Threads of Evidence

by Lea Wait

  “The boxes are full of embroidery yarns and floss and canvas and other materials,” said Skye. “They may still be usable, but you’d know that better than I. Her clothing, unfortunately, is not in good condition. I hoped some of it would be wearable, because I love vintage clothing. But after Jasmine’s death Mrs. Gardener must not have replenished her wardrobe often. Some of her sweaters and slippers are worn through, and the fabrics of her blouses and dresses are too fragile to be worn.”

  “Would you like me to check through them, anyway?” asked Sarah, making a note.

  “Please. But if you find anything that won’t go directly into the dumpster, put it aside and let me look at it before we decide to sell it.”

  We left Mrs. Gardener’s rooms and crossed the hall to another large room. Jasmine’s room was a time capsule of 1970.

  Peter Max posters covered the walls. WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS. LOVE. Beatles posters. (She’d circled Paul in what might once have been red lipstick.)

  Skye stared at the room. “She was only seventeen, you know. So young.”

  “‘Left in immortal Youth On that low Plain That hath nor Retrospection Nor again—Ransomed from years— Sequestered from Decay Canceled like Dawn In comprehensive Day.’”

  Sarah’s words were appropriate, but Skye looked at her questioningly.

  “Emily Dickinson,” Sarah explained, for a second time. Her frequent quoting did take getting used to.

  Skye nodded uncertainly.

  Had Jasmine been an antiwar activist? I was pretty sure U.S. soldiers were still in Vietnam in 1970. Curling posters of the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Beach Boys were thumbtacked to the wall. Like all teenagers, Jasmine must have loved music. A stack of LP records—33’s—was next to a record player with detachable speakers: Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and the Broadway cast album of Hair. Eclectic music. Unfortunately, the albums had been stored on top of each other rather than vertically. Most were bent.

  Damp stuffed animals were piled on both beds in the room.

  “Twin beds,” Sarah pointed out. “Did she have a sister?”

  “I’m told the second bed was so she could invite a friend to visit,” said Skye.

  Who had told her? But that made sense. Haven Harbor was a long way from the friends Jasmine must have had in New York. And with a house this large, it would have been easy for her to entertain friends from the city.

  Her bureau was covered with bottles of long-evaporated scents, a box of loose powder, a few lipsticks, and a hairbrush with a few pieces of long brown hair still woven through the bristles. Interesting. Today the police investigating her death might have taken that hair, as a record of DNA. But, then, she’d died in 1970; before DNA had been important. And they’d known who she was, so they weren’t concerned with identifying her body. I shuddered a bit, thinking of what this room must have meant to Jasmine’s mother, since she’d never changed it.

  Faded photographs of teenagers, maybe her New York school friends, were stuck in the mirror frame. I leaned over to look at them. Was one of the young men in the pictures her boyfriend? Had Jasmine been planning to go to college? All I knew about her was that she’d been young and she’d died.

  This room was a museum about her. A shrine. I picked up one of the lipsticks. Tangee Natural. Makeup from the past.

  “Two other bedrooms are on this floor. Guest rooms. The third-floor rooms are a total loss. They were for staff or other guests. You don’t need to worry about those. I’ll get someone to clean them out.” Skye walked to the door. “Is there anything more you need to know from me now? I should check with Patrick about the Dumpsters and the construction crew.”

  “One question,” said Sarah. “Are you planning to sell everything in the house that has any value?”

  Skye hesitated. “I’d like to see your inventory list and appraisal before I decide. A few things, like the needlepoint panels, I know I’d like to keep. After I look at the inventory, I’ll select anything else I want to keep before we fill the Dumpsters. Then I’ll have a lawn sale. Invite everyone in town to come.”

  I had to concentrate to keep my mouth from hanging open. “A lawn sale? Here?”

  “Exactly. I’ve heard the Gardeners always had a big party, complete with fireworks, at the end of the summer, on Labor Day weekend. They invited the town to come. It was a grand catered affair—a thank-you to the townspeople for hosting them during the summer.”

  Jasmine Gardener had died during the last of those parties. But what had those events to do with a lawn sale now?

  “I’ve thought about it,” said Skye. “I suspect a lot of people in town would love to see this house again. See what happened to it, and perhaps take home a souvenir of its past.”

  “People in town are going to think it’s pretty strange for you to have a lawn sale,” I said bluntly. “Most folks have a sale when they need the money. They have stuff they’ve outgrown or inherited, or they want to unclutter their houses or barns. Your having a sale wouldn’t be anything like that.”

  “It won’t be intended to be anything like that. But the prices will be low, and people will come out of curiosity, don’t you think? Curiosity about the house and about me. I’d rather have them come up with real answers to their questions than invent them.”

  “Then you’re planning to be at this sale?” Sarah asked, looking from Skye to me and then back. “In person?”

  Skye had said she was staying in a motel out of town to keep a low profile. Clearly, she was planning to change that profile in the near future.

  “I will,” said Skye. “And we’ll serve punch and cookies.” She looked at both of us. “I’d like you both to run it.”

  “Run the sale?” I said, thinking quickly through all that would entail.

  “I’ll pay you well,” said Skye. “This will be my chance to meet people in town. Not a big fancy party like the Gardeners had. Something simple. I want to open the house to people in town. I don’t want Aurora to be the subject of speculation and rumors. Anything that doesn’t sell we’ll dump.”

  “When do you want to do this?” asked Sarah, frowning a bit. I suspected she was thinking of the time it would take to do an appraisal, and then to tag things and run a sale. Time she should be at her shop. The summer season was just beginning.

  “In about a week,” said Skye. “I realize this is short notice, but I’ll pay you each fifteen thousand dollars to organize and run it.”

  Sarah and I looked at each other. Fifteen thousand dollars for one week’s work? Even if we worked around the clock, that was more than anyone I knew made in a couple of months. Or longer.

  “From what I’ve seen so far, you won’t make near that amount of money from the sale,” said Sarah. “Especially if you want everything priced cheaply.”

  “That’s not a problem. I don’t expect to make the money back,” said Skye.

  I wasn’t worried about Skye West’s money. Obviously, she had a lot of it. My budget, on the other hand, could sorely use an infusion. Car payments, warmer clothes, any work needed on Gram’s house . . . “We’d be happy to run the sale for you,” I said boldly.

  Sarah stared at me. I’d decided quickly. I’d have to help her find someone to shop-sit while we were working here.

  But she knew why I’d said “yes.” She swallowed and agreed. “We’ll need publicity about the sale, to make sure people know about it,” she added, turning a page in her notebook.

  “I have a friend who works at Channel 7 in Portland,” I volunteered, thinking of Clem Walker. “Maybe they would cover it. ‘Famous actress buys haunted house,’ and so forth.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. I want publicity centered here, in Haven Harbor. We won’t be able to keep other people from coming, but this sale is for local people. Harbor residents. Understand?”

  Sarah looked at me. “We understand.”

  “Good. I hoped so. Patrick and I will be close by to help out with whatever
you want. If you need to hire anyone to carry furniture or set up, that’s fine. That won’t come out of your salaries. You’ll need at least two large tents, with tables, in case of rain. Patrick’s already arranged for someone with a tractor to mow the lawn tomorrow. As soon as that’s finished, we can have the tents set up. And the Dumpsters should be here anytime now.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, they should already have been dropped off. I’m going to check on that. You ladies make yourselves at home.” We heard her low heels heading down the front stairs.

  Sarah and I looked at each other.

  “Having a lawn sale is weird,” Sarah said softly.

  “She was clear about what she wanted us to do. And she’s paying us well.”

  “More than well,” Sarah agreed. “That’s one of the strangest parts about it.”

  “I agree. Why go to the trouble to have a sale? To allow people in town to meet her? To buy souvenirs of Aurora?” I shook my head. “She has to have some other reason.” A reason that was worth at least thirty thousand dollars to her.

  “Whatever,” said Sarah. “We agreed to be part of it. We’d better get to work. Get close-ups of the books and pictures. And let’s not forget to check the drawers. I’ll be following you. We can do the clothing and Mrs. Gardener’s stash of needlepoint materials together.”

  Fifteen thousand dollars would pay a lot of bills. But we were going to work for it. And who knew? Maybe there were treasures left in this house. I pulled out my camera and started focusing on Jasmine’s cobwebbed dresser.

  Chapter 6

  Give me a House that never will decay

  And Garments that never will wear away—

  Give me a Friend that never will depart

  Give me a Ruler that can rule my Heart.

  —Verse on anonymous American sampler, 1792

  “I can take pictures of all the rooms, with close-ups of the larger items or those of special value,” I suggested, bending to get a picture of a marble dog used as a doorstop.

  “Okay. You start on that. I’m already thinking I’ll inventory the place, but only include values for items that aren’t junk. On those I’ll suggest a lawn sale price.”

  “Sounds as though she wants to move almost everything out of here,” I agreed. The house shook with a clash of metal. “The first Dumpster must have arrived.”

  “She’ll need more than two,” Sarah said, her tone getting serious. “We’ll see how many rooms we can cover today. Tonight I’ll work on valuations.”

  “When in doubt, throw it out,” I said. “Most of the stuff here is too damaged to be worth much. Who would buy a mildewed sofa?”

  “You’re right. But people might want the smaller items—posters, china, crystal. . . .”

  “Watch out for rotten boards,” I reminded her, sinking a few inches into the floor. “I think I just found one.” I pulled my foot out of a hole between Jasmine’s bedroom and bathroom.

  An hour later we’d only finished one wall of Mrs. Gardener’s room.

  “The more we do, the more I see we have to do. I don’t know whether to celebrate or cry,” Sarah said softly. “Inventory this whole place, with values, and then set up a lawn sale? In one week?”

  “Money,” I said, rubbing my fingers together. “She has money, and she’s used to getting what she wants. Right now she wants us to work our tails off.”

  Sarah grimaced. “And we bought in. Fifteen thousand dollars? No kidding, we bought in!”

  “If we could finish the upstairs today, that would be major. Luckily, it’s June. There’ll be enough light to see and take pictures until about eight-thirty tonight.”

  “I could starve by then,” Sarah put in, glancing at her watch. “Don’t we get a lunch break?”

  Patrick appeared in the doorway, as if on cue. “No starving allowed on my watch. Mom called down to Hogan’s Sandwich Shop and had them send up provisions. We’ve already taken ours. All this is for you ladies. I hope you don’t mind lobster and crab rolls. Mom and I love all the seafood here, but you probably get tired of eating lobster.”

  “Not really,” I said drily. Hogan’s didn’t usually deliver. Money made a difference. But as to the food . . . I’d had clams and haddock and mussels in the six weeks since I’d moved back to Maine, but hadn’t tasted lobster yet. Spring prices were higher than summer. But it definitely was time. Especially when someone else was footing the bill. “This all looks delicious. Thank you!” I reached for a bottle of water to wash down some of the dust I’d inhaled.

  “Yum!” said Sarah, taking the basket. “Potato chips, strawberries, water, and . . . is that fudge?”

  “Made locally,” said Patrick. “Guaranteed evil, with no artificial ingredients, and lots of chocolate, cream, and sugar.”

  “You’re the best,” Sarah agreed, choosing a lobster roll. “We heard the Dumpsters arriving.”

  “Yup. They’re here. We have several men coming in about an hour to start filling them with everything from the carriage house. I doubt they’ll finish that today, but if they do, we’ll have them start on the third floor here at the house.”

  “We’re still working on Mrs. Gardener’s room,” said Sarah.

  “That’s fine. We won’t disturb you. But if you need something, or want help lifting anything, just yell. Mom and I’ll be supervising over at the carriage house, but it’s not far away.”

  “Any problem if we stay until dark tonight?”

  “No problem for me. But don’t exhaust yourself the first day. After all, Mom says we have a week to get ready for the sale.”

  A week! Had Patrick any idea of how much work there was to do before then?

  “Thank you so much for the food,” Sarah said again. I was pretty sure she was batting her eyelashes.

  “Not a problem. Don’t want the help to be hungry,” he said, winking at me. Or maybe at Sarah? He headed down the long front steps again.

  Sarah looked after him. “He’s gorgeous. And he came bearing gifts.”

  “No complaints in the food department.” I put down my bottle of water and looked through the basket. “And brownies. He didn’t say there were also brownies!”

  “Yum,” said Sarah, her mouth full of lobster. “My kind of comfort food. Shellfish and chocolate.”

  All was silent as we chewed and drank.

  “I’m curious about Jasmine’s room,” Sarah said a few minutes later. “It’s spooky that Mrs. Gardener left it exactly as it was when she died.”

  “Maybe she went in there to feel closer to Jasmine,” I suggested softly. Gram and I’d done that after Mama disappeared. I’d cleaned her room out just last month, seventeen years after she’d left. Our newly immaculate guest room was still painful to look at. We kept the door closed most of the time; although Juno, Gram’s enormous yellow coon cat, had declared her intention to make Mama’s comforter her own.

  Sarah sighed. “Well, we’re here for the duration. I guess my store won’t be open for a few days.”

  “Is there anyone you could ask to sit there for you?” I said. “Someone who could at least take money and reach you on your cell?”

  Sarah started shaking her head. Then, “Ruth! I wonder if Ruth Hopkins would shop-sit for me. She knows a bit about antiques, and she stops in about once a month to see my new finds.”

  Ruth was near eighty and used a walker, but her mind was as sharp as ever. She’d been one of the first Mainely Needlepointers, but the arthritis in her hands prevented her from doing much stitching now.

  “Why not ask her?” I agreed. “It’s only a week. Maybe she’d like the chance to get out of her house and talk to people.”

  Sarah pulled out her phone. I did the same, hoping Gram would pick up. She’d expected me home for lunch.

  “Gram? I’m still at Aurora. This job is going to take a lot more time than Sarah and I thought.”

  “So you won’t be home for lunch?” Gram’s voice was as calm and caring as ever. “Anything I can do for you?”

  �
��Probably not for dinner, either.” I looked around the room again. “You go ahead on your own. I’ll tell you everything when I get home.”

  “I may drive to Camden,” Gram said. “I’ve been thinking I’d like a new dress and a pair of dressy slacks for my honeymoon. I heard a couple of stores there are having preseason sales.”

  Gram shopping in Camden boutiques? She wasn’t the penny-pinching grandmother I remembered from my childhood. We’d both changed.

  “Go have fun,” I agreed. “Treat yourself to a late lunch while you’re there.” Camden had a selection of good restaurants, as well as dress shops. Retirees with money kept the town buzzing twelve months a year. Camden was the sort of town I’d have expected someone like Skye West to move to: elegant, well populated, and a scenic harbor complete with schooners. Not quiet Haven Harbor.

  “I’ll go, then,” said Gram. “And remember everything about Aurora to tell me tonight. I haven’t been inside there in years.”

  “You’ve been inside?” I asked. She hadn’t mentioned that before.

  “At the end-of-season parties,” she said. “Everyone used to go.”

  “I’d like to hear about that,” I said. “I’m taking pictures, so I can show you what the place looks like now.”

  “I’m sure it’s not the same,” said Gram. “It used to be such a beautiful home. I’m not sure I want to see it now. But we can compare notes.”

  “Have a good shopping trip,” I said. “See you tonight.”

  “All set?” asked Sarah.

  “All set. Gram’s going honeymoon clothes shopping.”

  “Lucky her.”

  “What did Ruth say about shop-sitting?”

  “She’ll do it! I always leave a key at The Book Nook in case of an emergency. I called to tell them it was okay to give the key to Ruth. She said she’d take a book and shop-sit for the whole week if I needed her.”

  “Great! Now,” I said, looking around, “let’s take a look at Jasmine’s room. Clockwise or counterclockwise around the room?”