Twisted Threads (8 page)

Gram’s blue Subaru wasn’t as old as the wreck I’d left in Arizona, but it wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art, either. I didn’t push the speedometer as I headed for Brunswick the next morning.

As Route 1 wound its way through riverfront village communities, I could see changes from the Maine I remembered. Several towns now had bypasses around their business districts. Old 1950s-era cabin motels had been deserted or replaced by more modern buildings. Restaurants had changed names. Bridges had been rebuilt.

Time had not stopped.

When I’d been growing up, Brunswick had been an upscale community known as the home of a large Naval Air Force base, Bowdoin College, an artsy downtown within walking distance of the college, and, historically, the home of Civil War general and hero Joshua Chamberlain and the place Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

All I’d heard about Brunswick since then was that the base had closed, and, more recently, that Brunswick resident Angus King, whom I’d remembered as Maine’s governor, was now one of Maine’s U.S. senators. Gram hadn’t told me that closing the base had emptied the upscale stores, and that the parking lot at Walmart was now full. I took advantage of the Walmart and bought a small coffee percolator and two bags of French Roast ground coffee—a selfish contribution to Gram’s kitchen.

Jacques Lattimore’s address was on a street close to the center of town. I parked and put my gun in the holster under my jacket. I probably wouldn’t need it. I hoped I wouldn’t need it. I’d checked online, using Gram’s computer. My Arizona concealed carry permit wasn’t valid in Maine. I’d have to apply for a new one if I stayed.

But right now, I was working; and when I worked, I carried. I hadn’t told Gram I’d brought my gun with me. It would only have made her nervous. She’d never even let me have a water pistol.

I got out of the car and started looking at street numbers.

The number Gram had written down, 37, was a brick building with a dry cleaner’s business on the first floor. I walked in, hoping to get some answers.

“Excuse me?” I asked the middle-aged man behind the counter. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all?” he answered. “I’ve been looking for someone I can trust to show up on time for his job in this place. So far, no luck. What’s your guy done? Stood you up for dinner? Got you pregnant?”

“None of the above.” I tried smiling. “He’s actually a friend of my grandmother’s.” I showed him the picture. “Do you recognize him?”

He picked up the picture, looked at it, and then dropped it on the counter. “You a cop?”

“Nope. Just someone interested in finding him.”

“Well, if you find him, you tell him he owes Gil Pridoux three months’ back rent. He rented a room from me, upstairs. For a couple of years he paid every month, on time—no noise, no problems. Then he stopped paying. Said he’d get it to me, but it would be a little late. I told him, ‘It’s late, you pay interest.’ He said he understood. Then, about a month later, I realized I hadn’t heard him or seen him in a while. I checked upstairs. He was gone. Didn’t have much stuff, but what he had, he took. Must have moved out one night after the store closed.”

“He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“No way. I told the postmaster his mail was piling up and he was gone. They didn’t know he’d left. They stopped the mail from coming here.”

“Did he have guests? Friends? Someone who might know where he’d be?”

“Not that I ever saw. He was always alone. Nice fellow, I thought. Until he ripped me off.”

“Did you happen to notice what kind of mail he got?”

The man shrugged. “I didn’t look real close. A couple of magazines. A lot of catalogs. He must’ve bought a lot of gifts, ’cause he got letters or bills from a bunch of gift shops. Wasn’t my business to know what his business was. I’m no snoop.”

“Of course not. Did he ever mention any hobbies? Hunting, fishing, golfing, collecting anything? Any clubs he belonged to? Church?”

“Nah. None of that. He wasn’t my friend, you know, he was my tenant. We didn’t chat a lot. All he said to me was I’d be getting the rent soon. That his luck was changing.” He paused and looked at me. “That’s it. Guess his luck didn’t change. Or maybe it did, and he’s living in Paris now. You said he knew your granny. You tell her to find another boyfriend. One who pays his rent.”

“I will. Thank you for your time.” I turned and walked toward the door.

“Hey, you wouldn’t be looking for a job, would you? Regular hours. Right here in Brunswick.”

“No, thanks! Good luck in finding someone,” I called back over my shoulder as I headed out.

What next? Jacques Lattimore was alone. He’d rented a room, not a house or apartment. I walked down the block, toward Maine Street. He’d probably eaten near here pretty regularly. Men living alone usually had a favorite bar or diner. Somewhere inexpensive. I immediately ruled out the couple of upscale restaurants on Maine Street. The rest specialized in seafood or Thai or Indian cuisine. I was looking for someplace more downscale. More accessible. Less ethnic.

Then I remembered the diner I’d passed just outside of downtown. It would be walkable from the dry cleaner in good weather, and was open twenty-four hours a day.

A few minutes later I was sitting at the counter, ordering a coffee, black, and a bowl of clam chowder.

When the matronly waitress had a moment, I gestured to her.

“You want anything else, dear? You look like you could use a piece of pie. Apple and blueberry are fresh.”

“Tempting. But not today.” Before she could move away, I pulled out the picture. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Sure,” she said. “That’s Jack. But he ain’t been around in a while now. Too bad, too. When he was on a streak, he was a good tipper.”

“A streak?”

“When he came home from Cambridge, with money burning a hole in his wallet. Those were sweet days.” She patted her pocket.

“Cambridge?” I shook my head, confused. “In England?”

The laughter almost erupted from her. “England? No, honey. The Cambridge Casino. You from away or something?”

The ultimate Maine put-down. “You’re right. I didn’t think.”

“Yeah, Jack was a player. You looking for him?”

I nodded.

“Then you better check the Cambridge. There’s a good chance you’ll find him there. And you can tell him anytime he wants to come back here, Carol knows what he likes.”

I didn’t ask what Jacques liked. I was afraid it wasn’t pie. “Where’s the Cambridge?” I asked.

“Up near Rome. You know . . . the Rome in Maine? Not that place where the pope lives. You got it?”

I got it. I’d been away. But I wasn’t
from
away. In Maine those were two very different things.

I hesitated: Should I drive to the Cambridge Casino today? It was still late morning.

How far was Rome from Brunswick, anyway? I checked the GPS in Gram’s car. About an hour away. Easy driving: the turnpike to Augusta, and then northwest on Route 27. I had time. If this new casino was of any size, there’d be signs. All roads in Maine did not lead to Rome. For a reason. Rome, Maine, was a pretty small place, in the Belgrade Lakes region. I suspected it was one of the many small towns in Maine struggling to make their budgets. Tax revenues from a casino would help a lot.

I was right. Signs advertising the casino started in the middle of a stretch of car dealerships still within the borders of Augusta, then continued through the farmlands between Augusta and the lakes.

The casino itself wasn’t exactly Las Vegas. I’d been to Nevada once with Wally on a case; and unless I had a heavy bankroll, I wouldn’t be going again. I have vices. Most people do. But gambling wasn’t one of mine. I didn’t see the use of wasting my dollars on a slim chance.

Mainers who drove a distance to the Cambridge Casino were either desperate for a bit of fun, or just plain desperate. And maybe lonely. If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet on which one Jacques Lattimore was.

The outside of the building was long and low and white and garnished with several architecturally unnecessary columns. Inside, the W
ELCOME TO THE
C
AMBRIDGE
C
ASINO
! sign kept up the “Rome” theme, with a map of Italy in the background and cheap plaster casts of Roman figures scattered about the floor.

The slot machines weren’t far from the casino’s restaurant. I checked the menu. Not much different from the menu at the diner I’d visited in Brunswick, but the prices were low, and the selections were described as
Wicked Good.
Definitely not Las Vegas.

Nickel slots. Quarters. Half-dollars. Dollars. If Susan B. Anthony only knew where her face had ended up.

About a third of the slot machines were occupied. For early afternoon on a weekday, that augured well for the casino owners’ coffers. I tried to look as though I was choosing a way to lose money. I kept looking for an elegant-looking man about six feet tall who walked out on commitments.

He wasn’t at the poker tables or the roulette wheel. The place even had baccarat. Craps. I’d walked in a full circle around the floor. The only area I’d skipped was the center. Bull’s-eye. Jacques Lattimore was seated at a blackjack table, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t playing high stakes, and he seemed to be losing. When he’d finished the hand, I went over to him.

“Jacques Lattimore?”

He turned, clearly annoyed that someone was disturbing him. “Who wants to know?”

I could have played it a half-dozen ways. I decided to play it straight. “I’m Charlotte Curtis’s granddaughter. I need to talk with you.”

The dealer was watching, and wanting to start another hand. Lattimore hesitated, but then stood up. “I’m out for now. Keep my seat warm.”

We walked far enough away from the slots so we could hear each other. Lattimore was a little unsteady and he held on to his glass. For support, I assumed. He was even thinner than he’d looked in Gram’s picture.

“You’re the granddaughter she raised up after her daughter disappeared.”

I nodded.

“You live in the Southwest somewhere.”

“Right now, I’m home. And I’m not happy. You owe Charlotte and her needlepointers serious money. They trusted you. You took advantage.”

“Hey, Charlotte just has to give me a chance.” He finished whatever was in his glass. I moved closer. It, and he, smelled like scotch. “I had a little problem a few months ago. I know I owe ’em. I’m working on getting that money. I am. You tell her that.”

“You can tell Charlotte yourself. Even if you don’t have all their money.” I glanced around the casino. “But you owe her and those other people who worked for you an explanation, even if it’s a rotten one. And you need to give them the names of all the customers who’ve ordered their products through you in the past couple of years.”

“But I’ll get her the money . . . I already have some of it,” he started.

“Good. That’s a beginning. You’re guilty of fraud. But I think I can convince Charlotte not to sue you for breaking your contract and spending their money if you come back, talk to the stitchers, and give them as much money as you can. You owe them about thirty-three thousand dollars. How much can you pay back?”

Lattimore’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe three thousand?”

I stared pointedly at the chips he was carrying.

“Okay. Maybe seven thousand. I had a good run last night.”

“Then give the seven thousand to me. Now.”

“But I need that to try to win the rest of the money back!”

I shook my head. “You give me the money, or I get a lawyer. If you’re accused of a felony, casinos won’t be happy to see you.”

“You’re tough, young lady,” he said. “Not bad-looking. But tough.”

I was gambling. Gambling where I held the high cards. I didn’t know if Gram could sue him based on the simple contract she’d shown me, or even if she’d want to. But I hoped he was desperate enough to go along with me. I had to get that money now. Two hours from now, he might have gambled it away.

I followed him to the cashier, where he handed in his tokens. He counted the dollars out in my hand. It came closer to six thousand than seven thousand, but I took it.

“Now you’ll come back with me to Haven Harbor,” I said. “Where are your papers and records for Mainely Needlepoint?”

“I have a room. Not far from here. I didn’t mean to hurt Charlotte.”

“I’ll drive you to your room. We’ll get those papers. Then I’ll take you to Haven Harbor. After you’ve talked to Charlotte, I’ll bring you back.”

He looked longingly at the table he’d left.

“You should be back here in four hours.”

“But I’ve got no money left to play.”

I hesitated. But if I needed to . . . “I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars when we get back here. Just to get you started again. But that’s it. I won’t see you again, and you won’t bother Charlotte again. Deal?”

“It’s not a great deal for me.”

“Losing twenty-seven thousand dollars isn’t a great deal for the Mainely Needlepointers, either.”

He looked at me. “How did such a pretty girl get so hard you could talk like that?”

“I’ve had experience,” I said.

I put my arm through his and headed us toward my car. My gun was there, under my seat. I’d assumed, correctly, that there’d be a metal detector at the casino. I opened the passenger door for Lattimore. He didn’t know that so far he’d been seeing the nice version of Angela Curtis.