Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  “All items are sold where is, as is.”

  “Yes, I know. I don’t want to return it. I wanted to ask Mr. Haines if he knew what family it came from. It’s a piece of embroidery.”

  Jessica paused. “A piece of embroidery?”

  I glanced at my auction receipt. “Lot number 176.”

  “Oh, wow. Are you from Channel 7? Clem Walker? Oh, I love seeing you on the nightly news. I’ve always wanted to be a television reporter. You’re my idol!”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry, but I’m not Clem, although she is a friend of mine. You saw the story on the news last night?”

  “I did. So who are you?”

  “I’m Angie Curtis. The one who bought the needlepoint.”

  “Oh, right. That’s what you said before, that you’d bought that embroidery. I would have recognized Clem if she’d been at the auction. Is she as beautiful in person as she is on television?”

  “She’s very attractive,” I said, wishing I could tell this Jessica what Clem had looked like when I’d first known her. High school wasn’t everyone’s finest hour. “So, you know I’m trying to find out more about the embroidery.”

  I heard papers shuffling. “I agree. Clem Walker is so gorgeous. And smart, too! And you’re friends?”

  “We went to high school together in Haven Harbor.” Where we hadn’t exactly been close friends, but, yes, we’d known each other. Two teenagers who hadn’t fit in.

  “How cool! I grew up not far from there, in Waymouth. I love Haven Harbor. Sometimes my boyfriend, Roger, and I eat lunch there, at that little restaurant near the wharves.”

  “The Harbor Haunts Café. In fact, Clem and I are going to have lunch there today.”

  “Oh, wow! I wish I didn’t have to work so far from the coast. I’d love to meet her! Or even just see her in person.”

  “About the embroidery?” I tried to steer Jessica back to the reason I’d called.

  “You know, Mr. Haines promises anonymity to people who consign items. You said it was lot 176?”

  “Right. I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss, of course. But Clem and I would love some help.”

  “Oh . . .” she said.

  I suspected dropping Clem’s name a few more times would get me further than asking for myself.

  “Most of our auctions have items from dozens of different people. Hundreds, even, sometimes. But that last auction was from only two families.”

  “I remember reading that,” I said. Actually, I remembered Sarah telling me.

  “So I can’t tell you what family lot 176 came from. That would be against the rules.”

  “Jessica, I wouldn’t want you to break any rules,” I lied.

  “But, you being on television and all, maybe”—Jessica’s voice lowered to a whisper I could hardly hear—“I could tell you who the two families were. Would that help?”

  “It would,” I agreed. “And Clem would be so pleased to know.”

  “Okay! And you’ll tell her what a fan I am?”

  “I promise.” Clem would be thrilled, I was sure.

  “Well, because it’s Clem Walker who wants to know . . .” Jessica’s voice almost disappeared.

  I turned up the volume on my phone.

  “One of them is the Jonathan Holgate family. You know. The Holgates with all the money.”

  I didn’t know, but I figured I could find out.

  “And the other consigning family was the Goulds.”

  “The Goulds?”

  “That’s all I can say,” whispered Jessica. “I shouldn’t even have told you that much! My boss would fire me if he knew I’d told you. But tell Clem how much I admire her!”

  The phone clicked before I could promise that, indeed, I would.

  I looked at the two names I’d written down.

  Jonathan Holgate and the Goulds. Sounded like an old-time rock group.

  I’d been away from Maine since I’d been in high school, and I’d never paid a lot of attention to either Maine history or current Maine events. Even if I had, would either of those names have meant anything? Although it seemed I’d heard both names before. Gram or Ruth would know. They were experts on the history of Haven Harbor and Maine.

  The samplers Sarah had bought were from the Providence family. Did either the Holgates or the Goulds have any relationship to the Providences? And, if they didn’t, why were the Providence samplers in an auction of goods from another family?

  Although maybe, as Sarah had suggested, the Providences had “daughtered out.”

  I wanted to tell Clem what I’d found out, and, of course, let her know what a fan she had at the Augusta Auction House. But I wouldn’t bother her now. I’d see her in a couple of hours. Maybe I could find out more by then.

  I could Google Jonathan Holgate and Gould. But I suspected that would tell me a lot about families not related to Maine. Even if the families had been here for generations, they’d been in other places, too. I wasn’t in the mood to spend hours looking through hundreds of names.

  When my phone rang I checked who it was before answering. “Patrick! Good morning!”

  “I hope it is. Everything okay?”

  I hesitated, and then decided I had to tell someone. “Clem said the studio got several more nasty calls last night. And I got a horrible e-mail this morning addressed to Mainely Needlepoint.”

  “Angie, you have to tell the police.”

  “Clem said the studio did that in Portland.”

  “And you need to do it here. Give Pete Lambert a call. He’s a friend. This time of year he probably isn’t too busy.”

  It was Patrick’s first Maine winter. He didn’t understand that life went on, even after summer visitors had returned to New York or Texas or Pennsylvania.

  “I’m going to have lunch with Clem here in the harbor. I’ll see what she thinks.”

  “Tell her what you think, Angie. You’re an independent woman. But don’t be foolish. Letting Pete know what’s happened is the smart thing to do.”

  Trixi jumped down from the windowsill onto my lap. She curled into a circle, her tail neatly tucked at one end and her paws at the other.

  “I’m glad you’ll see Clem today. I was going to suggest we have lunch together, but I just heard from Sam Gould. He wants me to drive to Camden and see his newest design for Mom’s boat.”

  “Sam Gould!” One of the family names connected to the auction. I knew I’d heard it somewhere. “I met Sam Gould last summer, right? The man who had a crush on your mom’s friend Jasmine back in the early seventies?”

  “Right. Remember? I told you she’d called him when she was here for Christmas. She’s commissioned his company to build her a boat.”

  “A yacht?” I did remember Sam Gould. Gould’s Shipbuilders and Marine Services. His office was in a large brick building next to the shipyard where his company built yachts.

  “Not a yacht, Angie. More of a big boat.”

  “A boat you can sleep on?”

  “Only eight.”

  I smiled to myself. Patrick and his mom had very different ideas about some things than I did. Granted, a ship that slept eight wouldn’t be the biggest on the Maine coast, especially in summer. But the biggest boats I’d been on smelled of bait and lobsters and didn’t sleep anyone unless you’d had too much beer or were homeless or brought a sleeping bag with you.

  But Sam was a Gould.

  “Would you ask him if he auctioned off a lot of family pieces in the past week? Or if anyone in his family did?”

  “Angie, that’s none of our business.”

  “I talked to someone at the auction house this morning. She said one of the consigning families was the Goulds. The needlepoint could have belonged to them.”

  Patrick sighed. “I’ll see if I can work a question into our meeting. ‘How are you, Sam? How many heads will there be on Mom’s boat? And, by the way, have you auctioned off any embroideries lately?’”

  “Something like that,” I
agreed, even though Patrick was being facetious.

  “Give my best to Clem, despite her being a pain during the holidays,” said Patrick. “And for goodness sakes, don’t tell her about Mom’s boat. Mom doesn’t need publicity every time she buys something. She thought it would be fun to motor around next summer. For us, too, Angie.”

  “Sounds great,” I agreed. I was still getting used to the way Patrick and Skye spent money. I counted pennies; they counted houses. And, now, boats.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” he promised. “Hope whoever that idiot is who’s been bothering you disappears by then. Have a good lunch with Clem.”

  “And you with Sam Gould. I do think it would be great if you and Skye had a boat.” I hadn’t asked how many feet it would be. He’d said “motor” so I assumed it wasn’t a sailboat. I hoped it wasn’t so big it would require a captain. I liked the idea of a boat Patrick and I could spend afternoons on. And maybe nights . . .

  Plus, it was fun to think of something other than death threats.

  Trixi was still curled up on my lap. “Trixi, I want to find out about that embroidery and the London Foundling Hospital billet. But I have work to do, too. Shall we pay some bills? And then maybe I’ll stop to see Ruth on the way back from the post office. Ruth volunteered to help if I needed some genealogy research. I think that time is now.”

  Chapter 12

  “Endeavour to employ yourself in something useful. Take great pains to learn. Too great a thirst for play is unfavourable to learning.”

  —Sampler stitched by Sara Elizabeth Dukes, age nine, in 1815. It included a rose border, a leopard between two trees, and dishes of fruit.

  “And I need to buy a book of stamps, too,” I said to Haven Harbor’s postmaster, handing him the envelopes I’d already stamped and the padded envelope holding the needlepoint cushion cover filling this morning’s online order. “I never seem to have enough stamps.”

  “Most folks nowadays pay bills online,” said Pax. “Glad you’re doing it the old-fashioned way. Helps keep the Haven Harbor post office open, and me employed. That, and your sending out Mainely Needlepoint packages, too.” He handed me the stamps I needed.

  “I’d pay online if I had a regular income,” I told him. “But owning a small business isn’t the same as getting a regular paycheck. I rarely send in a payment late, but I never know exactly when I’ll have enough money to pay a bill.”

  “Right,” he agreed. “My wife house-sits sometimes, and walks dogs. If we had to depend on what she brings in, and when, we’d be in big trouble. That’s why I’ve worked for Uncle Sam all these years.” He stroked his bushy red beard, which I remembered being fascinated by when I was a kid. Now it was streaked with gray. “Post office work’s not a bad job. Get to work with a lot of good people here in town. In the summer, especially, people act like I’m a chamber of commerce information center. Thinking of which, did that fellow looking for you this morning find you?”

  I stopped. “What fellow?”

  “Tall. A little balding, but not too old. One of those men whose hairlines start disappearing in their late twenties or thirties. Navy fleece pullover, sweatshirt, jeans, navy watch cap. Came in here asking about the lady who ran Mainely Needlepoint.”

  I shivered. A strange man I didn’t know? On an ordinary day I wouldn’t have thought much about that. But today wasn’t an ordinary day. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing special. Just that you had a box here, but you lived on the green in town. Wondered if I should give him your address, but didn’t. Hope that didn’t mean you lost a sale, or maybe a date? Did he find you?”

  “No. And, please, don’t give anyone my address,” I said.

  Pax leaned over the counter. “You got some problem, Angie? Saw you on the TV the other night. You and Clem looked wicked good. I figured that guy might have information for you about the old embroidery.”

  “If he did, he should call it into Channel 7,” I said, firmly. “That’s what Clem said on-air. Did you notice where he headed?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t pay attention. I was putting today’s mail in the boxes about then.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t give him my address.” Thank goodness! “You know I live alone since Gram married Reverend Tom and moved to the rectory. I don’t want any unexpected visitors.”

  “I never give out street addresses. That’s a post office rule, you know. But him being a young man, and you being a young lady . . . I thought maybe you knew him. I mean, you and Patrick West are pretty good friends”—he winked—“but you’re an attractive woman. You might have other friends.”

  “No. I don’t know him,” I said. “And if I have any friends, I’ll give them my address myself.”

  “I get asked addresses all the time, you know. Patrick’s mom, that actress, Skye West? I must get three or four people a day asking where she lives. That’s in the summer, of course. In February, I don’t get so many questions about anything.”

  “What time was that man here?” I asked.

  “Oh, can’t say I remember exactly. About nine-thirty, maybe. The morning mail had come in from Portland, and I’d just started to sort it. Yup. Maybe closer to ten.”

  “Thank you, Pax. And . . . don’t tell anyone where I live, please.”

  “No problem, Angie. So what do you have planned for this bright day?”

  “Errands. And lunch with Clem at the Harbor Haunts.”

  “Good to see her coming back to town to see people. Her mom and dad are good people. They miss her since she moved to Portland.”

  “Portland’s only about eighty minutes away.”

  “True enough,” he agreed. “But not exactly down the street. I haven’t seen Clem in person in years now. Of course, we all tune in to see her on Channel 7. Local girl makes good!”

  I smiled and shook my head slightly. Everyone had an opinion. And Clem was doing well. The magic of television seemed to impress people more than I’d imagined.

  I glanced around as I left the post office. I’d slipped my Glock into the canvas bag I used for a pocketbook, just in case. But I didn’t see anyone but Arwin Fraser, who waved as he drove his truck by. He’d outfitted it with a snowplow. Not all fishermen lobstered in winter. I waved back, got in my car, and headed for Ruth’s house. I’d have time to talk with her before I met Clem.

  Who’d been looking for me at the post office? Pax’s description could have applied to half the male population of Maine. Maybe it was nothing.

  But with the phone calls and messages Clem and I had gotten in the past day, it was hard not to imagine something sinister.

  “This is Haven Harbor,” I told myself. “Not Phoenix or Mesa. And I managed to take care of myself just fine during my ten years there.”

  Ruth Hopkins was seventy-nine. She’d lived in the shade of the Congregational Church steeple for as long as I remembered. I remembered her husband, Ben, living there when I was a child. He’d lost his leg in Vietnam and never really found his way after that. She and Ben hadn’t lived on his VA disability payments all those years. They’d lived on the money she made from writing erotica. Officially, no one in town knew Ruth was also “S. M. Bond” and “Chastity Falls,” but I suspected more people knew than she suspected.

  She lived alone now, with her Mainely Needlepoint and church friends and her characters to keep her company. Because of her arthritis she wasn’t the most productive member of our needlepointing group, but she helped whenever she could. She wrote, watched her Red Sox in the summer and fall, and loved horse races when they were covered by a local cable channel. I stopped in whenever I could, to bring groceries, or just to chat.

  I’d sent her a message that morning about needing some help with genealogy, and she’d invited me to come over about eleven.

  I rang her doorbell exactly on the hour, and waited. It took Ruth a little time to get to the door with her walker. In summer she left her door open if she was expecting company, but an open door in February would only invite
dustings of snow and chill winds.

  “Angie, come on in. It’s freezing out there.”

  “It is,” I said, stepping into her front hallway and removing my snowy boots. “Spring’s only a month away, remember!”

  “By the calendar. Not by Maine weather,” she pronounced. “In 1986 we had ten inches of snow on the fourth of April.”

  I followed her into her living room.

  “So, you found out what families were involved with that needlepoint?” she said, sitting in her favorite chair, the one covered with red and green-flowered upholstery.

  “I talked with someone at the auction gallery this morning. She told me the items at the auction were consigned by Jonathan Holgate and the Gould family.”

  “Holgate and Gould,” Ruth repeated. “Both old-time Maine names. Probably dozens in the state. Senator Holgate, for one.”

  “Senator Holgate?”

  “Don’t pay much attention to Maine politics, Angie?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “I’ve had other things on my mind since I got back to Haven Harbor.”

  “You have, indeed. And she’s not up for reelection for another couple of years. But her name is identified with Maine.”

  “Is she married?”

  Ruth paused. “Pretty sure she is. Can’t recall her husband’s first name, but he’s the Holgate by birth. I can look all that up for you. I suspect there are a lot of Holgates around. And Goulds?” She shook her head. “Can’t begin to think how many Goulds have popped up in Maine history, not to count those who haven’t gotten their names into history books.”

  “I talked to Patrick this morning. He’s having lunch with a Sam Gould over to Camden today.”

  “Shipbuilder?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Goulds have built ships up to Camden for generations. But other Goulds are in Maine, too.”

  “I’m interested in whatever family might have been related to the Providences. The name Providence was on several of the samplers, including one genealogical sampler that Sarah bought. She guessed they’d daughtered out.”