Twisted Threads (2 page)

“Angel! You’re skinny as a razor clam. Didn’t you eat out there in Arizona? And you’ve cut your hair.” Gram held me at arm’s length, which wasn’t far, since she was several inches shorter than I was. I grinned and looked her over, too.

“I’m not eighteen anymore, either,” I agreed, laughing. “And, let’s see—how have you changed?”

She brushed me off. “I’m just the same. Your old Gram. I don’t change. Now set yourself down. You must be exhausted and hungry. Did you fly all night?”

“Pretty much. Slept some on the planes, though.”

Gram had changed, too. Her balance of gray hair and brown now tipped toward gray; she was a bit heftier than she’d been ten years ago; a few more lines had appeared on her hands and around her eyes. Mainers’ idea of skin care was wearing a Red Sox cap if you were going to be on the water all day, and slathering on Wool Wax Creme in winter, a potion fishermen used to keep their hands from cracking in frigid salt water. Worked pretty well on dry land, too. And the only hand cream you could pick up at the same place you bought your flounder fillets or haddock pieces for chowder.

I hadn’t thought about Wool Wax Creme in years.

Arizona women had permanently tanned skin, bought expensive moisturizers by the gallon, and compared Botox sources. Wearing sunblock was one of the healthier habits I’d picked up in my years away.

Gram was still talking, but had already put two bowls on the table and started ladling out chowder. “I didn’t know exactly when you’d get in, so I cooked up a pot yesterday with extra bacon and a touch of sherry, just the way you like it. Figured it’d be easy to heat up when you got here.”

“And better the second day,” we chorused together.

The yellow cat had smelled the fish. She meowed and rubbed against Gram’s ankles.

“I see you have a new friend,” I said. “Scared me half out of my wits when I came in. She’s a beauty. I haven’t seen a Maine coon cat in years.”

“Her name’s Juno, because she demands that I wait on her like she was a goddess. You should have seen her when she first got here. A scrawny stray trying to keep warm in the barn.” Juno meowed loudly. “All right, all right. I’ll stop my talking and give you some fish.”

Gram spooned a piece into a bowl on the floor, which was clearly Juno’s. The fish was gone before Gram’d sat down again.

“Mmm. I’ve missed your chowder,” I said, lowering my spoon into the bowl that was swirling with melted butter, mixed with just enough cream and broth and seasonings to turn potatoes and haddock and bacon into a feast. “And lobsters—remember when I said I never wanted to smell another lobster after steaming thousands every summer? Well, I’ve missed those, too. And some days I’d die for a decent fried clam. Fresh, lightly battered . . .” I took a spoonful of chowder and almost inhaled it. “Fantastic. Nobody makes chowder like yours.”

Gram sat with a smaller bowl and smiled, relishing my enjoyment. “It’s starting with lobster broth that makes the difference.” She tasted a spoonful herself, and then passed me the bowl of oyster crackers. “Lord knows, I’ve missed you, Angel. It’s been a quiet house all these years with you gone.”

“I saw the sign outside and the living room. You haven’t been sitting around mourning my absence. We need to get caught up. But, first, tell me about Mama.”

“I figured you’d want all the details, and might as well hear them from the expert. State’s reopening her case. So, after you finish your chowder, you call the trooper in charge of the investigation. He’ll tell you what’s happening. He wants to ask you a few questions, anyway.”

I nodded. “Fine. I want to do that as soon as possible.”

“Thought you would.” Gram slid a business card across the table. “He knows you’ll be calling. His office is up near Augusta, but he’ll be in Haven Harbor today and tomorrow because of the memorial service.”

“That’s when the service is? Tomorrow?” Gram had sure been confident I’d come home right away.

“Late tomorrow morning. It’s been a lot of years, but some folks still remember her. And when she was found, it was all over the papers and on the TV. A few will come because of that.”

I shuddered. “Curiosity seekers. The service should have been private. After all these years . . .”

“The police wanted an open service. Said it might encourage someone who’d have information to come forward. You ask the trooper. He’ll explain.”

I reached over and read the card. Twice. “Is this . . . the same Ethan Trask who used to live here in the Harbor?”

“Same fellow. I wondered if you’d remember him. He was a few years older than you, as I recall.”

Four years, three months, and six days. Ethan Trask. Quite possibly the most gorgeous boy to ever walk the halls of Haven Harbor High. The year I was twelve I’d followed him around like a sick puppy until he and his friends noticed the awkward kid always finding an excuse to walk past his house or browse at his father’s hardware store when he was working a shift there. Thinking back, they could have been meaner—boys my own age treated me like dirt, or lower, because of Mama—but Ethan’s laughter was the first that hurt. It sent me into hiding until he and his pals left town for wider horizons. And I grew up, and a couple of years later learned more direct ways to get boys’ attention.

“I remember him.”

“Well, he’s turned out all right. He’s a detective with the Maine State Troopers, and in charge of your mama’s case. Lives over to Hallowell now, he said.”

Maybe he wouldn’t remember me.

“You can reach him at his cell phone number. He told me to tell you that. And if you want to talk with Lauren, her number’s on the wall by the phone.”

“Lauren?”

“You remember Lauren? She was in your class in school, or one grade ahead? Lauren Greene she was then. She married Caleb Decker, so she’s Lauren Decker now, and she waitresses over to the Harbor Haunts Café.”

“Why would I want to see her? We were friends for a while in third and fourth grade, but not after that.” Everything had changed after Mama left. Including who wanted to be my friend.

“Well, Lauren’s been working with me, so I’ve gotten closer to her recently. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it was like when you were both girls. You took after your mama. You never talked much about your friends. But the reason I thought you might want to talk with her is, Lauren’s the one found your mama’s body.”

Gram was right. Ethan Trask had sure turned out fine.

He was taller, broader, and even better-looking than I remembered him, and his pressed state trooper’s uniform didn’t hurt the image any. Despite our shared history and the current circumstances, I was sorely tempted to flirt a little. After all, Mama’d been gone nineteen years. I wasn’t exactly in mourning. Unfortunately for me, the wide gold band on the third finger of Ethan’s left hand was as clear as a stop sign. I’d promised myself I’d show Haven Harbor a new, mature Angela Curtis. Prove to them, and to me, I wasn’t the same girl I’d been. I played it straight with Ethan.

“Sorry to bother you on your first day back, Angie. Is it all right if I call you ‘Angie’?”

I nodded, probably looking as dumb as I felt. He’d smiled and I’d reverted to my seventh-grade self.

“Your mother’s disappearance was filed as a cold case until Lauren Decker found her body, and Haven Harbor’s in my district. There’s a home court advantage theory at headquarters when it comes to territories. They figure a homicide detective should know his or her hometown better than anyone else, so we get assigned cases close to where we grew up.”

“Guess it makes sense.” I shrugged. Why he was on this case wasn’t my issue, so long as he knew his stuff. He could tell his troubles to his wife. “Gram hasn’t told me where Mama was found, or how. She said you’d do that. I want to know everything.”

“It’s a little unusual, but not complicated. You remember Lauren Decker?”

“Used to be Lauren Greene.”

“Right. Her parents, Nelly and Joe Greene, ran Greene’s Bakery in town here for years.” He grinned and leaned a little toward me. “I’ll bet you remember those great gingerbread cookies they used to have at Christmastime, and the birthday cakes they baked for parties in town.”

“I remember.” I leaned back. I remembered Mr. Greene, especially. And not for his gingerbread men. But this was Ethan Trask’s story, and I didn’t know where it was going, or how friendly I should be, considering I wasn’t the same girl who’d left town. Although no one here knew that. Towns have long memories.

“Anyway, after Nelly died, a few years back, Joe closed the bakery. Retired. Sold out to a young couple from Quebec, who bake French bread and croissants and pastries and are open Sundays. Joe died—cancer, it was—last New Year’s. Left everything to Lauren, of course, since she was his only kid. Well, she’s been going through the house and barn and shed, deciding what she wants to keep and whatever. She found a key and a history of monthly bills for a self-storage unit over at Union.”

I frowned. “Union? That’s a distance.”

“That’s what she thought. And Joe’d left the barn and shed packed with old equipment from the business, and who knows what else, so she had her hands full. She didn’t take the time to go to Union right away. Not till last week, actually.”

I could see it coming. “And she found?”

“The storage locker was one of those climate-controlled ones, so there was electricity. An old freezer chest was in there. Plugged in.” He was watching me closely, looking into my eyes, as though judging my reactions. They probably taught that in state trooper school. “There was a body in it.”

I thought I was prepared. But, somehow, I hadn’t been prepared for that.

“She was . . . frozen? All this time?”

“She had been. Off and on. But there’d been power outages, or the bills hadn’t been paid some months. The medical examiner said it was hard to tell exactly when she died. But, yes, we’re guessing she’d been there since shortly after she disappeared.” He paused. “The ME identified her through her dental records.”

I sat at the kitchen table, looking at Ethan, but part of me was floating somewhere else, watching us. “She didn’t die naturally, did she? She was murdered.” It seemed obvious, but I wanted to hear it, straight out.

“She was murdered.”

“How?”

He shifted a little, as though he found the old kitchen chair uncomfortable. “Sure you want to know?”

“I’m sure.”

“She was shot. In the back of her head. The bullet came from a handgun, not a rifle.”

In the back. A coward’s way. I pressed my hands together. Hard. I couldn’t help the picture in my mind of the soft blond curls Mama was so proud of, soaked in blood. And brains.

“The obvious assumption would be that Joe Greene killed her and hid her body in the freezer,” Ethan continued.

“And left the locker key so his daughter would find the body after he was dead?” I couldn’t help being dubious about that assumption.

“Hell of an inheritance,” Joe agreed. “But all we have to go on. It was nineteen years ago.” He looked into my eyes, as though searching for an answer there. “Before we close the case on Joe, we’d like to have a motive.”

“What about DNA? Were there traces anyone else’d been in the storage unit?”

“We’re having it checked. Lauren found enough of Joe’s things—hairbrush, toothbrush—for us to isolate his DNA. We expect to find his, of course. If anyone else’s shows up, that will be a bonus.”

I nodded.

“I’m talking to everyone who was around when your mother disappeared. According to the files, the officer on the case didn’t interview you.”

“Gram didn’t want anyone upsetting me. She thought I was too young to be involved in the investigation.” I paused and looked down at my clenched hands. I deliberately unfolded them.

“Do you remember much about that time?”

The room was silent except for the ticking of Gram’s old wall clock. “I remember the day she disappeared.”

Ethan pulled out his notebook. “Do you mind talking now? The sooner, the better—so far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t think I know anything that will help you. I’ve gone over and over that day thousands of times in my mind, and I haven’t made any sense of it. No clues that would lead to what happened to her.”

“Your grandmother told me you’ve been working for a private investigator near Phoenix.”

“So you think I’d know what might be important. What you might be looking for.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m hoping I can put something you remember together with something someone else remembers and it will all suddenly make sense.”

The man was dreaming.

“Or maybe Joe Greene shot your mother and hid her body in a freezer and we’ll never know why.”

“I need to know what happened.” I’d been waiting to know since I was nine. Wondering if Mama had run away with someone. Run away from me. Run away from Haven Harbor—and her past.

“I’m sure Lauren would like to know, too,” said Joe softly. “Right now half the town thinks her father was a murderer.”

“Go ahead. Ask your questions.” I’d already decided I’d tell him the truth. But not the whole truth. The whole truth was mine, and, at least for now, I didn’t see the use in sharing it.

“Where were you living when your mother disappeared?”

“You already know that. Here, in this house. Mama and I lived with Gram.”

“Be patient with me. I have to confirm what the records show. Had you always lived here?”

“When I was two or three, Mama and I lived in Portland for about a year with one of her boyfriends, but that didn’t work out, so we came back to Haven Harbor. Another time we moved in with a girlfriend of hers, across town, for a few months. Then we came home here again. I don’t remember much about those times.”

“What was the name of the boyfriend?”

“I don’t remember. I was just a toddler, and I don’t think Mama saw him again after that.”

“And the woman she lived with?”

“Cynthia Raye. She moved back to Boston to get married. She sent Christmas cards every year.”

“So, what was a day like in this house those last few months when your mother was still alive? You were . . . nine?”

“Almost ten. Gram made sure I woke up on time in the morning and got dressed and ready for school. Mama worked late and slept late.”

“And after school?”

“I came straight home most days. Gram would be here. She always had cookies or popcorn or a sandwich waiting for me.” It was all so clear in my mind. As though I’d never left.

“What about your mother?”

“She wasn’t here much in the afternoons. She waitressed at different restaurants. In summer, when the tourists were here, she was busy all the time. She was either sleeping or working. But in the fall and winter, when I was in school, sometimes she worked and sometimes she didn’t, depending on what days the restaurants were open, and whether she had a job. Sometimes in the afternoon she was out with friends.” Others in town would be saying worse about Mama. I was reciting facts.

“Did she have a lot of friends?”

“Yes.”

“Men or women friends?”

I hesitated. “Both. If you’re asking if she had boyfriends, then, yes, she had boyfriends.”

“Did she stay out late at night?”

“She was a waitress, and I was nine. I was usually asleep when she got home. It seemed late to me.”

“Did she ever bring any of those friends home with her? Or to spend the night?”

“Not to spend the night. Gram wouldn’t have allowed that.”

“But you did meet some of her friends.”

All those uncles: Uncle Paul, Uncle Richard, Uncle Bill, Uncle Louis. “Yes. Sometimes they’d meet her here. Or she’d take me with her when she went out, say, to Funtown, or to the Maine Wildlife Park in Gray, or to Reid State Park.”

“Do you remember any of their names?”

“I never knew their last names. It was so long ago. They all blur together. And I only met a few of them.”

“And what do you remember the last day you saw her?”

I could see her, so clearly. “She was wearing a yellow dress and an orange scarf and really high heels and she smelled good. It was Sunday afternoon. Gram had taken me to Sunday school in the morning, and she and I were making oatmeal raisin cookies, right here, in the kitchen. Mama came in and picked me up and swung me around and said, ‘The world is a beautiful place! No matter what happens to you, Angel, don’t ever stop being strong. I’m always on your side. Remember that, Angel! Always remember that!’ Then she turned and said, ‘You’re going to be terrific at the fly-up ceremony. I can’t wait to see you.’ Then she left. She didn’t come home that night. Or the next morning. Or the next. Then, I think it was Wednesday, Gram called the police.”

“Angie, was Joe Greene one of your mother’s boyfriends?”

Whatever I said on that topic was going to sound wrong. “Mama had a lot of friends. Mr. Greene liked her. He used to give her extra cookies at the bakery when his wife wasn’t looking.” That was true. One hundred percent true.

Ethan smiled at me. “Your mother was a very pretty woman. I remember her. I’m not surprised he gave her extra cookies. But do you know if she ever saw him socially—late at night, or outside the bakery?”

I shook my head. “She went out with a lot of friends. She didn’t tell me who they all were.” I looked Ethan straight in the eye. “If I knew who shot my mother, don’t you think I’d tell you?”

He paused. “Yes. I believe you would. So you don’t have any memories that would confirm—or deny—that Joe Greene had any reason to kill your mother?”

“I don’t have any memories of seeing them together except at the bakery.” Truth. Absolute truth.

“Was your mother afraid of anything, Angie?”

I shook my head. “If she was, she didn’t show it. I never saw her afraid of anything. Or anyone. How long will it take to get those DNA results?”

Ethan shrugged. “It’s a cold case, so there’s no rush. It could take weeks.” He closed his notebook. “If you think of any other details that might help, let me know. You have my number.”

I looked down at his card. “I have your number.”