Thread and Gone

by Lea Wait

  —Stitched by Martha Hall

  on a sampler in 1808,

  Medford, Massachusetts

  Failing to discover anything new about Lenore’s death, or about the current location of the needlepoint, I headed back to Haven Harbor.

  Close to town I passed Aurora, the home actress Skye West and her son Patrick were fixing up. Painters were scraping the shingles, and a backhoe was digging what I assumed would be a basement for Patrick’s new studio and home, near the site of the destroyed carriage house. Sarah’d once mentioned he’d been working with an architect from his hospital bed in Boston. It didn’t look as though the Wests were wasting any time in getting the construction started. Money made a major difference in expectations. And the Wests certainly had money.

  I decided to stop and see Ob Winslow, Josh’s dad, and the only Mainely Needlepointer I hadn’t been in touch with in the past week. He’d been busy with his fishing charter. I took that as a sign his summer was going well.

  But still, I should keep in touch. I was a little worried about Josh, too. He’d looked stressed last night at the Harbor Haunts, and every time I’d seen him recently he’d had a beer in his hand.

  Of course, so had I. But that was different. I had a house and a small company. I wasn’t dreaming of jobs that didn’t exist.

  The Winslows’ barn doors were open. I peeked inside, but no one was there, so I headed past the ell to the main house.

  Anna answered my knock. “Hi, Angie! Good to see you. Coffee?”

  “Thanks, Anna. I could use another cup.”

  “Ob’s not here,” she added over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen. “He and Josh have a full charter today. Beautiful weather and Fourth of July week—a good combination for fishing.”

  “That’s great,” I agreed, following her. “I suspected they were pretty busy since I haven’t heard from Ob for a while. I thought I’d stop in and see how all of you were doing.”

  She nodded as she poured us each a mug of coffee. “We were a little worried about finances in June, as Ob probably told you. Too many cool, rainy days. Several of his charters were canceled at the last minute. Frustrating.”

  We sat at their bright yellow kitchen table.

  “How’s your needlepoint coming?” I asked. Ob was the serious needlepointer in this family. Gram was teaching both Anna and I to stitch, but Anna was way ahead of me. I told myself it was because she didn’t have to run a business. I also suspected she was working on it harder than I was.

  “My striped bass pillow cover is coming along,” she said. “When your grandmother gets back from her honeymoon I’m going to ask her advice about the stitches I should use on parts of it. It’s going to be a birthday gift for Ob, so I only work on it when he’s not home.” She paused. “Doing needlepoint relaxes me. All the stiches are concise and neat and in order. Not like the rest of life.”

  “Gram should be back soon,” I told her. “Tom wants time to prepare for Sunday services. I heard the minister who substituted for him last week wasn’t up to Tom’s standards.” I felt a little guilty at not attending the service myself. I’d treated myself to sleeping in.

  “Sounds as though they’ve kept in touch,” Anna said. “I’m so glad Charlotte found the right person for her. Now, I hope you find someone. And I’m always on the lookout for a nice girl for Josh.”

  What about Jude Curran? She’d certainly indicated she was interested in Josh. But if Anna didn’t know about that, I wasn’t going to tell her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine. And Josh is only—what? Twenty-three?” I knew he was younger than I was. “He’s got lots of time to find the right girl.”

  “He’s twenty-two. But I’m hoping he’ll find a girl who’ll settle him down a little. Encourage him to get a regular job. Helping his father on the Anna Mae isn’t anything permanent. And it would be nice if he could afford a place of his own. I love the boy, but he’s too old to be living at home with Ob and me.”

  I nodded. “But at least he has friends in town. Sarah and I saw him the other night at the co-op with Arvin Fraser and Rob Trask.” And Jude Curran and another girl.

  She sighed. “Can’t say that surprises me. Josh may be living here, but he doesn’t spend much time with Ob and me. He works for Arvin whenever Rob can’t and Ob doesn’t need him. I worry about him spending so much time with Arvin and Rob. They were all close friends when they were in school. Peas in a pod, you’d think. Now Arvin drinks too much, if you ask me. I hoped he’d settle down after he got married last year, but Josh says the baby’s crying gets on Arvin’s nerves. I suspect he’s finding excuses to stay away from home.” She shook her head. “Not a good role model for Josh. And Arvin’s poor wife, stuck at home with the baby while those boys hang out, as they say. Josh doesn’t tell me much, of course. I’m just his mother. But so far as I can tell, the three of ’em don’t do much ’cept drink beer and look for pretty girls.”

  “Maybe he’ll fall in love with one of those pretty girls,” I said, thinking of Jude.

  “I suppose so. But it hasn’t happened yet.” So I was right. He hadn’t mentioned Jude to his parents. Not a good sign for her. Although sometimes the parents were the last to know.

  We sat and sipped our coffee.

  “Sad news, Lenore Pendleton being murdered,” said Anna. “I told Josh, you’ve got to be careful, even when you’re in Haven Harbor. Wicked folks are everywhere.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. Rob Trask and a tourist the guys met at the Harbor Haunts were the ones who found Lenore’s body.”

  Anna put down her cup. “I heard Lenore was killed, of course. I didn’t know any of Josh’s friends were involved.”

  “I’m not saying they were involved in her murder. But Rob found her.”

  “Horrible.”

  “And whoever killed her stole jewelry from her safe, and a piece of needlepoint Sarah Byrne and I were trying to identify and left with her for safekeeping.”

  “You’re trying to find Lenore’s murderer?” Anna looked at me askance.

  “Not her murderer,” I corrected Anna. “The needlepoint that was stolen.”

  “You take care of yourself, Angie,” Anna said. “Don’t get yourself involved in another murder investigation. You’ll never find a man that way. And look for a man who doesn’t work on the water. I can tell you, being married to a man who takes his boat out several miles from shore almost every day isn’t easy. You don’t want a future sittin’ and wondering if your husband will come home.”

  I didn’t want a future just sitting anywhere.

  It had been an exhausting day. I was glad to pull into my driveway. I was looking forward to a quiet evening. I hadn’t planned anything, and I didn’t expect Sarah or Ruth to have discovered any solutions to our needlepoint mystery during the afternoon.

  I hadn’t either. Uma hadn’t known anything that brought me closer to finding the missing needlepoint—or the killer. And Glenda had confirmed what I’d heard other places: Lenore was in the middle of a contentious divorce.

  I opened a can of beer, went to my computer, and idly ran local searches. Lenore’s death was, of course, in all the local and state papers, but none of the articles included details I didn’t already know. Out of curiosity, I Googled her husband. Charles Pendleton had a few traffic violations and one drunk and disorderly conviction. But what was most interesting was a picture of Lenore and Charlie in happier times.

  Dressier times, too. The picture had been taken with artist Jamie Wyeth at a formal benefit for the Farnsworth Museum several years ago. Lenore was wearing a cocktail dress and a striking necklace. Was it the sapphire necklace Glenda had mentioned? The picture was black and white. I couldn’t tell.

  I stared at the picture.

  Lenore and Charlie were both smiling. I didn’t see any hint of trouble in their relationship.

  Lenore hadn’t changed much, although her hair was now a little more gray.

  But I kept looking at Charlie. I was almost posi
tive Charlie Pendleton was the man I’d seen leaving his wife’s office the morning I brought her the needlepoint. The man who’d looked angry and who’d rushed off.

  I sat back, trying to decide whether or not that was important. Glenda had said Charlie’d been bothering Lenore. Was that morning one of those times? Lenore had certainly been alive when he’d left her office that morning. Could he have returned later? Could Charlie have killed her? Perhaps he hadn’t planned to—that bookend she’d been hit with was definitely a weapon of convenience, not premeditation. But, maybe . . .

  On the other hand, the police had probably already talked to him. After all, since their divorce wasn’t final, he was still Lenore’s next of kin. I made a note of his address. I’d pay a sympathy call on the new widower tomorrow. I hadn’t heard they’d had any children. Unless she’d made out a new will, he’d inherit her estate.

  But she believed in having up-to-date wills. She’d talked to me about them several times. She’d probably changed hers when she and Charlie separated.

  Had he known that?

  My mind went back and forth, considering the possibilities.

  I cooked a hamburger for dinner and then glanced through my embroidery books, but I couldn’t focus on them.

  Murder today seemed so much more important than embroidery four hundred years ago.

  I thought of Mary, who’d frozen the first time I tried to hug her. Of Lenore, supporting herself and divorcing Charlie.

  Had Lenore ever felt isolated? Had she ever lain in bed alone, longing for someone to touch her? I wondered.

  When was the last time anyone hugged me, other than Gram? Her hugs were fine, but they weren’t the kind I was thinking of.

  When was the last time someone held my hand?

  Sometimes I felt as though without a caring touch I’d crack and break into tiny pieces.

  Sometimes I didn’t even care if the touch was a caring one.

  I poured a little brandy and took it up to bed with me.

  I had to learn to live alone. I was strong. I didn’t need to lean on anyone.

  I fell asleep holding my pillow.

  Chapter 20

  Home, ’tis the name of all that sweetens life

  It speaks the warm affections of a wife.

  Oh! ’Tis a word of more than magic spell

  Whose sacred power the wanderer can tell.

  —Sampler stitched by Martha Agnes Ramsay, age twenty-three, Hopewell, Ohio, 1849

  I woke in the dark.

  Footsteps. Someone was in my house.

  I rolled over and looked at the clock next to my bed. Eleven-thirty. I must have fallen asleep immediately.

  Had I locked the doors before I’d come upstairs?

  I was sure I had.

  I heard the low murmur of conversation. More than one person was in the house. Downstairs.

  Where my gun was. Why hadn’t I brought my gun upstairs? Next time . . .

  If there was a next time.

  Juno jumped up from the foot of my bed, where she’d been snoozing, and went to investigate.

  If I hadn’t been so scared, I’d have laughed. An attack cat?

  If I ever got a pet, it would be a dog. A big dog with a loud bark and sharp teeth.

  I sat up slowly. I didn’t turn my lamp on.

  What was there to steal downstairs? I loved this house and its contents, but it wasn’t full of valuables. Gram’s silver was in the dining room, though. And my computer was new.

  What had Lenore thought? Had she opened the door to her killer, or had she woken, as I just did, hearing someone downstairs in her office?

  Maybe she’d been brave enough to go down and confront them.

  But she’d died.

  I’d always thought I was pretty brave. Now my heart was pumping so hard I could hear it. I felt frozen.

  If only I had my gun.

  Maybe whoever was in the house would take what they were looking for and leave. Maybe they’d think I’d sleep through a home invasion. My car was in the driveway; they’d know I was home.

  My mind whirred.

  Without thinking, I touched my angel necklace.

  Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. The fourth step from the bottom creaked, as it always had.

  Should I pretend to be asleep? Should I confront whoever it was? What if whoever was on the stairs had a gun?

  For a moment I was distracted by the sound of the downstairs toilet flushing.

  So. One in the bathroom; one on the stairs.

  I’d never thought of a burglar stopping to pee.

  Then whoever was there knocked on my door. I’d left it ajar by habit.

  “Angie? Angie, are you asleep? Angie, this is Tom. Your grandmother and I are back from Quebec.”

  Chapter 21

  Full well she knows that winter keen

  Must come to blast this painted scene.

  With famine on its wing

  Her prudent labours find repose

  Not winter cold nor want she knows

  Till time renews the spring.

  —Sampler by Mary Elizabeth Fearson, Georgetown, Washington, DC, circa 1834

  I took a deep breath and reached to turn on my lamp.

  “Tom!”

  “I hope I didn’t scare you. Before we go to the rectory Charlotte wanted to pick up the clothes she left here.”

  I pulled my terry cloth robe over my black sleep shirt that read, “This is my sexy nightgown,” and went to the door. “Why didn’t you call?”

  Tom stood in the hall, caught somewhere between embarrassed and amused when he saw me. “We thought we’d be home hours ago, but we stopped for dinner in Skowhegan and ran into a guy I’d gone to seminary with. Time flew. Your Gram’s downstairs. She said she’d left suitcases in her room?”

  “They’re still there,” I said, turning on lights in the hall and in Gram’s room. Gram had been superstitious. She hadn’t moved any of her things into the rectory before her wedding. But she’d packed most of her clothes in several suitcases and garment bags and left them in her room, ready to go. “How was the trip?”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Perfect. Charlotte wants to tell you all about it. Why don’t you go downstairs? She’s in the kitchen. We smuggled some Quebecois cheeses and wine in for you. She wanted to put them away.”

  That was my Gram. I grabbed one of her filled suitcases and headed for the stairs.

  Gram was home!

  I felt as though I was seven and it was Christmas morning.

  “Gram!” I grabbed her and gave her a big hug. “You and Tom practically gave me a heart attack! But I’m glad you’re back. I want to hear all about your honeymoon—well, almost all!” I teased her. “And I have so much to tell you.”

  “We had a great time, Angel. Took lots of pictures and brought back lots of memories,” she said. She looked great. Happy and calm. Juno was purring loudly and rubbing against her legs.

  I hoped I looked as good as Gram when I was sixty-five.

  “Tom told me you smuggled food over the border,” I said.

  “To thank you for your help with the wedding, and because you happen to be our favorite granddaughter.” She pointed at two bottles of wine on the table and handed me a bag of wrapped cheeses.

  “Of course, I’m your only granddaughter,” I said, peeking into the bag. “Shall we sample these now?”

  “No, they’re all for you. We got some for ourselves, too. I hope we’ve written on each package what’s inside.”

  “If not, then it will be a surprise.”

  “I kept thinking of Henri and Nicole’s breads. They’d be delicious with the cheeses.”

  “And the wines,” I said, looking over what she’d brought. I wasn’t an expert on wines or cheeses, but I looked forward to learning.

  The front door closed a couple of times.

  “Tom’s taking my suitcases out to the car. I’ll come back tomorrow to get a few other things,” said Gram. “It’s late; close to midnight.
We can get caught up in the morning.”

  I nodded. I wished she were staying here, in her old room. I wished we could sit up and talk the way we had when I’d been a teenager. I needed to tell her what had happened in Haven Harbor during the past few days.

  The rectory was two blocks away. Two long blocks.

  “Tom has to catch up with paperwork and get his sermon ready for Sunday, so I’ll have plenty of time to catch up with you,” she said, giving me another hug. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay? And I’ll take Juno home with me then,” she added, reaching down to scratch Juno’s neck. “One more day, my Juno, and you’ll go to your new home.”

  We walked together toward the front door and I hugged her again before she left.

  Then I was careful to lock both the screen door and the front door. And take my gun upstairs with me.

  Gram was back.

  And gone.

  The house seemed emptier than ever without her.

  Not that I’d ever admit that.

  Chapter 22

  The Quene his Majesties Mother wrote a book of verses in French of the Institution of a Prince, all with her own hand, wrought a cover of it with a needle, and it is now of his Majestie esteemed as a precious jewel.

  —Written in 1616 by Bishop Montagu of Winchester about the book Tetrasticha, ou Quatrains a son fils, written in 1579 by Mary, Queen of Scots, for her son, James, while she was imprisoned. Today the book’s whereabouts are unknown.

  Gram hadn’t come over first thing the next morning. I texted her and she said she’d see me around eleven. Could we have lunch together? I agreed.

  I pulled myself together and decided to visit Charlie Pendleton.

  For this condolence call I didn’t take flowers or chocolate.

  Charlie’s current residence was the third-floor apartment in a rambling, unkempt farmhouse out on Route 1. Several cars and trucks were parked in the wide driveway and on the lawn. The beige sedan reminded me of the one Charlie had taken off in when I’d seen him at Lenore’s office. Good. I hoped that meant he was home. The house needed a coat of paint and probably a new roof. Sarah would have called it vintage. I wondered if it had dependable plumbing and heat.