Twisted Threads (3 page)

Dinner was more chowder, which was fine with me. Juno again demanded her share of the haddock, and Gram added a piece to her dish. Coon cats are naturally large, but Juno exceeded size expectations. No wonder she’d startled me.

I was beginning to wear down. The travel, the time change, being back in Maine, hearing about Mama . . . the past thirty hours or so included a lot to get my head around.

“Have you got any wine or beer?” I asked Gram, on the off chance she had a bottle put away somewhere. She’d added sherry to the chowder, after all.

“Wine’s in a rack in the dining room. I should’ve thought of that earlier. You can bring me a glass of red,” she said.

Gram? A glass of red? Something else had changed since I’d left.

I chose a bottle of pinot noir, noted that Gram didn’t have bad taste in varietals, poured each of us a generous glass, and returned to the kitchen. Juno followed my every step, almost tripping me as she rubbed against my legs. I’d have to get used to having a cat. But I could see how she’d be company for Gram. The house was quiet.

“When was a wine rack added to the décor?” I asked as we clinked glasses.

“After you left. When you were a teenager, I didn’t want to add any more temptations to your world. You were coping with enough as it was,” said Gram. “But I do enjoy a glass in the afternoon, and after the day you’ve had, I suspect you could do with a glass or two yourself.”

“And then a bath and bed,” I agreed. “Especially with the service tomorrow. I want to hear a little about your business, though. I saw the Mainely Needlepoint sign when I came in, and the desk and file cabinets in the living room.”

“As you assumed, I’m now a working gal.” Gram shook her head. “What you can’t see is that I’ve gotten myself in over my head. You remember those little needlepoint balsam pillows I used to make for Betty down to Harbor Lights?”

“You were always after me to learn needlepoint so I could help with the backgrounds, but I was too impatient. This house used to smell of balsam in the winter when you were putting them together.”

“Right. Since they were hand stitched, they were high-end . . . a world away from those printed pine cushions tourists buy at souvenir shops to tuck in their sweater drawers. Every summer Harbor Lights sold several dozen of the ones I stitched showing our local lighthouse. Making them up kept me amused, gave me something to do each winter. Brought in a few extra dollars, and kept my fingers busy.”

“As though your fingers were ever empty! You were always either knitting or doing needlepoint.” The wine was beginning to relax me. I got the bottle from the dining room and refilled both my glass and Gram’s. “So? You’re still making balsam pillows?”

“Just you listen. You asked, so you’ll hear. A few years back a bride-to-be, who summers here, saw my pillows at Harbor Lights and asked if I’d make up a special order for her. She wanted seventy-five balsam pillows needlepointed in white on dark green, with the date of her wedding and a pine tree, to give as favors at her wedding.”

“Seventy-five? That’s a winter’s work!”

“Exactly. But she was paying well. Twice as much as Harbor Lights, and she was paying me directly, so there’d be no commission. It seemed too good a deal to pass up. So I asked around, and Ruth Hopkins and Dave Percy both agreed to do some up for me. We thought it would be fun, and it was. The three of us got her order done over the winter, along with the usual pillows I did for Harbor Lights.” Gram took a deep sip of her wine. “We thought when we delivered her pillows, the project would be over. We never dreamed what would happen next.”

“Which was?”

“Turned out one of the guests at the wedding was an editor at one of those magazines aimed at Maine tourists. He included a picture of one of the pillows in his column and wrote about what a unique gift idea it was. Next thing we knew, we were overwhelmed with orders from all over.”

“That’s fantastic!” I said. “You must have been thrilled!”

“‘Not so much,’ as you young folks would say,” said Gram. “I couldn’t stitch near fast enough to fill all the orders, even with help from Ruth and Dave. So the three of us had a serious meeting and decided to go into business. We called ourselves ‘Mainely Needlepoint,’ as you saw on the sign. A little cutesy, if you ask me, but Ruth and Dave liked it, and it did say right out what we did. We started calling up friends in town who did needlepoint and asked if they’d help. And they called other folks. That second year we went from three of us to seven, all handy at needlepoint, who agreed to fill orders.”

“I’m impressed! Gram, you’re a needlework queen!”

She shook her head. “For the first four years I worked with the customers, taking orders, and then giving out assignments. Some people thought Mainely Needlepoint was a factory—that in a few days we could turn out forty pillows or place mats or whatever they were looking for. Took a while to make sure they understood how long it would take to fill their orders. And even then, a few of ’em changed their minds halfway through and decided they wanted green lettering on a red field for a Christmas gift, instead of blue on white for a birthday. After that happened two or three times, I learned to ask for fifty percent in advance, and have ’em sign a contract saying what we’d be doing for ’em and when the order would be delivered. That helped considerable, although some customers still needed hand-holding, as it were, even if they lived in California or Iowa or some such place. A lot of phone calls. E-mails. And that’s not counting ordering supplies and billing and talking to people at gift shops. And making sure everyone’s work was on schedule.”

“How did you ever find the time to do the needlepoint yourself?”

“Every year I did less. I missed the stitching, but keeping the books in order and the customers happy had to be done. That’s when Jacques Lattimore approached me.”

“Approached you?”

“Just showed up on my doorstep, all dressed up like he was going to church, and offered to help us. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he’d admired our work down in one of those fancy home-furnishing stores in Portland. The owner got to telling him about Mainely Needlepoint, and how it was run by”—Gram pursed her lips a bit—“an old woman and her friends. The way Jacques tells it, he thought we were all sitting on our graves, and he’d better buy the needlepoint piece he liked—one of Dave Percy’s wall hangings, of a four-master—because work like that wasn’t done much anymore. Anyway, he bought the wall hanging. But he also found out Mainely Needlepoint was in Haven Harbor, and he came calling. He told me he traveled up and down the coast of Maine, as far as Vermont and Massachusetts, and he knew a lot of decorators. That if we could do custom work for them—wall hangings or pillows that would match upholstery or paintings—he could sell our work for twice, maybe three times, as much as we were asking. He’d take a commission—forty percent, he said—to cover his salary and expenses, and he’d bring us the orders, and take care of the customers and the paperwork. I’d still figure out who had the time to do the stitching, and once a month he’d stop here to pick up the finished work and deliver our money.”

“When did this happen?”

“About two years ago. It was mud season, because I remember asking him to take off his shoes afore coming into the house. The ones he had on were leather, no waterproofing at all, and looked as though he’d walked through a pigsty before he came here.”

“And you agreed with his plan?”

“I told him I’d talk with the others, but they didn’t much care. I was the one he’d be helping out and working with. We figured if he took forty percent, that would leave ten percent extra for me, since I’d still be fronting orders for silk or wool and canvas and whatever else was needed, and the person doing the stitching would get fifty percent. In my case, I’d get sixty, which sounded real good to me.”

“So . . . you agreed.” I sensed Gram was coming to the problem part of her story.

“We did. And at first it seemed to be working. We’d been doing more and more needlepoint, and getting bored with the same patterns. There’s a limit to how many lobsters and lighthouses a person wants to stitch and stay sane. Jacques got us contracts for floral designs to match wallpaper, and monograms, and once even a pair of bedroom cushions to reflect the pattern in a painting. Much more challenging work than we’d been doing, and more of it. We invested in software to help design new patterns. We weren’t getting paid as much as Jacques originally said we would, but he kept saying that would come as our reputation increased.”

I nodded, sipping, and hoping Gram would get to the point of the story. The wine was beginning to make me drowsy.

“But, Angel, it hasn’t. Truth is, he hasn’t paid us anything for more than three months now, and only a fraction of what he owed us for the two months before that. And my stitchers are depending on his checks. Lauren’s husband is furious with her for not contributing her usual share to their budget. And Ob Winslow had stopped doing his wood carving and doesn’t have another source of winter income. They need the money they’re due.”

I put down my wineglass. I may have been away for a while, but I hadn’t forgotten how much people in Haven Harbor depended on their second or third jobs—their crafts or jams or Christmas wreaths in December or blueberry sales in July—to get through the year. Haven Harbor was based on a tourist economy. When the tourists left for warmer climes, so did their dollars.

“What have you done about it, Gram?”

“Called the man and complained, of course. But it doesn’t seem to be doing any good. Now he doesn’t return my calls. And when I decided to contact our customers directly, I realized I don’t even know who most of them are anymore. Jacques put himself in the middle, and by doing that, we had no way of going around him.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. And I’m the one who got everyone into this, so I’m feeling ten times as bad than if it were just me in trouble. If Mainely Needlepoint fails, I’ll have taken my friends and neighbors down with me.”

We sat for a few minutes, sipping wine, looking at each other across the kitchen table. I felt as though I should have my algebra homework in front of me and Gram should be knitting a pair of mittens, or, yes, stitching a small pillow for Harbor Lights Gifts. We’d sat in these same chairs so many nights, so many years.

“I can help.” In the past those had been Gram’s words. It was time they were mine.

“What can you do? Much as I tried to teach you, you were never much good at even a basic outline or continental stitch.”

“And that’s the truth. At needlepoint I was a disaster. But since I left home, I’ve learned a few other skills. I’m not a bad private investigator.”

“Don’t you need a license to do that sort of thing, Angie? And isn’t it dangerous?”

“To be an official PI, sure, you need a license. And I promise I won’t do anything dangerous. I’ll just find out what this Jacques Lattimore is doing. Find out where he is, and why he hasn’t paid you the money you should be getting. I’ve done jobs like that lots of times before. I’m here. I might as well see if I can do something to help.”

“I don’t want my concerns to be a trouble to you.”

“Investigating Lattimore wouldn’t be a trouble. Besides, after all you’ve done for me? That’s the least I can do. You wouldn’t want me to sit around here and be bored while Ethan Trask investigates Mama’s death.” Wally would have a fit if he’d known what I’d just agreed to do. No one but a licensed investigator or the police should do what I’d promised Gram.

Gram looked at me, smiled, and shook her head. “Angel, you may have changed some when you were out in the world. But there’s one thing you have never done in your entire life.”

“What?”

“Never in your entire life have you sat around anyplace long enough to be bored.”

For the first time in a long, long time, I laughed. Life in Haven Harbor might not be perfect, but, yes, I was home.

I gave myself the luxury of sleeping a little late the next morning, making up for what I’d missed the day (and night) before. By the time I’d gotten up and put on “something decent and respectful” for Mama’s service, Gram’d been answering calls for a couple of hours and arranged that no one would come back to the house after the service. “It’s been too long in the past for that sort of mourning.” Instead, the Ladies’ Guild would serve coffee and cake in the “family room” of the church, where receptions were held after Sunday services.

She fried me a couple of eggs, defrosted one of the blueberry lemon muffins she’d made last summer, handed me a cup of weak instant coffee, and inspected me to make sure I didn’t look too “citified.” After suggesting my heels were “a mite higher than necessary,” and making sure my stomach was filled to her satisfaction, she handed me a large straw hat that looked more appropriate for a July picnic than a May funeral.

Then she announced, “We’ll go out the back way and take my car.”

I looked at her. “Why not walk?” It was only a few blocks to the Congregational Church our family, and most of those in Haven Harbor, attended, although about 150 years ago the town had graciously acknowledged the presence of Methodists and Baptists in its midst and there was even a Catholic Church in the next town down the coast. (You had to go farther to find a synagogue or mosque, but Maine had those now, too.)

“Angie, have you looked out one of our front windows this morning?”

I started toward the front of the house.

She cut me off at the hall.

“Well, if you haven’t done it yet, then don’t! We’re hemmed in by press and media folks from Portland and Augusta and Bangor. Can’t believe you didn’t notice. They’ve been staked out for hours, trying to get a peek at the bereaved family of the woman found in the freezer. There’ll be less chance of them sticking a microphone in our faces if we go out the back. There’s a parking space saved for us next to the side door of the church.”

I peeked around the drapes she’d closed over the hall’s front windows. It wasn’t the crowd there’d have been for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, but at least two networks had brought trucks, and a handsome young man was broadcasting live from our front yard. Amazing. This must be a very slow news day in Maine.

For the first time in my life, I saw the wisdom of Gram’s insisting I wear a hat.

“Don’t look ’em in the eye,” she was advising. “Walk fast, keep walking till you get in the car. Keep your hat down so they can’t see your face. Don’t look out the car window. Scrunch down. Me, they’ve already seen, but you’re a novelty around these parts. Pete Lambert from the police department is out there. He’ll make sure we get out the drive.”

I looked at her with increasing respect. “You’ve done this before.”

“First time was when your mother disappeared. But it wasn’t as bad in those days, and I managed to keep you away from most of it. But ever since Lauren found that body, those TV folks have been all over the place. They want us to be crying or screaming or doing something else dramatic for them.” She shook her head. “Harrumph. We’re civilized folks. We’re not putting on that kind of show here in Haven Harbor.”

I’d never before credited Gram with press savvy. “Got it. Low heels on, hat pulled down, and look down or straight ahead.”

She patted my arm. “Good girl. And keep your knees together in that short skirt. No reason our problems need to be carrion to be feasted on by those media maggots.”

I wasn’t sure whether to giggle or salute. I put on the hat.

The drive to the church went exactly as Gram planned: out the door, into the car, help from Sergeant Lambert to get through the hordes, and then a swift push on the gas pedal to get us up the hill to the side of the church, where the current minister greeted us with an open door and ushered us into his office, safe from prying eyes. I had the distinct feeling that he found aiding and abetting pseudo-celebrities pretty exciting.

“Miss Curtis?” He put out his hand. “Reverend McCully. I’m sorry we meet under such sad circumstances. May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “But I appreciate your help this morning.” He wasn’t as old as the ministers I remembered. He was about my height, about ten years younger than Gram, and not bad-looking. I wondered if he was married. I’d never dated a minister.

“No trouble—no trouble at all.” He turned to Gram. “Charlotte, it’s all going to be very simple, just as you wanted. No coffin or urn.”

I suddenly realized: a body. Of course. Somewhere there was whatever was left of Mama. I hadn’t considered that fact before. If the morning’s events had seemed a bit surreal before, now they were very real.

Gram nodded. This wasn’t new to her. She and the reverend had arranged the service.

“The picture of Jenny and the flowers you ordered are at the front of the church. A few other people sent flowers, too.” He handed her a list. She glanced at it, nodded, and tucked it in her pocketbook. “I’ll say a prayer and give a short statement, then we’ll sing the hymns you requested. After that, I’ll ask if anyone else wants to speak.” He turned to me. “Perhaps you’d like to say a few words, Miss Curtis?”

I didn’t remember the last time I’d been to anyone’s funeral. I hadn’t thought of speaking, and hadn’t prepared any words. I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, if you should change your mind, there’ll be an opportunity. Under these circumstances, with the police present, it will be a short service.”

“The police are here?” I blurted. “Inside the church?”

“Ethan Trask said he’d come, and I suspect one or more of the local force will be here, too,” Gram said quietly. “It’s part of the investigation. Just in case—”

“In case anyone jumps up and says they shot Mama?” I said. I looked from one of them to the other. “I thought most of the town figured Joe Greene shot her.”

Neither Gram nor Reverend McCully said anything. Then the reverend volunteered, “Miss Curtis, you’ve been away for years. I know this is difficult for you. And, of course, you’re right. But the police want to confirm that Joe Greene is the guilty party, and, if possible, find a reason for what he did. Some here in town take issue with that. They find it difficult to believe their old friend was guilty of murder. He was well liked, you know. Very well liked. Chamber of Commerce president. Active in the church.” He hesitated. “And there’s no proof.”

“No proof? They found Mama’s body in a freezer in his storage unit.”

“True enough,” agreed the reverend as he put on a long black robe, which had been hanging behind his office door. “But Joe’s not here to defend himself. He’s innocent until proven guilty. I hope Ethan Trask and his team are trying to keep open minds about the investigation, at least until they find more evidence.”

I looked from Gram to Reverend McCully and back again. “But aren’t they? When Ethan said he was assigned to investigate the case, he sounded as though he was treating Mama’s murder as an open homicide investigation. He wasn’t just going to dot the
i
’s and cross the
t
’s.”

“Perhaps not that open, dear,” said Gram. “But I believe he’ll do the best he can. The town
is
divided. Some people are convinced Joe Greene couldn’t be the murderer. Others believe there’s no doubt he was. Ethan’s under pressure to find more evidence that Joe killed your mother, or come up with another killer. Neither option will be easy after nineteen years.”

Mama was dead. Joe Greene was dead. But, clearly, the dead weren’t going to rest in peace. Not yet.

Yesterday I’d told Evan I wanted to understand what happened to Mama. But maybe I knew enough.

Now he was going to dig everything up again. Digging unearths dirt and mud. I’d worked hard to wash away that dirt and mud, all those years ago.

Right that minute, sitting in my funeral clothes in Reverend McCully’s office, all I could think about was how fast I could get out of Haven Harbor.

How fast I could get away from whatever Ethan Trask might find out. Away from reporters with television cameras and microphones. Away from memories I’d managed to repress while I was in Arizona.

I never should have come back. I’d made a mistake. Gram had been doing fine without me.

“Before we go in, Tom, let me tell you some good news,” Gram was saying. “You remember I told you Mainely Needlepoint was having a problem with our agent?”

“Of course, I remember,” said the reverend. “Jacques Lattimore—that scoundrel should be in jail!”

“Well, we’ve made a big step toward solving our problem,” she confided, reaching out proudly and touching my arm. “Angie has a lot of experience in private investigations, and she’s volunteered to check him out for us. Once we know more about what we’re dealing with, we’ll be able to go forward.”

“That’s wonderful, Charlotte,” said Reverend McCully, beaming. “Maybe it was fated that Jenny’s body would be found now, so Angie would come home when you needed her.”

“It was,” said Gram. “And a blessing.” She smiled at me as though I’d just been named savior of Haven Harbor.

How much could Ethan find out, anyway? It had all happened so long ago.

And I didn’t have to stay in Maine forever. I’d stay just long enough to find out about that man—Jacques Lattimore—who wasn’t paying up. I owed that to Gram.

Then I’d get out of town.