Twisted Threads (21 page)

Someone once told me the rhythm of a small town is like a child’s heartbeat, regular and steady.

That person didn’t remember that both towns and children change. Residents change. Ideologies change. Economies change. Perceptions change. Children don’t always sit with hands folded. Sometimes they run and skip and fear ghosts under their beds. Hearts’ rhythms change. Become erratic. Undependable.

Murder was a beat out of order. It was discordant. It distracted from the normal rhythm of life.

Or towns.

The Titicombs were one of the most respected families in Haven Harbor: the surgeon and his gracious wife and my friend Cindy, their private-schooled daughter. Could Katie have fallen into Lattimore’s plot because she wanted a larger role in town? Or because she really thought she could do a better job managing Mainely Needlepoint than Gram could?

I hoped Cindy and her kids had returned home. I didn’t want her overhearing my conversation with her mother.

Katie answered the door quickly. “Good morning, Angie. Cindy’s gone back to Blue Hill, if you were looking for her.”

I shook my head. “No. I came to see you.”

She opened the door wider and gestured that I should come in. I didn’t have to ask what I’d interrupted. A pile of toys on one of the living-room chairs and a vacuum cleaner in the hall said Katie’d been cleaning up after her daughter and grandchildren had left.

She gestured toward the living room.

“So. Congratulations on your new job. Welcome to Mainely Needlepoint!” she said. She didn’t act as though she resented my being the new director—the job that Lattimore had tried to wrangle for her.

“Thank you,” I said. “I came to ask you about something.”

“Yes?” Katie and I sat on chairs facing each other across a coffee table covered with Legos.

“I’ve been sorting through the files Jacques Lattimore gave my grandmother right before he died. Most of them are lists of customers and orders. But among the papers I found a series of e-mails—messages between you and Lattimore.”

She sat back. “You must think I’m a horrible woman. I never dreamed he’d print those out. Has Charlotte seen them?”

“No. Just me.”

“Thank goodness.” Katie’s voice was soft and hesitant. “I hoped he’d deleted those. I deleted my copies.”

I didn’t tell her that a good computer technician would still be able find the messages, even if she’d pressed the delete key.

“Last fall, right before Thanksgiving, Jacques started contacting me directly about orders. He’d never done that before. At first I thought he was checking up on me, that maybe he was getting complaints from customers about my work. But he never said that. In fact, he kept praising my work. It made me very uncomfortable.”

“Your notes back to him didn’t sound that way.”

“Good. You see, at first I thought he was interested in me. Personally. And let me assure you, I wasn’t interested in him at all. I was interested in the orders he brought in. But I thought if I played along a little—after all, it was online, not in person—then maybe he’d get me more orders. Challenging designs. Ones that would be fun to work on.”

I listened and watched her face. “Then his messages got more personal, and, finally, he offered you a deal.”

She nodded and leaned forward. “By the time he’d done that, I’d talked to Ob Winslow. Ob did a carving for my husband’s office a few years back. He and my husband got to know each other pretty well. They had more than just a doctor-patient relationship. Ob and Anna, his wife, are our friends. In fact, Ob took up needlepoint because my husband recommended it. So when I realized what direction Jacques’ notes were taking, and I panicked, I needed to talk with someone. I trusted Ob to be straight with me.”

“And?”

“First I asked him if he was having any problems with Charlotte. And can you guess what he said?”

I shook my head.

“He asked me if I’d been talking with Jacques Lattimore.”

“Really!” That I hadn’t expected.

She nodded. “Turned out Lattimore had been telling him the same story he’d been telling me. He even told Ob to document every time he talked to Charlotte to prove she wasn’t doing a good job. And that maybe Ob should replace her.”

“The same line he’d given you.”

“Exactly. So then Ob and I checked with Sarah. He’d contacted her, too. I don’t know if he’d gotten in touch with Lauren or Dave. At that point we knew enough. Together, the three of us called Lattimore and told him to stop. That we were all happy with Charlotte, and this wasn’t the way to change his contract. We told him he had to pay us the money he’d withheld.”

“What did he say?”

“It wasn’t good. By that time it was January. He easily owed us a full month’s money, but he denied it. He denied everything he’d written in the e-mails. He said he’d pay us when he had the money, and not before—that we weren’t to be trusted.” Katie shook her head. “Can you believe that man?
We
couldn’t be trusted! He hung up, and that was the end of it. People like Ob and Lauren were hurting. And you know what happened after that. A few more dollars came in after our call in January, and that was the end.”

“Did you ever tell Gram what Lattimore tried to do?”

“No. And I don’t think Ob or Sarah did, either. We didn’t think it would make a difference. It wouldn’t get our money, which we figured Jacques had already spent, and Charlotte would have been more upset than she already was.”

“What do you think was really happening, Katie? Was Lattimore just looking for a better contract, as he said?”

“Ob and I’ve talked about that. We think Lattimore was in trouble. Most likely, as you’ve confirmed, he had a gambling problem. He probably collected the money when he delivered completed work in early November, but for some reason—addiction, habit, or chance—he took more than his share of the receipts and lost all of it at the casino. After that, the situation got worse. He’d be paid a little, and hoped he could win it all back by gambling.”

“And, of course, that didn’t work,” I agreed. “So he tried to cover himself by dividing the group. Sorry to say, that makes sense.”

“When your grandmother called last week and said you were bringing Jacques to her home, I was worried he’d pull out those old e-mails and make it look as though I’d been complaining about Charlotte or conspiring against her. Or bring Ob and Sarah into it. Luckily, although from what you’ve said he still had the e-mails, he didn’t bring them up at the meeting.” She hesitated. “Or he was poisoned before he had a chance.”

“Did you see anyone add anything to the teapot? Or to his cup?”

She shook her head. “No. Honestly, I wasn’t paying any attention to what people were eating or drinking. I didn’t even have tea myself. I was crossing my fingers that Charlotte wouldn’t find out that, even for a few days, I’d complained about her management of the business. I was furious with Jacques for what he’d done. And with myself for allowing myself to betray Charlotte, even briefly. I didn’t kill him, Angie, but that man deserved to die. I’m just sorry he didn’t come up with more of our money first. I’m guessing it’s long gone.”

I sat for a few minutes, trying to digest all Katie was saying. “I haven’t been here, Katie, so I don’t know exactly what Gram was doing or not doing. But as I read the e-mails, I thought you made good points. Since you’ve all entrusted me with Mainely Needlepoint now, I’m going to try to do what you suggested. As soon as we get the financial situation straightened out, I’m going to take some of our earnings and invest more in basic materials.”

“Good,” Katie said. “But maybe I shouldn’t have complained. It wouldn’t pay to order a great deal. We’re not a needlework shop. And special supplies, like gold and silver thread, or beads or unusual colors, would still have to be ordered as they were needed. Keeping a few more backup canvases and basic flosses does make sense.”

“I agree,” I said. “And I’ll try to ensure that the turnaround on orders is quick.”

She nodded.

“But I’m new at this. Totally new. So if you have any other ideas you think would make it easier for those of you filling orders, or would save Mainely Needlepoint money, please let me know. I’ll need all the help I can get to put the business back on track and keep it there.”

“I’m glad you’re taking over, Angie. We all are. The business needs a new start. I don’t know why Charlotte decided to resign, but I’m excited about working with you.”

“Thank you. I’m excited, too.” I couldn’t tell her why Gram had decided to back away from the business. That was Gram’s secret to tell.

I headed toward home. I needed to destroy those incriminating e-mails. Katie was right. Gram didn’t need to know what had happened last fall.

Two murders in one small town. My investigative skills weren’t helping me. I hadn’t made progress on either case today.

My mind was swirling with fragments of information. Vignettes from the past. Snapshots of the present. Hopes for the future. Nothing I’d learned seemed related to anything else.

And then, suddenly, as I walked through Haven Harbor’s streets lined with newly green maple trees and dark pines, pieces of the puzzle started to come together.

If I was right, at least one person was in danger.

Getting home, I picked Gram’s car keys up from the dish in the kitchen, where she always left them, and retrieved my gun from under the gloves in the hall sideboard. I might not be legal, but I’d be safe.

Then I drove to Dave Percy’s house.

I dropped the brass lobster knocker on Dave Percy’s door. Hard. Several times.

He was buttoning his shirt when he finally answered.

“Angie! What are you doing here? I just got home from school.”

“You have to tell me,” I said, moving past him into his house. “Tell me about Lauren Decker. You’re having an affair with her, right?”

He shook his head, as if to clear it. “What are you talking about? Where did you hear that?”

“It’s true, isn’t it? Dave, this is an emergency. I think Lauren murdered Lattimore, and I think she’s going to kill Caleb.”

“No! She wouldn’t do that,” he said.

“But you were having an affair.”

“We weren’t sleeping together, if that’s what you mean. It started about six months ago. But it wasn’t serious,” he said. “I was lonely, and she needed someone to talk to. We’ve become . . . close friends, yes. But not lovers. You think she poisoned Lattimore? I can’t believe that. And why do you think she’d poison Caleb?” Dave shook his head. “Lauren’s been upset and depressed. But she’s never sounded as though she was close to considering murder. Divorce, yes. Murder? Never.”

“I understand Lauren’s had problems with Caleb for years.”

“I’ve only heard details in the past six months.” Dave paused. “Caleb hasn’t made it easy for her. He’s troubled. She’s tried to convince him to get help for his addictions, but he refuses to admit he has a problem.”

“He hurts her sometimes, doesn’t he?” I asked.

Dave nodded. “But she always excuses his behavior. Says she’d done something to deserve it.”

“When her father died, he left Lauren his house and his camp, right?”

“He left her all he had,” Dave confirmed. “Caleb wants her to put the property she inherited in both their names, but Lauren’s holding out. That’s one of the reasons their relationship has been . . . volatile . . . during the past few weeks.”

“But if Caleb were gone, there’d be no questions. She’d have the property she inherited, and everything that’s now in Caleb’s name, too. She’d be independent.”

“That’s true, I guess. But I’d never thought of it that way.”

“But it makes sense.”

Dave slowly nodded.

“And you told her about water hemlock, right?”

The color in Dave’s face vanished. “I warned her about it, the way I warned you. I warn dozens of people. I showed her my garden, of course, but it was winter, and there wasn’t much to see. She
was
curious about poisonous plants that might be here in Maine. I told her water hemlock was the most dangerous. It might look like Queen Anne’s lace, but the sap inside the stems was potent, especially in the spring. If someone ingested it, that would be fatal.” His face changed as he realized what he’d said. “I warned her about it, the way I warn all my students. I never thought she’d . . . use . . . it.”

“Did you know Lauren’s family had a camp on a lake?” I asked.

“Sure. She said it was a peaceful place where you could hear loons at daybreak.” His eyes widened slightly. “Water hemlock grows in freshwater swamps. Most lakes in Maine have swampy areas.”

“Lauren and Caleb are there, at their camp, right now,” I said quickly. “Do you know what lake the camp is on?”

He hesitated. “It’s north of here. Northwest, I think.”

I shifted my weight impatiently. “The name of the lake. I need to get there.”

“I don’t remember it.” He shook his head. “But . . . wait. Once she showed me where it was on a map. Maybe I’d recognize the name.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“I’m sorry. She only mentioned it once, months ago. She always called it ‘our family camp.’”

I followed him into his kitchen. A large framed map of Maine hung on one of the walls. As I waited, he looked at it closely. My pulse raced. Caleb Decker wasn’t my favorite resident of Haven Harbor, but I’d seen Jacques Lattimore suffer after he’d been poisoned. No one deserved to die that way.

“I’m sorry this is taking so long.” Dave was peering carefully at the map. “I remember Lauren’s saying it was south of Moosehead Lake. Just give me a few more minutes.”

Caleb might not have a few minutes. Or maybe he was already dead. He and Lauren had been out of town since Saturday.

“Here it is!” He pointed at a spot on the map. “I remember now. Their place is on Fisher Lake.” He turned to me. “I commented that it must have been named that because it was a good place to fish. And she’d said no, it was named after all the fisher cats in the area.”

Fishers. A member of the weasel family. Not the largest animals in Maine, but one of the meanest. If a cat or small dog had been out at night and was missing, chances are you blamed the fishers. And you’d be right. Fishers were one of the things the Maine tourist bureau didn’t advertise. Their territories weren’t far from many towns, and they were common in rural and forested areas. I looked at where Dave had pointed on the map. Prime fisher territory.

I pulled out my cell and entered
Fisher Lake.
My GPS said it would take about eighty minutes to get there. And then I’d have to find the right camp.

I headed for the door.

“I’m coming with you,” said Dave, pulling his fleece jacket off a hook in his front hall. “Lauren trusts me. If we’re not too late, maybe she’ll listen to me.”

I hesitated, but I wasn’t stupid. I could probably use some help. And I didn’t know the law enforcement people at Fisher Lake, and there wasn’t time to reach Pete or Ethan to explain and ask them to find out.

As we drove, I filled Dave in on what I knew. He said very little.

But I was glad for the company. Lauren had picked a good listener for a friend.

Driving in Maine isn’t complicated if you want to go north or south. Along the coast you can follow Route 1 from Kittery to Eastport. It’ll be a long drive, but a scenic one, and you’ll be in no danger of getting lost. If you want to go north from Kittery to New Brunswick, you follow the Maine Turnpike (also known as Interstate 95). Its last exit after Houlton is a border stop.

But if you want to drive from east to west, or east to northwest, you have a challenge. My GPS routed us as best it could, taking us on country roads that curved around hills and connected small towns. Roads built for oxen, and then for horses, and then for horses and wagons. Designed to connect farms and centers of small villages—not to draw straight lines or make fast time.

Finally we reached a sign that said, F
ISHER
L
AKE, TWO MILES.
We stopped at a small general store a little farther along the road.

“The Greene place? That would be about three miles ahead, on Lake Road.” The woman giving us the information also gave us a good look. “It’ll be on your left side. Red mailbox, just past where the Clifford family used to live.”

Dave and I glanced at each other. We could watch for a red mailbox. Neither of us knew the Cliffords, past or present.

We headed out again. I watched the mileage indicator. Dave watched for red mailboxes.

The woman at the store had been right. We’d driven about three miles when we saw the mailbox. I turned into a rough narrow road through a heavily wooded area. Mud season might have ended on Maine’s coast, but here it was still in full force. As were frost heaves. I feared for the axles on Gram’s old car as we jounced our way down the drive. I swerved around the largest holes, but the road was narrow. Not much swerving space.

Finally the driveway opened up on a turnaround. I parked and Dave got out. I tucked my gun into the back of my belt and joined him.

“Their truck isn’t here,” Dave noted. “And ours is the only car.”

“Maybe there’s another parking area?” I wondered. “But I don’t see any connecting roads or drives.” We were both speaking softly. We were far from civilization, but that didn’t mean we were alone.

“One of them could have gone out for groceries. Or beer,” Dave pointed out.

I nodded. “Let’s find the camp.”

We chose the path headed toward the lake. A crow overhead cawed a warning that humans were invading his territory, and two other crows answered in the distance. A murder of crows. Other than that, the woods were silent.

I stumbled once, then felt for my gun. It was still safely available.

The camp was small and fronted on the lake. Likely, it was a large room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room on the first floor, and maybe two bedrooms. From the placement of the windows one bedroom was on the first floor, off the main room, and another bedroom was in the loft overhead. That one might have been Lauren’s when she was a child.

I knocked on the door. No one answered. Then I turned the knob. It opened. Dave and I looked at each other, questioningly, but we went inside. Not all Mainers locked their doors, but that didn’t mean they were inviting you in.

“Lauren? Caleb? Anyone home?”

No one answered.

We’d come looking for someone we thought was a killer . . . and her victim. The place smelled like a mixture of cat piss and rotten eggs. Maybe they weren’t the best housekeepers. And any house closed all winter smelled until it was aired out. I checked closets and cabinets. When I came down from the loft, Dave was still standing in the kitchen area.

“Angie, we need to get out of here,” he said much too calmly. “Now.”

“There’s no one here,” I said. “I’m not sure what to do next.”

“I do,” he said. “As soon as we get somewhere my cell phone works, I’m calling the local police.” He shoved my back a little, herding me toward the door we’d come in. “Don’t ask. Move.”

When we were outdoors again, and back up the hill to where we’d parked the car, Dave took out his cell phone. “I don’t know where Lauren or Caleb are, but we have to tell the police what we found.”

“What?” I asked, trying to think of where we should go next to find Lauren.

He was dialing. “911? I have an emergency. I’ve found a meth lab in a camp on Fisher Lake.”