I could uncover about Mama’s killer. If it was Joe Greene, and I found out why, I’d accept that. I just wanted to know.
Chapter Ten
I hate a woman who offers herself because she ought to do so, and, cold and dry, thinks of her sewing when she’s making love.
—Publius Ovidius Naso, known as Ovid (43 BC–17 or 18 AD) Ovid, Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love), 2 AD
I couldn’t slow my mind down that night. Sleep finally came, but it brought confused images so real they might not have been dreams. Each time I woke, trying to escape them, I thought about what I should do. What was most important? And I made some decisions.
As soon as the sun was up in Arizona, I called Wally, my boss in Mesa. I was relieved when he didn’t pick up and I could leave a message. I knew he wouldn’t be happy with me, and I didn’t want to argue. I told him I wouldn’t be back for a while. A couple of months, at least. I had family issues to deal with. (A murder and a wedding? They certainly counted as issues.) I rummaged through Gram’s kitchen to find her ancient jar of instant coffee and made myself a strong cup. Tea was all well and good, but I couldn’t sit around being cozy anymore. I had to get to work. I added to my mental list, Buy coffeepot.
Despite the lack of sleep I felt good. I knew what I had to do. Gram had taken care of me for years. Now she needed me to help her. I owed her at least the time it would take to do that.
And I’d keep my eyes open about Mama’s murder. That was important to me, even if Gram had put it behind her. She wanted to focus on her future.
I’d worry about mine later.
The coffee was stale, but strong; and for the first time since I’d been back in Haven Harbor, I began to feel in control of my life.
A knock on the front door interrupted my self-congratulations. “Yes?” I said to the young blond woman with pink-and-blue-streaked hair who was standing on the porch holding a large bag. “May I help you?”
She hesitated a moment. “You’re Angel, right? I saw you at the church yesterday.”
I hadn’t remembered anyone as distinctive. But her accent gave me a clue. “You’re . . . Sarah? Sarah Byrne?”
“Right. That would be me. Only Australian in town, and likely to remain so.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Gram—Charlotte—isn’t home right now, but she’ll be back anytime. Come on in.”
She headed for the kitchen, not the Mainely Needlepoint office.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea? Or, I found stale instant coffee in the cabinet. You could have some of that.”
“Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”
I put the kettle on to boil. Maybe I could get Gram a microwave, too.
“Thank you for coming to the service yesterday. Although I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.” I wouldn’t have forgotten that hair.
“I didn’t go to the little gathering afterward. I had to get back to my shop. I’ve just opened it for the summer, and I didn’t want to miss any customers. I slipped into the back of the church for the service and then slipped out. I hope the press left you alone. They can be so horrible. ‘How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog—’ And so forth.”
“What?” The woman wasn’t making sense.
“A line from one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems. I’ve loved her work since I was little. They’re one of the reasons I came to New England.”
“I don’t know much about poetry,” I admitted. I gave Sarah a selection of tea bags to choose from. Did Australians drink a lot of tea? Would she have expected a teapot and loose tea? I had no idea.
“This is lovely,” she said, selecting a bag of English Breakfast. “I don’t know if your grandmother told you, but I’ve been doing needlepoint for her. For that Jacques Lattimore, I guess would be more correct. That’s how I’ve come to know her.”
“She did tell me about you. She said you were really talented. And that you had the antique shop down on Main
Chapter Ten
I hate a woman who offers herself because she ought to do so, and, cold and dry, thinks of her sewing when she’s making love.
—Publius Ovidius Naso, known as Ovid (43 BC–17 or 18 AD) Ovid, Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love), 2 AD
I couldn’t slow my mind down that night. Sleep finally came, but it brought confused images so real they might not have been dreams. Each time I woke, trying to escape them, I thought about what I should do. What was most important? And I made some decisions.
As soon as the sun was up in Arizona, I called Wally, my boss in Mesa. I was relieved when he didn’t pick up and I could leave a message. I knew he wouldn’t be happy with me, and I didn’t want to argue. I told him I wouldn’t be back for a while. A couple of months, at least. I had family issues to deal with. (A murder and a wedding? They certainly counted as issues.) I rummaged through Gram’s kitchen to find her ancient jar of instant coffee and made myself a strong cup. Tea was all well and good, but I couldn’t sit around being cozy anymore. I had to get to work. I added to my mental list, Buy coffeepot.
Despite the lack of sleep I felt good. I knew what I had to do. Gram had taken care of me for years. Now she needed me to help her. I owed her at least the time it would take to do that.
And I’d keep my eyes open about Mama’s murder. That was important to me, even if Gram had put it behind her. She wanted to focus on her future.
I’d worry about mine later.
The coffee was stale, but strong; and for the first time since I’d been back in Haven Harbor, I began to feel in control of my life.
A knock on the front door interrupted my self-congratulations. “Yes?” I said to the young blond woman with pink-and-blue-streaked hair who was standing on the porch holding a large bag. “May I help you?”
She hesitated a moment. “You’re Angel, right? I saw you at the church yesterday.”
I hadn’t remembered anyone as distinctive. But her accent gave me a clue. “You’re . . . Sarah? Sarah Byrne?”
“Right. That would be me. Only Australian in town, and likely to remain so.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Gram—Charlotte—isn’t home right now, but she’ll be back anytime. Come on in.”
She headed for the kitchen, not the Mainely Needlepoint office.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea? Or, I found stale instant coffee in the cabinet. You could have some of that.”
“Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”
I put the kettle on to boil. Maybe I could get Gram a microwave, too.
“Thank you for coming to the service yesterday. Although I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.” I wouldn’t have forgotten that hair.
“I didn’t go to the little gathering afterward. I had to get back to my shop. I’ve just opened it for the summer, and I didn’t want to miss any customers. I slipped into the back of the church for the service and then slipped out. I hope the press left you alone. They can be so horrible. ‘How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog—’ And so forth.”
“What?” The woman wasn’t making sense.
“A line from one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems. I’ve loved her work since I was little. They’re one of the reasons I came to New England.”
“I don’t know much about poetry,” I admitted. I gave Sarah a selection of tea bags to choose from. Did Australians drink a lot of tea? Would she have expected a teapot and loose tea? I had no idea.
“This is lovely,” she said, selecting a bag of English Breakfast. “I don’t know if your grandmother told you, but I’ve been doing needlepoint for her. For that Jacques Lattimore, I guess would be more correct. That’s how I’ve come to know her.”
“She did tell me about you. She said you were really talented. And that you had the antique shop down on Main
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