by Lea Wait
“Wow,” I said, taking a second bite of mine. “You’ve added a recipe to my limited list of easy dinners.”
“Glad you like it. Fast, easy, and filling.”
I nodded, taking another bite. “Delicious,” I managed to say.
“Save a little room,” Sarah counseled. “With only two days until Christmas, we should have a few cookies. Just to make sure they’re edible.” She winked.
“I agree. A cookie tasting seems in order.”
My phone hummed again. I dug the phone out of my pocketbook. “Excuse me—I got a couple of texts on my way here and forgot to check them.” I sighed as I saw the first message. “Remember Carly Tremont?”
“The woman who wanted needlepointed chair seats?”
“Right. Today I introduced her to Skye West, to her great delight. And, believe it or not, Skye invited her to the Christmas Eve dinner. Carly’s sent me two texts,” I said, looking at my phone. “First, thanking me for the introduction, and then wanting to know what she should wear. I haven’t even figured that out.”
“Tell her short cocktail attire,” Sarah advised. “Wait until you see what I’ve come up with for us to wear!”
I dutifully texted Carly back. “She’s been a pain,” I added to Sarah.
“‘Fame is the one that does not stay,’” said Sarah. “Skye’s being kind to her to help protect her fan base.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “And it will be a big order if she likes the designs I come up with. I wouldn’t be as bothered if it weren’t Christmas week—or she didn’t keep asking me about Skye.”
“She’ll love your designs,” Sarah assured me. “Let me make a plate of cookies while you take care of your messages.”
The next text was from Pete: ME says Carmichael shot with handgun.
“Darn,” I said out loud, answering him with an OK.
“What?” Sarah asked, putting a generous plate of cookies on the coffee table between us.
“Pete Lambert says Paul Carmichael was shot with a handgun.”
She looked at me. “And that means?”
“It means he wasn’t shot accidentally by a hunter. It means he was murdered.”
The cookies were delicious, but after that news I couldn’t focus on eating. After a few minutes Sarah pulled out the dresses she’d found for us in the wardrobe she kept of vintage clothing.
The long-sleeved, V-necked silver sheath from the sixties she’d chosen for herself was extra short (“it’s a mini,” she explained) and sparkly. It fit her as though it had been designed for her. Like me, Sarah usually wore jeans. I’d never noticed her legs were spectacular. They were, and the dress she’d chosen showed them off.
“Wow!” I said. “You’ll outshine the Christmas tree. In a positive way! And that silver makes your hair shine!”
Sarah was the only one in Haven Harbor who had white hair highlighted with pink and blue streaks.
“I wish I had silver heels,” she said, turning around so I could see the back of the dress. Her exit would be as form-fitting as her entrance. “But I have a pair of black high-heeled sandals I can get away with.”
“Which you’ll carry. You’re wearing boots to Aurora, right?”
“Of course! In this snow? Bean boots, a silver cocktail dress, and a vintage mink coat. I’m a Mainer now!” she assured me.
Mainers would agree about the boots, but I doubted many had dresses like the one Sarah had found. Or minks of any vintage. “And you said you had something I could wear?”
“I hope so,” she said, reaching into the wardrobe. “If you like this, try it on and we’ll see.”
Sarah held up a sleeveless red velvet dress with a fitted top and flirty skirt that would fall below my knees. I touched it gently. “So soft,” I said. “It’s a perfect Christmas dress. And so different from yours!”
“We don’t want to look like twins. This one is from the nineteen fifties. You like it?”
“Love it,” I said, removing my boots and peeling off my jeans to try it on. “I hope it fits.”
I liked that it was longer than Sarah’s; my legs weren’t as thin as hers. And I loved how it showed off my shoulders.
Sarah had guessed my size perfectly.
“The darts could come in a little at the bust and waist,” she said critically. “Shall I stitch them for you?”
“You do dressmaking as well as needlepoint?” I asked, surprised.
“Not really. But I’ve done some adjusting over the years, and I have a sewing machine.”
“Then I trust you,” I agreed. “I’ll be wearing black shoes, too. But mine will be flats. It’s been years since I wore heels.”
“We’ll both look terrific,” Sarah said, looking at both of us in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. “That young actress—Blaze? She’ll have nothing on us.”
Blaze. What would she wear? And how would she and everyone else at Aurora be feeling after they officially found out Paul had been murdered? Would Skye cancel the dinner?
I twirled in the mirror.
I hoped not. Selfishly, I wanted Patrick to see me in this dress.
Although I felt guilty, thinking about dresses when I should be thinking about who murdered Paul.
I twirled again. “Can I pick the dress up from you when I stop for your needlepoint pillow tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. My sewing machine is downstairs in the shop, behind the counter, so I can use it while I’m waiting for customers. I’ll have the dress ready for you by noon or before. What are your plans for tomorrow?”
I thought of Pete’s message. “I have to pick up all the pillows,” I said, “and deliver them to Aurora.” And check on what was happening there.
Chapter 37
“Let spotless Innocence and Truth
My every Action Guide
My Unexperienced Youth
From Vanity and Pride.”
—Ruth Smith of Bristol, Rhode Island, made this sampler in 1799. She included a large house with five dogs playing outside and a floral border.
Trixi didn’t come running when I opened my door. I turned on the Christmas tree lights and candles in the windows, assuming she was asleep somewhere. Then I heard a loud squeak coming from the Christmas tree.
“Trixi?” I asked. I didn’t see her, but that squeak was definitely from my cat. “Trixi? Where are you?”
“Squeak!” was the slightly louder response. Why didn’t Trixi meow, like other cats? The sound had come from the tree. I turned on all the lights in the room and searched the branches. Trixi had knocked several balls off the tree. Luckily, they hadn’t broken.
“Squeak!” This time it was more demanding. I went through the branches again, one at a time. And . . . there she was. Next to the trunk, near the top of the tree, beneath my foil star.
I reached in through the branches and picked her up. She was shaking a little, and immediately cuddled into my hands. How long had she been up in that tree? Hadn’t she known how to climb down? I felt guilty as I stroked her. How scared had she been? Had she nibbled pine needles or anything else she shouldn’t have? Should I call the vet?
Trixi picked herself up, jumped off my lap, and headed for her (empty) food dish in the kitchen.
The speed at which she gobbled her dinner assured me that whatever her trauma, she’d survived it.
How did people manage to be responsible for children? I felt guilty trying to take care of a cat.
I thought of baking tonight. Sarah’s cookies had been inspiring. Gram’s had been delicious. No doubt Bev Clifford was baking up a storm at Aurora. I was probably the only person in Haven Harbor not making cookies.
But I was exhausted. This wasn’t my year to make Christmas goodies.
I wrapped the last of my gifts—Patrick’s pillow and a bottle of cognac I’d bought for Reverend Tom.
The house was chilly. Winters weren’t easy for houses built in the early nineteenth century, before insulated walls. (Adding insulation to the attic and basement helped, bu
t didn’t solve the problem.) Luckily, Skye’s home was warmer. I’d be able to manage a sleeveless dress there Christmas Eve.
In the meantime I turned my furnace up a little, pulled on my comfiest flannel nightgown, and crawled under my quilts. It had been a long day. The town festival had been fun, dinner with Sarah was delicious, and she’d solved one of my problems—she’d found a great dress I could wear Christmas Eve.
Now I needed sleep.
* * *
I woke up when Trixi sat on my shoulder and repeatedly stroked my cheek with her paw. It was time for her breakfast. Groggily I got up, pulled on my bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later her dish was empty again, coffee was brewing, and I was scrambling myself a couple of eggs.
I turned on the small television set in the kitchen. The Portland meteorologist was reminding his listeners (Reminding? Did I know to begin with?) that the winter storm making its way up the coast would be hitting Maine sometime in late afternoon. “Our first real nor’easter of the season,” he happily informed his viewers. “Do your last-minute Christmas shopping early today, because hazardous road conditions and gusting winds will be the rule by sunset. Local electrical outages may result from falling branches, so check that your supplies of firewood and water are accessible. Keep tuned to Channel 7 for weather updates throughout the day.”
Goodie. Gram and Reverend Tom had a generator in case of outages. I didn’t have one, but I could bring in extra wood for the living room fireplace (the only one in the house that was lined and therefore safe to use), and if an outage lasted any length of time I could sleep on the couch at the rectory.
When I was fourteen we’d had an ice storm that knocked out power in Haven Harbor for almost two weeks and closed many of the roads. I shivered, remembering it. Gram and I had bundled up in practically everything we’d owned, piled on all our quilts and comforters, and both slept in her bed. We’d read books during the day (of course, without power or heat school was closed), and at night she’d told me stories about when she’d been young, living in a house across town, and then, as a newlywed, living in our house, before she and Grandpa had saved enough money for a furnace. They’d only had fireplaces and a space heater. I’d suspected that on winter days they’d done a lot of cuddling in their high double bed.
“Trixi, you and I may be cuddling up tonight,” I informed her.
She didn’t look impressed.
Dressed in my warmest lined jeans, plaid flannel shirt, wool sweater, and barn coat, I brought several armloads of wood in from the wood pile, leaving a trail of snow from the back door to the living room.
Trixi jumped at each bit she could see and shook herself when the pretty white flakes turned into water.
“Lucky for you you’re an indoor cat,” I reminded her.
She squeaked in answer and jumped up to her window perch to watch me fill the bird feeders and put out fresh suet. Nor’easters weren’t fun for any creature.
Chores needed to be done. But I had to pick up the needlepointed pillows for Skye and then get to Aurora and find out what was happening there.
I hesitated, then filled an extra cereal bowl with dry food for Trixi and a second dish of water. “In case I’m delayed,” I explained to her. She purred in understanding. Or maybe just in thanks.
It was later than I’d thought: after ten-thirty.
First, I called Ruth to tell her the dinner Christmas Eve called for cocktail attire. She wasn’t thrilled and muttered something about fitting into dresses at the back of her closet.
Then I called Dave and Ob. Their pillows were finished, and they were waiting for me. Then I checked with Sarah. The red dress was ready! (And her pillow, of course.)
What was happening at Aurora? I started for my car and then turned around. Someone at Skye’s house had a handgun. Someone was a murderer. Based on what Patrick had said, I was sure he and his mother didn’t have weapons.
Maybe I’m paranoid, I told myself. Or maybe just careful.
I got the Glock I kept in a drawer in my front hall. It was loaded. (Why have a gun that isn’t loaded unless you have children around?)
I slipped it into my pocketbook, along with the foil-wrapped gingerbread people Gram had given me for Patrick. I’d forgotten to give them to him the day before.
It was Christmas. Time of joy, and peace, and happiness.
But it hadn’t been for Paul Carmichael, and I didn’t want anyone else to suffer the same fate.
I headed for Sarah’s shop, and Dave’s and Ob’s homes, hoping Pete and Ethan had solved Paul’s murder before I got to Aurora.
That would be a really Merry Christmas.
Chapter 38
“Large bags to place slippers in for parties, or to carry rubbers or waterproofed shoes to opera or theatre, are made of gray, brown or stone color, with a monogram embroidered, braided, or outlined in the center.”
—From The Hearthstone; or, Life At Home: A Household Manual by Laura C. Holloway, Philadelphia: L.P. Miller & Co., 1888.
“A suit?” Dave sighed. “Sure. I’ve got one of those in the back of my closet. Had to get one a few years back when one of my students got married. I hope it still fits.”
I suspected Dave’s trim ex-Navy physique wouldn’t present any wardrobe problems.
“Sarah’s found the most wonderful vintage dresses for she and I to wear,” I confided. “Wait until you see!”
“I’ll look forward to being overcome with your elegance,” said Dave. “But are you sure this gala is still on? The postmaster told me one of Skye West’s guests died suddenly.”
Not everyone in town followed entertainment news. But clearly word was getting around in Haven Harbor. I hesitated, and nodded. “True. But she hasn’t said anything about canceling the dinner. Yesterday she even invited someone else to join us.” I didn’t mention that Paul hadn’t just died; he’d been murdered. Why bother Dave with details? A close friend of his had been killed earlier this fall. Murder wasn’t a topic he was comfortable with.
“Dinner may fall into the category of ‘the show must go on,’” Dave said drily. “In any case, I postponed my plans in Boston, and here’s the pillow she wanted. Although it’s so small it’s really more of a sachet.” He handed me a paper grocery bag and I peeked inside.
“Looks perfect,” I pronounced. “I’m going to deliver the pillows to Skye this morning so she has them to wrap before tomorrow. She already has a few packages under her tree.” I glanced around. “Speaking of which—where’s your tree?”
Dave shook his head. “No tree this year. It’s me here, alone—and with a new kitten? Since I was going away for part of the holiday, I didn’t want the hassle.”
“Where is Trixi’s brother?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t seen him.
“Probably under a chair or behind the couch,” Dave said. “He’s not a very brave cat. Friendly enough to feel comfortable tangling the threads in my needlework stash, but not used to company. I don’t have many guests. My neighbor’s agreed to stop in and feed him and change the litter while I’m away. I suspect he’ll never even see Snowy, although I’m sure the cat food will disappear.”
“What will you do in Boston?” I asked.
“I planned to spend Christmas with an old Navy buddy and his family,” said Dave. “I don’t see him often. I don’t like to leave my poison garden unless it’s covered with snow. Plus, between my teaching and his job, we’re both tied up. Because of Skye’s dinner I called and told him I’m staying here Christmas Eve. He was impressed that I was going to have dinner with such a famous actress. It’ll take less than four hours to drive to his place Christmas Day. I should arrive in time for their dinner, which is fine. We’ll spend a couple of days checking out the sights in Boston. I got us all tickets for a Celtics game, and we’ll probably go to the aquarium. His daughter loves that place. I’ll be back by the twenty-ninth . . . rotten fish and guests, right?”
“Right,” I said, recognizing what was
probably a quote, but not able to identify it. Skipping college meant I’d missed out on a few things. Usually nothing major. I picked up the bag. “I’d better get going. I still have to stop at Sarah’s and then see Ob and Anna. See you tomorrow night!”
“Looking forward to ogling those dresses!” Dave winked and followed me to the door. “Make sure you get your errands done before the middle of the afternoon today. Storm that’s coming in’s supposed to be a doozy.”
“I’ll be careful!” I called back as I walked toward my car. “You, too!”
Sarah was busy showing a customer a Winslow Homer wood engraving of a woman (who wasn’t even wearing a coat), her husband, and their son digging a path from their home in snow up to their shoulders. “It’s called ‘A Winter Morning—Shoveling Out,’” Sarah was explaining. “You can see the date—January of 1871. It was a newspaper illustration; this is the archivally matted and framed page from that newspaper. Homer’s work from 1858 until 1874 was only published as newspaper illustrations, and this one is hard to find because it was published in Every Saturday, a newspaper with a small circulation.”
“I love that the woman is throwing seeds or crumbs onto the snow for the birds,” her customer noted. “That’s what I do when the snow is too deep to get to my feeders.”
When Sarah saw me she nodded toward the back of her counter. I found the pillow she’d stitched, plus the red velvet dress, newly taken in and hung in a garment bag. I took both, gave her a thumbs-up, and left her to her customer.
I hung the dress in my car, resisting the temptation to touch the deep, soft fabric. It wasn’t snowing yet, but clouds now covered the southern sky, and the scent of new snow was in the air. I needed to get to Captain’s Ob’s home and pick up the two pillows he and his wife had stitched.
His wife, Anna, answered the door. She was wearing an apron, and her hands and one spot on her face were white with flour. “Angie! Come on in.”
“Baking, I see,” I said, walking into her kitchen, warm from both her electric stove and her woodstove.
