Thread and Gone (9 page)

“I don't know,” I admitted. “But Mary Stuart and Marie Antoinette were both queens of France. The note Nicole translated for us is written in French. What I'd like you to do, if you have the time, is to see if there's any connection between those two queens that would explain the needlepoint.”

“You're right that they were both queens of France,” Ruth pointed out. “But two hundred years apart! Not exactly best friends.”

“That's why it's going to take work to find the connection.”

Sarah looked doubtful. “You're pushing it, Angie. You want to help Mary. But how could there possibly be a connection?”

“I don't know. But I want us to try to find one.”

“And while I'm studying up on embroidery techniques and Ruth is making an impossible historical connection, what will you be doing?” asked Sarah.

“Me?” I smiled at my two friends. “I'm going to find out who took the needlepoint from Lenore's office so we can return it to Mary.”

Chapter 17

Having agreed to their assignments, Sarah headed back to her store and Ruth to her computer.

I decided to find the mysterious Uma.

The Wild Rose Inn, where Pete had said she was staying, and where I'd left a message the day before, was within walking distance. A long walk, but not far enough so I needed to go home and get my car. The sea air was still cool, although the sun was quickly burning lacy patterns of dew off the grasses. Dandelions had already gone to seed, but tall buttercups kept unmowed lawns yellow and hid forget-me-nots in the grasses below them.

Mainers could be house-proud, but lawn care for most people meant mowing once a week or as necessary. As long as the lawn was green, witchgrass and dandelions and crabgrass were, if not welcomed, at least not hunted down.

With few exceptions, gardening time was spent on practical vegetable gardens, or in encouraging perennials like the orange daylilies that were beginning to bloom along the sides of the road. The last of the lupines were dying down, preparing to bloom again next June.

I'd missed the greenness of Maine when I'd lived in Arizona, where the botanical garden displayed seemingly endless varieties of cacti, and homeowners surrounded their homes with rocks and stones in varying shades of tan.

A chipmunk scampered in front of me and dove through a small opening in a stone wall separating two properties. Walls here were low, made of stones dug from gardens and foundations. Walls in Arizona had separated homes as though those inside were hiding or needed protection.

The Wild Rose Inn was a large yellow Victorian, the kind of house that once was filled with children and laughter. Today, most houses like that were divided into apartments, or made into bed and breakfasts or inns, as this one had been. Large old homes were hard to maintain and heat. Many inns closed after Columbus Day and didn't open again until April or May to avoid oil bills.

I rang the bell on the wide porch that surrounded two sides of the house. An empty coffee mug had been left on the arm of one of the wicker chairs. The hammock looked welcoming. Maybe I should get a hammock for my porch.

“Yes?” said the gray-haired woman wearing jeans and an apron who answered the door.

“I'm Angie Curtis. I live down on Elm Street,” I explained. “I'm looking for Uma Patel. I was told she was staying here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Angie,” she said. “I'm Mrs. Clifford, new owner of the Wild Rose. Uma's inside, having breakfast. Why don't you come in?”

The dining table was set for eight. Fourth of July week, and the small inn was busy. A couple in their thirties, perhaps honeymooners, sat at one end of the table, focusing on each other and on a tourists' guide to Maine. The Nolins, the art dealers from Canada, were at a small table to the side. I slid into the chair next to the young woman with long black braided hair at the far end of the large table. “Uma? I'm Angie Curtis. I left a message for you last night.”

“Would you like coffee?” Mrs. Clifford offered. “Or breakfast? It's all prepared.”

“Just coffee, thank you. Black.” If I hadn't been full of pastries I'd have been tempted by the cranberry bread and omelets she was serving.

Uma stared at me. “I don't know you,” she said. “That's why I didn't return your call.”

“Yesterday you and Rob Trask discovered Lenore Pendleton's body.”

“Who told you that?” She kept her voice low. Maybe she hadn't shared that information with her hostess or the other guests. Luckily, they weren't paying attention to anyone but each other.

“Ethan Trask. The state trooper who's investigating Lenore's death. I've spoken with Rob, too.”

“Are you an investigator?”

“Something like that. Rob told me you went to see Lenore Pendleton because you wanted to look at needlepoint he'd told you about.”

“That's right. We had nothing to do with the murder.”

“I understand that. But I wondered where you'd heard about the needlepoint.”

“From Rob, of course. After the fireworks, on the Fourth. I met him at that little café downtown.”

She was wearing long blue sea glass earrings. Probably a souvenir of her trip to Maine. Cobalt blue sea glass was one of the rarest kind; most the result of Milk of Magnesia bottles thrown away years ago, broken on rocks, and smoothed by waves and sand.

“The Harbor Haunts.”

“That's it. Anyway, I was by myself. I'm here for a few days on vacation, just a quiet time away from the city.” Uma rolled her eyes. Clearly finding a body hadn't been high on her list of things to do on her vacation.

“You're from Boston?”

“That's where I live now. I grew up in Connecticut. What does that matter to you?”

“So, you were at the bar having a quiet drink by yourself.”

“I wasn't looking for company, you understand,” she said a bit defensively.

She was twenty-four or -five. A little younger than I was. And she wasn't wearing any rings on her left hand.

On vacation by herself. But maybe she hadn't wanted to stay by herself.

Been there. Done that.

“So you met Rob at the café.”

“He and his friends were there. After a few minutes one of them . . . Josh? The cute one with blond hair. He asked if he could buy me another drink. And I agreed. Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

“I started talking to them. They were different from people in Boston. They all lived here. I told them I was vacationing. They asked what it was like to live in a city. I said I hadn't lived there long; I was interning at the Museum of Fine Arts.” She looked at me and explained, “I was an art history major in college. Jobs for people like me don't come easily.”

“I understand,” I said, although I didn't, really. Anyone with a college degree was in another world from that of most of the guys who lobstered. Or from me, who'd done office work for a PI until my boss was sure I could handle a camera and a gun. On-the-job training.

“So, you told them you were at the MFA.”

“Right. And then Rob told me about this old piece of needlepoint he'd found.”

He'd
found, I noted. Interesting.

“He said it might be from Elizabethan times, and he was trying to find out exactly how old it was. He thought it might be worth a lot of money, and he didn't want to be cheated.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“I told him I'd look at it.” Uma picked at her eggs with her fork, and then looked at me. “Honestly, I'm not an expert on Elizabethan textiles. But I thought if I saw it I might be able to tell him something about it. And if this guy's needlepoint was spectacular I might be able to get the museum interested. It would show my boss how serious I am about working there. Prove I could help with acquisitions.”

“Which might lead to a permanent position there?” That wasn't hard to guess.

Uma nodded. “That's what I'm hoping for.”

“But you never saw the needlepoint.”

“We walked into the house, where the woman's office was . . . and there she was, lying on the floor, near her desk. Her head was bloody, and there was blood on the floor.” Uma paled a little, remembering. “I'd never seen a body before. I left, fast, and went outside.”

“What about the needlepoint?”

“We never saw it. I waited outside while Rob called the police, or the state troopers. I don't know. But whoever he called came fast. Rob's brother asked me a few questions, like who I was and why I was there, and what I'd seen. I told him what I'm telling you. Except the part about hoping the museum would offer me a real job, of course. I figured he wouldn't care about that. I overheard another policeman say the safe was open. I didn't see it. Rob told him about the needlepoint, and they said nothing like that was in the safe. Then they said I could go, so I did. I spent the afternoon at the beach, trying not to think about what I'd seen.” Uma shuddered. “What an awful way for that woman to die. But I would have liked to have seen the needlepoint.”

I nodded. “Have you heard from Rob since then?”

“No. But last night I did get a call from one of the other guys I met Tuesday. He's a lobsterman. He invited me to come out with him on his boat. I told him, sure. I'd like that. I don't know anything about lobstering.”

That “other guy” I assumed was Arvin Fraser. He was the only one of that group who owned a lobster boat.

“So you're going?”

“This afternoon. He invited me to go this morning, but he was taking his boat out about five. Way too early for me. I'm on vacation! He said he'd take me out later today and haul a few traps to show me how it's done.”

“Have fun,” I said. “And if you think of anything else that might be helpful in finding that missing needlepoint, give me a call or text me.” I handed her one of my Mainely Needlepoint cards.

She looked at it. “You're interested in needlepoint, too,” she said. “Have you seen that needlework Rob was going to show me?”

“I have,” I assured her. “It is special. But I don't know how old it is.”

“If you find it, and you'd like an expert at the MFA to take a look at it, let me know,” she said. She reached into the blue canvas bag next to her chair, pulled out a generic MFA business card, and wrote her name and telephone number on the back. Interns probably didn't rate personal business cards. “I'd still be interested in checking it out. Or getting it to people who'd know about it.”

“Thank you,” I said, pocketing the card. “I'll remember that.”

Chapter 18

It was a perfect day for a boat ride. The kind of Maine day people traveled hundreds of miles to enjoy.

I hoped Uma would have a fun afternoon with Arvin. And I was glad to have her card. If—
when—
the needlepoint was recovered, she might be a good contact person. I had faith in the Mainely Needlepointers. We could research and figure out a lot about the embroidery. But we'd need to contact experts before our conclusions were definite.

I wondered for a moment whether I should have mentioned to Uma that Arvin was married and a father. But going lobstering wasn't exactly a romantic date.

Or maybe it didn't seem romantic to me because I'd grown up with the smell of bait.

Uma had a simple story: she was on vacation, and happened to be with Rob when he found Lenore's body. I believed her.

What kept bothering me was an obvious question I hadn't heard an answer to: why had anyone killed Lenore Pendleton?

Yes, the needlepoint and jewelry were missing. Since no one'd mentioned her safe's being broken into, I assumed she'd opened it for someone. Someone who'd threatened her? But she hadn't been shot or stabbed. She'd opened the door when she was wearing nightclothes. The murder weapon had been a marble bookend.

Some day in the past she'd bought those bookends, maybe at an antique show or auction. She couldn't know that one of them would be used to kill her.

Who would she open her front door—and her safe—for? A person she knew. But even if she'd opened her door, only a threat would make her open her safe.

She'd promised me she wouldn't give the needlepoint to anyone but Mary or me.

What if Rob had decided to get the needlepoint back? He'd been clear he wanted to sell it. What if Rob had killed Lenore to get it?

But, no. That didn't make sense, for so many reasons.

First, why would he have killed Lenore and then returned a few hours later with Uma? His second visit would explain any fingerprints he'd left in Lenore's office. But was Rob that sophisticated a criminal?

Rob rubbed me the wrong way. But was he a killer and thief?

I couldn't think so. Not without a lot more evidence.

So far, before Lenore's secretary checked for sure, it looked as though the thief and murderer hadn't taken any files. If that was true, it ruled out a frustrated or angry client. And if someone was angry at Lenore, and wanted to kill her, why would they bother to have her open her safe?

Whoever killed her wanted what was in that safe. That was the only scenario that made sense.

But had they been looking for the needlepoint? Only a few people had even known it existed. The missing jewelry, on the other hand, was probably worth a lot of money. More people might have known about it. And jewelry would be easier to dispose of than needlepoint.

Whoever killed Lenore must have done it for the jewelry. They hadn't brought a weapon—or at least hadn't used one—so they'd assumed Lenore would open the safe for them. Which she did. But then, maybe because they didn't want a witness to the theft, they'd picked up the bookend and hit Lenore. Multiple times.

I shuddered, imagining.

So who knew about the jewelry?

Glenda, Lenore's secretary, certainly knew. The police had asked her to make a list of the safe's contents, with descriptions.

No one had told me I couldn't talk with Glenda. And I'd met her at Lenore's office, so it wouldn't be like calling Uma, whom I'd never met.

“Glenda? Angie Curtis. I'm so sorry about Lenore. I wondered . . . would you mind if I stopped in to see you? I understand you're making a list for the police of everything that was in the safe.”

Glenda sounded surprised that I'd called. But she agreed to see me.

I decided to take her something. A condolence gift to a family member was usually a casserole or dessert you could heat up or freeze. What did you take to someone who'd just lost her boss—and her job? Gram would have known. But I wasn't going to disturb her honeymoon with a Haven Harbor etiquette question.

Flowers? Chocolates? I'd take both. Glenda was a middle-aged woman who always looked a bit frazzled. I'd seen a picture of a toddler on her desk. Working mothers didn't get enough flowers or candy. (Did anyone?)

Glenda lived about ten miles down Route 1. On the way I'd pass a garden center and gift shop.

Juno meowed plaintively as I picked up my keys. Then, giving up on convincing me to stay, she headed for one of her favorite seats, in the kitchen window overlooking the backyard bird feeders.

Although she admired birds and squirrels from her choice of comfy seats inside windows, Juno didn't seem to mind being served her dinner rather than having to catch it.

“Thanks for reminding,” I told her. I put down my keys and filled all Gram's bird feeders. It wouldn't do for her to come home and find empty seed and suet holders.

I'd be home in plenty of time to replenish Juno's food dish.

Glenda's home was a double-wide with a carport.

She answered the door wearing sweatpants and a pink T-shirt reading “#1 Mom” on it. “You came at a good time, Angie. Tyler's taking a nap.” She led me through the toys on the floor to a seat in the living room. “I've already told the police I'd like to help. But I don't know a lot. Except”—she frowned—“that I'll be looking for a new job. And Lenore won't exactly be able to give me a recommendation.”

I sympathized. But I needed information.

I handed her a bouquet of daisies and baby's breath, and a box of dark chocolates. “These are for you. You were close to Lenore. And I promise not to bother you for long.”

“The flowers are lovely,” she said. “I'll get a vase. And I'll hide the chocolates from my husband.” She winked at me as she put the chocolates on top of a cabinet and came back a few minutes later with a vase, now full of the flowers, which she put on a high table, far from a toddler's fingers. “They're beautiful, Angie. You didn't have to bring all these things . . . but I'm glad you did. I've been sitting here thinking about Lenore. I still can't believe she's dead. Murdered.” She paused. “I keep wondering what would have happened if I'd been in the office the day she was killed.”

“She was in her nightgown and robe when they found her,” I said. “She answered the door late at night. I haven't heard a specific time of death. So, if that's true, then you wouldn't have been there anyway.”

“True. But that doesn't stop me from thinking about what might have happened.”

“What was Lenore like to work for?” I asked, trying to be casual, and changing the subject.

“She wasn't easy, but she was fair,” Glenda said. “I've worked in her office almost four years. She was always understanding about giving me time off when Tyler was sick, or if I needed to be with my family. But she could be tough. She had some clients—especially those getting divorced—who got wicked nasty. They'd yell at each other and at her. I was embarrassed just to be in the next room. But she never lost her temper. She had a way of calming people down.” Glenda leaned toward me. “Her clients ended up with pretty good deals, too.”

“She told me she was getting divorced.”

Glenda frowned. “Should have gotten one years ago, if you ask me. That Charlie of hers was a pain. He'd come to the office and ask for money, or insist on seeing her when she was with a client. I told her she should get an order of protection. But she never did. She said she could handle him.” Glenda stopped and looked at me. “Do you think Charlie could have killed her?”

“I have no idea. I heard he was asking her for alimony.”

Glenda looked around, as though she didn't want anyone to overhear. But there was no one there. “I shouldn't be saying this, but she was too easy on him. She said they used to be good together, but I never saw that. She worked hard—long hours—and she earned all the money in that family. She was going to keep the house and her office. The settlement they were working on gave him enough to get a house like this one, or an apartment, but not much more. Of course, he isn't working, and,” she added confidentially, “he drank away a lot of the money she gave him.”

I shook my head. “Was he ever violent?”

She hesitated. “I don't think he ever hurt her. But he sure yelled a lot. In the last month or so he'd been yelling about her jewelry.”

“Her jewelry?” I asked. “You mean the jewelry she had in her safe? The jewelry that was stolen?”

Glenda nodded. “Funny, isn't it? He said he'd spent thousands of dollars on that jewelry, back when he was making lots of money. That was before I worked for her, so I can't say that for sure, but Charlie sure said it. Said it all the time. He said she should give him at least half of the jewelry. That she owed it to him.”

“And now neither of them will have it,” I said. Unless, of course, Charlie had killed her for it, I thought to myself.

“Strange, isn't it? How life works out.”

“Have you finished the list the police wanted?”

“While Tyler's napping I've been listing what I remember.” She glanced in the direction of what I assumed was her son's bedroom. “We didn't have a master list of everything she kept in the safe. It never seemed we'd need a list. All I have is my memory. This morning I went over to the office and looked through the papers that were still there. I couldn't remember seeing any others. Now I'm trying to remember all Lenore's jewelry. The police let me look through a box of photos she had upstairs, and I picked out those showing her wearing jewelry. She loved big rings, so she had several of those. One diamond ring and one with rubies were spectacular. She didn't wear her good jewelry very often. She dressed so her clients and the judges wouldn't think she was making money off poor people. She had a long string of pearls, and a sapphire necklace and bracelet that Charlie gave her for an anniversary present. He must have spent a lot on those pieces. When he listed what he thought she should give back to him, he always included those. And sometimes she wore a large emerald ring she told me she'd inherited. She hadn't gotten all her jewelry from Charlie. I just have to sit down and try to remember it all.”

“And someone else's jewelry was there, too?”

“The rest was Elsie Sawyer's. She died a couple of months ago and her estate hasn't been settled yet. Her daughters both wanted the same pieces of jewelry, so Lenore was holding them until the three of them met, next month. Those pieces will be easy to identify. There's a list of the pieces, with pictures, in Elsie's file.” Glenda smiled wryly. “Maybe neither of her daughters will get their mother's jewelry after all.”

“And a piece of needlepoint in a brown leather case is missing.”

Glenda shook her head. “I don't know anything about that. The police asked me, because one of the people who found Lenore said he'd gone to her office to see the needlepoint. But she must have added that to her safe this week. I never saw it.”

“Do you have the combination to her safe?” I asked.

“No, only she had it. She once told me she'd also left it in her safe deposit box at the bank, in case she died and someone needed to open the safe.” Glenda looked at me sadly. “That won't be necessary now.”