Twisted Threads (15 page)

Great. Gram and I were possible suspects in the murder of someone I’d only known for a couple of hours, and who’d cheated Gram and her friends out of over twenty-seven thousand dollars.

And right now I couldn’t think of anything to do about it. Why wasn’t Ethan working on Mama’s case? “What about Mama’s death? Is there any new information in that investigation?” I asked, trying desperately to change the subject. I glanced over at Gram. She was a tough lady, not a violent one. But right now she looked ready to kill.

“We’ve had a preliminary report back from the lab looking at DNA in the storage facility where your mother’s body was found,” said Ethan, turning to me. “Joe Greene’s the only person we can connect to that space. That matches the records the facility has. Joe rented the place, and went there about once a year for a while. For the last ten years of his life, he just sent rent checks in. That’s not surprising. During that period his wife was ill, and then he had cancer. Lauren, of course, went there this spring to empty it.”

“No one else’s name was on the record for the room?”

Ethan shook his head. “Just Joe’s. There’s no way of knowing whether anyone was with him when he first rented the facility. Or any other time.” Ethan paused. “He did visit it the day before your mother was reported missing.”

“So she was killed right away. She probably died before we called the police,” said Gram quietly.

“That’s what we’re thinking,” said Ethan. “Of course, there’s no proof. But it seems too great a coincidence that Jenny disappeared and then, only two days later, Joe Greene visited the place her body was found.”

“Was there a freezer in the unit before then?” I asked.

“No way of knowing. A lot of folks put freezers in those facilities when they don’t have space at their homes. No one would have taken any note of Joe moving a freezer in there.”

“But a freezer big enough to hold . . . a person . . . had to be heavy. Joe Greene couldn’t have moved it there himself. He had to have help,” I thought out loud.

“True. But without surveillance footage, or anyone signing in with Joe, or coming to the police, we don’t know who that might be. And,” Ethan reminded me, “no third-party DNA has been identified. Plus, the freezer could have been there before your mother was. Again, there’s no way of knowing. Joe can’t tell us. His wife’s gone now, too, although I doubt she would have known.”

“Who worked for Joe at the bakery back then?” Gram asked. “If he’d needed help moving a freezer, seems to me he’d go to someone who worked for him.”

“I thought of that,” said Ethan. “I’m asking around, to see if anyone remembers. Lauren has copies of his old tax filings, and we did look at those. But Joe and Nelly worked that bakery themselves most of the time. If they had extra help, Joe paid them off the books. There’s no record he had any employees then.”

“But you are asking around,” I repeated. Someone, somewhere, must know what happened.

“I’m talking to Joe’s friends in the Rotary and the Chamber of Commerce. Everyone I’ve talked to is convinced Joe didn’t do it—that somehow he was framed. They can’t think of any reason Joe would have killed anyone. They’d like to put the focus on someone else, but no one’s come up with any other suspects.”

“Maybe Joe did it,” I admitted. “But, like those people you’re talking to, I can’t understand why. That’s what bothers me. There has to be a motive.”

“We haven’t uncovered one,” Ethan said. “I wish we had. Now, with this Lattimore guy, finding a motive doesn’t seem to be an issue. He’d cheated everyone at Mainely Needlepoint out of money, and they were all in the room with him right before he showed signs of poisoning. And you,” Ethan’s voice lowered as he said, “you ended up with his job. It looks pretty obvious that someone connected to Mainely Needlepoint didn’t want Lattimore going back to Rome that night. The only question is, who?”

Gram and I looked at each other. Besides us, there was elderly Ruth Hopkins. Dave Percy, the navy retiree who now taught biology at Haven Harbor High. Katie Titicomb, the grandmother and quilter. Her husband was a doctor. Money wasn’t as much of an issue with her as with the others. Lauren Decker, Joe’s daughter, whose husband was struggling to make a living from the sea. Ob Winslow, whose back gave him problems and who did wood carvings. Sarah Byrne, the antique dealer.

None of them acted like killers. Although, who knew? Joe Greene hadn’t been perfect, but even years later, no one was saying, “Oh, of course. Joe Greene. He would have shot that young woman in the head.”

Homicide was not logical.

And yet . . .

“When did you call the needlepointers and ask them to come to the house?” I asked Gram.

“Right after you called me. I decided Jacques Lattimore should face all of us. Apologize to all of us. I wanted everyone to hear what he had to say. I wanted him to understand he’d hurt people.”

“You told them he’d be here,” I confirmed.

“I did. I told them I wanted them here to confront him.”

“But none of them knew before your call that he’d be in Haven Harbor that afternoon?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to make sure Ethan understood what I was getting at.

“Of course not. We didn’t even know where he was living. That’s why I asked you to find out. You did that faster than I thought you would.” Gram gave me an admiring glance.

Ethan was listening. “What you’re getting at, Angie, is that no one—not your grandmother, and none of the others—would have had time to figure out how to poison Lattimore on that short notice.”

I nodded. “The food they shared had to have been made ahead of time. People picked up what they had in their kitchens and brought it with them. There was no time to prepare anything special. And if there’d been poison in the doughnuts Lauren brought, we’d certainly have heard on the news.”

“Of course, we all have poisons in our homes. Antifreeze. Medications. But until we know what caused Lattimore’s seizures and death, it’s hard to narrow down the suspect list,” Ethan admitted.

“I’d say it’s almost impossible,” I said. “Unless someone in that room was seen adding something to Lattimore’s tea. Since everyone ate the food, it seems unlikely that the poison was in that.”

Ethan nodded. “I agree it sounds as though the poison was in Lattimore’s tea. And I assume you cleaned up after the meeting? Washed the dishes and such?”

Gram and I exchanged glances. “We did. We didn’t think he’d been poisoned. We just thought he’d gotten very sick all of a sudden.”

“That he did,” Ethan said. “But unless the crime scene team’s able to find a lead to help us in your house, your cleaning up destroyed the only evidence we might have had.” He looked from one of us to the other. “It might even be seen as covering up evidence.”

Ethan was through with his questions before the crime scene technicians had finished. Since we weren’t wanted in the house, Gram and I took a walk and stopped for a light lunch on our way back.

During lunch I asked her if she recognized the telephone number I’d found in Mama’s slacks. She’d just shaken her head. When we got back home, we found the police had taken her computer. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t find she’d been searching the Internet for poisons, but in the meantime she was upset that some of her business files were now out of reach. And I wasn’t going to do any computer searches today.

The police had been looking for evidence of poison, not wrongdoing. For now at least, the Mainely Needlepoint files not in the computer hadn’t been touched.

“You’re going to Bath on Monday?” Gram confirmed.

“Meeting Clem and Cindy for lunch.”

“Bath isn’t far from Brunswick. There’s a Goodwill drop-off there, where you can leave the clothes you’ve packed up.”

“I think I’ll buy a laptop, too,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to do that for a while, anyway. I can load the software I’m comfortable using to set up the Mainely Needlepoint accounts.” Both Gram’s accounting records and the information we’d gotten from Lattimore were in old-fashioned paper files. I’d have to start from scratch to put them into the computer.

I wasn’t looking forward to that, but it had to be done.

We spent the afternoon cleaning up after the crime scene people. They’d been as careful as they could, but they’d emptied the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, and moved all the old cans of paint and turpentine in the barn off Gram’s neat shelves.

It was logical to take advantage of the mess to sort through the cans and bottles that had found their way into Gram’s house, from cellar to attic, and into her barn. By the time we’d finished, I had more bags and boxes to take to the town dump. And a major headache.

Gram and I worked silently. The mess that was left reminded both of us that if I wasn’t able to get the money owed the needlepointers, she might have to sell the house. If that happened, we’d have to do a lot of cleanup. The house had been in our family more than two hundred years. I’d never sat and counted how many people had been born, lived, and died here. But I was pretty sure they’d each left something behind: Ghosts? Maybe. For sure, there were old trunks of fabrics saved to be used in quilts. Toys that hadn’t been played with since I’d been a child . . . or even a hundred years before. Garden tools that dated back to at least the 1920s or 1930s. (“They work perfectly well. Why replace them?”) Shelves of empty mason jars that once were filled with tomato sauce and canned vegetables.

Old houses held stories. And secrets. And although there might be treasures, more likely there was junk. Or, I smiled to myself as I filled cartons for Goodwill with generations of Easter baskets that had been stacked in the barn before the crime scene investigators had thrown them on the ground,
Vintage Junque.

While I loaded cartons for Goodwill into her car, Gram finished going through all her papers. “I’ll have this done today,” she assured me. “Then you can deliver the money. After that, the accounts will be yours to put on your computer, or arrange however you think best. I’ll be here to answer any questions, but I’ll be happy to hand over that part of the business and get back to stitching.”

I didn’t see any vacations in my near future.

The next morning I picked up the envelopes of cash Gram had divided and marked for each of the needlepointers. But before I made my first delivery, I decided to take care of other unfinished business. I went to the Haven Harbor police station.

“Could I speak with Sergeant Pete Lambert?”

I smiled sweetly.

My charm was not appreciated. “Sergeant Lambert’s out of the office right now.” Stacy, the clerk who’d taken the photo for my permit application a few days before, didn’t even look at me. But she did hand me a minuscule pad of paper and a pencil. “You’re welcome to leave him a note.”

I wrote,
Pete. This is Angie Curtis. Sorry I missed you! Have an idea about my mother’s case. Call me.
I added my cell phone number, folded the little paper into something an elf would have been able to carry, and handed it back.

Stacy unfolded it in front of me, clearly demonstrating that nothing she handled was private.

“I’ll give it to him when he comes in. But I don’t know when that will be.” Finally she looked at me. “He has a girlfriend, in case you were wondering.” She said it more like a threat than a “between us girls” piece of gossip.

“Good for him,” I answered. Were so many Haven Harbor women longing for Pete’s attention that she was warning me? Or maybe she was the girlfriend, and hoping to eliminate any potential competition.

Until that moment I hadn’t thought about Pete Lambert other than he’d done a good job keeping the media away from Gram and me on the day of Mama’s funeral. Now she’d made me curious.

“Make sure he gets the note. It’s important.”

I decided to stop at Lauren’s house first. From all accounts she needed the money.

No one answered the door. A gray-haired woman kneeling on the grass in the next yard called out, “You looking for the Deckers?”

She wore garden gloves caked with mud and was digging deep holes to plant the bulbs lying next to her on the grass. I knew nothing about gardening except that Gram planted daffodil and crocus bulbs every fall. Thanks to naturalizing, our lawn was a field of purple and white, and then yellow, every spring. I’d missed the flowers this year. Now we had a small field of withering leaves. Our only other gardening attempts I remembered had been a few tomato plants and a row of Black-Seeded Simpson lettuce each year.

“Looking for Lauren,” I said.

“She and Caleb left real early this morning. I’d guess they went up to their camp for the weekend,” she said. “They do that pretty regular. Anything I can help with?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t know they had a camp.” If they were in such bad financial shape, how could they afford a second home?

“It’s on a lake, north of here. Inherited it from her parents, same way they got this house.” She looked at me. “You’re the daughter of that woman Lauren found in the freezer, right? The one they had the funeral for this past week.”

“That’s right. Angela Curtis.”

“Sue Warden. Pleased to meet you.” She started to put her hand out to shake mine; but then she realized she was covered with dirt, so she shrugged. “Sorry about your mother.”

I nodded in thanks. “What are you planting?”

“Lilies. They’ll bloom in August, if I’m lucky. This dirt’s rocky, and the season’s short. A lot of lilies don’t make it here. But I keep trying. Daylilies, those big yellow ones, they do fine. But I’m hoping to grow a few of the more exotic Asian ones.”

She stood up and dusted herself off, which got more dirt on her clothes, as I stared at the house where Lauren and Caleb now lived. I knew it well. I’d visited it many times as a child. Too many times. Brownie meetings had been held there, and I’d often walked home with Lauren when we’d been in the second or third grade. I didn’t remember this neighbor. I turned back to her. “Have you lived here long?”

“About five years. Seems a good stretch to me, but around here someone who’s only lived in Haven Harbor five years is still considered a newcomer. My husband and I moved up here from Boston after he retired. Beautiful place, the coast of Maine.”

“It is,” I agreed. “So you were here when Lauren’s parents still owned the house.”

“Mrs. Greene, her mother, was in pretty bad shape when we got here. Seemed like a nice lady, but you could tell she didn’t have long. After she died, Mr. Greene seemed lost. Guess that happens when a couple has been together for years. He used to come over and talk to me while I was gardening, like you just did. We’d invite him to dinner with us once in a while.”

“So you’ve known Lauren all this time.”

“Actually, no. She used to be in and out when her mother was ill. But after that, I didn’t see her. Of course, she had her baby to look after then. Robin was a charmer. And maybe I’m telling tales out of school, but I always thought her dad was lonely and Lauren should have visited him more often. She and Caleb lived in a trailer west of town then, not far away. But maybe she was mourning her mother and her daughter.” She sighed. “That young woman’s had a lot of sadness in her life. But you’d understand that.”

Lauren had lost a child? I made a mental note to ask Gram about that.

“I’m surprised Mr. Greene was alone so much. I thought he was active in a lot of town organizations.”

She shrugged. “Maybe when he was younger. When I knew him, he just puttered around his house. Went to church Sundays, but that was it. Ate down at Harbor Haunts, or picked up fast food at one of those places outside of town. A sad existence, if you ask me. When he told my husband and me he’d taken sick, we wondered if it might have come on because he had nothing left to live for.”

“Sad,” I said, because that’s what she thought. I didn’t feel much sympathy for a man who might have shot Mama in the back of her head.

She looked at me. “After Lauren found your mother’s body—awful for her!—there’s been talk around town that Joe Greene did it. I don’t know how that body got into his freezer, but the Joe Greene I knew wouldn’t have killed anyone. He was a lonely old man.”

“It was almost twenty years ago,” I pointed out. “People change.”

“True. Our bodies wear out.” She smiled ruefully. “I won’t be able to garden on my hands and knees many more years. But if we’re lucky, our minds keep going. I think the same way I did twenty years ago, more or less. I suspect Joe Greene was like that. He’d only changed on the outside. And he didn’t seem like a killer to me.”

“You never know.”

“Just saying my piece. We’ll probably never know what really happened to your mother. But it’s sad for Lauren that her dad is blamed when he isn’t here to defend himself.”

I thanked her for her time and headed back to my car. I didn’t feel like hearing good things about Joe Greene, even if I was one of those questioning his guilt. I hadn’t liked the man. But had he been a murderer?

I glanced at the addresses I’d jotted down at home and then at the time on my cell. It was getting toward lunchtime. I decided to head down to Harbor Haunts for a clam roll and then stop to see Sarah Byrne.

I was halfway there when my phone rang. It was Pete Lambert.

“You stopped in today and said you needed to see me?” he asked.

“Yes. I have an idea you might find helpful,” I answered.

“I’m in my office now,” he answered.

“It’s almost time for lunch. I’m on my way to Harbor Haunts. Why don’t you join me there?”

He was silent for a moment. Then, “Save me a seat.”

The sought-after Peter Lambert was going to join me. I hoped Stacy, the police department clerk, choked on her words. Politely, of course.

It wasn’t yet noon, but Harbor Haunts was half full. When you’re the only place in town that serves food year-round, locals love you. And summer people like to eat “where the locals” eat. They didn’t know most of those locals are too busy working at fancier places and at places like the co-op, where I used to work, to eat out during the summer. They didn’t know the menu changed in summer. Just try to find a crabmeat roll or lobster club sandwich from November through April. Locals wanted a good burger, or maybe a haddock sandwich, with fries. If they craved lobster, they got one from a friend who had a license. Or one who didn’t, which was rare. Lobstermen knew whose pots shouldn’t be there. Anyone who tried to drop a few for private use would find their lines cut before the state was notified.

Not all of Maine is as pretty as the postcards would have people think.

“Someone’s meeting me,” I said to the very young hostess. I looked in. “Could we have a table near the window?”

“Sure thing,” she answered, looking me over. She would have been too young to remember me as Jenny Curtis’s daughter who left.

She handed me a menu. “We’ve got specials. You care?”

She looked at my short sleeves and V-necked pale green T-shirt. From her angle she could probably see most of what I’d squeezed into my bra that morning. “Sure you want to sit by the window? There’s a draft there. It’s warmer in the corner.”

“This will be fine.” I smiled back. I looked around the room. No one else was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. Or one that was light green. There were definitely no deep V-necks. People in Haven Harbor dressed differently than those in Mesa, a town caught between downtown Phoenix and Arizona State. Lots of students there; lots of heat. In Mesa my outfit would have fit right in. Today, at home, not so much.

I ordered a pint of Shipyard and waited.

My beer arrived before my luncheon date.

He stood in the door and looked around. I waved.

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” he said, sliding his long body into the chair across from me. “At the funeral you had on that big hat.”

I smiled. “I didn’t wear the hat today.”

“That’s fine. Fine.”

He was looking at my cleavage, not my head.

The waitress was back. “Would you like to order now?”

“I’ll have a clam roll and spicy fries,” I said.

“Toasted bun, please.”

“Cheeseburger and fries,” Pete said. “Burger well done. And a cup of coffee.” He looked at my beer apologetically. “I’m on duty.”

“Luckily, I’m not,” I said.

“I figured you’d stopped in to ask about your carry permit. I told you, six-month residency.”

“Couldn’t you talk to someone?”

“Yeah. I could. But permits are a big deal. It wouldn’t make a difference.” He hesitated. “Is there any reason to think you’re in danger? That you’d need to conceal your weapon?”

“Some people in town think Joe Greene shot my mother. Some people don’t. I’m in the middle, and I’ve been asking questions. If you ask around, you’ll find I’ve been making a nuisance of myself. Some people might not be happy about that.”

He shrugged. “So they’re not happy. People in Haven Harbor, though, don’t go around shooting people they’re pissed at.”

So if I wanted to carry my gun, I would. But it would be nice if it were legal.

“I’ll make a few calls, but don’t count on getting the permit early. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“It’s about Joe Greene. I wanted to ask if anyone’d checked whether he’d ever been in legal trouble for any reason.” I reached out and touched Pete’s hand. “I know you weren’t with the department most of the time he was alive. But there might have been talk. Especially after my mother’s body was found.”

He moved his hand away and straightened up. “I haven’t heard he was ever in any trouble. But I can check it out. Anything in particular?”

Wide nets caught more fish. “No. I was just wondering if you could check to see if there were any closed files. It would make me feel better.”

He nodded as the waitress put our food on the table in front of us. “I’ll do that. I will. Maybe it’ll help solve the case.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” I said. “I know murders are officially under the jurisdiction of the state police, but you work with them, right?”

He nodded.

“And it would be good for your record if you were to come up with evidence that would help them.”

He nodded as he chewed. “Couldn’t hurt.” He leaned toward me. “Tell you the truth, I’ve always wanted to be a state trooper. Finding key evidence might be a step in that direction.”

“Good!” I smiled. “I hope it’ll help.”

Sergeant Lambert covered his French fries with ketchup.

My stomach lurched. It looked like blood.