Thread Herrings

By Lea Wait

Raveler Angie Curtis gets tangled in a historical mystery. “For a trip to Maine for the cost of a book, this is the author to read.” —Kings River Life Magazine
 
Angie’s first auction may turn out to be her last—when she bids on a coat of arms that someone would literally kill to possess . . .
 
Tagging along to an estate sale with her fellow Needlepointer, antiques shop owner Sarah Byrne, Angie Curtis impulsively bids on a tattered embroidery of a coat of arms. When she gets her prize back home to Haven Harbor, she discovers a document from 1757 behind the framed needlework—a claim for a child from a foundling hospital. Intrigued, Angie is determined to find the common thread between the child and the coat of arms.
 
Accepting her reporter friend Clem Walker’s invitation to talk about her find on the local TV news, Angie makes an appeal to anyone who might have information. Instead, both women receive death threats. When Clem is found shot to death in a parking lot, Angie fears her own life may be in jeopardy. She has to unravel this historical mystery—or she may be the next one going, going . . . gone . . .
 
Praise for the Mainely Needlepoint mysteries
 
“Offers a wonderful sense of place and characters right from the very beginning. Highly recommended.” —Suspense Magazine
 
“A cozy debut that hits all the sweet spots: small town, family ties, and a crew of intriguing personalities.” —Library Journal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781496716729

Lea Wait

Lea Wait made her mystery debut with Shadows at the Fair, which was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. Shadows on the Ivy, the third novel in her acclaimed series featuring Maggie Summer, is forthcoming in hardcover from Scribner. Lea comes from a long line of antiques dealers, and has owned an antique print business for more than twenty-five years. The single adoptive mother of four Asian girls who are now grown, she lives in Edgecomb, Maine. In addition to the Antique Print mysteries, Lea Wait writes historical fiction for young readers. Her first children's book, Stopping to Home, was named a Notable Book for Children in 2001 by Smithsonian magazine. Visit her website at LeaWait.com.

Book preview

1-4967-1672-8

Chapter 1

"Happy the maid who circling years improve

Her God the object of her warmest love

Whose cheerful hours in pleasant moments

The book the needle and the pen divide."

—Stitched, with three alphabets, in 1794 by Lucy Davis, age thirteen, in Ipswich, Massachusetts.

This is an adventure? I grumbled, still half asleep, as I maneuvered my sweatered-parkaed-and-booted self into the passenger seat of the faded red van Sarah Byrne used for her antiques business. The sun isn’t even up. I couldn’t read the thermometer outside my kitchen window clearly because it was covered with snow, but the temperature is somewhere near zero.

Sarah laughed. Good morning, Angie! Aren’t you the born Mainer who likes to take early morning walks?

Not in the dark. Not in a deep freeze. So . . . not in February. I managed to fasten my seatbelt after lengthening it to fit over all my cold weather attire. And definitely not without coffee. I’d managed to get myself out from under my quilts and feed Trixi, my six-month-old black kitten, but I hadn’t had time to make coffee. When I lived in Arizona I missed Maine winters and hated the heat. I’d forgotten about frozen noses and toes. I looked out at the dark world. Although once the sun comes up all that snow and sparkling ice will be beautiful.

‘It sifts from Leaden Sieves—/ It powders all the Wood. / It fills with Alabaster Wool / The Wrinkles of the Road—’ said Sarah.

Emily Dickinson quotation, right? I wasn’t even wide-awake yet, and Sarah was already spouting lines from her favorite poet.

Emily always has something relevant to say, she said, smiling at me. Don’t worry. Coffee is doable. We’ll stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts up on Route 1. You’ll have plenty of time to wake up before we get to Augusta.

The auction doesn’t start until nine o’clock, I complained. Why did we have to leave at five-thirty?

The preview opens at seven, and it takes more than ninety minutes to get to Augusta, she reminded me. You and Patrick went to Portland yesterday to check out art galleries, so we couldn’t go to the preview then. We have to get to the auction house in time to register and claim seats and check out the lots being auctioned. Sales are always ‘as is, where is.’ Auctioneers sometimes miss details, and no auctioneer knows about all antiques. You can’t totally depend on his or her word for anything during the sale.

No returns?

Definitely not, said Sarah. That’s why we have to decide ahead of time what we want to bid on, and how much we’re willing to spend on each item. It’s easy to get carried away and spend too much if you haven’t planned ahead.

And you do this once or twice a week. I shook my head incredulously, hoping the motion would help keep my eyes open.

This time of year I pick up inventory for next summer. Summer’s when antique collectors and people furnishing their homes in ‘authentic’ period styles invade Maine with full wallets and open credit cards. I only open my shop ‘by appointment or chance’ in January and February.

I hadn’t known anything about antiques (other than those I’d grown up with in my early nineteenth-century home) until I’d met Sarah. Some of her antiques were fascinating, and some strange. But she made a living from her shop, From Here and There, so she knew what she was doing. Months ago I’d said it might be fun to attend an auction; auctions were a Maine experience I’d missed.

This was the first one she’d thought I might be interested in. Several pieces of antique needlework were being sold, and, after all, the business I managed, Mainely Needlepoint, was all about needlework. Most of the time we did new custom work, but we also identified and restored older pieces.

Did you and Patrick have fun in Portland yesterday?

The heater in the van was beginning to make a difference. My nose was no longer frozen, and I pulled off my gloves. We had a good day. Patrick’s been on a painting binge for the past month. He still has trouble holding a brush because of his burn scars, but his occupational therapist says painting will improve his flexibility. Between his painting and opening his gallery on weekends, I haven’t seen him much recently. I’ve been organizing the accounts for Mainely Needlepoint and contacting decorators we haven’t worked with to try to add some commissioned projects. So when Patrick suggested I go with him to Portland to check out other galleries, I agreed. He’s looking for galleries that might feature his art, and, at the same time, collecting names of artists to add to his gallery here in Haven Harbor. I was getting a crash course in art. Dating an artist and gallerist could do that.

I’ll bet you had a good lunch, too. Portland has great restaurants.

I nodded. But not a long lunch. A lot of galleries are in Portland. My feet had hurt after walking all day in my L.L. Bean boots. They kept out snow and slush, but, despite my heaviest wool socks, they weren’t comfortable for long city walks.

Did Patrick find any artists whose work he liked?

A couple he’s going to contact. And Clem—you remember Clem Walker?

That television reporter you went to high school with? Sarah crinkled her nose. Couldn’t forget her. She was here at Christmas, along with her crew, filming people like Skye, who wanted a quiet holiday without publicity.

Patrick’s mother, Skye West, was a well-known actress, and Clem and her camera crew had been pesky around the holidays. She was, I’ll admit. But she’s an old friend, and she’s helped me out a couple of times in the past year. Sometimes a reporter has to be a pest to get a story. Anyway, she called me a few times in January. She’s dating Steve Jeffries, a sculptor from Biddeford, and she wanted Patrick to see his latest exhibit. She’s hoping Patrick will take a couple of Steve’s constructions for his gallery. Yesterday we saw some of his work.

How was it?

Large. Interesting. Movable metal sculptures someone with a lot of money might install in his or her garden or in front of their business. Abstract, of course. Some were wind-sensitive, like giant pinwheels.

Sounds big for Patrick’s gallery.

True. But he was intrigued by a couple of Steve’s smaller pieces. In any case, art was yesterday. Today is antiques. I’ll be excited as soon as I wake up.

Sarah pulled between mounds of plowed snow into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and joined the cars in the takeout line. One large hot chocolate with whipped cream, she ordered, and then looked at me.

My usual.

Sarah knew me well. And one large coffee, black. Plus a small box of assorted donut holes. She winked at me. Sugar for energy, right?

A few minutes later we were back on our way, sipping and munching.

We’ll make good time, said Sarah. I was afraid the roads would be icy, but so far they’ve been sanded.

Route 1 was clear of snow, although in the early morning darkness it was like driving through a white-walled tunnel.

The coast of Maine gets little snow most years, considerably less than western or northern Maine, or the White Mountains in New Hampshire. But this year had been different. We hadn’t seen grass since Thanksgiving.

Road crews are out twenty-four hours a day when they’re needed.

You’re right, said Sarah. I haven’t missed one auction this winter, or had one canceled. Everyone with a truck seems to have a plow attachment.

Plowing is one of the winter jobs fishermen and landscapers and those in summer tourist industries count on, I agreed. At least in years when there’s snow.

Most Mainers welcome snow. Sarah shook her head. Open winters, when there’s little snow, are devastating for people who work in winter tourist industries like skiing or snowboarding or snowmobiling.

So . . . before we get to Augusta, fill me in. I know there are needlepointed pictures and samplers in the sale that we’ll check out. What else do we have to do?

First, we register and get our bidding numbers, Sarah explained. We’ll have separate numbers, since I’m a dealer.

What’s the difference? I asked, relishing a jelly-filled donut hole and trying to keep from dripping jelly on my parka.

I don’t have to pay sales tax, since what I’ll buy will be for resale, Sarah explained. You have to pay tax. We both have to pay the buyer’s premium.

What’s that?

Fifteen to twenty percent added to the winning bid that goes to the auctioneer and his staff. So when you bid, remember, including taxes, you’ll be paying twenty-five percent more for each item than you’ve bid.

That’s a lot, I commented.

It can add up, Sarah agreed. But unless there’s a bidding war, auction prices are lower than retail. They have to be, or dealers wouldn’t buy, and most of the bidders today will be dealers. And because dealers will only bid wholesale values, people like you, making personal purchases, can get bargains.

I remember the mink coat you wore to Skye’s Christmas party, I reminded her. You got that really cheap.

I did, she agreed. Not everyone wants fur these days. But I don’t think any fur coats will be in this auction. Most of the lots today, according to the flier, are furnishings from two estates near Augusta. Old Maine families.

Why wouldn’t the families keep their heirlooms?

Sarah shrugged. Sometimes multiple heirs can’t agree on dividing an estate. Should they consider current value? Memories and sentiment? How can distributions be made equitable? So instead of arguing they put everything up at auction and bid against one another for whatever they want. And, of course, sometimes no one in the family wants anything, so it all ends up at auction. Technically, we’re going to an estate sale. More typical auctions include items consigned by many different people.

An estate auction doesn’t sound like fun for the families involved.

No, Sarah agreed. But their loss may be our gain.

I shook my head. I’m lucky I’m the only descendant in my family. Gram’s already given me her house and a lot of the things in it. Gram had married Reverend Tom last June and moved down the street to the rectory, where Tom lived. They were happy, and, at twenty-eight, I’d unexpectedly found myself the owner of a large Haven Harbor house. I was still getting used to the challenges of home ownership. What families are selling their estates at this auction? Maybe I’d heard of one.

The brochure didn’t say. Consigners don’t always want to be identified, because of family squabbles, or financial difficulties, or just because they want privacy. Every family’s different. Sarah didn’t need to say anything more. Her recent family experiences with inheritances had not been positive.

Not knowing who the owners were makes it all a little mysterious, I added.

Sellers at auctions are seldom identified. People downsizing; people who’ve cleaned out their attics or barns and found interesting items they don’t want to keep. People who’ve inherited things their parents treasured, but that they don’t want. ‘Our own possession—though our own—/ ’Tis well to hoard anew—/ Remembering the Dimensions / Of Possibility.’ Remember that collection of antique needleworking tools I bought last fall?

Of course. Gram loves the Limoges needle and thimble cases I gave her for Christmas.

That collection had been handed down a couple of generations. Earlier owners had added to it, but the current owner removed a few items she was especially attached to, and then auctioned off the rest. That happens, especially when someone has amassed a large collection. No one in the family wants the whole collection, so it ends up at an auction house where it’s bought by other collectors, or by dealers.

So, what do we do after we register and get bidding numbers? I asked, wiping sugar off my hands and lap and finishing my coffee. The sun wouldn’t be up until almost seven, about the time we’d get to the auction house. But I finally felt awake.

We put our coats on the seats we want, to reserve them, and we buy catalogs.

Lists of everything to be sold?

Right. In the order they’ll be sold. The list includes a brief description, and an estimate of the amount the auctioneer thinks the lot will go for. That’s helpful, but don’t feel confident or intimidated by the estimates. They can be wildly inaccurate, Sarah advised. And remember, you’re bidding not only against people in the room, but also those bidding by telephone or Internet, and those who’ve left bids before the auction starts. What each item is sold for depends more on who the bidders are on any given day than on the lot’s value, although both are important. A mid-nineteenth-century iron bank in the shape of an elephant may be worth seventy-five dollars to an antique dealer. But if there are collectors of banks, or collectors of elephants, in the audience, it could go for hundreds. Dealers drop out of the bidding when it gets too high for them to resell at a profit, but collectors sometimes keep going way above retail prices.

It sounded complicated.

And then we get to look at the items themselves?

Exactly, Sarah confirmed. We’ll both want to look at the samplers and other needleworked items, but after that we can wander. I want to check out the pine furniture they advertised and the folk art and antique toys. They sell well for me.

I’ll look at the jewelry, I mused. You once told me jewelry can go below appraised value, and I only have one or two pieces that aren’t costume jewelry. It would be fun to dream.

Exactly what auctions are for, Sarah confirmed.

The van was heating up, or maybe I was, after the coffee. Sorry to have been so grumpy when you picked me up, I said. I’m looking forward to this. My first auction! It’s like a treasure hunt.

You never know what you might find, Sarah agreed. Just make sure to look carefully at anything you might bid on, so you don’t have any surprises after you get it home.

Chapter 2

We have nearly, if not quite, lost the art of embroidering in wool, in which our grandmothers so excelled. Tokens of their labor and skill remain in many an old country house, where coarse twilled calico, or perhaps a flimsy neutral fabric of neutral tint, has been transformed into a priceless heirloom, covered diagonally by foliage and birds in worsted embroidery.

—From Peterson’s Magazine (an American magazine for women), April 1874.

The auction house parking lot was full. Most of the spots between piles of plowed snow were filled by trucks or vans; the occasional car was an exception. And, despite the month and weather, license plates were not only from Maine but also from New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, and even North Carolina.

Dealers, Sarah pointed out. The brochure was designed to be enticing. Two old families, items from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and possibly before. That’s catnip to an antique dealer.

We lined up at the registration desk. The other bidders ranged in age from twenties to, I suspected, eighties. Many seemed to know one another. Sarah gave the auctioneer’s wife, who was registering bidders, her Maine resale certificate. All I had to do was fill out my contact information and a credit card number. (There’s a surcharge if you use the credit card. Paying by cash or check is preferred. The credit card is just backup, Sarah whispered.) Or, I figured, to be used if I took whatever I’d bought and headed out without paying. I was glad I’d brought my checkbook.

Sarah was number sixty-three, and I was sixty-four. Lucky numbers? I hoped.

My adrenaline (or was it the caffeine?) was flowing as we hung our coats on two seats in the third row, on an aisle.

So we can get out easily if we want to buy coffee or use the ladies’ room, Sarah explained. From the third row we can see the items as well as anyone, but the runners won’t be stepping on our feet.

Runners?

The men and women who get the items from the display room, bring them to the auctioneer, and then walk them around to display them while the bidding is going on. If the items are small, the runner will then deliver them to the highest bidder.

I nodded, fascinated. This world had its own vocabulary.

The display room of the auction house was about the size of a high school basketball court, but with a lower ceiling. Paintings, prints, quilts, wall clocks, mounted deer, moose, and bear heads, and an assortment of household items like bed warmers, farm tools, and copper pans were hung on one wall. Rows of furniture, from potty chairs to beds to bureaus, dining room tables, desks, rocking horses, and butter churns, stood in rows in the middle of the room. Glass cases of jewelry, china, old guns, and small decorative items were along the back wall. Carpets and rugs filled one corner. The rest of the items, from kitchen tools to snuff boxes to dollhouses to writing boxes, were arranged on tables.

See the boxes under the tables? Sarah pointed as we wove our way through the crowd to the wall where the needlepointed items were hanging. Those are box lots: books and kitchenware and tools and miscellaneous household items, none of which are too valuable. The boxes are sold as individual lots—you get whatever’s in them. If you’re lucky, a couple of good items are in each box. And sometimes a treasure escapes the auctioneer’s eyes. That’s why you’ll see people going through the boxes carefully.

Everything in the room was tagged with a lot number.

All around us, people were examining the items. Some stood, looking slowly and carefully at lots they were interested in. Others were checking tape measures or magnifying glasses or reference books on antiques. Tables were being overturned, pictures removed from the walls, and catalogs checked. No one talked much, or, if they did, they spoke softly to a friend or partner.

You don’t want to advertise what you might be bidding on, Sarah explained quietly. Dealers watch other dealers. If they know, for example, that Mrs. Jacques is an expert on porcelain, and that she’s going to bid on, say, lot 454, they figure that lot must be good. They might bid against her because they trust her judgment. So she’ll make a note in her catalog to remind herself to bid. After all, there may be six hundred lots in an auction, and she may only be interested in, say, forty-two. She may not even make that note until she’s looking at another lot.

Wow. I had no idea so much was involved in bidding.

Dealers are competitive, Sarah assured me. After all, this is how we make our living.

We’d almost gotten to the wall of framed paintings, prints, photographs, and, yes, needlework.

Five pieces were tagged to be sold as separate lots. Sarah took one off the wall and turned it over. The frame looks original, she said, pointing to the shading on the back and the four-sided nails that secured the backing. It’s a traditional Maine sampler, dated and signed.

Charity Providence, age eight, had stitched it. Her work was neat, but faded. The linen backing was tan, and, although, looking carefully, it appeared that she’d stitched her three alphabets in shades of blue, the threads were now grayed with age. Charity hadn’t stitched a verse, but she’d included her location (Hallowell, Maine), the year (1800), a two-story house surrounded by what might be pine trees, and a border of strawberries.

Nice, said Sarah. A little too faded, unfortunately, for most collectors, but the stitching has held. Silk threads in samplers as old as this one have often rotted and broken. I suspect her family framed this shortly after she finished it, but in those days they didn’t have glass that blocked the sun’s rays. It might even have been hung near a window.

The sampler next to Charity’s was a memorial sampler, stitched primarily in black threads, showing a man, a woman, two children, and a dog, all with bowed heads, mourning at a gravestone beneath a weeping willow tree. The two names on the gravestone were hard to read, but the last name was Providence.

Is all the needlework from the Providence family? I asked.

I’d guess so, said Sarah. Remember, everything in the auction is from two families. I don’t know what the current name of the family is; the Providences may have daughtered out, but Providence was a family name in late eighteenth-century Maine.

I stopped. ‘Daughtered out?’

A generation that had no sons, only daughters. When the daughters married they took their husband’s names, or they died single. In either case, the original family name ended. So whoever put these pieces up at auction may not have the last name Providence.

Daughtered out? I was the only child in my generation. If I

Reviews for Thread Herrings

[carlathelibrarian · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It’s February in Haven Harbor and Angie and her friend, Sarah Byrne, are going to attend an antique auction. Sarah is looking for items for her antique store, while Angie is attending to see what an auction is like and possibly find some needlepoint items. At the preview for the auction items, Angie finds an interesting embroidered coat of arms. It is in poor shape and Sarah tells her it is probably not worth anything, but it calls to her. When she wins the auction, she takes the piece home and removes it from the frame. In the backing of the piece, she finds a piece of ribbon and a folded piece of paper that is a receipt for baby Charles who was left at the London Foundling Hospital in 1757. Angie's curiosity kicks in and she decides she would like to find out who Charles is and if he has any relatives living in Maine. This decision sets in motion a chain of events that finds a friend of Angie's dead and her life threatened until she is basically under house arrest for her own safety. It is great to see the familiar characters from previous books all present to varying degrees and willing to help her with her research.

This is a great mystery, both the historical and the present day murder. Patrick and Angie are still moving forward with their relationship, but Patrick seems to be a bit overbearing in this book, perhaps due to his desire to keep Angie safe. It was really interesting to see how Ruth is able to use geneology to trace the baby left at the hospital and tie it to a political family. Are they ashamed of their past and want Angie to hush up? There are some red herrings, some obscure clues and lots of computer work used in the pulling together of this mystery. Once again, each chapter begins with an example of work from old samplers worked in colonial and later eras. If this does not interest you, you can skip over it, but I enjoy learning about the needlework of the past as it paints a picture of community, relationships and history. I pretty much figured out who the killer was about halfway through the book, but the motive was left until the end. This book has a lot of tension and suspense as well as relationship building and interactions between the Mainely Needlepointers. I recommend this book to cozy mystery lovers, especially if you enjoy more than one storyline that comes together beautifully at the end. The publisher, Kensington Publishing Corporation, generously provided me with a copy of this book upon request. The rating, ideas and opinions shared are my own.

[cyderry · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Angie Curtis is goes to an estate auction with her friend Sarah Byrne where she is captivated by apiece of needlework of an ancient coat of arms. Unable to resist,, Angie wins it but trouble comes along with her purchase. Researching the coat of arms and an ancient paper found with it dated 1757, apparently someone is not happy when her friend Clem who is a TV reporter, publicizes the information and the desire to find out more about the needlework. Clem is found dead the next day, Ange's car is bombed, and pole are certain that she is in danger. But Angie is determined to find out who killed her friend and why.Great addition to this series! The characters continue to grow and bring realism to the storylne.

[aztwinmom · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Angie, the owner of Mainely Needlepoint, attends her first auction with her friend and buys a poorly preserved embroidered coat of arms which intrigues her. The real surprise is behind the embroidery; a beautifully crafted bookmark and information about a baby who was given to a foundling home in London. Angie is intrigued by the story and is searching for more information. Her friend, Clem, a news reporter puts the story on air, asking the public for information. Instead, Clem and Angie receive anonymous threats. Of course, Angie doesn’t drop the search, despite the very real danger. The story leads back to the early days of Maine, but who cares enough to kill for it? This series continues to be enjoyable with a well-crafted mystery and sympathetic characters.

[joannefm2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When Angie Curtis attends an auction with her best friend Sarah Byrne, she doesn't expect to find anything in particular. But on an impulse she purchases an old needlework embroidery of a coat and arms. Even though Sarah tells her it isn't worth much, Angie decides she likes it and takes it home. When she removes the frame she finds what turns out to be a piece of ribbon that identifies a child from a foundling hospital. When she investigates further she discovers that it originated in England.She decides to do a little more digging but the historical society is unable to help; running into her friend Clem Walker - a reporter for a television station - yields at least some sort of answer. Clem puts her on the air to talk about her find but the response they receive isn't one they're waiting for. Death threats ensue, and while Angie is shaken, she thinks at first it must be a crank. But when she's supposed to meet Clem for lunch and the woman doesn't show up, it's not long after that she's found dead in her car, with an embroidery needle in her neck, leaving the threat to Angie's life taken seriously.But when another tragedy strikes it's apparent to everyone that Angie's life is in danger, so she's convinced to hide out until the killer is found, having no contact with her friends or family unless by phone. But it's not long before she starts to feel caged; and since she has nothing but time on her hands, she slowly starts to put the pieces together of who wants her dead. But the why eludes her, and unless she can convince a killer to confess, someone just could get away with murder...I can't tell you how thoroughly I enjoyed this book. We get to see how Angie reacts when she's not only faced with a life-or-death situation, trying to figure out why someone would kill for a badly kept piece of embroidery. She's used to being independent and for the first time must actually do what the police say and keep out of sight, even if it is in a beautiful place with Patrick.Most of the "action" actually takes place through telephone calls which makes it a little unique in the fact that the protagonist didn't go out and stumble across clues. They were given through conversations (and a little bit of Internet research), which I thought was quite interesting.When Angie finally puts everything together she has a difficult time convincing people to believe her, but I think that only made the book more plausible and it showed that the author is able to convey a story without putting the main character through a bunch of false steps before figuring out the truth.I liked the fact that for those of us who have never been to an auction (nor probably will ever have a true desire to do so) the steps leading to the auction itself were explained, as I didn't realize that there was an 'order' that must be done (although I did know that one can't just go in, sit down and raise a paddle to bid).When the ending comes and we ourselves learn the truth, it is a tale as old as time, but a sad one nonetheless, and shows us to what extent some will go to in order get what they want. As the seventh book in the series, it is just as good as the previous ones, and Ms. Wait is indeed able to craft a story that keeps you reading throughout, wanting to know where the tale will lead. I look forward to the next in the series. Recommended.

[cathyskye · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I've enjoyed Lea Wait's Mainely Needlepoint cozy series from the beginning. I've painlessly learned a lot about Maine through these books-- from its fascinating history to its landscape and weather to the customs of present-day Mainers. And I am happy to announce, Thread Herrings is the best of the series so far. I loved the reminder of how much fun attending auctions can be, and I can imagine many other readers being tempted to attend their first one from Wait's description of Angie's experience at the beginning of the book. But the one thing that takes center stage in Thread Herrings is the mystery. Angie's friend is shot to death on her way to meet Angie at a local restaurant. From strangers asking locals where she lives to death threats by email and other means, it's clear to see that Angie's life is well and truly in danger and Wait skillfully ratchets up the suspense (and the need to read faster to make sure Angie doesn't come to harm).And guess what? Wait doesn't create this palpable tension by having Angie do something stupid! I can't tell you how refreshing that is. Angie gets a bad case of cabin fever, but when the local and state police tell her to stay put and stay inside, she does it-- and the book is still scary and suspenseful. (There are authors who need to make note of this because I'm not the only reader who can't stand characters who are TSTL-- Too Stupid To Live.)The reveal at the end of Thread Herrings is a satisfying one, and now I have to settle down and wait for the next installment. It can't come fast enough for me.

[laurasreading · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What do you do when you live in a tourist area during a blustery cold off season?You might be surprised. There seems to be quite a bit of activity around Haven Harbor, Maine.For those who run shops based on collectibles and antiques, the off season is a time for education, research and adding inventory. Angie Curtis is still figuring out her life and one new experience is attending an auction. If you have never been to one, this is an education in the language and rules. Why do people bid on other people's cast offs? There are as many reasons as there are for why people commit murder. Angie feels something for an old, abused piece of needlework, an embroidered coat of arms.When she takes it home and takes it apart, she discovers a mystery. She asks friends for help discovering the meaning of a ribbon hidden behind the embroidery, which sets off an unexpected chain of events. It also causes the death of a high school friend, turned news reporter.Full of interesting historical information, this book helps us understand more of Angie's character.Danger comes to Haven Harbor. Can her circle of friends keep Angie safe?Cozy mysteries are always full of interesting trivia. This one takes it up a notch.

[diana.hauser · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

THREAD HERRINGS by Lea Wait is a Mainely Needlepoint Mystery. It is the 7th title in this very clever ‘cozy mystery’ series.I don’t always have a ‘cozy’ relationship with cozy mysteries. I have liked some series and loathed others. But I do like this particular one. (Maybe because I live in Maine and Leah Wait also lives in Maine.) The titles are extremely clever - TWISTED THREADS, THREADS OF EVIDENCE, THREAD AND GONE, DANGLING BY A THREAD, TIGHTENING THE THREADS, THREAD THE HALLS and the current THREAD HERRINGS. The locale is coastal Maine and Ms. Wait has captured the sense of place very well. The characters are pretty believable and while the plots can be a bit thin, they, too, are believable. I like the embroidery and needlepoint themes throughout the books. Each chapter gives an example of a historical piece of needlework. I also like the references to real towns and cities, highways and restaurants, local history and customs. Angie Curtis and her friend Sarah are attending an auction and Angie bids on a tattered piece of embroidery that catches her attention. It is a coat of arms. Her interest leads to many questions - Can it be restored? Who did it belong to? Where is it from originally? What is the mysterious piece of paper and ribbon hidden in the frame?Angie’s sleuthing leads her to the Maine Historical Society in Portland and a Foundling Hospital in London. But why would someone be stalking her and her friends, trying to retrieve this piece of embroidery?Leah Wait is known for her excellent historical fiction (set in Maine) for elementary and middle school students. She also writes for adults.

[kris_anderson-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Thread Herrings by Lea Wait is the seventh story in A Mainely Needlepoint Mystery series. Angie Curtis is the manager of Mainely Needlepoint in Haven Harbor, Maine. Angie is accompanying her friend, Sarah Byrne to an auction in Augusta. Angie has not been to an auction previously and is looking forward to the experience. Angie is intrigued by a half-finished vintage framed needlepoint coat of arms that is not in the best condition and she spontaneously bids on it when none of the other participants show interest. At home, Angie removes the needlework from the frame and finds a pale silk blue embroidered ribbon along with receipt from the London Foundling Hospital dated October 26, 1757 for a child baptized Charles. Angie wants to learn more about the coat of arms and the child, but she is unsuccessful at the Maine Historical Society. She has lunch with Clem Walker, friend and television reporter, who suggests doing a human interest feature and appeal to the public for information. Instead of receiving helpful material, both ladies receive death threats. Soon Clem is found shot dead in car in Haven Harbor and Angie’s car goes boom injuring someone close to her. Angie goes into hiding, but she this does not deter her from investigating. Can she identify the culprit before he finds her?Thread Herrings can be read alone if you have not indulged in any of the previous novels in A Mainely Needlepoint Mystery series. Angie goes to her first auction and her friend, Sarah kindly explains auction protocol. Since I have not been to an auction, I found it interesting. I had no idea there was a buyer’s premium added to the hammer price (winning bid). I could tell the author did her research on the London Foundling Hospital, land patents or grants, the billet or receipt for the child and mementoes parents left behind as identifiers (to later claim the child). Lea Wait incorporated the information in a way that made it easy to understand. Ruth Hopkins helps Angie with genealogy research, but we see very little of the other Mainely Needlepoint group. Patrick West is in town and Angie hides out in his finely appointed carriage house. Personally, I am not a fan of Patrick and I keep hoping they will break up. Patrick comes across as superficial (especially when he was discussing the yacht that could only sleep eight). Angie needs a partner with more depth and who is interested in sleuthing. The mystery plays out with clues interspersed up to the reveal. Angie must solve the mystery via phone since she is unable to go out in public which is a unique way of investigating the crime. Readers are unable to play along and solve this whodunit. I could have done without the frequent (I stopped counting after six) mentions of Angie’s gun (a Glock). Angie does manage to indulge in cooking, dining out friends (before the death threats), drinking fine wine, playing with Trixi (her kitten), watch movies, handle business details and check in with Gram. As the action heats up in Thread Herrings, you will find yourself riveted. You cannot help but keep reading to discover how the story plays out.