Twisted Threads (16 page)

After lunch I headed to see the next needlepointer on my list.

Dave Percy’s house was a small canary yellow Cape, with green shutters and a small dooryard surrounded by a picket fence. If you’d asked me a month ago whether there were any picket fences in Maine, I would have said, “Only in the movies.” Dave proved me wrong.

I opened the gate, walked up the sea stone walk to his green door, and dropped the brass knocker shaped like a lobster. People really did buy such things.

Dave answered promptly, smiling, with a mug of coffee in hand. “Angie! How nice to see you! Come on in.”

Dave was about three inches taller than I was. I wondered how old he was. Maybe forty-five? His thick hair and neatly trimmed beard were gray. He walked with a slight limp. I hadn’t noticed that when I’d seen him at the gathering after the funeral.

He showed me into his living room. I’ll admit, I’d assumed a man living alone would accept a little dust and clutter as part of life. Dave’s house belied that stereotype; it was immaculate. There was a large flat-screen TV in the corner, but the rest of the furniture was comfortable and covered in fabric. Not a leather recliner in sight. A standing embroidery frame, the kind needlepointers used to hold their canvases straight when they’re working on large projects, was next to one of the chairs. Dave was working on a detailed floral design, maybe fifteen by fifteen inches. The background was black, but the shaded pink and red roses and green leaves, which filled the center, incorporated many shades of floss and a bit of gold.

“This is gorgeous!” I said, walking closer to look at it. “Will it be a framed wall hanging?”

“No,” he answered. “It’s one of the last commissions Lattimore got for us. It’s a cover for a chair seat cushion.” He pulled out a photograph of a large armchair with a cushion embroidered with the same rose design. “Your grandmother has software than can translate an original design, like the one on this chair, into a pattern. The customer bought a pair of chairs at an auction last summer, and only one still had a cushion. This is for the second chair.”

“Will it match exactly?” I said, looking from the needlepoint to the photograph.

“Not absolutely. The earlier embroidery is faded, and has one small worn spot.” He pointed that out in the photo. “But when Jacques stopped in to check the colors for the client, he said the customer planned to put the chairs near windows on opposite sides of the room. He understood they wouldn’t match exactly, but thought the differences wouldn’t be noticed since they wouldn’t be next to each other. Your grandmother and I intentionally chose slightly faded versions of the necessary colors.”

“You’ve been working on this for a while, then.”

“A couple of months. I started it late last fall, but then had other assignments with shorter deadlines, so I put this project aside. The client was going to Florida for the winter and wouldn’t need the seat cover until she got back in June. I’ll have it finished before then.”

I nodded.

“Can I get you some coffee?” he asked.

“That would be great. Black, please.”

“Coming up. Make yourself at home.”

I walked around the room, admiring Dave’s collection of old framed maps and a framed needlepoint of breaking waves. Dave Percy had good taste. And was an expert needlepointer. A bay window looked out into his backyard, where his garden was already tilled and weeded. I couldn’t see what was growing, but green was returning and he’d left a large space for new plants or seeds. Another needlepoint project—a simpler one, a skiff with the name
Peace
on its stern—lay on the window seat.

Returning, Dave handed me a steaming mug. Strong, the way I liked it. I took the mug and sat on the couch. “You make good coffee. And needlepoint. Gram said you learned it when you were in the navy?”

“Sounds a little strange, but, yes, I was assigned to submarine service. When you’re off duty, there’s not a lot to do on a sub, and not much space to do it in. One of the guys got a lot of hazing from the others because he was doing needlepoint. But he did beautiful work. Pillows, wall hangings, you name it. He usually worked from a kit. He got me and one other fellow interested, and he taught us.” Dave shrugged. “A good way to pass long hours.” He pointed at the wave on the wall. “That’s one I did at sea.”

“I’m impressed. How long were you in the navy?”

“Ten years. I’d planned to be career navy. But when I was home on leave, I had a bad fall on the ice.” He had a crooked smile. “Leg broke in several places, so I went on medical leave. While I was in the VA hospital having physical therapy, I had time to think about my life. I decided I wanted to change direction. I left the navy, went back to school on the GI Bill, and became a high-school science teacher.”

“Have you always taught here?”

“Taught in Williamstown, Massachusetts, for a couple of years, but missed the sea. So when I heard of an opening at Haven Harbor High, I applied. I’ve been teaching biology here for several years now.”

“And you’re happy?” I asked.

“I am.”

“Not married?”

“That’s a personal question,” he said. “But, of course, everyone in town knows the answer. Nope. Guess I haven’t found the right person yet. But I keep my eyes open. You?”

“I’ve given that same answer to too-curious people maybe a million times.”

We exchanged smiles.

“What brings you here today? You didn’t know until you got here how good my coffee was.”

“This,” I said, pulling his envelope out of my pocketbook. “I brought your share of the money we got from Jacques Lattimore. Sorry it’s not more.”

He took the envelope without looking. “You did your best. I’m appreciative. And I’ll be looking forward to working with you from now on.” He glanced over at the project he was working on. “I have to finish the cushion cover, and then I’ll be into final projects and exams at school. I can’t take on any more work until the end of June. But by then, I’ll be ready. No school in summer means more time for needlepoint. It really is addicting.”

“And more time for your garden,” I said. “I saw you have one out back. Vegetables or flowers?”

He grinned. “Better stay friends with me, Angie. That’s my poison garden.”

“What?” He couldn’t have said what I thought I’d heard.

“I grow poisonous plants. I’d read about people doing that, and it sounded like fun. Plus, I can take examples of the plants into my classes and make sure my students know them. Believe it or not, a lot of those kids spend days outdoors, camping, hunting . . . and they don’t even recognize poison ivy or poison oak. One September a student brought me a fistful of flowers he thought were a different variety of Queen Anne’s lace. Turned out he’d picked water hemlock, one of the deadliest plants there is. If he’d put them in water, and, say, a pet had drunk the water, or a child, it would have killed them. Same with lilies of the valley. ‘Don’t drink the water,’ as the song says.” He paused and sipped his coffee. “That’s why I have my yard fenced in. I don’t want any pet dogs or cats checking out my garden. My neighbors know what’s in it, and they keep their children away.”

“I didn’t know there were poisonous plants in Maine,” I said. “Except poison ivy. I learned about that as a child once. The hard way.” I looked down at my hands. “My hands and arms were covered.” Lattimore had been poisoned. I hadn’t thought about poisoned plants. But the state police might be even more interested in Dave’s garden than I was. Although I couldn’t imagine Dave walking around with a vial of poison just in case he ran into someone he wanted to kill.

“A lot of plants in Maine can do damage,” Dave was saying. “Some to people, and some to animals. Some poisonous plants are wild, like bittersweet nightshade and sumac. Yellow dock, which is safe for some uses when prepared properly, can also have serious side effects and be a skin irritant. Others, like the white lilies you see at Easter, grow here, but later in the season. They’re toxic to cats. And another Queen Anne’s look-alike, giant hogweed, can grow up to fourteen feet tall. It’s new to Maine, and I don’t grow it. Its sap can cause blistering and even blindness. I tend my garden with gloves on.”

“I’m going to beware of any Queen Anne’s lace after this,” I said. “I used to pick bouquets of it when I was little and was always disappointed it wilted so quickly inside. Now I’ll be afraid to pick any at all.”

“You do need to be careful,” he said, “although the Queen Anne’s lace you picked was probably fine. The Maine Department of Agriculture has found that giant hogweed in Sebago, Northport, Lisbon Falls, and a few other places so far. Not in Haven Harbor, at least not yet. The state is trying to eradicate it. And water hemlock is usually found around freshwater, not salt.”

“Now I know who to go to if I have any questions about plants,” I said. “Your students must think it’s very cool to learn about plants like that.”

“They do.” He grinned. “And who knows? What they learn might someday save their lives. Or at least save them a lot of discomfort.”

I finished my coffee, said good-bye, and looked at the next name on my list:
Ruth Hopkins.

Ruth lived farther up the hill, in a small white house in the shade of the church steeple.

After I rang the doorbell, I heard the sound of her walker clomping toward the door before it opened. “Welcome, Angie. Come on in.”

I moved past her into her little living room. The chair with the high seat was for her, I figured. Easier to get up and down.

“Sit down, sit down. Tea?”

“No, thanks, Ruth. I just came from Dave Percy’s house and had coffee there. I’m caffeined-out for the moment.”

“I understand, dear. If I have too many cups of either of them, I tax my kidneys. Such a nuisance. Part of old age, I’m afraid.”

“Speaking of which . . . could I use your bathroom?”

“Down the hall on your right. You’ll find it.”

It was a small half bath. The medicine cabinet door was partially open. I couldn’t resist peeking. A large bottle of low-dose aspirin. Arthritis-strength Tylenol. High-blood-pressure medicine. Bandages. Antibiotic cream. Anti-itch cream. (It was almost blackfly season—one part of Maine that I hadn’t missed.) Small cakes of soap in the shapes of flower blossoms. Your basic half bath. I closed the cabinet door, then did what I’d come in for.

On my way back to the living room, I noticed that Ruth’s dining room included several large, filled bookcases, and a computer with a large screen on a wide desk covered with papers. Why did Ruth need an office?

“Gram sent me to give you your share of the money Jacques Lattimore owed the Mainely Needlepointers.” I handed the envelope to her.

“Thank you, dear. My share won’t be a lot.” She held up her gnarled, swollen hands. “The arthritis got me bad this past winter. Couldn’t hold a needle to save my soul. I’m hoping my hands get better when temperatures are warmer and I can sit out in the sun a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at her distended hands and swollen knuckles. “Your hands must hurt.”

“I have pills to take for the pain and inflammation.” She nodded. “Sometimes they help. Sometimes they don’t. I have salves, too. But when my hands get as bad as this, my doctor tells me I shouldn’t hope they’ll get a lot better. It’s the way arthritis progresses.” She shook her head. “It’s no fun, I can tell you.”

“I happened to look in the dining room when I was in the hall. I saw all the papers on your desk. Are you still able to use your computer?”

“Oh, yes. That I do.” Ruth looked down at her hands. “I’ve been using a keyboard for so many years, my fingers know where to go without my telling them, swollen or not.”

“Were you a secretary?” I asked.

Ruth’s smile was quick and her words firm. “That’s a stereotype, young woman. Just because I could type didn’t mean I was someone’s secretary.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“But then, why did you do so much typing?”

“Your grandmother has never told you, then? About me?”

I quickly thought through everything I’d ever heard about Ruth Hopkins, recently or in the past. She was a widow. She lived alone. My thoughts ended. “No, she’s never said anything about you,” I said. “Nothing about typing.”

“Well, then, if you can keep it under your hat. . . .” Ruth looked at me slyly. “Your grandma is one of the few people who know.”

“Of course,” I answered, curious to know her secret. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m a writer. That’s what I do at my computer. I write.”

Why should writing be a secret? Maybe she doesn’t want anyone laughing at her work?
“What do you write?” Maybe she wrote a journal. Or was working on a memoir.

“Books, dear. Books.”

Now I was confused. “You’re published?”

“Oh, my, yes. Have been for over forty years now. Forty-seven books and counting. Only one out this year, though. I’m slowing down.”

“Forty-seven books! I had no idea. I’d like to read one of them someday, Ruth.”

There was a definite glint in her eye. “Well, nowadays, best way to read ’em would be as an e-book. My early ones are out of print in paper, but I made sure they were up electronically.”

How had Gram never mentioned Ruth’s writing?

“I’ll look, then. I will.”