by Lea Wait
“Why would I want to see her? We were friends for a while in third and fourth grade, but not after that.” Everything had changed after Mama left. Including who wanted to be my friend.
“Well, Lauren’s been working with me, so I’ve gotten closer to her recently. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it was like when you were both girls. You took after your mama. You never talked much about your friends. But the reason I thought you might want to talk with her is, Lauren’s the one found your mama’s body.”
Chapter Three
Women were major founders of the American abolitionist movement. One way they raised money was through antislavery fairs where they sold pen wipers embroidered with “wipe out the blot of slavery,” needlework bags embroidered with a black man being lashed, and linens with the motto, “May the points of our needles prick the slaveholders’ consciences.”
Gram was right. Ethan Trask had sure turned out fine.
He was taller, broader, and even better-looking than I remembered him, and his pressed state trooper’s uniform didn’t hurt the image any. Despite our shared history and the current circumstances, I was sorely tempted to flirt a little. After all, Mama’d been gone nineteen years. I wasn’t exactly in mourning. Unfortunately for me, the wide gold band on the third finger of Ethan’s left hand was as clear as a stop sign. I’d promised myself I’d show Haven Harbor a new, mature Angela Curtis. Prove to them, and to me, I wasn’t the same girl I’d been. I played it straight with Ethan.
“Sorry to bother you on your first day back, Angie. Is it all right if I call you ‘Angie’?”
I nodded, probably looking as dumb as I felt. He’d smiled and I’d reverted to my seventh-grade self.
“Your mother’s disappearance was filed as a cold case until Lauren Decker found her body, and Haven Harbor’s in my district. There’s a home court advantage theory at headquarters when it comes to territories. They figure a homicide detective should know his or her hometown better than anyone else, so we get assigned cases close to where we grew up.”
“Guess it makes sense.” I shrugged. Why he was on this case wasn’t my issue, so long as he knew his stuff. He could tell his troubles to his wife. “Gram hasn’t told me where Mama was found, or how. She said you’d do that. I want to know everything.”
“It’s a little unusual, but not complicated. You remember Lauren Decker?”
“Used to be Lauren Greene.”
“Right. Her parents, Nelly and Joe Greene, ran Greene’s Bakery in town here for years.” He grinned and leaned a little toward me. “I’ll bet you remember those great gingerbread cookies they used to have at Christmastime, and the birthday cakes they baked for parties in town.”
“I remember.” I leaned back. I remembered Mr. Greene, especially. And not for his gingerbread men. But this was Ethan Trask’s story, and I didn’t know where it was going, or how friendly I should be, considering I wasn’t the same girl who’d left town. Although no one here knew that. Towns have long memories.
“Anyway, after Nelly died, a few years back, Joe closed the bakery. Retired. Sold out to a young couple from Quebec, who bake French bread and croissants and pastries and are open Sundays. Joe died—cancer, it was—last New Year’s. Left everything to Lauren, of course, since she was his only kid. Well, she’s been going through the house and barn and shed, deciding what she wants to keep and whatever. She found a key and a history of monthly bills for a self-storage unit over at Union.”
I frowned. “Union? That’s a distance.”
“That’s what she thought. And Joe’d left the barn and shed packed with old equipment from the business, and who knows what else, so she had her hands full. She didn’t take the time to go to Union right away. Not till last week, actually.”
I could see it coming. “And she found?”
“The storage locker was one of those climate-controlled ones, so there was electricity. An old freezer chest was in there. Plugged in.” He was watching me closely, looking into my eyes, as though judging my reactions. They probably taught that in state trooper school. “There was a body in it.”
I thought I was prepared. But, somehow, I hadn’t been prepared for that.
“She was . . . frozen? All this time?”
“She had been. Off and on. But there’d been power outages, or the bills hadn’t been paid some months. The medical examiner said it was hard to tell exactly when she died. But, yes, we’re guessing she’d been there since shortly after she disappeared.” He paused. “The ME identified her through her dental records.”
I sat at the kitchen table, looking at Ethan, but part of me was floating somewhere else, watching us. “She didn’t die naturally, did she? She was murdered.” It seemed obvious, but I wanted to hear it, straight out.
“She was murdered.”
“How?”
He shifted a little, as though he found the old kitchen chair uncomfortable. “Sure you want to know?”
“I’m sure.”
“She was shot. In the back of her head. The bullet came from a handgun, not a rifle.”
In the back. A coward’s way. I pressed my hands together. Hard. I couldn’t help the picture in my mind of the soft blond curls Mama was so proud of, soaked in blood. And brains.
“The obvious assumption would be that Joe Greene killed her and hid her body in the freezer,” Ethan continued.
“And left the locker key so his daughter would find the body after he was dead?” I couldn’t help being dubious about that assumption.
“Hell of an inheritance,” Joe agreed. “But all we have to go on. It was nineteen years ago.” He looked into my eyes, as though searching for an answer there. “Before we close the case on Joe, we’d like to have a motive.”
“What about DNA? Were there traces anyone else’d been in the storage unit?”
“We’re having it checked. Lauren found enough of Joe’s things—hairbrush, toothbrush—for us to isolate his DNA. We expect to find his, of course. If anyone else’s shows up, that will be a bonus.”
I nodded.
“I’m talking to everyone who was around when your mother disappeared. According to the files, the officer on the case didn’t interview you.”
“Gram didn’t want anyone upsetting me. She thought I was too young to be involved in the investigation.” I paused and looked down at my clenched hands. I deliberately unfolded them.
“Do you remember much about that time?”
The room was silent except for the ticking of Gram’s old wall clock. “I remember the day she disappeared.”
Ethan pulled out his notebook. “Do you mind talking now? The sooner, the better—so far as I’m concerned.”
“I don’t think I know anything that will help you. I’ve gone over and over that day thousands of times in my mind, and I haven’t made any sense of it. No clues that would lead to what happened to her.”
“Your grandmother told me you’ve been working for a private investigator near Phoenix.”
“So you think I’d know what might be important. What you might be looking for.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m hoping I can put something you remember together with something someone else remembers and it will all suddenly make sense.”
The man was dreaming.
“Or maybe Joe Greene shot your mother and hid her body in a freezer and we’ll never know why.”
“I need to know what happened.” I’d been waiting to know since I was nine. Wondering if Mama had run away with someone. Run away from me. Run away from Haven Harbor—and her past.
“I’m sure Lauren would like to know, too,” said Joe softly. “Right now half the town thinks her father was a murderer.”
“Go ahead. Ask your questions.” I’d already decided I’d tell him the truth. But not the whole truth. The whole truth was mine, and, at least for now, I didn’t see the use in sharing it.
“Where were you living when your mother disappeared?”
“You already know that. Here, in this house. M
ama and I lived with Gram.”
“Be patient with me. I have to confirm what the records show. Had you always lived here?”
“When I was two or three, Mama and I lived in Portland for about a year with one of her boyfriends, but that didn’t work out, so we came back to Haven Harbor. Another time we moved in with a girlfriend of hers, across town, for a few months. Then we came home here again. I don’t remember much about those times.”
“What was the name of the boyfriend?”
“I don’t remember. I was just a toddler, and I don’t think Mama saw him again after that.”
“And the woman she lived with?”
“Cynthia Raye. She moved back to Boston to get married. She sent Christmas cards every year.”
“So, what was a day like in this house those last few months when your mother was still alive? You were . . . nine?”
“Almost ten. Gram made sure I woke up on time in the morning and got dressed and ready for school. Mama worked late and slept late.”
“And after school?”
“I came straight home most days. Gram would be here. She always had cookies or popcorn or a sandwich waiting for me.” It was all so clear in my mind. As though I’d never left.
“What about your mother?”
“She wasn’t here much in the afternoons. She waitressed at different restaurants. In summer, when the tourists were here, she was busy all the time. She was either sleeping or working. But in the fall and winter, when I was in school, sometimes she worked and sometimes she didn’t, depending on what days the restaurants were open, and whether she had a job. Sometimes in the afternoon she was out with friends.” Others in town would be saying worse about Mama. I was reciting facts.
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
“Yes.”
“Men or women friends?”
I hesitated. “Both. If you’re asking if she had boyfriends, then, yes, she had boyfriends.”
“Did she stay out late at night?”
“She was a waitress, and I was nine. I was usually asleep when she got home. It seemed late to me.”
“Did she ever bring any of those friends home with her? Or to spend the night?”
“Not to spend the night. Gram wouldn’t have allowed that.”
“But you did meet some of her friends.”
All those uncles: Uncle Paul, Uncle Richard, Uncle Bill, Uncle Louis. “Yes. Sometimes they’d meet her here. Or she’d take me with her when she went out, say, to Funtown, or to the Maine Wildlife Park in Gray, or to Reid State Park.”
“Do you remember any of their names?”
“I never knew their last names. It was so long ago. They all blur together. And I only met a few of them.”
“And what do you remember the last day you saw her?”
I could see her, so clearly. “She was wearing a yellow dress and an orange scarf and really high heels and she smelled good. It was Sunday afternoon. Gram had taken me to Sunday school in the morning, and she and I were making oatmeal raisin cookies, right here, in the kitchen. Mama came in and picked me up and swung me around and said, ‘The world is a beautiful place! No matter what happens to you, Angel, don’t ever stop being strong. I’m always on your side. Remember that, Angel! Always remember that!’ Then she turned and said, ‘You’re going to be terrific at the fly-up ceremony. I can’t wait to see you.’ Then she left. She didn’t come home that night. Or the next morning. Or the next. Then, I think it was Wednesday, Gram called the police.”
“Angie, was Joe Greene one of your mother’s boyfriends?”
Whatever I said on that topic was going to sound wrong. “Mama had a lot of friends. Mr. Greene liked her. He used to give her extra cookies at the bakery when his wife wasn’t looking.” That was true. One hundred percent true.
Ethan smiled at me. “Your mother was a very pretty woman. I remember her. I’m not surprised he gave her extra cookies. But do you know if she ever saw him socially—late at night, or outside the bakery?”
I shook my head. “She went out with a lot of friends. She didn’t tell me who they all were.” I looked Ethan straight in the eye. “If I knew who shot my mother, don’t you think I’d tell you?”
He paused. “Yes. I believe you would. So you don’t have any memories that would confirm—or deny—that Joe Greene had any reason to kill your mother?”
“I don’t have any memories of seeing them together except at the bakery.” Truth. Absolute truth.
“Was your mother afraid of anything, Angie?”
I shook my head. “If she was, she didn’t show it. I never saw her afraid of anything. Or anyone. How long will it take to get those DNA results?”
Ethan shrugged. “It’s a cold case, so there’s no rush. It could take weeks.” He closed his notebook. “If you think of any other details that might help, let me know. You have my number.”
I looked down at his card. “I have your number.”
Chapter Four
All my scattering moments are taken up with my needle.
—Ellen Birdseye Wheaton (1816–1858), abolitionist and women’s rights crusader, 1851
Dinner was more chowder, which was fine with me. Juno again demanded her share of the haddock, and Gram added a piece to her dish. Coon cats are naturally large, but Juno exceeded size expectations. No wonder she’d startled me.
I was beginning to wear down. The travel, the time change, being back in Maine, hearing about Mama . . . the past thirty hours or so included a lot to get my head around.
“Have you got any wine or beer?” I asked Gram, on the off chance she had a bottle put away somewhere. She’d added sherry to the chowder, after all.
“Wine’s in a rack in the dining room. I should’ve thought of that earlier. You can bring me a glass of red,” she said.
Gram? A glass of red? Something else had changed since I’d left.
I chose a bottle of pinot noir, noted that Gram didn’t have bad taste in varietals, poured each of us a generous glass, and returned to the kitchen. Juno followed my every step, almost tripping me as she rubbed against my legs. I’d have to get used to having a cat. But I could see how she’d be company for Gram. The house was quiet.
“When was a wine rack added to the décor?” I asked as we clinked glasses.
“After you left. When you were a teenager, I didn’t want to add any more temptations to your world. You were coping with enough as it was,” said Gram. “But I do enjoy a glass in the afternoon, and after the day you’ve had, I suspect you could do with a glass or two yourself.”
“And then a bath and bed,” I agreed. “Especially with the service tomorrow. I want to hear a little about your business, though. I saw the Mainely Needlepoint sign when I came in, and the desk and file cabinets in the living room.”
“As you assumed, I’m now a working gal.” Gram shook her head. “What you can’t see is that I’ve gotten myself in over my head. You remember those little needlepoint balsam pillows I used to make for Betty down to Harbor Lights?”
“You were always after me to learn needlepoint so I could help with the backgrounds, but I was too impatient. This house used to smell of balsam in the winter when you were putting them together.”
“Right. Since they were hand stitched, they were high-end . . . a world away from those printed pine cushions tourists buy at souvenir shops to tuck in their sweater drawers. Every summer Harbor Lights sold several dozen of the ones I stitched showing our local lighthouse. Making them up kept me amused, gave me something to do each winter. Brought in a few extra dollars, and kept my fingers busy.”
“As though your fingers were ever empty! You were always either knitting or doing needlepoint.” The wine was beginning to relax me. I got the bottle from the dining room and refilled both my glass and Gram’s. “So? You’re still making balsam pillows?”
“Just you listen. You asked, so you’ll hear. A few years back a bride-to-be, who summers here, saw my pillows at Harbor Lights and asked if I’d make up
a special order for her. She wanted seventy-five balsam pillows needlepointed in white on dark green, with the date of her wedding and a pine tree, to give as favors at her wedding.”
“Seventy-five? That’s a winter’s work!”
“Exactly. But she was paying well. Twice as much as Harbor Lights, and she was paying me directly, so there’d be no commission. It seemed too good a deal to pass up. So I asked around, and Ruth Hopkins and Dave Percy both agreed to do some up for me. We thought it would be fun, and it was. The three of us got her order done over the winter, along with the usual pillows I did for Harbor Lights.” Gram took a deep sip of her wine. “We thought when we delivered her pillows, the project would be over. We never dreamed what would happen next.”
“Which was?”
“Turned out one of the guests at the wedding was an editor at one of those magazines aimed at Maine tourists. He included a picture of one of the pillows in his column and wrote about what a unique gift idea it was. Next thing we knew, we were overwhelmed with orders from all over.”
“That’s fantastic!” I said. “You must have been thrilled!”
“‘Not so much,’ as you young folks would say,” said Gram. “I couldn’t stitch near fast enough to fill all the orders, even with help from Ruth and Dave. So the three of us had a serious meeting and decided to go into business. We called ourselves ‘Mainely Needlepoint,’ as you saw on the sign. A little cutesy, if you ask me, but Ruth and Dave liked it, and it did say right out what we did. We started calling up friends in town who did needlepoint and asked if they’d help. And they called other folks. That second year we went from three of us to seven, all handy at needlepoint, who agreed to fill orders.”
“I’m impressed! Gram, you’re a needlework queen!”
She shook her head. “For the first four years I worked with the customers, taking orders, and then giving out assignments. Some people thought Mainely Needlepoint was a factory—that in a few days we could turn out forty pillows or place mats or whatever they were looking for. Took a while to make sure they understood how long it would take to fill their orders. And even then, a few of ’em changed their minds halfway through and decided they wanted green lettering on a red field for a Christmas gift, instead of blue on white for a birthday. After that happened two or three times, I learned to ask for fifty percent in advance, and have ’em sign a contract saying what we’d be doing for ’em and when the order would be delivered. That helped considerable, although some customers still needed hand-holding, as it were, even if they lived in California or Iowa or some such place. A lot of phone calls. E-mails. And that’s not counting ordering supplies and billing and talking to people at gift shops. And making sure everyone’s work was on schedule.”
