Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  “Let us know,” said Gram, carefully handing the framed cloth back to Sarah. “No matter what it’s worth, that’s a treasure. I’m glad you shared it with us.”

  I looked down at the old handmade frame, off-kilter and cracked, and the embroidery. Needlepoint had been part of my life as long as I remembered. I’d never had any great interest in it. It was just something Gram did.

  But that scrap of old linen spoke to me. Whose needle had painstakingly embroidered that slogan and those pine trees? Perhaps it had been a young girl. The work was neither complicated nor did it illustrate different stitches. Was it done as a gift? But, then, why was there no personalization?

  Sarah was looking closely at the frame. “I think once there was paper backing the piece. Perhaps the person who did this had written on the paper who she was and what the date was.”

  Perhaps. But the paper was gone.

  Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined.

  And why had she chosen that verse?

  “Take care of that, Sarah,” said Gram. “And if you solve its mystery, let us know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Unicorn Tapestries in the National Museum of the Middle Ages (the Cluny Museum) in Paris are some of the most famous examples of medieval weaving. Using a combination of research and imagination, Tracy Chevalier’s historical novel The Lady and the Unicorn takes the reader back to the fifteenth century, and weaves its own tale of how the tapestries might have been created. Another famous series of Unicorn Tapestries is at the Cloisters Museum, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in northern Manhattan.

  “Gram, you need to tell me more about Jacques Lattimore if I’m going to find him.”

  Sarah had left, we’d put the groceries away, and Gram and I were sitting in the room I remembered as a living room. Gram had made it her office. It was where she stored completed work and supplies needed by the needlepointers, but there was still space for her old couch and comfortable chairs.

  “I have his address in Brunswick. Or at least I have an address. The last letter I sent there came back marked as ‘moved, no forwarding address.’”

  “Did he ever talk about his family?”

  Gram shook her head. “He never mentioned one.”

  “Friends?”

  “When he left here once, about a year ago, he said he was going to have dinner down in Portland with ‘Billy.’ I don’t remember him ever mentioning anyone else.”

  “How about a picture of him?”

  She thought for a moment. “I do have one of those somewhere.” She turned to her computer and talked as she searched. “We had a meeting here, with all the needlepointers, the day we hired Jacques as our agent. He took a picture of all of us—said it would help in sales to show customers we were real, down-to-earth, Maine home craftspeople. Someone, I think it was Ruth, didn’t want her picture taken. Said she always looked ten years older in photographs. Finally she agreed, if we could take a picture of him, too. A couple of people took pictures with their cell phones. Everyone was laughing and kidding around. We were real happy, then, thinking he’d be an asset to the business.” She shook her head. “Were we wrong! But I took a picture of him with my little camera. Hold on.” She clicked a few keys. Gram clearly knew how to use a computer. That was a skill she’d learned since I was last home.

  “Here he is,” she said finally. “I should organize my picture file. But it never seemed that important. I take pictures of needlepoint patterns and completed work and scan in ideas I find in home-decorating or art magazines. Let me print this out for you.”

  As the printer hummed, she turned back to me. “Remember, Angel, I don’t want you to do anything dangerous, or anything that would get you in trouble. And I want you to tell me where you’re going. No big surprises or disappearances.”

  I could have told her I wasn’t sixteen anymore. That I’d done this before. That finding people was something I’d been trained to do. But I understood the importance of that word “disappearances.”

  “I promise, Gram. I’ll let you know what I’m doing. First I have to find this guy for you. You don’t even know if he’s in Maine now, right?”

  She sighed. “I have no idea.” She plucked the photo off her printer and handed it to me.

  The color picture was a three-quarter shot of a man leaning against the mantel in our living room. Good! I could measure the fireplace and get a close estimate of his height. He was older than I’d imagined—maybe older than Gram. Definitely good-looking, and probably had been more so when he’d been younger. White, wavy hair. Slim. Maybe too slim. He was wearing black jeans and a high turtleneck, both of which accentuated his pale skin and his height.

  “He looks awfully skinny, Gram. Do you know if he’d been sick?”

  “He never mentioned being sick. He always looked that way. His appearance didn’t change in the two years we worked with him.”

  “What other companies did he represent?”

  “He told me he was the agent for several crafters in Maine and New Hampshire. But I don’t remember any of their names.” She paused, clearly embarrassed. “I guess I should have asked, and called them to check him out.”

  She should have. But it was too late for that now.

  “Did he ever tell you about his background? Was he a Mainer?” That question usually came up early in Down East conversations.

  “He’d been born in Lewiston. His grandparents came down from Quebec to work in the mills there, and his grandmother raised him after his parents died. He said he trusted me because I’d raised you. Just like his mémé had raised him.”

  “You chatted a bit.” Didn’t all sound like business chatting, either.

  “He was very friendly. Polite. Bought me lunch a couple of times. He told me he loved our work, and although he hadn’t planned to take on any more clients, he felt we could work well together.”

  “So he was doing you a favor?” He sounded too charming to me. Who was this guy who just arrived out of nowhere? “Could I see a copy of the contract you have with him?”

  She pulled a green file folder from her bottom desk drawer and handed it to me.

  “Do you have the original?” I asked, looking behind the one page for another copy.

  “No. Jacques took that. I made copies of it for each of us.”

  I wished she’d had a lawyer look it over. There were no terms relating to anyone not fulfilling his or her part of the bargain, for example. Or who could terminate the relationship and when. I didn’t say anything. She was Gram. She’d been too trusting. She’d never had a business before. But, boy, would this Lattimore character get a talking-to when I found him! Did he have “contracts” like this with other craftsmen in Maine?

  “How much does he owe you for the needlework that you did for clients, gave to him, and haven’t been paid for?”

  Gram opened the top drawer of her desk. She might be able to use a computer, but she wasn’t using it for her accounts. She handed me a ledger.

  She’d divided it into sections, one for each member of the Mainely Needlepoint group. The date work was assigned to each person. The cost of the supplies she’d given them. When the work had been returned to Gram, and, for the past couple of years, when that work was given to “JL.” At the end of each project its net and gross were neatly quantified.

  I skipped through the sections, adding in my head.

  “Gram? Am I right? Could he owe all of you together about thirty-three thousand dollars?”

  She nodded. “Plus, we’ve gone ahead and completed almost all the work he’d ordered. That’s another fifteen thousand dollars worth of completed items we don’t know what to do with.”

  “Can’t you go directly to the people who ordered them? Do what you did before Lattimore was involved. Cut him out of the middle.”

  Gram hesitated. “Jacques took over all the paperwork, except the final accounting, which I did. He didn’t tell us who’d commissioned our work. He just described what he’d
been asked to supply, or provided a picture for us to work from.”

  Incredible. This was worse than I’d thought. They’d lost control of their customer base. “You don’t have a clue? What about customers you had before Jacques came along. You’re in touch with them, right?”

  “With Betty at the gift shop here in Haven Harbor, yes, of course. But Jacques was the contact for all the others. He said it would save me time.”

  This was bad. Really bad.

  “Now you understand why I’ve been worried. Sarah seems to be surviving financially, and so am I. Luckily, I own this house, and still have your grandfather’s pension and some of his life insurance money, which I invested. Ruth hasn’t done much work for us during the past year, since she’s been more disabled. I’ve made sure she’s gotten what she should. But Dave and Ob depend on that needlework money. Lauren too. Caleb keeps track of every penny in that family. With lobster prices down and shrimp quotas they have to abide by, the past few years haven’t been easy for our men trying to make a living from the sea.”

  “Thirty-three thousand dollars is a lot of money to be owed, Gram. More than I suspected.”

  “And I’m responsible. Jacques came to me and I believed him. If I had it, I’d pay everyone what they should have gotten. We could forget Jacques and start over. But I don’t have that kind of money. The first month I paid everyone a little—you can see that under the records for December. But after that, I couldn’t. I didn’t even have enough money to order new supplies. We’ll need floss and canvas and so forth if we’re lucky enough to get more orders.”

  I nodded. Thirty-three thousand dollars was a lot of money in Maine. Or any other place. No wonder Gram was worried.

  “I’ll do the best I can for you, Gram. First we have to find this Lattimore. Then we’ll see what his story is.”

  “Angel, I trust you. But have you ever done anything like this before?”

  “I’ve found people. Usually, husbands or wives. Sometimes a teenager who’s disappeared.” That word again: “disappeared.” A word we tried to avoid in this house. “Most people I looked for left of their own volition. They didn’t want to meet whatever their obligations were, to their family, or to a job. Or to the law. They’re listed as ‘missing’ because they don’t tell anyone where they’re going.”

  “I know not everyone who’s missing is murdered, Angel. And I’m not as ignorant now as I was when I agreed to work with Jacques. I know you may not be able to find him and, even if you do, he may not have our money.”

  “True. But we have to try.”

  “When will you start?”

  “Tomorrow. May I use your car? I’d like to drive down to Brunswick, to where he said he lived, and see if anyone there knows him.” I looked at the picture. “Unless he’s changed his appearance—dyed his hair or something—he looks like someone people might remember.”

  Gram nodded. “Handsome devil. You’d think after everything that happened with your mama that I’d be smarter. But I believed his promises. Tom knows how foolish I was. That’s one reason I want this all settled before Tom and I are married. I don’t want him to think I’m as harebrained as I was when I got into this situation.” She paused. “Tom and I haven’t talked a lot about it, but I know he expects me to live at the rectory with him after we’re married. I was considering renting out this house. Or selling it. I thought maybe that way I could pay the others for the work they’d done.”

  I flinched. Sell our home? Mama and I and Gram had all grown up here. Gram’s parents and grandparents had lived here. It was part of our family history. Always had been. Always should be.

  “I’ll do my best, Gram. I promise.” Now I had another reason to find Lattimore. I had to save our home.

  Chapter Twelve

  Any little bride who expects to stay at home and keep the home fires burning will find her days less lonely, while her good man is at the front, if she has cheerful surroundings in which to ply her housewifely arts, and a touch of embroidery on kitchen linens is well worth considering.

  —The Modern Priscilla, May 1918

  Gram’s blue Subaru wasn’t as old as the wreck I’d left in Arizona, but it wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art, either. I didn’t push the speedometer as I headed for Brunswick the next morning.

  As Route 1 wound its way through riverfront village communities, I could see changes from the Maine I remembered. Several towns now had bypasses around their business districts. Old 1950s-era cabin motels had been deserted or replaced by more modern buildings. Restaurants had changed names. Bridges had been rebuilt.

  Time had not stopped.

  When I’d been growing up, Brunswick had been an upscale community known as the home of a large Naval Air Force base, Bowdoin College, an artsy downtown within walking distance of the college, and, historically, the home of Civil War general and hero Joshua Chamberlain and the place Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  All I’d heard about Brunswick since then was that the base had closed, and, more recently, that Brunswick resident Angus King, whom I’d remembered as Maine’s governor, was now one of Maine’s U.S. senators. Gram hadn’t told me that closing the base had emptied the upscale stores, and that the parking lot at Walmart was now full. I took advantage of the Walmart and bought a small coffee percolator and two bags of French Roast ground coffee—a selfish contribution to Gram’s kitchen.

  Jacques Lattimore’s address was on a street close to the center of town. I parked and put my gun in the holster under my jacket. I probably wouldn’t need it. I hoped I wouldn’t need it. I’d checked online, using Gram’s computer. My Arizona concealed carry permit wasn’t valid in Maine. I’d have to apply for a new one if I stayed.

  But right now, I was working; and when I worked, I carried. I hadn’t told Gram I’d brought my gun with me. It would only have made her nervous. She’d never even let me have a water pistol.

  I got out of the car and started looking at street numbers.

  The number Gram had written down, 37, was a brick building with a dry cleaner’s business on the first floor. I walked in, hoping to get some answers.

  “Excuse me?” I asked the middle-aged man behind the counter. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he answered. “I’ve been looking for someone I can trust to show up on time for his job in this place. So far, no luck. What’s your guy done? Stood you up for dinner? Got you pregnant?”

  “None of the above.” I tried smiling. “He’s actually a friend of my grandmother’s.” I showed him the picture. “Do you recognize him?”

  He picked up the picture, looked at it, and then dropped it on the counter. “You a cop?”

  “Nope. Just someone interested in finding him.”

  “Well, if you find him, you tell him he owes Gil Pridoux three months’ back rent. He rented a room from me, upstairs. For a couple of years he paid every month, on time—no noise, no problems. Then he stopped paying. Said he’d get it to me, but it would be a little late. I told him, ‘It’s late, you pay interest.’ He said he understood. Then, about a month later, I realized I hadn’t heard him or seen him in a while. I checked upstairs. He was gone. Didn’t have much stuff, but what he had, he took. Must have moved out one night after the store closed.”

  “He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  “No way. I told the postmaster his mail was piling up and he was gone. They didn’t know he’d left. They stopped the mail from coming here.”

  “Did he have guests? Friends? Someone who might know where he’d be?”

  “Not that I ever saw. He was always alone. Nice fellow, I thought. Until he ripped me off.”

  “Did you happen to notice what kind of mail he got?”

  The man shrugged. “I didn’t look real close. A couple of magazines. A lot of catalogs. He must’ve bought a lot of gifts, ’cause he got letters or bills from a bunch of gift shops. Wasn’t my business to know what his business was. I’m no snoop.”

>   “Of course not. Did he ever mention any hobbies? Hunting, fishing, golfing, collecting anything? Any clubs he belonged to? Church?”

  “Nah. None of that. He wasn’t my friend, you know, he was my tenant. We didn’t chat a lot. All he said to me was I’d be getting the rent soon. That his luck was changing.” He paused and looked at me. “That’s it. Guess his luck didn’t change. Or maybe it did, and he’s living in Paris now. You said he knew your granny. You tell her to find another boyfriend. One who pays his rent.”

  “I will. Thank you for your time.” I turned and walked toward the door.

  “Hey, you wouldn’t be looking for a job, would you? Regular hours. Right here in Brunswick.”

  “No, thanks! Good luck in finding someone,” I called back over my shoulder as I headed out.

  What next? Jacques Lattimore was alone. He’d rented a room, not a house or apartment. I walked down the block, toward Maine Street. He’d probably eaten near here pretty regularly. Men living alone usually had a favorite bar or diner. Somewhere inexpensive. I immediately ruled out the couple of upscale restaurants on Maine Street. The rest specialized in seafood or Thai or Indian cuisine. I was looking for someplace more downscale. More accessible. Less ethnic.

  Then I remembered the diner I’d passed just outside of downtown. It would be walkable from the dry cleaner in good weather, and was open twenty-four hours a day.

  A few minutes later I was sitting at the counter, ordering a coffee, black, and a bowl of clam chowder.

  When the matronly waitress had a moment, I gestured to her.

  “You want anything else, dear? You look like you could use a piece of pie. Apple and blueberry are fresh.”

  “Tempting. But not today.” Before she could move away, I pulled out the picture. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “Sure,” she said. “That’s Jack. But he ain’t been around in a while now. Too bad, too. When he was on a streak, he was a good tipper.”