Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  “A streak?”

  “When he came home from Cambridge, with money burning a hole in his wallet. Those were sweet days.” She patted her pocket.

  “Cambridge?” I shook my head, confused. “In England?”

  The laughter almost erupted from her. “England? No, honey. The Cambridge Casino. You from away or something?”

  The ultimate Maine put-down. “You’re right. I didn’t think.”

  “Yeah, Jack was a player. You looking for him?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you better check the Cambridge. There’s a good chance you’ll find him there. And you can tell him anytime he wants to come back here, Carol knows what he likes.”

  I didn’t ask what Jacques liked. I was afraid it wasn’t pie. “Where’s the Cambridge?” I asked.

  “Up near Rome. You know . . . the Rome in Maine? Not that place where the pope lives. You got it?”

  I got it. I’d been away. But I wasn’t from away. In Maine those were two very different things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I am obnoxious to each carping tongue

  Who says my hand a needle better fits,

  A poet’s pen all scorn I should thus wrong,

  For such despite they cast on Female wits:

  If what I do prove well, it won’t advance,

  They’ll say it’s stol’n, or else it was by chance.

  —Anne Bradstreet, Stanza 5, “The Prologue,” The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, 1650

  I hesitated: Should I drive to the Cambridge Casino today? It was still late morning.

  How far was Rome from Brunswick, anyway? I checked the GPS in Gram’s car. About an hour away. Easy driving: the turnpike to Augusta, and then northwest on Route 27. I had time. If this new casino was of any size, there’d be signs. All roads in Maine did not lead to Rome. For a reason. Rome, Maine, was a pretty small place, in the Belgrade Lakes region. I suspected it was one of the many small towns in Maine struggling to make their budgets. Tax revenues from a casino would help a lot.

  I was right. Signs advertising the casino started in the middle of a stretch of car dealerships still within the borders of Augusta, then continued through the farmlands between Augusta and the lakes.

  The casino itself wasn’t exactly Las Vegas. I’d been to Nevada once with Wally on a case; and unless I had a heavy bankroll, I wouldn’t be going again. I have vices. Most people do. But gambling wasn’t one of mine. I didn’t see the use of wasting my dollars on a slim chance.

  Mainers who drove a distance to the Cambridge Casino were either desperate for a bit of fun, or just plain desperate. And maybe lonely. If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet on which one Jacques Lattimore was.

  The outside of the building was long and low and white and garnished with several architecturally unnecessary columns. Inside, the WELCOME TO THE CAMBRIDGE CASINO! sign kept up the “Rome” theme, with a map of Italy in the background and cheap plaster casts of Roman figures scattered about the floor.

  The slot machines weren’t far from the casino’s restaurant. I checked the menu. Not much different from the menu at the diner I’d visited in Brunswick, but the prices were low, and the selections were described as Wicked Good. Definitely not Las Vegas.

  Nickel slots. Quarters. Half-dollars. Dollars. If Susan B. Anthony only knew where her face had ended up.

  About a third of the slot machines were occupied. For early afternoon on a weekday, that augured well for the casino owners’ coffers. I tried to look as though I was choosing a way to lose money. I kept looking for an elegant-looking man about six feet tall who walked out on commitments.

  He wasn’t at the poker tables or the roulette wheel. The place even had baccarat. Craps. I’d walked in a full circle around the floor. The only area I’d skipped was the center. Bull’s-eye. Jacques Lattimore was seated at a blackjack table, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t playing high stakes, and he seemed to be losing. When he’d finished the hand, I went over to him.

  “Jacques Lattimore?”

  He turned, clearly annoyed that someone was disturbing him. “Who wants to know?”

  I could have played it a half-dozen ways. I decided to play it straight. “I’m Charlotte Curtis’s granddaughter. I need to talk with you.”

  The dealer was watching, and wanting to start another hand. Lattimore hesitated, but then stood up. “I’m out for now. Keep my seat warm.”

  We walked far enough away from the slots so we could hear each other. Lattimore was a little unsteady and he held on to his glass. For support, I assumed. He was even thinner than he’d looked in Gram’s picture.

  “You’re the granddaughter she raised up after her daughter disappeared.”

  I nodded.

  “You live in the Southwest somewhere.”

  “Right now, I’m home. And I’m not happy. You owe Charlotte and her needlepointers serious money. They trusted you. You took advantage.”

  “Hey, Charlotte just has to give me a chance.” He finished whatever was in his glass. I moved closer. It, and he, smelled like scotch. “I had a little problem a few months ago. I know I owe ’em. I’m working on getting that money. I am. You tell her that.”

  “You can tell Charlotte yourself. Even if you don’t have all their money.” I glanced around the casino. “But you owe her and those other people who worked for you an explanation, even if it’s a rotten one. And you need to give them the names of all the customers who’ve ordered their products through you in the past couple of years.”

  “But I’ll get her the money . . . I already have some of it,” he started.

  “Good. That’s a beginning. You’re guilty of fraud. But I think I can convince Charlotte not to sue you for breaking your contract and spending their money if you come back, talk to the stitchers, and give them as much money as you can. You owe them about thirty-three thousand dollars. How much can you pay back?”

  Lattimore’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe three thousand?”

  I stared pointedly at the chips he was carrying.

  “Okay. Maybe seven thousand. I had a good run last night.”

  “Then give the seven thousand to me. Now.”

  “But I need that to try to win the rest of the money back!”

  I shook my head. “You give me the money, or I get a lawyer. If you’re accused of a felony, casinos won’t be happy to see you.”

  “You’re tough, young lady,” he said. “Not bad-looking. But tough.”

  I was gambling. Gambling where I held the high cards. I didn’t know if Gram could sue him based on the simple contract she’d shown me, or even if she’d want to. But I hoped he was desperate enough to go along with me. I had to get that money now. Two hours from now, he might have gambled it away.

  I followed him to the cashier, where he handed in his tokens. He counted the dollars out in my hand. It came closer to six thousand than seven thousand, but I took it.

  “Now you’ll come back with me to Haven Harbor,” I said. “Where are your papers and records for Mainely Needlepoint?”

  “I have a room. Not far from here. I didn’t mean to hurt Charlotte.”

  “I’ll drive you to your room. We’ll get those papers. Then I’ll take you to Haven Harbor. After you’ve talked to Charlotte, I’ll bring you back.”

  He looked longingly at the table he’d left.

  “You should be back here in four hours.”

  “But I’ve got no money left to play.”

  I hesitated. But if I needed to . . . “I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars when we get back here. Just to get you started again. But that’s it. I won’t see you again, and you won’t bother Charlotte again. Deal?”

  “It’s not a great deal for me.”

  “Losing twenty-seven thousand dollars isn’t a great deal for the Mainely Needlepointers, either.”

  He looked at me. “How did such a pretty girl get so hard you could talk like that?”

  “I’ve had experience,” I
said.

  I put my arm through his and headed us toward my car. My gun was there, under my seat. I’d assumed, correctly, that there’d be a metal detector at the casino. I opened the passenger door for Lattimore. He didn’t know that so far he’d been seeing the nice version of Angela Curtis.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years. That is what makes a marriage last—more than passion or sex.

  —Simone Signoret, Daily Mail interview, 1978

  I called Gram from Route 27. “Hi, it’s me. I’m bringing Jacques Lattimore home with me. We’ll be in Haven Harbor in about ninety minutes. Get any questions you have ready, and maybe heat water.” If we needed coffee, I was bringing it with me. Gram would choose tea over coffee any day. “See you then.”

  “It’s illegal to talk on the phone while you’re driving,” Lattimore pointed out.

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “I wouldn’t want us to get into an accident.”

  “That’s the only call I needed to make, and it’s over. You don’t have to worry. Not about that, anyway.”

  “Charlotte’s really mad at me, isn’t she?”

  “How would you feel if your friends were struggling financially because they weren’t paid for work they’d done?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I made a few mistakes. We all make mistakes.”

  Sure, we all make mistakes. But we don’t all steal from our colleagues.

  “Charlotte never told me you were so pretty. She told me a lot about you, you know. She’s proud of you, making your own way in the world.”

  I let him talk.

  “She must be happy you’re back in Maine. You staying, or just visiting?”

  He hadn’t listened to the local news recently. “I came home for my mother’s funeral.”

  “Funeral? Then they found Charlotte’s daughter. I’m sorry. This must be a hard time for you.”

  “What you did hasn’t made it easier.”

  “I understand. You’re upset about your mother. It’s hard to lose someone you love. I know. I lost my parents when I was six. A car accident. I’ve never stopped missing them, though. Are your mother’s services over?”

  I nodded. “Yesterday.”

  “So it’s all still fresh in your mind. No wonder you’re upset with me. You poor girl. You’re grieving.”

  “I’m not grieving for Mama. I got over that one a long time ago. I’m angry with you for betraying Gram. And that’s the last I’m going to say about it until we get to Haven Harbor.”

  Thankfully, he shut up.

  There was more traffic than I’d imagined, but I parked in front of our house right on time. I couldn’t pull into the driveway. Three cars were already there. Looked like we weren’t the only ones coming to see Gram. Jacques picked up the order forms and reached for the door handle. I reached for my gun.

  “Before you go into that house,” I said, carefully aiming the gun at him, “I want you to know I’ll be watching and listening to everything that goes on. And I can use this. I don’t want you to lie or give excuses. Just say what you have to say, give those orders to Gram, and then I’ll take you back to Rome.”

  “You’d shoot me?” he asked incredulously.

  “I’d shoot you,” I confirmed. “So get going.”

  He got out and walked unsteadily up the path to our front door. I followed him closely. My gun was back in my holster. But both of us knew it was there.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Every little thread must take its place as warp or woof, and keep in it steadily. Left to itself, it would be only a loose, useless filament.... Yet each little thread must be as firmly spun as if it were the only one, or the result would be a worthless fabric.

  —Lucy Larcom, A New England Girlhood, 1889

  The cars in the driveway had been a clue. Gram’s living room/office was full. Clearly, she’d gotten on the phone after I’d called and summoned the Mainely Needlepointers. Haven Harbor was a small town. It hadn’t taken long.

  Some had even brought refreshments. I saw a teapot, two plates of cookies, a box of doughnut holes from Dunkin’ Donuts, and a platter of scones.

  I grinned as I saw the looks on their faces. Jacques stopped at the door. I might be the only one with a gun, but this was a tough crowd. If looks could have killed, he wouldn’t have gotten past the threshold.

  In case Lattimore didn’t remember them, I made the introductions: Sarah Byrne. Dave Percy. Katie Titicomb. Lauren Decker. Ob Winslow. Even Ruth Hopkins was there, stroking Juno, who’d found a cozy place on her lap.

  “I found Jacques at the Cambridge Casino. The bad news is, you haven’t been paid because he doesn’t have your money. He lost it.”

  I had a rapt audience. Like a wolf pack, ready to spring. You don’t fool with Mainers.

  “But there is some good news. He had a bit over six thousand dollars.” I handed the money to Gram, minus the two-fifty I’d promised to give back to Jacques. “He’s also agreed to give you the sales slips and records from the sales you’ve made through him.” I looked at Jacques. “Give the lady the paperwork.” He handed it to Gram. “Now you should have the names of the customers you were working for. You’ll be able to deliver any completed needlework and, I hope, get paid for that, without Jacques’ commission. He’s agreed he’s out of the needlepoint business.” I shot a look at him. “Permanently. So, Jacques, you tell these good people you’re sorry, and answer any questions they have. I’ll be in the next room.” I picked up a molasses cookie and headed for the kitchen. I wasn’t a needlepointer. The rest was up to them.

  Jacques wouldn’t get far without a car, even if he ran. I felt safe leaving him to the wolves.

  I made a bathroom stop and then poured myself a cup of tea. Tonight I’d bring in the new coffeemaker and get it humming. Tea would be fine for now. I took a few deep breaths and tried to relax.

  I couldn’t understand every word coming from the living room, but the tones weren’t calm. Then the hum of conversation continued, but lower. I wondered how long to leave them there. It was their business, not mine. But I’d need to rescue Jacques and get on the road to return him to the casino or to his room. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over. I glanced at the kitchen clock. They’d been together about half an hour. That should be enough time.

  I heard the front door close. Jacques? I got up to check. Nope. Ruth Hopkins. She was using a walker, but was making good time down the walk.

  All seemed calm. I took off my gun and slipped it into a drawer in the hall sideboard under a stack of woolen gloves. I’d know where it was, and Gram wouldn’t be looking for winter gloves in May. It didn’t seem I’d need protection today.

  Lauren Decker was laughing and Katie Titicomb was pulling on her jacket. The party was breaking up. Everyone seemed considerably more relaxed than they had earlier. Even Jacques now had a teacup in his hand and was eating. Ob Winslow was telling a story about a woodworking customer.

  It appeared Jacques’ charm had worked again. Either that, or these people had chosen to see a little immediate cash and the promise of more work and money in the future as a glass—or teacup—half full.

  I was about to collect Jacques for the return trip when he stood up. His teacup waved dangerously in the air. I hoped there wasn’t much left tea in it. Maybe he was more upset about giving back his winnings than he showed.

  “Ready to leave?” I said, entering the room. He handed me his cup. Everyone else was still. “Does anyone have any more questions for Jacques before I return him to Rome?”

  A couple of people shook their heads.

  “He’s made a fair accounting of himself, Angel. He hasn’t been forgiven, but we understand what happened, and we’re ready to take the business on without him. Our agreement with him is over. Mainely Needlepoint and Jacques Lattimore are going separate ways. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”

/>   Jacques started to answer, but then suddenly bent over, as though he was having severe cramps. “Bathroom?” he managed to blurt.

  I took his shaking arm. The poor guy clearly had a problem. Luckily, we had a half bath off the front hallway.

  Back in the living room Lauren was standing up. “I need to go home and get dinner on,” she said.

  Dave Percy and Ob were also getting up. “Thank you, Angie, for helping out,” said Dave, passing me in the hallway on his way to the front door. “Look forward to working with you in the future.”

  “With Gram, you mean,” I said as the door was closing. Gram was handing Sarah a thick book from the shelf of books on historical needlepoint. They were probably talking about Sarah’s quest for information about that piece of old needlework she’d found.

  The situation looked under control. Until I walked past the bathroom, and clearly heard the sound of vomiting. Maybe Jacques Lattimore had had more to drink than I’d realized.

  “Jacques? This is Angie,” I said through the door. “Do you need help?”

  “Leave me alone!” he managed to say.

  I shrugged. I hoped he’d be all right to leave soon. If he’d drunk too much, that was his issue. If he had the flu, I’d already spent too much time with him. Plus, for obvious reasons, I wanted to make sure he’d finished throwing up before we got back in the car.

  Gram was saying her good-byes to Sarah in the front hall.

  Then she came over to me. “Thank you . . .” and then realized what the problem was. “Jacques? Can I get you a glass of water? A towel? Anything?”

  “Go away,” he muttered.

  I shrugged and went to the living room to gather the cups and plates left there. Gram stayed in the hall, clearly concerned.

  Jacques was still retching and we could hear the toilet flushing every minute or two. I washed up the few cups and plates and put away the food that was left.