Tightening the Threads

by Lea Wait

  “I agree. Plus his hands are still clumsy. He couldn’t exactly slip a sick clam or a dose of poison onto Ted’s plate.”

  “Poison?”

  “I talked with Dave. Other poisons can have symptoms similar to Red Tide’s. I’m trying to check out all possibilities.”

  “Understood. I agree. That gets us to Ted’s four children.” Sarah leaned back. “I hate thinking any of them would kill him.”

  “We don’t know that they did,” I cautioned her. “His death might still have been accidental. But all of them would benefit if he died before he had a chance to make out another will.”

  She nodded. “Okay. We’ll take them in order. Abbie and Ted didn’t get along. He’d cut her off after she got pregnant and then married Silas.”

  “She said he called her a slut.” I hesitated. “Local gossip says Ted’s wife was pregnant with a child that wasn’t Ted’s when she drowned.”

  “So Abbie reminded him of Lily,” said Sarah, not flinching.

  Maybe she’d heard the stories about Lily before.

  “Abbie told me she asked Ted for money Friday afternoon, before the others arrived. He refused. She was really angry about that. So was Silas.”

  “You and she talked Friday evening.”

  “I thought she wanted to find out more about me, be my friend. She told me being the oldest Lawrence child, and a girl, hadn’t been easy. She’d been left out of a lot, and since she’d left home she didn’t know much about what her father or her brothers were doing. She suspected they stayed closer in touch with each other than they did with her.”

  “So Abbie wanted money and felt neglected.”

  “She wasn’t the only one of Ted’s children who wanted money. What about Michael? Ted’s been supporting him.”

  “Michael told me he’s writing a tell-all memoir about growing up in the Lawrence family. Did Ted know that?”

  “If he did, he never mentioned it. I suspect a book Michael wrote about the Lawrence family wouldn’t be full of jolly memories and family fun,” said Sarah.

  “Agreed. Maybe Michael thought a tell-all book would make money. That he wouldn’t have to depend on his father as much in the future.”

  “He was taking notes Friday night while I was talking about how I ended up in Haven Harbor,” Sarah said. “I didn’t ask him why. I guess they were notes for his book. But no one writes a book overnight.”

  “True. Michael definitely wasn’t happy to hear you were going to inherit the Robert Lawrence paintings. But now he has a lot more to write about: you and Jeremy. And two suspicious deaths. He may be delighted to have new material for his memoir, but I can’t see him killing his father to get more to write about.”

  “No,” Sarah agreed.

  “The only one who didn’t need money was Luke,” I added. “That Wall Street job of his sounds like a pretty big deal.”

  Sarah hesitated. “Have you talked with Luke yet? I mean questioned him, the way you’re questioning each of us?”

  “No. This morning we only talked briefly about my investigating. While I interviewed Abbie and Michael, Luke went grocery shopping. He hadn’t returned when I left.”

  “Did he pay you up front?” asked Sarah.

  “No. I figured he’d be good for it.”

  “Get cash,” Sarah advised. “Luke talks a good story, but Ted once told me he’d trusted Luke to manage some of the family money and Luke lost most of it, along with his own, in the housing crash a few years back. He may have recovered a bit, but I don’t think Luke’s on easy street.”

  “So all three of Ted’s children needed money.”

  “And Jeremy . . .”

  “Had a regular job, and didn’t expect to inherit anything from Ted.”

  “That’s the way it looked. But he’s never gotten along with Luke and Michael. He’s told me that often enough. He resented them. I can’t see him hurting Ted. But why did he go clamming with Luke and Michael Saturday? And which of them brought back the poisoned clams?” Sarah frowned.

  “In other words, all four of Ted’s children had some motive to kill Ted. We were all together. I guess we all had opportunity.”

  “And means? We all had access to clams. Although who would have known which clam was the poisonous one?”

  “I have no idea,” I agreed. “Which means . . . I don’t have a clue as to what happened.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  “Religion is the chief concern

  Of mortals here below.

  May its great importance learn

  Its sovereign virtues know.”

  —Sampler completed by Clementine Russell in May 1869. Clementine did not include her location in her stitching.

  “It’s late,” I said, glancing at my phone. “It’s been a long day. I’m heading home. If you have any inspirations about what happened this past weekend, let me know.”

  I walked past the closed gallery and up the hill toward the Green. Crickets were singing, filling the evening’s silence with the sound of autumn. The Congregational Church on the far side was lit for Tuesday night choir practice. Lights were also on in most of the houses around the Green. The supper hour was past. Children and teenagers would be in their bedrooms, working on homework, or pretending to do so, while moms and dads cleaned up the kitchen or watched television. It seemed centuries since Gram and I had lived like that. I had no father, and Mama had left us. But I’d never doubted that I’d been loved. Gram made sure of that.

  Sarah, too, had been loved by her grandmother, and Patrick had his mother and his uncle. Jeremy’s relationship with his mother sounded close. Children didn’t need two loving parents to be valued.

  But somehow the Lawrence children had missed out. Lily, whatever kind of mother she’d been, had died when they’d been young. Before they’d really had a chance to get to know her. In her absence, Ted and Robert Lawrence had made sure Abbie, Luke, and Michael were well fed, clothed, housed, and educated. But loved?

  What was Michael writing in his memoir?

  Especially after this past weekend. He’d been right when he’d said he’d have a new, more dramatic ending for his book.

  As I fumbled for my door keys I saw flashes on the Green and heard giggles. Teenagers taking selfies and pictures of their friends in the dark. Not every student was working on homework tonight.

  Pictures, I thought, going into my house and greeting Trixi.

  Anna Winslow had said that Saturday she’d been on Mackerel Point taking pictures of migrating birds.

  I pulled out my phone. “Anna? Angie. Sorry to bother you. But have you looked at the pictures you took on Mackerel Point late Saturday morning?”

  “Haven’t downloaded them. They’re still in my camera,” she answered. “Why?”

  “I wondered if you’d taken any pictures that included that person you saw digging clams on the beach.”

  “Not intentionally,” she said. “But I suppose maybe in the background. Shall I look?”

  “Would you mind sending the pictures to me? I’d like to check them out.” If Jeremy was telling the truth, the clammer would be Michael. But it wouldn’t hurt to have confirmation.

  Was it possible that Michael read the “posted” signs and saw a way to keep what he saw as his rightful inheritance, and make his memoir a best seller?

  How many clams—if any—had he dug on Mackerel Point? And what had he done with them?

  “No problem,” Anna was saying. “Have the police decided Ted was killed by one of those clams?”

  “They’re still questioning people. But Luke Lawrence asked me to think through the weekend too, and see if I could come up with any possibilities.”

  “I’ll send those pictures right over,” said Anna. “I hope they help.”

  Through the living room window I saw the lights of a car pulling into my driveway.

  “Got to go, Anna. Looks like I’ve got company. Thanks for helping.”

  Detective Ethan Trask and Sergeant Pete Lambert got ou
t of Ethan’s car as I opened my front door. “Hey, Angie,” said Ethan. “Got a little time to talk?”

  “I wondered when you’d get to me.” I reached down to block Trixi, who’d been trying to slip outside. I picked her up and she nestled in my arms, purring. “Wine or coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds good,” said Pete, closing the door after them. “It’s been a long day. And we’re still on the job.”

  I led the way back to my kitchen, switching on lights as I went. Trixi headed for her food dish, while the men sat at the kitchen table. They’d both been there before.

  I put coffee on to brew. “Sorry I don’t have anything decent to offer you to eat.”

  “You haven’t exactly had time to cook during the past few days,” Ethan said.

  “I know you’ve been talking to everyone who was at The Point last weekend,” I said, sitting down as the coffeepot started to drip. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You weren’t at the top of our suspect list,” said Ethan. “And we knew what you were doing. Luke Lawrence told me he’d asked you to investigate.” He shook his head. “You know I can’t condone people hiring investigators to compete with the police. Pete and I are working full-time on this case. It’s high profile. Lots of pressure from Augusta to get it settled quickly. We’ve talked to everyone who was at The Point last weekend except you. Some we’ve talked to twice. And at the same time the crime scene folks have done an initial search and examination of what they found in the Lawrence house and barn, and on their beach.”

  “Anyone has the right to hire a private investigator,” I pointed out. “Luke hired me, but I haven’t spoken with him yet, or with Patrick West. I’ve talked to the others.” I looked from Ethan to Pete and back. “You probably know that. And you know me. You know I won’t do anything to get in the way of what you’re doing.”

  “Yup,” said Ethan. “I know you’re being careful. But this is police business. Your asking questions isn’t helping us. It’s confusing people. And it could be dangerous.”

  I put my hands up. “I’m just chatting with acquaintances.”

  “Somehow whenever there’s a crime in Haven Harbor you seem to be involved in some way,” Pete pointed out.

  “Is it my fault people talk with me?” I asked, trying to look innocent.

  Ethan sighed. “Okay. Tell us what you’ve found out.”

  I got up to pour three cups of coffee. “Not much,” I admitted, putting the mugs in front of us. “All of Ted’s children needed money. They were upset when he announced Friday night he was changing his will.”

  Pete nodded. “Basic background. Anything else?”

  I looked from one of the men to the other. “I really don’t have anything to help you. I don’t even know if Ted or Silas died accidentally or were murdered. So far, everyone’s stories seem to check out. I haven’t had a chance to sit down and analyze what I’ve heard. I was going to do that tonight.”

  Ethan sighed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to add anything. Angie, I shouldn’t be telling you this. But we’ve worked together in the past.”

  “You can trust me,” I said.

  “Good. So this information is just for you. Right now we’re not convinced Ted Lawrence was poisoned by Red Tide. Early toxicology reports aren’t clear. The crime lab is running more specific tests. Certainly, Ted Lawrence might have been a victim of Red Tide, but he also showed signs that could be arsenic poisoning. Right now we can’t say for sure what killed him.”

  “Arsenic!” I said, sitting back. “But isn’t that hard to get today? Hasn’t it been banned?”

  “It has. But you can still get it—or find it—here in Maine, especially in old barns where it was used to kill rats and mice.”

  “We’ve even had people report finding arsenic residue in old bottles in antique shops,” Pete put in.

  “What about Silas?” I asked. “Was he poisoned with arsenic, too?”

  “Not Silas. We have other questions about his death, but the cause is pretty clear. His alcohol level was way above the legal limit.”

  “Wicked high,” Pete agreed.

  “But he also had a lethal level of Percocet in his system,” Ethan added.

  “How could that happen?” I asked. “Who had Percocet?”

  “Ted Lawrence. We found a bottle of Percocet in his medicine cabinet. The prescription was legal. His oncologist had written it, and Lawrence had filled it in Portland last Wednesday. Only three pills were left in the bottle.”

  “So either Ted was in horrible pain at the end of last week,” I said, thinking it through, “which wasn’t evident. Or someone else took the pills and gave them to Silas.”

  “Exactly. We also found several kinds of poison, including arsenic, in Ted’s barn,” added Pete. “They weren’t hidden. They were labeled clearly in a cabinet holding garden supplies.”

  “So everyone who was at his birthday weekend had access to both poisons,” I said. “Not even counting the Red Tide clams.”

  “You’ve got it,” said Ethan. “We’re beginning to think it’s lucky only two people died last weekend. The whole lot of you could have been wiped out.”

  I sat quietly, my mind whirring. Who could have done such a thing?

  “We’ve gone through the list of people there, and we’ve talked to everyone. We saved you for last because we figured you had the least reason to kill either Ted or Silas.”

  “I hardly knew them,” I said quietly.

  “Exactly. Plus, since Luke told us he was going to ask you to investigate, we hoped you’d hear something we didn’t.”

  “Not everyone talks to the police,” Pete pointed out.

  “Who else knows arsenic and Percocet may have killed Ted and Silas?” I asked.

  “Other than the medical examiner’s office, just the three of us,” said Ethan. “We’re trusting you won’t tell anyone else. And that you’ll help us find out which of those Lawrences killed their father.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  “Though lost to sight,

  To memory dear.”

  —Needlepointed words from about 1890 surrounding a framed postmortem photograph of a woman.

  “I’ll do my best. But I haven’t even talked with Luke yet.” Or Patrick. But he wasn’t one of the Lawrences. “Have you found anything else?”

  “You’re right when you said money seemed to be the issue. All three of Ted Lawrence’s kids—all four, if you count Jeremy—were having financial issues. They’ve all admitted they were upset when their father told them he was going to rewrite his will and leave Robert Lawrence’s paintings to Sarah Byrne, a cousin they’d never heard of.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “Sarah’s my friend, but I don’t think their reactions were unexpected. Ted sprung it on them—Sarah’s relationship to the family, his own cancer diagnosis, and rewriting his will—all at once. That’s a lot to absorb.”

  “How close are the three of them?”

  “Not at all, so far as I could tell. Abbie hadn’t seen her brothers in years, and although Michael and Luke may have occasionally crossed paths in Manhattan, they were living separate private lives. Abbie didn’t know her father had been supporting Michael for years. I don’t think Abbie or Michael knew Luke was having financial difficulties, and Luke and Michael didn’t know she was in an unhappy marriage.”

  “So in your opinion, whoever murdered Ted or Silas did it alone.”

  “Did Ted’s children work together to plan to murder their father? They hardly knew each other, and there was only about twenty-four hours between Ted’s revelations Friday night and his death Saturday night.” I paused. “On the other hand, all three of his children believed they’d benefit if their dad didn’t rewrite his will.” I looked from Pete to Ethan. “Everyone had a motive and, from what you’ve said, everyone had access to whatever killed Ted. Those of us at The Point last weekend were together, but we weren’t watching each other every moment. We were busy getting the supplies and equipment a
nd food for the lobster bake, and then were down at the Lawrences’ beach pulling it together.”

  “That’s what we’ve been thinking,” said Ethan. “We agree it doesn’t seem to be a conspiracy. We think someone acted alone to kill Ted. And unless someone at that Saturday gathering saw something that would prove what happened, the only way we can figure this out is to compare everyone’s stories.”

  “Silas’s death, though,” I said. “That’s a whole other situation. He and Abbie weren’t a happy couple. But murder? No one else in the group would benefit one way or the other if Silas died.”

  Pete nodded. “We’ve been focusing on Abbie as the primary suspect for Silas’s murder. Would she have killed her father, too?”

  I shook my head. “She still hoped to reestablish a relationship with him. He was dying. She was angry with him, but I can’t see Abbie as his killer.”

  “Okay,” said Ethan standing. “We’re stuck. Ideas?” He looked from Pete to me and back again.”

  I frowned. “If we’re going to find out what really happened at The Point last weekend we’ll have to bring everyone who was there together, and go through the time line. See if anyone remembers a detail they didn’t tell you or me. See if any stories contradict each other.”

  “Are you sure that would be a good idea?” asked Pete.

  “Luke, Abbie, and Michael know they’re all suspects. They’re exhausted and angry and in shock. But I don’t think they’d cover for each other. They don’t seem to have established any loyalties or alliances.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said Ethan. “We need to find out what happened to Ted Lawrence before the press finds out he’s dead and a media circus begins. And that could happen any time. Plus, all three of Ted’s children are making noises about having to leave Haven Harbor.” He paused. “Jeremy is another situation. But I suppose we have to consider him a suspect, too.