
“Don’t get any closer,” I told him, as I called 911. “It might be a crime scene. I checked. He’s dead.”
Patrick turned back toward me. “There’s a dead man in our back field?” he repeated.
I nodded, holding my cell. “Police department? This is Angie Curtis. I’m out at Aurora, the Wests’ estate. Right. We need an officer. A detective, if one is on call. I just found a body in the back field.”
Patrick looked as pale as the snow. “Who was it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him. And most of his face was in the snow.”
Patrick shuddered.
I held up my phone with the picture I’d taken. I’d used a flash, but it wasn’t clear.
Patrick squinted at the small screen. “I can’t say for sure. But Paul Carmichael was wearing a sweater like that this afternoon.”
“I thought it might be him. But I’ve only seen his picture online. Com’on. We need to let your mother know what happened. And we should wait for the police out front.”
“But . . . Paul’s dead? He said he was going to make phone calls. How could he be dead? And how can you be so calm?” Now Patrick was the one hesitating, and I was the one striding through the snow.
“We don’t know what happened to him,” I said. “If we get frazzled we’ll get in the way of the police investigation.” Besides, I thought, unfortunately, this wasn’t the first body I’d seen. Since I’d been back in Haven Harbor, a lot had happened.
I might look calm. But for sure, I wasn’t happy.
This was not the beginning of a Merry Christmas.
Chapter 13
“The best and most correct designs in embroidered flowers are made from natural plants. The tints are easily matched in silk, and even in beads various colors may be found. Great taste can be displayed in selecting appropriate flower patterns for an embroidered design. Double and single hyacinths, combined with a tulip, give a lovely effect, and show to splendid advantage on black velvet or deep brown satin.”
—From The Farm and Household Cyclopedia: A Complete Reference Library for Farmers, Gardeners, Fruit Growers, Stockmen and Housekeepers, Published by F.M. Lupton, 1885.
“You shouldn’t say anything to your mom or the others about who we think it is,” I cautioned Patrick as we headed toward the front of Aurora. “It might not be Paul. Maybe someone else was out for a walk in the snow and had a heart attack.”
“You don’t need a detective for a heart attack.”
“Had a heart attack, fell, and hit his head on a rock under the snow?” I tried to imagine possibilities. “The police need to investigate any unattended death,” I said, wishing I didn’t know as much as I did about such events. “Did Paul have a heart condition?”
“I have no idea. But it must be him. He bragged about getting a bargain on that sweater in Scotland. Who else could it be? People don’t wander around on our land. I’ve lived here full-time since I got back from Boston and I’ve never seen anyone but the guy who mows the grass or people working on the house. And they finished months ago.”
“Still. We didn’t see his face. It’s up to the police to identify the body.”
“The body . . .” he repeated softly.
As we rounded the house and entered the circular drive at the front, we heard sirens. The police would be here before we’d told anyone in the house what had happened. They must have been close by.
The squad car turned into the drive. I raised my hand as it skidded to a stop.
“Pete!” I said, walking toward the car. It was Sergeant Pete Lambert, the one and only Haven Harbor detective. I’d gotten to know him in the six months I’d been back in town, and he’d been out to Aurora several times.
“Good evening, Angie, Patrick. What’s happened?”
“Patrick and I were taking a walk in the field in back of the house.”
“But the message I got said . . .”
“We found a body in the snow. I checked; no pulse. But even in the snow, he wasn’t stiff.”
“So he died r
ecently. Could have been a seizure. Or a stroke. Did either of you touch anything?”
“I touched his wrist. Patrick didn’t come near him.” I hesitated. “I’m not a medical examiner. Maybe he fell. But I don’t think he had a heart attack. There’s blood on the snow.”
“What’s going on?” Skye waved from her front door. She was wearing a long blue and white tartan scarf over a matching pale blue sweater and slacks, and looked more elegant than she had last summer in her jeans and T-shirt.
The young woman who followed her out, clutching the stair railing, was skinny and gorgeous, wearing three-inch heels that slipped in the snow, a short black skirt that left nothing to the imagination, and a low-cut red sweater. Seasonal color, perhaps. Practical? No way.
But she did get Pete’s attention.
He walked toward the doorway, giving a whistle so low only Patrick and I heard it. “Ms. West?” He walked toward the door. “Sorry to bother you. Sergeant Lambert. We met last summer.”
“I remember,” said Skye, hugging herself. One sweater and a scarf weren’t enough to keep anyone warm tonight. “What can I help you with? Is there a problem? Would you like to come in?”
“Stay where you are,” he said, looking at the woman beside her I assumed was Blaze Buchanan. “And keep everyone in the house until I tell you it’s all right. We had a nine-one-one call from Angie and Patrick here.” He gestured toward us. “Seems they found something in your back field I need to check out.”
“Good to see you, Angie!” Skye waved at me.
“And you,” I called. “Glad you could make it for Christmas.”
“That’s Blaze, behind her,” Patrick said softly.
“I guessed,” I whispered back.
“I’m going to go check the back field,” said Pete. “Angie, would you go with me? And, Patrick, why don’t you stay with your mother and her . . . friend. We’ll be back in a few minutes and let you know what’s happening,” he assured the shivering women on the doorstep.
Patrick went toward the door, glancing back at me hesitantly, but following his mother and Blaze into the house.
“A guest?” Pete asked, looking toward the closed door.
“Skye brought several movie colleagues back with her for the holidays,” I said. “That’s Blaze Buchanan.”
“Interesting,” said Pete. He glanced back at the house. Then he was all business. “Okay. Now show me where you found the body.”
I led him back behind the house. “Any clue as to who it is?” Pete asked as we followed Patrick’s and my footprints in the snow.
“I took a couple of pictures. Patrick thought it was Paul Carmichael.”
Pete stopped. “The actor, Paul Carmichael?”
“Right. He’s a guest here.”
“My wife will have a fit if that’s right. She’s made me sit through a ton of romantic movies with that guy in them,” said Pete. “If it’s him, that’ll be wicked big news.”
“True enough,” I agreed. I pointed ahead. “You can follow my footprints.” I didn’t need to see the body again. Seeing it once was enough.
It didn’t take Pete long to find the body. He bent to get a close look and then straightened up. “Looks like a job for Ethan,” he said. “The ME will say for sure, but it looks to me like he was shot.”
I shivered. Who would shoot a famous actor?
Pete and I both looked around. Where had the shot come from? Why was Paul wandering around the back field in the dark? Was it an accident? Could the shooter still be around?
“Is Ethan in town?” I asked. How long would they leave a body in the snow?
Ethan Trask was the Maine State Trooper who handled homicides for Haven Harbor. He’d grown up here, but now lived near Augusta. In Maine, only police in Portland and Bangor handled homicides in their areas. Troopers took care of the rest of the state.
“I heard he and his little girl were staying with his parents in town for Christmas,” Pete said. He knew Ethan and I’d known each other in high school. “His wife’s unit’s supposed to be back in early January.”
“From Afghanistan?”
“She’s been gone near a year,” Pete said. “Figure he’ll be mighty relieved when she gets home safely.”
“So. What now?”
“Now I call Ethan and tell him we have a job for him. He’ll call the medical examiner. Let’s hope we can get this taken care of before his Laura gets home.”
I stomped my feet while Pete called Ethan. That snow in my boots was freezing my toes. The call didn’t take long.
“He’s on his way. I was right—he’s in town, lucky for us. If we’ve got a dead celebrity on our hands, we’ll have a circus here if it isn’t handled right.” He hesitated. “I’ll stay with the body until he gets here. You mind telling Ms. West and her friends we’re investigating a possible crime out here? Don’t tell them who it may be. Until he’s officially identified, we won’t know for sure.” He looked around. “Thick woods over there, at the edge of the field. Someone could’ve been trying to get some extra venison for the winter and made a major mistake. If so, we should be able to find footprints if we get a team out here before more snow falls. No one ever wants to see anything like this. But around the holidays, somehow it’s worse.”
Kind of thing that would mess up a Christmas party, I thought. Or filming that wasn’t finished.
“Who else is at Aurora now, anyway? I saw Ms. West, and you and Patrick, and that other young woman. Blaze Buchanan.”
“Bev Clifford is cooking for them this week. Skye’s other guests are Thomas and Marie O’Day and Marv Mason.” I paused. “And Paul Carmichael.”
Pete shrugged. Those names didn’t mean anything to him. “I know Bev and Ms. West, and I’ve seen Carmichael in the movies. The others are Hollywood types, too?”
“Right.”
“I told Ethan not to use any sirens. We’ll keep this as quiet as we can until we know for sure whether that guy was killed, and if he was, how.” Pete sighed. “I don’t envy Ethan. Deaths are never fun. I have a feeling this one could get especially messy.”
I agreed.
“Time of death and cause is up to the ME and crime scene folks. But I only saw one set of footprints. Yours.” Pete’s smile was ironic. “The heels on those cowboy boots he was wearing were high enough so he could’ve slipped on an icy spot. No rubber soles. So let’s hope I’m wrong about his being shot.”
I’d thought the same thing. How could an actor who began the day in Scotland end up dead in the snow in Maine? It didn’t make sense. But, then, accidents . . . or murders . . . never did. “I’ll go inside,” I said. “They’ll be wondering what’s happening. Especially after Ethan gets here.”
As I said those words he pulled into the drive. I waved, pointed at the trail of footsteps Patrick and I and Pete had left in the snow, and headed for Aurora’s front door.
Someone had to talk to Patrick and his mom, and her guests. By now they’d probably connected that Paul Carmichael, last year’s “Stud of the Year,” was not inside the house.
It hadn’t been confirmed, of course. But I was pretty sure Paul wouldn’t be celebrating the holiday in Haven Harbor.
He’d be spending Christmas at the Medical Examiner’s office in Augusta.
Chapter 14
“When death dissolves the dearest ties
And Love stands mourning o’er the bier
What luster shines in Beauty’s eyes
Formed by Lily’s sparkling tear.”
—Dolly Hariot Stone stitched this sampler in Middlesex County, Massachusetts, when she was fourteen years old, in 1819. Her needlework on linen features a wide border of grapevines and a house and landscape, in addition to two alphabets.
Skye came to the door as soon as I knocked. She must have been waiting in the front hall.
Behind her, the Christmas tree, bright with lights and ornaments, stretched from the first floor to above the balcony surrounding the second-floor rooms. Skye was five feet
nine or ten and she was wearing heels. The tree dwarfed her. I’d forgotten how spectacular it looked.
“So good to see you, Angie,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “Patrick told me how you helped him get this place ready for Christmas so quickly. I really appreciate it.” She winked. “And Patrick does, too.”
“It was fun,” I said lamely, as people I didn’t recognize gathered in the doorway to the living room.
“So,” she said, linking my arm in hers. “Patrick says there’s a bit of a mystery outside. What’s happening?” Skye’s voice was calm, but forced, and she held my arm so tightly I wondered if it would bruise.
She was acting, I realized. Putting on a positive, brave face for her guests. I scanned the group, looking for Patrick.
“Patrick went to help Mrs. Clifford in the kitchen for a few minutes,” Skye explained without my asking. “He’ll be right back. Come and meet my friends who’ve joined me for the holidays.” She gestured toward the doorway.
They were all holding glasses. Patrick had opened the bar.
“This is our friend Angie Curtis,” Skye introduced me. “Angie, I’d like you to meet Blaze Buchanan, and Thomas and Marie O’Day, and Marv Mason. We’ve been working together all fall.”
Blaze was teetering on her heels. She glanced at my outfit and plainly dismissed me, turning her back on the group and heading into the living room. Marv Mason, whose hairpiece was a shade darker than his eyebrows, reached over to shake my hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Curtis.”
“Angie,” I replied.
“Patrick told us you used to be a private detective,” said Thomas. He was tall and good looking for a man in his fifties, and his shock of gray hair looked as though he’d grown it himself.
“That must have been exciting work,” added his wife, Marie. She looked a little younger than Thomas, and, like Skye, she was wearing a tartan scarf around her shoulders. Edinburgh shopping, no doubt. Marie’s scarf was interwoven green and yellow, and matched her yellow wool slacks and sweater.
