by Lea Wait
“I’ve been working with Ms. West for the past couple of weeks,” I put in. “She’s very sensible. Not the type to get hysterical, no matter what the movie magazines say. Why would she want you to think someone was trying to kill her? She’d want to avoid gossip, not encourage it.”
Pete looked sidewise at me, but backed up a little. A very little. “Ms. West, if you didn’t set this up yourself, I can understand why you’d be nervous. Scared. But if someone wants to poison you, there must be a reason. What could that be?”
Onstage and onscreen, Skye West had probably dealt with worse, but in her own backyard?
How would anyone react?
And, yes, gossip might certainly be involved. But not gossip Skye or Patrick would have started.
Pete had asked a reasonable question—the same one I had. Why would anyone want to kill Skye West?
Chapter 16
I live in a cottage and yonder it stands
And while I can work with these two honest hands
I’m as happy as those that have houses and lands.
—Sampler worked by Nancy Chadwick, age thirteen, 1811
“For right now, let’s accept the supposition that you didn’t stage anything. You didn’t poison the cup. Then . . . who did?” Pete looked from Skye to Patrick and back again. “Do either of you have any enemies? Any problems you brought with you to Maine? Some of those paparazzi types who follow celebrities around?” Pete wasn’t smiling.
“Mom must have signed a hundred autographs yesterday,” Patrick answered. “She wasn’t anything but gracious.” Patrick smiled proudly at his mother. “She’s good at her job, onstage and off.”
“No matter who poisoned the cup, it was lucky that hummingbird tasted the lemonade before you did. One sixteenth of a teaspoonful of arsenic would kill someone. Your cup contained many times that amount. And your cup was the only one tampered with,” Pete pointed out again.
Skye’s lips pursed. “And you have no idea who did that.”
“We were hoping you’d have some suggestions. Yesterday you said you’d poured the glass, but then stepped away to talk to some people and sign a few autographs. During the time between your pouring the cup and the hummingbird’s sipping from it, someone added the arsenic. We’ll need a list of everyone who was near the refreshment table during that time.”
Skye shook her head. “Sergeant Lambert, almost all of the people here yesterday were strangers to me.” She threw up her hands. “Can you help, Angie?”
“I’ll try to remember who else I saw in the area.” Pete handed me a pad of paper. “But I wasn’t there for the whole time period you’re talking about.”
“Write down everyone you can remember,” he said. “If you don’t know their names, then a description of them.”
Skye stood up. “You’re absolutely sure it was arsenic in my cup?”
“It’s not something we see every day, but it’s easy to test for. We’re certain.”
She nodded decisively. “I don’t know who wanted to poison me, but I can guess why.”
I looked up. Skye was calmly sipping from a pottery mug of coffee. She knew? And she wasn’t panicked or fearful?
“Yes?” Pete asked. “Why?”
She turned to face him. “Because I bought Aurora to find out who killed Jasmine Gardener. Any police records about her death should include the fact that her mother was convinced Jasmine was poisoned by arsenic before she fell in the fountain. I believe whoever poisoned her is still in or near Haven Harbor. Was here yesterday. And either wanted to kill me the same way, or frighten me so I’d leave town. Convince me not to investigate.” She put her mug down decisively. “But I’m not leaving.”
Pete looked as though Skye had slipped into another reality. “Pardon me, Ms. West, but Jasmine Gardener died almost forty-five years ago. I’m not an expert on the case—it was definitely before my time—but I know that although there was some local gossip about arsenic, the police ruled Miss Gardener’s death accidental. You’ve bought a house with a past. It might seem amusing to you to assume Miss Gardener was murdered, and to solve that murder. But forty-five years is a long time. The chances of anyone knowing something about her death that we don’t already have in our files seem dubious.”
“I understand you don’t believe me,” said Skye. “But the reason I held that sale yesterday was to encourage Haven Harbor residents to come here, to Aurora, to revisit what happened here in 1970, and to talk about it again. Many of them did. I asked questions, and I overheard comments. I believe Jasmine Gardener’s murderer was here at Aurora yesterday, and that he or she decided it would be safer for them if I disappeared. Luckily, as you can see, I’ve neither died nor been scared out of town.”
“But why would anyone connect you to what happened all those years ago? Excuse me, Ms. West, but you’re just an actress who bought an old house with a history. You’d never even been in Haven Harbor before a few weeks ago.”
Skye smiled, her lips tight. “There I’m afraid you’re wrong, Sergeant Lambert. I have been in Haven Harbor before. I was a guest here at Aurora the entire summer of 1970. Jasmine Gardener was my best friend. I was here the night she died.”
Chapter 17
Beauty and virtue when they do meet,
With a good education make a lady complete.
—American Colonial sampler, 1724
Patrick crossed the room to stand next to his mother. I assumed it was a show of family solidarity. What she’d just announced came as a shock to Pete, and certainly to me. Had Patrick known? I wasn’t sure.
Pete’s voice was calm, but questioning. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, or who you are, lady. But I grew up here in Haven Harbor. I never heard anything about an actress being at Aurora that summer. And although you’re right that there’ve been rumors about Jasmine Gardener’s being poisoned by arsenic, I’ve never seen proof.”
“There was proof,” Skye stated precisely. “True, the first medical examiner said Jasmine was drunk, fell into the fountain, and hit her head. But if you read his report carefully, it doesn’t say Jasmine drowned, although that was what most people in Haven Harbor believed.”
“There’s a long step between hitting your head on a marble fountain and arsenic poisoning,” Pete pointed out. He’d taken out his notebook, but hadn’t written anything down. I recognized his tone. He’d used it with me when I’d insisted on finding a motive for my mother’s killer.
Pete was putting up with someone he thought was foolish . . . or crazy.
Skye didn’t strike me, now or ever, as either foolish or crazy.
She kept talking. “Millicent Gardener, Jasmine’s mother, suspected something else was involved besides alcohol, so she had Jasmine’s body tested privately after the ME was through with it. Those tests showed her daughter had a high alcohol level, but she’d also ingested a fatal dose of arsenic shortly before she died.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because Millicent Gardener became a close friend, a patron of mine, after Jasmine’s death. She knew I’d cared about Jasmine. She sent me a copy of the two reports. But I’m not the only one she told about the arsenic. She gave a copy of her report to the Haven Harbor police. I’m certainly not blaming you, since you probably hadn’t even been born then, but the Maine medical examiner hadn’t tested for arsenic. Giving him all due credit, there was no reason for the ME to have done so. And the police didn’t believe the private report Millie Gardener had done later.”
“So you’re saying you’ve known about this for almost the whole forty-five years since Jasmine died, and you didn’t do anything about it?” Pete was taking notes, but he didn’t look convinced.
“As you said earlier, I’m an actress, Sergeant. I was in touch with Millie Gardener when she was living here. She was very alone, living by herself, believing that her daughter had been killed by someone. Most likely by someone she knew, right here in Haven Harbor. And yet no one listened to her.” Skye’s voice
was calm and convincing. “She telephoned me, and she wrote to me. She encouraged me in my career. I can assure you it was the sorrow of her life that no one believed her when she said Jasmine was poisoned. Not even her husband believed her. But I did. And I promised her that someday, when I could, I’d carry on her efforts to find Jasmine’s killer. That’s why I’m here in Haven Harbor. I’m keeping my promise to an old friend.”
“Ms. West, even if everything you’re saying is true, 1970 was a long time ago. People have moved in and out of Haven Harbor. There’s no new evidence. I’ll accept that you were Jasmine’s friend. I believe you want to do the right thing. But there’s no reason to open a case now. It isn’t even a cold case. Jasmine Gardener’s death was ruled accidental.”
“What about the arsenic you found in my cup? Was that an accident? Doesn’t that say there’s someone else in town who wants this case to stay closed?”
“I can’t explain the arsenic. It’s not something most people have around their homes or barns today.”
“It could have killed me.”
“Yes, it could have. But it didn’t. You’re the only one I’ve heard recently talking about Jasmine Gardener being poisoned by arsenic.” He leaned forward and looked at her closely. “Why should I believe anyone else put that arsenic in your cup?”
“You’re suggesting that my mother poisoned herself?” Patrick asked angrily.
“I’m pointing out that she didn’t drink from the poisoned cup. And that she and maybe you were the only people thinking about arsenic poisoning before this happened.” Pete stood his ground. “Your mother knows how to put on a darn good show. What could be a better show than staging an attempt on her own life? Maybe she thought it would draw attention to Jasmine Gardener, and even get us to open a case on her death.”
“I never,” said Skye.
“I assure you we are paying attention to you. Our crime scene unit was up most of the night testing all those cups from your refreshment table yesterday. We found nothing other than the arsenic in your cup. We’d need more evidence before we’re convinced your life was in danger.”
Skye threw back her shoulders. “I am insulted and appalled. You think I’d go to the trouble of pretending to poison myself? I’d planned to contact the local authorities as soon as I’d found new evidence in Jasmine’s death.” She walked to the door, dismissing Pete. “I can see that would waste my time and yours.”
Pete stood, visibly relieved. “Welcome to Haven Harbor, Ms. West. I hope you and your son are happy here. And should you have any genuine emergencies, I’d be happy to assist you.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be bothering you from now on. Millie Gardener warned me about how obstinate local law enforcement people were in Maine. She said that because she was from New York City they never took her seriously. I thought she’d exaggerated. I’m sorry to say she didn’t.”
I hesitated. I had to admit, Skye being the victim of the same poison she believed killed Jasmine Gardener did sound far-fetched.
But I’d seen the expression on Skye’s face when that hummingbird dropped dead on the white tablecloth. I had no idea what was in that cup, or how it had gotten there. I didn’t think Skye had poisoned her own drink.
She deserved to be taken seriously.
Pete looked at me as he left. “Angie, don’t get trapped into believing everything you hear about this place and the people who lived here. Or who live here now.” He slammed the door after himself.
Left alone, Skye sat down again. “Thank you for staying, Angie. Do you believe me?”
“I believe someone put arsenic in your cup yesterday. Maybe it had something to do with Jasmine Gardener’s death. Maybe it didn’t. But arsenic doesn’t appear in a cup by itself.”
“Thank you for giving me credit for the intelligence to know that,” said Skye.
“You said you were here at Aurora that summer,” I said. “How did you know Jasmine and the Gardeners?”
“Jasmine and I were classmates at Miss Pritchard’s School in New York City. We came from different worlds— I was a scholarship student—but we became best friends. That year Jasmine didn’t want to come to Maine for the whole summer. She didn’t want to leave her friends in New York. She begged her parents to at least let me come with her.” She smiled, remembering. “Jasmine usually managed to get what she wanted. At first, when the Gardeners said they’d love to have me as their guest, I refused. I said that no, I needed to stay and work at the deli where I’d worked weekends in the winter. To convince me to come, Millie Gardener arranged for me to get a grant from a private foundation that covered more than I would have earned that summer. I had a choice—stay in the city in a hot apartment with my mom and her current boyfriend, and whoever else happened to need a place to stay, and work long hours in a deli . . . or spend the summer hanging out with my best friend in a gorgeous house on the coast of Maine. It wasn’t a hard decision.”
I grinned. “I imagine not.”
“Jasmine and I shared her room and her clothes, and she taught me to sail and play tennis and eat lobster. For Jasmine, it was the way life was and always had been. For me, it was magical, even though Jasmine was coping with a lot of issues. She hid what she was doing and feeling from most people, but she couldn’t hide from me. I knew about her life in New York City, even if it wasn’t mine. And I could see her life in Maine. More than once, I wondered how it would all turn out. Until, of course, the night of the party. Then Jasmine’s life—her death— became a nightmare.” Skye paused. “That night her problems were solved. But not in any way she’d imagined. Or would have wanted.”
Chapter 18
Now in the morning of my days
Let me acquire deserved praise
And well improve my mind.
Soon will those happy hours be gone
And loaded years with pain come on
Unlike to those behind.
—Sampler stitched by Phebe Garretson, age nine, Springboro, Ohio, 1825 (Phebe married at age twenty-three, moved to Indiana with her husband and his parents, and was the matron at Earlham College, which all five of her children attended. She died shortly before her eighty-second birthday.)
“What was Jasmine like?” I asked.
“She was pretty and she loved dancing and singing folk songs. She always said she wanted to learn to play the guitar. She was planning to take lessons in the fall.” Skye paused. “When you’re seventeen, you think you have the rest of your life ahead of you. Years and years and years, stretching so far you can’t imagine them. Jasmine didn’t think much about her future. She used to laugh at me because I studied like crazy. I needed to keep my scholarship at Miss Pritchard’s and then get a college scholarship. Jasmine wasn’t even sure she wanted to go to college. Her grades were good enough, and her parents had the money to send her, but she didn’t look forward to four more years in school. She certainly wasn’t worried about college.” Skye paused. “She didn’t worry about much, until that last month or so. She’d never had to. She’d always had what she wanted, from clothes to friends to boyfriends. I found her fun and fascinating . . . a bit like that poor hummingbird who died yesterday. Bright and flashy and reflecting the sun, and then . . . gone.”
“And you’re convinced she was murdered.”
“I am. I suspected it at the time, but she died so suddenly, and no one else seemed to consider that possibility. She’d been drinking, and she’d been found in the fountain. People assumed she’d drowned. But her mother never believed that was the whole story. And even in the midst of the horror of her daughter’s dying, Millie Gardener was kind, so kind, to me.” Skye spoke softly. “She and her husband even paid for the two years I went to Vassar. And when I dropped out to study at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, they were still cheering me on. Millie Gardener saw every one of my movies, and Mr. Gardener attended the plays I did in New York City. I stayed in touch with Millie until a few weeks before she died. Not every day, of course, but maybe ev
ery week. She wasn’t feeling well the last few months of her life. She had serious stomach pain. I tried to convince her to see a doctor. I should have flown up here and taken her to the doctor myself. But I was on location in Singapore, and she kept saying she’d be better soon. I wanted to believe her. I think she thought of me as another daughter. She was my biggest fan.” Skye’s eyes filled for a moment. “And I was hers. She was a second mother to me.”
“Do you suspect someone in particular?” I asked. “Do you have any ideas about who might have killed Jasmine, or why?”
“Why do you ask? The police weren’t interested.” Skye’s voice hardened. “I don’t want Haven Harbor laughing at me. Or angry because they think I’ve accused someone unfairly.”
“I wasn’t even born when Jasmine died. But Gram— my grandmother—was at that party in 1970. She was celebrating her engagement. She said it was a lovely evening. Until, of course . . .”
“Until the fireworks were over, and Jed found Jasmine,” Skye finished.
“Jed?” I said. I hadn’t heard anyone refer directly to who had found Jasmine. “The same Jed Fitch who’s now a real estate agent in town?” When I was growing up, he was the guy people called when they needed a minor plumbing problem fixed, or wood split, or a shed painted. He’d changed professions since I was a teenager.
“The same Jed Fitch. He sold us Aurora. He wasn’t the way I’d pictured him.” Skye smiled a bit sadly. “Of course, after all these years, none of us look the way we did then. He’s lost most of his hair and doubled his weight. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I hadn’t known his name.”
“What was he like then? When you knew him before?” I asked.
“Then? He was the pride of Haven Harbor. Almost a cliché. Going to be captain of the football team. Lobstered with his dad, which bleached his hair whiter and kept him tan and fit.” Skye smiled. “In those days only athletes went to gyms to work out, but pulling lobster traps six months of the year certainly built muscles. And everyone wanted to be tan. No one thought about skin cancer.”
