by Lea Wait
I had to prove I was innocent.
I had to find out who’d poisoned Patrick—if he had been poisoned—and who’d shot Paul Carmichael.
And I needed to get the damned needlepoint pillows to Aurora, so when Skye thought about them, they’d be there.
That was the easiest task. Skye would be at the hospital for a while.
I headed back to Aurora. I’d give the pillows to Bev. She’d deliver them for me.
She wasn’t a murder suspect.
Chapter 41
“Mr. Buriat, just arrived from Cape Francaise, has the honour to inform the public that he embroiders on and with all kinds of materials, such as gold, silver, silk, cotton, twill, thread, on all sorts of woolen, silk, lawn, cambric, linen, cotton, etc. He embroiders coats of arms in the most delicate stile. He lives in New-street, No. 65, between Second and Third Streets.”
—Advertisement in the Federal Gazette, Philadelphia, June 1794.
As I’d anticipated, no one stopped or questioned me when I walked in the back door at Aurora, the door to the small solarium where Pete and Ethan had questioned me two days before.
Bev was in the kitchen. Ironically, she was rolling out dough for Christmas cookies. Two cooling racks of decorated stars and angels were already on one counter. She looked up when she heard me. “Angie! You startled me. You’ve never come in that door before.” She dusted her floury hands on her apron. “Did you see Patrick? How is he?”
“I saw him. He was sleeping, but his mom said he’d be all right.” I paused. “The doctors are saying there was poison in the cookies he ate. Maybe arsenic.”
Bev clapped her hand to her mouth, leaving a dusting of flour on her cheek. “No! Who would do such an awful thing? And at Christmastime.”
Poisoning at any time of year sounded awful to me, but I knew what she meant. Christmas was supposed to be the time of year for peace and joy, when families and friends joined together and celebrated. Poisoned Christmas cookies definitely were not in the spirit of the season.
I hesitated a moment, but decided she’d find out soon enough. “Skye says I did it.”
Bev took two steps backward, hitting the counter and knocking two angels off the cooling racks. They lay, broken, on the floor. “No! How could she believe that, Angie! After all you’ve done for that woman, and what you’ve meant to her son. I don’t believe it. She must be out of her mind.”
I almost smiled. “Maybe so. But she called Pete Lambert at the police department. I don’t think he believes I did it, but he doesn’t have any other suspects. You’re the only one who’s baked cookies here, right?”
“That’s for sure,” Bev sniffed. “Only time those folks come to the kitchen is when they want a cold beer or a late-night snack. Most helpless folks I’ve seen in a while. That Blaze Buchanan complains about something at every meal, and never volunteers to even bring her dirty plate to the kitchen to be washed.” She paused. “Although someone must have been in the kitchen late last night. Everything was spick ‘n’ span this morning, but the oven was on. I’ve never left an oven on overnight in my life.”
I believed her. “I’d like to ask a favor, Bev.”
“Whatever I can do, dear. What you need to do is find out who made those cookies. Arsenic! I remember when I used it for rat poison, back when that was still allowed. Looks like sugar, it does. Maybe someone got it mixed up.”
“You were here. What kind of cookies were in the box? What did Patrick eat? Did he say how they tasted?”
“Cinnamon and sugar, they were. All of them. Those snickerdoodles children like. My son was always asking me to make them.”
“Then they weren’t special Christmas cookies.” Even I’d made snickerdoodles. They were addictive. But they were a far cry from the shortbreads and shaped and filled cookies most people baked for the holidays.
“He thought they were from you, so they were special to him. Found them in a tin outside his door this morning, on his way here, so he brought them along and opened them right here.” Bev pointed to the largest pine table in the kitchen. “Saw him myself. He smiled when he saw your note, Angie, and then he ate one or two of them. He collapsed before he could eat more. Made a mess on the floor, I’ll tell you. He didn’t look so good, so I ran into the front hall and yelled for his mother. She was talking in the living room—those folks have been plotting and planning since they got back from that wagon ride yesterday afternoon. She closed the box of cookies and called nine-one-one.”
“Did you see the note?”
“Wasn’t much to it. Typed, it was, like on a computer. I’m pretty sure Patrick put it in his pocket before he bit into that cookie.”
“Thanks, Bev. That’s a help. But now I have to ask another favor. Skye’s furious with me right now, so for the time being I’m going to stay out of her way. But she commissioned the Mainely Needlepointers to make gifts for her guests. I was bringing them to her this morning, when I heard about Patrick.” I handed her the bag of needlepointed balsam fir pillows. “Would you give her this when she gets home from the hospital?”
“Of course, I will. Don’t you worry about that,” said Bev, taking the bag and tucking it in a corner of the kitchen.
I turned to leave. “You said her guests were plotting. A new end for their movie?”
“I heard Mr. O’Day say they’d have no problem finding a stunt actor to take the place of that Paul. His wife even said a stunt actor might be easier to work with.” Bev shook her head. “Not a lot of mourning’s been going on in this house. The only one who seems distressed is Blaze. I caught her yesterday morning, using my phone. She was telling someone she was heartbroken about the death of her fiancé. That sounded sad, so I stayed outside the door to give her some privacy.”
“Of course,” I said. The police must not have taken Bev’s phone.
“But then she asked this person if he could get her on some of those talk shows in the next week, to talk about Paul. She said it would be good publicity for her new movie. Said she was leaving here after Christmas Day and wasn’t due back in Scotland until after New Year’s.” Bev shook her head. “Didn’t sound heartbroken to me. Secret engagement? Awfully convenient, if you ask me.”
“I’ve heard of Hollywood romances dreamed up for publicity. Maybe that was the kind of engagement Paul and Blaze had,” I said.
“Maybe so. But she was milking it wicked hard.”
I glanced toward the door to the hall. “So they’ve figured out how to rewrite the film. That’s good.”
“They did that early last night. Since then they’ve been planning some other film.” Bev came close to me. “They’re talking about it being set here in Haven Harbor. You know anything about that?”
I sighed. “They were talking about that possibility when we were at the Christmas Cheer festival yesterday. They got Ed Campbell all excited about the idea, and were even talking to a few folks at the parade about hiring extras.”
“Ms. West kept saying nothing was to sound like the Gardeners’ story—you know, the folks who used to own this place, whose daughter was killed back in the day. But they seemed to know other stories set right here in town. Turns out some local author I’d never heard of has written books. Mr. and Mrs. O’Day have those e-readers. They were reading those stories.”
“A local author?” The only local author I knew of was Ruth Hopkins. And her books—her erotica—was written under several pseudonyms. Had I told Patrick about her? Ruth was one of the Mainely Needlepointers. I might have mentioned it sometime.
But her books were fiction. Was there another author in town I didn’t know? Could be. I’d been gone ten years, and a lot of writers lived in Maine.
The windows in the kitchen rattled. I’d forgotten the storm.
“I need to get home,” I said. “Weather’s supposed to get wicked tonight.”
“You’d best be on your way, then. I’ll get that bag of yours to Ms. West. I hope she and Patrick will be home soon.”
“I do,
too, Bev. But I don’t want them to find me here.”
“Will you be coming to the dinner tomorrow night?” she asked.
I winced. “I’d planned to be here. But it depends on whether the poisoned cookie mystery is solved, or Skye calms down.”
“She’s a fair lady,” said Bev. “Give her time to think things through. Why would you poison someone you’re sweet on?”
Was I sweet on Patrick?
I guessed I was.
The wind had picked up and the snow was heavier. Drifts were blowing across streets, making it hard to see. It was only midafternoon, but I had my car lights on and wipers at full speed. Gusts made it hard to steer through blowing snow on slippery streets. I felt like I was driving inside a snow globe someone was shaking.
I wanted to be home, safe and quiet, hunkered down with Trixi and a hot cup of tea.
Accused of murdering the man in my life? The one who’d been kindest to me and who’d included me in his family events?
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Not a good emotion when I should be focused on the roads. I turned into the street before mine and drove around Haven Harbor’s Green. Should I park at Gram’s?
No. In this weather I shouldn’t block her driveway, or my own. If I did, the plows wouldn’t be able to do their jobs. I parked in my barn, shivering as I made my way across the backyard to my house.
For better or, it seemed now, for worse, I was home for the holiday.
Chapter 42
“Numerous as are the subjects treated on in this work, there are few which furnish a more pleasing occupation than Embroidery. To this art our readers are indebted for some of the most elegant articles of dress. It may, also, afford them opportunities of displaying their taste and ingenuity . . . and an inexhaustible source of laudable and innocent amusement.”
—From The Lady’s Book (later called Godey’s Lady’s Book) in July 1830.
Trixi shook as she heard the wind coming down the chimney. I closed the flu, but the roar of the wind didn’t disappear. Glass in the old windows, especially those that were hand-blown, rattled. When I was little I’d loved to look at the world through the bubbles and ripples in those windows. They’d made the world look mysterious.
They still did. Wind was blowing the lit trees on the town Green. Through the snow, it looked as though fireflies were dancing. Trixi was alternately nervous and fascinated, running from one window to another as I turned on our tree lights and window candles.
Was Patrick better? Had he been released? Could arsenic poisoning do permanent damage?
Instead of tea, I poured myself a glass of red wine, in honor of the holiday, and promised myself all would be well. It had to be well. Then I called Dave.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Wicked bad storm out there.”
“I just got home,” I answered. “It’s a night for blankets blocking doors and snakes on window sills.”
“Mine are in place by Halloween, in case the weather turns,” he agreed. “I never even heard of window snakes until I moved to Maine.”
“I remember helping Gram make them, when I was four or five,” I said. “I loved watching her take pieces of Mama’s old clothes, or mine, patch them together in long strips, and make three- or four-foot-long bags. Then we’d go to Pocket Cove Beach and fill the bags with dry sand, and she’d stitch up the ends. I always chose ones she’d made of my clothes to put on the windowsills in my room.”
“I’ll admit I bought mine ready-made. They’re filled with balsam, not sand, and the store called them draft dodgers, not snakes. I like the old name best. They do block drafts and help keep the house warmer.”
“Dave, I have a question. A poison question.”
“You haven’t been cooking again, have you, Angie?” he teased. Cooking was a skill I’d been working on, but wasn’t my strong suit. I could shoot and do surveillance and keep business accounts. I was learning to do needlepoint. But, cooking? I needed a bit more practice. Okay. A lot more practice. I didn’t mind being kidded about it. But today my skills at cooking, or lack of them, hit too close to home.
I blurted out the whole story.
“Someone left poisoned cookies for Patrick, and Skye is blaming you? That’s unbelievable.”
“But it’s also unbelievable that someone Patrick doesn’t know laced cookies with arsenic and left them at his doorstep. He looked awful, Dave. Skye was yelling at me, so I couldn’t ask any questions. But she said they’d given him an antidote. Is there an antidote to arsenic? Isn’t it one of the poisons that act fast? And are deadly?”
Dave hesitated. “There are so many variables, Angie. Depends on the amount of arsenic, and what it was mixed with, and whether it was eaten or inhaled. Antidotes exist. They have to be given quickly. I’m impressed that someone at Haven Harbor Hospital was smart enough to recognize arsenic poisoning.”
“Me too.”
“But, you know, I may be able to explain that. Do you remember Karen Mercer? Dr. Karen Mercer?”
“She treated your leg last August. As I remember, you and she got pretty friendly!”
“A little,” Dave admitted. “We’ve seen each other a couple of times since, in a nonprofessional setting. She was interested in my poison garden, and asked a lot of questions about it. If she was on duty this afternoon, she might have recognized arsenic.”
“I didn’t see her. But I didn’t look at any of the doctors. Are you going to bring her with you to Skye’s dinner party tomorrow night?
“We’re not that friendly. At least not yet.”
“Too bad. Although it doesn’t look as though I’ll be going.”
“Skye was that upset?”
“That upset. And after Sarah found me a great dress to wear!” I forced myself to joke when I was hurting.
Dave knew me well. “Skye’ll change her mind, Angie. I’m sure she will.”
“She would if I could prove who poisoned those cookies and left them for Patrick. But I have no clue. Dave, you didn’t answer my question about side effects of arsenic.”
“Arsenic either kills or it doesn’t. Since Patrick didn’t die, he’ll be fine in a day or so. He shouldn’t have any problem attending that gala his mom is giving tomorrow night, although he won’t be ready to dance up a storm.”
Without warning, the lights in my house flickered. And died.
“Speaking of storms . . . my electricity just went out.”
“Ouch. That means no heat or water?” Dave confirmed.
I listened for a moment. No furnace. “Right. I’m turning on a flashlight right now.” Gram always left a large torch on the back of the kitchen counter and one in each bathroom. I hadn’t changed her system. Few towns in Maine had the underground wires I’d appreciated in Arizona; power outages were always possible, summer or winter.
“So far my place is fine,” Dave said. “Power’s still on. Want to turn off your water so the pipes don’t freeze and come here? At noon the Channel 7 weather guy said Central Maine Power was expecting outages all over the state. Chances are you’re out for the night. Maybe longer.”
Stay with Dave? I was tempted. Trixi would love seeing her brother. But this wouldn’t be the time to explain my choice of refuge to Patrick. Assuming Patrick would even speak to me tomorrow.
“Appreciate the offer, Dave. And thanks for the reminder about the pipes. I’ll drain them right away. If it gets too cold here, I’ll go to Gram and Tom’s. The parsonage has a generator, and it’s closer than your place.”
“Okay. Good luck with that. And with finding the real cookie monster in Haven Harbor.”
“Not funny, Dave. And—Merry Christmas!”
As I turned my phone off Trixi rubbed against my ankles. She didn’t care that it was dark, but she wouldn’t like it when the house got cold. The sound of the gales had already made her restless.
As if to prove that, a loud gust blew under the front door and lifted the small rug in the hallway off the floor. I hadn’t seen that happen in
years.
Trixi jumped toward me, trying to climb up my leg. Her claws cut through my jeans. I reached down and pulled her off. She was shaking.
I held her in my arms and sat down.
I could cope with a cold and windy night, but Trixi was going to be a wreck. I pulled out my phone.
Gram answered on the first ring. “Gram, power’s out here. You and Tom okay?”
“We’re fine, and so far our power is still on. We’ll use the generator if we need to. Pack up your nightgown and toothbrush, and you and Trixi get over here. The sooner the better. Branches are already coming down. Weather Channel says wind chill could be forty or fifty below tonight, and we’ll get more than a foot of snow.”
“Thanks, Gram. I’ll drain the pipes and then be over.”
I put the phone in my pocket. Pipes, cat carrier, a couple of overnight necessities. Gram was only two blocks away.
And, deep inside, I knew tonight I needed my grandmother.
Being grown up wasn’t easy.
Plus, Gram knew everyone in town. She might have some ideas about the arsenic cookies.
I hoped so. Because I hadn’t a clue.
Chapter 43
“Mother dear weep not for me
When in this yard my grave you see
My time was short and blest was he
That called me to eternity.”
—Margaret Barnholt from Pennsylvania added this morose verse to her otherwise gay and brightly colored sampler. She pictured a man and woman, and a boy and girl, standing next to a tomb marked with two sets of initials—perhaps those of deceased siblings.
I put Trixi down. She followed close behind me as I quickly gathered overnight necessities, turned off the now-dark lights I’d turned on a half hour before, and unplugged my computer. When the power came back on there could be a surge.
How long would the electricity be off? How long would I be away? I hesitated, and added my gifts for Gram and Reverend Tom to my large duffel bag. Might as well put gifts under the rectory tree tonight. I threw clean underwear and a lipstick and my black flats into the bag. And my gift for Patrick.
