Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  “Not unlikely,” Ruth agreed. “Can’t say I know anything about a family of that name. But I can check into it. Used to be you had to go to local churches and graveyards and town records and archives to research family histories. But a lot is online today—either here in Maine databases or on national sites. Let me see what I can find out for you.”

  “Are you sure you want to take the time to do this?”

  “I’d love to. Who knows? Maybe by researching family histories I’ll come up with some new plot lines.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said. I knew Ruth had been borrowing gossip (and truths) from Haven Harbor families to use as fodder in her erotica, and that had hurt a few people. Maybe looking outside Haven Harbor would help both of us.

  “Has Clem gotten any tips to work on? Her story the other night suggested calling Channel 7. I know they got that one nasty call. But I hoped others might be helpful.”

  I hesitated for a moment, but, after all, someone who wrote erotica had heard a lot. And Ruth hadn’t hesitated when she’d heard about some of the murders I’d somehow become involved with in the past months.

  “Clem’s gotten several calls through the station,” I admitted. “And I got one e-mail to Mainely Needlepoint. The business was mentioned on the broadcast, you remember. But none of the messages we’ve gotten so far were helpful.”

  Ruth nodded. “No leads, then?”

  I shook my head. “Death threats.”

  “All of them? About a piece of needlepoint done over two hundred years ago?”

  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?” I asked. “I’ll admit it makes me nervous. Clem and I are going to have lunch together today to talk about what, if anything, we’ll do about it. Her producer at Channel 7 reported the messages to the Portland police, but you can’t arrest someone for threatening—and, even then, you’d have to figure out who he or she is. So far the messages we’ve gotten have been anonymous. We can’t get a restraining order against e-mails.”

  “Of course not. But how awful for the two of you. I suspect it isn’t unusual for a television station to get crazy messages. Death threats are a whole other kettle of fish.”

  “Clem said they get crank calls all the time,” I agreed. “But, you’re right. Death threats go further than the usual craziness.”

  “Probably nothing will come of it,” Ruth said. “I sometimes get nasty letters from readers, thinking I’m writing about them, or saying God will never forgive me for the filth I’m writing. On the other hand, I also get letters inviting me to visit one of my readers and reenact my plots.” Ruth smiled. “My publisher forwards them to me. I wonder what some of the men making those salacious proposals I’ve received would think if they knew Chastity Falls was seventy-nine years old.”

  We both laughed.

  “Not that I’m not up for some fun once in a while,” said Ruth, her blue eyes twinkling. “But not quite the fun I write about. Maybe when I was much younger. But writing about it is plenty these days.”

  I shook my head. “I hope whoever’s been writing and calling Clem and me is just pranking us.” I hesitated. “One of the messages included everyone who was asking questions about the needlepoint, so that would include you, too, if you help us with the genealogical search.”

  “Don’t you worry, Angie,” said Ruth. “I can take care of myself. And don’t you have a gun, too?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “You have a gun, Ruth?”

  “I’m a woman alone. Ben got me one years ago. I don’t have much ammunition, but I have enough.”

  I swallowed. “I have a Glock. But I don’t advertise it.” Not exactly. Although most of my friends knew I had one. I’d learned to shoot in Arizona, ironically. Mainers usually learned to shoot closer to home.

  “Good for you. Did you bring it with you today?” Ruth asked, as casually as if she’d asked if I had a kitten, or a credit card.

  “Yes,” I admitted. Under the circumstances . . .

  “Good for you. Maybe you should be carrying more regularly,” she suggested. “If whoever sent those messages intends anything wicked, you want to be prepared.”

  “You may be right,” I said, thinking of the “tall man” Pax had told me about at the post office. “For now, anyway.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “Now, before you go and meet Clem, tell me about the other things that went on sale at the auction. I haven’t been to one in years, and that one sounded interesting.”

  “It was my first,” I said, relieved to be on another topic. “It was amazing to see the variety of things people were bidding on. And the bidders themselves. Auctions are another world, Ruth.”

  Telling her about the auction and the other bidders ate up time. It was after twelve-thirty before I glanced at the clock over her mantelpiece.

  “I need to get going. Clem is always on time, and she’s meeting me before an appointment, so I don’t want her to have to wait for me.”

  “You tell her I watch her on the television almost every night,” said Ruth. “We’re real proud of her in Haven Harbor.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I agreed as I pulled on my boots. “And give me a call if you’re able to figure out anything about those families.”

  “I promise,” she agreed. “I’ll get right to it. Sounds more interesting than the chapter I was going to write this afternoon.”

  I waved, and headed my car toward the Harbor Haunts, the only year-round restaurant in Haven Harbor. In summer or fall I would have walked, but this time of year walking took longer, and parking spaces were easy to find. I parked a block from Sarah’s store, thinking I might stop in to see her after lunch, and headed for the restaurant.

  The dining room was warm. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and I smelled haddock cooking, most likely in chowder, and coffee.

  Sergeant Pete Lambert was at the counter, and waved. “Angie! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Winter keeps people inside. Quiet days for you?”

  “Mostly vehicle accidents and drunks,” he acknowledged. “Always something going on. Join me for lunch?”

  “Some other day, Pete. I’m meeting Clem Walker.”

  “Our local celebrity, eh? Haven’t seen her in years, except on the tube.”

  I glanced around the small restaurant. “I expected her to be here by now. She’s usually early.”

  “Maybe got delayed on the road,” he suggested. “Sit and have a beer with me until she gets here.”

  “Not a beer,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “Too cold. Tea?” Pete wasn’t drinking beer, either. He was eating a cheeseburger and fries for lunch, but drinking soda. It was a workday for him.

  I ordered, and we talked about the weather, and people we knew. He’d missed my television appearance the other night, so I filled him in. Patrick had been right. I should tell the police, and Pete had the right credentials, as well as being a friend.

  “Death threats?” he frowned. “Glad you told me about those. Get me copies, will you? I don’t know that I can do much, but at least I can get them on record.”

  “You can’t do anything unless someone follows through and does something about a threat, right?”

  “True enough. But I can drive by your house when I’m making my rounds, and keep my eyes open.”

  “Thanks, Pete. They’re probably nothing.”

  “Hope so. But death threats aren’t anything to fool around with.”

  “I’ll get them to you,” I agreed. “Clem’s going to bring me copies of the ones the station received. I’ll make you copies of those, too.” I hesitated, and then I told him about the man Pax Henry had said asked for me at the post office.

  Pete frowned. “Could be a coincidence. But I’ll stop and have a word with Pax. He told this fellow you lived on the green?”

  I nodded.

  “Anyone who lives here could have given out your address, then. And your name was on that show, too. Not good. If you hear anything else out of the ordinar
y, you let me know, all right?”

  “I will, Pete.” I could feel the warmth from my hot tea all the way to my toes. Or maybe I felt safer sitting next to one of Haven Harbor’s three-man police force. “Clem said the television station gets lots of prank calls.”

  I glanced at my phone. Clem was twenty minutes late. That wasn’t at all like her.

  “How’s your friend, Sarah?” Pete asked. “I’ve seen the lights on in her place, and you and she went to the auction together, so I’m guessing she hasn’t left town for the winter.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “She’s fine. Her shop isn’t open all the time this time of year, but she’s buying and sorting through inventory and starting taxes.”

  Pete stirred his soda with his straw, looking as though his glass held secrets. “Not to be too curious, but Sarah’s a good-lookin’ woman. And smart. Any special man in her life now?”

  “No; she’s single,” I said, grinning at Pete. “Speaking of which, I heard your separation was official.”

  “Yup. Wife—soon to be ex—is living down to Bangor. She’s got a new friend there.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Middling. It’s been a rough winter,” Pete admitted.

  “Want me to put a word in for you when I see Sarah?” Pete was a good guy, in his thirties, and not bad looking. Had a steady job. Who knows? I hadn’t thought about matching him with Sarah, but they were both good people who knew what they wanted in life. They each should have someone to share it with. I had no idea what Sarah thought of him, but I could find out. “You know—I could pass her a note in study hall or something.” I elbowed him gently.

  Pete’s face got as red as the Formica counter we were sitting at. “No need, Angie. Curious, that’s all. Sure you don’t want to order some food? Looks like your friend Clem’s been delayed.”

  I texted her. Where are u?

  “I’ll give her a little more time,” I said. “I’m sure she has a good excuse.” But, still. Clem was never late. Never.

  Pete finished the apple brown Betty he’d had for dessert and paid his tab. “Sorry to leave you, but I’m back on the clock. You have my number. Don’t forget to get me that information about the crazy caller.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  As soon as he left I started seriously worrying. Clem hadn’t returned my text. Maybe she was driving? Maybe her car had hit a patch of black ice and gone off the road?

  Something was wrong. I was sure of it.

  I texted her again.

  Chapter 13

  “Fortuné Gauffreau agé de 12 ans fait a St. Barth’my le 24 Juillet 1816.”

  —St. Barthélemy is a West Indies island belonging to France, now known as St-Barth or St. Barts. This sampler, stitched by a twelve-year-old boy, includes a house, birds, dogs, cows, vases of flowers, and clover.

  Clem had said she’d meet me at the Harbor Haunts at one o’clock for lunch.

  Maybe she’d been delayed at work. Or stuck in traffic. Or had to cancel.

  But why hadn’t she called, or texted, to tell me?

  The Clem I knew would have contacted me if she were going to be late. Clem organized her life the way other women organized their closets or their checkbooks. (She organized those, too, of course.)

  In the past year she’d moved from behind-the-scenes to being an on-camera reporter. Her next step, either in Portland or in a larger city, would be to become an anchor. Ultimately, a network anchor.

  She knew how to manage people and politics as well as she’d learned to manage herself. It might take longer than she hoped. But she’d get where she wanted to go.

  The more I thought about Clem, the more I worried.

  “Another cup of tea?” the young woman behind the counter asked. “Or something stronger? Something to eat?”

  Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. “No, thank you.” I fished out my wallet and left her a good tip. I’d been taking up counter space for over half an hour.

  I’d parked near Sarah’s shop and apartment. This time of day she’d be sorting and pricing items for her shop, or studying recent prices for antiques. I decided to stop and see her.

  I was two stores away from her door when my phone rang. I pulled it out quickly. Clem?

  But it wasn’t Clem. It was Pete.

  “Angie, are you still downtown? You were waiting for your friend Clem Walker twenty minutes ago.”

  “I just left the Harbor Haunts,” I answered. “Why?”

  His voice was steady. “Sorry to have to break it to you this way, but Clem won’t be meeting you for lunch.”

  I stopped walking. I didn’t feel cold or hot, despite the wind whirling fallen snow around me. “What’s happened?”

  “We had a call from someone else who had lunch at the Harbor Haunts. He’d parked next to Clem at the town wharf.” He paused. “She never got out of her car.”

  “What?”

  “She’s dead, Angie.”

  I stood in the snow. My mind went blank. “No!” Not Clem. I’d coped with death before. Even murders. But none of the victims had been my friends. “When? How?”

  “Shot. But you know that’s officially up to the medical examiner to determine. I’ve called Ethan. He’ll want to talk to you.”

  Ethan Trask. My high school crush who was now a Maine state trooper in the homicide division; the one Pete called in whenever there was a murder, or suspected murder, in Haven Harbor. I’d seen him all too often in the ten months since I’d been home.

  “Can’t you tell me . . . ?”

  “I can’t say anything more. If we hadn’t happened to meet earlier, I wouldn’t have known you were even connected with this. But under the circumstances, you need to be careful. I’m thinking you shouldn’t even go home, in case whoever killed Clem is also looking for you.”

  “Someone killed Clem . . . because she did a television feature on a piece of old embroidery?” I was still trying to make sense of what I was hearing.

  “I don’t know, Angie. I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. The crime scene crew is on their way, and I can’t leave here.”

  “You’re in the wharf parking lot?”

  Pete paused. “Yes. But don’t come here. You know the drill. We’re closing off the scene.” He hesitated. “Besides, you don’t want to see her. Where are you now?”

  “On Main Street. I was going to stop to see Sarah.”

  “Good. Get off the street, and stay at Sarah’s. Don’t leave.”

  I was numb.

  “Angie? Are you still there?”

  “I am.”

  “Walk to Sarah’s now. Tell me when you get there.”

  I walked, quickly, ignoring the snow on my eyelashes and my cold feet. I couldn’t focus on the street, or the cars passing me, or other people walking on the sidewalks. I kept my feet moving. Sarah’s store wasn’t far. I had to get to Sarah’s store.

  “Pete? I’m at her place now. The store isn’t lit, so I’m going to her apartment,” I reported.

  “Good. Go.”

  The steps to Sarah’s second-floor apartment over her store were icy. I held onto the phone with one hand and her railing with my other. At the top of the iron steps I knocked on her door.

  A minute later she opened it. “Angie! What are you doing out there? You look pale as the snow.”

  “Pete, I’m going into Sarah’s apartment now.”

  “Good. Take it easy. Try to relax. And don’t leave there. I have to notify Clem’s parents. And her station may send a crew. You don’t want to be connected with any of that, hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I said as I walked into Sarah’s kitchen.

  She closed the door and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “I’m hanging up, Pete. I have to tell Sarah what’s happening.”

  I put my phone on her counter. She took my parka and hung it on one of the hooks inside her door.

  “Was that Pete Lambert on the phone?”

  The gallery-style lig
ht over Sarah’s grandfather’s painting of the harbor was lit. Its glow brightened the kitchen and the small living room filled with cozy furniture and a stack of books next to the couch she must have been using when I knocked.

  Two of her living room windows overlooked the harbor. Below us, the waters were a wintery gray-blue. Edges of the mainland shore and the rocks surrounding the Three Sisters, islands across the harbor, were lined with snow and ice. The afternoon tide was full, and only two lobster boats were at the town wharf. Lobsters wintered farther out to sea. Most lobstermen spent their winters repairing nets and traps, repainting, and doing other chores and jobs like snowplowing or carving decoys for summer buyers or improving their own homes.

  Looking out Sarah’s windows you wouldn’t know a young woman had been murdered three blocks away.

  “Angie? Talk to me? What’s wrong?”

  I turned back to Sarah’s living room, where everything was peaceful and warm. And safe.

  “Clem’s dead,” I managed to say. “Killed. Shot, in the parking lot at the town wharf. Pete’s worried whoever did it is looking for me next.”

  “No!” Sarah sank into one of the cozy armchairs she’d bought at an auction a couple of years ago. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then she added, “About the embroidery?”

  I shook my head and sat on her couch. “I don’t know. But Clem and I were both getting threats, and now she’s dead.” I looked at the wall where Sarah had hung the needlepointed map of Australia her grandmother had given her. “Clem was going to meet me for lunch. I talked to Pete while I was waiting for her, and told him about the threats. I didn’t take them seriously.” Maybe not, but I’d brought my gun with me.

  “But why?” Sarah shook her head. “It makes no sense.”

  “I found out who the families were who consigned everything at the auction,” I told her. “Jonathan Holgate, and the Gould family.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Neither name means anything to me. You think someone from one of those families killed Clem?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, Sarah. And I can’t guess. Whoever shot her didn’t leave a calling card. But . . . he might have been looking for me earlier this morning.”