by Lea Wait
“It’s your life, too,” I blurted.
“Yes. It’s my life. And I’ve made my decision.”
“Mary,” I said softly, before she started crying again. “What do you know about your family’s history? About the people who lived in this house.”
“Since I saw you the other night I’ve been thinking about that.” she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes with tissues again. “Before you asked me, I hadn’t thought about it.” She looked away from me, toward the stacks of boxes filling the room. “I didn’t want to think about it.”
“But you’ve thought about it since then,” I encouraged her.
“I only remember one story. I told you, most of the men in my family were sea captains, all the way back to the man who had this house built.”
“It’s a beautiful, large house. A captain, especially if he owned all or part of his ship, would’ve been able to afford it.”
“When I was a little girl, six or seven, my grandmother, my father’s mother, told me stories about the people who’d lived here. My mother wasn’t interested; she said all those people were dead and gone and didn’t have anything to do with our lives today.” Mary sniffed again and blew her nose. “I wish I remembered more of what my grandmother told me.”
“What do you remember?”
“You said maybe the embroidery was done by Mary, Queen of Scots. None of the stories have to do with her. But one story was about another queen—Marie Antoinette.”
My history was hazy. “The ‘let them eat cake’ queen?”
“That’s the one. I remembered her name last night and looked her up on the Internet.”
It didn’t matter if you learned history in school today. The Internet would explain it.
“Marie Antoinette was a queen of France. My grandmother told me a man from Boston, James Swan, lived in France when she was queen. He knew a lot of people there. Powerful, rich, people. He also knew Captain Stephen Clough, who lived here, because they’d fought together during the American Revolution.”
I listened carefully.
“The captain was in the salt and spar trade.”
I nodded. In colonial times tall, straight white pines in Maine, which made perfect masts and spars, were cut down and taken to England and traded for salt, essential for preserving food for winter. After the American Revolution the masts were traded to other European countries for salt and for fine goods not then produced in North America, like fabrics and perfumes and books and window glass.
“Anyway, this Boston guy wanted to help his friends in France. He knew people like Talleyrand and Lafayette. He asked my ancestor to take a load of masts for the French navy to France, and gave him letters to important people there, volunteering the captain’s ship to help them escape to America.” She paused. “One person he was trying to get out of France was the queen, Marie Antoinette, but she was in prison by the time he docked in Le Havre. The plot to rescue her failed. And every day it got more dangerous in France for people who had money. People who supported the king and queen were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, everything they owned was stolen or destroyed, and their heads were cut off.”
“They were guillotined,” I said, remembering the part of that history I’d found most interesting. The violence and gore. No wonder I’d gone to work for a private investigator in Arizona.
“Right. So Captain Clough wasn’t able to save the queen, or the other people he was trying to help. They were captured, and he sailed without them.”
“Wow, cool story,” I said.
Mary smiled. “All that fancy clothing and furniture and ornaments Captain Clough had in his ship went to Boston.” She gestured to the stacks of boxes filling her living room. “If any of it came to this house, it’s been gone a long while.”
“I’m glad you remembered the story,” I told her. “Even if it has nothing to do with the embroidery.”
“Any needlepoint on that ship would have been French, wouldn’t it?” she asked.
“I would think so,” I agreed.
“I remember my grandmother saying the captain didn’t tell anyone but his wife about his adventure, because it was only a few years after our own revolution. People in Haven Harbor were cheering for those in France who were revolting—not for the king or queen.”
“That makes sense.”
“One other thing my grandmother said stuck in my mind. She said to remember that I was special, because I was a Mary, like all those other Marys.”
“What did she mean by that?” I asked. “‘All those other Marys’?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary. “When she said that, I thought it was a made-up story. I wish I’d asked more questions when she was alive. Now she’s gone, and my parents are gone. All I have left are cartons of their stuff.”
“That’s not all you have,” I reminded her. “You have one of their stories. And, whether or not we can get your needlework back, I’m going to try to find out more of those stories. They’re yours, and one day they’ll be your children’s.”
“Thank you,” said Mary. Her eyes were dry, and her voice was soft but firm. “Thank you for understanding. No one else seems to.”
I reached over to hug her. This time she hugged me back.
Chapter 15
Happy the woman who can find
Constant resources in her mind
She for amusement need not roam
Her pleasure centres in her home
And when the spring of life is o’er
She still enjoys the sacred store
Which youth should seek and value most
And when once gain’d can ne’er be lost.
—Stitched by thirteen-year-old
Susan Gray, in Boston, 1803
Mary was being more understanding about the loss of her needlepoint than I’d expected. But I was determined to get it back for her. It symbolized her family. She shouldn’t have to lose any more than she already had.
On my walk home I called Sarah and Ruth and Nicole and left messages.
I kept wondering why Rob had gone to Lenore Pendleton’s office to see the needlepoint. He’d already seen it. And he hadn’t seemed interested in anything but its value. But then, Pete and Ethan had said he was with a friend.
Arvin Fraser and Josh Winslow were the only two friends I’d seen him with recently, and I couldn’t imagine either of them being even remotely interested in needlepoint.
Jude and Cos had seen the needlepoint, since Mary lived with their family.
Of the three young men, Josh was certainly most familiar with embroidery. His dad was a Mainely Needlepointer, and Gram was teaching his mom to stitch. But I couldn’t imagine Josh with a needle.
I called Pete Lambert.
He answered immediately. “Angie. Did you remember anything else about your meeting with Lenore Pendleton that might help us?”
“No. Sorry, Pete.” The cell connection wasn’t strong. Pete’s voice was almost drowned out by a chorus of “dee! dee!”s from several chickadees who seemed to be following me down the street. Maybe I was near a nest. “I wondered . . . you said Rob Trask and a friend discovered Lenore’s body. Who was with him?”
Pete hesitated. “Now, you’re not going to get involved with this case, are you, Angie?”
“Of course not,” I answered. I didn’t tell him my fingers were crossed. “But I was just with Mary Clough, and she’s very upset about her needlepoint being stolen. I’m wondering if you’d found out who was interested in it.”
“We’re doing our best to recover Mary’s needlepoint and the missing jewelry. But our focus is on finding Lenore’s killer.”
“Right. But I assume one will lead to the other.”
“Likely. But the killer could have broken up the jewelry so it couldn’t be identified, and the stones might have been sold several times by now. I don’t know why he or she took the needlework.”
“It might be valuable.”
“But you don’t know that f
or sure. Whoever killed Lenore probably thought more jewelry was in that padded envelope and just grabbed it. If that happened, he could have dumped it when he saw what it was.”
I winced. “I hope not. But I hope finding what was stolen will lead to the killer.”
“And vice versa,” Pete agreed. “Okay. I don’t see any harm in telling you. Rob was with a young woman from Boston. Hold on a minute. I’ll get you her name.”
I heard the sound of papers being shuffled. I’d seen Pete’s office. The Haven Harbor Police Department was not a paperless operation.
“Here; I found it. Her name’s Uma Patel.”
“An old friend of Rob’s?” I was fishing, but I wanted to know more about this woman he’d taken to see the embroidery. And why.
“I don’t think so. She’s vacationing here. Staying at the Wild Rose Inn for a couple of days. I had a feeling she and Rob had just met. I don’t think their relationship had anything to do with the robbery or murder, so I didn’t press it. Do you recognize her name?”
“No; I’ve never heard it. I was just wondering.”
“Don’t wonder too many things, Angie. Ethan has this in hand. Right now we’re asking people who live near Lenore Pendleton’s office whether they saw anything suspicious. We’re waiting for the ME’s report to see when he thinks Lenore died. That should narrow our window down a lot.”
“I understand. But thank you for sharing the woman’s name,” I said, clicking my phone off.
By the time I’d finished talking with Pete I was back at my house. I sat on one of the porch chairs and thought through everything that had happened.
If Rob had just met this Uma Patel, why had he taken her to see the needlepoint? He was engaged, so I hoped the answer wasn’t that he was trying to impress her.
But then, he’d been at the Harbor Haunts Café a couple of nights ago without Mary. Sarah had seen a young woman with the lobstermen there. And that same girl had been with them the next night, at the co-op. Could that have been Uma Patel? I didn’t know.
If she was a visitor from Massachusetts, as Pete had said, finding Lenore’s body had certainly made her vacation memorable.
I’d put my phone on vibrate when I’d been talking with Mary. Now it was buzzing again.
It was Nicole Thibodeau, from the patisserie. “Nicole! Thank you for getting back to me. Is Henri back yet? How is his mother?”
“His mother is not so well. He is staying another day or two. But I had time to look at that paper you left for me. The copy of the old note?”
“Yes. Could you read it?”
“With difficulty. I can’t decipher who it seems to be addressed to. But the author thanks this person for her dear friendship and wishes her good health in the future. She is loved and remembered. It’s signed ‘Marie.’”
I’d been taking notes as fast as I could. “Nothing about Scotland or France?”
“No countries. It is written in French, of course. The words are faded, and the spelling isn’t as it would be today, you understand.”
“I do. Thank you for translating it.”
“Not a problem. I wish I could have been of more help.”
“You’ve helped a lot,” I assured her. “We wanted to know what the note said, and you’ve told us.”
What had I expected? That the note would say who’d made the needlepoint and how it had gotten to Maine?
That would have been nice, of course. Unlikely, but nice.
“Give my best to Henri. Tell him I’ll be thinking of him and his mother.”
“I will tell him. He is not being successful so far in finding a place for her to live.” Nicole’s voice dropped a bit. “He has been saying perhaps she should come to live with us.”
“But you said she had Alzheimer’s, and a stroke.”
“Oui. It would not be easy for her, or for Henri and me if she were to come here. She needs so much attention. And we cannot afford to pay for a nursing home in this country, so if she comes here, it will be to us. It may have to be so.”
What more was there to say?
Thank goodness Gram was healthy. Some days she seemed to have more energy than I did. And now she had Tom to help care for her if she should be ill. Since Tom was almost fifteen years younger than she was, chances were he’d still be around if she got sick.
I shook my head. I shouldn’t even be thinking of such things. Gram and Tom were both fine, and likely to remain so for many years. I certainly hoped so.
Inside the house I gave Juno a few scratches behind her ears and checked to see that she had enough water. She was fine, despite her plaintive cries. I suspected she was just missing Gram.
I was, too.
I got a beer from the fridge. Late afternoon wasn’t too early for a drink. Especially on a day someone had been murdered.
Sarah would return my call after her shop had closed. Maybe by then she would’ve had time to read more about medieval needlepoint. Had she heard about Lenore’s death? Probably. Haven Harbor was a small town. If she hadn’t, I’d tell her.
I’d left the front door open and the screen door latched.
I couldn’t miss the footsteps on the porch and the repeated knocking on the door.
“Angie! Angie Curtis! Where’ve you been?”
I put down my drink and walked to the door. Rob Trask’s face was flushed and I could smell the beer on his breath through the screen door. “Finally. You’re home. I must have knocked on this door four times today!”
“What is it, Rob?”
“Lenore Pendleton, that lawyer who was going to help you? She’s dead. Dead!”
“Your brother and Pete Lambert told me.” He must have started drinking hours ago, but it wasn’t every day he found a body.
That didn’t mean I’d unlock the screen door. Drink affected people in different ways. “They told me you were the one who found her.”
“This morning.” Rob leaned on the door frame. His words were slurred.
“That must have been pretty awful.” Especially for Lenore.
“It was.” He paused for a moment, as though remembering. “Ethan says the needlepoint is gone. Gone! You promised to keep it safe.”
“I know, Rob. And I’m sorry.” Of course, if I’d known Lenore Pendleton was going to be killed and robbed I wouldn’t have left the needlepoint in her care. “I’m sure your brother will find whoever killed her. I’m looking for the needlepoint, too. Mary’s upset about losing it.” When a woman was dead, it seemed bizarre to be worrying about an old piece of cloth no one even knew existed until a few days ago. But Rob was focused on losing something he thought of as his. Maybe that was his way of not thinking about Lenore’s body. “I’ll do my best to find it. For Mary.”
“Right. Mary,” said Rob. Had he told her about Lenore’s death? He hadn’t when I’d seen her, only a couple of hours before. I suspected he hadn’t talked to her today.
“Who was the woman with you this morning, Rob?”
He looked at me a bit sidewise. “How’d you know anyone was with me?”
“Ethan and Pete Lambert told me.”
“Oh, yeah. Her name’s Uma something. Funny name, Uma. She was going to help Mary and me.” He looked at me and stressed Mary’s name. He’d understood I was emphasizing her loss. He might not have been as drunk as I’d first assumed. “Help Mary and me find a buyer for the needlepoint. She works at that fine arts museum down in Boston. She said people there would know how old the embroidery was, and if it was valuable. If it was important, whatever that meant, she said the museum might find a patron to buy it for their collection.”
“How did Uma hear about the needlepoint to begin with?” The needlepoint I’d told Rob and Mary not to mention to anyone.
“I sort of told her. The guys and I were hanging out at Harbor Haunts, and she was at the bar by herself, and I just thought, her being an intern at a museum and all . . .”
“She’s an intern? Not on the staff?”
“Interns are on t
he staff, aren’t they? Anyway, that doesn’t matter. She knows about all that old material and stuff. I thought she could help Mary and me.” He glanced at me again. I had the feeling he was making sure I’d heard the name Mary again. “So I said I’d take her to see the thing. No harm, no foul, right? Maybe she could help you and Sarah figure out what it was.”
“I see. So you and Uma went to see Lenore . . .”
“I figured it was important, and Uma’s only in town for a couple of days. Josh agreed to work the boat for me today. And . . . you know what we found.”
At first Rob had looked angry. Now he just looked disappointed. “We sure didn’t think we’d find a dead person.”
“No.”
“So, how long do you think it’ll take for the cops to figure out who killed that lawyer, and where the needlepoint is?”
I shook my head. “Talk to your brother. Ethan’s the state trooper on the case. He’d know more than I would.”
“He’s pretty busy. He went up to Hallowell to get Emmie and bring her back here. They’re going to stay here so he can be in town for the investigation, and Mom and Dad can take care of Emmie. He doesn’t talk a lot about his work, especially with Emmie around.”
Emmie was Ethan’s three-year-old daughter, and the center of his life while his wife was with her National Guard unit in Afghanistan.
“But I need to know.” He looked at me, a sadness in his eyes that seemed more than the effect of the beer. “That needlepoint was my chance. My chance to stop living at home and being Arvin’s sternman. To set up a business on my own.”
“Your brother’s a good detective,” I assured him. “He’ll find out what happened to the needlepoint.”
And I’ll be trying, too, I added to myself.
I understood, in a crass sort of way, why someone would murder for fine jewelry or cash. But needlepoint?
It didn’t make sense.
No sense at all.
Chapter 16
Two celebrated Embroiderers whose works are found in almost every Collection [are] Mary Queen of Scots and Marie Antoinette, the wife of Louis XVI. To both these ill-fated ladies the Needle afforded a solace both before and during their misfortunes, as it has done throughout all ages to women who, though of not so exalted a rank, have yet had as many sorrows.