Twisted Threads (10 page)

What else did Gram want to talk about? She’d asked me to find Jacques Lattimore for her. I’d done that . . . and just in time, since it seemed he’d been fated to leave the world rather abruptly.

I’d only eaten one cookie since late morning. I was starving. I unwrapped the leftover goodies people had brought to the meeting and nibbled while Gram called Reverend Tom to tell him what had happened. I heated the bean soup she’d made and frozen in February.

I loved her bean soup, made with every kind of bean imaginable, and carrots and peas and onions and garlic thrown in for good measure. She’d baked a loaf of bread while I’d been following Jacques Lattimore’s trail, so I sliced that to go with the soup. No talking. No attempts to clean up the downstairs bathroom, which certainly could use a scrub. It could wait.

After the soup disappeared, and more of the bread than I’d like to admit, she sat back and looked at me.

“Angel, today you did what I thought was impossible. You not only found Lattimore, God rest his soul, but you even got him to pay back at least a little of the money he owed us. I consider that a small miracle. So do the other needlepointers.”

It felt good to be thanked. “We got lucky. If Jacques had stayed at the casino this afternoon and died there, I wouldn’t have been able to do those things.”

“True enough. But you did. And before you got home, the other stitchers and I were talking. We liked having an agent. For the first year and a half, Jacques did a good job. He got us more interesting jobs, for more money. We didn’t mind giving him his forty percent. We were still doing better than we were when we were only making pillows for the Harbor Lights Gift Shop.”

Fine. But that was the past. They’d have to find another way if Mainely Needlepoint was to continue. “Now that you have the names of at least some of your customers, you can contact those people. You could put up a Web site and a Facebook page. And
not
have to give anyone forty percent.”

“That’s just it, Angel. We agreed that’s what needs to be done. But none of us—including me, and I started this business—none of us have the skills or time or inclination to pick up where Jacques stopped. Do public relations and marketing and sales. Maybe even consider advertising.”

“If you don’t want to do that, then Mainely Needlepoint will die,” I pointed out bluntly. “When you were only making a few pillows for one or two customers, that was one thing. But, as you’ve said, you and the others have grown to depend on income from the business. Plus, you all enjoy creating beautiful needlepoint. Are you ready to give that up?”

Gram looked very serious. “You’re right, Angel. We learned a lot from Jacques. We learned we have to do business only with those we can trust. We need a better legal contract. But if we had someone—not Jacques Lattimore—but someone else, to do what he did, maybe even do it better because we’re that person’s only interest—then it would be good for all of us.”

“You could learn to do it, Gram. I believe you could do anything you set your mind to!”

“Except that I’m getting married, Angie. Because of Tom’s job, I’ll have obligations to the church, as well as to him. I can’t commit to the hours Mainely Needlepoint deserves.” She hesitated. “But Sarah suggested a solution, and the rest of us agreed.” Gram put her hands flat on the table. “Angel, how would you like to be the chief operating officer— that’s what Sarah said it’s called—of Mainely Needlepoint?”

“Me!” That was a possibility I’d never dreamed of. I started shaking my head. I knew nothing about needlepoint. I was just visiting here. How could they even ask me?

“Don’t say no until you think about it. You’ve lived away. You know how to deal with people. You know what to watch out for. I know you’re not real creative”—I smiled. Gram was laying it on the line, and she knew me well—“but the rest of us can take care of that part of the business. What we need is a person who understands marketing, and accounts, and billing, and talking to customers. And you’ve done all of that, Angie. The rest of us don’t have the practical experience you have.”

“But—”

“No
buts
! You’re young and you can dress up good and you understand computers and social media and all the other things people do today to drum up business. If you were the public face of Mainely Needlepoint, the business wouldn’t look like just a group of old broads sitting on their front porches with their needles and floss, talking to their cats.”

Juno rubbed against my legs, reminding me she was there, and I’d been ignoring her.

“Gram, you’re no old broad.”

“I certainly am. And proud of it. Now Sarah and Lauren and you—you’re not. And, for sure, Dave and Ob aren’t! But that’s what people think of when they think about needlepoint. ”

“They’re wrong, I know. Lots of younger people do needlepoint.” I grinned. “Although, Gram, you have to admit it might be a challenge to get many teenagers today to stop texting and pick up an embroidery needle.”

“True enough. But don’t change the subject. If anyone can make this business work, it’s you.” She raised her eyebrows a bit. “Plus, you’ve got a place to live, here. You’re home.” She paused a moment. “And you’d get thirty-five percent of the profits.”

“Wait a minute! You gave Lattimore forty percent!” I suddenly realized I was negotiating. I might really do this.

“He didn’t get a free roof over his head. Course, I might ask you to chip in for your board once in a while, until I get married. After I move out of here, you’ll have to walk a couple of blocks down the street to get my good cooking, or you’re on your own.”

I stared at her and began to smile. “Then you wouldn’t sell this house?”

“Not if the new COO of Mainely Needlepoint could get us clear of the money owed the needlepointers.”

“Gram, you’re bribing me. I take over the operation of the business, and I get the house? Plus the commissions?”

“Not right away. First you have to pay off the money owed. It wouldn’t be easy. Nothing comes without sweat. The accounts are a mess—who knows who these customers are—and you’d have to learn a new business.”

“You’re a piece of work, Gram. You and the others figured all this out while I was driving back from Rome?”

“Actually, Sarah and I came up with the plan earlier today. That’s why, when you called, she and I decided to get all of us together to see if they agreed, and to greet Lattimore and have a little talk.” Her eyes sparkled. “Even he thought it was a good idea. He was impressed with you.”

“I know it wouldn’t be as exciting as that private investigating you were doing in Arizona.”

I thought of my loaded gun, still in the hall sideboard. So far, this needlepoint business had been livelier than Gram thought.

For a few minutes I didn’t say anything. I looked around the kitchen I’d grown up in, and then at Gram. I thought of the house that I still thought of as home staying in the family instead of being sold to people from away who wanted to telecommute to New York City. I thought of summers with cool breezes, instead of hundred-degree temperatures.

And I thought of Mama’s open murder case. I wanted to ensure it stayed open until I was sure who was responsible for her death.

My head wasn’t convinced, but my heart was calling me home. “Gram, I’ve been away a long time. Can I first commit to a six-month trial, for both Mainely Needlepointers and me? It would give us both time to make sure this is right for everyone.”

Gram clapped her hand in delight. “Of course. And I’m thrilled and happy to meet Mainely Needlepoint’s new chief operating officer.”

“But I already have one request,” I put in before she got too excited. “‘Chief operating officer’ sounds a little fancy, considering the size of the business. How about ‘director’? That would look serious enough on business cards.”

My life had just made a major turn. At least for six months.

I touched my angel for luck. I had the feeling I’d need all I could get.

The next morning, as soon as I figured people in Arizona would be awake, I called the woman who had the apartment next to mine. She and I had exchanged keys, in case of emergencies. I asked her to go into my apartment and pack and send the rest of my clothes and photos and a painting of a desert sunset, which I’d loved and saved for.

She seemed pleased when I told her she could take or sell anything else there, especially when I sweetened the deal by promising to send her a check for her trouble and the shipping costs. And did she know anyone who’d like my old car? It’d been nine years old when I’d bought it, six years ago. It wouldn’t survive a trip to Maine.

I’d have to change my address. I’d cancel my lease in Arizona as soon as my stuff was out. My apartment hadn’t exactly been a penthouse. I’d always thought of it as temporary. If I went back . . . when I went back . . . I’d find another one.

Now I had a job to do.

Gram and I started looking through her account books and Lattimore’s, trying to reconcile the differences. Our first task—or my first task, as Gram kept saying—was to decide how much of the money we’d gotten from Jacques was due each needlepointer, and how much was still owed them. That done, I could contact all the former customers we could identify, explain the change in management, and ask what we could do for them.

I had a lot to learn. Gram had two bookcases full of books on needlepoint. She picked out two for me to start with: Jo Ippolito Christensen’s
The Needlepoint Book
and Hope Hanley’s
101 Needlepoint Stitches.
“After you’re familiar with those, you can move on to more advanced books.”

My new Mainely Needlepoint job would be more than keeping accounts. I had to understand what could and could not be done in needlepoint (upholstery, yes; clothing, except for perhaps a heavy vest or jacket, no) and learn at least a few stitches, so I could sound knowledgeable.

I also needed to take up where I’d left off when I was about ten. I needed to learn to do at least simple needlepoint. That way I’d better understand the challenges for those filling orders. Gram tried not to smile too much as she picked out a piece of marked canvas and colors for me. I’d start with a simple pine tree on a small cushion: one of the core Mainely Needlepoint products.

We were interrupted by Sarah’s knock. She took one look at Gram and me going through a notebook of pictures and patterns that had been done by the group and grinned. “She said yes, then?”

I held up my hand. “Not to a total commitment. Six months, to get the company back on its feet. Then we can decide whether it’s going to be a long-term relationship.”

“It’s a cinch. You’ll love it,” she declared. “Why wouldn’t you? We’re charming, you won’t be stuck in an office, you’ll get to meet people all over New England, and we’ll even bake you goodies if you get us a good commission!”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I answered. Sarah’s effervescence was contagious. “But were those your scones yesterday? Because if they were, then you’ve got a deal. They were fantastic. I finished the last one for breakfast—”

“Sarah, we have some sad news,” Gram interrupted. “After everyone else left yesterday, Jacques Lattimore had a series of seizures. He died at the hospital.”

“Oh, no!” she said. “What a coincidence. I mean, for him to pay us back part of the money he owed, and then to die, so suddenly. He seemed fine until he had those stomach pains.”

“Pretty awful way to begin a new job, I’ll admit,” I put in. “Having your predecessor die.”

“I’ll call the others and tell them later this morning,” said Gram. “Although I hated what he was doing to the business, he was charming and good company.”

“Is there going to be a funeral? Should we send flowers?” Sarah asked. Then she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned funerals. Not when I’ve just been to one for your daughter. And mother,” she added, turning toward me.

“It’s all right. Mama had been gone a long time before her service,” I said. “Although that reminds me, I want to call Ethan Trask and nudge him. Find out whether his investigation has turned up anything.” I headed for the kitchen phone. I’d left my cell upstairs.

Ethan answered on the first ring. “Trask. Maine State Police.”

“Ethan? It’s Angie Curtis. I wondered if you had any new leads about my mother’s murder.”

“I haven’t. No. Although I do have a few things I’d like to talk over with you.” He paused. “And I’d like to ask your grandmother about Jacques Lattimore.”

“Lattimore? Why do you need to know about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“I know. And he was a thief. He cheated Gram’s business out of thousands of dollars. That’s all you need to know about him.”

“He was at your home yesterday afternoon.”

“He was. He collapsed here and we followed the ambulance to the hospital. We were there when he died.”

“Then I need to talk with you both. Will you be at home in about an hour?”

“We could be.” When state police called, it was good to be available. Plus, I wouldn’t mind seeing Ethan again.

“Make sure you are. I’ll see you then.”

I walked back to the living room. “Ethan Trask is coming here. He wants to talk to both of us, Gram.”

She sighed. “I wish he’d close that investigation into your mother’s death. It was nineteen years ago. We may never know why, but Joe Greene certainly looks like the guilty party.”

“Ethan doesn’t just want to talk to us about Mama. He wants to talk about Jacques Lattimore.”

“Jacques? Why would the Maine State Police care about Jacques?”

“Ethan didn’t say. Maybe they have information about him,” I said. “If he cheated Mainely Needlepoint, chances are he cheated other small crafting companies, too.”

Sarah got up. “I’ll leave you two, then. I need to open my store. I actually came to find out if you’d agreed to stay and help us, Angie. And to tell you both I’ve been doing investigating of my own.” She glanced from one of us to the other. “Oh, no. Not about a murder or anything like that. Sorry! I’ve been checking into cleaning that sampler I brought over the other day. Finding out whether or not it should be repaired. After I removed it from its frame, I looked at it carefully, and talked to several people knowledgeable about such things. I think I’ll be able to clean the fabric if I do it carefully, but I won’t touch the stitching. Then I’ll line the back with a thin support fabric to stabilize it and keep it from deteriorating anymore.”

“You know,” I thought out loud. “Helping people identify and protect old needlepoint might be a sideline for Mainely Needlepoint. I suspect a lot of old samplers are in Maine homes. Probably other types of needlework, too, that people inherited and have treasured, but don’t know how to conserve.”

“‘Conserving.’ That’s exactly the right word,” Sarah agreed. “And if we could provide any information about the piece—provenance, if possible—the needlework would be a lot more valuable. We might even be able to learn a little about the person who stitched it. I’ve been reading about the schools that wealthy New England girls went to, where they learned needlepoint, in the first half of the nineteenth century. Samplers done by students at the same school have similarities. I found books that picture many of them and include information about the schools.”

“So there’s source information available?” I said. “That’s good news.”

“See, Charlotte?” said Sarah. “Your clever granddaughter is already coming up with new angles for Mainely Needlepoint. I knew she’d be perfect for the job!” She turned toward the door. “In the meantime I should get back to my store, and my stitching. ‘Till then—dreaming I am sewing.’” She winked at me. “Emily wrote that.”

“Wait and see,” I put in. “I haven’t even been on the job twenty-four hours. It’s a little early to rush to judgment.” But the idea of researching—investigating—the heritage of old needlepoint pieces and conserving them appealed to me. I doubted I’d ever become a master needlepointer myself. But I knew how to do research. Investigating the history of a piece of needlepoint couldn’t be as complicated as finding a missing person.

And it shouldn’t require a gun. . . .

Which I needed to get a Maine permit for. It looked as though, at least for the next six months, I’d be a Maine resident.

Was I really ready to come back to, literally, the scene of the crime?

I looked up at a framed picture Gram had stood on the mantelpiece. A photograph of Mama and me taken a few months before she’d disappeared.

People who’d stopped me at the funeral were right. We did look alike. And we had those identical birthmarks few people had known about.

Were we alike in other ways? I shook my head, chasing the thought away.

I wasn’t like Mama. Not in the important ways.

A friend of Mama’s had taken that picture, down on Pocket Cove Beach.

Mama had woken me up early and announced it was too beautiful a spring day for me to go to school. She was declaring a holiday.

We’d spent the whole day together, climbing on the rocks by the lighthouse. Searching for starfish and baby sea urchins in tide pools. Making patterns in the sand with our toes. The water had been frigid, but Mama hadn’t cared. She’d waded out with my pail to bring back clear water for the turreted sand castle we’d built and decorated with tiny mussel shells and salty rockweed and sparkling sea glass. I’d cried when the tide turned and the waves lapped at our walls, but she’d helped me collect the shells and glass we’d used so we could take them home. “They’re all memories, Angie. You don’t lose memories.”

I smiled, remembering. I hadn’t lost them. That day seemed as clear to me now as it had then. By lunchtime we’d both been wet and sandy. We’d sat in the sun on benches overlooking the harbor and shared a pint of fried clams. We’d been happy.

I’d begged for a strawberry ice-cream cone, my favorite flavor. She’d ordered one with chocolate chips for herself. We were eating our ice-cream cones and laughing, ice cream dripping down our hands, when a friend of hers I hadn’t known stopped to talk. He’d taken that picture before we’d headed home, where Gram had shaken her head, and headed me toward the bathtub. Mama had stayed on the porch, sitting in our hammock, swinging her bare sandy feet, talking to her friend.

That day we were like two children, playing together.
I grew up, Mama,
I said silently to her.
And I promise I’m going to find out what happened to you.

Sure, Mama’d been in a lot of relationships. Some good, I hoped. Some probably not. The question was: Did she slam the door behind her when they were over, or did she leave the door ajar? Had someone from her past walked back in?

I wished I could ask her.

Meanwhile, Gram was calling the other needlepointers to tell them Jacques Lattimore had died. And I’d agreed to be the director of Mainely Needlepoint.