by Lea Wait
“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.”
12
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.”<
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“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.”
13
Family Party Playing at Fox and Geese. Wood engraving by nineteenth-century American artist Winslow Homer published in Ballou’s Pictorial on November 28, 1857, when Homer was only 21 years old. Shows adults playing a circle game during which a man is pursuing an attractive young woman. Although “Fox and Geese” was a well-known board game (one of Queen Victoria’s favorites) during this period, this game appears to be closer to an outdoor children’s tag game of the same period and name in which children pursue each other by racing through patterns in the snow. (Or Homer may be making fun of such a game!) 5.5 x 9.5 inches. Price: $195.
Nick held the envelope by the edges, as though it contained ricin. “I appreciate your sharing this with me, Ms. Brewer. If you don’t mind I’d like to keep it, as evidence.”
“Keep it. Burn it. I never want to see it again,” said Aunt Nettie. “I’ve known Carrie Folk most of her life. I don’t know why she sent that. She must have been desperate for money. Writing that letter was a cruel and spiteful thing to do, and I’ve never thought Carrie was a cruel or spiteful person.”
“Not to mention that blackmail’s illegal,” Nick said, almost to himself. He pulled an evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and slipped the letter and envelope into it.
“But no matter what she did, she didn’t deserve to die.” Aunt Nettie was adamant.
“How would Carrie Folk have known what you did so long ago?” asked Maggie. “She’s younger than you are. If she was even alive then, she was a baby during World War Two.”
“Carrie wasn’t even sixty,” said Nick.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Aunt Nettie. “Most people, I’d guess, have a few secrets in their lives. Some people’s are bigger than others’. But not everyone has a secret worth blackmailing them with. Mine, for example. For years I’ve held close what happened to me back then, but I’m ninety-two now. Telling you won’t change my life, or anyone else’s for that matter.” She held her hands tightly together. “But that’s not the case with every secret folks in this town hold. It’s your job to find out who’s responsible for Carrie Folk’s death. Not to dig up every secret hidden in a Waymouth flower bed or graveyard.”
Nick stared back at her. “That’s being a little dramatic, don’t you think? Especially coming from someone who knows more than most about what’s happened in Waymouth in the past seventy years.”
“Things I know because they were told me in confidence will stay in confidence. I’m no—what do they say on those police programs on the television? Snitch. I’m no snitch.” She sat back in satisfaction.
“But if you’re right about Carrie, that she sent other letters like yours, then she likely sent them to people we both know. And one of them went to the person who killed her,” said Will.
“Exactly,” agreed Aunt Nettie, turning from Nick to Will. “That’s what I figure. That’s why I wanted Nicky to stop over this morning. I gave him the envelope so he’d know what to look for. It’s his job to find out who killed her.”
“Sure. But there are times I ne
ed the help of concerned citizens, like you,” said Nick. “If you hadn’t given me this letter, I might not have known Carrie Folk was trying to blackmail anyone.”
Aunt Nettie nodded slightly, in acknowledgment.
“Ms. Brewer, will you help me with this? You know people who knew Carrie Folk well. She’s spent the past year working for one of your closest friends. And as you just said, you know secrets that other people don’t know.”
“I’ve always said you were a bright boy, Nicky.”
“I can’t go up to people in town and say, ‘Excuse me, but do you have a wicked deep dark secret that Carrie Folk was trying to blackmail you about?’” Nick leaned over and looked Aunt Nettie in the eye. “Doesn’t sound as though folks would cooperate too well, does it?”
“Not likely,” she agreed. “They’d have to admit they were hiding something before they talked to you. And by doing that, which might put them in trouble, it would also make them murder suspects.”
“Exactly. So I need someone who understands that. Who’s a friend, a close friend. Who can find out, quietly, who Carrie might have been blackmailing. Or trying to blackmail. Find out who might be suspects in her murder.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll take it from there.”
“Are you asking me to do your detective work for you?” asked Aunt Nettie.
“I’m asking an old friend to make inquiries of her friends. Do a little kitchen-table gossiping about the death of someone they all knew,” said Nick. “In the meantime, I’m going to find out why Carrie Folk needed money so desperately she resorted to blackmail.”
“What’s going to happen to Billy?” asked Maggie.
“Owen Trask’s going to work on that. That’s not the job of Homicide. Owen will see if we can locate Billy’s father, or any other relatives, and then check to see what state agencies might be able to help. Billy’s too old for Child Protective Services to get involved, but there is a unit that’s in charge of developmentally delayed adults in need of protection.” He turned to Aunt Nettie. “What do you say? Will you help me out?”