Threads of Evidence (6 page)

Chapter 10

 

—Sampler stitched by Mary Ann McLellan
(1803–1831), Portland, Maine, 1807
(Collection of the Portland Museum of Art)

 

 

 

Patrick opened the gate at seven o'clock on the dot, and the long line of potential customers flooded in.

“Here they come!” Sarah said, watching with amazement. “We'd better get to our posts. Skye was right. Everyone in town is coming.”

I raised my cup of coffee in her direction and headed for the furniture tent. I suspected Sarah would need reinforcement at some point. More people would be interested in small items they could take with them than would be fascinated by pieces of furniture that needed refinishing or reupholstering. Or both.

To my surprise, Patrick followed me.

“You did it!” he grinned, looking around the giant tent sheltering all the motley pieces of furniture that one week before had been inside Aurora. “And the weather's on all of our sides. Mom was worried rain would keep the crowds down.”

I looked out the end of the tent. “You're right. It's a gorgeous June day,” I said, glad I'd worn a sweater. “The sun should warm us all up in a few hours.”

The stream of people coming through the estate's gate divided. Guided by signs we'd printed by hand the night before, some people headed to the “smalls” tent, some walked toward the house itself (to get a peek at the inside), and a very few (dealers, I suspected) raced toward us.

“This tent won't be the first stop for most people unless they're looking for a specific piece of furniture. Or,”—I watched as two men turned a table upside down, shook their heads, and left it on the ground—“they're people who know old furniture and are looking for a bargain.”

“Mom and I've been impressed with how hard you and Sarah worked to get this ready so quickly. We know it wasn't easy. We'll eventually end up with a spectacular new home. You guys just get to collapse.”

With large checks in our pockets,
I thought. “Collapsing will sound pretty good by the end of today, I suspect,” I said. “Setting this all up has been an experience.”

One I wouldn't want again. But, then, if the money was equally as good, who could say?

“For all of us,” he acknowledged. “Mom's bought other places before. She has a home near L.A., a place in New York City, and for a while she had a retreat in Aspen. But she usually hires someone to direct any construction or decorating she wants. She keeps in touch by phone. Sometimes she asks me to go and check on the work. I've never seen her as involved as she is here.”

“You live with her, then? All the time?” Not to be nosy, but shouldn't a thirtysomething guy have his own place?

“It's not what you're thinking. First of all, Mom's often on location somewhere else in the world, so all our homes are empty. I can use them—however I choose, whenever I choose. In L.A. I have a studio nearby. That's where I spend most of my time, working. When I'm really involved with a project I sleep there. If I want to entertain, I invite a friend or three there, or I can be more formal at the big house. It's good to have options.” He smiled, almost shyly. “Mom and I get along pretty well. I have my own friends. I don't get involved with all the Hollywood parties and gossip. Being an artist is convenient. People tag me ‘creative' and I have a built-in excuse for not doing what I don't want to do.”

“And you'll have a studio here.”

“Exactly!” He nodded. “When we finish it, the carriage house should be perfect for what I need. It will be a place to paint and store my work, a place to sleep, a small kitchen for any cooking I feel in the mood to do. I'm a genius at pasta dinners and pancake breakfasts, and I can even turn out a mean frittata.” He looked at me and winked. “Sometime I hope you'll let me demonstrate.”

He glanced at me. . . . He did have dark eyes! And he continued talking before I thought of an appropriate response. What would Sarah think of his invitation? But maybe Patrick was just being friendly. Maybe he'd invited Sarah for frittata, too.

For more than a moment, I wished she hadn't seen him first.

“I'm tired of Southern California, and was never into the Aspen scene. But here?” He threw open his arms. “A beautiful location, quiet for most of the year, and, from what I've heard, an active art community. Before Mom bought this place, I made a scouting trip to check out galleries in Boston and Portland. I have no time this summer, with all the work that needs to be done here, but next fall I plan on visiting more of the galleries, checking out their openings, and introducing myself.”

“So you plan to spend the whole year here.”

“I do,” he answered, nodding. “Although I'll reserve judgment on the word ‘whole' until I've lived here awhile. I can see making a trip to the islands, or the Mediterranean, or even back to L.A., in January or February, if the snows get too high to see out the windows here.”

A woman came up to my table holding a gold-framed Victorian mirror. The mirror itself was damaged, but the frame was fabulously elaborate, with cupid faces peeking out from a vine pattern.

“This is marked fifteen dollars. Is that right?” she asked a little cautiously.

I checked. “Yup. It's fifteen dollars.”

“Then it's sold!” She grinned. “A new piece of mirror and it'll be perfect for my downstairs bathroom.” She rested the mirror on the ground while she dug a ten and a five out of her wallet. “This is a fantastic sale! I'll put the mirror in my van, but I'll be back! I see other possibilities, but I have to measure them. And I haven't even been in the other tent yet.”

“Great,” I said, tucking her money into the tin cookie box I was using as a cash box. “If you're interested in any larger pieces, we have people who can help get them to your vehicle.”

“At your service.” Patrick bowed toward her.

She looked him up and down and actually giggled as she picked up her mirror. “Now I'll definitely be back.”

“First sale from this tent!” I said. “Hope everyone is as pleased as she was.”

“The tent will be empty by noon,” Patrick promised optimistically. I wasn't as sure.

“So, how hard
are
the winters here?” he asked, getting back to our earlier conversation. “Seriously.”

I laughed. “Contrary to popular wisdom, it doesn't get that bad here. We're on the coast. We don't get as much snow as inland. But, sure, we get our share of cold and ice.”

“I'll be disappointed if there isn't a lot of snow,” said Patrick. “I was looking forward to a classic New England white Christmas. In fact, Mom is already planning to be here for the holidays.”

“Could be a white Christmas,” I agreed. “Certainly a better chance of it than you'd have in L.A.! I'm kind of hoping for snow then, too. I've been away a lot of winters, and December twenty-fifth never really seemed like Christmas when temperatures were over seventy degrees.”

“Where were you?” he asked.

“In Mesa, Arizona. Just outside Phoenix,” I said.

“School?”

“Briefly. Mostly, I was working.”

“As what?”

“For a private detective.” I didn't say I was used to carrying. Or that I'd only come back to Maine after my mother's body had been found.

He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting work.”

“Sometimes.”

We watched Skye greeting people at the side of the house. She was signing papers—autographs, I guessed— and posing for pictures.

“Doesn't she ever get tired of smiling?” I asked, changing the subject from my past to our present.

“She likes acting. She likes the money she earns. Being photographed and talked about is one way she pays for doing a job she loves. By now, she's used to it. Her idea was that by inviting everyone here for the sale, she could establish herself as a new member of the community.
A contributing member.
Not someone you might invite for dinner once a week, of course, but someone who's accessible.”

And she wants to learn more about Jasmine Gardener,
I told myself, thinking of my earlier conversation with Skye.

“I'm glad you had the construction crew put boards over the weak spots in the floor of the house,” I added. “Most people are heading inside before checking out what's for sale.”

“Last night we closed off the third floor,” Patrick said. “We put up a sign saying it wasn't safe and there was nothing up there. The old guy who used to be the caretaker— Ob Winslow?—is up on the second floor, making sure no one heads farther up into the house.”

“Your mother seems fascinated by Jasmine Gardener's story.”

He shrugged. “She does. It's a little spooky, but she loves stories. She's made several movies about ghosts, you know. Jed Fitch, the real estate guy, told her all about Jasmine. Not a lot of people want to buy a house where there was a mysterious death. But Mom wanted this place, despite all the work it'd take. She's been thinking about getting a place in Maine for years. Several of her friends have places along the coast . . . John Travolta, Patrick Dempsey, Stockard Channing, and probably some others I don't remember, or don't know about. I remember Tony Shalhoub praising the state, too. I think he went to the University of Southern Maine. They all said Mainers were good at maintaining the privacy of well-known people. That meant a lot to her. She'd visited here a long time ago and loved it then. That was what encouraged me to check out the art scene. I didn't have anything to do with her choosing to buy this property. However, when I heard it had a carriage house, I was sold.”

“Why do you think she's so fascinated with what happened to Jasmine?” I asked, keeping my eye on a couple checking out chairs that had been in Mrs. Gardener's bedroom.

Patrick shrugged. “All she ever said to me was that she and Jasmine were about the same age, and she didn't like to see a murder go unsolved.”

“Maybe she's been in too many crime movies, where all the answers are tied up at the end,” I suggested. “Unfortunately, life isn't like that.”

“Philosophy from the needlepoint queen,” said Patrick. “But you may be right. I think it's just a phase, in any case. How could she solve a murder forty-five years old? If it even was a murder.”

“She told me she's convinced Jasmine didn't die accidentally,” I said quietly.

“That's what she believes. I don't know why. Somehow she thinks she'll be able to solve a possible crime the police and townspeople and Jasmine's mother, all of whom tried for years, couldn't even definitely determine was a murder.” He leaned over and lowered his voice. “Truthfully, I hope she forgets the whole thing. Once, she decided to raise prize Dalmatians. That only lasted a year or so. She didn't have the time to get as involved as she wanted, so she lost interest. She ended up giving all the dogs to a shelter.” He shook his head. “This Jasmine Gardener thing is probably like that. A passing interest. As soon as she gets back to work, she'll be researching a new role and forget all about it.”

“I wish her the best. Maybe it is just a hobby. But as long as she's fixing up the house, that's fine.” I grinned. “Maybe Jasmine's ghost will appear to her and tell her what happened.”

“Who knows?” Patrick said, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder. “For the moment, though, I'd better go and see whether Mom or anyone else needs help.”

I watched him walk confidently across the grass toward where his mother was surrounded by fans and curiosity seekers.

“The price tag on that glass-topped rattan coffee table says twenty dollars. Is that right?” a young woman was asking. I had to get to work. There were no ghosts in the furniture tent. At least none I could see.

Chapter 11

 

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

 

 

 

As the day wore on, I found myself both selling furniture and answering questions. A good percentage of those coming to the sale were as curious about the dark history of Aurora as Skye West was. And those that didn't mention Jasmine Gardener's death wanted to know about Skye herself. Since I was working there, they assumed I had an inside track to all Aurora, Jasmine, and Skye-related information.

“Why did a famous actress buy this house? Why Haven Harbor?”

“Was it true Jasmine died of arsenic poisoning?” (I hadn't heard that before, but a number of Haven Harbor residents had, because several people asked me.)

“Where was the fountain where that girl died?”

“Is the house going to be torn down?”

“Is the Gardener girl's murder investigation going to be reopened?”

“Was any new evidence in Jasmine's murder found when the house was cleaned out?”

“Isn't all this talk of murder ridiculous? No one in Haven Harbor would kill anyone. Mrs. Gardener was too embarrassed to admit her darling daughter had been drunk and hit her head when she passed out.”

Several people asked which pieces of furniture had been in Jasmine's room. Unfortunately for those macabre types, Skye had decided to keep those pieces. I discouraged people looking for “the bed she died in” or “pictures of the crime scene.” I sent them to the tent where, I suspected, Sarah was being kept even busier than I was. She was selling the records Skye hadn't wanted to keep and Jasmine's faded posters.

Women were even buying damaged needlepoint pillows, partially completed canvases, and other remnants of Mrs. Gardener's handiwork. Sarah and I had gone through her needlepoint stash and removed any threads or yarns or floss we might need to use in restoring the panels. The bird pillows Skye liked were safely put away. But the rest of Mrs. Gardener's work and supplies were for sale—complete with mildew.

About noon Sarah arrived at my table. “Patrick's taking over for a while in the other tent.

He's sending someone to cover for you, too,” she said. “I'm exhausted and need a break. You?”

“Absolutely.” As soon as one of the young men who'd been helping take furniture to trucks, cars, and vans appeared with the news that I had an hour off, I closed the cash box and stretched.

“Patrick said there's lunch in the carriage house for us,” Sarah shared as we headed away from the crowds. A lot of people were still walking through the grounds; they were chatting and examining what was left of the merchandise.

“How much have you sold?” I asked her.

“I haven't had time to add it up,” said Sarah, “but I'd guess about four thousand dollars. The silver and crystal went fast. But people are even buying the rocks Mrs. Gardener used as bookends, and the shells and pieces of driftwood that decorated the house, too.” She paused. “I don't know if they're looking for souvenirs of Aurora, of the Gardeners, or just want to buy something a famous actress has owned, however briefly. It's crazy.”

“Skye was right. People aren't buying things. They're buying memories. And souvenirs. I saw people carrying out the needlepoint we decided wasn't worth restoring.”

“A lot of people asked about Millicent Gardener's embroideries. They've pawed over even the ratty, mildewed pieces. Pillow covers, wall hangings, chair cushions, even pieces only partially finished. They've all disappeared. Local folks knew Mrs. Gardener did a lot of needlepoint. They see her work as a fitting souvenir of Aurora. Perhaps some of them will end up coming to us to help restore them. ‘Don't put up my Thread and Needle—I'll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle—Better Stitches—so.'”

“Emily?”

“It's the first part of a poem she wrote about a dying woman who wished she could sew again.”

I shook my head. “Amazing, although you're right. Selling all this old needlepoint could mean more business for us down the line. I've even sold those awful animal heads.”

“Those moth-eaten monstrosities?” asked Sarah.

“A man from Waterville bought the moose, and Elsa Fitch, who owns the beauty parlor, bought the others.”

“Why? I mean, why would she want them?”

“I have no clue. But she seemed excited.”

“No wonder it's hard to buy antiques that will sell,” Sarah added. “You never know what idiotic thing people will buy.”

“Are you getting lots of questions about Jasmine's death?”

“Almost as many as about Skye West's next film, and whether or not she's had face-lifts.”

“Only a few more hours to go,” I declared. “I can hardly wait. What a week this has been! Almost everyone connected to Haven Harbor has been here today.”

“I saw your grandmother,” Sarah agreed. “She and Reverend Tom bought a set of embroidered pillowcases. Maybe for her trousseau. All the Mainely Needlepointers have been here except Ruth, who's down at my store. Dave Percy bought one of the incomplete pillow covers—one with herbs on it.”

“Sounds like Dave,” I agreed. “If anyone can finish the pillow, he can. And it'll go with his garden.”

“And, of course, the whole Winslow family was here— Ob worked in the house, Josh was helping you with the furniture, and Anna bought two crystal tumblers.”

“I saw Pete Lambert a few times. He and another cop are helping direct traffic.”

“Oh . . . and Elsa Fitch, who bought the heads? She looked through all the needlepoint and then asked if we had any of the local scenes Millie Gardener stitched. She must have heard about the panels. Her brother, Jed, and his wife were here, too. He's the real estate agent who sold the place, right?”

“That's right. Maybe he mentioned the panels to her.”

“Maybe.”

“Elsa's sister, Beth, bought four small wooden chairs for her kitchen. She's planning to paint them in bright enamel colors.”

Sarah frowned. “I haven't lived in town as long as you have. Is Beth Fitch the one who teaches second grade?”

“She was my second-grade teacher,” I admitted.

“Then I do know her. She's come into my shop a few times looking for nineteenth-century schoolbooks or merit cards, or other educational collectibles.” She paused. “Patrick's invited us to stay after the sale closes at four o'clock. He mentioned champagne and tasty goodies, to thank everyone who's helped out today.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a hot bath at that point,” I admitted. “But for champagne? I could stay a little longer.”

“Patrick's been wonderful, hasn't he?” Sarah asked quietly as she and I picked out sandwiches (roast beef or chicken or vegetarian) from the coolers in the carriage house. I added a bag of barbecued chips to my plate and a few carrot sticks.

“I've had at least one cup of coffee every hour since dawn,” I said, choosing a bottle of soda. “I don't need any more of that. But I still need caffeine to get through the next few hours.”

“Sounds good,” Sarah agreed, following my lead. “I can't believe we won't be back here tomorrow again. They've hired boys from the high school to dump everything that's left.”

“I could sure use a late morning, and a quiet day,” I said. “And I suspect you have accounts to do at your store.”

“You're right. Ruth just makes out the sales slips. I'll have to do the final accounting.” Sarah took a bite of her sandwich. “I'll miss seeing Patrick every day. Do you think it would be too forward to ask him to dinner?”

“I'd wait a few days. He's got to be as exhausted as we are.”

“Right. And we're not really finished with Aurora, are we? We still have to talk with Skye about the needlepoint panels.”

“You know, someone else asked me about them today. I can't remember who it was. But it wasn't Elsa Fitch. They said they'd heard Mrs. Gardener had done a series of pictures of the town as it was in 1970.”

Sarah added potato chips to her sandwich. “Sounds like the ones hanging in the dining room, all right,” she said. “But they're not for sale, so it doesn't matter.”

“No. What matters are the checks for fifteen thousand dollars we'll be pocketing,” I added. “And whatever it will cost to restore those ten pictures. I've had no time to talk with Gram about them, but I'd like to get them farmed out to the needlepointers tomorrow or the next day. Gram's wedding is two weeks from today. She and I have a lot to do between now and then.”

“Is she getting excited?” asked Sarah. “I'd sure be excited if it were my wedding. I don't think I'd be able to sleep the two weeks before! June has certainly turned out to be a lot more interesting than we'd thought.”

“And lucrative,” I agreed. I'd never made fifteen thousand dollars carrying a handgun and a camera around Mesa, Arizona. There were a lot of different ways to make a living. But it helped to work for someone who didn't mind writing large checks.