Shadows on a Maine Christmas (Antique Print Mystery Series Book 7) (8 page)

Maggie swallowed. Hard. “Not yet.”

“Well, once you do, you’ll know. You want to raise your children your way, even if you know you’re not doing a perfect job. It hurts when anyone gives you advice. So I try not to. With Brian and Jenny, I keep reminding myself I’m just the grandmother. Last night I think his mother was crying more than little Jonas was. And when she’s tense and upset, Jonas senses that and cries more. Brian left and went out walking in the middle of the night. If I hadn’t had to look after Betty I would’ve been tempted to join him, even in the snow and at my age.”

“How long are they staying?” Maggie asked.

“Until New Year’s,” Ruth answered. She lowered her voice. “I love my family dearly, but I really hope that baby stops crying. For all our sakes.”

At about 6:30 people began to leave the party, many saying they were going to the community sing.

“It’s not far,” said Will to Maggie. “Would you like to go?”

“What about Aunt Nettie?” Maggie said, quietly.

“Aunt Nettie is going to stay right here if you young folks want to go along,” Aunt Nettie put in. “Ruth’s invited me to stay and chat while she has a little to eat and starts to clean up. Go ahead, you two. Brian and Jenny are taking the baby to the carol sing, and Carrie’s going to put Betty to bed. I’ll be fine here.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Just don’t have such a good time you forget to come back for me.”

“I haven’t been to one of these in years,” Will admitted, as they pulled their coats on. “But why not? It’s part of small-town Christmas.”

“Oh good! It’s snowing, too,” Maggie said as they joined others walking down the street toward the center of town. A few people carried candles or flashlights, but most houses had turned their outside lights on, so the whole town seemed bright in the snow.

Maggie and Will held hands as they walked through the night toward the Green. “It’s perfect.”

Will squeezed her hand. “It is.”

The high school band had assembled in front of the Congregational church and choirs from several churches in town were gathering, their long robes flapping over their heavy sweaters and boots. Townspeople as young as baby Jonas were there, bundled up warmly. One wizened man wrapped in blankets in a wheelchair on one of the shoveled walkways around the Green was smiling and chatting, ignoring the cold and snow.

“Can we get a little closer?” asked Maggie. “I’m curious. Which of the girls in the choir is Zelda?”

Will guided her around the center crowd until they found a place where they could see the sopranos assembling, checking music and looking around for friends and family.

He peered through the snow, which had begun to fall more heavily again. “See the second girl from the end? She’s wearing a red turtleneck under her robe. I think that’s Zelda.”

Maggie stood on her toes. “You mean the girl talking to the blonde with really short hair? The one who just waved to the tall, skinny young man over near the pine tree.”

“That’s the one. And the boy she waved at is Jon Snow, the one Nick doesn’t want her to see.”

“Clearly she isn’t paying too much attention to that rule,” said Maggie.

“Obviously. And she has a lot of makeup on for a choir girl. No wonder Nick gets upset with her,” added Will.

“Will, are you sure that’s Zelda?” As they’d moved closer to the singer, Maggie could see more clearly. “Because I don’t think that’s all makeup. That girl has a black eye.”

Filled All the Stockings.
Red-and-black lithograph by Arthur Rackham (1867–1939) of elf-like Santa with a stocking, surrounded by toys—dolls, trains, animals—some of which are strange and possibly scary, especially with their black shadows behind them. One of four color illustrations Rackham did for a 1931 edition of Clement Moore’s
The Night Before Christmas
. The verse this illustration accompanies is, “He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk.” In Rackham’s vision, not all children could count on receiving happy gifts at Christmas. 4 x 5 inch picture on 8 x 5.5 inch page. Price: $65.

Christmas morning
dawned sunny, bright—and frigid. Maggie heard Will in the kitchen below and hid her head under the quilt for a few last, luxurious moments before opening her eyes. It wasn’t quite seven, but the bedroom was filled with light despite the frosted patterns on the windows, and the smell of coffee perking had reached the second floor.

Next Christmas I’ll be the first one up, she thought. I’ll have the tree lit, the stockings filled, and presents from Santa will be waiting to be unwrapped. It will be our first Christmas together.

Whoever “we” would be.

She stretched her toes under the covers once more and smiled to herself. She could hardly wait.

Except…Will wouldn’t be there. She’d visualized a scene at her home in New Jersey. He’d be here in Waymouth, fixing coffee for Aunt Nettie.

They hadn’t had “that” talk yet. In fact, she had the feeling Will was avoiding it. But clearly he was settling into Maine life. Her life was in New Jersey. They were both moving on. Separately.

Life wasn’t a fairy tale.

She allowed herself a fleeting thought about Nick’s daughter, Zelda. How was she this Christmas morning? At first she’d thought Nick was being overprotective, and Doreen had implied that, too. But if Zelda’s boyfriend—Jon, his name was Jon Snow—had given her a black eye, maybe Nick was doing what a father should do. Protecting his daughter. Will had certainly thought so when she’d pointed Zelda’s injury out to him.

But maybe Zelda slipped on the ice or had another minor accident embarrassing to anyone, but especially to a teenaged girl. There might be nothing to worry about but her bruised ego.

Maggie allowed herself one or two more thoughts about what she’d do if Zelda were her daughter. Then she scrambled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. It was Christmas morning. Much better to be here than alone in New Jersey.

Will met her at the bottom of the stairs with a hug, a gentle kiss, and a glass of champagne.

“Really?” she asked, accepting it.

“Really. Longtime Brewer family Christmas morning tradition,” he assured her. “Did I forget to tell you?”

She raised her glass. “Then—Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Maggie!” called Aunt Nettie, who was sitting in the kitchen with a similar flute of champagne alongside her coffee. “After the party last night I decided I needed a caffeine jump start, too.”

“Would you like hot chocolate or Diet Pepsi with your champagne?” asked Will.

Maggie frowned in pretend contemplation. “I think I’ll stick with champagne.”

“Good choice,” he nodded. “I’m going with champagne, too. And not to worry. I have three bottles chilled.”

“One for each of us!” Aunt Nettie almost crowed. “Merry Christmas!”

Maggie wondered how long she and Will had been up, and how much Aunt Nettie’d had to drink already. Besides her coffee.

“The next Brewer tradition is a special Christmas breakfast,” Will explained. “Sit down, relax, drink up. I’m in charge. Blueberry muffins are already in the oven.”

“I thought I smelled something good.” Maggie sniffed. “You didn’t make blueberry muffins this morning, did you?”

“He certainly didn’t,” said Aunt Nettie. “They’re muffins I made last summer and froze. But we decided they’d make a good holiday bread for today.”

“Excellent decision,” Maggie agreed.

“The plan, you see, is that we have a big breakfast and keep sipping champagne. Then we’ll open our gifts, and take the rest of the day off. Or,” Will raised his eyebrows and leered at Maggie behind Aunt Nettie’s back, “take naps.”

“I see,” said Maggie, trying not to burst into laughter. “And this is a years-long tradition?”

“Absolutely,” said Will. “My parents celebrated Christmas morning this way, and my father said his parents had inherited the tradition. Right, Aunt Nettie?”

“In some variation. When I was a girl the meat was moose steak and the bread was apple pie. And my father liked his cider—not the kind you buy at the grocery today. But the idea was basically the same.”

“So, instead of moose steak, what are we having with our blueberry muffins, Chef Will?”

“Filet mignon, covered with sautéed mushrooms and onions in a brandy sauce.”

Maggie swallowed. “Okay. You got me. I am totally flabbergasted.”

Will bowed. “Happy to hear that, my dear.”

“And totally starving. So, demonstration time. Please!”

While Will pulled out ingredients and pans he’d managed to keep in places Maggie hadn’t noticed, Aunt Nettie leaned across the table. “Don’t worry, dear. He’s been practicing.”

She had no need to worry. Will did a fantastic job.

“Are you sure you want to open an antiques mall, and not a restaurant?” Maggie half groaned, as she ate the last few pieces of her filet. “This was spectacular. Really spectacular.”

“I found a great butcher, asked for advice, and tweaked a recipe. And I have two women I love to cook for. What more does a man need?” replied Will, clearly pleased breakfast had gone the way he’d hoped.

“Now I understand why collapsing after breakfast is a part of the Brewer Christmas morning tradition,” said Maggie, patting her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten this much so early in the day.” She raised her flute in his direction. “Or had this much champagne.”

“It isn’t time for naps yet,” said Will. “Presents first. Let’s adjourn to the living room. We can clean up later. Today is a holiday.”

“I think I might need a bit of help,” said Aunt Nettie. “I’ve had a little more champagne than I’d planned.”

Will helped her to her feet as they laughed and Maggie gathered up their champagne glasses and the most recent bottle they’d been pouring from.

The telephone rang when they were halfway to the living room.

“You get that, Maggie. It’s probably someone wishing us ‘Merry Christmas,’” said Will, who was helping Aunt Nettie to her chair.

“Merry Christmas!” she answered, picking up the phone in the kitchen. “Yes, of course. I’ll get him.” She put her hand over the receiver. “Will, it’s Nick. He sounds serious. I don’t think he’s calling to say hello.”

She joined Aunt Nettie in the living room. “The tree looks so lovely with all the lights and ornaments and the packages under it. I hate to open them. Then Christmas will be over. It’s been such a perfect day so far.”

Will was back in a moment. “This is rotten news to have to deliver on Christmas. Nick was calling to tell us that Carrie Folk died late last night or early this morning.”

Billy’s mother. That little woman who took care of Betty. And who’d been arguing with Aunt Nettie yesterday at the party.

“Was there an accident?” Aunt Nettie asked. “She seemed well last night.”

“No. Worse than that. She was murdered. Nick’s calling everyone who was at Ruth’s party yesterday, in case someone noticed anything he should know about. Anything unusual.”

Aunt Nettie nodded slowly. “Will, would you call Nicky back? I know it’s Christmas Day, but I think he should come over here. I have something he needs to see.”

Untitled.
Lithograph of seated female angel, naked, with large blue-tinged wings, holding a sleeping infant. Above angel are tan vines covered with white and brown flowers, birds, and a squirrel; at her feet are rabbits and mice. Illustration by Arthur Rackham for
The Springtide of Life: Poems of Childhood
by Algernon Charles Swinburne, edited by Edmund Gosse, Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1926. British illustrator Rackham’s tipped-in (attached to pages of books) illustrations of fanciful creatures were extremely popular throughout the first quarter of the twentieth century. 7 x 10 inches. Price: $65.

Will and Maggie
looked at each other questioningly, but neither said anything. What did Aunt Nettie have to show Nick? Will went back to the telephone and delivered Aunt Nettie’s message.

“Nick’ll be here in half an hour,” he said when he returned. He glanced around at the champagne bottle and glasses. “I guess we should clean up a little.”

“We’re not driving anywhere, and I didn’t murder Carrie, in case you’re wondering,” said Aunt Nettie. “What’s important is that Carrie’s dead, not that we’ve been drinking champagne.” Aunt Nettie, who a few minutes ago had been tipsy enough to need Will’s help to walk safely into the living room, now sounded totally sober. Deadly sober. “Will, sit down. We have to talk. And before Nicky gets here I want Maggie to open one of her presents.”

“We could wait for the gifts until later,” said Maggie. “There’s no hurry.”

“I’m afraid there is, now.” Aunt Nettie turned to her, pointing to the pile of packages. “It’s the one in the corner there, on the left side of the tree. Wrapped in red-and-white striped paper.”

For whatever reason, Aunt Nettie was now in charge. Maggie wasn’t going to question her.

The package was heavy. “Shall I read the tag out loud?”

“Please.”

“‘For Maggie and her future child. Don’t give up your dreams. With love, Aunt Nettie.’” The handwriting was shaky, but clear.

“Just open it, dear. As it’s turned out, we don’t have all day.”

Why didn’t we have all day? Why was it important that she open this gift now? Maggie wondered, as she tore the wrapping paper back and opened the box.

Inside were six children’s books, all with Maine connections.
Counting Our Way to Maine
was on top. Below it were familiar classics:
Charlotte’s Web
,
Blueberries for Sal
,
Miss Rumphius
,
Island Boy
, and
Sarah, Plain and Tall
.

“Aunt Nettie!” Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. “How did you know I’ve been hoping to adopt a child? Did Will tell you?” For a moment she wondered if… She turned to Will. “Was this your idea?”

One look at Will’s face and it was clear he knew nothing about the gift. But he was smiling.

Before he could say anything, Aunt Nettie answered her question. “I know it’s none of my business. But I’ve been silently cheering you on, Maggie. I think you’d be a wonderful mother. And if you don’t adopt, if you don’t do something you’ve so set your heart on, you’re always going to regret it.” She stopped for a moment. “Rachel helped me choose the books. They were a few of her daughter’s favorites. And she’s the one who ordered them for me, since I don’t get out too much anymore.”

Rachel’s daughter had been murdered two years ago. Since then Rachel had remarried and begun a new life. Maggie looked through the titles again. “You and Rachel did a perfect job. They’ll be the first books in the bookcase I’m going to buy for my daughter’s room.”
My daughter’s room.
Maggie smiled just saying it, but she had to wipe a couple of tears off the book jackets. She put the books carefully on the floor and went over and hugged Aunt Nettie and whispered, “Thank you, thank you. You’re the first person who’s really been on my side in all this.”

Before she could say anything more, to Aunt Nettie or to Will, Aunt Nettie nodded and pushed her gently back. “Will, now I think I’d like a little more of that champagne.”

“Are you sure you want more to drink, Aunt Nettie? Hearing about Carrie’s death has been upsetting to all of us, and you’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine. At my age a little champagne can’t make any difference.”

He filled her glass and handed it to her.

“Now, both of you sit down and listen. I’m going to tell you something I’d hoped you’d never have to hear. Everyone has secrets. Some people manage to take theirs to their graves. But —”

They heard pounding on the front door.

“That must be Nicky. Go let him in, Will.”

“Not such a Merry Christmas, Nick,” said Will as he opened the door.

Nick was wearing his Maine State Trooper’s uniform. He was on duty. “No, it isn’t,” said Nick. “The state assigns us to investigate murders near our homes, thinking we’ll have insights into the cases. But knowing those involved doesn’t make it easy.” He stepped into the living room and removed his trooper’s hat. “Good morning, Maggie. Ms. Brewer.”

“Can you tell us what happened, Nick?” said Maggie, gesturing that Nick should sit down.

He sat on the edge of the chair next to Aunt Nettie. “In general, yes. In detail, no. I can’t tell you anything everyone in Waymouth won’t have heard by noon anyway.” He half smiled, but his eyes didn’t change. “The joys of working a case in a small town. Okay. Owen Trask at the Waymouth Sheriff’s Department called me early this morning. He’s been working with me ever since.”

“We know Owen,” said Aunt Nettie.

“He and I are checking, but so far as we know, the last people to see Carrie Folk alive, other than her son and the killer, were the guests at the Westons’ party last night. You were all there, which is why I called.”

“You were there, too, Nicky. The guest list isn’t a secret. And there weren’t that many people there.”

“No. And so far, everyone who didn’t sleep at the Westons’ home last night says they left the party, went to the carol sing or to their own homes, and stayed there, except for a couple of people who went to midnight services. We’re checking on all that, of course.”

“What about Carrie? Did she go straight home?” Maggie asked.

“That’s what her son Billy says, although he’s upset, and I don’t know how reliable a witness he is. He says he and his mother put out cookies for Santa Claus and then she read him
The Night Before Christmas
and put him to bed. When he fell asleep she was in the living room listening to the news on television, the way she does every night.”

“Probably waiting for him to go to sleep so she could play Santa,” said Aunt Nettie. “If Billy still believes in Santa, that’s what a mother would do, I suspect.”

“Oh, he definitely believes in Santa,” Nick said, dryly. “He told us he was so excited about Santa coming he kept waking up. He even thought he heard Santa in the house later, but didn’t get out of bed because he wasn’t allowed to look at the tree until morning. It was a rule. When it was light he got up and went into the living room and saw Carrie on the floor next to the tree.” Nick shook his head. “One of his rules for Christmas morning was that he couldn’t open his presents until after he’d finished breakfast. He really wanted to open his presents, so when he couldn’t wake his mother he went next door, to the Lodges’ house, and asked them for breakfast. They went back with him to his house. They’re the ones who found Carrie’s body and called 911.”

The room was silent.

Maggie spoke first. “Where’s Billy now?”

“Still with the Lodges. They’re a nice young couple, and they’ve been very good with him. He doesn’t seem to understand about his mother. He’s most upset that we haven’t let him open his Christmas presents yet. But his house is a crime scene and we don’t want to take anything out of there that might have fingerprints on it.” Nick looked at Aunt Nettie. “You asked me to come here. You said you had something to show me.”

“First, I have to tell you all a story.” She took a breath, put down the empty champagne glass she’d been holding, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “This isn’t easy, but in a minute you’ll all understand why I have to tell you. Many years ago, during the war, the Second World War, when I was engaged to be married, I got pregnant.”

Maggie and Will exchanged glances. Their Aunt Nettie?

“I would have loved to have had the child of the man I loved. But …” Aunt Nettie hesitated. “It was a difficult situation. The child wasn’t his. He was overseas. After I got over the shock of knowing what condition I was in, I panicked. I wanted more than anything to have a baby. I thought about leaving Waymouth; starting life somewhere else.” Aunt Nettie’s voice broke a little as she continued. “But I wasn’t brave enough to have a child when I wasn’t married. And I was sure I’d lose the man I loved. He wouldn’t have understood what had happened. Instead, even in those days when it was illegal and dangerous, I knew someone who knew someone. I went to Boston, and had an abortion.”

She looked at Maggie. “The butcher who did what he called surgery hurt me so badly I was lucky to survive. I could never have another child. And then my fiancé was killed, and I lost him, too.” Even after so many years, or maybe because of them, Aunt Nettie’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve regretted my decision not to have that child every day of my life since.”

Nick shuffled his feet a little and looked down at his notes. “Ms. Brewer? I’m sorry for your pain. But that happened a very long time ago. You made a mistake. Why are you telling us now?”

“Will, would you get the white envelope in the top drawer of my bedside table?”

Will returned in a moment and handed it to her. It was the same envelope Maggie had seen Aunt Nettie putting in her pocket instead of adding it to the other Christmas cards on the mantel.

Aunt Nettie gave the envelope to Nick. “This arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. It’s from Carrie Folk. She threatened to tell my family and friends the story I just told you if I didn’t give her money.”

“Carrie Folk was trying to blackmail you?” said Nick, holding the envelope by its edges. “About something that happened over seventy years ago?”

“Exactly,” said Aunt Nettie. “Last night I told her I planned to tell Will and Maggie myself what had happened, and anyone else, too, if need be. I couldn’t think many people would be interested. What happened then is ancient history.”

“But Carrie’s dead,” said Maggie. “You didn’t have to tell us after all.”

“But I did,” said Aunt Nettie. “Because maybe I wasn’t the only one to get a letter from Carrie Folk this week. And maybe someone else decided to stop her blackmailing another way.”