by Lea Wait
—Sophia Frances Anne Caulfeild and Blanche C. Saward, The Dictionary of Needlework: An Encyclopedia of Artistic, Plain and Fancy Needlework, 1882
After Rob left, Juno and I were alone in the quiet house.
I hoped Mary had gone back to the Currans. This wouldn’t be a good night for her to be alone in her house.
What she’d remembered about the history of her family hadn’t solved the mystery of who’d stitched the needlepoint and how it had gotten to Haven Harbor. I checked the computer to make sure: Mary, Queen of Scots, died in 1587 in England and Marie Antoinette died in France in 1793—more than two hundred years later. One site said Marie Antoinette had done needlepoint.
So both Mary and Marie—two women with different versions of the same name—had left the countries they’d been born in and become queens of France. Both had been imprisoned. Both had been beheaded. And both were needlepointers.
Interesting. But those facts wouldn’t help me figure out where Mary’s needlepoint was. I’d managed to entrust it to the only person in Haven Harbor who’d been murdered yesterday.
None of it made sense.
I scrambled myself two eggs, added a little cheddar and parsley—parsley was a vegetable, right?—and found a couple of blueberry muffins in Gram’s freezer from last summer’s crop. I’d have to ask Gram how she made her muffins if I wanted any this year. She’d soon be baking muffins for her husband, not her granddaughter.
What should I do next?
I paced the living room (which was also the Mainely Needlepoint office) while I tried to sort it out. So many questions to answer.... How old was the needlepoint? How had it gotten into Mary Clough’s attic? And, most important, who had it now and how could I get it back to Mary?
I couldn’t do everything. But, after all, I was the director of Mainely Needlepoint. I could delegate.
I called Sarah and Ruth. Sarah’d heard about Lenore’s death; according to her, everyone in town knew within an hour of Rob’s calling the police. Ruth hadn’t heard the news. She’d been at her home all day, writing. “Chastity Falls” hoped to get her next erotic novel up on the Internet later this week.
Both Sarah and Ruth agreed to meet at Ruth’s house the next morning, before Sarah opened her shop, to talk about what we needed to do. I promised to bring croissants from the patisserie.
Then I called the Wild Rose Inn, where Uma Patel was staying, and left a message for her to call me back.
I realized I was on my second beer.
That wasn’t going to help me think through what had to be done. Although it had relaxed me.
But people shouldn’t drink alone, should they?
I decided to walk down to the Harbor Haunts to have one more beer. Just one.
The bar was quiet. Josh Winslow was the only person I knew there. Where was Jude? Despite what Mary had said, maybe they weren’t a couple.
“Evening, Josh,” I sat on the stool next to him. “A Gritty McDuff’s,” I said to the bartender.
Josh looked surprised to see me. “Hi, Angie.”
“Where’re your friends tonight?”
“Friends?”
I took a sip of my Gritty. Maine brews were one of the things I’d missed in Arizona. Not that I’d been a legal drinker when I’d been in Maine. But it had never been hard to get an older person to buy you a six-pack, especially if you shared the purchase. “Arvin and Rob. And Jude Curran.”
“I don’t keep track of where everyone in Haven Harbor is.”
“I heard you went out with Arvin today.”
“No secrets in this town. Rob called in sick or hungover, and Dad didn’t have a full boat today, so he said I could go.” He looked at me closely, as though I had a message written on my face. “You checking up on me?”
“I saw Rob earlier. He mentioned you’d been sternman today.”
“Right.”
“So you’d rather lobster than work on the charter.”
He shrugged and drank again. “Taking rich folks out fishing every day’s no fun. Some of them are okay. Others don’t have a clue. Dad’s always telling me to be nice. Set up their hooks. Help them pull the fish in. Scrub the head when they’re seasick or drink too much beer. Clean their fish for them. I’m not their servant.”
“So, what would you like to do?” I was curious. “What’s your ideal job?”
“Not working for anyone. Be my own boss.” I hoped Josh had a ride home. His words were beginning to slur. “No one to tell me what to do or not do. Be my own man.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plans. Big plans. I’d like one of those jobs where you sit in a fancy office and have a pretty girl bring your coffee and answer your calls.” He grinned. “Then I could go on vacation and pay some other guy to clean the fish I’d caught and never get my hands dirty.”
I finished my beer and put money on the bar. “I’m heading home.”
Josh had already turned to talk to another woman at the bar.
I was beginning to feel those three beers.
Sounded as though Josh was getting restless again, just as Ob and Anna said he did. His ideal job had disappeared fifty years ago, if it ever existed. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be sticking around town for long. Jude Curran might be disappointed if he left town, but I wondered if anyone else would miss him. In addition to his parents, of course.
Ob and Anna Winslow were good people. I hoped Josh would get his act together soon. For his parents’ sake if not for his own.
It had been a long day. I took a hot shower and turned off my light about ten o’clock. I hadn’t gone to bed that early since I was in junior high school and Gram had checked to make sure I got eight hours of sleep.
The night was dark, but I could hear cars and people in the street below my bedroom window.
Juno yawned and curled up at the bottom of my bed.
I tried not to think about Lenore Pendleton. Had she been killed for the jewelry in her safe, or was there another reason someone wanted her dead?
Tomorrow I’d check with Glenda, her secretary, and see if she’d discovered any of Lenore’s files missing, or anything else out of place in her office. No one had told me not to talk to Glenda. And Uma. I hoped she hadn’t gone back to Boston. I wanted to talk to her, too.
The next thing I knew Juno was kneading my shoulder.
I opened my eyes. Had I really slept until six in the morning?
By six-thirty I was at the patisserie. During the summer Henri and Nicole opened early. Nicole opened the door. “Bonjour, Angie! You’re up early.”
“You’re up early every day.”
Nicole shrugged. “Baker’s hours. I’ve been here since four. But I get to sleep early.”
I didn’t volunteer that I’d gotten to sleep early the night before. Six-thirty still seemed too early for me. “Thank you again for translating the note,” I said.
“You’re welcome. I wish I could have been more help. I tried to read the name of the person it was addressed to. It says ‘Ma chère’ . . . but the name is blurred. Last night I looked again at the copy you left for me, and even used a magnifying glass. If I had to guess I would say the name begins with an S, but it is très difficile to decipher. Very hard.” She shook her head. “Did you hear about poor Mrs. Pendleton? Killed in her own office.”
“I heard. Very sad.”
“I hope the police find the person who did that. Until then it is hard to feel safe. When Henri and I moved to Haven Harbor we thought we had left crime behind in Quebec.” She sighed. “Now, not so much.”
I nodded. I hoped I looked more confident than I felt. “In the meantime, could I have three of your croissants?”
“Of course, of course,” she said, moving to the case where the day’s baked goods and pastries were displayed.
“And three almond-cinnamon buns,” I added. Starting the day with sugar would be good. “Is Henri home yet?”
“Later today, he’ll be he
re. He left Quebec early this morning,” Nicole said, ringing up my purchase. I handed her a twenty-dollar bill.
“How is his mother?”
She shrugged. “A little better. He’ll tell me more when he gets home. For now, she’s staying in Canada. We will be looking for a place for her here,” she added. “And looking for the money we’ll need to take care of her.”
I took the white box she’d tied with a string and headed up the hill to Ruth’s house. She lived next to the church, not far from anywhere in downtown Haven Harbor, but a distance she was having more trouble navigating every month. Arthritis wasn’t fatal. But it wasn’t kind.
She answered the door right away. She’d been waiting for me.
“Coffee’s hot,” she said, looking at the box I was carrying. “And I see you’ve brought treats. What fun! Plates are in the cabinet next to the refrigerator. I left cups on the counter next to the coffee.” Ruth walked slowly into her living room. She already had a cup of coffee on the table next to her usual chair.
“Your coffee smells wonderful!” I called back to her. “I’ll bring the pastries into the living room.”
I’d put them on her coffee table when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it so Ruth wouldn’t have to get up again.
“Do I smell coffee?” Sarah asked as she walked in the door. “Good morning, Ruth.”
“Ruth has coffee all ready in the kitchen.” I held up my cup.
“Go on into the kitchen and help yourself,” Ruth added.
Within a few minutes we were all in the living room. No one said anything for a few minutes as we devoured the pastries.
“These are almost worth getting up this early for,” said Sarah, who’d finished her croissant and was starting on her cinnamon bun. “Now, explain exactly why we’re here.”
I put my cup down. “You both know about Mary Clough’s needlepoint, and you know Lenore Pendleton was murdered. Yesterday I talked with Mary and Rob. Of course they’re upset that the needlepoint’s disappeared. Whoever killed Lenore stole the needlepoint and the jewelry that was in her safe.”
“Strange that they took the needlepoint,” Ruth pointed out. “Stealing jewelry makes sense. And the killer must have known it was there. I wouldn’t think of a law office safe as a place to find jewelry. It’s more likely to be kept in a home safe. Or a safe deposit box, if the jewelry is valuable.”
“True,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Ethan said most of the jewelry was Lenore’s. Lenore’s secretary is making a list of everything that’s missing.”
“I wouldn’t think a family lawyer in Haven Harbor would have much jewelry,” said Sarah. “Unless Lenore’s family had money.”
“Oh, she had plenty of money for a while,” said Ruth. “Her husband, Charlie, used to buy jewelry for her when the stock market was doing well. And it did very well for quite a few years. I remember Lenore showing me a ruby ring he’d given her, all set with pearls. A big thing. What we called a cocktail ring back in the day.” Ruth shook her head. “Few people dress for cocktails anymore, and Charlie certainly isn’t buying Lenore jewelry now.”
“Lenore said they were separated,” I said.
“For at least a couple of years. Way I heard it, he fell apart when the stock market collapsed a few years back. His investments disappeared, and so did his bank account. He started drinking, too.” Ruth shook her head and lowered her voice. “There were rumors he got nasty with Lenore.”
“Then why aren’t they divorced?” I asked.
“Only Lenore and Charlie know that for sure,” said Ruth. “I heard he was looking for alimony. More alimony than she wanted to pay.”
Sarah and I exchanged glances.
Interesting. But we were together for another reason. “I’m sorry about Lenore’s problems. But the reason I called you both is that Mainely Needlepoint has three jobs related to Mary’s embroidery. We have to figure out how old that needlepoint is—or was. We have to come up with an educated guess as to how it got into the attic of Mary’s house. And I told Mary and Rob I’d try to find it and bring it back to them.”
Sarah shook her head. “Are you sure we should continue investigating the needlepoint when it’s missing? Mary may never see it again.”
“But you’ve already made a good start in finding out about its age. You both”—I looked from one of them to the other—“suggested that it looked Elizabethan. But I’d like you to keep reading those books you have, Sarah, and focus on figuring exactly what that needlepoint is.”
Sarah nodded. “Okay. If you think we should keep working on that.”
“Ruth, you started doing computer searches the other day and came up with Mary, Queen of Scots. Nicole, at the patisserie, tried to translate the note that was with the needlepoint. She says it’s signed ‘Maria,’ and is addressed, she thinks, to someone whose name begins with an S. Here’s her translation.” I passed the paper on which I’d scribbled down what Nicole had said. “I talked with Mary yesterday. She told me her house may have a connection to Marie Antoinette.”
“I remember that old story,” said Ruth. “I always thought it was a legend. That a captain who lived in that house tried to help Marie Antoinette escape from the Bastille, but failed. What has that got to do with the embroidery?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But Mary Stuart and Marie Antoinette were both queens of France. The note Nicole translated for us is written in French. What I’d like you to do, if you have the time, is to see if there’s any connection between those two queens that would explain the needlepoint.”
“You’re right that they were both queens of France,” Ruth pointed out. “But two hundred years apart! Not exactly best friends.”
“That’s why it’s going to take work to find the connection.”
Sarah looked doubtful. “You’re pushing it, Angie. You want to help Mary. But how could there possibly be a connection?”
“I don’t know. But I want us to try to find one.”
“And while I’m studying up on embroidery techniques and Ruth is making an impossible historical connection, what will you be doing?” asked Sarah.
“Me?” I smiled at my two friends. “I’m going to find out who took the needlepoint from Lenore’s office so we can return it to Mary.”
Chapter 17
Believe not each aspersing tongue
As most week persons do
But still believe the story wrong
Which ought not to be true.
—Sampler stitched by Ariadne Hackney in Mercer, Pennsylvania, 1817, in satin, flat, and cross-stitch; sprays of roses in each corner, verse in center
Having agreed to their assignments, Sarah headed back to her store and Ruth to her computer.
I decided to find the mysterious Uma.
The Wild Rose Inn, where Pete had said she was staying, and where I’d left a message the day before, was within walking distance. A long walk, but not far enough so I needed to go home and get my car. The sea air was still cool, although the sun was quickly burning lacy patterns of dew off the grasses. Dandelions had already gone to seed, but tall buttercups kept unmowed lawns yellow and hid forget-me-nots in the grasses below them.
Mainers could be house-proud, but lawn care for most people meant mowing once a week or as necessary. As long as the lawn was green, witchgrass and dandelions and crabgrass were, if not welcomed, at least not hunted down.
With few exceptions, gardening time was spent on practical vegetable gardens, or in encouraging perennials like the orange daylilies that were beginning to bloom along the sides of the road. The last of the lupines were dying down, preparing to bloom again next June.
I’d missed the greenness of Maine when I’d lived in Arizona, where the botanical garden displayed seemingly endless varieties of cacti, and homeowners surrounded their homes with rocks and stones in varying shades of tan.
A chipmunk scampered in front of me and dove through a small opening in a stone wall separating two properties. Wal
ls here were low, made of stones dug from gardens and foundations. Walls in Arizona had separated homes as though those inside were hiding or needed protection.
The Wild Rose Inn was a large yellow Victorian, the kind of house that once was filled with children and laughter. Today, most houses like that were divided into apartments, or made into bed and breakfasts or inns, as this one had been. Large old homes were hard to maintain and heat. Many inns closed after Columbus Day and didn’t open again until April or May to avoid oil bills.
I rang the bell on the wide porch that surrounded two sides of the house. An empty coffee mug had been left on the arm of one of the wicker chairs. The hammock looked welcoming. Maybe I should get a hammock for my porch.
“Yes?” said the gray-haired woman wearing jeans and an apron who answered the door.
“I’m Angie Curtis. I live down on Elm Street,” I explained. “I’m looking for Uma Patel. I was told she was staying here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Angie,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Clifford, new owner of the Wild Rose. Uma’s inside, having breakfast. Why don’t you come in?”
The dining table was set for eight. Fourth of July week, and the small inn was busy. A couple in their thirties, perhaps honeymooners, sat at one end of the table, focusing on each other and on a tourists’ guide to Maine. The Nolins, the art dealers from Canada, were at a small table to the side. I slid into the chair next to the young woman with long black braided hair at the far end of the large table. “Uma? I’m Angie Curtis. I left a message for you last night.”
“Would you like coffee?” Mrs. Clifford offered. “Or breakfast? It’s all prepared.”
“Just coffee, thank you. Black.” If I hadn’t been full of pastries I’d have been tempted by the cranberry bread and omelets she was serving.
Uma stared at me. “I don’t know you,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t return your call.”
