Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  “Just be careful. I’ll be in touch.”

  I looked around the room.

  “Someone called the station with information?” Anna asked. “That was fast!”

  “Someone called the station,” I repeated, slowly. “They left a message saying they’d kill Clem and I and anyone else who asked questions about the embroidery.”

  “What?” said Dr. Gus. “That’s crazy!”

  “And scary,” said Gram. “Maybe you should never have bought that embroidery.”

  “And maybe you should forget about it now,” advised Captain Ob. “You don’t want some unhinged person looking for you.”

  “But who would call in a death threat over a one-minute news story about an old embroidery?” asked Sarah.

  “Someone who knows something about it,” Patrick answered.

  “Because something about it is important, somehow, to someone,” I added.

  “Or there’s some crazy out there who had nothing better to do tonight than annoy the young women he saw on television,” Captain Ob said succinctly.

  “Or some kid,” his wife added. “Trying to stir up trouble. Kids make prank phone calls and send prank e-mails.”

  “Threatening to kill someone is more than a prank,” Sarah put in, frowning.

  “What are you going to do about it?” asked Ruth. “I’m still game to help with any research you need. I’m not scared of some anonymous caller.”

  “Neither am I,” I declared. “I’m going to continue investigating. You’re right, Anna. That call was probably just a nasty prank.”

  Patrick nodded. “I hope so, Angie. But if it happens again, I hope Clem, or someone else at the station, calls the police.”

  Chapter 9

  “Our days alas our mortal days

  Are short and wretched too

  Civil and few the patriarch says

  And well the patriarch knew.”

  —Wrought in silk thread on linen by Jerusia Hill (1819–1889), aged sixteen, in Wells, Maine, in 1834. Jerusia married David Hunt, a carpenter, in 1866 (she was his third wife) and went to live in Woburn, Massachusetts.

  The party broke up shortly after that. Patrick and I each claimed a couple of slices of pizza and took the rest to the Baptist church minister for his soup kitchen.

  “Are you okay, Angie?” Patrick asked as we got to my house. “Would you like me to stay tonight?”

  We’d been a couple for a while, but we were still happy in separate residences. I lived in the house that had been my family’s since 1809, and mine alone for about six months. It was also my Mainely Needlepoint office. I couldn’t imagine leaving it.

  Patrick had designed a new carriage house, with living quarters for him and a large studio, after the original carriage house on his mother’s estate had burned last June. It was exactly the way he wanted it.

  We both respected each other’s territories. Maybe we were being cautious; maybe we were smart.

  But we always had ready excuses. “I should get home to feed Bette,” Patrick added. “If I know I’m going to be away overnight I leave her more food.”

  “That’s what I do with Trixi,” I agreed. We’d adopted sister kittens in the same litter last fall, and both of us considered them important family members. “I’ll be fine. Some crazy person called Channel 7. That guy didn’t call Clem directly, or call me. He doesn’t know where either of us live, even if his threat was serious. Which I’m sure it’s not. Who wants to kill someone because of an eighteenth-century embroidery?”

  Truth was, I was a little nervous. I was almost tempted to turn around, to tell him to go feed Bette and then come back. But I didn’t.

  I was independent. Strong. I could take care of myself.

  I hoped.

  Once inside I double-checked the locks on all my windows and doors. That was only smart, right? Not being paranoid. I fed Trixi and assured her nothing was wrong. (She seemed very relaxed about the whole situation.)

  Then I took my Glock out of its usual hiding place and carried it upstairs with me.

  I jumped when my cell rang.

  “Angie? Are you all right?” Gram’s voice was, as always, reassuring. “That telephone call to the studio was strange. If you want to sleep here tonight, you know you’re welcome.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. Who wanted their grandmother to worry? When I’d lived in Arizona I’d done lots of things Gram wouldn’t have been happy about. She’d just happened to hear about my current situation. “Trixi and I are all settled in. I‘m going to get in bed, turn on some dumb television program, and relax. I’ll fall asleep before you do.”

  “I doubt it. But you’re right. You’re probably fine. But that call was so weird. And Mainely Needlepoint was mentioned in that story on the news. The business is on the Internet and in the phone directory. With the address.”

  “Not the street address. I listed a post office box number. But, you’re right. We’re in the phone book, and someone might be able to figure out where I live. But I’m not worried. I’m fine.” The hand holding my cell phone was shaking. But that was silly. I was perfectly safe in my own house.

  “Do you have that gun of yours?”

  I hesitated. “What gun?”

  “The one you hide under the winter gloves and hats in the bureau in the front hall.”

  “Right. That one.” Trust Gram to know everything, but not mention it. “Yes, I have it.”

  “Good. I don’t like guns. Never have. But in case of an emergency . . . tonight I’m glad you have one.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Thank you for hosting the television-watching party tonight.”

  “It was fun. You were great. And I’m as curious as you are about what you got at that auction. Let me know if you find out anything from the auctioneer tomorrow.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  “Good night, Angel.”

  Mama had called me Angel. Now Gram was the only one who did. I touched the gold angel I wore around my neck. Gram worried. She’d lost Mama; she didn’t want to lose me. I understood that.

  I didn’t want to be lost, either.

  Chapter 10

  “Conscious virtue is its own reward.”

  —Stitched by Jane Virginia Corbin in 1825 at The Reeds, her home in Caroline County, Virginia. She included three alphabets in her sampler.

  I slept off and on. At about three in the morning I woke suddenly, certain I’d heard the creaking footsteps of someone in the house. I reached for the gun I’d left on my bedside table.

  My guard cat slept on, curled on the rug next to the hot-air vent on the floor of my bedroom.

  I listened.

  And listened.

  After my heart stopped thumping I realized the sound I’d heard was one of the three-foot-long icicles hanging from my roof falling and splintering on the porch roof outside my bedroom window. Not an unusual noise in February.

  But tonight my senses were on alert.

  I listened a little longer, to be sure, and then fell asleep again, this time muffling any sounds with my pillow.

  I managed to sleep another couple of hours before dawn.

  Trixi might have been sleeping when the icicle had woken me, but she’d been up and around other times during the night. I almost stepped on one of her catnip mice on the stairs and two of her plastic balls were in the corner of the kitchen.

  As far as I knew she hadn’t found a mouse in our house . . . yet. A few were probably hunkering down for winter in the cellar or the attic. But she attacked her toys, practicing for the moment when something alive might cross her path.

  In the meantime, she sat behind her food dish in the kitchen, staring up at me plaintively.

  “There’s dry food in the dish, silly,” I told her. “You’re not starving.”

  She curled herself around the dish and squeaked plaintively.

  She did not consider dry food an adequate breakfast.

  I added half a can of cat food to t
he dry. She purred a thank-you and started gulping. She’d licked her dish clean before my coffee was brewed. If only all relationships were as simple as mine with Trixi.

  I scrambled a couple of eggs and put them between two pieces of buttered toast.

  She jumped onto the kitchen table and looked at my eggs hopefully.

  “You’ve had your breakfast already,” I scolded. “This is mine.”

  Her tail swished, as she gave up and headed back to her food dish to make certain it was empty.

  I carried my coffee and breakfast sandwich into the living room and turned on my computer. The past couple of days had been so busy I hadn’t checked either my personal e-mail or the e-mail for Mainely Needlepoint.

  This time of year was quiet. I had a message from L.L. Bean suggesting I buy more flannel shirts and warm silk underwear, a note that I needed to return two books on needlepoint to the Haven Harbor library, and an e-mail from Gram reminding me I’d promised to bring a contribution to the church’s coffee hour on Sunday. Cookies? Muffins? I had a few days to figure that out.

  I made a note on my calendar about promised food, and checked the Mainely Needlepoint account.

  One order from a woman in Georgia for a “Save the Cormorants” pillow cover. No problem. I had two in stock. Although local gift shops sold them complete with the pillow insert, shipping was less online if customers just wanted the cover. I confirmed the woman’s credit card and wrote to her, saying I’d received her order and her pillow cover would be in the mail within two days.

  One spam message asking if I had any symptoms of diabetes.

  Not so far.

  And . . . a vile e-mail saying “sharp needlepoint needles could be fatal,” with several expletives, and a reminder to “stick to your own business and forget about the past.” At the bottom of the note was a clipped photo of a sewing needle.

  On another day, under other circumstances, I would have pressed the delete button and forgotten it. Today, I shivered. I checked immediately. A computer expert might be able to figure out who it was from, but I only saw nasty words in the “from” space.

  I turned off the computer. Most days I left it on, but this morning I felt that somehow, if the screen were blank, the cruel message would go away. I didn’t want it in my house.

  The buzz of my phone startled me.

  The text was from Clem. “Studio got more threats overnight. Call me when you’re up.”

  I was up. “Clem? The same kind of threats?”

  “Right. Death to both of us, but no explanation as to why.”

  “I got a nasty e-mail at the Mainely Needlepoint Web site, too,” I shared. “It had a picture of a needle under the message. Luckily, I don’t have my home address or telephone number on the Web site.” I’d hoped listing a post office box number would prevent salespeople from unexpectedly arriving at my door. It had never occurred to me that someone with a needlepointing business would be stalked.

  “Just a box number?”

  “Right.”

  “Even with the box number, whoever it is knows you live in Haven Harbor,” Clem reminded me. “And he or she knows your name.”

  “You’re right.”

  “He or she could go to Haven Harbor and ask around. Anyone who’d lived there a while would know you and your family.”

  My family. That was Gram.

  “Angie? The studio is taking this seriously. We always get a few crazy calls. But not like this. Dara Richmond is telling everyone this is why I can’t be trusted to come up with my own features.”

  “That’s ridiculous! How could you have guessed an old piece of embroidery would get that kind of response!”

  “I agree, but Dara’s making a big deal of it. John, our producer, reported the calls to the station security guys and the Portland police. You should let the Haven Harbor police know, too.”

  “Do you think this guy—or gal—is serious?” I asked. Trixi jumped onto my lap and started purring. I stroked her, absentmindedly.

  “I have no idea. But I don’t like it,” said Clem.

  “Did anyone call with any information about the coat of arms, or the paper?” I asked. “Any clues to what might be inspiring the craziness?”

  “Nothing,” said Clem. She hesitated. “Have you called the auction house yet about who consigned the lot?”

  “No. I’m going to call as soon as they’re open this morning.”

  “Good. How about meeting for lunch? I’ll admit I’m a little nervous about this whole situation.”

  “Portland is a drive for me,” I pointed out.

  “I have an appointment with my dentist near Haven Harbor this afternoon, so I’d planned to take the afternoon off and then have dinner with my parents. They’re always complaining they only see me on the news. Steve’s joining us, too. How about meeting at the Harbor Haunts Café at, say, one o’clock this afternoon?”

  “I can do that. Maybe I’ll have found out something more by then,” I agreed. Steve was joining them? Hadn’t Clem said they were going to break up? But, of course, that was yesterday’s news. Life changed. “Could you bring printouts of the calls Channel 7 has gotten about this?”

  “Are you sure you want to see them?”

  “No. But maybe there’s a pattern to the messages. Some clue as to who is threatening us.”

  “I’ll bring them, then,” Clem answered. “Why don’t you bring me a copy of the note you got, too? If you can get through to the auctioneer this morning, maybe we’ll have names to go on.”

  I hesitated to turn the computer on again. That was silly. The message might be there, but it was already in my head. What harm would there be to printing it out?

  I scooped Trixi up and gave her a fast hug before she wriggled out and jumped to the windowsill to watch the bird feeder. A pair of cardinals and a song sparrow were eating seeds, and a junco and chickadee were breakfasting on the suet. For them, it was a typical morning.

  Why had I let Clem mention the business name on the short segment about the embroidery last night? That must be how whomever had written to me had found the e-mail address. It was on our Web site, and easily found in search engines. That was how business was conducted today.

  It was only eight-thirty. Still too early to call the auctioneer. I looked through my boxes of completed needlepoint, found the pillow cover the woman in Georgia wanted, sealed it in a heavy plastic bag with an invoice and one of our Mainely Needlepoint brochures, and packaged it in a padded envelope, ready to mail.

  I jumped when my phone rang. “Angie? I was worried about you. Were you able to sleep last night?”

  Gram always seemed to sense when I needed someone.

  “I’m fine, Gram. I slept all right. Not perfectly, to tell the truth. But I’m okay.”

  “I’m glad. That message was probably a prank or a hoax, but it wasn’t funny.”

  “I agree,” I admitted. I didn’t tell her about the e-mail I’d gotten, or the new calls to Channel 7. She was already worried. Why upset her more?

  “Are you going to call that auctioneer this morning?”

  “I was planning to,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine a reason anyone would be upset about that old piece of needlepoint.”

  “I can’t either. Although maybe it’s the paper and the ribbon—the connection to the Foundling Hospital—that’s the problem,” I speculated.

  “But who would care about something that happened two hundred and fifty years ago?” Gram said. “I looked up that hospital, too, Angie. You were right. Thousands of babies were left there. The ‘Charles’ mentioned on the receipt was very lucky if his family reclaimed him. That happened in only a few cases.”

  “That’s what I read too,” I agreed. “It was interesting that pieces of fabric or embroidery or ribbons were used to identify the children, though.”

  “I’ve done a lot of needlepoint in my lifetime, but never any that had as important a purpose,” Gram agreed. “But if someone is truly upset about your inves
tigating it, maybe you and Clem should stop. I’m worried about both of you. And, after all, you’re only investigating out of curiosity.”

  “Clem and I are going to meet for lunch at the Harbor Haunts.” I didn’t mention we were going to share our threatening notes.

  “I’m worried,” Gram repeated. “We like to think Maine is a safe place, not dangerous, like Chicago or New York. But we have our share of troublemakers.”

  “Troublemakers.” One way to categorize people who threatened murder.

  “I can’t believe whoever called the studio in Portland and made the threat is serious,” I assured her. And myself. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I wonder if that was the only response you got to that segment on the news. Maybe someone else called in who knew something about the needlepoint.”

  “Clem promised to let me know if that happened,” I said, not mentioning what Clem had told me this morning.

  “Give her my best when you see her, and tell her she did a good job last night on the story. I’m guessing putting you and the needlepoint on the news was her idea.”

  “It was. And it was fun,” I admitted. “I hope her doing it doesn’t turn into a problem. I’ll be sure to tell her you enjoyed the segment.”

  It was nine o’clock. I pulled my auction receipt out of my desk drawer and dialed the auction house in Augusta.

  Chapter 11

  “She was a blessing here below.

  An only child of a widow, Subscribed by Sally Parker.”

  —Stitched by seven-year-old Mary Dealy in 1806. Sally Parker might have paid Mary’s tuition in an embroidery class or school, and this sampler might have been stitched for her in thanks. Vines are intertwined across the words.

  “May I please speak to Mr. Haines?”

  “Mr. Haines is busy with an appraisal. Perhaps I can help you? I’m Jessica Winter, his assistant. Do you have items you’d like to consign?”

  “No. I wanted to ask him about an item I bought at his auction a couple of days ago.”