Twisted Threads by Lea Wait Page A

their business, not mine. But I’d need to rescue Jacques and get on the road to return him to the casino or to his room. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over. I glanced at the kitchen clock. They’d been together about half an hour. That should be enough time.
    I heard the front door close. Jacques? I got up to check. Nope. Ruth Hopkins. She was using a walker, but was making good time down the walk.
    All seemed calm. I took off my gun and slipped it into a drawer in the hall sideboard under a stack of woolen gloves. I’d know where it was, and Gram wouldn’t be looking for winter gloves in May. It didn’t seem I’d need protection today.
    Lauren Decker was laughing and Katie Titicomb was pulling on her jacket. The party was breaking up. Everyone seemed considerably more relaxed than they had earlier. Even Jacques now had a teacup in his hand and was eating. Ob Winslow was telling a story about a woodworking customer.
    It appeared Jacques’ charm had worked again. Either that, or these people had chosen to see a little immediate cash and the promise of more work and money in the future as a glass—or teacup—half full.
    I was about to collect Jacques for the return trip when he stood up. His teacup waved dangerously in the air. I hoped there wasn’t much left tea in it. Maybe he was more upset about giving back his winnings than he showed.
    “Ready to leave?” I said, entering the room. He handed me his cup. Everyone else was still. “Does anyone have any more questions for Jacques before I return him to Rome?”
    A couple of people shook their heads.
    “He’s made a fair accounting of himself, Angel. He hasn’t been forgiven, but we understand what happened, and we’re ready to take the business on without him. Our agreement with him is over. Mainely Needlepoint and Jacques Lattimore are going separate ways. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”
    Jacques started to answer, but then suddenly bent over, as though he was having severe cramps. “Bathroom?” he managed to blurt.
    I took his shaking arm. The poor guy clearly had a problem. Luckily, we had a half bath off the front hallway.
    Back in the living room Lauren was standing up. “I need to go home and get dinner on,” she said.
    Dave Percy and Ob were also getting up. “Thank you, Angie, for helping out,” said Dave, passing me in the hallway on his way to the front door. “Look forward to working with you in the future.”
    “With Gram, you mean,” I said as the door was closing. Gram was handing Sarah a thick book from the shelf of books on historical needlepoint. They were probably talking about Sarah’s quest for information about that piece of old needlework she’d found.
    The situation looked under control. Until I walked past the bathroom, and clearly heard the sound of vomiting. Maybe Jacques Lattimore had had more to drink than I’d realized.
    “Jacques? This is Angie,” I said through the door. “Do you need help?”
    “Leave me alone!” he managed to say.
    I shrugged. I hoped he’d be all right to leave soon. If he’d drunk too much, that was his issue. If he had the flu, I’d already spent too much time with him. Plus, for obvious reasons, I wanted to make sure he’d finished throwing up before we got back in the car.
    Gram was saying her good-byes to Sarah in the front hall.
    Then she came over to me. “Thank you . . .” and then realized what the problem was. “Jacques? Can I get you a glass of water? A towel? Anything?”
    “Go away,” he muttered.
    I shrugged and went to the living room to gather the cups and plates left there. Gram stayed in the hall, clearly concerned.
    Jacques was still retching and we could hear the toilet flushing every minute or two. I washed up the few cups and plates and put away the food that was left.
    “You can’t drive the man home when he’s in that condition,” Gram whispered to me. “We have an extra room. We could make that up for him. Likely it’s that twenty-four-hour