Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  My mind was swirling with fragments of information. Vignettes from the past. Snapshots of the present. Hopes for the future. Nothing I’d learned seemed related to anything else.

  And then, suddenly, as I walked through Haven Harbor’s streets lined with newly green maple trees and dark pines, pieces of the puzzle started to come together.

  If I was right, at least one person was in danger.

  Getting home, I picked Gram’s car keys up from the dish in the kitchen, where she always left them, and retrieved my gun from under the gloves in the hall sideboard. I might not be legal, but I’d be safe.

  Then I drove to Dave Percy’s house.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  It was then that I began to look into the seams of your doctrine. I wanted only to pick at a single knot, but when I had got that undone, the whole thing raveled out. And then I understood that it was all machine-sewn.

  —Henrik Ibsen (1828–1906), Ghosts, Act 2 (1881)

  I dropped the brass lobster knocker on Dave Percy’s door. Hard. Several times.

  He was buttoning his shirt when he finally answered.

  “Angie! What are you doing here? I just got home from school.”

  “You have to tell me,” I said, moving past him into his house. “Tell me about Lauren Decker. You’re having an affair with her, right?”

  He shook his head, as if to clear it. “What are you talking about? Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? Dave, this is an emergency. I think Lauren murdered Lattimore, and I think she’s going to kill Caleb.”

  “No! She wouldn’t do that,” he said.

  “But you were having an affair.”

  “We weren’t sleeping together, if that’s what you mean. It started about six months ago. But it wasn’t serious,” he said. “I was lonely, and she needed someone to talk to. We’ve become . . . close friends, yes. But not lovers. You think she poisoned Lattimore? I can’t believe that. And why do you think she’d poison Caleb?” Dave shook his head. “Lauren’s been upset and depressed. But she’s never sounded as though she was close to considering murder. Divorce, yes. Murder? Never.”

  “I understand Lauren’s had problems with Caleb for years.”

  “I’ve only heard details in the past six months.” Dave paused. “Caleb hasn’t made it easy for her. He’s troubled. She’s tried to convince him to get help for his addictions, but he refuses to admit he has a problem.”

  “He hurts her sometimes, doesn’t he?” I asked.

  Dave nodded. “But she always excuses his behavior. Says she’d done something to deserve it.”

  “When her father died, he left Lauren his house and his camp, right?”

  “He left her all he had,” Dave confirmed. “Caleb wants her to put the property she inherited in both their names, but Lauren’s holding out. That’s one of the reasons their relationship has been . . . volatile . . . during the past few weeks.”

  “But if Caleb were gone, there’d be no questions. She’d have the property she inherited, and everything that’s now in Caleb’s name, too. She’d be independent.”

  “That’s true, I guess. But I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “But it makes sense.”

  Dave slowly nodded.

  “And you told her about water hemlock, right?”

  The color in Dave’s face vanished. “I warned her about it, the way I warned you. I warn dozens of people. I showed her my garden, of course, but it was winter, and there wasn’t much to see. She was curious about poisonous plants that might be here in Maine. I told her water hemlock was the most dangerous. It might look like Queen Anne’s lace, but the sap inside the stems was potent, especially in the spring. If someone ingested it, that would be fatal.” His face changed as he realized what he’d said. “I warned her about it, the way I warn all my students. I never thought she’d . . . use . . . it.”

  “Did you know Lauren’s family had a camp on a lake?” I asked.

  “Sure. She said it was a peaceful place where you could hear loons at daybreak.” His eyes widened slightly. “Water hemlock grows in freshwater swamps. Most lakes in Maine have swampy areas.”

  “Lauren and Caleb are there, at their camp, right now,” I said quickly. “Do you know what lake the camp is on?”

  He hesitated. “It’s north of here. Northwest, I think.”

  I shifted my weight impatiently. “The name of the lake. I need to get there.”

  “I don’t remember it.” He shook his head. “But . . . wait. Once she showed me where it was on a map. Maybe I’d recognize the name.”

  “We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m sorry. She only mentioned it once, months ago. She always called it ‘our family camp.’”

  I followed him into his kitchen. A large framed map of Maine hung on one of the walls. As I waited, he looked at it closely. My pulse raced. Caleb Decker wasn’t my favorite resident of Haven Harbor, but I’d seen Jacques Lattimore suffer after he’d been poisoned. No one deserved to die that way.

  “I’m sorry this is taking so long.” Dave was peering carefully at the map. “I remember Lauren’s saying it was south of Moosehead Lake. Just give me a few more minutes.”

  Caleb might not have a few minutes. Or maybe he was already dead. He and Lauren had been out of town since Saturday.

  “Here it is!” He pointed at a spot on the map. “I remember now. Their place is on Fisher Lake.” He turned to me. “I commented that it must have been named that because it was a good place to fish. And she’d said no, it was named after all the fisher cats in the area.”

  Fishers. A member of the weasel family. Not the largest animals in Maine, but one of the meanest. If a cat or small dog had been out at night and was missing, chances are you blamed the fishers. And you’d be right. Fishers were one of the things the Maine tourist bureau didn’t advertise. Their territories weren’t far from many towns, and they were common in rural and forested areas. I looked at where Dave had pointed on the map. Prime fisher territory.

  I pulled out my cell and entered Fisher Lake. My GPS said it would take about eighty minutes to get there. And then I’d have to find the right camp.

  I headed for the door.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Dave, pulling his fleece jacket off a hook in his front hall. “Lauren trusts me. If we’re not too late, maybe she’ll listen to me.”

  I hesitated, but I wasn’t stupid. I could probably use some help. And I didn’t know the law enforcement people at Fisher Lake, and there wasn’t time to reach Pete or Ethan to explain and ask them to find out.

  As we drove, I filled Dave in on what I knew. He said very little.

  But I was glad for the company. Lauren had picked a good listener for a friend.

  Driving in Maine isn’t complicated if you want to go north or south. Along the coast you can follow Route 1 from Kittery to Eastport. It’ll be a long drive, but a scenic one, and you’ll be in no danger of getting lost. If you want to go north from Kittery to New Brunswick, you follow the Maine Turnpike (also known as Interstate 95). Its last exit after Houlton is a border stop.

  But if you want to drive from east to west, or east to northwest, you have a challenge. My GPS routed us as best it could, taking us on country roads that curved around hills and connected small towns. Roads built for oxen, and then for horses, and then for horses and wagons. Designed to connect farms and centers of small villages—not to draw straight lines or make fast time.

  Finally we reached a sign that said, FISHER LAKE, TWO MILES. We stopped at a small general store a little farther along the road.

  “The Greene place? That would be about three miles ahead, on Lake Road.” The woman giving us the information also gave us a good look. “It’ll be on your left side. Red mailbox, just past where the Clifford family used to live.”

  Dave and I glanced at each other. We could watch for a red mailbox. Neither of us knew the Cliffords, past or present.

  We hea
ded out again. I watched the mileage indicator. Dave watched for red mailboxes.

  The woman at the store had been right. We’d driven about three miles when we saw the mailbox. I turned into a rough narrow road through a heavily wooded area. Mud season might have ended on Maine’s coast, but here it was still in full force. As were frost heaves. I feared for the axles on Gram’s old car as we jounced our way down the drive. I swerved around the largest holes, but the road was narrow. Not much swerving space.

  Finally the driveway opened up on a turnaround. I parked and Dave got out. I tucked my gun into the back of my belt and joined him.

  “Their truck isn’t here,” Dave noted. “And ours is the only car.”

  “Maybe there’s another parking area?” I wondered. “But I don’t see any connecting roads or drives.” We were both speaking softly. We were far from civilization, but that didn’t mean we were alone.

  “One of them could have gone out for groceries. Or beer,” Dave pointed out.

  I nodded. “Let’s find the camp.”

  We chose the path headed toward the lake. A crow overhead cawed a warning that humans were invading his territory, and two other crows answered in the distance. A murder of crows. Other than that, the woods were silent.

  I stumbled once, then felt for my gun. It was still safely available.

  The camp was small and fronted on the lake. Likely, it was a large room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room on the first floor, and maybe two bedrooms. From the placement of the windows one bedroom was on the first floor, off the main room, and another bedroom was in the loft overhead. That one might have been Lauren’s when she was a child.

  I knocked on the door. No one answered. Then I turned the knob. It opened. Dave and I looked at each other, questioningly, but we went inside. Not all Mainers locked their doors, but that didn’t mean they were inviting you in.

  “Lauren? Caleb? Anyone home?”

  No one answered.

  We’d come looking for someone we thought was a killer . . . and her victim. The place smelled like a mixture of cat piss and rotten eggs. Maybe they weren’t the best housekeepers. And any house closed all winter smelled until it was aired out. I checked closets and cabinets. When I came down from the loft, Dave was still standing in the kitchen area.

  “Angie, we need to get out of here,” he said much too calmly. “Now.”

  “There’s no one here,” I said. “I’m not sure what to do next.”

  “I do,” he said. “As soon as we get somewhere my cell phone works, I’m calling the local police.” He shoved my back a little, herding me toward the door we’d come in. “Don’t ask. Move.”

  When we were outdoors again, and back up the hill to where we’d parked the car, Dave took out his cell phone. “I don’t know where Lauren or Caleb are, but we have to tell the police what we found.”

  “What?” I asked, trying to think of where we should go next to find Lauren.

  He was dialing. “911? I have an emergency. I’ve found a meth lab in a camp on Fisher Lake.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Let virtue prove your never fading bloom

  For mental beauty will survive the tomb.

  —Text from a sampler stitched in 1827 by Mary Chase, age eleven, Augusta, Maine

  “How did you know?” I asked as we waited for the police to arrive. “How did you know it was a meth lab? And why did you wait until we were out here to tell me?”

  “I may teach biology, but I know a little about chemistry,” Dave answered. “And as soon as I figured out what they’d used that place for, I knew we had to get out of there. Meth is dangerous, even if you’re just breathing it. Not to speak of the fact that it can explode. I wasn’t hiding it from you. I was getting both of us as far away as possible, as fast as possible.”

  I shivered. And not from the cold. “It must be Caleb’s doing. I don’t think Lauren would have gotten involved with meth.”

  Dave nodded. “Caleb may have been lending the place to friends. Lauren’s told me about some of them. Not exactly upright citizens.”

  We didn’t have to wait long, by Maine wilderness 911 standards. Ten minutes later a car pulled in and parked next to Gram’s.

  “You called about a possible meth lab?”

  I stared. It was the same woman we’d asked for directions—the one who’d been behind the counter at the country store.

  “We’re the ones. The camp’s down that path.” Dave pointed. “The place stinks of it. There’s no one there now, unless they’ve come by boat.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said the woman. “Sergeant Marge Windham. Fisher Lake’s in my territory. We’ve had a problem with people breaking into places closed for the winter. Used to be youngsters broke in to have sex, or drink, or steal valuables. Recently people have been using the places for meth labs.”

  “Aren’t you going to go down to see?” Dave asked.

  “Nope. I’ve called in the experts. You won’t catch me hanging out somewhere used to manufacture meth. I haven’t got a suicide wish.”

  “You said you didn’t think anyone was in the camp? How did you know?”

  “Lauren and Caleb stopped at the store to pick up cigarettes and beer about an hour before you two were there. Lauren said it was too cold in the camp, and they couldn’t light a fire.” Sergeant Windham shook her head. “At the time I figured she meant they didn’t have any wood for the fireplace or didn’t have matches. But now I suspect they couldn’t light the fire because if they did, the whole dang place might blow up on them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us they were gone when we asked for directions?” I asked.

  “You didn’t ask,” answered Sergeant Windham.

  For a moment I’d forgotten I was back in Maine. “Did Lauren and Caleb both seem okay?”

  She shrugged. “If ‘okay’ includes arguing and practically spitting at each other, then, yeah, they were fine. Couldn’t even agree on what brand of cigarette to buy.”

  “We need to find them,” I told her. “The camp’s open. Could we leave you our reach information and get going? We’re two hours behind them already.” I looked at Dave. “They probably headed back home.”

  “Haven Harbor, right?” asked Sergeant Windham.

  I nodded.

  “You folks live there, too?”

  “Yes,” said Dave.

  “Didn’t think I’d seen either of you in these parts before.” She looked us over, as if deciding whether we were worth paying heed to. “All right. Names, addresses, phone numbers. And any identification that proves you are who you say you are.”

  We dug out our licenses. Dave’s, she didn’t question. Mine, she took a second look at. “Says here you live in Mesa, Arizona, and you’re Angela Curtis.”

  “I just moved back to Maine.”

  “When would that have been? That you moved to Maine?”

  “About two weeks ago. But I grew up here.”

  “You’ll need to get a new license, you know,” she said, writing down the information about my current one. “State says you have to turn in your Arizona license and get a Maine one within thirty days of changing your residence.”

  “I will.” I felt as though my hand had been slapped.

  “And, welcome back to Vacationland.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  [Rose Tremaine] . . . was intently busy with an elaborate slipper, which she was embroidering, while by her side a high, open basket glowed with the vivid tints of her many-colored wools.

  —“Mademoiselle,” by D. R. Castleton, Harper’s Monthly Magazine, February 1862

  My biggest immediate worry was that we’d run into the backup team Sergeant Windham had called and have to back down that narrow drive. Luckily, we got out before anyone else arrived. I hoped the sergeant had her gun with her, in case some of Caleb’s buddies showed up.

  And I was sure glad she hadn’t questioned me more closely. Or seen what was under my jacket. If she’d found I was
carrying without a Maine permit and had an out-of-state driver’s license, I suspected I’d be staying in Fisher Lake for a while. Or at least overnight.

  Thankfully, Dave hadn’t noticed I was armed.

  We headed out of Fisher Lake and reversed our drive to get back to Haven Harbor.

  “If Lauren’s planning to poison Caleb, I’m surprised she didn’t do it at the lake. No one might have checked there for weeks. But Lauren must have known about the meth. Maybe she didn’t want a body to be found there,” I thought out loud. How long had the Greenes owned that place? Could Joe have taken Mama there? It might have been her last stop before the freezer in Union. Someone could scream for hours and no one up there would hear them, especially at this time of year. Sounds carried over water, but I suspected most residents of Fisher Lake were seasonal visitors.

  “What’s our plan?” Dave asked. “We have a little time to think. I don’t like the idea of just barging in on them and asking Lauren whether she’s poisoned her husband.”

  I hadn’t figured that part out myself. I thought a few minutes. “I have a reason to visit Lauren. I still have her needlework money. She wasn’t home the other day when I delivered it to everyone else.”

  “That’s a start, then,” said Dave.

  “Right. One step at a time.”

  The light was fading over the harbor by the time we got back and the pewter gray sky was streaked with pink and orange. I pulled the car up in front of the Deckers’ home. Their pickup was in the drive.

  “Okay. Here we go.”

  Dave rang the doorbell. Lauren came to the door a few minutes later. Seeing us, she came out to the porch, closing the door behind her. Not an inviting gesture.

  She folded her arms over her chest and looked from one of us to the other. “So? Why are you here?” She was tapping one of her feet, and her words tumbled out on top of each other. “Why are you both here? Together? What do you want?”