Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  “The retreat sounds perfect,” said Ethan. “Thank you. The crime scene investigators should be here anytime now. They’ll be checking your back field, tracing Mr. Carmichael’s steps yesterday, and then working on the second and third floors.”

  “It’s getting late in the morning. Perhaps Mrs. Clifford could get a simple lunch together for everyone, including both of you,” Skye said, standing up. “It sounds as though you’ll be here for a while.”

  “Thank you, Ms. West. You all go ahead and eat.” Ethan looked at his phone. “But no one leave the first floor. Our colleagues from Augusta are outside. I’ll be working with them and begin talking with each of you. You’ve been chatting since yesterday; some of you may even have been in Mr. Carmichael’s room. As of now, that ends.”

  Bev Clifford stood and started toward the kitchen.

  “How soon can you serve lunch?” Skye called to her across the room.

  “Half an hour. Maybe sooner,” she answered.

  I stood, too. “I’ll help.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Bev answered. We both left the room as Ethan opened the front door to three crime scene technicians and their equipment.

  The silence from Paul Carmichael’s dear friends was deafening.

  They’d just realized they were all suspects in his death.

  Chapter 22

  “Let my few remaining days

  Be devoted to thy praise

  So the last, the closing scene

  Shall be tranquil and serene.”

  —Verse stitched by Eliza Benneson in 1835 in either Baltimore or Delaware. Above and below her verse are alphabets and a small landscape.

  “Good of you to volunteer to help,” said Bev. “Those Hollywood folks think I’m here to wait on ’em. Not a one has volunteered to as much as carry a platter from the kitchen to the dining room. Had to tell that Paul they’re all lamenting that I didn’t do room service. He wanted me to bring a plate of sandwiches to his room.”

  I shook my head. “When did he do that?”

  “Oh, not long after they arrived. Said he had calls to make and couldn’t take the time to sit with the others and eat.” Bev tied her apron on again. “He found time when I told him I didn’t deliver. Guess he has plenty of time to himself now.”

  “What had you planned for lunch today?”

  “Figured this crew should choose their own. I’m not exactly a full restaurant. Yesterday I made a salmon mousse, and this morning I fixed some deviled eggs and a platter of rolled-up pieces of ham, salami, turkey breast, and some raw veggies. Got croissants and sandwich bread from the bakery, and thought I’d make up a macaroni salad with tuna and olives and such and steam some mussels.”

  “Sounds delicious.” I’d skipped breakfast. “And more than enough. What can I help with?”

  She pointed at a large pan. “Fill that with water so we can get the pasta cooking. The mussels can steam in wine and herbs while I chop the mixings for the salad. If you could get out a clean tablecloth and plates and silverware, that would save time.” She pointed at one cabinet. “Tablecloths and napkins are in there. Plates are in the cabinet next to the dining room door.”

  She pulled out olives and celery and red onions and several cans of tuna while I filled the designated pan.

  “Skye is so lucky you were free to help her out with all these guests,” I said.

  “Your grandmother is a dear to have thought of me. I was going to have a quiet Christmas, and then join your gram and the reverend and you for dinner. Would have left me too much time to think, to tell the truth. Now I’ve got no time to sit and stew. That’s a blessing.”

  “I’m glad it worked out for everyone. It’s no fun to be alone on Christmas.”

  She stopped chopping and looked at me. “It’s not. Especially when memories are bitter. I hope you never have to live with a past that’s never over. You’re young. Enjoy life for all it’s worth. Today may be all you’ve got. Hope things work out for you and that Patrick. Seems like a nice fellow, for all he’s from away.”

  “He is,” I agreed.

  “You make sure he’s the right one, and if he is, you grab him. Never know how long you’ve got.”

  I reminded myself to ask Gram about Bev’s story. I’d been out of town for ten years, and out of touch. Gram knew everything that had happened in town for the past fifty years. Or more.

  I remembered a boy named Luke Clifford a few years behind me in school. What had happened to him? And were he and Bev related? I sensed this wasn’t the time to ask.

  I found a white linen tablecloth for the large dining room table and a smaller one for the sideboard, and put out stacks of plates and silverware. As I passed the windows I saw crime scene investigators photographing and measuring barely visible footprints in the snow, some of them mine and Patrick’s from yesterday afternoon.

  Yesterday seemed a long time ago.

  Other investigators had gone upstairs to look for . . . what, exactly? And why hadn’t Ethan told us how Paul Carmichael had died?

  The whole situation seemed strange. If any of these people had wanted to kill their colleague, why hadn’t they done it on a movie set in Scotland, where I assumed there’d be dozens of people around to be suspects and provide alibis?

  The newspaper article I’d seen online said Paul had gotten into a brawl of some sort at a pub in Scotland. He’d been taken to the hospital there. Had someone tried to kill him and failed the first time?

  I shook my head. My imagination was going crazy.

  There had to be a simple reason for what happened yesterday. Motive, opportunity, means. But how to figure it out without any pieces of the puzzle?

  “Angie, get those platters I made up earlier out of the walk-in fridge while I mix up the salad.”

  Bev had already drained the pasta and was adding it to the ingredients she’d mixed in a large salad bowl. Mussels were simmering in her wine and herb sauce on the stove. Bev had estimated thirty minutes. In fifteen she was able to stand in the door of the living room and announce formally, “Luncheon is served.”

  Patrick had opened the bar again, but was suggesting tea or coffee or soda instead of anything heavier. Marv insisted on a martini, although Patrick talked him into trying the local cranberry gin. Blaze cut herself a sliver of salmon mousse and selected one deviled egg, two mussels, and several carrot sticks. I didn’t watch what anyone else ate. I was too busy filling my own plate.

  “Thank you for helping Mrs. Clifford,” Skye said to me quietly. “I suspect she feels she’s being neglected. But there’s been so much going on.”

  “I understand,” I said. “She’s happy to be here. It’s a good fit for both of you.”

  “She’s done a lovely job. Lovely. Oh—and by the way, I got distracted by the food. Ethan Trask wants to talk with you in a few minutes. He’s talking with Patrick now.”

  Patrick and I were the first to be interviewed?

  We were the two most unlikely suspects. I’d never met Paul, and Patrick hadn’t met him until he’d arrived in Maine.

  At least that was what he’d told me.

  But, on the other hand, we’d been the ones who’d found the body.

  I took another deviled egg. At least I could eat before I was grilled.

  Chapter 23

  “No surplice white the priest could wear

  Bandless the bishop must appear

  The King without a shirt would be

  Did not the needle help all three.”

  —Stitched by Mary Miller on her sampler in 1735 England.

  I was nervous. I’d been consulted about murders before. I’d never been officially interviewed.

  I went into the kitchen. When I was with Bev I could see the door to the little room Skye had called her retreat. Gram, who’d visited this home decades ago, had always referred to it as the solarium, where the cook in those years grew herbs for the kitchen and protected plants from winter’s cold, and the staff ate their meals.

  No plant
s bloomed there today.

  My mind raced. I had to focus on something other than what Ethan and Pete were going to ask me.

  I hoped the Needlepointers were almost finished with the pillows Skye wanted as gifts.

  With all that was happening, needlepoint seemed the least of anyone’s problems, but I couldn’t forget I’d promised she’d have the pillows before Christmas Eve.

  I went over the list in my mind. Sarah was stitching one pillow. I hadn’t talked to her or seen her since I’d visited her shop and bought a gift for Gram. Dave was doing one. And Captain Ob and his wife, Anna, who lived across the street from Aurora, were each stitching one.

  Had Ob and Anna noticed the media vans here? The police cars? They had to have.

  Ethan had said not to talk with anyone about what had happened, but I was strongly tempted to call them. Or at least text. Let them know what was happening in their neighborhood. Anna had birding binoculars. She’d be watching, and wondering.

  “If you’re going to stand there, you could check the dining room for empty platters and dirty dishes,” said Bev. She’d already started loading the dishwasher.

  “I’m waiting to be called in to talk with Ethan and Pete,” I said. I hoped to have a moment to talk with Patrick after he came out of the room. “Can I help with anything in here?”

  “No, I’ve got it under control. You look as though you need a purpose. You’ve been pacing for the past five minutes.”

  “I have?” I hadn’t noticed.

  “They’re not such bad guys, those police. They have a job to do. Just tell them the truth, whatever they ask you. Don’t try to fool them about anything, or hold anything back.”

  I turned and looked at Bev. She had brown hair streaked with gray and was a widow in her fifties. What would she know about police investigations?

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not worried,” I lied.

  “Then stop wearing out the floor and get me the bowl the mussels were in,” she said. “Be careful not to spill any broth that’s left.”

  I managed to get the bowl to the kitchen without spilling a drop.

  “I have to wash that bowl separately,” said Bev, taking it from me. “It’s Waterford. Probably worth a fortune.” She shook her head. “That Ms. West, she seems all right. Wonder what it’s like to be able to buy whatever you want, and do whatever you want?”

  “She works,” I pointed out, although I’d sometimes had the same thoughts. “She was working in Scotland. The only reason she’s here and having a break for the holidays is there were problems on the set.”

  Bev raised her eyebrows. “Problems on the set? Sounds dreadful. She may have been doing what she calls work, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t have anything to do with scrubbing dishes or toilets.”

  “Running the Wild Rose Inn must be hard,” I said. “But last summer Skye told me about where she came from. Neglectful mother, not always enough to eat. Lived on the Lower East Side of New York in a rough neighborhood. She was lucky to get a scholarship to a private high school. She worked hard to get ahead.”

  “Not saying she didn’t. If she had the intelligence and courage to take advantage of opportunities, good for her. Not everyone has those opportunities.”

  Bev was right, of course.

  But I liked Skye, and I liked her son, whose biggest problem growing up was not having a father, and living in boarding schools when his mother had to work. I’d scrubbed a few toilets myself, and steamed a few lobsters, and waitressed.

  “Angie! There you are. I thought you’d be in the living room with the others.” It was Pete. “Hi, Bev. We’ll need to talk with you later. Ms. West said you’re living in?”

  “Not going anywhere.”

  “Good. We’ll try to get to you before you’re working on dinner. Com’on Angie. Let’s get started.”

  I’d been talking with Bev and hadn’t even seen Patrick leaving the solarium. What questions had they asked him?

  Whatever they were, we hadn’t had a chance to compare notes.

  Which was exactly what Ethan and Pete wanted.

  In any case, I didn’t know anything I hadn’t already told them. “No problem, Pete. I’m coming.”

  “You’ll be fine, dear,” Bev whispered. “You didn’t kill that man, did you?”

  Chapter 24

  “For embroidery designs, we suggest natural forms such as strawberries and their leaves. This delicate needlework in pure white forms a graceful design. But when embroidered in the natural colors of the leaves and fruits on a boy’s or girl’s jacket, stand cloth, or ottoman cover, on cloth of scarlet or gray, it is pretty enough for the most fastidious. Moreover, this leads you to observe and study nature, which from your life-long intimacy with it, may have failed to specially interest you.”

  —From The Farm and Household Cyclopedia: A Complete Reference Library for Farmers, Gardeners, Fruit Growers, Stockmen and Housekeepers, Published by F.M. Lupton, 1885.

  Cooks had picked fresh herbs in this solarium; housekeepers and owners had enjoyed fresh blooms throughout the year. They’d looked down at Haven Harbor, or watched lightening cross the sky, or, as today, seen the white field and the dark blue North Atlantic beyond.

  Today there were no flowers or herbs in the small room. Ethan and Pete sat on one side of a glass-topped table which might once have been used to pot plants. Today it was the center of an interrogation.

  The chair they set for me faced them and the clapboard wall which once had been the outside of the house. Snow covered the slanted glass roof.

  “I’ve already told you all I know about Paul Carmichael,” I said.

  “But you may know information you may not realize is important. We want to go over everything again.”

  I nodded.

  “Please say yes, to indicate you understand,” said Ethan. “We’re recording the interviews.”

  “I’m a suspect?” I asked, incredulously, looking from one of the men to the other. I knew them both. We’d worked together before. Today neither would look me in the eye.

  This wasn’t good. What did they know . . . or imagine?

  “You’ve known the Wests—Ms. West and her son, Patrick—since they first came to Haven Harbor last June.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do either of them, to your knowledge, own a gun?”

  A gun! They must have confirmed that Paul Carmichael had been shot, as Pete had assumed when he first saw the body. I couldn’t imagine either Skye or Patrick with a gun, but I answered carefully. “I’ve never seen either of them with a gun, and neither has ever mentioned having one.”

  “You own a gun.”

  “Yes, I brought my Glock with me from Arizona.”

  “Do Patrick or Ms. West know you have a handgun?”

  I thought back. “Patrick does. I don’t think Skye does, unless Patrick mentioned it to her.”

  “Have you ever seen any guns in this house?”

  “No.”

  “How well do you know the Wests?”

  “I know Patrick. We’re friends. We’ve been . . . dating . . . for a couple of months. I’ve met his mother several times, and done some work for her. But I’m not a close friend of hers.”

  “Have either of the Wests ever mentioned having a problem with Paul Carmichael?”

  “No.” I thought carefully. “Patrick told me there were issues on the set in Scotland, but he never said exactly what they were. Just that the film was going over budget, and they’d have to rewrite the end of the script.”

  “You didn’t hear anything specific about Paul Carmichael?”

  “Several people who learned he’d be visiting Haven Harbor mentioned how good looking he was.”

  “I meant, any reason someone would have to resent him, or want him dead.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “When did you first meet Mr. Carmichael?”

  “I never did. Patrick met his mother and her guests at the airport. I was expecting to meet them all yesterday evening.”r />
  “Did he ask you to accompany him to the airport?”

  Where were these questions going?

  “He did. I told him I had other things to do. It’s almost Christmas, after all.”

  “When did you arrive at Patrick’s home yesterday afternoon?”

  “About five-thirty.”

  “And whose idea was it that you and Patrick take a walk in the cold and snow before you went to Aurora?”

  “It was Patrick’s idea.” I thought back. “Yes.”

  “During your walk, did you see any footprints?”

  “We walked on the drive until we were close to the big house. There were footprints in front of the house. I didn’t pay attention. People had been coming and going.” I thought carefully. “As I told you yesterday, we decided to walk around the house and over the top of the field.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the view is better from there. We could see the lights at the center of the village. The sky was clear, and the moon was full, so we had no trouble walking.”

  “How long were you walking?

  “About half an hour. It was cold, and Patrick suggested we go back, into Aurora. He had to set up the bar for his mom’s cocktail hour.”

  “But yesterday you told us you continued, by yourself.”

  “For a short distance, yes. I thought I saw something in the snow, and I was curious.”

  “You were alone when you found Paul Carmichael’s body.”

  “I was. I checked his pulse and took a picture with my cell phone. I wanted to know whether Patrick recognized him. I didn’t.”

  “Patrick West never came near the body?”

  “No, I told him to stay away. In case it was a murder, I knew we shouldn’t mess up the scene with more footprints.”

  “Did you see any footprints in the field that were not yours or Patrick’s?”

  “I saw indentations near Paul’s body that I assumed were his footprints. The snow had almost covered them. They appeared to lead to the other side of the house, the side near the woods.”