Free Thread and Gone by Lea Wait

I wouldn’t bother her about it until Henri was back home. She’d said it might be a couple of days.
    I spent an hour calling the gift shops Mainely Needlepoint worked with to see if they needed to reorder any more balsam pillows or wall hangings. A couple did, so I called Dave Percy and Ob Winslow to ask them to stitch up more of our best sellers. Dave was just about finished with the pillow covers for Skye West and said he’d start on the small pillows next. Ob’s wife, Anna, said he couldn’t take on any assignments now; he was out fishing on the Anna Mae almost every day. Sarah was researching the antique needlepoint, so Katie Titicomb was next on my list. She was in Blue Hill visiting her grandchildren, but said she’d be able to do a few pillows. Pillows didn’t bring in as much money as our custom work, but they got our name into the hands of people who might call us later.
    I was taking a coffee break on the porch when two police cars headed down to the harbor. A shoplifter? Then the Haven Harbor ambulance followed them. Neither the police cars nor ambulance had their sirens blaring.
    I wondered what was wrong. I wasn’t worried. No sirens meant no emergency. Maybe someone had slipped on one of the wet docks. Or had chest pains. I hoped no one’d drowned. In a harbor town that happened once in a while, especially when kids, or people ignoring the dangers of rock climbing, slipped on the rocks near the lighthouse and fell into the powerful surf. Being thrown against jagged rocks made swimming difficult, if not impossible. Every few years someone died there. Usually someone from away.
    I went back inside and returned to my phone calls. Whatever the problem was, it had nothing to do with me.
    Or so I thought.

Chapter 11

    While idle drones supinely dream of fame
The industrious actually get the same.
    Â 
    â€”Verse stitched on sampler by Sally Alger at Miss Polly Balch’s School in Providence, Rhode Island, 1782

    The next time I saw a police car it was parked in front of my house.
    Sergeant Pete Lambert from the Haven Harbor Police Department was standing on my porch. With him was Ethan Trask, a detective with the Maine State Troopers Homicide Unit. Rob Trask’s big brother. The one who’d suggested Rob and Mary bring her needlepoint to me. The one guy in town I wished wasn’t married.
    â€œWhat happened? Is it Gram?” Those two wouldn’t be paying me a visit unless the circumstances were dire. Had Gram or Tom had an accident? Was she ill? Before either of the men could open their mouths I’d imagined ten or twelve horrible scenarios.
    â€œYour grandmother’s fine, Angie,” said Pete. “But we have a situation we’re hoping you can help us with.”
    A situation? When Ethan Trask was involved a “situation” usually included a body.
    â€œMay we come in?” Ethan asked. Ethan’s smiles could make me blush, even if he were commenting on the weather. No danger of that now. This morning he wasn’t smiling.
    I opened the screen door and pointed toward the living room. Then I remembered my manners. “Iced tea or lemonade?” Gram would have been proud of me.
    Then I realized who it must be. If Gram was fine . . . “Is Tom all right?”
    â€œSit down, Angie,” said Ethan. “We don’t need any drinks. And relax. This time your family is fine.”
    This time. Two months ago Ethan had been the one to tell me the details about Mama’s death.
    I nodded. “So. What happened?”
    â€œYou know Lenore Pendleton, the lawyer,” said Pete. “You’re one of her clients, right?”
    â€œShe helped with Mama’s estate. I have an appointment with her next week to draw up a will.”
    Pete and Ethan looked at each other.
    Ethan spoke next. “Afraid you’re going to have to find another lawyer, Angie. Lenore Pendleton is dead.”
    â€œDead!” I was