Shadows on a Maine Christmas (Antique Print Mystery Series Book 7) (6 page)

Maggie stared at him. “The ‘hidden garden’?” She’d visited that peaceful place. In summer chipmunks chirruped and raced along and between the old granite stones in the walls. Stone chairs and benches had been set along paths so visitors could relax and enjoy the perennials and thick plantings several feet, and a world away, from the street.

“Ayuh. That’s what they call the place now. The Waymouth Garden Club claimed it and planted it real nice some years back. But when I was a kid it was a wild, dirty place where teenagers went to smoke and hang out. Other things happened there, too, I suspect. I was only a kid, but I heard stories. Ghost stories, mostly, but still. And then a girl’s body was found there. People talked about it for weeks. But no one ever found out who she was, or where she came from.”

Nick paused. “I used to go and look at that cellar. Imagine her body there. Thought if I were a cop, I’d be the hero who’d figure out who she was. And get the guy who killed her.”

“Did they ever identify her?” Will asked.

“Nope. First thing I did, once I was a state trooper, was read her case files. She’s still a Maine State cold case. All these years later.” He paused. “When I have extra time, between cases, I still go over that file. I’ve read it hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. I’ve fed the information we have, such as it is, into every new state and federal database that comes on-line. Talked to everyone around at the time. Zip. Nada. I always figured someone in Waymouth knew something. That eventually it would come out.” He shook his head. “The town buried her, but we still don’t know who she was, or where she came from. Or who killed her. Or why.”

“Wow,” said Maggie. “There must be a family who’s missed her for, what—thirty years or more?”

Nick shrugged. “You’d think so. But she never matched any reported missing persons. That might be the saddest part.”

“But you’re still investigating,” said Maggie. “You haven’t given up.”

“I’m still looking,” said Nick. “I’ll admit, after all this time, I may never close the case. But at least I’ll know I tried. And I’ve solved a few other murders along the way. So I’m still glad I chose this profession. I’m just too stubborn to give up on that one case.”

“I’m glad,” said Maggie. “And glad you told us.”

Nick took a long drink. “Hey, Maggie, you’re a girl. Here’s a question for you. What would a teenage girl want for high school graduation? My Zelda’s a senior, and her mom wants to buy her a piece of fancy jewelry.”

“Jewelry’s a lovely idea,” said Maggie. “It would be something for her to remember the occasion by. Maybe to pass down to her own daughter someday.”

“Don’t mention her having kids any time soon. That’s not going to happen if I have anything to do with it.” Nick raised his fist. His eyes didn’t smile. Then he seemed to relax. “That heirloom idea? Could work for some girls. But Emily—that’s my ex—she sent Zelda a real pearl necklace for her sixteenth birthday last year. And you know what my kid did with it?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Pawned it. Gave it to a friend who was over twenty-one and he pawned it. I don’t know what she did with the money. Maybe new clothes.” Nick looked at Will. “I don’t pay attention to what jewelry she’s wearing. I wouldn’t even know what she’d done if the pawnbroker hadn’t called to tell me he’d had her in his place and figured the necklace didn’t belong to the guy who pawned it.”

“What did you do?”

“I got it back, and put it in my safe deposit box. There could come a time when she’d want it. And I skinned her alive for what she’d done.”

“But it was hers,” said Will.

“Yeah. It was,” said Nick.

“Is she going to college next year?” asked Maggie.

“She’s smart enough. But I don’t know about college. I don’t want her to go far away, you understand. I don’t want her getting in any trouble.” He leaned over. “I don’t think she’s applied anywhere, and that’s fine with me. Biggest reason I’d have to tell her to apply is this boy, Jon Snow, she thinks she likes. She needs to get away from him.”

“What kind of a boy is he?”

“Just a kid. No one she should be planning her life around,” said Nick. “So what should I tell Emily about the jewelry?”

“Is Emily in touch with Zelda? Do they see each other?” asked Maggie.

“Nah. Not for a few years. When Zelda was eleven or twelve Emily came up to Maine for a weekend and bought her a fancy lunch and a pile of clothes she didn’t need. Now she sends her cards and money for her birthday when she remembers. Not close.”

“Why don’t you suggest she invite Zelda to go and visit her for a week or so? As a graduation present. Maybe it’s time they got to know each other better,” Maggie suggested.

“I don’t think you understand. I let Zelda go, she might never come home. Speaking of which,” he stood up, “I should be getting home now. I’m expected. We’re decorating our tree tonight. Maybe I‘ll see you both tomorrow night at the Westons’ party.”

Maggie looked at Will as Nick left. “That was abrupt.”

Will shrugged his shoulders. “You were telling him what to do about Zelda. He’s a little touchy about her.”

“He asked me!”

“No difference. It’s just his way. Don’t worry. Next time we see him he won’t even remember. We need to be getting back home anyway.”

Maggie finished her beer. “Nick makes me curious to meet Zelda, though.”

“Better not tell him that,” said Will. “He’ll think you’re trying to recruit her for your college in New Jersey and planning to take her away.”

“You’re joking?” said Maggie, as Will helped her on with her jacket.

“I’m not sure, actually,” said Will. “Nick’s a little protective about Zelda. I’ve found it’s better to keep your peace when it comes to her.”

’Twas The Night Before Christmas—A Chance to Test Santa’s Generosity.
1876 black-and-white wood engraving by Thomas Nast from
Harper’s Weekly
. Nast, a German immigrant, began working as an artist for
Harper’s
when he was fifteen. Later, using his own five children and his home in Morristown, New Jersey, as subjects, each year he drew at least one Christmas illustration for
Harper’s
. He based his ideas on Clement Moore’s poem “The Night Before Christmas,” but his drawings give us the vision of Santa we have today. In this engraving one of his young sons is in pajamas, hanging a stocking almost as long as he is from the mantel of Nast’s home. Santa’s face and a circle of holly are pictured on the fireplace screen. 10 x 14 inches. Price: $225.

By midmorning
on Christmas Eve wrapped packages were appearing under the Christmas tree. Maggie added several boxes of her own to the pile, resisting peeking at the tags, but feeling like a child. She hadn’t had a tree with unknown gifts under it since she’d been a little girl.

Christmas was for children. Next year. Next year …

Will’s telephone rang several times about the offer he’d made on the Victorian house, but he didn’t volunteer what was happening, and she didn’t ask.

Aunt Nettie’s suggestion that it was a perfect day to make gingerbread people solved the problem of what she was to do, and soon they were cutting out and decorating gingerbread boys and girls with a vengeance, focusing on lining up silver buttons and raisin eyes.

Aunt Nettie was looking forward to the party at her friends’ house, no matter the weather. “Did you bring a nice dress, Maggie? Ruth and Betty will expect us to dress up a bit. You’ll see.”

Maggie bent over the last tray of gingerbread children. “I have a dress,” she answered. She’d brought a silky red dress with a fitted top and swirly skirt she’d seen in a boutique window in Flemington and couldn’t resist. It wasn’t her usual style, but it fit perfectly, and she’d hoped she and Will might go to a nice restaurant for dinner, maybe in Portland. Or even go out New Year’s Eve. But it looked as though the party at Ruth’s and Betty’s house would be the dress-up occasion for this trip.

“Wow!” Four hours later, the look on Will’s face was more than worth the dress’s price. “We should get dressed up more often.”

Aunt Nettie nodded wisely. “You look very nice, dear. Will, you don’t look half-bad yourself. I’d forgotten you owned a tie.” Will was dressed in navy pants and a pale blue dress shirt (the color Maggie always thought reflected his eyes) and a red tie, topped by a tan wool sweater. For Maine, that was about as dressy as a man would get, short of his own wedding or funeral. Aunt Nettie was wearing a gray wool skirt with a red sweater set and pearls.

“Very elegant,” Maggie announced, checking them all out. “And festive.”

“It’s fun to have a party to go to Christmas Eve,” Aunt Nettie agreed.

Will and Maggie each took one of her arms and helped guide her down the now-icy ramp.

Their drive through Waymouth was as beautiful as it had been the night Maggie had arrived. Maine marked Christmas with thousands of tiny sparkling white lights woven in wreaths, trees and lamp posts, and through pine garlands and wide red ribbons bedecking bridge railings. In New Jersey most decorations were multi-colored flickering lights. Not to mention the grotesque inflated vinyl Santas and Rudolphs and Frostys that appeared on too many suburban lawns.

Somewhere in Maine there was no doubt a totally tacky lawn scene, including roof lights, complete with Santa and all eight (or nine) reindeer. But wherever that was, it wasn’t in Waymouth.

The large house where Ruth and Betty lived was on Hill Street, the highest elevation in town, lined with colonial homes built in the era when ships’ captains and owners wanted to look out over the harbor, survey their property, and watch for arrivals of schooners from distant lands and coasters from New York, Boston, and Portland.

In those days there’d been few trees in towns; the Victorians’ value of trees as landscaping had yet to be established. Trees had been cut down for use in construction or as fuel. Today’s residents of those same houses found their harbor views blocked by large maples, oaks, and pines, and by taller houses, like the one Will might buy. But the stately captains’ colonial or Federal style homes still stood, grandly looking down at a town that had grown up to them in space, but not in elegance, over the past two centuries.

Tonight Ruth’s home shone brightly, all rooms lit, electric candles centered in the wreaths hung in every window, and real candles set in the snow to mark the path to the door.

In New Jersey the path would have been marked by paper bags filled with sand to support the candles inside. Here, with little wind and ample snow, there was no need for bags to hold the candles.

“Quite a house,” Maggie commented.

“Ruth always had more money than the rest of us,” said Aunt Nettie. “Although she never acted like it made a difference. Ruth’s and Betty’s father owned Waymouth Hardware, back before everyone shopped at chain stores. And then Ruth married Jonas Weston. His father had an automobile franchise outside Portland. Jonas inherited it. Lots of money there, too. This is Ruth’s house. Betty inherited money from her parents, but she never had as much as Ruth. Ruth’s always looked out for her.”

“You said they’d lived together for years?” said Maggie, as they got out of the car and Will lifted Aunt Nettie over the snow bank onto the sidewalk.

“Since Ruth’s husband died. Their children grew up together.”

Will rang the doorbell.

A middle-aged man with a thick gray mustache and frameless glasses answered. “Welcome! Merry Christmas! I’m Ruth’s son, Brian. Ms. Brewer, I recognize you, of course. Come on in.”

“Thank you, Brian,” said Aunt Nettie. “This is my nephew, Will, and his friend, Maggie.”

A piercing cry came from deep in the house. “And that’s my unhappy son. He’s probably wet again. You’ll excuse me.” Brian headed up the stairs toward the second floor.

“Aunt Nettie, give me your coat,” said Will. “And Maggie? Yours? I assume there’s somewhere to put these.”

Ruth appeared from the room to the right. “So glad you’re here. We’re a bit less organized than I’d hoped. Will, could you take the coats up the stairs and put them on the bed in the first bedroom? That’s my room. No one should be in there.” She smiled at Maggie and Aunt Nettie. “I hope.” She bent over and whispered as Will headed up the wide staircase, “Little Jonas is a bit colicky and Jenny and Brian are nervous parents. No one’s getting much sleep, and I’m afraid everyone’s blaming everyone else.” She grimaced a bit. “I’m so glad we’d planned this party. I can use a little relief.”

A short, heavy man wearing a Red Sox hat and a Patriots sweatshirt came out of the living room. He had two cookies in one hand and a glass of soda in the other. “Mrs. Weston? How many cookies can I have?”

“It’s a party, Billy,” she answered, patiently. “I told you. Have as many cookies as you want.”

“Can I have all of them? Can I take them home with me?”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean that. Where’s your mother, Billy?”

“She’s with Ms. Hoskins. She’s giving her a shot. She told me to talk to you.”

“I see. Well, why don’t you eat those two cookies, and drink your soda, and then come back and talk with me again. Or maybe your mother will be free by then.”

“All right, Mrs. Weston.” The man wandered off down the hall, dripping cookie crumbs on the Oriental carpet as he went.

“I haven’t seen Billy in years,” said Aunt Nettie. “He’s gotten…even bigger.”

“Fatter is the word you’re looking for,” said Ruth without hesitating. “Carrie lets him do and eat whatever he wants. And you haven’t seen him because he’s always with her. He follows her around and copies whatever she does. I’m surprised he isn’t with her now. I guess the desserts and drinks were too tempting. Usually we don’t have those in the house, with Betty being diabetic, and Billy eating like a whale.” She glanced down the hall. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t kind. It’s a sad situation. I should go and check on Betty. It shouldn’t take this long for Carrie to test her levels and give her that insulin. Betty’s exhausted, like the rest of us, because of the baby’s screaming all night, but she should be out here with our guests, and Carrie should be keeping her eye on Billy. You both go on in and get something to drink. I’ll be right back.” Ruth hurried off down the hallway.

“Tell me about Carrie and Billy,” Maggie whispered as she and Aunt Nettie went into the living room. “Before Ruth comes back.”

“Let’s sit on the couch over there.” Aunt Nettie pointed. “Carrie Folk used to nurse at Rocky Shores Hospital, but after Billy was born she started working with private patients at their homes. She’s been taking care of Betty for over a year. Maybe two. You could see Billy’s what I think they’re now calling ‘intellectually challenged.’ One of the conditions Carrie has in her contract is that if you hire her you get Billy, too. He’s with her all the time. Always has been, ever since he was born.”

“What about when he was in school?” Maggie’s friend Gussie’s nephew, Ben, had Down Syndrome, but had graduated from high school. Not the college track, but he’d been in school until he was eighteen. He was in Special Olympics, helped Gussie with her antique doll and toy business, and did odd jobs for others in their Cape Cod community. He certainly didn’t need someone with him all the time.

“Billy never went to school. I don’t know the whole story. I do know Carrie’s husband left her a year or two after Billy was born. He wanted to put Billy in an institution. Carrie refused to consider that. I don’t know what Billy’s capabilities are. Once years ago I asked Carrie if he could read, and she said he couldn’t. That he didn’t need to. She read to him. That when he was born the doctor told her Billy’d never be able to take care of himself, so it was her job to do that.”

“Sad,” said Maggie.

“What’s sad?” said Will, joining them. “Sad that two such lovely ladies are sitting by themselves and don’t even have glasses of wine?”

“There is that,” Maggie agreed.

“I like a problem I can solve,” Will said. “Red or white? Or a cocktail?”

“I’d like an Old Fashioned,” requested Aunt Nettie. “I haven’t had one of those in years.”

“Red wine for me,” said Maggie. “In honor of Christmas.”

“And it’ll match your dress,” Will approved. He headed for the corner, where, as Ruth had promised, a complete bar was set up.

If this was the house where Ruth had brought up her children, they must have had a less formal room for playing, or she’d redecorated when they’d grown. The room they were in was handsomely paneled in Federal style, with tall period windows equipped with folding inside shutters to shield occupants from winter winds. The fireplace, now glowing with a warm fire, would have been the only heat in the room when the house was built.

Maggie admired the mahogany Queen Anne card table and chairs arranged as though someone was about to begin a game of chess, and the portraits on the wall. “Ruth’s family?” she asked Aunt Nettie.

“I don’t know,” Aunt Nettie answered. “But I doubt it. Money only came into both sides of Ruth’s family two generations ago. Those paintings look older than that.”

Maggie nodded. “Mid-nineteenth century or earlier.” Probably, she thought to herself, what antiques dealers called “instant ancestors.” Portraits that came out of estates and were bought by people who didn’t care who the subjects of the paintings were. They just liked the look of oil portraits on their walls. Or wanted people to think they’d come from a family wealthy enough to commission oil portraits several generations before.

“Ruth made a lot of changes in the house after her children left home,” Aunt Nettie said. “Hired a decorator I think. I remember her saying she paid a lot for the hunting prints in the dining room.”

“I’ll look when I get there,” Maggie said. There were no well-known American hunting prints unless you counted twentieth-century prints of hunters shooting deer and partridge. She suspected those would not fit with this décor. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be unusual to see Chinese prints on a New England wall, as so many captains had been involved in the China trade.

Will hadn’t returned, and smells from the buffet table in the dining room were wafting her way. “Would you like me to fill a plate for you?” she asked Aunt Nettie.

“Why don’t we wait until we’ve had a drink?” Aunt Nettie looked across the room where Will had stopped for a few minutes, filled glasses in hand, to chat with Nick Strait. Nick must have gotten the evening off.

Maggie was tempted to go and greet him, but she didn’t want to leave Aunt Nettie alone.

“That’s Nicky over there with Will, isn’t it, Maggie,” said Aunt Nettie, following her gaze. “I’m guessing Doreen must be here, then, too. I wonder if they convinced Zelda to stop in as well.” Just then a young woman with bouffant blond hair wearing a gold lamé sheath and holding a small baby walked in and immediately became the center of attention.

“That must be Brian’s new wife, Jenny, with baby Jonas,” said Aunt Nettie. “You go and admire the baby with the others. No reason for you to be stuck here with me.”

Excused for the moment, Maggie went and looked over several sets of shoulders at the youngest Mr. Weston. He was two or three months old, and his clearly doting mother had dressed him in a tiny red sweater and pants for his first Christmas and wrapped him in a red blanket, no doubt for both warmth and for protection of his mother’s rather dramatic (at least for Maine) outfit. His recent screams had reddened his cheeks to match his clothing, but now he’d settled in with a bottle.

Maggie left the admiring throng and headed for Will and Nick. Babies. Children. It seemed no matter where she was they surrounded her. More reminders that next year she, too, would be a mother, although her child or children would be far beyond the bottle stage.

Her eyes filled. Where were her daughter, or daughters, this year? Were they happy? Were they safe? Were there gifts under a tree somewhere for them?