Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  “They live in that big Victorian house in back of the stone wall right outside downtown, am I right?”

  Anyone in town could have told her that.

  “Yes, and there’s a gate in the wall. For privacy.”

  Although everyone in town also knew it wasn’t always closed. It hadn’t been last night, which was how the media people got to Skye’s front door. I suspected it would be closed and locked today.

  “I really hope that story about Paul Carmichael isn’t true. It is a rumor, right? Unless he was drinking and using drugs again. We’ve lost so many of our talented young actors that way.”

  “Paul Carmichael used drugs?” I knew he drank—sometimes more than he should. Drugs were a new thought. But I wasn’t going to confirm anything.

  “I’m sure. They all do,” Carly said, brushing off her remark. “I’ll be going now. I just wanted to make sure Skye and her son were all right. It’s so awful for someone to die at this time of year, isn’t it?”

  At any time of year, when someone was that young. Paul was only a few years older than I was. I shivered, despite the hot coffee.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said as she headed for the door. She hesitated in front of it. “You know, I’d do anything. Anything. To meet Skye West.”

  “I’m sorry. But she’s busy right now, with the holidays, and her guests.” Not to mention a death.

  “Well, if you think of any way it could be arranged, you let me know.” Carly put on her jacket. “I could make it worth your while. I’m staying at Betty Chase’s bed-and-breakfast. She’s letting me use her kitchen, because I’m her only guest, so I’m there evenings.”

  Was she bribing me for an introduction?

  “I hope you have a lovely holiday,” I said as I opened my door. “Haven Harbor sponsors many special events this time of year.”

  “I have the local paper,” she said. “Not to worry about me! I have my days all planned.”

  I shut my door as she disappeared down the walk to the street.

  A strange conversation. But she’d already given me a thousand dollars, with the promise of more to come. I could afford to put up with an unusual customer for commissions like that.

  My cell rang. The day was beginning. It had to be better than yesterday.

  Chapter 20

  “To Colleges and Schools ye Youths repair

  Improve each precious Moment while you’re there.”

  —Embroidered by Nabby Martin in 1786 Rhode Island, above her depiction of the State House in Providence and University Hall at Brown University.

  “Angie! Hope you slept better than I did last night.”

  It was Patrick. Patrick was usually calm, even in the face of problems, but he didn’t sound calm this morning.

  “Can you come over this morning? Mom’s off the wall. Everything’s a jumble at Aurora. Thomas and Marv sat up last night drinking and are hung over, and Blaze has been tweeting for hours about her lost love. The only ones who seem calm are Mrs. Clifford, who made blueberry pancakes this morning that almost no one ate, and Marie, who’s been sitting in front of the television, channel-surfing to see what’s been covered about Paul’s death. And on top of everything, Ethan called. He and Pete are coming over to talk about the medical examiner’s report.”

  “Take a deep breath, Patrick. Are the media people still there?”

  “Only one truck, last time I checked. But there are paparazzi everywhere. A man with a camera peeked in my studio windows this morning. He must have climbed over the wall. I locked the gate after you left last night.”

  I sighed. I had a brief vision of the Christmas cookies I’d planned to bake flying out the window.

  “I don’t know how I can help.”

  “Mom is sure you can. You helped last June when the police kept showing up. You know Pete and Ethan—hell, I know them by their first names now. And Mom’s comfortable with you. She keeps saying, ‘Angie’s grounded.’ I’m her son, but she still thinks of me as a little boy. She wants someone here to handle the media. And you’re it. She trusts you.”

  “I don’t even know those Hollywood friends of hers. And, yes, I know our local detectives. They’re the ones who should handle the media. I’m not going to chase men with cameras.”

  “Please, Angie. I told Mom all that, but she wants you.”

  I heard a note of desperation in Patrick’s voice. And frustration. Skye had always hired people to take care of whatever needed to be done, from finding a private boarding school for Patrick when he was young, to paying building contractors and decorators, to hiring Sarah and I to clean out Aurora before the construction began. She’d been thrown into caretaker mode last summer when Patrick was badly burned in the carriage-house fire. But he was better now. Not painting, true; his hands still couldn’t hold a brush well. But he was living on his own, and now he owned a gallery. On short notice he’d even gotten Aurora set up the way she wanted it for the holidays.

  Although he’d done it with help from me, and my Mainely Needlepoint friends. Patrick, too, I had to admit, was most comfortable handing over messy or challenging situations to other people.

  “Are you still there, Angie?”

  “I am. And, yes, I’ll come. But I want you with me. Your mom needs to know you can handle situations, too.” And you need to be more confident, I added to myself. A thirty-two-year-old man shouldn’t be calling his girlfriend to handle deaths, paparazzi, and the media. “Is the back gate open so I can come directly to the carriage house?”

  “I’ll unlock it. And I had Jed clear the path from the carriage house to Aurora with his snow blower after he plowed the drive this morning. We won’t have to walk through drifts today. I hadn’t thought to have the path cleared before. I always walked down the drive to get to the big house. But with all those cameras behind the fences now, I want us to have a more private walkway.”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  “Thank you, Angie. I’ll tell Mom.”

  Another Christmas preparation day lost to Patrick and Skye. I liked them both. And they were dealing with a sticky situation.

  But I’d had other plans.

  I looked in the mirror. I should put on some makeup and a turtleneck and one of Mama’s good wool sweaters Gram had saved all these years. I wouldn’t be wearing cashmere from Scotland or high heels, but I would be me. A more dressed-up me than usual, but still me.

  I was the only one who cared—Patrick and Skye had both seen me in torn jeans with dirt on my face—but I didn’t want to let anyone down, including myself.

  Chapter 21

  “Lord thou were pleased to bestow on me a Mother truly kind,

  Whose constant care was to instill good precepts in my mind:

  And plant the seeds of virtue in my young and tender breast,

  Ere thou didst snatch her from my sight with thee to be at rest,

  Grant me, O Lord, thy constant aid to do thy holy will,

  That a tender Mother’s pious wish may be in me fulfilled.”

  —Ten-year-old Eliza Richardson worked her 1837 mourning sampler in colored silks. She chose to include birds and flowers instead of the weeping willow usual in a mourning picture.

  Patrick was waiting for me at his door. I glanced around, but didn’t see anyone with cameras.

  “You were right,” he said after we’d hugged as tightly as two people wearing down jackets could. “I called the police station this morning after I talked with you and told them the media people were here, and some were trespassing. I heard Sergeant Pete yelling at someone to get over here. Our privacy is now being protected by the Haven Harbor police.”

  Our police force was tiny—four officers when no one was sick or on vacation.

  With their regular beats, extra people in town to visit friends or families for the holidays, and day-trippers who’d come to see the annual lobster boat parade and arrival of Santa by sea, I wondered how they’d provide the security Patrick had asked for.

  “I said w
e’d pay overtime if necessary, and Pete said he knew a couple of retired cops who could fill in. He was really angry when I told him where the photographers had been wandering. Some of them were back in the field, near where you found Paul’s body.”

  Messing up what I was sure hadn’t been ruled out as a crime scene. No wonder Pete had found a couple of people to provide private security for the Wests.

  Whatever worked to get the interlopers away from people dealing with a tragedy. Famous or not, they deserved privacy.

  Patrick and I closed the small back gate I’d driven through, and headed over to Aurora on the now-cleared path. It wasn’t snowing today. I missed it. After ten years in Phoenix, I was enjoying Maine’s winter.

  The main gate to Aurora was closed, I noted, and a police car was parked outside on the street. The Channel 7 van was still there. The police couldn’t do anything about that; the street was public.

  As we got to Aurora’s door another state police car pulled up. “Ethan’s here,” I said to Patrick, pointing. “Probably Pete’s with him.”

  Patrick and I went inside, where he pushed a button I hadn’t noticed, near the door.

  “It opens the gate,” he explained. “That way every time someone we know wants to come in we don’t have to go out and open it manually.”

  Made sense.

  The house was silent. The only noise I heard was the crackling of the fire in the living room fireplace and rattling of dishes in the kitchen. Bev was cleaning up after the breakfast Patrick had said few guests had eaten.

  He answered Ethan’s knock. “Good morning. Or is it?” he asked calmly. This was the man who’d called Pete earlier today about police protection; not the man who’d almost begged me to come and help him handle whatever was going to happen in his mother’s house today.

  “Morning,” said Ethan, entering the room and nodding at me. “Morning, Angie. Suspected I’d see you here.”

  Pete followed him in.

  “Is everyone here?” Ethan asked. “Everyone who was here last night?”

  “So far as I know. We just arrived,” said Patrick, removing his jacket and taking mine. “Who are you looking for?”

  Ethan and Pete exchanged glances. “We’d like to talk with everyone right now.”

  “I’ll find them for you.” Patrick threw our jackets on a chair in the hallway and headed up the stairs. “Go on into the living room. Angie, see if they want coffee. I’m sure Bev has some brewed.”

  “Bev?” said Pete. “Who’s she? I don’t remember a Bev from last night.”

  “Bev Clifford,” I explained. “I told you yesterday. Skye hired her to live in for the next week and do the cooking. She was here last night, but in the kitchen.”

  Pete nodded. “Good woman who’s had to cope with hard times.”

  “We need to see everyone who was in the house yesterday afternoon or evening,” said Ethan. “Whether they were in the living room or the kitchen.”

  “I’ll get her,” I said.

  “What are you doing here, Angie?” Ethan asked. “I know you got to know the Wests last summer, but I didn’t expect you to be here during the holidays.”

  “Or be the one to find Paul’s body?” I said. “I’ve been seeing Patrick West for the past couple of months. His mother asked me to be here this morning.” I headed for the kitchen before Ethan could say anything else.

  Some people in town thought Patrick and I were a strange couple, and I didn’t know what our future would be, individually or together. But it wasn’t any of Ethan’s business. Sure, I’d had a crush on him in high school. But now he was married.

  Although maybe he was just curious. Or checking alibis. With Ethan it was hard to tell.

  Bev Clifford was at one of the sinks, slicing apples. Meals had to be made. “Bev?” I said. “The police are here—Pete Lambert and Ethan Trask. They want to talk to everyone who was here yesterday afternoon and evening.”

  “Me too? All I’ve been doing is cooking and cleaning up. Angie, what do you think of an idea I had? I’ll ask Ms. West first, of course, but looks like we’ll have a lot of food left over. These Hollywood types don’t eat like my guests at the inn. Or like most folks I know. One of them is lactose intolerant, and that skinny young woman won’t hardly eat more than a lettuce leaf. Glad you’re here now. I know you eat!”

  “I do,” I agreed.

  “So would Ms. West mind if I took some of the food folks here don’t choose to eat over to the Baptist Church? Three nights a week they serve a free supper there for those who need it.”

  “I don’t think she’d mind at all,” I said. “That’s a great idea. But you’ll have to check with her yourself.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Bev, taking off her apron. “So I’m supposed to come with you now?”

  “Please. Patrick went to get the others.”

  People were beginning to gather in the living room. Ethan and Pete were standing by the fireplace. I had the feeling they were taking mental notes about everyone as they came in.

  Skye was sitting on the couch, looking like a mother hen surveying her chicks. Thomas and Marie were sitting in matching armchairs. Patrick hadn’t returned. I assumed he was getting Blaze and Marv. Checking three stories of rooms would take a few minutes.

  Bev and I settled in straight chairs by the doorway to the hall. We were the only two with no relation to Paul, so I figured we were the least important.

  Clattering steps on the stairs preceded Marv Mason’s arrival. For a guy in his fifties with a hangover, he was moving pretty fast. “Sorry to hold everyone up. I was calling the coast.”

  “You haven’t held anyone up, Marv. We’re still waiting for Patrick to find Blaze.”

  Marv joined Skye on the couch, adjusting a couple of needlepoint cushions so he could sit farther back. “Last I saw her she was muttering about a headache.”

  Thomas and Marie exchanged glances.

  “Can you start without them?” Skye asked Ethan.

  He shook his head. “We’ll wait.”

  We sat in silence. I’d heard Ethan talk to groups before. It was never good news. He must have the results from the medical examiner, and since he was here and not on the telephone, I assumed they’d ruled Paul’s death a homicide. Did anyone else in the room understand what Ethan’s presence meant?

  Skye might. She’d met both Pete and Ethan before. But she looked relaxed. Although, I couldn’t forget, she was an actress.

  Voices penetrated the room. “I can’t believe you’re making me come downstairs to see people when my hair is still wet. I look atrocious. The world won’t end if I dry my hair first.” Definitely Blaze. And her room must be on the third floor. They weren’t here yet.

  Patrick’s soft reply was blurred.

  “I don’t care if the governor is here! They’re cops. We already know Paul’s dead. It’s horrible. We’re sorry. His agent should arrange his funeral. Give one of the networks exclusive rights to cover it. I wouldn’t mind speaking. Now we need to get on with life. His death should give a real boost to the film. Last days and so forth!”

  Those words brought her to the living room door. She flounced into the center of the room wearing her usual heels, skin-tight jeans, a lavender sweatshirt imprinted with the Scottish coat of arms, and a white towel tied around her head.

  “Thank you for joining us,” Ethan said drily. “Please find a chair and sit down.”

  Blaze gave him a dirty sideways look, then reversed and turned on the charm. “I’m so sorry to have delayed the meeting. But in this dry air I needed desperately to condition my hair.” She sat on an armchair near a window overlooking the field where I’d found Paul’s body.

  Patrick sat near Bev and I. The line of outsiders, I thought.

  Ethan began. “All right. You all know Paul Carmichael died yesterday. I’m aware that you’ve been bothered by media people. I want to apologize for that. We in Haven Harbor value our guests, and we’ll do our best to make sure you have privacy. I w
ant to assure you, however, that no one connected to Maine law enforcement told anyone about Mr. Carmichael’s death. I don’t know how members of the public and the media found out, but it concerns me as much as it does you. I have to ask you all to keep the details of what happened yesterday within this house and with Sergeant Lambert and me.”

  “What’s the big deal?” asked Blaze. “Paul died. I tweeted about it this morning. His fans want to know all the details.”

  Ethan walked toward her. “I’m asking—no, telling—you not to tweet, or Facebook, or use any social media. Beginning right now.”

  “What?” said Blaze. “But my fans . . .”

  He handed Skye a piece of paper. “We have a search warrant for this house and the carriage house, and we’ll be taking your phones and any computers or tablets you have with you. Your fans will have to wait. Right now putting information online is interfering with the police investigation.”

  “Police investigation?” repeated Skye. “Then you’re telling us . . .”

  “The medical examiner ruled Mr. Carmichael’s death a homicide,” said Ethan.

  Blaze gasped and tears rolled down her cheeks. Could she cry on cue? If I’d heard my fiancé had been killed, I wouldn’t be posting on social media.

  Did actors act all the time? Skye had always seemed normal. But, as Gram would have said, Blaze wasn’t my cup of tea.

  Marie and Thomas reached out their hands to each other.

  Marv was gritting his teeth. No one said anything.

  Skye was the one who asked, “How? How did he die?”

  “Right now we’re not releasing that information.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can to help you, of course,” Skye assured Ethan.

  “I’d like you all to stay on the first floor of the house while our investigators search the upstairs. Sergeant Lambert and I will also interview each of you, separately. Ms. West, is there a private room we could use?”

  “A small sitting room behind the kitchen,” she acknowledged. “It’s a solarium that used to be a dining room for the staff. I had it fixed up as a retreat.”