Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  “You can’t drive the man home when he’s in that condition,” Gram whispered to me. “We have an extra room. We could make that up for him. Likely it’s that twenty-four-hour bug people have had. Makes you sick as anything, but doesn’t last forever.”

  If it was drink, he’d be better in hours. And if it was the flu and he was contagious . . . I’ll admit, the idea of spending ninety minutes in the car with the man under the current circumstances was not appealing.

  “You tell him he’s our guest for the night. I’ll go make up a bed.” The only vacant bed was Mama’s. Gram and I exchanged looks, and she nodded.

  “Clean sheets are in the upstairs hall closet, where they’ve always been.”

  At first, Gram had left Mama’s room exactly as it had been, in case she came back. I’d gone in there to feel closer to Mama; to open her closet door and smell her perfume on the clothes hanging there. To wrap myself in the comforter on her bed. It had provided warmth, but little closure.

  After a while I’d stopped going into the room. She’d said she loved us, but she’d left. And when we’d stopped believing she would come home, there was too much inside the room to remind me of what used to be.

  Her door had been closed when I arrived home.

  I went and got the sheets.

  The room hadn’t been touched. The same pictures of Mama and me and Gram were on the walls. The same framed kindergarten picture I’d given Mama for Mother’s Day. The same flowered comforter. The same hooked rug Gram’s mother had made long before I’d been born.

  I pulled down the bedspread and started putting a sheet over the mattress.

  I’d half-finished when I heard Gram call, “Angel! Angel! Come down here!”

  What is Jacques doing now?

  I dropped the pillow I was holding and ran. The bathroom door was open. Jacques was lying on the floor, his body jerking up and down. I’d never seen anyone having a seizure, but it couldn’t be anything else.

  Gram had grabbed a towel and was trying to put it under Jacques’ head so he wouldn’t bang it on the tile floor. “Call 911! Something’s really wrong!”

  I was back in a minute and tried to help Gram. In movies seizures only lasted a minute or two. This one seemed to go on forever.

  The EMTs got there in what seemed like an hour. It was probably seven or eight minutes. By then, the seizure was milder. Gram and I moved out of the bathroom, which reeked, and let the responders take over.

  “He’d been drinking earlier, but he seemed fine. Then he started vomiting.”

  The responder in charge nodded. “We’ll take him to the emergency room at Haven Harbor Hospital.” They got him on a stretcher and took him out.

  It all happened fast.

  “We should go after him,” Gram said. “No one at the hospital there knows him, and he doesn’t know them. He may be a fraud and a thief, but he doesn’t deserve to be alone when he’s sick.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. This was the man Gram had been ready to kill a day or two ago.

  “I’m sure, Angel. Let’s go.”

  At the hospital, outside the emergency room, we waited for any word.

  It was over two hours before a doctor came out to see us.

  “You’re here for Jacques Lattimore?”

  Gram nodded.

  “Are you related to him?”

  “No. We were business associates.”

  I noted the word “were.” Gram might be concerned about the man, but she wasn’t going back in business with him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ve lost him. Do you know of a relative we could notify?”

  “He’s dead?” I blurted. I could hardly believe it.

  The doctor nodded. “He had a series of seizures. We couldn’t control them. And then his lungs gave out.”

  “His lungs?” asked Gram. “He once told me he used to smoke. Maybe his lungs weren’t the best. But it was his stomach and intestines that were bothering him before the seizure.”

  “We don’t know any of his relatives,” I added.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” admitted the doctor. “I have no history on him. It could be a number of different things. We’ll find out for sure in the autopsy. Thank you for bringing him here. I’ll call the police and let them track down his next of kin.” She turned and went back into the emergency room.

  Gram and I looked at each other. Gram was clearly shaken. “What happened, Angel? What could have happened to him? He seemed fine, and then . . .”

  I didn’t know. I didn’t wish death on the man. I’d only threatened him with my gun. But I was glad he wouldn’t be able to bother anyone in Haven Harbor anymore.

  I put my arm around Gram’s shoulders. “Let’s go home,” I said.

  She nodded. “And when we get there, there’s something else we have to talk about.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Loara Standish is my name

  Lorde guide my hart that

  I may doe thy will also

  My hands with such

  Convenient skill as may

  Conduce to virtue void of

  Shame and I will give

  The glory to thy name

  —Words stitched on possibly the first sampler made in the New World, done by the daughter of Miles Standish in the Plymouth Colony, 1640 (now displayed in Pilgrim Hall, Plymouth, Massachusetts)

  What else did Gram want to talk about? She’d asked me to find Jacques Lattimore for her. I’d done that . . . and just in time, since it seemed he’d been fated to leave the world rather abruptly.

  I’d only eaten one cookie since late morning. I was starving. I unwrapped the leftover goodies people had brought to the meeting and nibbled while Gram called Reverend Tom to tell him what had happened. I heated the bean soup she’d made and frozen in February.

  I loved her bean soup, made with every kind of bean imaginable, and carrots and peas and onions and garlic thrown in for good measure. She’d baked a loaf of bread while I’d been following Jacques Lattimore’s trail, so I sliced that to go with the soup. No talking. No attempts to clean up the downstairs bathroom, which certainly could use a scrub. It could wait.

  After the soup disappeared, and more of the bread than I’d like to admit, she sat back and looked at me.

  “Angel, today you did what I thought was impossible. You not only found Lattimore, God rest his soul, but you even got him to pay back at least a little of the money he owed us. I consider that a small miracle. So do the other needlepointers.”

  It felt good to be thanked. “We got lucky. If Jacques had stayed at the casino this afternoon and died there, I wouldn’t have been able to do those things.”

  “True enough. But you did. And before you got home, the other stitchers and I were talking. We liked having an agent. For the first year and a half, Jacques did a good job. He got us more interesting jobs, for more money. We didn’t mind giving him his forty percent. We were still doing better than we were when we were only making pillows for the Harbor Lights Gift Shop.”

  Fine. But that was the past. They’d have to find another way if Mainely Needlepoint was to continue. “Now that you have the names of at least some of your customers, you can contact those people. You could put up a Web site and a Facebook page. And not have to give anyone forty percent.”

  “That’s just it, Angel. We agreed that’s what needs to be done. But none of us—including me, and I started this business—none of us have the skills or time or inclination to pick up where Jacques stopped. Do public relations and marketing and sales. Maybe even consider advertising.”

  “If you don’t want to do that, then Mainely Needlepoint will die,” I pointed out bluntly. “When you were only making a few pillows for one or two customers, that was one thing. But, as you’ve said, you and the others have grown to depend on income from the business. Plus, you all enjoy creating beautiful needlepoint. Are you ready to give that up?”

  Gram looked very serious. “You’re right, Angel. We lea
rned a lot from Jacques. We learned we have to do business only with those we can trust. We need a better legal contract. But if we had someone—not Jacques Lattimore—but someone else, to do what he did, maybe even do it better because we’re that person’s only interest—then it would be good for all of us.”

  “You could learn to do it, Gram. I believe you could do anything you set your mind to!”

  “Except that I’m getting married, Angie. Because of Tom’s job, I’ll have obligations to the church, as well as to him. I can’t commit to the hours Mainely Needlepoint deserves.” She hesitated. “But Sarah suggested a solution, and the rest of us agreed.” Gram put her hands flat on the table. “Angel, how would you like to be the chief operating officer— that’s what Sarah said it’s called—of Mainely Needlepoint?”

  “Me!” That was a possibility I’d never dreamed of. I started shaking my head. I knew nothing about needlepoint. I was just visiting here. How could they even ask me?

  “Don’t say no until you think about it. You’ve lived away. You know how to deal with people. You know what to watch out for. I know you’re not real creative”—I smiled. Gram was laying it on the line, and she knew me well—“but the rest of us can take care of that part of the business. What we need is a person who understands marketing, and accounts, and billing, and talking to customers. And you’ve done all of that, Angie. The rest of us don’t have the practical experience you have.”

  “But—”

  “No buts! You’re young and you can dress up good and you understand computers and social media and all the other things people do today to drum up business. If you were the public face of Mainely Needlepoint, the business wouldn’t look like just a group of old broads sitting on their front porches with their needles and floss, talking to their cats.”

  Juno rubbed against my legs, reminding me she was there, and I’d been ignoring her.

  “Gram, you’re no old broad.”

  “I certainly am. And proud of it. Now Sarah and Lauren and you—you’re not. And, for sure, Dave and Ob aren’t! But that’s what people think of when they think about needlepoint. ”

  “They’re wrong, I know. Lots of younger people do needlepoint.” I grinned. “Although, Gram, you have to admit it might be a challenge to get many teenagers today to stop texting and pick up an embroidery needle.”

  “True enough. But don’t change the subject. If anyone can make this business work, it’s you.” She raised her eyebrows a bit. “Plus, you’ve got a place to live, here. You’re home.” She paused a moment. “And you’d get thirty-five percent of the profits.”

  “Wait a minute! You gave Lattimore forty percent!” I suddenly realized I was negotiating. I might really do this.

  “He didn’t get a free roof over his head. Course, I might ask you to chip in for your board once in a while, until I get married. After I move out of here, you’ll have to walk a couple of blocks down the street to get my good cooking, or you’re on your own.”

  I stared at her and began to smile. “Then you wouldn’t sell this house?”

  “Not if the new COO of Mainely Needlepoint could get us clear of the money owed the needlepointers.”

  “Gram, you’re bribing me. I take over the operation of the business, and I get the house? Plus the commissions?”

  “Not right away. First you have to pay off the money owed. It wouldn’t be easy. Nothing comes without sweat. The accounts are a mess—who knows who these customers are—and you’d have to learn a new business.”

  “You’re a piece of work, Gram. You and the others figured all this out while I was driving back from Rome?”

  “Actually, Sarah and I came up with the plan earlier today. That’s why, when you called, she and I decided to get all of us together to see if they agreed, and to greet Lattimore and have a little talk.” Her eyes sparkled. “Even he thought it was a good idea. He was impressed with you.”

  I’ll bet he was. How many times did someone hold a gun on him?

  “I know it wouldn’t be as exciting as that private investigating you were doing in Arizona.”

  I thought of my loaded gun, still in the hall sideboard. So far, this needlepoint business had been livelier than Gram thought.

  For a few minutes I didn’t say anything. I looked around the kitchen I’d grown up in, and then at Gram. I thought of the house that I still thought of as home staying in the family instead of being sold to people from away who wanted to telecommute to New York City. I thought of summers with cool breezes, instead of hundred-degree temperatures.

  And I thought of Mama’s open murder case. I wanted to ensure it stayed open until I was sure who was responsible for her death.

  My head wasn’t convinced, but my heart was calling me home. “Gram, I’ve been away a long time. Can I first commit to a six-month trial, for both Mainely Needlepointers and me? It would give us both time to make sure this is right for everyone.”

  Gram clapped her hand in delight. “Of course. And I’m thrilled and happy to meet Mainely Needlepoint’s new chief operating officer.”

  “But I already have one request,” I put in before she got too excited. “‘Chief operating officer’ sounds a little fancy, considering the size of the business. How about ‘director’? That would look serious enough on business cards.”

  My life had just made a major turn. At least for six months.

  I touched my angel for luck. I had the feeling I’d need all I could get.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Curly Locks, curly locks, wilt thou be mine?

  Thou shall’t not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine,

  But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,

  And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream!

  —Classic nursery rhyme, unknown origin

  The next morning, as soon as I figured people in Arizona would be awake, I called the woman who had the apartment next to mine. She and I had exchanged keys, in case of emergencies. I asked her to go into my apartment and pack and send the rest of my clothes and photos and a painting of a desert sunset, which I’d loved and saved for.

  She seemed pleased when I told her she could take or sell anything else there, especially when I sweetened the deal by promising to send her a check for her trouble and the shipping costs. And did she know anyone who’d like my old car? It’d been nine years old when I’d bought it, six years ago. It wouldn’t survive a trip to Maine.

  I’d have to change my address. I’d cancel my lease in Arizona as soon as my stuff was out. My apartment hadn’t exactly been a penthouse. I’d always thought of it as temporary. If I went back . . . when I went back . . . I’d find another one.

  Now I had a job to do.

  Gram and I started looking through her account books and Lattimore’s, trying to reconcile the differences. Our first task—or my first task, as Gram kept saying—was to decide how much of the money we’d gotten from Jacques was due each needlepointer, and how much was still owed them. That done, I could contact all the former customers we could identify, explain the change in management, and ask what we could do for them.

  I had a lot to learn. Gram had two bookcases full of books on needlepoint. She picked out two for me to start with: Jo Ippolito Christensen’s The Needlepoint Book and Hope Hanley’s 101 Needlepoint Stitches. “After you’re familiar with those, you can move on to more advanced books.”

  My new Mainely Needlepoint job would be more than keeping accounts. I had to understand what could and could not be done in needlepoint (upholstery, yes; clothing, except for perhaps a heavy vest or jacket, no) and learn at least a few stitches, so I could sound knowledgeable.

  I also needed to take up where I’d left off when I was about ten. I needed to learn to do at least simple needlepoint. That way I’d better understand the challenges for those filling orders. Gram tried not to smile too much as she picked out a piece of marked canvas and colors for me. I’d start with a simple pine tree on a small cushion: one of the core Mainely Needlepoint produ
cts.

  We were interrupted by Sarah’s knock. She took one look at Gram and me going through a notebook of pictures and patterns that had been done by the group and grinned. “She said yes, then?”

  I held up my hand. “Not to a total commitment. Six months, to get the company back on its feet. Then we can decide whether it’s going to be a long-term relationship.”

  “It’s a cinch. You’ll love it,” she declared. “Why wouldn’t you? We’re charming, you won’t be stuck in an office, you’ll get to meet people all over New England, and we’ll even bake you goodies if you get us a good commission!”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I answered. Sarah’s effervescence was contagious. “But were those your scones yesterday? Because if they were, then you’ve got a deal. They were fantastic. I finished the last one for breakfast—”

  “Sarah, we have some sad news,” Gram interrupted. “After everyone else left yesterday, Jacques Lattimore had a series of seizures. He died at the hospital.”

  “Oh, no!” she said. “What a coincidence. I mean, for him to pay us back part of the money he owed, and then to die, so suddenly. He seemed fine until he had those stomach pains.”

  “Pretty awful way to begin a new job, I’ll admit,” I put in. “Having your predecessor die.”

  “I’ll call the others and tell them later this morning,” said Gram. “Although I hated what he was doing to the business, he was charming and good company.”

  Right, Gram. When he wasn’t cheating you!

  “Is there going to be a funeral? Should we send flowers?” Sarah asked. Then she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned funerals. Not when I’ve just been to one for your daughter. And mother,” she added, turning toward me.

  “It’s all right. Mama had been gone a long time before her service,” I said. “Although that reminds me, I want to call Ethan Trask and nudge him. Find out whether his investigation has turned up anything.” I headed for the kitchen phone. I’d left my cell upstairs.