Twisted Threads (5 page)

I looked around the room. “How can you tell the difference? By the number of cookies they’re eating? That woman in the purple dress hasn’t spoken to anyone. She hasn’t had time. She’s eaten three plates of food and just filled her plate again. Does she think this is an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

“Have faith,” Gram answered, not even turning to see which woman I was describing. “Can you hold it together a little longer? Before we go, I’d like you to meet the other Mainely Needlepointers. They sent most of the flowers in the church, and they’ve heard me talk about you, and how well you’ve been doing. They’d like to meet you.”

I nodded. “I’m okay. Don’t worry.”

She gestured to three people standing near one of the windows. “After you meet them, we’ll leave. We’ve given everyone a chance to say something to us. Some took it; some didn’t. We’ll let Tom handle those still here. He’ll know how to deal with them.” She smiled as her friends came closer. “And here are three of my fellow Needlepointers.” She touched the arm of a man who looked about forty-five, although his wavy hair was gray. In his navy suit and red tie, he could have been a stockbroker or lawyer or banker who started every day at the gym. “This is Dave Percy. He teaches biology at the high school now, but he learned needlepointing when he was in the navy. Not much to do when you’re off duty in a submarine.”

Dave put out his hand and I shook it. His handshake was firm. “Sorry about your mother. I’m glad to finally meet you. Your grandmother got me involved with Mainely Needlepoint, and I keep busy with that, summers and winters, after school. Or I did keep busy until our problems with Lattimore.”

“And you remember Katie Titicomb? Your friend Cindy’s mother.”

I did. “You used to win awards for your quilts at the Common Ground Country Fair every year. I remember. They were gorgeous.”

She looked pleased. “I’m surprised you remember. Young folks don’t pay crafts so much attention anymore.”

“Cindy used to brag about you,” I said. Bragged that she had a wonderful and talented mother who cared about her—and wasn’t it too bad my mother had up and deserted me? And then by junior high school Cindy had left Haven Harbor for private school. Yes, I remembered Cindy and her mother.

“Well, Cindy’s married and lives down to Blue Hill now. Has three little ones. Doesn’t get back to Haven Harbor as often as I’d like.”

“Are you still quilting?”

She shook her head. “Not much. A person can only use so many quilts. And quilting eats up time, even if you do it by machine, like most folks do now. Charlotte’s talked me into going into the needlepoint business.”

“Katie’s one of our biggest producers,” Gram put in.

“Maybe you remember my husband, Gus? Dr. Titicomb?”

I shook my head.

“Well, just as well. He’s a surgeon. No one you want to meet professionally unless you have to. He learned needlepoint in medical school, to practice stitching with a needle. Taught me how to do it, too.”

“Wonderful,” I said, turning to the third member of the group. “And I’m pretty sure I remember you. Captain Winslow?”

“That’s me. You were a cunning thing when you were little. You’ve grown up wicked pretty.”

“Thank you.” I smiled at his phrasing—high praise from a Mainer.

“Real sorry about your mother.”

Ob’s hands were calloused and hard and tanned like leather. The hands of a man who made a living by the sea.

“Thank you. And have you done needlepoint for years, too?”

“Not me. Lauren and I are the beginners in the group. I still run my charter fishing boat in summer, and used to carve decoys for the tourists in winter. But my back was givin’ me problems about five years ago. I talked to Dr. Gus, Katie here’s husband, and he recommended the needlepointing. It keeps my hands and brain busy and I can sit and relax, ’stead of standing like I do when I’m carving, and I can still make money in winter.”

“At first, he put up such a fight,” Katie said, giving Ob a gentle shove. “Men and embroidery, you know. He didn’t see it. But my Gus kept after him, and he finally decided to give it a try.”

“Have to admit, the doc was right,” said Ob.

“Now I’m making more money than I did with decoys. Or I was,” he said, looking over at Gram, “until our problem.”

“I’ve told Angie about Jacques. She worked with a private investigator in Arizona.” Gram was beaming with pride. “She’s going to find him for us, and try to get the money he owes us.”

“Thank you, Angie. That would mean a lot”—Katie’s hands swept to include all of them—“to all of us.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised. I couldn’t let these people down. “And thank you for coming today.”

Gram put her arm around me. “You go on to the car now, Angie. I’ll let Tom know we’re going home.”

I started moving toward the door, watching as Gram went over to the reverend. He nodded and they both looked over at me. No doubt I was Gram’s excuse for leaving a little earlier than expected.

I pulled my hat down farther as I realized other people were looking at me. Watching me. Were they waiting for me to do something crazy? I’d already heard the whispers. “Doesn’t she look just like her mother?”

But I wasn’t Mama. And she wasn’t as sinful as some of them thought.

Others in Haven Harbor were worse. Much worse.

One of those other virtuous citizens had killed her.

Maybe Lauren’s father? Maybe one of these nice churchgoing folks nibbling cookies and sipping punch?

Whoever it was, for nineteen years they’d gotten away with it.

Our house had always been my sanctuary. The one place I could be myself, no matter what people in the outside world said or did.

But my years away had made a difference. Walking through those once-comforting rooms now felt like walking back in time. A time I wasn’t proud of. I hadn’t fit in, and I’d flaunted the reasons why. Seeing those people at the funeral had brought back a lot that I hadn’t thought of in years.

I remembered Maine days in May as warm and smelling of freshly plowed gardens and sea breezes. I hadn’t remembered the chill I felt today.

“Tea?” asked Gram. “And maybe a tuna sandwich?”

“I’ll make the sandwiches,” I agreed.

Neither of us had taken advantage of the funeral food.

Gram put the kettle on while I found a can of tuna in the cabinet and got out jars of mayonnaise and pickles. “You only have whole wheat bread now,” I noticed, opening the bread box. Who but Gram still used a bread box?

“Doctor says it’s healthier for me. Better for the cholesterol,” said Gram, putting two yellow mugs on the table.

“How are you? Seriously,” I asked, mixing the tuna salad. I’d heard Lauren’s message. I’d deserted my grandmother. And, much as I hated to admit it, Lauren was right. I’d left Gram to deal with what I couldn’t. In the ten years I’d been away, I’d grown up. But I wasn’t the only one who was ten years older. I should have asked about Gram’s health earlier. She looked good, but maybe Lauren knew something I didn’t.

“I’m fine. Being sixty-five isn’t the end of the world. My brain still works, thank the Lord, although parts of my body aren’t as limber as they used to be. I’m just supposed to pay attention to that cholesterol. I figure, whole wheat bread and oatmeal for breakfast in the winter should keep me going a few more years. So far, no complaints.”

I nodded, hoping she was telling the truth.

The kettle was singing. I cut each sandwich into four triangles, as Gram had always done, while she poured hot water over our tea bags. I hadn’t realized I was hungry, but my sandwich disappeared before Gram had half-finished hers. I added another teaspoon of sugar to my tea.

“There’s more tuna in the cupboard,” she said, looking at my plate.

“I’m okay for now,” I answered. I sipped the tea. In Arizona I’d become addicted to cup after cup of coffee each day. I’d forgotten how comforting tea was.

“Your mama always added extra sugar to her tea,” Gram added.

“Did she?” Usually I wanted to remember details like that. But right now, today, I’d heard enough about Mama. I pushed my mug away. “Tell me more about your business. About Jacques Lattimore. If I’m going to help you, I’ll need some place to start.”

Gram nodded. “I told you Jacques found us, not the other way around. Mainely Needlepoint was doing pretty well. Our biggest problem was finding people to stitch. People called or e-mailed looking for personalized pillows to commemorate events from births to birthdays and anniversaries. Family reunions. Weddings. Even a Bas Mitzvah once! And that didn’t count the orders from gift and decorator shops. I’ll tell you, we all had sore fingers and tired eyes trying to keep up with the orders.”

“Who are ‘we’? You, of course, and the others you introduced me to: Dave Percy and Katie Titicomb and Ob Decker. And Lauren. She told me you’d taught her needlework.”

“I did. Several years ago when I was at the Harbor Haunts Café, where she waitresses, she said one of her customers had shown her our work. She asked if I could use any more help. I told her ‘yes,’ of course . . . but then it turned out she didn’t even know how to thread a needle.” Gram shook her head. “But she was a quick learner. I’ll say that for Lauren. And a hard worker. She and Caleb were newly married then, and struggling financially. They were trying to pay off their lobster boat. Lauren could do needlework on her breaks at the restaurant, or at home at night. She and Caleb depended on the extra dollars she brought in from stitching. After a while she only needed to waitress when the tourists were here. She’s had to go back to waitressing regular since we’ve had troubles. She and Caleb don’t have it easy. Lobster prices have fallen in the past few years, you know. Been hard on those trying to make a living from them.”

I hadn’t known that. Another sign I had a lot of catching up to do. Lobster prices were critical to many Haven Harbor families’ economies.

“So you taught Lauren. Who else works with the two of you? Anyone else I’d know?”

“Six of us work at it steady. Ruth Hopkins helped at the beginning, but she’s getting on. When her arthritis flares, she has to stop for a while. She hasn’t taken more than a couple of jobs in the past year.”

I nodded. Mrs. Hopkins had seemed ancient to my teenaged eyes ten years ago. No surprise she was “getting on.”

“And one more?” I asked, counting on my fingers. The business wasn’t as large as I’d thought, especially if Ruth wasn’t contributing much now.

“That’s Sarah Byrne. She’s our newest. New to Haven Harbor, and new to the United States, actually. She’s from Australia.”

“Australia! How did she get to Haven Harbor?”

“I don’t know her whole story. Says she was driving up the coast on vacation and got to Haven Harbor and decided to stay. She bought up that little shop on Wharf Street . . . the place where they used to sell candy. Do you remember?”

“Sure. They sold saltwater taffy—had one of those taffy-pulling machines right in the shop window—and all flavors of popcorn. Red Hots and whoopie pies. Is Sarah Byrne still selling candy and popcorn?”

“Goodness, no. It was a candy shop three owners ago. Sarah’s trying to make a go of an antique shop there. She goes to auctions all over the state and picks up pieces of china and silver and small pieces of furniture—a motley collection, if you ask me—but the summer folks seem to like what she’s selling. They may go in just to hear her accent! She closes the shop in winter. Does her buying then. She’s really skilled with a needle. She heard I could use extra hands and came looking for a job. She likes that she can stitch at the shop, or at an auction, or at home. She’s got no family to be a distraction. And she’s good. She’s one of us now.”

“That’s six of you working actively, plus Ruth Hopkins.”

“Right. Every one of them was at the church to pay their respects this afternoon. Sarah and Ruth left before you could meet them.”

“You all seem to get along.”

“Most of the time, although we’re all stubborn in our own ways and don’t always agree. I’m the only one who’s full-time on the job. They all have other obligations—work or family or both.”

The people who did the stitching were important, but I needed to know more about Lattimore. “Do you have a contract with Lattimore?”

“We do. I may not be an expert on business, but we all knew we wanted to get down in writing what Jacques agreed to do. Not notarized or anything like that, which was probably a mistake. But we have a paper we all signed.”

“And it worked?”

“Worked so well we got to depend on those monthly checks. It all worked fine until last December.”

“That’s six months ago!”

“Close to six. And don’t I just know it! December and January are big months for us. We prepared orders for the holiday season, and Jacques would pick them up in October or November, and then the checks would come in, in time for the holidays. All right as rain. Until last December. Jacques said some accounts weren’t paying up as well as they should, so he only paid us needlepointers half of what each should have gotten.”

“That’s a major difference.”

“Made for pretty sparse Christmases around here, I’ll tell you. But we figured we’d all get even in January. That the checks then would make up the difference. We had no reason not to trust Jacques. Lauren told me she ran up credit card bills on his promises, and I suspect others did, too.” Gram got up and poured herself another cup of tea. “But January came, and, again, our checks were far smaller than we’d expected.”

“And . . . ?”

“And January’s the last time I saw Jacques Lattimore. In March I sent him a letter, registered and all, telling him he owed us money, but it came back. Couldn’t be forwarded. I have no idea where he is now.” Gram looked down at her mug of tea. Her hands were shaking. “And it’s all my fault, Angel. I’m the one agreed to work with him. And now the needlepointers are angry, and people—Ob and Lauren, especially—need the money owed them. I’d pay them myself if I had it. But I don’t. I don’t know what to do.” She looked up. “Until you said you’d find out about Jacques, where he is, and when he’s going to pay back the money that’s owed.”

“I promise, Gram. I’m pretty good at finding people. But this sounds like a mess. You may need a lawyer and have to do a lot of paperwork to get him to pay up.”

Gram nodded. “Don’t I just know it. But first things first. You’ll find him for me, right, Angel? Then I’ll get a lawyer. Or a gun.”

I knew—at least I thought I knew—Gram was kidding about the gun. We were about the only family in town that hadn’t had one. I remembered Lauren bragging after she’d shot her first deer, and even newcomer Clem had her own rifle.

Guns were taken for granted in Maine.