Threads of Evidence

by Lea Wait

  “You’re off base there,” said Pete. “No one in the police department would have talked.” He looked at me. “And isn’t it time for you to tell me who this serial killer and arsonist is?”

  “Elsa Fitch.”

  “What? That old woman who runs Mane Waves?” Pete laughed out loud. “Angie, I can’t think of a more unlikely murder suspect. Elsa Fitch would scream if she saw a mouse.”

  “I’m not so sure. She deals with women all day long. She’s got to know all the gossip in town. My impression has been that the police didn’t take Mrs. Gardener and her fixation on her daughter’s death seriously. Maybe they even joked about it sometimes. I don’t know. If the suspect found that out . . . but that’s not critical now. What’s critical is identifying who tried to poison Skye and who set the fire two nights ago.”

  Pete looked incredulous. “Elsa Fitch’s feet probably hurt from standing all the time. That’s her only problem I can think of. And that doesn’t make her a murderer.”

  “Please! Listen to my plan. If it doesn’t work, you’ve only lost one night. If it does work, you’ll have solved at least two cases.”

  “This plan of yours better be wicked smart, Angie. ’Cause right now, nothing you’re saying makes any sense to me.”

  “I have a friend at Channel 7 in Portland. She’s already talked with her boss, and they’ve agreed to help out, on the condition we give them credit if our plan works.”

  “‘Our plan’?” said Pete. “I haven’t heard the beginning of a plan yet. All I’ve heard is a crazy story.”

  “You’ll issue a press release to the Haven Harbor News and Channel 7, saying you’re close to an arrest for arson at Skye West’s carriage house. Say that on the night of the fire an older man who lives across the street from Aurora saw someone entering the carriage house carrying something, and then running out. This man can identify the person and their vehicle. Of course, everyone in town will know the only person who matches that description is Ob Winslow.”

  “You already got this Clem person to agree to broadcast this?”

  “She says the station will broadcast anything about Skye West. She promises it’ll be on the air when I tell her the plan is a go.”

  “And what about Ob Winslow? Is he in on this, too?”

  “He’s agreed. On the condition that his son and wife not be home tonight, and that you and I and Ethan Trask, whom he’s known for years, be with him at his house.”

  “You’re assuming that whoever is guilty will try to get to Ob,” said Pete.

  “And silence him,” I agreed. “One way or another.”

  “We’d have to get the state fire folks on board,” said Pete, getting up and pacing the four or five feet across his small office. “And I don’t feel comfortable with your being there.”

  “Ob insisted. It was my idea, and he wants me there.”

  Pete stopped pacing. “Angie, this is basically a crazy idea.”

  I nodded.

  “But it just might work.”

  “If it doesn’t, all that’s happened is you’ve lost a night’s sleep. And you might catch a killer and arsonist.”

  “I’ll call Ethan. Six o’clock at Ob’s house sound okay?”

  I stood and smiled. “I’ll bring sandwiches. It may be a long night.”

  Chapter 53

  Fresh in the morn the summer rose

  Hangs withering ere tis noon

  We scarce enjoy the balmy gift

  But mourn the pleasure gone.

  —Stitched by Lucy Perkins, Liverpool, Nova Scotia, 1792

  June nights are the longest. Certainly this one was.

  The bag of sandwiches was almost empty; we’d finished one pot of coffee and were working on a second. Half-empty bowls of potato chips and popcorn seemed to have sprouted from every table at Ob’s house.

  After sympathetically making an enormous batch of chocolate chip cookies for us, Anna had taken Josh, under protest, to her sister’s house for the night. Ob was calmer than the rest of us. When he hadn’t been eating, he’d been playing video games.

  Luckily, his barn was big enough to hide two police vehicles and my little car. Ob had closed the barn doors, as he did each night. An observer would think all was as usual.

  Pete and Ethan, who’d reluctantly decided to join us, were dropping crumbs as they took turns watching out both the front window and the back. The front gave them a view of the road, including Aurora, and Ob’s driveway. In back were acres of woodlands that would be challenging to cross, especially at night—especially for someone old enough to have been at a party in 1970.

  I sat on the couch, watching the local news (Channel 7 did announce the impending arrest) and then CNN, hoping neither Pete nor Ethan would notice the gun I was wearing under my loose sweater.

  You had to be a Maine resident for six months to qualify for a hidden-carry permit. I’d only been home two months. But my boss at the detective agency in Arizona had insisted I learn to shoot, and I felt comfortable carrying. I’d only pull my weapon in an emergency, but tonight it made me feel safer.

  A murderer might show up at any moment.

  Could Elsa Fitch shoot? Many women in Maine could. Or would she arrive bearing arsenic-laced libations or a can of gasoline? The women varied her methodology. I gave her credit for that.

  I nibbled another handful of popcorn. In addition to my tuna sandwich, I’d already had three cups of coffee and several cookies. It was only a little after nine o’clock. The combination of caffeine and sugar kept my nerves on edge.

  Ob left his computer and sat next to me. “Anything good happening in the world?”

  “Middle East chaos, Internet fraud, political maneuvering, and a few murders.”

  “Same as usual.”

  “Yup.” I took another handful of popcorn.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” he asked. “I start heading for bed about this time of night. Elsa’s a few years older than me. She’s no spring chicken. I’d think she’d want to make her approach early in the evening.”

  “You signed up for the duration, Ob, same as us,” said Ethan Trask. “If it’s you she’s after, you’d better be here. And awake.”

  “Bait. That’s all I am. Bait!” Ob smiled and leaned back, clearly enjoying his role. “Most exciting thing that’s happened to me in years. But you know what happens to bait that sits around for a while.”

  “It stinks,” agreed Ethan. “This idea of Angie’s is crazy, but we’re all in it now.”

  “Hey, you guys agreed,” I pointed out. “And think of the cases you’ll solve if she does show up.”

  “Brandishing her shears and curling irons, no doubt,” chortled Pete.

  “Or she’ll shampoo Ob to death,” added Ethan with a grin.

  “If you’d told me that was a possibility, I might not have agreed to all this,” said Ob. “And no hair spray, either. Hate that stuff,” he added, turning to me. “How do you women cope with all that?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Stabbing us all with her scissors is the simplest idea,” Pete continued. “With all the cookies we’ve eaten, we’d burst like balloons.”

  “Right. If we don’t get blown apart in the meantime,” said Pete. They’d already checked the house for any explosives or incendiary materials. Country houses are full of possible fuels, and, after all, we were waiting for someone who hadn’t hesitated to set the carriage house on fire when Skye West was inside.

  “Should be dark by nine-thirty or so,” Ethan said. “It’s going to be a long night. We’ve committed to this foolishness. Now we have to wait until the sun comes up, to be sure.”

  We sat. Once in a while someone would take a bathroom break, or comment on a news story. At eleven o’clock, Ethan said, “Angie, I can’t take hearing about UN peacekeepers for the umpteenth time. I like the idea of the TV being on. If anyone gets near enough to the house to hear, it’ll explain the voices they hear. But couldn’t you turn on Law and Order or so
mething? CNN is depressing.”

  I nodded and switched channels. Reality TV. People being dunked in cold water. Cooking shows. A nature program about weasels. I left that on for a few minutes. Maine fisher cats were in the weasel family. They were active at night.

  “Mean critters,” muttered Pete, taking a break from his turn at the window. “Killed a couple of cats in my neighborhood last summer, until someone got their rifle out.”

  “Is that legal?” I asked. “Shooting in your neighborhood?” I didn’t know where Pete lived; but unless you lived way out in the country, shooting was legally frowned upon.

  “It was on their own property. Didn’t hear no one complaining about the cat killer being eliminated.”

  I shivered. One of the reasons Gram’s Juno was an indoor cat was the number of fishers who ventured into town.

  Pete poured himself the last of the coffee. “Hey, Angie, why don’t you make us some more coffee?”

  “Make it yourself,” I said. “I’ve had enough to keep me awake for the next week.”

  “A little touchy?” Pete reached for the coffee beans. The sound of grinding covered any noise from the television or from outside.

  “Sh, can’t you?” asked Ethan. “We’re supposed to be on a stakeout, not at a dinner party.”

  Pete raised his eyebrows and poured the ground beans into the coffeepot.

  I’d been on a lot of stakeouts—most of them by myself. But on most of those assignments, the only danger involved had been falling asleep, or missing a sighting of my target. My target to photograph.

  Murder and arson were a little beyond my experience level.

  And it would be embarrassing if my guess had been wrong. Nothing had happened so far.

  I touched my angel, just in case.

  My waistband holster was hitting me in an awkward place. “My turn for a bathroom break,” I said, getting up and heading in the direction of the facilities. We were all pretty familiar with that room by now, and I could make a few wardrobe adjustments while attending to other business.

  I reached to turn on the light. Then I stopped.

  Was that a movement in the shadows outside? The glimmer of a light flickering? It appeared as if someone holding a flashlight was moving between the trees.

  I went to the window.

  Definitely a moving light. And it was too early in the season for fireflies.

  “Ethan! Pete!” I called softly. Pete came immediately. “Someone is outside with a flashlight.”

  He nodded and gestured that I should stay in the hall. My bladder hoped either I’d been wrong, or that whatever was happening would be over quickly.

  “Get Ethan,” he whispered. He’d drawn his gun. I left mine where it was. For now, at least, I didn’t need it.

  I went back to the living room. “I saw a flashlight moving out back. Pete’s watching it.”

  Ethan gestured that I should get down, below window level. Ob had dozed off on the couch.

  If someone was able to get to the window . . . or had binoculars . . . or a rifle sight, she would be able to see him.

  I hadn’t considered all those possibilities. What if Elsa was a crack shot? What if she had a long lens on her rifle? It would be a long shot, literally, but she could fire through the window.

  For now, she was out back. How had she gotten here? What was she thinking, seeing the lights on at this time of night? Most Mainers, like Ob, retired by eleven o’clock.

  Pete came back into the living room, with his gun still in his hand. “She’s gone in back of the ell. Maybe she’ll come around the barn, toward the side of the house.”

  The barnyard door, the door most people used, was on the side of the house by the ell.

  “Should we wake Ob?” I asked. If something happened, we’d have to stop to rouse him.

  “Do that,” said Ethan, joining us. He’d drawn his weapon, too. “Quietly. And you, Angie, stay down. You don’t want to be another target.”

  He stood on the far side of the door they suspected the intruder might try to enter. Pete went into the nearby hall, out of sight of anyone entering through that door.

  “Ob,” I said quietly. I sat on the floor and reached up to touch Ob’s arm gently. “Ob, wake up. Someone’s outside.”

  His eyes opened. He understood immediately.

  “Stay on the couch,” Ethan whispered. “Ob, don’t move. Don’t get up unless we tell you.”

  An infomercial for a backyard trampoline was blaring on the television.

  Just what we needed.

  Ob nodded.

  That’s when we heard a knock on the door. No one moved.

  What was the protocol?

  Whoever was out there was looking for Ob. If Ob answered the door, he might be shot. Or stabbed, even with those hairdresser shears the guys had been joking about earlier.

  No one was joking now.

  Whoever was out there expected Ob, or perhaps Anna, or even Josh, to answer the door.

  They wouldn’t expect me.

  I got up and walked to the door.

  “Angie! No!” Ethan tried to grab my arm as I passed him. But I was too fast. If anyone was going to be hurt tonight, it should be me.

  Someone had to open that door.

  I’d gotten us all into this situation.

  I braced myself, put my right hand on my weapon, and quickly opened the door with my left.

  Standing in the doorway was my second-grade teacher.

  Chapter 54

  Fisher Fur: The Fisher is of the genus Weasel and is a native of America, whence upwards of 11,000 of their skins are annually imported to this country. They are larger than those of the sable, and the fur is deeper and fuller, and very beautiful. The tail is long, round, and gradually tapering to a point, and is employed for hats, as well as to form a decoration in the national cap worn by the Polish Jews. One skin of the fisher will suffice to make a muff, for which three Marten skins would be required.

  —The Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopaedia of Artistic, Plain, and Fancy Needlework, London, 1882

  “Miss Fitch!”

  She looked almost as surprised as I was.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see Ob,” she answered. “I know it’s late. But it’s important.”

  I looked to see if she had a weapon of any sort. I didn’t see anything. To my side, but hidden, Ethan gestured that I should let her in. “Ob’s here. He’s watching television.” The infomercial had changed, but the announcer’s voice was droning on. “Come in.” I stepped aside.

  Ethan and Pete had somehow disappeared. Probably they were in the kitchen, the room on the other side of the doorway. They hadn’t gone far. Why was Miss Fitch here? Where was her sister Elsa?

  She walked ahead of me. Ob stood up. Then he turned and clicked off the television. Without that noise, the house was ominously silent.

  “Hello, Beth. I didn’t expect more company tonight. Angie and I were just talking business. She’s the director of Mainely Needlepoint now. I work with them.”

  She nodded. “I know it’s late. But after I heard the news report, I had to talk to you.”

  “Ah, the news,” said Ob. “The broadcast that said I’d seen the person who set the fire over at Aurora. That I was going to tell the police what I knew. I’m not surprised you’re here.”

  “That’s right,” said Miss Fitch. She looked over at me. “If you’ve finished your business with Angie, she could leave.”

  “Oh, no. We haven’t finished,” said Ob. “We still have a lot to discuss . . . about needlepoint. Lots of projects coming up.”

  “I’d rather not have anyone else hear what I have to say.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Ob. “You can talk to both of us.”

  And to the two hidden cops, I thought.

  Miss Fitch looked uncomfortable. She glanced at me several times. Then she looked at Ob and blurted, “You didn’t tell the police right away because you figure
d I’d come crawling and beg you not to, right?”

  Ob had done well so far. How far could he carry this and still sound believable?

  “Is that what you think?” he asked.

  “You expected me to come tonight. What do you want? Because I’m just a teacher . . . I don’t have much money.”

  “Why did you do it, Beth? Arson’s a felony. And you might have killed someone. Burned them to death, Beth.”

  “You think I didn’t know that? That’s what I wanted. I wanted Skye West to die. To disappear. Not to be here in Haven Harbor messing up all of our lives.”

  “Is that what she’s doing?”

  “Come on now, Ob. You know it. She’s been opening sores that healed long ago. You were there—you know what happened.”

  Ob leaned back on the couch, away from Miss Fitch. I hoped he knew what she was talking about. I didn’t.

  “Don’t deny it. You were a little boy. But if someone figures out what happened back then, you’re liable, too.”

  “What could I be liable for?” he asked, his voice rising.

  Miss Fitch glanced at me. “Angie shouldn’t be here. This should be between you and me, Ob. No one else has to know. Only three of us are left who remember.”

  “I want her to stay.”

  She shrugged. “All right, then. How do you think your family will feel? Your friends? What will you tell them?”

  Ob looked confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Beth. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You actually believe that? When you’re the one who handed Jasmine that glass of wine laced with arsenic, the one that killed her?”

  Ob’s body froze. “Me?”

  “You. No one else.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Elsa told me, of course. She said she’d given you the glass for Jasmine. That way she’d have no connection with Jasmine’s death.”

  I remembered. Ob told me Elsa Fitch had given him a glass of wine to take to Jasmine that night.