Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  “And when you heard Clem Walker and I were going to have lunch together in Haven Harbor, you had to find us. Talk to us. Convince us to give you that paper.”

  “I knew what Clem looked like. I’d seen her smiling on Channel 7 before. You, I didn’t remember. You were only on the screen for a few seconds. So I watched for your friend. I saw her parking that sporty little car she drove at the wharf. Stupid woman. She didn’t even look surprised when I knocked on her window. She opened the door. Thought I wanted her autograph! I told her what I wanted was that paper. She said she didn’t have it; you had it. And she wouldn’t tell me where you were. I was so angry. I got carried away. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Done what?” I asked, innocently, thinking of the tape recorder and Pete under the counter.

  “That sassy bitch didn’t know how much that paper meant to me. How could she? She lived a perfect little life, flirting with her audience through the television set. Expecting to be asked for her autograph wherever she went!” Holgate looked past me, toward the wharf, toward the parking lot where he’d killed Clem. “It was so easy to kill her.”

  “What about the needle?”

  Holgate shrugged. “Not only rich women do needlepoint; Mother does it, too. She’d asked me to buy her some new needles when I went out that morning. They were in my pocket. I couldn’t resist. I wanted whoever found that Walker woman to know why she’d died.”

  Holgate was making this too easy. He’d confessed to killing Clem. Stalking me? Blowing up my car? Legally, they came second.

  Something wasn’t right.

  “Ms. Byrne, in your e-mail you said you had the needlepoint of the coat of arms and the paper. I’d like to see them.” Holgate walked toward Sarah with assurance.

  “She doesn’t have them. I do,” I said.

  Why hadn’t Pete or Ethan shown himself? What were they waiting for? The man had confessed.

  “May I have them, please? That’s why I came, after all.”

  I walked slowly toward the counter. At this point I didn’t care about the needlepoint or the paper. They’d been a curiosity. A souvenir, even, of the first auction I’d attended. Now they were forever stained with Clem’s blood, in my mind if not in reality. “I’ll show them to you.”

  I picked up the envelope and pulled out both the embroidered coat of arms and the paper.

  As I turned to hand them to Holgate, he grabbed Sarah, the crook of his left elbow tightening around her neck.

  “What?” I said, confused for a moment.

  “Put those things back in that envelope to protect them. I’m not stupid. You didn’t invite me here so I could see an embroidery. You wanted me to tell you what happened to your friend. Well”—Holgate reached under his heavy coat with his right hand and pulled out a gun with a silencer—“now you know. You don’t think I’m going to let either of you walk out of here, do you?”

  Sarah squirmed, and kicked back, hitting his leg.

  Seaward Holgate tightened his grip on Sarah. “Hey, you, stop that. You can die a lot of ways. You want to make it quick, or slow and painful? Because I don’t care. All I care about is taking that paper back to my mother’s house and showing her what kind of a family she came from, before I inform my dear uncle Jonathan and his famous wife, the senator. Not headlines Uncle Jonathan would like, I assure you.”

  I was still holding the envelope. “We haven’t done anything to you, Mr. Holgate. Please,” I pleaded, “you’re scaring me.”

  “About time,” he said, holding Sarah tighter.

  I had to do something. I let the envelope slip out of my hand. As it fell I bent, as if to pick it up. At the same time I pulled my gun from under my sweatshirt, turned slightly, and fired.

  Holgate yelled several obscenities and dropped Sarah. I ducked in back of a nearby table and heard china and crystal breaking as his return shot ricocheted around the room.

  His navy-blue pant leg was turning red from oozing blood. My shot had hit him above the knee. Holgate tried to pick up the envelope on the floor.

  “Shoot again, and I’ll shoot back,” Pete said. “And I’m a good shot. So put your gun on the floor.”

  Holgate’s head jerked as he turned and saw Pete coming out from behind the counter.

  “I said, put the gun on the floor. Slowly,” Pete said again. I stood and raised my gun, pointing it at Holgate. He could fire at one of us, but not both of us.

  He looked from Pete to me and then back again, and did as he’d been directed.

  “Angie, get that gun,” Pete said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I answered as I picked up Holgate’s gun and put mine on Sarah’s counter, out of Holgate’s reach.

  “Sarah? How about you?”

  Sarah had been crouching behind a pine bureau on the other side of the room. She looked pale, but she stood up. “I’m okay,” she answered.

  “Ethan?” Pete asked.

  That’s when State of Maine Homicide Detective Ethan Trask came down the stairs carrying a pair of handcuffs. “I’m fine, too,” he said as he put the cuffs on Seaward Holgate. “And so is the recording. Holgate, sorry to disturb your plans for the rest of the afternoon, but you’re going to the emergency room with me, and then to the police station.”

  “I want my lawyer,” said Holgate.

  “You have a right to a lawyer . . .” Ethan continued the Miranda warning as he pushed the limping Holgate out the door. As Holgate’s coat brushed one of Sarah’s tables, something fell out of his pocket, onto the shop floor.

  Pete took Holgate’s gun and followed them.

  Sarah and I stared at each other for a moment. I looked at the hand that had held my gun. “I shot him.”

  I’d carried a gun for several years. My boss at the private detective agency in Arizona had insisted I learn to shoot, and practice regularly. I was pretty darn good with a target.

  And a couple of times I’d threatened someone with my Glock.

  But I’d never shot anyone before.

  I looked at my gun, still on the counter where I’d put it. My hand was shaking. “I shot him,” I said, almost to myself.

  “You did the right thing. He said he was going to kill both of us,” said Sarah.

  “Pete and Ethan were close by. They wouldn’t have let that happen,” I said. My voice was shaky.

  “Something fell out of his pocket,” said Sarah. She went over to the door and picked it up.

  It was an open package of embroidery needles. Two were missing.

  Chapter 40

  “Teach me the measure of my days

  Thou maker of my frame

  I would survey life’s narrow space

  And learn how frail I am.”

  —In 1805 Phebe Bratton, born on March 13, 1783, made this sampler in Mrs. Armstrong’s School in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She included a floral border surrounding the figure of Liberty.

  The next few days were a flurry of activity. Not even another plowable snow kept any of us home in Haven Harbor.

  Sarah and I both made official statements to the police. Back home at the rectory, Tom stubbornly refused to rest, and, with Gram’s help, was back organizing the Congregational Church.

  Trixi and I returned home, and I turned up the heat. I hadn’t been able to get really warm since I’d fired my Glock. The police had checked it, and it was now back in the front hall drawer, covered with gloves and woolen hats.

  I wasn’t ready to pull it out again.

  But I never forgot it was there.

  I’d shot someone. Despite the police ruling that I’d done it in self-defense, I wasn’t ready to use it again. Having the Glock had never been a big deal. I’d had it because it was required by my job. It was power.

  Now it was something else.

  For the time being it would stay in the drawer.

  I hadn’t attended Clem’s funeral, but Patrick had. He’d wanted Steve to have a friend there.

  After everything calmed down, Patrick
and I met Sarah and Pete at the Harbor Haunts for dinner.

  We debated: sit next to the fireplace or the window? On a weekday night in February when it was snowing outside, all options were good.

  We’d settled on the window. Lights in the restaurant shone on the falling snow and the white sidewalk and street outside. Inside, the room was warm and filled with friendship, and, maybe, more. But the fireplace was glowing, and the room smelled welcoming: a mixture of wood smoke and garlic and coffee and beer. It seemed natural for Sarah and Pete to be there together with Patrick and I.

  Life was going on.

  Patrick ordered a bottle of wine for three of us, while Pete stuck to his usual beer. We agreed to share a large bowl of mussels in garlic and white wine and two baguettes as an appetizer, and then laughed as we all chose different pasta dishes as main courses.

  Pasta and February seemed to go together.

  At first we made small talk as we shared the mussels and tore off chunks of bread to dip in the fragrant broth.

  Then the subject on everyone’s minds came up.

  “How’s Holgate?” Patrick asked.

  “He’s fine,” Pete assured him. “Angie’s shot didn’t hit the bone. But he won’t be going anywhere but jail for a while. The judge refused to grant him bail, because of his wealth and the murder and attempted murder charges. His attorney’s requesting Holgate be examined by psychiatrists.”

  I shivered. That was the man who’d been stalking me.

  “Was it him . . . all of it?” I asked. “I know he killed Clem. But the messages . . . and my car . . . and the footprints around Aurora . . .” Patrick reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “He blew up your car, for sure,” Pete said. “His story changes slightly with each telling, but it sounds as though he put the fireworks there late the night Clem died, while you were at Sarah’s. He correctly assumed that if you hadn’t taken your car by then, it would still be on the street in the morning. He came back to Haven Harbor the next day, this time with his mother. According to Gus they browsed in the bookshop, but didn’t buy anything but time. Holgate made several phone calls while he was there. One was to the activator he’d hidden under snow, under your car.”

  “Did his mother know what he was doing?” Sarah asked.

  “So far we think she’s in the clear. He’d bought her a house and given her money to furnish it, and she knew about the arts center he was donating to the state and naming for her. She knew about the auction, but, as she told you, Sarah, she didn’t go to the preview or the sale itself. She didn’t want to be snubbed yet again by her estranged relatives. But she’d mentioned the sale to her son. That he went to the auction and bought some of the pieces she’d mentioned over the years was a total surprise to her.”

  “What about the woman Pax said was asking about Patrick at the post office?”

  “He wasn’t able to confirm that it was her. It could have been anyone. Not enough to implicate Barbara.”

  “And the telephone and e-mail messages?”

  “All from Seaward. From a temporary cell phone.”

  “What about the footprints in the snow around my place?” asked Patrick.

  “He wouldn’t admit to them. And, truthfully, they may not be his. Might be someone else local, checking out your place. No damage was done, and the boot prints in the snow could have belonged to any large man.”

  “They were scary,” I admitted. “Intimidating.”

  Pete nodded. “And you were right to call me about them. But for the moment, there’s no reason to believe you’re not safe.”

  Outside the window a figure appeared out of the darkness. The old man was bent over, pushing his way up the hill from the harbor against the snow and wind. He was carrying a large plastic garbage bag over his shoulder, like a Santa with a sack.

  Pete sighed. “Ike Hamilton shouldn’t be collecting empties in this weather. I’ll get him to come in and have some chowder, and drop him at the shelter after we’ve had our dinner. His place doesn’t have enough heat in this weather.”

  As Pete slipped out of his chair and went to help Ike, I looked over at Sarah. “Pete’s a good man. Remember, I told you.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me,” said Sarah. “I’ve always known that.”

  “Thank goodness the nightmare of the past week is over.” I watched out the window as Pete took Ike’s arm and guided him toward the door of the Harbor Haunts. “We’re very lucky.”

  Sarah’s Pasta Puttanesca

  Pasta puttanesa (spaghetti alla puttanesca) originated in Naples, Italy. Legends say this Neapolitan dish was cooked by “ladies of easy virtue” who wanted a dish they could put together easily, between clients. (Puttana means prostitute in Italian.) But a very similar word, puttanata, means rubbish or leftovers or nonsense. So perhaps pasta puttanesca was thrown together for late-night customers by a chef with limited ingredients. Whichever story you prefer, this is Sarah’s version.

  Ingredients

  6 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

  4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil 1 large yellow onion, chopped

  2 ounces anchovy fillets (1 can) in oil, drained and finely chopped or crushed

  1 large (28 ounces) can of Italian plum tomatoes, preferably San Marzano, chopped, with liquid

  2 tablespoons thick Italian tomato paste

  12 ounces of black or Kalamata olives in oil, drained, pitted, and chopped

  3 tablespoons of capers, drained zest and juice of one lemon

  1 tablespoon dried oregano

  1 tablespoon dried marjoram

  1 generously packed cup of finely chopped Italian parsley + extra to sprinkle on top

  1 pound of dried spaghetti or linguini (1 box)

  Begin heating water for pasta. (Add a little olive oil to keep pasta from sticking.)

  In a large saucepan or frying pan: Sauté chopped garlic in olive oil. Add chopped onion and cook for two minutes.

  Add crushed anchovies and tomatoes.

  Mix in tomato paste, olives, capers, lemon zest, lemon juice, oregano, and marjoram. Cook over medium heat for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

  Add cup of parsley, and cook another minute.

  Cook pasta, per instructions on box. Drain. Top with sauce, toss to coat, and sprinkle with additional parsley.

  Serves 4. Also good reheated.

  Note: Unlike other Italian pasta dishes, traditionally pasta puttanesca is not served with cheese.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With thanks, as always, to my agent, John Talbot, and my editor, John Scognamiglio, who ensured that this series exists—and continues.

  To Kensington’s Claire Hill and Karin Auerbach, who publicize this series and other wonderful mysteries.

  To Leslie Rounds, Executive Director, and Tara Raiselis, Director, of the Dyer Library and Saco Museum in Saco, Maine, whose collection of samplers stitched by young women in Maine is outstanding and inspiring.

  Although this book is fictional, The London Foundling Hospital is/was a real place, and took in thousands of children for many years. Records of those infants are still maintained in London. From 1740 until 1770 pieces of cloth or other tokens were saved with every child admitted as a means of identifying the child should someone reclaim him or her. Some of those tokens and textiles can be seen in the Foundling Hospital’s museum today. To read more about the tokens and the London Foundling Hospital, see Threads of Feeling: The London Foundling Hospital’s Textile Tokens, 1740–1770 by John Styles, published by the Foundling Museum in 2010.

  To my friend Elizabeth Park, who introduced me to pasta puttanesca, although Sarah has changed Elizabeth’s recipe a bit.

  To Henry Lyons, who keeps my website (www.leawait.com) up to date.

  To Kathy Brigham, who told me about the book Threads of Useful Learning by Mary Uhl, describing the wonderful Quaker samplers at the Westtown School in West Chester, Pennsylvania.

  To Brian Marson of Pyro City who taught me about fireworks, aft
er I assured him I wasn’t really going to set them off in a car. Not in real life, anyway . . .

  To Bruce Hartford, Edgecomb, Maine, postmaster extraordinaire, who orders my stamps, sends my media mail, reads my books, displays them at the post office, and always has a smile and a story to share.

  To friends and relatives who have my back, especially when deadlines are near. Particularly, thanks to Nancy Cantwell, Bob Adler, Anne-Marie Nolin, J.D. and Barbara Neeson, Kate Flora, Barbara Ross, Bill Carito, Kathy Lynn Emerson, and, especially and always, my husband, Bob Thomas (1945–2018), whose love and support made (almost) all things possible.

  And to you, my readers, whose enthusiasm and encouragement keeps me writing. If you haven’t already, please friend my Lea Wait/Cornelia Kidd page on Facebook so we can stay in touch, check my website (www.leawait.com) for a printable list of books and links to prequels, and write to me at leawait@roadrunner.com with your e-mail address if you’d like to hear when my next book is published. In the meantime, if you enjoyed Thread Herrings, please share it by writing a review on an online site or on your Facebook page.

  Thank you all!

  Lea Wait

  Books by Lea Wait

  Mainely Needlepoint Mystery Series

  1–Twisted Threads

  2–Threads of Evidence

  3–Thread and Gone

  4–Dangling by a Thread

  5–Tightening the Threads

  6–Thread the Halls

  7–Thread Herrings

  Shadows Antique Print Mystery Series