Twisted Threads (9 page)

I called Gram from Route 27. “Hi, it’s me. I’m bringing Jacques Lattimore home with me. We’ll be in Haven Harbor in about ninety minutes. Get any questions you have ready, and maybe heat water.” If we needed coffee, I was bringing it with me. Gram would choose tea over coffee any day. “See you then.”

“It’s illegal to talk on the phone while you’re driving,” Lattimore pointed out.

“Right,” I agreed.

“I wouldn’t want us to get into an accident.”

“That’s the only call I needed to make, and it’s over. You don’t have to worry. Not about that, anyway.”

“Charlotte’s really mad at me, isn’t she?”

“How would you feel if your friends were struggling financially because they weren’t paid for work they’d done?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I made a few mistakes. We all make mistakes.”

Sure, we all make mistakes. But we don’t all steal from our colleagues.

“Charlotte never told me you were so pretty. She told me a lot about you, you know. She’s proud of you, making your own way in the world.”

I let him talk.

“She must be happy you’re back in Maine. You staying, or just visiting?”

He hadn’t listened to the local news recently. “I came home for my mother’s funeral.”

“Funeral? Then they found Charlotte’s daughter. I’m sorry. This must be a hard time for you.”

“What you did hasn’t made it easier.”

“I understand. You’re upset about your mother. It’s hard to lose someone you love. I know. I lost my parents when I was six. A car accident. I’ve never stopped missing them, though. Are your mother’s services over?”

I nodded. “Yesterday.”

“So it’s all still fresh in your mind. No wonder you’re upset with me. You poor girl. You’re grieving.”

“I’m not grieving for Mama. I got over that one a long time ago. I’m angry with you for betraying Gram. And that’s the last I’m going to say about it until we get to Haven Harbor.”

Thankfully, he shut up.

There was more traffic than I’d imagined, but I parked in front of our house right on time. I couldn’t pull into the driveway. Three cars were already there. Looked like we weren’t the only ones coming to see Gram. Jacques picked up the order forms and reached for the door handle. I reached for my gun.

“Before you go into that house,” I said, carefully aiming the gun at him, “I want you to know I’ll be watching and listening to everything that goes on. And I can use this. I don’t want you to lie or give excuses. Just say what you have to say, give those orders to Gram, and then I’ll take you back to Rome.”

“You’d shoot me?” he asked incredulously.

“I’d shoot you,” I confirmed. “So get going.”

He got out and walked unsteadily up the path to our front door. I followed him closely. My gun was back in my holster. But both of us knew it was there.

The cars in the driveway had been a clue. Gram’s living room/office was full. Clearly, she’d gotten on the phone after I’d called and summoned the Mainely Needlepointers. Haven Harbor was a small town. It hadn’t taken long.

Some had even brought refreshments. I saw a teapot, two plates of cookies, a box of doughnut holes from Dunkin’ Donuts, and a platter of scones.

I grinned as I saw the looks on their faces. Jacques stopped at the door. I might be the only one with a gun, but this was a tough crowd. If looks could have killed, he wouldn’t have gotten past the threshold.

In case Lattimore didn’t remember them, I made the introductions: Sarah Byrne. Dave Percy. Katie Titicomb. Lauren Decker. Ob Winslow. Even Ruth Hopkins was there, stroking Juno, who’d found a cozy place on her lap.

“I found Jacques at the Cambridge Casino. The bad news is, you haven’t been paid because he doesn’t have your money. He lost it.”

I had a rapt audience. Like a wolf pack, ready to spring. You don’t fool with Mainers.

“But there is some good news. He had a bit over six thousand dollars.” I handed the money to Gram, minus the two-fifty I’d promised to give back to Jacques. “He’s also agreed to give you the sales slips and records from the sales you’ve made through him.” I looked at Jacques. “Give the lady the paperwork.” He handed it to Gram. “Now you should have the names of the customers you were working for. You’ll be able to deliver any completed needlework and, I hope, get paid for that, without Jacques’ commission. He’s agreed he’s out of the needlepoint business.” I shot a look at him. “Permanently. So, Jacques, you tell these good people you’re sorry, and answer any questions they have. I’ll be in the next room.” I picked up a molasses cookie and headed for the kitchen. I wasn’t a needlepointer. The rest was up to them.

Jacques wouldn’t get far without a car, even if he ran. I felt safe leaving him to the wolves.

I made a bathroom stop and then poured myself a cup of tea. Tonight I’d bring in the new coffeemaker and get it humming. Tea would be fine for now. I took a few deep breaths and tried to relax.

I couldn’t understand every word coming from the living room, but the tones weren’t calm. Then the hum of conversation continued, but lower. I wondered how long to leave them there. It was their business, not mine. But I’d need to rescue Jacques and get on the road to return him to the casino or to his room. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over. I glanced at the kitchen clock. They’d been together about half an hour. That should be enough time.

I heard the front door close. Jacques? I got up to check. Nope. Ruth Hopkins. She was using a walker, but was making good time down the walk.

All seemed calm. I took off my gun and slipped it into a drawer in the hall sideboard under a stack of woolen gloves. I’d know where it was, and Gram wouldn’t be looking for winter gloves in May. It didn’t seem I’d need protection today.

Lauren Decker was laughing and Katie Titicomb was pulling on her jacket. The party was breaking up. Everyone seemed considerably more relaxed than they had earlier. Even Jacques now had a teacup in his hand and was eating. Ob Winslow was telling a story about a woodworking customer.

It appeared Jacques’ charm had worked again. Either that, or these people had chosen to see a little immediate cash and the promise of more work and money in the future as a glass—or teacup—half full.

I was about to collect Jacques for the return trip when he stood up. His teacup waved dangerously in the air. I hoped there wasn’t much left tea in it. Maybe he was more upset about giving back his winnings than he showed.

“Ready to leave?” I said, entering the room. He handed me his cup. Everyone else was still. “Does anyone have any more questions for Jacques before I return him to Rome?”

A couple of people shook their heads.

“He’s made a fair accounting of himself, Angel. He hasn’t been forgiven, but we understand what happened, and we’re ready to take the business on without him. Our agreement with him is over. Mainely Needlepoint and Jacques Lattimore are going separate ways. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”

Jacques started to answer, but then suddenly bent over, as though he was having severe cramps. “Bathroom?” he managed to blurt.

I took his shaking arm. The poor guy clearly had a problem. Luckily, we had a half bath off the front hallway.

Back in the living room Lauren was standing up. “I need to go home and get dinner on,” she said.

Dave Percy and Ob were also getting up. “Thank you, Angie, for helping out,” said Dave, passing me in the hallway on his way to the front door. “Look forward to working with you in the future.”

“With Gram, you mean,” I said as the door was closing. Gram was handing Sarah a thick book from the shelf of books on historical needlepoint. They were probably talking about Sarah’s quest for information about that piece of old needlework she’d found.

The situation looked under control. Until I walked past the bathroom, and clearly heard the sound of vomiting. Maybe Jacques Lattimore had had more to drink than I’d realized.

“Jacques? This is Angie,” I said through the door. “Do you need help?”

“Leave me alone!” he managed to say.

I shrugged. I hoped he’d be all right to leave soon. If he’d drunk too much, that was his issue. If he had the flu, I’d already spent too much time with him. Plus, for obvious reasons, I wanted to make sure he’d finished throwing up before we got back in the car.

Gram was saying her good-byes to Sarah in the front hall.

Then she came over to me. “Thank you . . .” and then realized what the problem was. “Jacques? Can I get you a glass of water? A towel? Anything?”

“Go away,” he muttered.

I shrugged and went to the living room to gather the cups and plates left there. Gram stayed in the hall, clearly concerned.

Jacques was still retching and we could hear the toilet flushing every minute or two. I washed up the few cups and plates and put away the food that was left.

“You can’t drive the man home when he’s in that condition,” Gram whispered to me. “We have an extra room. We could make that up for him. Likely it’s that twenty-four-hour bug people have had. Makes you sick as anything, but doesn’t last forever.”

If it was drink, he’d be better in hours. And if it was the flu and he was contagious . . . I’ll admit, the idea of spending ninety minutes in the car with the man under the current circumstances was not appealing.

“You tell him he’s our guest for the night. I’ll go make up a bed.” The only vacant bed was Mama’s. Gram and I exchanged looks, and she nodded.

“Clean sheets are in the upstairs hall closet, where they’ve always been.”

At first, Gram had left Mama’s room exactly as it had been, in case she came back. I’d gone in there to feel closer to Mama; to open her closet door and smell her perfume on the clothes hanging there. To wrap myself in the comforter on her bed. It had provided warmth, but little closure.

After a while I’d stopped going into the room. She’d said she loved us, but she’d left. And when we’d stopped believing she would come home, there was too much inside the room to remind me of what used to be.

Her door had been closed when I arrived home.

I went and got the sheets.

The room hadn’t been touched. The same pictures of Mama and me and Gram were on the walls. The same framed kindergarten picture I’d given Mama for Mother’s Day. The same flowered comforter. The same hooked rug Gram’s mother had made long before I’d been born.

I pulled down the bedspread and started putting a sheet over the mattress.

I’d half-finished when I heard Gram call, “Angel! Angel! Come down here!”

I dropped the pillow I was holding and ran. The bathroom door was open. Jacques was lying on the floor, his body jerking up and down. I’d never seen anyone having a seizure, but it couldn’t be anything else.

Gram had grabbed a towel and was trying to put it under Jacques’ head so he wouldn’t bang it on the tile floor. “Call 911! Something’s really wrong!”

I was back in a minute and tried to help Gram. In movies seizures only lasted a minute or two. This one seemed to go on forever.

The EMTs got there in what seemed like an hour. It was probably seven or eight minutes. By then, the seizure was milder. Gram and I moved out of the bathroom, which reeked, and let the responders take over.

“He’d been drinking earlier, but he seemed fine. Then he started vomiting.”

The responder in charge nodded. “We’ll take him to the emergency room at Haven Harbor Hospital.” They got him on a stretcher and took him out.

It all happened fast.

“We should go after him,” Gram said. “No one at the hospital there knows him, and he doesn’t know them. He may be a fraud and a thief, but he doesn’t deserve to be alone when he’s sick.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. This was the man Gram had been ready to kill a day or two ago.

“I’m sure, Angel. Let’s go.”

At the hospital, outside the emergency room, we waited for any word.

It was over two hours before a doctor came out to see us.

“You’re here for Jacques Lattimore?”

Gram nodded.

“Are you related to him?”

“No. We were business associates.”

I noted the word “were.” Gram might be concerned about the man, but she wasn’t going back in business with him.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ve lost him. Do you know of a relative we could notify?”

“He’s dead?” I blurted. I could hardly believe it.

The doctor nodded. “He had a series of seizures. We couldn’t control them. And then his lungs gave out.”

“His lungs?” asked Gram. “He once told me he used to smoke. Maybe his lungs weren’t the best. But it was his stomach and intestines that were bothering him before the seizure.”

“We don’t know any of his relatives,” I added.

“I’m not sure what happened,” admitted the doctor. “I have no history on him. It could be a number of different things. We’ll find out for sure in the autopsy. Thank you for bringing him here. I’ll call the police and let them track down his next of kin.” She turned and went back into the emergency room.

Gram and I looked at each other. Gram was clearly shaken. “What happened, Angel? What could have happened to him? He seemed fine, and then . . .”

I didn’t know. I didn’t wish death on the man. I’d only threatened him with my gun. But I was glad he wouldn’t be able to bother anyone in Haven Harbor anymore.

I put my arm around Gram’s shoulders. “Let’s go home,” I said.

She nodded. “And when we get there, there’s something else we have to talk about.”