Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  “Maybe he’s helping her,” I suggested. “It was lying on the window seat.”

  “Maybe,” said Gram. “But what was it doing at his house when she’s out of town?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We had a busy summer.... There were webs of cotton to be made up; delicate embroideries to fashion; shining silks and misty muslins to be submitted to the skillful hands of the city dressmaker. I was to lay aside my mourning on my wedding day.

  —“A Wife’s Story,” by Louise Chandler Moulton, Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, December 1861

  Sunday morning dawned, and I realized Gram expected me to attend church with her. After all, I was now the almost-stepgranddaughter of the minister.

  I knew she’d be upset if I told her the truth—I hadn’t attended a church service in years, and hadn’t intended to change that pattern. So, instead, I found an appropriate skirt and a light sweater. Not elegant, but I was in Maine, after all. Women were expected to dress up a little for church, but anyone who wore Vogue fashions would be as out of place as someone wearing L.L.Bean boots in Phoenix. What I was wearing was okay for a Haven Harbor Sunday. I even put on lipstick.

  I cleaned up all right.

  The sanctuary was half full. Not bad for a non-holiday Sunday. I wondered if Reverend Tom got paid by the head. Would he be rewarded (in this world) if his church was full every Sunday? I suspected the total of the day’s collection plates was critical. I contributed five dollars. I wasn’t exactly a regular there.

  Gram chose seats for us close to the front, on the aisle. She wanted to make sure Reverend Tom knew we were there. His fan club, if not yet his family.

  His sermon was focused on forgiveness—a classic theme. Although I listened, I didn’t totally buy in. I didn’t think I’d ever forgive whoever killed Mama. She’d had a hard life, and her death had messed up mine, and Gram’s, too. How could that be forgiven?

  After the service ended, we joined other parishioners for coffee and sweets in the same room used for Mama’s funeral reception almost a week before. This time I recognized more people. I picked up a homemade doughnut as Gram went to speak to Reverend Tom.

  Ruth Hopkins was standing by herself, one hand on her walker and one on her paper cup of coffee.

  “Why don’t I get a chair for you?” I asked.

  “Thanks, Angie, but I’m fine. If I start sitting all the time, someday I won’t be able to get up. Got to keep active.” She took a final sip of coffee. “But you can throw out this cup and get me one of those big white-chocolate cookies on the table? I have coffee at home. I don’t have cookies.”

  I did so, and got one for myself. They were much too good. Maybe I’d found a reason to come to church. I wondered if Reverend Tom ever preached about gluttony.

  “Tom told me you and he had a session with one of his boards the other day,” Ruth commented. “How’d you like contacting the spirit world?”

  “I’m not sure. It was my first time. We did get at least one answer. But I kept thinking one of us was pushing that planchette, and I knew it wasn’t me.” Reverend Tom must have told her about our Ouija experiment. I certainly hadn’t told anyone.

  She nodded. “Logical. You’re very logical. Not unusual. Most folks are. I don’t know anyone who’s tried Ouija only a few times who doesn’t think that. But I believe there’s some truth to the answers Ouija gives.”

  “Have you used a board?” I asked. I would never have thought little old Ruth Hopkins had a penchant for spiritualism. But, then, I never would have thought she was secretly S.M. Bond and Chastity Falls.

  “Not on a regular basis, you understand,” she confided happily. “But I live alone. Sometimes I’m just in the mood to talk with someone. So I get out my board and see if any spirits are interested in conversing.” She expertly brushed cookie crumbs off her chest.

  “Has anything the board told you come true?”

  “That would be telling the future, dear. The spirits I speak to are more interested in the past. Oh, occasionally they’ll tell me something about today. For instance, about three weeks ago they told me you’d be coming home.”

  I looked at her. “Three weeks ago! That was before Lauren found my mother’s body!”

  She nodded. “It was. But, see . . . you’re here. The board knew.”

  It was unbelievable. “Do many people in Haven Harbor use boards?’ I asked, beginning to wonder if I’d discovered an underground coven.

  “I have no idea. I don’t talk about mine much. I consider it a private hobby. Reverend Tom knows, though. Sometimes he joins me.” She looked around the room. “I suspect most of these folks wouldn’t be interested. Might even be frightened. Or decide I’m a witch, or some other nonsense. I’m just curious. I keep my mind open to possibilities.”

  “Spiritualism is totally new to me,” I said. “But it is intriguing.”

  “If you ever want to experiment a little, you give me a call and come on over. We can see if my spirits visit when you’re present. Or perhaps you’ll find a spirit of your own.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “Using the board with you, I mean.” Why not? I didn’t really believe those in the spirit world could contact people here. But, then, the whole concept was fascinating. And might be fun.

  So long as I don’t take it seriously, I reminded myself.

  “Then you’re invited. For now, I have to get myself to home. I’ve stood long enough. The Kentucky Derby was yesterday. I missed some of the pre-race hoopla then. I’m looking forward to the rerun this afternoon of the stories they tell about the horses and jockeys and owners before the race.” She took a few steps toward the door. “Don’t forget. You’re welcome anytime. Except when the races are on!”

  I joined Gram and Ob Winslow. “Angie, this is Anna, Ob’s wife,” Gram said, introducing me to a dark-haired woman about Ob’s age.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Ob said you might want to learn how to do needlepoint.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Your grandmother and I were talking about that. This is a busy month, with getting the boat ready for summer. I’m the official brass polisher in the family.” She smiled at Ob. “But by the end of May I’ll be free. By then, Ob’ll be out on the water most of the time. Some days I go with him, but I’d rather cook fish than catch them. We’re a good pair, aren’t we, Ob?”

  “That we are,” he said, putting his arm around her. “And looks like this year I’ve found a couple of young men who’ll be home from college by then and agree to crew for me. That way I can spend my time figuring out where the fish are and taking the tourists there, and you can get in a little needle practice.”

  “I’ll call you to set a time, Anna,” said Gram. “Angie here may join us, and I’ll advertise and ask around to see if anyone else’s interested.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Anna Winslow said. “Thank goodness that Jacques Lattimore is gone and we can all get on with our lives. This past winter was a nightmare. I don’t think I ever hated anyone as much as I hated that Lattimore.” She lowered her voice. “I never want to be in a situation that I have to go to the food bank again. Ob and I work too hard to have to do that.”

  Ob patted Anna on her shoulders.

  “How’s your boy, Josh?” asked Gram, changing the subject.

  “He’s back and forth. I always figured he’d grow out of that ADHD he has, but now he’s twenty-two. Even when he takes his meds, he can’t focus on any one thing for very long.”

  “You’ll be seeing him this summer,” Ob added. “He’ll be home in a few days. He left his job in Lewiston—”

  “He was fired again,” Anna broke in. “Didn’t take his meds and missed deadlines, and his attendance wasn’t great.”

  “This summer he’ll be helping me on the Anna Mae,” said Ob. “Sea air may keep him straight.”

  “I hope so,” said Anna. “I love that boy to death, but he’s a constant challenge.” She shook her head. “It’s not easy for Josh, an
d not easy for Ob and me. But you can’t turn around in life. You’ve got to keep going.”

  Gram nodded. “Very true. And Angie and I are going to go now. I soaked beans last night, and want to get them baking.”

  “Charlotte Curtis! Baked beans are a Saturday-night dish! Not Sunday dinner!”

  Gram nodded. “Don’t I know it! But the past week has been crazy, and I’m a bit behind. So we have to be off.”

  “It was lovely meeting you, Anna,” I said as we headed for the door.

  Ob and Anna’s son was on meds for ADHD. I’d had high-school classmates who took Ritalin for ADHD. At least one boy sold his pills, instead of taking them. And even those with ADHD skipped pills when they were partying because of what my friend Tim Sanborn once called, “serious side effects.” Would those side effects include vomiting and convulsions? I didn’t know. Ob and Anna clearly weren’t happy with Lattimore. But did one of them hate him enough to kill him?

  How fast would Ritalin dissolve in tea?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day—or at so little—from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was a mystery.

  —Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit, 1857

  Monday morning I headed back to Brunswick. It had only been five days since I’d been there looking for Lattimore, but it seemed a long time. A lot had happened since then.

  Dropping off the cartons at Goodwill made me feel I’d taken a major step toward putting the past to rest.

  And buying a laptop turned out to be simpler than I’d thought. I even found the accounting software I wanted, and the store personnel loaded everything for me. Now I had no excuses for not starting to input Mainely Needlepoint’s account information.

  By the time I got to Bath for lunch, I felt as though I’d accomplished enough for a day. Time for a beer and barbeque.

  Clem had gotten there first and saved us a table.

  She was wearing three-inch heels and a sea blue silk dress, which wrapped her in all the right places. She could have stepped out of a Business Week article about the youngest woman named CEO of a major banking chain.

  “Wow,” I said. “You look great. Do you look this elegant every day at work?”

  “‘Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,’” she answered. “That’s my mantra. Plus, clothes are my downfall. I’ve got charges at most of the Freeport outlets.”

  Investigating new boyfriends and adulterous wives hadn’t required an elegant wardrobe. I might have to do some shopping if I was going to be “the face of Mainely Needlepoint,” as Gram had put it. I’d already bought a laptop. I’d have to get Wi-Fi for Gram’s house, so I could use her printer. And I had to invest in my wardrobe, too? This business would definitely have to make money.

  “If I decide to upgrade my style, I’ll know who to call,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you’re both here!” While Clem had honed her image from the one she’d had in high school, Cindy, as I’d seen on Saturday, had put on weight. Today she was wearing mom jeans and a Pats sweatshirt. Someone had spit up on her shoulder. They’d made very different choices for their lives, but they both seemed comfortable. I wondered if I’d ever feel as content with mine.

  We all hugged and sat down, picked up the menus, and ordered the same lunch: pulled pork on a bun, with a side of roasted sweet potatoes. Exactly what we’d always ordered.

  I turned to Cindy. “I met your three children yesterday, and you mentioned your husband. Now catch me up. Where did you meet him?”

  She blushed. “Clive’s a dear. I met him through a friend of a friend when I was going to massage school. I needed to practice on people, and he volunteered!”

  “So that’s what they call a happy ending.” I grinned. They both groaned. “I’m guessing you’ve heard that before?”

  “Only a few million times,” she answered, nodding. “But you have an exciting job! Mom told me you’re a private investigator in Arizona. No blizzards, and hot guys in shorts!”

  “Not exactly,” I answered. “Hot temperatures, for sure. Sizzling. But, believe me, not all hot guys. And I’m not officially a private investigator. I worked for one. But for the moment, that’s in the past. I’m going to stay around awhile and get Mainely Needlepoint, Gram’s business, back on track.”

  Cindy’s mother had told her about our business problems; we filled Clem in.

  “Mainely Needlepoint sounds like a cool niche business. Once you get it back up and running, maybe I could pitch a story about it to one of my bosses at Channel 7,” Clem suggested. “This summer we’re planning to run a series on unique small businesses in Maine.”

  “That would be great! But first we have to settle the little question of whether one of the needlepointers murdered the guy I’m replacing,” I explained.

  “What?” Turned out neither of them knew about Lattimore’s death or the investigation. I didn’t want to say much. After all, Cindy’s mother had been at our house when Lattimore was poisoned. She was on the suspect list. Their friend Lauren had been there, too.

  “How is Lauren?” Cindy asked. “Is she still having problems with Caleb?”

  I wasn’t exactly surprised at that question. He’d seemed crazy enough to be dangerous when he’d stopped in earlier in the week. I wanted to know more about him. “I’ve only seen Lauren a few times. She came to the funeral, and I saw her at the needlepoint meeting and once at Harbor Haunts. We didn’t talk much. She told me she was back waitressing full-time because of the mess with Mainely Needlepoint. She didn’t mention her husband.”

  “Well,” Cindy said, lowering her voice, “Caleb had a pretty nasty reputation before they got married. Drank too much. Had friends who ended up with records. Considered trouble. But Lauren couldn’t see that. Maybe she thought she’d reform him. Or maybe love was blind. I will say when I went to her wedding, they looked great. They’d put a down payment on a lobster boat, and Caleb was real excited about that. But making a living from lobstering’s been rough the past couple of years.”

  “Gram mentioned that,” I said. “What is it? Global warming?” Lobsters needed deep, cold water to spawn.

  “Partially. But mostly it’s competition from Canada. A lot of lobstermen here used to send their lobsters to Canadian canneries. Then a few years ago Canada decided to protect its own lobstermen by putting major tariffs on imported lobsters. A lot of our guys lost their contracts with Canadian firms,” Clem explained.

  “Tourists, of course, have loved it,” Cindy added. “Lobsters have come down in price because now more of them are available for local markets.”

  “But lobstermen aren’t making the livings they’re used to.” I caught on right away.

  “Exactly,” Clem put in. “Some of them have even stopped lobstering. Lauren’s working her rear off, but I heard Caleb’s started hanging around with his old friends; guys who never bothered to stay in school long enough or get decent jobs. Some of them are dealing.”

  “Drugs? You’re saying he’s involved with drugs?” If Lauren was coping with a husband doing that, no wonder she hadn’t checked out a locker key in Union more quickly. She had other issues to cope with.

  “There’s a growing meth business in Maine,” Clem shared. “It’s an open secret in a lot of towns. Not so much on the coast as inland, where the shoe factories have gone out of business and the paper industry isn’t hiring as many anymore.”

  Cindy shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s dealing. But the word around is that he’s using, for sure. And when Caleb was drinking, he’d get violent. On alcohol and drugs . . . it can’t be pretty. Or easy to deal with. And Lauren’s never been quite the same since her little girl died.”

  “I heard she had a child. What happened?” I’d forgotten to ask Gram.

  “Robin was only two. She drowned. Fell
off the rocks near the lighthouse into the surf. Story was Lauren had only let go of her hand for a minute.”

  Now I was definitely more sympathetic to Lauren.

  “It was awful when Lauren found your mom’s body. She was all over the news.” Clem shook her head. “I tried to get in touch with her then. I thought maybe I’d help her at least get her hair done and give her a few tips on how to handle the press, but she never returned my calls.”

  “Maybe she thought since you worked for a television station, you were going to interview her yourself. Or try to get an inside story,” suggested Cindy.

  “Maybe. But at least that story’s not a lead anymore. I’m sorry about your mother, Angie.”

  I nodded. “Now the town seems divided about whether Joe Greene killed her, or someone else was involved.”

  “I thought all the evidence pointed to him.”

  “It does. But many of his friends in town don’t want to believe he’s guilty.”

  “Remember, Angie, when you and I and Lauren were in Brownies, with Mrs. Greene as our leader?” Cindy said. “Life was so simple then. And we had so much fun. Remember our first camping trip?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve tried to forget it.”

  “You peed in your sleeping bag because you heard noises in the bushes!”

  “That was your fault! You shouldn’t have been wandering around after we were all supposed to be asleep,” I said.

  “I was trying to hide behind those bushes so I could pee!” Cindy laughed. “We were in, what? Third grade then?” She shook her head in disbelief. “My son’s in kindergarten already. It all seems impossible.”

  “Like it or not, we’re the grown-ups now,” said Clem.

  “That’s just a rumor,” I added.

  “I wasn’t in Haven Harbor for Brownies, but what I loved best about Girl Scouts,” Clem admitted, “was that Mr. Greene sent all the second-day cookies and tarts and muffins over to our meetings for our refreshments. Yum!”