Thread and Gone (7 page)

Chapter 13

Mary hadn't returned my call from yesterday, but this time she answered right away. She was at the Currans' house, where she'd been living since her parents died. She sounded surprised that I wanted to see her now, but she explained where the house was and agreed I could stop in.

I didn't mention what had happened to the needlepoint. I wanted to tell her that in person.

She wasn't going to be happy.

The Currans' house was smaller and more contemporary than most in Haven Harbor. I couldn't date it—I know more about target shooting than architecture—but I'd guess early twentieth century.

Sarah answered the door.

Gram would have said the living room was “decorated in cozy.” Flowered slipcovers on the chairs and couch, Hummel figures in a glass cabinet, a large braided rug on the floor, and afghans thrown over the couch. The furniture faced a flat screen TV.

Mary was wearing black yoga pants and a loose T-shirt from the botanical garden in Boothbay. Her shirt, and one of her cheeks, were smudged with dust.

“Come in.” She opened the door wider. “I was working at my house this morning, but I usually come home to have lunch with Cos. And Jude, if she's not working. We just finished. You've met Jude?”

I nodded. “At Maine Waves. Hi, Jude.”

“How's Charlotte?” she asked.

“Gram and Tom are still on their honeymoon. They'll be back tomorrow or the next day.”

“Tell her, if she needs her hair done, to call ahead. We're a little shorthanded with summer people here. And we're short one hairdresser.”

“I'll tell her when she gets home,” I assured Jude.

“And this is Cos,” Mary said, pulling her friend forward. “She's been my best friend forever.”

BFF. People really said that? Cos was a younger and shyer version of Jude, with hair still its natural brown. She smiled at me.

“Glad to meet you, Cos.” I turned to Mary. “I'm sorry, but I have to tell you something upsetting.”

Mary sat down on the couch, Jude and Cos in back of her, as though for protection. “It's about the needlepoint, right? It isn't old and fantastically valuable?”

“What did I tell you and Josh, Mary?” put in Jude. “Miracles don't happen.”

“I don't know anything yet about the value of the needlepoint,” I said.

“You wanted to talk about my family, and the history of my house. But I don't have much to tell you. Maybe we could go over there after Jude goes back to the salon.”

“I'd like to do that,” I agreed. “And you're right. That's why I called you yesterday. But this is something else.” I hesitated. I had to tell her the truth, flat out. “Yesterday I took your embroidery and packet down to Lenore Pendleton's office for her to keep in her safe.”

“Yes?” said Mary. “That's what you said you were going to do.”

“But now everything's changed.” I plunged forward. “This morning Rob and a friend of his found Lenore Pendleton's body, in her office. She'd been killed.”

“Rob found her body? What was he doing in her office?” Mary asked. She seemed more interested in Rob's whereabouts than in Lenore's death. Or maybe the death hadn't sunk in yet.

“I don't know, Mary. I thought you might know. He told the police he was there to look at the needlepoint.”

She shook her head. “That doesn't make sense. He didn't even like it. And he'd seen it Tuesday night.”

“Have you talked to him today?” I asked.

“No. But that's not unusual. Most days he's out with Arvin until early afternoon.” She started to put what I'd said together. “He and Arvin take the boat out between five and six in the morning. When was he at Mrs. Pendleton's office?”

“I don't know exactly,” I admitted. “I assume it was about nine-thirty. That's when I saw the police cars heading toward her house.”

“And he found her dead?” Mary looked confused. “Why wouldn't he have told me?”

“I don't know.” I wanted to know that myself. “But he did the right thing. He called the police.”

“‘The police' is his brother. Of course he'd do that,” said Mary. “When was Mrs. Pendleton killed?”

“Late last night or early this morning.”

“I talked to her yesterday afternoon. She sounded fine then.”

“You talked to her yesterday?”

“Around three. She told me you'd been by to drop off the embroidery. She'd just heard Rob and I were engaged.”

I was the one who'd told Lenore that.

“She wanted to talk to me about all the things that would change, legally, if I got married.”

“Really?”

“She asked a lot of questions about our plans. She was trying to tell me not to get married soon. I stopped listening after a while. It's my life. Rob and I love each other, and we're getting married. No one can tell me what to do after I'm eighteen.”

I suspected Mary was right: Lenore hadn't seemed happy about finding out Mary was engaged. “Did you make an appointment to see her?”

“No. She was interrupted while we were talking. She got off the phone because someone came to her office. Just because she has fancy diplomas on her wall doesn't mean she knows what's best for me,” said Mary defensively.

“True,” I had to agree. “But now Lenore's gone. When she was found her safe was open. Your needlepoint was one of the things that was gone.”

Mary looked at me. “The murderer stole my needlepoint?”

“And jewelry that was in the safe.”

“Why would anyone take my needlepoint?”

“I don't know.”

“And how would anyone know to look for it?” Mary looked dazed.

“I don't know, Mary. I have no idea. They may not have known what it was—just thought it might be valuable because it was in the safe.”

To my surprise, Mary started crying. “I'm trying so hard. I hate going through everything Mom and Dad loved. Everything from when I was a little girl. Soon it's all going to be gone. I don't remember seeing the needlepoint before I found it in the attic. But it must have been important to someone in my family. I wanted to keep that little piece of my past.” Tears were now running down her face. “Why would anyone take it? It was mine. Not anyone else's.”

“Mary, it was just embroidery,” said Jude, who looked confused about what was happening. “Rob said you were going to sell it anyway.”

Mary shook her head rapidly. “No way. I was going to keep it.”

I reached over and tried to hug Mary. Her body was stiff and unyielding. And now racked with sobs. “I didn't even want to show it to Rob,” she said. “But he saw the leather packet and opened it. He took it to his mom's house, because she does needlepoint, and his brother said to take it to you. I didn't want to give it to anyone. It was mine. And now”—she sniffed—“it's gone. Lost forever.”

“Maybe not forever,” I tried to console her. “Ethan and Pete will figure out who murdered Lenore and find your needlepoint.” I certainly hoped that would happen. But I had no way of knowing.

“It's not fair! Nothing important stays,” she said again, shaking her head as the tears continued to flow.

That's when I knew Mary wasn't just talking about her needlepoint.

Chapter 14

Jude left to go back to Maine Waves, Cos promised to clean up the kitchen, and a few minutes later, calmer, Mary seemed to pull herself together. “You wanted to see my house. Why don't we go now?”

I agreed. Yes, I wanted to see her house. But, even more, I didn't think she should be alone. She was more upset about the loss of the needlepoint than I'd thought she'd be.

Its loss was one more in a life that had already suffered too many.

I understood that.

Mary's house looked the way I'd imagined a house built in 1770 would: two stories with a center door, white clapboard with green shutters, and a large chimney in the center of the pitched roof. Homes built then were heated by fireplaces; a house that size must originally have had at least five, all on the inner walls of the house, their chimneys joining at the roof. To help keep rooms warm, second-floor ceilings were lower than those on the first floor.

She unlocked the front door. “I was working here this morning. Mom always left the door unlocked during the day, but I don't like leaving it open when I leave.”

“I understand. I lock my house when I leave, too,” I assured her. “It's safer that way. You need to take care of yourself.” Lenore Pendleton had trusted people. She'd opened her door to someone who'd killed her.

She shrugged. “Cos says I'm scared about nothing. She and her parents never lock their doors, and I've lived with them two years now. No one they don't know ever comes in. Although. . .” She smiled a little. “Jude does sneak out at night. It's easy when the house is wide open.”

I wondered if Mary snuck out at night, too.

“Does Jude have a steady boyfriend?”

Mary hesitated, as though she wasn't sure if she should say. “Since Josh Winslow came back to town last spring, she's been with him. I don't know how serious he is, but she's ready for a ring.” She glanced down proudly at her own small diamond.

“Josh doesn't even have a steady job,” I blurted.

“She knows that. But Jude's doing well at Maine Waves. She says Josh hasn't had the right chance to show what a good worker he is.”

I remembered Ob and Anna talking about all the jobs Josh had lost. He'd settle in for a couple of months and then get restless and bored. Employers would only be patient for so long. Didn't sound like Josh had proved he could settle down enough to be good husband material.

“I keep telling her Josh isn't as dependable as my Rob. And to think of what Arvin's poor wife, Alice, is going through!”

“I don't know her,” I said. “Are they having problems?”

“Sure are. They got married a year ago, and then Alice got pregnant, practically on their honeymoon. Arvin had his own business, although he's still paying off that lobster boat of his. But he leaves Alice at home alone all the time, and hardly gives her enough money for groceries. They have a cute little boy, but Arvin says he can't stand the baby's crying.” Mary looked at me. “Alice does all she can, cooking Arvin's favorite foods, and trying to keep the baby quiet. But she's afraid one day he won't come home, and she'll be left alone with the baby. I told Jude to think about Alice when she's dreaming about marrying Josh.”

I'd just been filled in on the Haven Harbor gossip column. I didn't even know Alice Fraser, but I felt sorry for her. Young and in love was one thing. Young with a baby and an unsympathetic husband was another.

I changed the subject. “You don't live far from me. I hadn't realized this was your house.”

“Yup. This is it. I'm afraid the place is in the stage my mom used to call ‘worse before better.'”

I had to agree. The living room floor was covered with boxes of all shapes and sizes, both full and empty.

“I'm trying to sort everything in the house and barn. Some cartons are for things I want to keep. Some are for Goodwill. Some are to throw out. And some are things that may be worth selling. Rob's already called a couple of auctioneers to come and take a look at those cartons and the furniture.”

“You're doing this by yourself?” I asked. I walked around the room, peeking into the uncovered boxes. Books, linens, china, kitchen miscellanea. One carton of board games and jigsaw puzzles. One of tools.

Another dozen or two were closed.

Mary nodded. “Most of the time. Cos comes with me some days, but she gets bored pretty fast. I've been working on the house for months, after school and weekends. Now that it's summer vacation, I'm here every day. Every time I think I have it under control I find another drawer or wardrobe or trunk to sort through. I've been going through the attic for the past couple of weeks. That's where I found the needlepoint. The realtor says I have to clear everything out except a few pieces of furniture before he puts the house on the market. I've got a lot of work to do before September.”

Gram always said, “Use it up, wear it out; make do, or do without.” That philosophy explained why Mary's house, and mine, were so full of the things previous generations thought “too good to throw out.” Recycling wasn't a new concept in New England.

“Why don't you and Rob move in here?” I asked, looking around. “It's a beautiful house. You have more than enough furnishings to start out with. You could discard what you didn't want.”

“That's what I wanted to do,” Mary answered, clearing a space on the couch where we could sit. “But Rob said we should begin our marriage with everything new. That he wouldn't feel comfortable living in the house I'd grown up in. Plus, of course, he's hoping we get enough money from the sale of the house for at least a down payment on a lobster boat.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Just make sure you're doing the right thing for yourself, Mary,” I said.

“What's right for Rob is right for me. He's going to be my husband.” She looked down proudly at the ring on her left hand.

“It's your life, too,” I blurted.

“Yes. It's my life. And I've made my decision.”

“Mary,” I said softly, before she started crying again. “What do you know about your family's history? About the people who lived in this house.”

“Since I saw you the other night I've been thinking about that.” she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes with tissues again. “Before you asked me, I hadn't thought about it.” She looked away from me, toward the stacks of boxes filling the room. “I didn't want to think about it.”

“But you've thought about it since then,” I encouraged her.

“I only remember one story. I told you, most of the men in my family were sea captains, all the way back to the man who had this house built.”

“It's a beautiful, large house. A captain, especially if he owned all or part of his ship, would've been able to afford it.”

“When I was a little girl, six or seven, my grandmother, my father's mother, told me stories about the people who'd lived here. My mother wasn't interested; she said all those people were dead and gone and didn't have anything to do with our lives today.” Mary sniffed again and blew her nose. “I wish I remembered more of what my grandmother told me.”

“What do you remember?”

“You said maybe the embroidery was done by Mary, Queen of Scots. None of the stories have to do with her. But one story was about another queen—Marie Antoinette.”

My history was hazy. “The ‘let them eat cake' queen?”

“That's the one. I remembered her name last night and looked her up on the Internet.”

It didn't matter if you learned history in school today. The Internet would explain it.

“Marie Antoinette was a queen of France. My grandmother told me a man from Boston, James Swan, lived in France when she was queen. He knew a lot of people there. Powerful, rich, people. He also knew Captain Stephen Clough, who lived here, because they'd fought together during the American Revolution.”

I listened carefully.

“The captain was in the salt and spar trade.”

I nodded. In colonial times tall, straight white pines in Maine, which made perfect masts and spars, were cut down and taken to England and traded for salt, essential for preserving food for winter. After the American Revolution the masts were traded to other European countries for salt and for fine goods not then produced in North America, like fabrics and perfumes and books and window glass.

“Anyway, this Boston guy wanted to help his friends in France. He knew people like Talleyrand and Lafayette. He asked my ancestor to take a load of masts for the French navy to France, and gave him letters to important people there, volunteering the captain's ship to help them escape to America.” She paused. “One person he was trying to get out of France was the queen, Marie Antoinette, but she was in prison by the time he docked in Le Havre. The plot to rescue her failed. And every day it got more dangerous in France for people who had money. People who supported the king and queen were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night, everything they owned was stolen or destroyed, and their heads were cut off.”

“They were guillotined,” I said, remembering the part of that history I'd found most interesting. The violence and gore. No wonder I'd gone to work for a private investigator in Arizona.

“Right. So Captain Clough wasn't able to save the queen, or the other people he was trying to help. They were captured, and he sailed without them.”

“Wow, cool story,” I said.

Mary smiled. “All that fancy clothing and furniture and ornaments Captain Clough had in his ship went to Boston.” She gestured to the stacks of boxes filling her living room. “If any of it came to this house, it's been gone a long while.”

“I'm glad you remembered the story,” I told her. “Even if it has nothing to do with the embroidery.”

“Any needlepoint on that ship would have been French, wouldn't it?” she asked.

“I would think so,” I agreed.

“I remember my grandmother saying the captain didn't tell anyone but his wife about his adventure, because it was only a few years after our own revolution. People in Haven Harbor were cheering for those in France who were revolting—not for the king or queen.”

“That makes sense.”

“One other thing my grandmother said stuck in my mind. She said to remember that I was special, because I was a Mary, like all those other Marys.”

“What did she mean by that?” I asked. “‘All those other Marys'?”

“I don't know,” said Mary. “When she said that, I thought it was a made-up story. I wish I'd asked more questions when she was alive. Now she's gone, and my parents are gone. All I have left are cartons of their stuff.”

“That's not all you have,” I reminded her. “You have one of their stories. And, whether or not we can get your needlework back, I'm going to try to find out more of those stories. They're yours, and one day they'll be your children's.”

“Thank you,” said Mary. Her eyes were dry, and her voice was soft but firm. “Thank you for understanding. No one else seems to.”

I reached over to hug her. This time she hugged me back.