Twisted Threads (13 page)

“Those look delicious,” said Gram, peeking into the bakery box at the éclairs I’d bought. “But we’ll save them for tomorrow. Tom’s invited us to his home for dinner tonight.”

“I don’t have to go,” I answered. “I’m sure he’s just asking me because I’m your granddaughter. You go. I’ll make my own dinner here at home.”

“Nonsense! He invited you specifically. And I’d like you to get to know him, Angel. After all, soon he’ll be your stepgrandfather!”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“He’s an excellent cook, and a kind and interesting man,” she continued. “I know what people think when they hear he’s a minister, but that’s only part of his life. He doesn’t spend every hour of the day reading the Bible or ministering to the poor and indigent.”

Or to older women,
I thought.

“How old is he, Gram? He’s good-looking, but he doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t look my age? Heavens, no. Tom’s ten years younger than I am. He’s fifty-two.” Since Gram was sixty-five, she seemed to have a little problem with subtraction.

“Gram! You’re a cougar!”

“What?”

It wasn’t the moment to mention I’d once dated a man who was fifty-two. Jonathan had been bright and interesting, but he’d been in love with me because I was twenty-five. He’d left when I couldn’t promise never to change.

“A cougar, Gram. What people call a woman who dates a man much younger than she is.”

“People can call me what they want. I call myself ‘smart.’ Everyone knows men don’t live as long as women. Smarter to pick one who’s younger. We’ll have more years together, and he might be around to take care of me someday, instead of the other way around. Have you noticed how many widows there are, compared to widowers?”

What could I say?

“You’re thinking I’m a little crazy in the head and I shouldn’t be thinking of getting sick and dying. But at my age it’s natural that those thoughts pop up more often than they do for you,” Gram said. She looked at the kitchen clock. “We’ll leave about five-thirty. Did you have much time to go over those accounts?”

“I started. The records you’ve kept are clear. The problem is merging what you’ve been recording with what Lattimore did. You focused on each person contributing to the business, what they’d been assigned, and how long it took them. He focused on the people who’d ordered the work. It’s hard to get it all to match up. Like, Mrs. Sam Bailey ordered needlepoint seats for her dining-room set. Eight straight chairs, which had smaller seats, and two armchairs for the ends of the table. All that’s clear. And I found the floral pattern to be used. Your binders keep those in order, but I couldn’t figure out who was working on the actual pieces. According to Lattimore, they haven’t been completed.”

“They hadn’t been finished when he vanished a few months ago, but they’re done now. Let me show you,” said Gram, and she and I headed into the living-room office.

Heavy knocking at the front door interrupted us.

The man standing outside was huge. My first impression was that he was in his thirties, but life hadn’t been kind to him. His hair needed a cut, his arms and neck were covered with tattoos, and his skin was the permanent tan of a man who’d spent his life on the water. Most important, he was furious.

Furious enough that I wished I had my gun close at hand. I moved closer to the sideboard, where I’d left it. But then I was afraid he’d think I was backing away from him. I didn’t want him to know how afraid I was.

“I suppose you’re the granddaughter. Angela.”

“I’m Angela. Who are you?”

“Caleb Decker. I’m here to get the money due my wife.”

Caleb Decker. Lauren’s husband. “We haven’t gone through all the accounts yet. Lauren will get her money as soon as we finish.”

He pushed the door open wider and strode past me into the living room. “Charlotte, we’ve been owed that money for months now. I want it now.”

Gram stood up. “Caleb, Angie’s told you the truth. We’ve just started to go over the accounts.”

“Lauren said that agent of yours gave you a fistful of dollars yesterday. How long’s it take? Just give me the cash.”

The money was in the desk drawer of the living room. I hoped Gram wouldn’t mention that. I put my hand on the drawer holding my gun.

“Probably tomorrow, Caleb. Take it easy. Lauren’ll get her share of the money when everyone else does. Not before.”

He took a step toward her. She didn’t move. “Tomorrow, Caleb. No later than the day after. I promise you.”

He looked at me, my hand on the sideboard drawer, and at Gram. “It had better be soon. Or I’ll be back.” He stomped past me, slamming the front door in back of him.

“Wow,” I said, relieved that the situation seemed to have resolved itself. “That’s Lauren’s husband? He’s off the wall. I’m proud of you, Gram. You stood up to him.”

“That’s the only way to deal with bullies,” she said. “Call their bluff.”

“How can Lauren live with someone like that?” I wondered out loud.

“She hasn’t had an easy life,” Gram confirmed. “And, for the record, make sure the money she’s owed goes to her. Not to Caleb. Keep that in mind for the future, too.”

I nodded. “Absolutely.” I didn’t have to ask her why.

We spent what was left of the afternoon going over the pattern books and correlating the work done with the work delivered and the work paid for. Some work had been completed, but not delivered. A few pieces had been delivered, but were not paid for. I’d have my hands full getting it all sorted out, without even beginning to try to find new work.

“We have a lot of repeat customers and referrals,” Gram assured me. “We can all work on gift shop items for now. We’ll be getting calls for those any day now, and shops will ask for backup items later in the summer if sales have been good. Those orders don’t pay as much as the special ones, but they’ll keep people in soup and hamburger for the moment.”

There was no more time to think about Mama’s murder before Gram and I left for the rectory.

“Glad you could both come,” Reverend Tom said, greeting Gram with a hug and a kiss and me with a touch on the arm. “Dinner is cooking. I decided to make something simple.” I sniffed. Whatever it was smelled fantastic.
“Boeuf Bourguignon.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. The reverend was wearing close-cut jeans and a beige sweater. He didn’t look like my idea of a minister.

“Don’t be. It’s not complicated. Just beef stew with mushrooms and red wine.”

“I told you he could cook,” Gram said, nodding. “Wait until you taste it.”

“Come and have a glass of wine while it’s cooking,” said the reverend.

I didn’t remember ever having been in the rectory before. But I was pretty sure no other minister who’d lived there had decorated like Reverend Tom.

“What?” I spun around. “But . . . you’re a minister!”

He and Gram both laughed. “You didn’t tell Angie about my collection, then,” he said.

“I thought it would be more fun for her to discover it herself,” Gram answered.

I walked slowly around the living room. The walls were covered with shelves too shallow for books, but the perfect size to display an amazing collection of Ouija boards. Most were rectangular and made of wood, but Reverend Tom also had circular boards (one labeled an
Angel Guidance Board,
with pictures of angels surrounding it) and one that was triangular. Many were plain, just listing the alphabet and numbers and
yes
or
no
in corners, and
good-bye
in English, French, or Spanish. Still, others, like the angel board, were decorated with stars or eyes, turbaned sorcerers or witches. There were boards large enough to cover a tabletop, and miniature boards complete with miniature planchettes, the moving pieces that would spell out users’ fortunes. Maybe the tiny boards were for New Age dolls? I was fascinated. “How many do you have?” I asked. “And why?”

“I started collecting when I was in high school. One of my uncles had a board, and I was fascinated by the possibility that spirits could speak through it. I tried it out every time I visited him, and eventually my uncle gave it to me.” Tom pointed at the board over the mantel. “It’s one of my least valuable boards, but it was my first, so I put it in a place of honor. I have about a hundred boards now.”

“Do many people collect things like this?” I’d never collected anything but sea glass. Maybe I didn’t fully appreciate the passion of a serious antique collector. But this wasn’t just an unusual collection. It was weird. And fascinating. Especially because it belonged to a minister.

And Gram was going to move into this house? It gave me the willies.

“Lots of people are collectors. Christmas collectibles have been popular for years, but today Halloween collectibles are catching up with them. Ouija boards aren’t only for Halloween, of course, but, like tarot cards, they’re categorized by collectors and dealers as related to Halloween because sometimes people use them at Halloween parties. They became more popular a few years back when ‘New Age’ people began collecting angels and crystals and scented candles, along with other ‘mystical’ decorations and jewelry.”

I touched the angel pendant I was wearing under my sweater. “Do you believe people can contact spirits through the boards?”

“No,” Reverend Tom answered. “But I still like to try once in a while, if someone is visiting and promises not to take any answers the spirits give us too seriously.”

“I’ve never used one,” I admitted. “I don’t know much about them, but it sounds like fun.” I turned to Gram. “Can we? Can we try to contact spirits tonight?”

“I don’t know if this is the right time,” she said. “Tom, we have another problem. When I talked to you yesterday, I told you Jacques Lattimore had collapsed at our house.”

“Yes. You clearly did the right thing, getting him to the hospital. But from what you said, no one could have saved him.”

“Turns out that was only the beginning,” said Gram. “Ethan Trask stopped in today. It appears there’s a possibility Jacques was murdered.”

“Murdered?” said Tom. “But that’s impossible! He was right there in your house!”

“That,” Gram answered, nodding, “is the problem. He might have been poisoned by something he ate while he was with us.”

“I’m sure Ethan’s mistaken,” said Tom, handing us each a glass of burgundy. “Who was with you yesterday?”

“Just the needlepointers. And Angie and me.”

“And Ethan thinks one of you poisoned Lattimore?”

“He said he wouldn’t know for sure until the final autopsy results are in, particularly the toxicology reports. But the doctor who treated Lattimore was suspicious.”

“I’m surprised Ethan mentioned it to you if he doesn’t know for sure.”

“I suspect he wanted to warn us,” I said. “To give us a chance to confess if we’d been involved, or to think through who else at the house might have done it.”

Reverend Tom shook his head. “And I thought, after the service for your daughter, that your life might be simpler. Easier.”

“It will be in some ways. Angel’s decided to stay with me for a while. . . .”

“Six months. A trial of six months,” I put in.

“And be the director of Mainely Needlepoint. She’s going to get us straightened out and contact the customers. Do what Jacques Lattimore should have been doing.” Gram looked at me proudly. “She’s already had an idea of how we might expand the business. She suggested we learn about heritage needlepoint—the sort people buy in antique shops or at auctions or inherit. Learn how to conserve it, or perhaps do minor repairs, and be able to tell people a little about the history of their piece.”

“Good for you, Angie. That sounds like a good sideline for the business. And you have Sarah Byrne already, who’s an antique dealer.”

“She’s the one who got us thinking in that direction,” Gram admitted. “She showed us an old piece of embroidery and wanted to know what she should do about it.”

“Angie, I’m glad you’re here and going to help with the business. Charlotte doesn’t realize how much a minister’s wife is expected to do. She’s a special woman, for sure”—he looked over at her and they both smiled—“but I was afraid she might be taking on too much with both the needlepoint business and what will be her new church responsibilities.”

“I refused to close the business, even when that Lattimore was making it difficult,” said Gram. “I enjoy the work, and so do the others I’ve gotten involved.”

“I hope I’ll be able to live up to everyone’s expectations,” I said, sipping my wine. “I’ve kept books before, but it was for a company that did private investigations. Not exactly needlepoint.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Reverend Tom said, adding a little to each of our glasses. “And dinner won’t be ready for an hour. How would you like to try out one of the Ouija boards now, Angie?”

“Could we? I’m sure I don’t believe, either, but they look like fun!”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Tom? With everything else that’s been happening. Maybe this isn’t a week to disturb the spirits.”

Gram was smiling, but I sensed real concern behind her words.

“Don’t worry, Charlotte. It’ll be harmless. Which board, Angie, for your virgin attempt to contact the spirits?”

I was game. “The older boards are intimidating. Why don’t we use your first board? The one your uncle gave you.”

“Done,” he said, taking it down. “I’ll check the dinner and then we’ll begin.”