Thread the Halls

Book 6: Mainely Needlepoint Mystery

by Lea Wait

Genres: Female Sleuths; General Fiction; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

This Yuletide season, there's no time for Angie Curtis and Patrick West to linger under the mistletoe. Patrick's being needled by his mother—movie star Skye West—to set the stage for a perfect white Christmas as she brings her costar, screenwriters, and director home for the holidays. With his mother's long list of wishes, Patrick's becoming unraveled. To help, the Mainely Needlepointers offer to decorate Skye's Victorian mansion and create needlepoint pillows as gifts for the guests.

But not long after the celebrity celebrants invade Haven Harbor, an unscripted tragedy occurs. Then some questionable Christmas cookies make Patrick sick. Before Santa arrives at the town pier on a lobster boat, Angie and the Needlepointers need to trim down the naughty list, catch a cold-hearted killer, and wrap up the case . . .

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

After ten years of not celebrating December 25 other than by listening to carols on my car radio during surveillance gigs, I was determined this Christmas would be perfect. It wouldn’t be magical, like it was when I was a child. But I needed it to come close.

When I was young, Christmas had always made up for the other 364 days of the year that, despite Gram’s efforts, had been memorable in other ways.

“Gram, where’s my star?” I called to her. “It has to go on the tree first.”

“It’s in a gold box, Angel,” she answered from the dining room, where she and Reverend Tom (I still had trouble calling her new husband “Tom,” no matter how often he told me to drop the Reverend) were adding to the bowl of eggnog.

Gram was the only one who called me “Angel.” I liked the old nickname.

“It’s probably in the same carton as the lights,” she added.

Boxes of red and blue and gold Christmas balls were stacked near the fireplace, next to ornaments I’d made in elementary school, and a few needlepointed ones I’d added to the collection this year.

This tree was my first as a grown-up, on my own. I hadn’t bothered to have a tree in my Arizona apartment. Life there had been temporary. Last Christmas had meant white lights twinkling on saguaro cactuses and dinner with my boss in a Mexican food diner.

As usual, Gram was right. The gold box was under a string of colored lights.

I opened it carefully, hoping my star would be the way I remembered it.

I’d made the large, lopsided ornament in kindergarten, covering coat hanger wire with aluminum foil. I’d proudly brought it home and given it to Mama. Her perfume had mixed with the scent of pine as she lifted me up so I could put my star on the very top of our tree.

Sometimes I imagined the star still held a trace of her fragrance.

When I was a teenager I’d talked about replacing my star with something more elegant. But, secretly, I loved it and the years it represented: Christmases with Mama.

I stared into the box. In the past ten years the star’s silver foil had crackled, and pieces had fallen off.

Gram saw me looking at it. “Nothing lasts forever, Angel. Maybe you can cover it with fresh foil.”

She didn’t understand. “I want it the way it was,” I said.

I’m twenty-eight. I knew I was being silly. But I wanted this Christmas to be the same as the Christmases I remembered as a child. After all, Christmas meant tradition. Even if not every Christmas was traditional.

I climbed the paint-spattered stepladder and wound the now-rusted wire around the base of my star and the top of the tree.

Curtis family traditions in Haven Harbor, Maine, meant Santas on the mantel, a tree that touched the ceiling, and wreaths on every door and window.

I secretly believed one of my Victorian ancestors had added our bay window to frame their Christmas tree. Yesterday, Patrick, the new man in my life, and I had donned our blaze orange (hunting season was over and his land was posted, but you never knew), cut my tree in his woods, and then stood it in the Christmas tree stand Mama and Gram had used before me.

Sharing the holiday with a special man was one change I welcomed.

Other changes were harder to accept. I remembered the excitement and anticipation of early Christmas mornings in a flannel nightgown, nibbling ribbon candy before breakfast while Gram made blueberry pancakes in the kitchen. Now Gram was married and living down the street in the rectory with Reverend Tom. They’d invited me to spend Christmas morning with them, but they were finding new ways to celebrate together.

Most of their plans didn’t involve me. They were part of his ministerial duties and were shared with the rest of his church family.

Gram was taking their first Christmas as a married couple in stride.

I wasn’t.

But I was trying. Today I’d invited my friends from Gram’s (now my) Mainely Needlepoint business to a tree-trimming party. I hoped new traditions would keep me from missing old ones.

When I was seventeen, hating Maine and all it stood for, and hating Mama for disappearing when I was ten, leaving me to deal with rumors and pity, I never could have imagined someday my life would be like this. After ten years of working for a private investigator in Phoenix, learning to handle a gun and “follow and photo,” I’d come home.

Mama’s body had been found, and I’d found her killer. I’d finally answered the questions I’d lived with for seventeen years.

Tonight I was surrounded by friends: Patrick West, the guy who wasn’t perfect, but who made me smile; Sarah Byrne, who’d moved to Maine from Australia, had a rocky few months recently, but had become my closest friend; Dave Percy, who taught high school biology and whose poison garden intrigued me; Captain Ob and his wife, Anna, who’d had a difficult summer, but were now ready to ring in a new year; Ruth Hopkins, who did needlepoint when her arthritis allowed, and wrote books when it didn’t; Katie Titi-comb and Dr. Gus, parents of one of my high school friends; Clem Walker, a high school friend who lived in Portland and worked for Channel 7, but was now home for the holidays with her family; and, of course, Gram and Reverend Tom.

And Trixi. As the tree began to shake I realized I’d been lost in the past and hadn’t seen her for a few minutes.

I reached through the wide branches and caught her, one small black kitten, on her way to the top. She jumped from my arms and skittered to her favorite hiding spot behind the couch.

As I climbed down from the ladder Patrick’s arm went around me. “Penny for your thoughts? You look as though you left us for a while.”

“I’m here,” I said, smiling into his eyes. “Very happy to be right here right now.” I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. Who needed a kissing ball or mistletoe when I had Patrick?

He looked around the room, took a deep breath, and announced, “This is as good a time as any for me to invite all of you to Aurora for a dinner party Christmas Eve.”

Aurora was Patrick’s mother’s estate. She was an actress, making a movie in Scotland.

“Skye will be back for Christmas?” I asked.

“She thought she’d have to work through Christmas, but they’ve had weather delays and script problems. Last night she called to tell me they’d decided to close the set for the holidays. She’s coming here with some of the others working on the film.”

“Really?” Clem asked. “Anyone famous?”

Clem was the only one of us who’d never met Patrick’s mother, who’d bought Aurora as a retreat, far from the pressures of Hollywood. We’d all made it an unwritten rule that Skye should have the privacy she valued.

Patrick looked at Clem. He’d remembered my old friend was also a part of the media. By issuing a general invitation to his mother’s party, he’d included her. “Paul Carmichael is coming, and an actress I don’t know, Blaze Buchanan. And Thomas and Marie O’Day, the screenwriters, will be here re-working the end of the script with Marv Mason, who’s directing.”

“Wow!” Clem breathed. “I’m a real Paul Carmichael fan. He’s gorgeous. And Marv Mason’s won two Oscars!”

“Sounds like a working holiday,” Ruth Hopkins pointed out.

“Exactly. Mom said besides the script, they’ve had personnel problems on the set they hope to work out while they’re here. She sounded distracted. And here’s my challenge. She wants me to decorate the house in what she termed ‘traditional Maine Christmas fashion,’ so all is ‘as she dreamed’ when she arrives.” Patrick smiled, but looked tense. “Her plane gets in December twentieth.”

“She wants you to decorate the whole house in two days?” I gasped. Skye’s home was enormous.

Reverend Tom shook his head. “Sounds as though she’s been watching old Christmas movies. This is Haven Harbor. Not a movie set.”

“Exactly,” Patrick agreed glumly. “She even rattled off a list of what she wants—garlands everywhere and an enormous tree, of course. And that’s just the beginning. She wants a horse-drawn sleigh and carolers. And an elegant buffet dinner Christmas Eve, including lobster.”

Silence. A horse-drawn sleigh? Did Patrick’s mother think Maine was still in the nineteenth century?

Captain Ob Winslow was the first to speak. “I’ll help with the tree, Patrick. What are neighbors for? But Anna and I’ve planned a quiet Christmas this year, just the two of us. I’m afraid we’ll have to pass on the invite to your fancy party.”

“Gus and I’ll be heading to Blue Hill for Christmas with the grandkids,” said Katie. “We won’t be in town Christmas Eve.”

“I’d be happy to come,” Sarah said quickly. “And you’ll be here then, right, Dave?”

“I’d planned to spend the holidays in Boston. But, sure. I can come Christmas Eve.” Dave looked cornered.

“I’ll come,” said Ruth, quietly.

“I’ll be there for sure,” Clem put in.

Patrick glanced at her and then me, and shrugged.

“I’ll help decorate,” I put in. Like Ob and Anna, I’d looked forward to a quiet Christmas day, mine with Gram and Tom. And Patrick, of course. But I could manage Christmas Eve. I’d miss the children’s pageant at the church, but I could do that. I glanced at Patrick’s hands. Last June they’d been badly burned in an accident. The delicate task of hanging ornaments would be hard for him.

“I’ll bet I can find some sophomores from my bio class who could use extra spending money over the holidays. School’s out already. You get the tree and ornaments, and I’ll find decorators,” Dave suggested.

“I’d really appreciate that,” Patrick said with relief, squeezing my hand. “Thank you, Dave.” He looked around the room. “I have to warn all of you. I know most of Mom’s friends in the movie business. I’m afraid there may be more drama at Aurora this Christmas than Haven Harbor’s used to.”

“As long as any dramas stay at Aurora,” said Reverend Tom quietly. “Here in town we’re pretty set in our ways of celebrating. After all, Christmas is a religious holiday. A time for families to be together. Not a spectacle.”

“I understand.” Patrick nodded. “I do.”

His hand tightened on mine.

He might understand. But did his mom and her Hollywood friends? My dream of a quiet, perfect, Maine Christmas was fading fast.

But Skye seemed to picture Haven Harbor as a Currier and Ives scene. And nothing bad ever happened in a Currier and Ives print. Right?

“I have a children’s pageant and a candlelight service scheduled for Christmas Eve,” said Reverend Tom. “But I could probably get some of the choir members to go to Aurora and sing a few carols between the services.” He looked at Patrick. “We’ve been needing some new choir robes.”

I liked Reverend Tom. He treated Gram with love and kindness. It might sound crass to take advantage of the Wests’ wealth, but it was practical. And he’d be asking the choir to interrupt their Christmas Eve to sing for a group of people from away.

Patrick didn’t blink. He got the message. “Mom would be happy to make a donation to the church,” he assured Tom. He and Skye were used to paying for what they wanted. And getting it.

Carolers were taken care of. “What else can we help with?” I put in, before anyone else found a reason they couldn’t come to Skye’s party.

Patrick looked embarrassed. Then he hit us with another of his mother’s requests. “I hope some of you have a little time between now and Christmas. Mom would like to give each of her colleagues—all five of them—small balsam fir pillows embroidered with a Christmas tree and their names.”

No one said anything. We Mainely Needlepointers looked at one another. Skye and Patrick had no idea how long needlepointing took.

Anna was the first to speak. “I’m the newest needlepointer, but if they’re small, I’ll try to do one. Time is tight this time of year.”

“Small is fine,” Patrick assured her.

Sarah shrugged. “Count me in. I’ll be at my shop hoping for Christmas shoppers between now and Christmas. What about you, Dave?”

“Sure,” he said, reluctantly. “School’s already out for the holiday, so I don’t have lesson plans or papers to grade.”

Ruth shook her head. “My arthritis is acting up. I couldn’t finish one in—what is it? Six days?”

“And I’m booked with church activities. Sorry,” said Gram.

I swallowed. “I’ll do my best.” I had other plans for the next week. Needlepoint was new to me, too, and I’d already volunteered to give up at least one day to help Patrick decorate. Plus, I had a little more to do on the pillow I was stitching for him as a Christmas surprise. The threads matched the vibrant colors and design of the painting hanging in his living room that he’d completed before he’d burned his hands. I’d been working on the pillow all fall, but it wasn’t quite finished.

I hoped my gift would encourage Patrick to paint again. Recently he’d spent most of his time at the gallery he’d bought on Main Street. His studio stood empty.

“That’s four pillows,” said Patrick, looking at all of us hopefully.

“Okay,” Ob sighed reluctantly. “If Anna can do one, I can, too. Your mother’s worked wonders with Aurora. It’ll be good to see a Christmas tree up at the place this year.” Ob and Anna lived across the street from Aurora.

“Thank you all so much,” said Patrick. “That’s a relief. Mom will pay you all well, I promise, for the fast turnaround involved.”

“I’ll get back to those of you who volunteered. Patrick and I will talk.” I sent him a glance I hoped he’d find meaningful. “First thing in the morning I’ll call the four of you who volunteered to stitch and let you know the colors and dimensions of the pillows and whose name to stitch. We’ll use our usual pattern for the tree.”

But Patrick wasn’t finished asking for help. “Do any of you have suggestions for a caterer?” he asked. “I called the lobster bake place in Camden Mom used last summer, but they don’t do bakes in December. And every caterer I could find online was already booked for Christmas events.”

A lobster bake in December? Not exactly. Patrick was out of his depth.

Maine’s restaurants and caterers were famous for their gourmet delights in the summer, but many of them closed in the off-season. Those still open were sure to be booked.

Gram came to the rescue. “What about Bev Clifford? Her Wild Rose Inn is closed for the winter, and she’s a good cook. She’s a widow, and her son won’t be home for Christmas. Recently she told me she was dreading the holidays. Too many memories. Tom and I invited her for Christmas dinner, but as long as you want lobsters and good Maine food she might be willing to help you out.”

In other words, nothing fancy. And Bev Clifford could use the money. Winters were tough for Mainers who ran businesses for summer visitors.

“I’ll call her,” said Patrick gratefully. He wrote down her name. “Mom isn’t looking for French cuisine. She used the words authentic and local when I talked with her. And, of course, seafood.”

“Some French food is authentic Maine cuisine,” Anna put in. “Think of the patisserie downtown, and all our French-Canadian neighbors.”

“Right,” said Patrick, who clearly hadn’t thought about Quebecois cuisine at all. “I should talk to Bev Clifford about that.”

“I’m sure she could make up some tourtières,” suggested Gram.

“What?” Patrick asked, blankly.

“Spicy pork pies. A traditional Christmas dish from Quebec. A lot of Maine folks bake them this time of year. And you’ll want local oysters as well as lobster,” Dave suggested.

“And local wines and beers,” Patrick said, taking more notes.

“Local distillers make spirits,” I added. “The only libation you may have to buy from away is champagne.”

“You could always introduce these folks to Moxie,” Captain Ob said, a glint in his eye.

“There are Maine fruit sparkling wines,” agreed Reverend Tom, with a smile. “Charlotte and I can suggest some.”

Patrick looked overwhelmed. “I only thought I had to worry about a tree and wreaths!”

“I have a cousin who has a horse,” said Ob, getting into the spirit. “And a wagon. Wouldn’t be a sleigh, like Skye wanted, but it’d be better than nothing. Most of us drive trucks and snow plows these days.”

“And snow mobiles. I know. I do know. I’m sorry. Mom spent time here, but she hasn’t lived here. And this is our first winter. We both still have a lot to learn about Maine.” Patrick smiled at everyone. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy. I really appreciate all this help.”

I touched his arm. “You can do it, Patrick. It may not be exactly what your mother has in mind. But she has to be flexible. This isn’t a movie set. Haven Harbor is a real town, and we all have real lives.”

Real lives that had been planning Christmas for months. I’d looked forward to joining Gram and Tom for Christmas morning and having Patrick join us for Christmas dinner. Now he’d be spending Christmas Day with his mother and her Hollywood friends at Aurora.

He was the man in my life, at least for now. I was willing to help him arrange his mother’s house for her guests.

But I didn’t want to sacrifice family time for the amusement of people I’d probably never see again.

Patrick might be used to doing that. I wasn’t.

Patrick excused himself to call Bev Clifford.

The rest of us looked after him as he headed for the quiet of the kitchen. Reverend Tom shook his head.

I expected a few comments from the needlepointers about folks from away who expect too much from locals, but everyone held their tongues. Maybe on my behalf. They’d all accepted that, at least for now, Patrick was my guy. (He didn’t know it, but that gave him a little more leverage around Haven Harbor, especially with my friends.) Or maybe they’d been willing to help because of the promised donation to the church, or because it was Christmas.

I poured myself a glass of egg nog and was silently grateful.

Quiet carols were playing on my computer (the living room, minus the Christmas tree and decorations, was also my Mainely Needlepoint office). Captain Ob added two logs to feed the flames on the hearth. Everyone else was eating, drinking, or needlepointing. Clem, who didn’t know the others as well as I did, was chatting quietly with Sarah. I hoped Sarah was filling her in on how Skye and Patrick would expect us to keep news about the famous guests quiet.

“Time to put on the ornaments!” I announced.

“I’ll pass on hanging balls, but I’ll supervise. Let you all know if you’re overloading the tree on either side,” Ruth suggested. Her arthritis was keeping her close to her walker these days.

The rest of my guests each took a box of ornaments and went to work.

Patrick rejoined us in a few minutes. “Thanks for recommending Bev Clifford, Mrs. McCully,” he said to Gram. “She’s on board. I’m going to meet her tomorrow afternoon at Aurora.”

“Good,” I said. “Now, here’s a box of ornaments for you to hang.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling.

I handed him ornaments I’d made as a child—gold-painted starfish tied with red ribbon and papier-mâché shapes of uncertain intent. The attached pieces of string or wire would be easier for him to hang than the small hooks on the balls.

He picked up a glittery picture frame made of Popsicle sticks holding a picture of eight-year-old me. “Pretty cute kid,” he grinned as he hung the ornament on a nearby branch.

With everyone helping, decorating took less time than I’d imagined.

After we’d found places for every gold or red ball and lumpy ornament we sat to admire our handiwork. Katie and Dave pick. . .