Shadows on a Maine Christmas (Antique Print Mystery Series Book 7) (13 page)

Winter Has Come (Godey’s Paris Fashions Americanized).
Hand-colored steel fashion engraving for
Godey’s Lady’s Book
, engraved by J.I. Pease, c.1860. An example of French fashions simplified and designed for American women or their dressmakers to replicate, typical of
Godey’s.
Two women standing on stark ground, in front of bare trees and a towered Gothic building. Both women are wearing bonnets tied under their chins and knee-length capes (one green and one black), and one is carrying a fur muff. Their sleeves and the part of their skirts showing are blue in one case; mauve in the other. (The woman in black and mauve is clearly in mourning.) 6.4 x 9 inches. Price: $60.

“Last night
it was so much fun hearing about what you did in Portland I plain forgot to tell you,” Aunt Nettie apologized the next morning. “Nicky called. He wanted to know what we’d found out from Ruth. I told him, and said you’d already talked with Owen, Maggie, and you were in Portland to talk with Miranda. Nicky wants to talk with both of us again as soon as possible. I told him you’d call him when you got home. I guess you’d better call him this morning.”

“I’m sure you told him everything we found out, which wasn’t much,” said Maggie. “But I’ll call him.”

“Good. I don’t want him thinking I’m getting forgetful, or like Betty. And, Will? A Mr. Krieger called for you. Something about the building inspection.”

“That could be important. Why didn’t he call on my cell phone?” Will muttered. He headed toward his office, calling back over his shoulder, “My paperwork is upstairs. I’ll be back after I talk with him.”

“I assume Will’s going ahead with trying to buy that house from Walter English,” said Aunt Nettie.

“Sounds that way,” said Maggie. “He hasn’t told me much. I guess he’ll tell us when the deal does or doesn’t go through.”

Aunt Nettie shook her head doubtfully. “I’ve said my piece about that place. He’ll do as he pleases. Doesn’t make much sense to me. But he’s got to have something to do other than take care of an old lady, and there are a lot worse things a man could do than fix up an old house.”

Put that way, it was hard to disagree.

“I’d better call Nick,” said Maggie.

This time he answered immediately. “Maggie! I was trying to reach you yesterday, but Nettie Brewer didn’t have your cell phone number. She said you were in Portland talking to Miranda Hoskins. How did that go? Did she say anything helpful?”

“We spent maybe fifteen minutes together. She seemed very open. She didn’t know anything about the blackmailing, or have any idea about what was being kept quiet.”

“Really. I’d like to get together with you and Nettie today, and maybe pull Owen in, too, and see what we have so far. Would you be free?”

Maggie turned to Aunt Nettie. “Could we meet with Nick and Owen today?”

“I’d have to check to see if Queen Elizabeth would mind moving our date for tea to another day, but…of course, Maggie. You go on and tell him, yes.”

Maggie hesitated. What if Will had plans? But he was still upstairs. “Nick? Nettie and I could meet with you and Owen. Perhaps this morning? If you could come here it would be easiest.”

Aunt Nettie was nodding her approval.

“Eleven o’clock, then. We’ll have coffee ready.”

“So, they’ll be coming?” Aunt Nettie confirmed.

“I don’t think they’ll be here long. We haven’t found out a lot. But the sooner we let them know we’ve done all we can, the sooner they can get on with finding the murderer.” She’d uncovered killers in the past. It had been exciting. But it had also been dangerous. Will had been right. It was definitely not anything ninety-two-year-old Aunt Nettie should be involved with.

Not to mention how Will felt about her amateur sleuthing. Although solving murders wasn’t exactly a hobby she went looking for. In the past couple of years several people near her had met horrible ends. She’d been lucky enough to figure out why, and who was responsible.

All she was doing this morning was brewing a large pot of coffee. And wondering how long Will would be upstairs on the telephone.

It must have been a complicated conversation. Will hadn’t come back downstairs before a rap on the front door announced that Deputy Owen Trask and Detective Nick Strait had arrived, a little before 11:00.

Maggie sent them into the living room while she followed with two large mugs of coffee, one black and one white.

“So can you tell us what that medical person up to Augusta said about Carrie?” Aunt Nettie asked. “What killed her?”

Nick and Owen exchanged looks.

“I guess it’ll get around soon enough. Carrie Folk died from blunt force trauma. That’s a fancy way of saying someone crushed her skull, probably with one of the logs waiting to be burned in her fireplace. Sorry to be so direct, Ms. Brewer,” said Owen. “There’d been a fire in the fireplace, so we suspect the log in question was burned.”

“We also know now it was Carrie who was sick. She had pancreatic cancer. Stage four. The medical examiner said she didn’t have long to live.” Nick sipped his coffee. “Which probably explains why she needed the money, and needed it quickly. Part perhaps for medical expenses. But we also found brochures in her home for a couple of expensive private facilities for developmentally disabled adults.”

“She was blackmailing people so she’d have enough money to provide for Billy, then,” said Maggie.

“Looks that way,” said Owen.

“What will happen to him now?”

“So far we haven’t found any trace of his father. He hasn’t provided support for Billy in over thirty years, and Billy doesn’t seem to know anything about him. He may have died, or left the country. And no other relative is known, or has come forward. Billy’s used to being cared for, and doesn’t have many skills. He’ll probably be placed with a foster family that specializes in working with special needs adults. When they feel he can manage living semi-independently he could move to one of the group homes in the state for developmentally challenged adults.”

“So there are options for him,” said Maggie. “I’m glad.”

“Absolutely,” Owen answered. “He’ll have an adjustment period, of course. But if Carrie was worried about Billy being locked up in an institution, she was thirty years too late. We don’t have places like that in Maine anymore. She didn’t have to leave a lot of money with him. The best thing she could have done for Billy was help him develop as many day-to-day living experiences as possible, so perhaps he could hold down a job, under supervision.”

“So all her worry about Billy wasn’t necessary.”

“He won’t be cared for the way she catered to him,” said Owen. “But Billy will be all right. Maybe better than all right. He’s going to meet with a case worker this afternoon who’ll write up an evaluation and develop a placement plan for him.”

“Billy isn’t the reason we’re here.” Nick inserted, impatiently. “I want to thank you for the help you’ve been. Especially for talking with Ruth Weston. You won’t be surprised to hear that we don’t consider her a serious suspect. But we haven’t ruled out everyone in her household, and there might be other people we haven’t thought of yet. Our investigation is far from over.”

“Other people in her household?” asked Aunt Nettie.

“I assume anything we say here is strictly confidential,” said Nick. “You’re Ruth’s friend, and I have to know that nothing I say to you will get back to her, or to anyone else.”

“Certainly,” said Aunt Nettie. “I’m no gossip.”

“I don’t think Betty’s daughter, Miranda, knows anything helpful,” said Maggie. “She didn’t know about the blackmail, and didn’t seem to have any idea of what it could be about.”

Nick nodded. “That fits what we suspect. We’re checking out Ruth’s son, Brian. Nothing definite so far. Just a few questions. But Owen talked to a neighbor who says he saw Brian leaving the Weston home at about two o’clock on Christmas morning.”

“I remember Ruth’s saying he went for a walk the night before. The baby was crying, and he needed to get away for a while. Maybe he makes a habit of late-night walks,” Maggie suggested.

“That may be his story,” Nick said. “But he left the Weston home at about the time the medical examiner thinks Carrie Folk was murdered. And we checked the bank he works for in Philadelphia. He’s employed there, but although he’s a lawyer, his salary isn’t a large one. And that new house he’s bought is a small pre-fab, and it’s eighty percent mortgaged. For a newly married man, at his age, with a new baby, I’d say he’s struggling. Especially since, based on their credit card bills, his wife seems to have expensive tastes.”

“Not being wealthy doesn’t make the man a murderer,” Aunt Nettie pointed out.

Owen shrugged. “We didn’t find any money in Carrie’s house. No cash at all. Ruth Weston said she’d given her ten thousand dollars a few days before. So the cash may have been in the house when she was killed.”

“If she was robbed, maybe Carrie was killed by a burglar? Maybe her murder had nothing at all to do with the blackmail,” Maggie suggested. “Someone could have known she’d recently cashed a large check and gone looking for the money. They might not have expected to confront her.”

“If so, it was a pretty smart burglar. We’ve found no fingerprints; everything was wiped clean.”

“And why would all of this lead you to suspect Brian Weston?”

Nick started to count on his fingers. “He wasn’t at the Weston home at the time of the murder. He needed money. Maybe he thought he could take the money his mother had given to Carrie and no one would know. I don’t know exactly what he had in mind, but we’re checking all possibilities.”

“It’s not an airtight case. Not yet. We’re just saying Brian’s on our radar,” added Owen.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do?” asked Aunt Nettie.

“I think we have all the information we need that you can help us with,” said Nick. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“We appreciate your talking to Ruth and Miranda.” Owen stood up.

“You’re quite welcome,” said Aunt Nettie. “We’re glad to have helped out.”

Maggie walked with the two men toward the back door. “How is Zelda?” she asked Nick. “I saw her at the concert Christmas Eve, and I’ve been thinking about her.”

“She’s fine,” he said. “Why would you ask?”

“She had a black eye.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Zelda. She and the Christmas tree ran into each other. Then she insisted on covering her face with makeup, making herself look even more ludicrous.” He shook his head. “Zelda’s fine.”

Owen looked at Maggie. “You’ll be here a few more days?”

“Through New Year’s.”

“Enjoy your vacation.” He tipped his hat, and both men headed out.

“What were they here for? I heard voices.” Will had finally come downstairs.

“Nick and Owen Trask were here.” Maggie looked over at Aunt Nettie, who nodded slightly. They’d promised not to tell anyone what they’d been told, and Will qualified as “anyone.” “How’d your phone call go?”

“I’ve got problems with the building inspection. I’m going to have to spend part of the afternoon at the house with the inspector going over the details. I need to make sure we agree about what needs to be done to make the place livable.” Will ran his hand through his hair, clearly vexed. “This isn’t at all what I’d planned to do. I’d hoped all this would be over before Christmas. I’m sorry, Maggie. I’d much rather be spending time with you. But this is critical.”

“I understand. I’m sure Aunt Nettie and I can amuse ourselves.”

“We certainly can. You go ahead. Maggie and I’ll be fine,” agreed Aunt Nettie.

“Thank you, both. I’m going to pull together the papers I need and head over to Art Krieger’s office, then.” Will went back upstairs, as Maggie sat down near Aunt Nettie.

“What do you think of the idea that Brian Weston killed Carrie Folk?” Maggie asked.

“It’s rubbish. Doesn’t make sense. That boy hasn’t got enough energy to kill anyone. He might steal her money. I could see that. But kill her? Not Brian.” Aunt Nettie frowned. “And it sounded to me like Nicky wants us to stop asking questions.”

“I thought so, too,” agreed Maggie. “So? What do we do now?”

“We ignore Nicky. We need to talk to Betty,” Aunt Nettie said. “She’s the center of all this.”

“Betty? But she doesn’t always make sense.”

“She may not to you. But she might to me. And besides, Maggie. I haven’t seen her room in a long while. But as I remember Ruth had hung pictures on the walls there.”

“Will and I saw them there. We looked in when we were at her house Christmas Eve.”

“Did the pictures have names on them? Labels that said who the people were?”

“I think so. We didn’t go inside the room. But there were signs on everything.”

“Then Carrie would have known who was in all the pictures. We definitely need to pay another call on Ruth.”

Girl in a Hood.
Lithograph of young brunette woman wearing a warm brown corduroy hood whose ends tie under her chin. Part of illustrator and painter Harrison Fisher’s (1875–1934) 1909
American Beauties
portfolio. Fisher drew popular covers for
Cosmopolitan
, and had a talent for drawing beautiful women. Gibson’s successor, his “Fisher Girls” helped define style for a generation of American women in the early twentieth century. 8.5 x 11 inches. Price: $75.

A few minutes
after Will left the house Maggie and Aunt Nettie were on their way. This time they hadn’t called ahead.

“Ruth will be there,” Aunt Nettie said. “Where else would she be? You don’t think Jenny or Brian would know how to check Betty’s sugars or help her use the commode, do you?”

But it was Miranda who answered the door. “You again!” she said, looking at Maggie. “Oh, and hello, Ms. Brewer.”

“Good day, Miranda. We’ve come to pay a call on your mother and your aunt Ruth. Would you invite us in?”

“I’m sorry. Of course, you’re welcome,” she said, moving back and allowing space for Aunt Nettie and Maggie to move past her into the hallway. “They’re both in Mother’s room. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

“No need. We’ll join them there,” said Aunt Nettie, her cane briskly leading the way.

“Are Brian and Jenny still here?” Maggie asked Miranda.

“Oh, yes,” said Miranda. “The gang’s all here. But Brian decided to show Jenny the coast, so they drove to Camden for lunch. It’s been blessedly quiet for an hour now.”

“Nettie, what a surprise. Look, Betty, Nettie and Maggie’ve come to visit us.” Ruth looked less than thrilled at their appearance. “First Miranda stopped in, and now we have more company.”

Betty was in her wheelchair in the corner of her room. She smiled uncertainly. “Who are these people? Is this a party?”

“It feels a little like one, doesn’t it, Betty,” agreed Ruth.

Miranda stepped in front of Betty. “Mother gets confused when more than one or two people are here. I know you’re an old friend, Nettie, but you really should have called before you came.”

“Old friends are the best friends,” said Betty, clearly. “Are you one of my old friends, dear?”

“I’m Miranda, your daughter? Remember, Mother? We’ve been talking about when I was a little girl. When I was a baby.”

“Miranda, I don’t think you should be bothering your mother about that anymore,” said Ruth. “I told you before. It was years ago. She’s already confused. You know anything she says now can’t be taken seriously.”

“But she was so close,” said Miranda. “She said my father was tall, and had dark hair, like I do. She’s never said that before.”

“Lots of men are tall and have dark hair. That doesn’t mean anything,” said Ruth. “Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she never did.”

Miranda looked at her. “You’re telling me my mother never knew who my father was? I can’t believe that of her. And then who was Robert Hoskins? His name is listed on my birth certificate.”

Aunt Nettie took a step further into the room. “We’ve come at a bad time then.”

“Where is my baby? I want my baby now,” said Betty, looking around the room.

“I’m here,” said Miranda, kneeling down by her mother’s wheelchair. “I’m here, with you, right here.”

“You’re not my baby. You’re a grown woman. I want my baby.”

Ruth picked up a lifelike baby doll dressed in pink pajamas from the floor near the bed and put it in Betty’s lap. “Here’s your baby.”

“My baby.” Betty gently held the doll and started rocking it back and forth, as though it were a real baby. “She’s been crying again. She needs her mother.”

Miranda just stared.

Ruth touched her gently on the shoulder. “About a month ago she started asking for her baby. She must be remembering when you were born, Miranda. She loved you so much. Nothing would console her. So I went and bought her that doll. It seems to help.”

Miranda stood up and backed away, not taking her eyes off her mother. “Thank you, Aunt Ruth. I’m sorry for pushing her about my father. But for years I’ve tried to find out more about him, and she’d never tell me.” She glanced back at Maggie, who was near the door. “When Maggie said she was talking about the past, I hoped, maybe, she’d say something about him. Who he was, or where he came from. Anything. I didn’t mean to cause her pain.”

Ruth shook her head. “I don’t think you caused her any pain, Miranda. She can’t help you. She’s buried parts of her life so deeply that now they’re gone. But the parts about you, about having you, are memories she relives with happiness. She loves you very much.”

Miranda watched her mother rocking the doll that might be her. “I don’t know how you deal with this day after day.”

Ruth reached over and hugged her. “One day and then another day. Some are easier than others.”

Miranda broke away and looked at Nettie and Maggie. “I’m so sorry this happened when you were here. I’m embarrassed. I kept thinking, Maggie, after you left the store yesterday, that maybe this was my chance. I could find out more about my father than his name. I guess I was wrong.”

“You’ve searched for him?” Maggie asked.

“I started looking years ago. I was born in Boston, so I checked Massachusetts newspapers and directories and Social Security and on-line sources. I haven’t found anyone with that name with a connection to New England who sounds remotely the right age to be my father. It’s like Robert Hoskins is a ghost.” Miranda pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “My head says it doesn’t make any real difference. But it’s like having an empty spot in my life, not to know.”

Maggie looked past Miranda. Ruth was pursing her lips, looking from Miranda to Betty.

Ruth knew Robert Hoskins, Maggie suddenly thought. Ruth knew. And she knew why Betty hadn’t told Miranda anything about him. Whatever the reason was, it must be important.

While they’d been talking Aunt Nettie was looking at pictures on the walls. “Ruth, you did a wonderful job with these. I haven’t thought of these people and places in years.”

“Since Betty was living so much in the past I wanted to put things in her room that would help her remember. Especially the good times.”

“I love these pictures of all of us in elementary school.” Aunt Nettie pointed at several photographs on the wall near the bathroom door. “I’d forgotten. Betty played the flute, and you played the violin.”

“Viola, actually,” Ruth said, joining her. “Father thought all girls should play instruments. He had the mistaken idea we were musically talented!” They both laughed. “All those hours practicing. We hated it! That’s why we never asked our children to take music lessons.”

“And here are you and Mary and I in the high school play. I can’t even remember the name of it.”

“I can’t either. All I remember is that Betty wanted a part, and they made her an understudy because she was a freshman. She didn’t speak to me for at least a month.”

They moved to another corner of the room. Aunt Nettie bit her lip. “You put this up.”

“It was a big part of our lives, Nettie.”

“True enough. I don’t have any pictures taken there.”

The photograph showed four smiling young women wearing overalls and holding soldering irons, standing beside a large piece of metal. “What is that picture of?” Maggie asked. The names on the attached yellow label were familiar, but she couldn’t place the setting.

Ruth answered. “That’s Nettie and I and our friends Mary and Susan, working at Bath Iron Works. Remember, Nettie? ‘Bath Built is Best Built.’ They hired thousands of us young women during the war. In 1944 there were over eight thousand workers, around the clock. We launched a new destroyer every seventeen days.”

“Wow. I didn’t know you were a Rosie-the-Riveter, Aunt Nettie,” said Maggie. “I’ve read about those days. I even talk about them in my American Civilization classes. But you’re the first two people I’ve met who really did it.”

“Oh, we did it,” said Aunt Nettie. “We didn’t just do riveting, either. We did everything. Wiring, operating the stamping machine and drill press. Whatever needed doing.”

“A family in Bath opened their home for a few of us who needed places to stay. We were crowded in like sardines, but we worked long hours, and kept the equipment running around the clock,” said Ruth. “They called us ‘production soldiers.’ We did everything we could for our men at sea. Waymouth’s year-’round population was only about eleven hundred in those days. But two hundred of them served in the armed forces. And about three hundred of us worked in defense jobs. It was a frightening time. We were warned that Bath Iron Works could be a German target because it was a defense plant. But we tried not to worry. We all knew dozens of men, and some women, who were serving overseas. They were in constant danger. We wanted to do our part.”

“And then the war was over, and the men came home and your jobs went away,” said Maggie. “But your generation broke down so many walls for women in the workplace.”

“It wasn’t quite like that,” said Aunt Nettie. “Not all of us worked until the end, to begin with. And the navy didn’t need as many destroyers after the war. Plus, when their men came back, most of the girls were happy to go home. Start their lives together. Or begin them again. Not too many women wanted to spend their lives on assembly lines, although a few of the war workers did stay on.”

“None of you did,” said Maggie.

“No. None of us did.”

Maggie glanced at Betty, who was now dozing, still holding the baby doll tightly to her breast. “Betty didn’t work there.”

“She did for a few months, at the end. But she was younger than the rest of us. She wasn’t old enough to go,” said Ruth. “One more thing she thought I’d been able to do that she’d missed out on.”

Maggie searched the other photographs for familiar faces.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a picture of your wedding here, Ruth.”

“It was my wedding, not Betty’s.”

“And here you both are with your children, all four of them, in front of this house. Brian and Miranda are the little ones, right?” Ruth and Betty were standing, each one holding a child of perhaps a year old, with a little boy and a little girl in front of them. The family.

“Yes. They’re close in age.”

As they continued to circle the room the pictures of Ruth and Betty with the four children continued, with all six figures aging slightly in each view. Brian and Noah playing football. Stacy in a Girl Scout uniform. Miranda in a prom dress. Pictures of Noah’s wedding. In between were one or two pictures of “the girls”: Nettie, Mary, Gloria, and Susan with Ruth and Betty. And in later years, Doreen.

The history of Betty’s life, in still photos on a sickroom wall.

Maggie had been so engaged in looking she’d forgotten about Miranda. When their tour of the room reached the door she left Nettie and Ruth to reminisce.

She found Miranda sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea.

“Why did you come today?” she asked as Maggie entered.

“Because the investigation is continuing,” Maggie answered. “People are being considered as suspects. Just because a person hasn’t lived a perfect life they shouldn’t be considered a murder suspect.”

“You’re not allowed to say who they’re looking at.”

Maggie shook her head.

“But it’s someone in my family. That’s why you’re here.”

Maggie didn’t answer.

“I don’t know you, Maggie Summer, and you don’t know any of us. If it weren’t for Aunt Ruth, I don’t know what would have happened to Mother and me. She welcomed us into her home, and she and Mother brought all four of us up. We’ve headed in different directions over the years. We’ve had our squabbles. But we’re all decent people. None of us are murderers.”

“Aunt Nettie believes that, too. But Carrie Folk was killed. And so far, no one’s found a serious suspect not connected to this house.”