Free Threads of Evidence by Lea Wait

I’m hoping people who were at that last party in 1970 come today.”
    â€œWhy?” I blurted. “That was years ago! I’m sure the majority of people who were here that day don’t even live in town anymore.” If they are even still alive, I thought.
    â€œSome do,” Skye said knowingly. “And those who don’t may hear about the sale and decide to come.”
    â€œMy Gram was here that night. She’ll probably stop in today. But who knows exactly who was here that night?”
    â€œI’ve heard many people in town talking as though they were here,” Skye said. “Maybe it’s like everyone who was young in 1969 claiming they were at Woodstock. But I think those who need to come, those who knew Jasmine best, will be here today.”
    â€œAnd?” I couldn’t help feeling that wasn’t a complete answer.
    â€œIt will be the first time most of them have been back since that night.” She leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I don’t believe Jasmine drowned accidentally. I believe someone killed her.”
    I stared at her. I hadn’t expected anything like that. This lawn sale was about Jasmine Gardener?
    â€œIf no one comes forward today to share information, then I’ll talk with them later. But I’m going to find out what happened that night. I’m going to find out who killed Jasmine.”

Chapter 10
    While beauty and pleasure are now in their prime,
And folly and fashion expect our whole time,
Ah, let us not these phantoms our wishes engage.
Let us live so in youth that we blush not in age.
    Â 
    â€”Sampler stitched by Mary Ann McLellan
(1803–1831), Portland, Maine, 1807
(Collection of the Portland Museum of Art)
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    Patrick opened the gate at seven o’clock on the dot, and the long line of potential customers flooded in.
    â€œHere 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œMom 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?
    â€œFor