Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  Ruth didn’t say anything.

  “They’re from the West Coast. They won’t tell anyone who you are. And your books aren’t . . . mainstream. If they’re asking about your agent and movie rights, wouldn’t that be good? You might make some money out of it.”

  “First, I don’t have an agent anymore. I’ve been self-publishing. Although I suppose I could get someone to represent me if those people are serious.”

  “What did you tell Thomas?”

  “I told him I’d see him tomorrow night, at that Christmas Eve shindig Skye is throwing.”

  “Can you get an agent by then?”

  “Maybe. I still know people in the industry. But that’s not the problem, Angie.”

  “Then what is?” I liked Ruth, but she seemed to be making a big fuss over nothing.

  “Angie, have you ever heard the expression ‘write what you know’?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not into writing.”

  “Well, to put it straight—a lot of my books aren’t exactly fiction. I’ve lived most of my life in Haven Harbor, and this town and its people are what I know.”

  “You mean, you wrote about people in town?”

  “I didn’t use their real names, of course. But, yes, if you must know, a lot of my books are based on people here.”

  “But—why?”

  “Because I got bored writing sex scenes, and I had trouble coming up with new plots all the time. So I took stories I’d heard and spiced them up. Since no one knew who I was, I never thought it would make a difference. But if that Thomas person wants to film one of my books, a lot of people in Haven Harbor are going to be furious. And hurt.”

  “Then don’t sign away your rights,” I said. “I’m no lawyer, but . . .”

  “You’re right. You’re no lawyer. And because I say no doesn’t mean that man and his wife won’t take my stories, change the names and the details of what happened, and set them here in Haven Harbor.”

  “Would they really do that?”

  “My dear girl, that Thomas O’Day already told me they will. And since you were the one who got me into this pickle, you have to get me out.”

  Chapter 47

  “Death cannot make our souls afraid,

  If God be with us there,

  We may walk through the darkest shade

  And never yield to fear.”

  —Anna M. Frost of Norway, Maine, made this sampler when she was ten years old, in 1836. She married Osgood Perry, also of Norway, in 1848. They had a large farm and four children. Anna died at the age of seventy-seven; her husband lived until he was eighty-four.

  Gram had left the kitchen to give me some privacy while I was on the telephone. She hadn’t realized it was one of her friends who’d called.

  I found her in the living room, playing with Trixi. Juno was sitting on the couch, watching them. So far, no feline fireworks.

  I opened my duffel bag and put my contributions to Gram and Tom’s Christmas under their tree.

  “Thank you, Angie. Christmas morning should be fun.”

  I sat next to Juno. “That was Ruth on the phone. Patrick must have told Skye’s screenwriter friends about her books. They’re thinking about filming parts of them.”

  Gram smiled, a glint in her eye. “Which parts? That might be interesting.”

  “Not according to Ruth. She’s really worried. She says she wrote about people in town whose stories would be recognizable.”

  “Let me guess. You told Patrick about her books.”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “I’ll admit I glanced at a couple of those books years ago,” said Gram. “I don’t remember much plotting in them.”

  “Maybe she changed her style.”

  “Angel, you’re in the middle of a lot. Let’s take the issues one at a time.” Gram shook her head and rolled a red jingly plastic ball toward Trixi, who chased it into a corner. “Let’s put Ruth’s problems on the side right now. Did Pete and Ethan figure out who killed Paul Carmichael? I have a feeling that if we knew who killed him, we’d have a better idea who poisoned Patrick.”

  “I don’t think Pete and Ethan know much. At first they suspected an illegal deer hunter. But Paul was shot with a handgun, not a rifle. They searched Aurora, and questioned everyone, including me, but if they identified a killer, they’re holding it close. Those at Aurora were the only people who knew Paul Carmichael was in Maine. The only person there who had a gun was me, although I didn’t even have it with me that night. This afternoon Pete took it, to test it.”

  “So, he’ll find out it wasn’t the murder weapon. That’s good. But Skye’s guests weren’t the only ones who knew he was here,” Gram reminded me. “Patrick told all of us at your tree-trimming party, remember? And Bev may have mentioned it to someone.”

  “Carly knew, too,” I said, remembering. “She told me she’d heard on a television entertainment news show that Skye’s movie was having problems in Scotland and she was bringing several members of the cast and crew here for the holidays to get problems resolved. Anyone listening to that show would have known.”

  “That opens up a lot of suspects. Millions of them. To begin with, who’s Carly?” Gram asked.

  “Just a Mainely Needlepoint customer. She’s a Skye West fan, and a pain. But Skye’s invited her to the dinner tomorrow night.” I tried not to clench my teeth. “I may not be there, but she will.”

  “It’s certainly a puzzle,” Gram said, leaning back and staring into her Christmas tree. “It makes sense that Paul was killed by someone who knew him. I know a little about Skye, and more about Patrick. Tell me about the others at Aurora. You said the police didn’t find any guns there. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t any, somewhere.”

  “Have you been watching crime shows on television, Gram?”

  My needlepointing grandmother, wife of our town’s minister, was trying to solve a crime. This was new.

  But she was trying to help me, and that wasn’t new at all. She’d been doing that all my life.

  “A few,” she admitted. “Tom says they help him relax. Ministers listen to all sorts of problems. On television mysteries, the problems get solved. I think that’s why he likes them.”

  “Makes sense. Okay. Here’s what I know. Paul Carmichael was a handsome young actor. Had a reputation as a ladies’ man and a drinker. He got into a brawl in an Edinburgh pub a couple of weeks before Skye brought him here. Ended up in the hospital there, but no serious injuries.”

  “What about the young actress?”

  “Blaze? She looks like a Victoria’s Secret ad with clothes on. High heels, makeup. I can’t quite figure her out. She said she was heartbroken after Paul died; that they’d been secretly engaged. But later she told me their relationship was all for the entertainment press; it didn’t mean anything. Now she seems back to mourning the love of her life.”

  “So what did she have to gain if he died?”

  I shrugged. “Sympathy? Publicity? I didn’t see a ring. She’s gorgeous, but a bit of a ditz.”

  Gram was trying not to smile at my description. “You said Paul was a womanizer. He and Blaze could have had a relationship.”

  “If it was serious, she’s a better actress than she looks.”

  “Is she a flirt?”

  “Sure. She wears low-cut dresses and tight skirts, and she cuddles up to the men.”

  “Any man in particular?”

  “Thomas, the screenwriter. But he and his wife seem pretty joined at the hip.”

  “What about Patrick. Did she flirt with him?”

  I thought back. “Maybe.” I grimaced. “I should have been paying more attention.”

  “What about the screenwriting couple?”

  “They’re in their early fifties, I’d say. They seem close most of the time—even hold hands. But they argued about how the script they were working on should end, and yesterday they didn’t sit next to each other on the hay wagon tour around town. So they might have some problems. Marie
seemed more upset about Paul’s death than Thomas did. He just seemed pained that now they have to rewrite and refilm a lot of the movie.”

  “Which would be expensive.”

  “Right. That’s what Marv was worried about.”

  “Marv?”

  “Marv Mason, the director. An old friend of Skye’s, per Patrick. He doesn’t say a lot and keeps to himself. I don’t know much about him. He’s excited about making a movie here in Haven Harbor, though.”

  “And they were the only people in the house, except for Skye.”

  “And Bev Clifford. You did a big favor recommending her to them. She’s a great cook, and she’s been patient with everyone. Even when their expectations were challenging.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, Blaze seems to be a vegetarian some days and not other days. And when they first arrived, Paul asked Bev to bring his lunch to him in his room.”

  Gram smiled. “May I guess what she said to that?”

  “Right. He got his own lunch like the others, and ate downstairs. The group (except Thomas and Marie) didn’t stay together after lunch that first day. They went to their rooms to unpack and rest before Patrick was to open the bar.”

  “And where were you and Patrick while all this was happening?”

  “I was at home until a little before five, when Patrick called and asked me to come for dinner. When I got there, we went for a walk.” My neck was tight. I stretched it and tucked my feet under me on the couch. “I found Paul’s body in the back field and called nine-one-one.”

  Trixi jumped up on the couch and pushed her nose against Juno’s. Juno accepted that for a fraction of a second and then took off, heading in the direction of Gram and Reverend Tom’s bedroom. Trixi looked after her and then settled on my lap.

  Gram laughed. “So far so good. Trixi has you, and Juno has a place to hide. Doesn’t look as though we’ll have any pre-Christmas murders here.”

  At least of cats.

  Chapter 48

  “Nothing lovelier can be found in woman than to study household Good

  And Good Works in her Husband to promote.”

  —Esther Cox, about nine years old, stitched this on her sampler in 1793. Esther lived near Boston, Massachusetts, and stitched an elaborate piece with two alphabets in cross- stitch, satin stitch, stem stitch, chain stitch, French knot, and buttonhole stitch. Her flowered border started in a basket in the middle of the bottom of her work. She added a peacock (which she must have copied from a natural history book) at the top.

  Nothing more was said that evening about Paul, or Patrick, or Aurora.

  Gram’s beef stew and dumplings were delicious, the rectory shook with gusts that wouldn’t stop, and our evening was a quiet one.

  We checked with Channel 7 weather several times. The storm was heading to Down East Maine and then to Nova Scotia. Power was out in many coastal communities, but Central Maine Power was hoping to have most people back on the grid within forty-eight hours.

  Many families would have cold Christmas Eves and mornings.

  Reverend Tom and other clergy in town agreed to establish warming centers in all of Haven Harbor’s houses of worship, and activated telephone chains to let their parishioners know and ask them to check in with neighbors who might need help.

  “Some towns have established emergency networks that can tell everyone in town if there’s a problem like this. But that works best on cell phone networks, and not everyone in Haven Harbor has a cell phone,” he explained.

  Maine was one of the states where cell phones still didn’t work everywhere, so not everyone depended on them.

  “And those who don’t have cells tend to be the older people who could most benefit from a warming center,” Reverend Tom added. “I called the Portland stations so they could add the information to their weather-related scroll, and we announced opening of the warming centers on our Facebook pages and on the Haven Harbor Web site, but those who don’t have power won’t have access to the information. Word of mouth, and neighbors looking out for neighbors, works best.”

  “How many people will go to the warming centers?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably not many tonight. Mainers are tough, and a lot of people in town have woodstoves and fireplaces. They’ll bundle up and hunker down. But by tomorrow hot food and a warm room may look pretty attractive.” He put on his coat and boots. “I’m going over to unlock the church. Members of the Outreach Committee are going to meet me in the assembly room and help set up cots and chairs and get coffee brewing. We have a closetful of blankets for emergencies, but we’ll have to get everything out and organized.”

  Gram handed him a carton of food from their pantry. She included several tins of her Christmas cookies.

  “I’m here for the night,” I volunteered. “I’d be glad to help.”

  He hesitated. “We’ll be fine for now. Most of the committee’s members live in town, so they should be able to get to the church. I’ll call you and Charlotte if we need reinforcements. For now, you both should get some sleep. We’ll see how bad the situation is in the morning. Maybe we’ll be lucky and Haven Harbor will be one of the towns where power is restored by then.”

  “I hope so,” I agreed. “But know that I’d like to help.”

  “Thank you, Angie. I’ll put both of you on the backup list.”

  He pulled his watch cap over his ears and headed out into the wintry night.

  “I’d never thought about all that a minister does, other than preaching and keeping the church going, and visiting parishioners who’re sick or who can’t come to the church.”

  “He does a lot more. Tom meets regularly with other clergymen here in town and nearby. Ministers, priests, rabbis, imams . . . they’re all dealing with many of the same issues. They compare ideas and work together on projects like food banks and warming centers.” Gram watched out the front window to make sure Tom made it safely to the church. Between lights from the rectory and the church itself, she could follow his short trek to the assembly room door. “It’s still snowing like mad, and the wind hasn’t let up. We should take Tom’s advice and get some rest,” she declared.

  I nodded. I was more relaxed, but I hadn’t solved any of my problems. I’d have to deal with them tomorrow.

  Christmas Eve was going to be a lot more complicated than the elegant dinner at Aurora I’d anticipated.

  Chapter 49

  “I bid farewell to every fear

  And wipe my weeping eyes.

  Still the orphan and the stranger

  Still the widow owns thy care

  Screened by thee in every danger

  Heard by thee in every prayer.”

  —Verse included on Mary Ann Leiper’s sampler, which also included the headline: “August 11, 1824, Washington and Lafayette Welcome,” marking the country’s heroes’ visit to Philadelphia. In addition to the verse and heading, Mary Anne worked four alphabets and a floral and vine border.

  I slept deeply, despite the raging storm. I didn’t even dream, or at least I didn’t remember dreaming. Considering all that was happening, that was probably good.

  Even in a strange house, Trixi reminded me it was morning by sitting on my chest and gently, repeatedly, patting my cheek with her paw.

  I threw on the bathrobe Gram had lent me and stumbled sleepily to the kitchen, where Gram had already brewed coffee.

  I fed Trixi (and Juno, who appeared from one of her hiding places) and sat down.

  “Have you heard from Tom?” I asked.

  “He stopped home several hours ago to raid our linen closet for blankets and borrow a few board games. Then he went back to the church.”

  “He must be exhausted!”

  “He said he’d gotten some sleep on one of the cots. Only two families came in, both with young children, so the night was relatively quiet. Tom can sleep anywhere, at any time.”

  “So the board games were for the children?”

  “For the volunteers who had
trouble sleeping,” Gram said, pouring me a cup of coffee. “No problems. People were just bored.”

  “So power is still out.”

  “Around here, yes. I turned the news on earlier and they said power had been restored in Brunswick and Ellsworth and Saco. Other towns that’ve lost power are still waiting.”

  “How’s the storm?” The wind had gone down. I went to the window. It was only snowing lightly, but the gusts had left their mark. Deep drifts covered parts of Gram’s yard and the side of her barn. Grass was visible in other places.

  “Pretty much over. Plows have been rumbling by all night. Jed plowed our drive, so I’d guess he’s done yours, too.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to do today?” Gram asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’d like to know how Patrick is. And I promised Ruth I’d try to do something about the screenplay plotting at Aurora. Skye’s party is tonight, but as of yesterday afternoon I was definitely uninvited.”

  “First things first. Why don’t you talk to Patrick?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know if he’s in the hospital or at home. And Pete and Ethan took everyone’s phones the other day, including his, so I can’t call him.”

  “Call the hospital and ask if he’s a patient there. That would be a start.”

  “Would they give that information to someone who isn’t a relative?”

  “Let me try,” said Gram, picking up her phone. “Hello! And Merry Christmas! This is Reverend McCully’s wife, over at the Congregational Church. It’s good to hear your voice, too, Marian. Hope to see you at the service tonight. Six o’clock. The children have worked so hard on their pageant. Say, would you do me a favor? Tom’s working at the warming center at the church today, so he asked me to check on his parishioners who’re in the hospital. Is Patrick West still there?”