by Lea Wait
Four doorbells and four mailboxes were by the front door.
I pressed the button labeled “C. Pendleton.”
I pressed it again.
The third time I leaned on it.
A few minutes later Charlie appeared at the door barely dressed in striped boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Neither of them covered his belly. I tried not to look at anything but his face.
He must have slept in this morning. He didn’t look like a man in mourning for his murdered wife, unless the mourning had involved a lot of late night drinking.
I made an immediate decision to only talk to him at the door. I wasn’t crazy enough to climb three flights of stairs to talk to a half-naked man known to have a temper.
“Yeah?” he asked. “Who’re you? I got nothing to say to the press.”
I couldn’t match this man to the elegantly dressed gentleman I’d seen in the picture taken at the Farnsworth benefit a few years ago. Or to anyone I would have imagined Lenore Pendleton would marry.
“I’m not the press,” I said. “I’m trying to find out what happened to the things taken from your wife’s office safe the day she was killed.”
I came right to the point. I didn’t think Charlie was going to offer me coffee and doughnuts.
“You mean that jewelry I spent a fortune on?”
“And a piece of needlepoint that belonged to a client of mine,” I said.
“Needlepoint?” he looked dubious.
“It was in a padded envelope.” I wasn’t going to explain any more than I had to. The fewer people who knew that needlepoint might be valuable the better.
“I don’t know anything about any needlepoint,” he said. “And, in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t kill my wife. And, no, I don’t have anything that was in that safe. I saw her the morning after the Fourth about some personal matters. We disagreed, as usual, because she’s a b . . .” He didn’t finish the word. I got the point.
“Did you know the combination to her safe?”
“No way she’d let anyone know that, even her own husband. She had private stuff in there from her clients, as well as jewelry that was rightfully mine.”
I suddenly wondered how many people Charlie had told about that valuable jewelry in Lenore’s safe. “Did you tell anyone about the jewelry?”
“Sure. Ain’t no secret.”
“Did anyone show a special interest in it? Or how valuable it was?”
“Missy, I already answered all these questions. That Pete Lambert, he and Ethan Trask, they were here bright and early after some kids found Lenore’s body.” He slumped against the door frame. “Nothing I know will help anyone figure out what happened to her. She and I didn’t get along so good. She is—she was—an independent sort of woman. Believed she was right about everything.” He paused. “Always said I didn’t pull my weight in our marriage. Hell. Maybe she was right about that. She was a pretty heavy weight to compete with. But no way did I kill her.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Pendleton.” I even added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He looked at me. “If you find that jewelry, remember. It’s mine.”
Chapter 23
Children, like tender osiers [willows], take the bow
And as they are fashioned always grow
For what we learn in youth, to that alone
In age we are by second nature prone.
—Verse from John Newbery’s A Little Pretty Pocket-book Intended for the Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly (1744), thought to be among the first books for children. (The original author of the verse is Roman poet Juvenal.) Stitched by Abigail Donnell of York, Maine, when she was thirteen, in 1815. Abigail died in childbirth in 1832.
I headed back to Haven Harbor.
I made a quick stop at the patisserie, welcomed Henri back, and bought French bread to have with the cheeses Gram had brought from Quebec.
She was letting herself in the front door when I drove into the driveway. Perfect timing.
We settled ourselves at the kitchen table in our usual places and she poured us each a glass of pinot noir as I sliced the bread and unwrapped the cheeses she’d brought back: a spicy cheddar, a blue, Camembert, herbed feta, and several varieties I’d never heard of but that smelled wonderful.
Juno happily joined us, going from one of us to the other. Cats didn’t show emotions the way dogs did. But Juno was clearly glad Gram was home.
I wondered if she’d be as happy when she got out of her cat carrier at the rectory later today. We all had adjustments to make to Gram’s marriage.
“What were the highlights of your trip?” I asked, raising my glass to Gram. Then I smeared decadently creamy blue cheese on a piece of French bread.
“Highlights? Drinking champagne in the bar overlooking the St. Lawrence River at the Château Frontenac. Window shopping at the little shops on the Rue du Petit-Champlain. Visiting the Musée de la Civilisation and playing with all the interactive exhibits. Dinner at le Saint-Amour. I don’t even have words for how good that was. Although I don’t think we had a bad meal the whole time we were there,” Gram said.
“Sounds fantastic,” I said.
“When I’m more organized I’ll show you pictures. I can’t believe I’ve lived in Maine all my life and never been to Quebec. Tom and I’ve already decided we want to go back on our first anniversary.” Gram sipped her wine and then sat back. “Now. What’s been happening here? Did you learn anything more about Mary Clough’s needlepoint? I’m looking forward to seeing it.”
I took a deep breath. “I can’t show you the needlepoint now. It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” Gram looked at me. “From here?”
“No. I gave it to Lenore Pendleton, so she could keep it in her safe.” It was hard not to be blunt, but I forged ahead. “The needlepoint, and jewelry that was also in her safe, was stolen when Lenore was murdered.”
“Murdered? Lenore? When did that happen?” Gram had put down her glass and looked shaken.
“Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.”
“I can’t believe it. Lenore gone,” Gram said. Then she looked closely at me. “You’re not getting involved in the murder investigation, are you? You know that’s for Ethan and Pete to do.”
“I know,” I said. Gram hadn’t been enthused when I’d gotten involved in other police cases. Truthfully, the police hadn’t been thrilled either. “I’m not investigating Lenore’s murder. But I have been trying to find out what happened to the needlepoint. It was my responsibility.”
Gram looked at me. “It wasn’t your fault it was stolen. You put it in the safest place you could think of. And Mary agreed it should be in Lenore’s safe, right?”
“She did,” I admitted. “But I still feel responsible. I’m guessing whoever took it didn’t even know it was old needlepoint. I don’t know what it’s worth. Mary values it because of its connection to her family.”
“Of course,” said Gram. “Good for her. Sounds like she has her head solidly on her shoulders.”
We sat comfortably quiet for a few minutes, eating our bread and cheeses and sipping wine.
“When I talked to you earlier this week you said there were stories connected with Mary Clough’s family and house.”
“Have been for years,” Gram agreed.
“She told me about her ancestor who was supposed to have tried to rescue Marie Antoinette.”
“That story’s been around Haven Harbor for over a hundred years. There may be truth in it. Back in those times we Americans were great friends of the French people. After all, Lafayette helped us win our revolution. But we’d gotten rid of King George. I don’t suspect many Mainers in those days would have cheered for anyone who tried to save someone of royal blood. Monarchs were thought enemies of the people. So it makes sense nothing was said about what Captain Clough did back in 1793. I remember my grandmother saying she’d heard the Clough family had framed a piece of cloth that was part of one of Marie Antoinett
e’s gowns. But my grandmother had never seen it, and certainly I haven’t.” Gram sat back. “Did Mary tell you all that?”
“She told me part of it.”
“After all,” Gram continued. “She’s one of the Marys.”
Chapter 24
I was sent for into the Council Chamber, where she herself ordinarily sitteth the most part of the time, sowing at some work or other.
—From a report on Queen Mary Stuart sent back to Elizabeth I on October 24, 1561, by Thomas Randolph, the English envoy to Scotland
“One of the Marys?” I asked. Mary herself had used that phrase. She’d also added that she didn’t know what it meant.
“Soon after Captain Clough returned home from his famous trip to France, his wife gave birth to a little girl. The Cloughs named her Mary. It’s the English version of Marie, of course. Those who knew about Clough’s possible connection to Marie Antoinette assumed he’d named his daughter after the queen. Ever since then, every generation in the Clough family has named at least one daughter Mary. The Mary Clough you know is just the most recent one.”
What a wonderful story! Although the Clough family’s connection to Marie Antoinette, no matter how tenuous, didn’t connect the needlepoint to Mary, Queen of Scots.
Who was, of course, another Mary.
Probably a coincidence. Mary was a common enough name.
Gram got up. “It’s time Juno and I got back to the rectory. I’ll no doubt be back here often to pick up things, but right now I’m trying to figure out how to find places for my clothes without displacing Tom’s. I don’t think I’ll take anything but Juno today.”
My phone was humming. A text was coming in. I ignored it for the moment and helped Gram gather Juno’s dishes, litter pan, toys, and the food she hadn’t eaten. It took us a couple of trips to my car, since Gram hadn’t brought hers. Juno watched us suspiciously.
Then Gram lifted her into her carrier. Juno meowed pitifully.
“She thinks she’s going to the vet,” explained Gram. “I haven’t used her carrier for anything else.”
As she was putting Juno in the car I checked my phone.
My message was from Sarah. Ready to share research re: needlepoint.
I texted her back that I’d be there in half an hour.
First I was taking Gram and Juno to their new home.
I drove Gram up the street, and then drove home to leave my car.
I wrapped up the cheeses we hadn’t eaten and put them in the refrigerator.
Gram was home in Haven Harbor. Not home with me.
Now Juno was gone, too.
Gram had lived alone here for the ten years I’d been in Arizona. I wanted to ask her if she’d revisited all the tough times, all the hard days, as she’d walked through these rooms. But I didn’t want her to think I was a wimp.
I was beginning to have a glimmer of why Mary Clough planned to get married and sell her house. A house full of memories was wonderful, if the memories were good ones. But not all my memories were joyful. Probably not all of hers were, either. No one has a perfect life.
I shut the front door, hoping I’d leave those thoughts behind, and walked the few blocks to From Here and There.
Sarah didn’t have any customers and she’d started water heating for tea.
I pulled over a chair to join her behind her counter and reached for the bowl of gummy lobsters she stashed there. Yum. I still wasn’t a fan of antiques, but I was comfortable in Sarah’s cozy store. “So—what have you found out?” I asked as she put loose Earl Grey leaves into a ceramic tea infuser in her red and white teapot and poured in hot water from her electric kettle.
“It should be steeped enough in about three minutes, unless you want yours very strong,” she said.
I shook my head. I loved watching Sarah make tea. I could understand why in some countries it was a ceremony. At home, if Gram or I wanted a cup of tea, we poured hot water over a tea bag or two. Sarah treated tea with much more respect.
“I’m glad you’re here, and we can talk about something pleasant. Everyone who’s stopped in here during the past couple of days has told me about Lenore Pendleton’s murder. I didn’t know her, but what happened is horrible. Beaten to death in her own office! I’ve never been nervous about living in Haven Harbor, but I’ve checked the locks on my doors and windows several times a day since I heard.” She paused, and then quoted, “‘While we were fearing it, it came—/ But came with less of fear / Because that fearing it so long / Had almost made it fair.’”
Emily Dickinson seemed to have written a poem for every occasion.
“It’s scary,” I agreed. “And sad. And so far as I’ve heard, Ethan and Pete have no clues about who might have done it.”
“You still want us to continue trying to figure out what the embroidery was, and how it got to Haven Harbor?” Sarah said.
“Absolutely. And I’m trying to figure out where it is now.”
Sarah gave me a quizzical look. “Trying to solve a crime again?”
“Trying to get Mary’s needlepoint back to her,” I said firmly.
“I’m not sure what I’ve found will help,” said Sarah. “I’ve been skimming through my books. Several of the ones Skye West gave us were especially helpful.”
Skye West, Patrick’s mother, had found a bookcase full of books on needlepoint in the estate they were refurbishing. Since she didn’t do needlepoint, she’d given the books to Sarah and me for Mainely Needlepoint. Sarah’d kept the ones about early stitchery since Gram already had most of those in her collection.
“Yes?” I waited a moment before Sarah poured us each a cup (not a mug) of tea.
“Ruth and I were right in thinking of Mary Stuart—Mary, Queen of Scots—immediately,” Sarah said, sitting back waiting for her tea to cool. “Her mother-in-law in France was Catherine de Médicis, who’d learned needlepoint when she was a girl in a convent school in Florence, Italy. Catherine encouraged Mary to learn needlepoint. I found a couple of references that said she most often used tent stitch and cross-stitch.”
I nodded. “Interesting. So that confirms that Mary Stuart knew how to do embroidery.”
“No doubt about that. When she left France for Scotland two of her professional embroiderers went with her. She was also commonly seen stitching through political meetings. People said she stitched with her head down so no courtiers could see her reactions to political propositions.”
“Sounds smart.”
“She was also probably concentrating on what was being said. After all, she’d spoken French since she was five. She wasn’t comfortable with Scottish.”
“So she would have known how to write in French,” I said, thinking of the note Mary’d found with the embroidery.
“She spoke several languages. But, yes. She was most comfortable with French.”
“If she brought professional embroiderers with her from France, how could we tell what stitching she did—and which they did?” I asked.
“The professional embroiderers worked on large pieces, like hangings to surround beds for privacy and warmth. Scots castles weren’t exactly cozy! Mary even had hangings made to surround her commode so she had privacy.”
Sarah had found details about Mary Stuart’s life that Ruth hadn’t.
“I’m glad we live now. Indoor plumbing is a real plus,” I said.
“Spot on. She may have been smart about embroidery, but she wasn’t so smart in knowing whom to trust. First she married her English cousin, Henry, Lord Darnley, who was handsome, younger than Mary, and spent his time partying with his friends. He was the father of her one surviving child. He was also one of those involved in plotting to kill Mary’s Italian secretary, Rizzio. Mary was furious with him. They didn’t spend much time together after that. Darnley died when a gunpowder explosion blew up the house where he was staying.”
“It sounds like a soap opera,” I said, sipping my tea as Sarah continued.
“No one knows for sure whether Mary was invo
lved in the plot to kill Darnley, but many thought she was. Especially when three months later she married the Earl of Bothwell, who was almost definitely involved.”
“So was she finally happy?”
Sarah shook her head. “The soap opera continued. The Scots people felt Bothwell had taken advantage of Mary. They’d only been married a month before other Scottish nobles tried to capture both Mary and Bothwell. Bothwell fled to Denmark. Mary escaped to Lochleven, a castle on an island, where she was held while the Scottish lords ruled.”
“So that’s when she was imprisoned?”
“For the first time. She was on the island a little less than a year. The books I have disagree about how much she embroidered there. She did ask for silk threads, according to records. I’d guess she did some stitching, but her mind was on more important issues.”
“Like getting off the island, I assume,” I said.
Sarah nodded. “And getting her crown back. And, on top of all that, she was pregnant.”
“So she had another child.”
“She miscarried. And then was forced to abdicate in favor of her son. He was only one when he became James the Sixth of Scotland. But she was still held prisoner. She tried to escape, but was caught. Then she tried again, and sought sanctuary in England from her cousin, Elizabeth the First.”
“And that was when her long imprisonment started.”
“Exactly. She was held in different castles at different times. Records show she asked for packets and skeins of silk thread and cord, to use to embroider. During this period she embroidered with Bess of Hardwick, who was also known as a talented stitcher.” Sarah took a deep breath. “If the embroidery Mary Clough found can be traced I think it must be from that eighteen-year period.”
