Free Threads of Evidence by Lea Wait Page B

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.”
    â€œFirst sale from this tent!” I said. “Hope everyone is as pleased as she was.”
    â€œThe tent will be empty by noon,” Patrick promised optimistically. I wasn’t as sure.
    â€œSo, 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œCould 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.”
    â€œWhere were you?” he asked.
    â€œIn Mesa, Arizona. Just outside Phoenix,” I said.
    â€œSchool?”
    â€œBriefly. Mostly, I was working.”
    â€œAs what?”
    â€œFor 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.”
    â€œSometimes.”
    We watched Skye greeting people at the side of the house. She was signing papers—autographs, I guessed— and posing for pictures.
    â€œDoesn’t she ever get tired of smiling?” I asked, changing the subject from my past to our present.
    â€œShe 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œLast 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.”
    â€œYour 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