Thread and Gone (5 page)

Chapter 8

I kept thinking about Mary, Queen of Scots. She'd been sent out of Scotland when she was five to grow up in another country, speaking another language. Living at the French court must have been as good as life got in those days. But being there hadn't been her choice. And then she'd been married when she was sixteen and widowed at seventeen.

Most childhoods (then and now) were pretty simple compared to hers. Mary Clough might be a little young to be engaged. But at least she'd chosen her future husband.

When I was about five I'd been obsessed with princesses. Clearly I'd had the Disney versions in mind.

Interesting though Ruth's story had been, I couldn't believe a queen's embroidery had ended up under the eaves of a Maine attic. It didn't make sense. But the possibility was fun to think about.

I started going through Gram's books on needlepoint. I needed to find out more about the Elizabethans.

Turned out Gram had a lot of books on the stitchery of that period. She even had a book on Mary Stuart's needlepoint. I put that book on top of the pile, but didn't open it.

It had been a long day. I was heading for the kitchen to get a beer and forage for something to eat other than the last piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie when Sarah called.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked.

“I was just thinking about that,” I answered.

“Me, too. Plus, I wanted to get caught up. Did Lenore Pendleton agree to hold Mary's embroidery for us?”

“She did. And I dropped a copy of the note in French at the patisserie for Nicole to translate. I haven't heard back from her yet, but she was busy today. Did that man this morning buy any of your salts?”

“He was intrigued, but not enough to pull out his credit card. Today was a museum day. Lots of lookers, lots of questions, not many sales. I did sell a framed map of the district of Maine from 1816, though. That was a good sale.”

“I'm glad.”

“Since you haven't eaten either, I wondered if you'd like to splurge and meet me down at the co-op for lobster.”

I hesitated. But not for long. When I'd been in high school I'd spent all my summer days at that lobsterman's co-op, steaming lobsters and clams and mussels and corn for anyone who wanted to sit outside on the wharf, look at the harbor, and celebrate a classic Maine day. The job hadn't exactly been a glamorous one.

I was beginning to appreciate Maine seafood from the other side of the steamer.

“Sure. I could do that. Meet you down there in about twenty minutes? That'll also give me a chance to tell you about a call I got from Ruth.”

I pulled on a light jacket and headed down to Wharf Street. The evening was still warm, although afternoon breezes had cooled the air. Barn swallows swooped low, finding insects for their chicks. In the distance a laughing gull cried, and several crows called to each other. A murder of crows, I thought to myself as I took a deep breath of salt air.

I'd been back in Haven Harbor two months now. On days like this it was hard to believe I'd endured the burning summer heat of Mesa, Arizona, for ten years. The flat desert and adobe walled yards and pink and aqua accents seemed like a movie I'd once seen. Another world.

Sarah got to the co-op first. She'd already bought each of us a beer and was saving one of the picnic tables on the wharf. “You've done the hard part,” I said, looking around. Finding a picnic table at the co-op during the first week in July was like finding a pearl in your oyster. “I'll order our food. What do you want?”

“The special—pound and a half soft-shell lobster, steamed clams, and corn.”

“Got it.” That wasn't hard to remember. It was the most popular order at the co-op. I'd have the same. I stood in line at my old steamer to place our order. The line was longer than I'd hoped. By the time I got back to our table Sarah'd almost finished her beer. I'd catch up with her quickly. “I'll get us two more,” I volunteered. “Our dinners won't be ready for at least fifteen minutes.”

I headed for the small co-op bar, where the selection was beer, inexpensive white wine, or sodas.

Sarah had finished her first beer by the time I got back to our table with her second.

She leaned forward across the table. “Look in back of me. Over by the railing. That's Rob Trask, with Josh Winslow and Arvin Fraser, right? The three guys who were at the Harbor Haunts bar last night. Jude Curran and that other girl from last night are with them, too.”

The co-op and Harbor Haunts were the only restaurants (except for the yacht club's dining room) in downtown Haven Harbor. I wasn't surprised to see the same people two days in a row. “They're looking down at the float. Probably complaining about today's boat price and congratulating Arvin for being a co-op member. And, you're right. That other girl's a stunner.”

“Boat price?” Sarah looked puzzled.

“The price lobstermen get for their catch when they deliver it to a wholesaler. It changes every day, and lobstermen always complain about it. But, of course, co-op members don't use a wholesaler. They bring their catch here, to be sold at the restaurant or, uncooked, sold by the pound on the other side of the wharf. By running their own operation they make more profit.” Facts of lobstering I'd grown up knowing.

“They've been standing there for the past ten minutes,” Sarah said softly, glancing at the five near the water.

“Arvin has a lobster boat. Probably Rob is his sternman,” I pointed out. “Josh works for anyone who needs an extra hand when he isn't helping out with Ob's fishing charter. Most likely they're talking lobsters.”

“With a girl from away?” Sarah looked askance. “If neither of us recognizes her, then she isn't from Haven Harbor.”

“Maybe she's with Josh,” I said. “Since Arvin's married and Rob's engaged.”

Jude was there, too. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the intricacies of all their relationships. Besides, they could all just be friends.

I felt a little protective of Josh. His dad, Captain Ob Winslow, was one of the Mainely Needlepointers. I knew Ob and Josh hadn't seen eye-to-eye during the past couple of years, after Josh dropped out of college and was fired from a series of jobs. But this summer Josh was back home. Ob had confided proudly that the boy—he was in his early twenties—was finally settling down. The
Anna Mae
, Ob's fishing charter, only went out when it was booked, though, so sometimes Josh had time on his hands. This wasn't the first time I'd seen him hanging around the docks with the guys he'd grown up with, many of whom now made their living from the sea.

A sternman made twenty percent of the proceeds from the day's catch. Not a dependable income, but on a good day it would buy a lot of beer.

As I watched, the group left the railing and headed for the bar. A few minutes later they sat down at the table in back of Sarah with a tray of beers and a pile of French fries.

When I'd worked here the lobstermen had an unwritten rule that they wouldn't sit in the restaurant area, especially at this time of day. They were taking seats that might have been used by customers. Besides, lobstering was smelly work. Sitting next to a Maine lobsterman might be a little too much reality for the noses of out-of-staters.

It didn't seem to bother the young women with those three guys tonight.

And maybe the rules had changed. Maybe now lobstermen didn't drink their beer or eat their hamburgers (few ate lobsters—that was business) in the office of the pound. Those five didn't seem to mind letting several groups wait for a table.

“When we were on the telephone you said Ruth called,” prompted Sarah.

“Thanks for reminding me. She spent the afternoon on the Internet,” I said. “She sounded pretty convinced that you were right: the embroidery Mary brought us last night might have been done by Mary Stuart. Mary, Queen of Scots, she was called.”

“Good to hear she didn't think I was crazy,” said Sarah. “I didn't have as much time as I'd hoped today—all those customers who wanted to talk, but not buy, took up a lot of time. But I did confirm that in Elizabethan England and France, and probably other European countries as well, women copied the wood engravings in books on the natural history of Europe and the Americas. The book illustrator drew a bird or animal based only on a written description; he'd never seen the actual subject of his drawing. Today it's hard to tell what species he was trying to illustrate.”

“And women used the drawings as patterns for needlepoint?” I asked.

“They did,” Sarah confirmed. “And although illustrated natural history books were rare and expensive, certainly Mary, Queen of Scots, would have had access to them.”

I had to lean in a bit to hear Sarah. The men in back of her were talking louder and gesturing more dramatically. I suspected they'd been drinking before they'd sat down, and the plastic glasses of beer on their table were beginning to disappear into the wooden trash barrels at the end of their table.

Rob's voice rose above the rest. “Stick with me, Josh. In a few months I'll have my own boat and traps. I have my eye on a thirty-five footer down in Boothbay. It's a beauty. Only a couple of years old. The guy who owns it is leaving the business. When I'm set up, you can be my sternman.”

“You planning on winning the lottery?” Josh answered. “One of them boats costs a pile. Couple of hundred thousand dollars, counting the engines and all the gear.”

“I've already practically won the lottery,” said Rob. “I've got it all figured out. Mary's going to sell that old house of hers, and all the stuff in it. Some of the junk she's found may be worth a lot.” His voice lowered only slightly as he added, “I told you last night. She has a piece of cloth with stitching on it that might be four hundred years old. Maybe five hundred. Hell, I don't know. That little cloth might be worth a major down payment on a lobster boat.” Rob raised his beer glass to everyone at this table.

Arvin Fraser shook his head. “Don't count your bugs until you have the traps, Rob. Houses can take years to sell. Besides, all that stuff belongs to Mary. She might not be thrilled to put all her money into a boat. Women can be funny that way. I can tell you, being married doesn't mean doing what you want to do. Not even before your wife up and gets pregnant on you.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. We both kept listening. It wasn't hard—the guys' voices kept getting louder.

“Mary'll do what I tell her to. Don't worry about that,” Rob said confidently.

Arvin's voice was louder still. “Josh, if I were you I wouldn't quit working for my dad. Rob's dreaming.”

“You wait and see,” said Rob. “I know what I'm doing. Maybe the house will take a while to sell. Who wants an old house anyway? But that embroidery thing—that could sell fast, and for big bucks.” He turned to the young dark-haired woman, whose voice was so soft I couldn't hear her. “Right?”

“Who'd be interested in buying an old piece of cloth?” said Arvin.

“Probably an auctioneer would take it. They know stuff about antiques,” said Rob. “Or someone who works for a museum.” He raised his glass toward the young woman again. Her back was to me, so I couldn't hear what she was saying, if she was saying anything at all.

“Auctioneers and museum folks. You know a lot of those,” Josh taunted. “Don't worry, Arvin. I'm not quitting my gig with you. I'll sign on with Rob when I see his boat.”

“You think you're smart,” said Rob. “But I already know a museum in Boston that's interested. And they haven't even seen it yet.”

Sarah and I looked at each other. “He's talking about Mary's embroidery,” she said quietly.

I nodded. “He must be. But . . .”

“Number forty-seven” boomed the loudspeaker that announced dinners were ready.

“That's us,” I said, getting up. “You keep listening.” I pulled out my wallet and headed for the pickup window to get our tray of food.

A museum interested in the needlepoint? He must be bluffing. We didn't even know how old that embroidery was. Or who'd done it. Or how it had gotten into Mary's attic.

Rob was already planning how he'd spend the money they'd get for it.

He'd better have an alternate plan for financing that boat.

Chapter 9

By the time I got back to Sarah with our dinners Arvin and one of the girls had left. Rob, Josh, and Jude were talking to an older couple sitting at another table. They were too far away for us to overhear their conversation.

“What was that all about?” I asked Sarah. “Did you hear Rob?”

“He was talking through his hat. I can't believe he'd think the embroidery would be worth as much as a lobster boat and gear.” Sarah shook her head. “And talking as though the money was almost his! Even
if
the embroidery is worth something and
if
Mary wanted to sell it and
if
she could find a buyer . . . it would be her money. Not Rob's.”

“You heard him.”

Sarah shrugged. “That's beer talking.”

I looked around her. “He and Josh and Jude are still talking to that other couple. I don't know them.” Not that it was any of my business. But I was curious.

Sarah intentionally dropped one of her napkins and glanced over her shoulder. “I know them. They're antiques dealers from Canada, Victor and Oriel Nolin. They were in my shop this afternoon looking for nineteenth-century paintings and prints.”

“Do you carry those?” I asked, thinking of Sarah's shop. She'd hung a few old prints and paintings on the walls, but I hadn't paid much attention to them.

“I had a half dozen Bartlett steel engravings of Quebec and Montreal. They were pleased. Said Bartletts of Canadian places sell well for them.”

“Good sale, then,” I said.

“When they were paying, Mrs. Nolin saw my stack of embroidery books in back of the counter. She asked if I had any old needlework to sell, or knew anyone who did. She has a customer interested in samplers and old needlework.”

“Why come all the way to the states to buy?”

“The exchange rate is on their side now. And the Nolins said they stay in Haven Harbor when they come to Maine for an auction or to check shops. They're friends of Henri and Nicole Thibodeau.”

“Did you sell them any samplers?”

“I only had one. Mrs. Nolin wasn't interested because it was dated 1924. Her customer wants older pieces.”

“Too bad.”

Sarah shrugged. “It happens. At least they bought the Bartlett engravings. Visitors to Maine aren't interested in pictures of Montreal or Quebec. The Nolins left me their card in case I found anything Canadian. Their gallery is in the old part of Quebec City. I'll file their names.” She turned and looked at the couple again. “I wonder how Rob knows them.”

“Maybe they took one of his dad's fishing charters. Better he talk to them than be bragging to his friends.” I started cracking my lobster's claws.

For the next few minutes we focused on our food.

“How's your lobster?” Sarah asked. “Mine's the best I've had this season.” She dipped a piece of claw into her melted butter.

I finished sucking the sweet meat out of one of the legs. “Delicious. Can you believe this is the first steamed lobster I've had since I've been home? Not the first lobster, of course. Skye West kept us well supplied with lobster rolls when we were working at her house last month.”

“When we've been here before you've always ordered fried clams.”

“I do love clams fried well,” I admitted. “Chewy, not crispy. Not greasy. And in light batter.”

“I always figured Mainers said they didn't like lobster to show their innate superiority to those of us from away.” Sarah grinned and started in on her claws.

“Possibly,” I agreed, as we settled in to serious, messy eating. “But I do like lobster. Especially soft shells, or new shells, as people call them now, even if the hard shells have more meat in them. But it's not the only seafood I like.”

“Soft shells are easier to eat than hard shells,” Sarah agreed, slipping her lobster's tail out of its shell.

I sipped my beer and then swooshed a steamed clam in my broth. “You're probably right about Rob's trying to look like a big man in front of his friends. But it burns me that he's not only positive Mary will fund his lobster boat, he's even telling other people about it.”

“Mary has to learn to stand up for herself. She chose him. She must know what he's like. It's nothing to do with us.”

“I hope she's not just marrying him because it's a familiar direction for her life to take. That she thinks he'll take care of her.”

“That may be,” Sarah agreed. “She's young and alone. And Rob's not a bad-looking guy and comes from a decent family. All that's good. You can't expect her to wait until she's as old as your grandmother to get married!”

I laughed and tossed a piece of shell in her direction. “You're right about that. But here . . . I'm twenty-seven, and you're what . . . thirty-two?”

“Thirty-three, actually. But don't share it with everyone here,” Sarah answered complacently. “And, I know. Neither of us are married. Or even engaged.”

“Still looking,” I said with a straight face.

“Haven't found the right guy,” she countered.

“Need my space.”

“Don't want to give up my dreams for someone else's.”

We both laughed. “That last one may not be Mary's situation. She may not have any dreams beyond being married.”

“Sad. I hope that's not why she chose Rob.”

I smiled at Sarah. We were both joking about marriage. Sarah'd fallen hard for Patrick West last month. And me? I'd fallen for lots of guys. More guys than anyone knew. But I'd never fallen all the way.

A couple of those guys might even have been the right ones. I hadn't let them be.

The temperature was dropping; I was glad I'd put on a light jacket. Sarah was digging the last little pieces of meat out of her lobster's body.

“Did you have lobsters in Australia?”

“Not like these.”

“You've certainly learned how to eat them.”

She grinned. “When in Maine . . .”

“Speak the language and eat the food.”

We wiped our hands with the packets of wet wipes the co-op had put on our tray, and dumped the empty clam and lobster shells in one of the trash barrels. Overhead a squabble of gulls screeched and dove toward us, hoping for a feast. We closed the top of the barrel before they reached us.

Maine days are long in early July. But they're already losing sunlight a minute or two each afternoon, on their way to the darkness of December and January.

Now the sun was setting, sending streaks of orange and pink and purple over the Haven Harbor lighthouse as we trudged back up the hill to our homes, full of beer and seafood.

“It will be hard to know exactly how old that embroidery is, won't it?” I asked.

“Beyond the point of knowing it isn't new, it would involve chemical analysis of the threads and dyes,” agreed Sarah.

I nodded. “Things we're not equipped to do.”

“The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston might be able to do the tests. Or the Museum of Textiles in Lowell, Massachusetts. I can't see us attempting them. We don't want to injure the work.”

“So the best way to get an idea of how old it is would be to establish—what is that word again?”

“Provenance. The history of an item—who owned it through the years. By establishing provenance, we'd also get closer to the age of the embroidery,” Sarah agreed.

“Before I start doing a lot of research on Mary's family, I'd like to talk with her again. Without Rob. See what she wants us to do.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” said Sarah, turning in at her store. “I'll keep reading up on old embroidery. Let me know if you find out anything helpful, though.”

“Of course.” I said good-bye and headed up the last two blocks to my home.

It had been a busy day. I didn't plan to make it a late night. I'd call Mary tomorrow.