by Lea Wait
“Carolyn told me her mother had given Susan some Maine paintings, but she’d only seen three or four in the house,” said Maggie.
“There were six, hanging on the living room wall, right there for anyone to see, last time I visited her,” said Aunt Nettie. “Maybe Carolyn didn’t recognize them. Or maybe Susan moved them for some reason. I haven’t been in Susan’s house for a year or so. She had home health aides in there to help her last winter. They may have moved things around so she didn’t have to climb steps or could reach things more easily. Those health people do that sometimes.”
“Maybe,” said Maggie, looking over at Will. “But I’d think Carolyn would recognize her mother’s paintings wherever she’d see them.”
“Someone could have put them away in the attic, or a closet,” suggested Will.
“That’s possible,” admitted Maggie. “And her lawyer has been in and out of the house. That’s how he got the trunk of papers. He might have put the paintings somewhere for safekeeping.”
“What trunk of papers?” asked Aunt Nettie.
“Susan gave Carolyn a trunk full of old journals, diaries, and letters. She said they were family papers that were important to the Chase family.”
Aunt Nettie frowned. “She gave those to Carolyn?”
Maggie nodded. “Carolyn asked me to go over them with her. She even gave me the earliest journal, from 1890, and asked me to read it. That’s why we were going to have lunch yesterday. To talk about the papers, and that journal.”
Aunt Nettie looked at Maggie. “You have the 1890 journal? Here, in this house?”
“Yes.”
“Have you read it?”
“Only the first entries. The penmanship is hard to read, and the violet ink is very faded.”
“Maggie, that journal doesn’t belong to you. Even if Carolyn said you could read it, she isn’t alive any longer. You need to return it to whoever is going to inherit her estate. Don’t read another page.” Aunt Nettie’s voice was rising, and her hands were shaking. “You’re not from Waymouth, and you don’t want to be involved in anything you don’t understand.”
Will put his hand on his aunt’s arm. “Aunt Nettie, I’m sure it’s all right. It’s just an old diary. Nothing in it can be that important. Maggie will give it to whoever the current owner is whenever we find out who that is.”
“You don’t know.” Aunt Nettie turned from Will to Maggie and back again. “You don’t know, either of you, what you’re dealing with. Susan should have burned those papers years ago. She left them to Carolyn, and now Carolyn’s dead. You have to get rid of them before someone else gets killed.”
Will and Maggie looked at each other. Certainly Aunt Nettie was upset at the deaths of two of her friends, but she seemed almost hysterical about the ownership of the old journal.
“No one else will be killed,” said Will. “It’s just a journal. We’ll give it to whoever inherited it. Right now we don’t know who that is.”
“Actually,” Maggie said quietly, “I do know. The Portland Museum of Art will get everything in Carolyn’s estate. But Susan Newall added a codicil to her will this week. She left the papers to me in case of Carolyn’s death.”
Chapter 13
The Robin’s Note. Winslow Homer wood engraving published in Every Saturday, August 20, 1870. An attractive young woman sitting in a fringed Victorian hammock on a porch, looking into the distance. 9 x 8.875 inches. Price: $195.
It took some time for Aunt Nettie to calm down. Finally, after she’d had another glass of iced tea and a piece of cinnamon toast, she agreed to go and try to nap, with the promise they would all go out for dinner that evening.
Maggie and Will sat in silence on the porch. He reached out and squeezed Maggie’s hand.
“We can’t just sit here all day. We have too many things on our minds. There’s nothing we can do about Carolyn or her papers today. Before the world turned upside down we’d planned to go to the preview at Walter English’s Auction House this afternoon. Clearly I’m not going to get a lot of painting done, so why don’t we go ahead and do that.”
“Good idea,” Maggie agreed, still thinking about Aunt Nettie’s reaction to hearing of the papers. “It’s just an old journal. I don’t see why she’s so flustered about it. Is it because I’m not from Waymouth? What could possibly be in those pages?”
“We’ll talk later,” he replied, glancing toward his aunt’s room. “Away from the house.” He hesitated a moment. “I’ll change out of my painting clothes, and you’d better get that journal and bring it with you, just in case Aunt Nettie gets it into her head to go on a search-and-destroy mission. I don’t know what she thinks is in that book, but she certainly has strong feelings about it.”
Maggie nodded. The old journal would slip easily into the faded red canvas bag she often used as a pocketbook.
A few minutes later, Maggie’s hair newly pinned up, Will in clean jeans, and the journal tucked inside her canvas tote, protected by a leather folder she often used for class schedules, they were ready to leave.
“I wonder if the trunk of papers is still in Carolyn’s car?” Maggie said as they headed out the door.
“Not your issue right now. Her whole house is no doubt a crime scene. That might include her car. The trunk isn’t yours yet. I’m guessing Brad Pierce, that lawyer of Susan’s, is already working with the police. He’ll let you know.”
“He’ll be the one planning the funerals and such, right? He was helping Carolyn plan Susan’s,” said Maggie. “Carolyn must have friends back in New York. I wonder if he knows who to contact there.”
“She probably left an address book and a computer. Lawyers know how to do these things,” Will assured her. “After the situation has calmed down we can ask him, or Nick, about the trunk. In the meantime, hold on to that journal in case anyone realizes it’s missing.”
Maggie made two mental notes. One, to keep the journal with her at all times. And, two, to read more of it as soon as she could.
Right now there was an auction preview to attend.
Walter English’s Auction House was several miles from downtown Waymouth. Far enough from town to require their passing three roadside stands selling WILD MAINE BLUEBERRIES, one HUNTER’S BREAKFAST CAFÉ, OPEN 4:00 A.M. TO 2:00 P.M. DAILY, and a hardware store specializing in STABLE EQUIPMENT, BIRD SEED, AND FOOD FOR ALL PETS that offered pre-season specials on wood stoves and snow blowers. One store advertised WYETH PRINTS—ALL SIZES.
“Your competition!” Will grinned as they passed.
“In some ways, I’m afraid so,” said Maggie. “They’re selling images on paper. Posters, really. Not even collectable prints. But most people don’t know the difference.”
“It doesn’t matter if they just like the picture and want something to put on their wall.”
“I suppose not,” Maggie admitted. “I hung museum shop posters on my walls when I was in high school and college. Even in my first apartment. But then I grew up.”
“You learned to value the difference in the paper stock and ink and the way the printing was done,” Will pointed out. “You’ve told me you discovered nineteenth-century prints when you were still in college, so you already knew about lithographs and engravings and hand-coloring.”
“You’re right. And a lot of people don’t care about that. They just want a picture on their wall that’s an image they like, whose color matches their upholstery or drapes. Today some museums and botanical gardens sell reproductions of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century botanicals in a choice of sizes, and sometimes even colors. I’ve seen them in catalogs, too.”
“If reproductions are in catalogs and museum shops, then people must be buying them. That should be good for your business,” said Will.
“Unfortunately, no. People are buying the reproductions, not the actual prints. They don’t seem to see the difference. In fact, sometimes they pay more for the reproduction than I would charge for the original, which would have some continuing value. Their
reproduction is worth nothing in the long run. It’s just a piece of paper.”
Will shook his head sympathetically. “The same is true to some degree in my business, primarily with copper and brass fireplace sets. People buy contemporary Asian and Middle Eastern copper and brass. Sometimes the new ones are even labeled ‘antique,’ or ‘antiqued,’ meaning ‘styled like antiques.’ People don’t seem to understand the difference, or if they do, they don’t care. Those ‘new antiques’ are not as heavy, and not as well made, as the older ones, and they’re not worn in the same ways, although some are produced to look old. I’ll even admit some of the repros are pretty good.”
“Ah,” said Maggie. “And I’ll bet those eighteenth-century andirons of yours aren’t as pretty and shiny as the new ones. They might even have a pockmark or two. They need polishing, too.”
“Of course. That’s why the modern ones don’t have the charm and elegance and dignity of the real thing,” said Will. “You know that.”
“As a print that is a hundred and fifty years old might have a small fox mark on it. And the paper might be off-white, which to some people is unacceptable. They want their ‘old prints’ to look brand new, so they buy reproductions. They buy ‘eighteenth-century’ andirons from Macy’s, so they never have to be polished.”
Will grimaced. “You’re right. Handsome Victorian sterling silver is going for low prices at auction these days because so many younger people don’t want to bother polishing it. They want stainless steel, even for their ‘good’ company table settings.”
“I’d rather eat my food from sterling knives and spoons, or even good silver plate, than stainless, any day. But we’re now in the older generation, Will,” said Maggie, as they pulled into the parking lot at Walter English’s Auction House. Red, white, and blue PREVIEW TODAY OPEN flags were flying. “I wonder what today’s children will think of antiques.”
Will opened Maggie’s door for her with a flourish. “You mean, will they stop texting each other long enough to rediscover the joys of polishing silver and brass? I’m not sure I want to think about that.”
“You never know,” said Maggie, as they walked through the auction house doors. “Right now a lot of older people are selling family heirlooms instead of saving them to leave to their children because they know their children don’t want them. Instead, they’re de-accessioning their valuables and treating themselves to a trip to Paris or China.”
“And auctioneers are loving it,” said a middle-aged blond woman coming up to them. “Sorry to eavesdrop. Welcome to Maine, Will! It’s good to see you again, too, Maggie.”
Will reached down and gave her a hug. “Rachel! I didn’t expect to see you here! Maggie, you remember my cousin Rachel Porter, from last summer?”
“Of course I do.” The murder of Rachel’s daughter had made last summer unforgettable. “You look great, Rachel. I love your hair!”
Rachel patted her new, sleek cut. “I spent last fall mourning and feeling sorry for myself after Crystal’s death. Christmas was absolutely the worst of my life. But, Will, you remember I was seeing Johnny Brent? Well, Johnny convinced me to go with him to Quebec for New Year’s, and begin the year with a new experience. He was right. Life has to go on.”
“Are you still working at the library?” asked Maggie. She didn’t remember seeing Rachel there Tuesday night.
“Part-time,” said Rachel. “I’m still helping out here during auction previews and sales. I decided to keep busy until Johnny and I decide what we’re going to do.”
“‘Going to do?’” asked Will.
Rachel flashed her left hand. “We’re engaged, Will. Can you believe it? After all those years of being a single parent, I’m getting married. We haven’t decided when or where. But sometime this fall, after the summer folks have left, and life calms down a bit, we’ll have a quiet ceremony.”
“Congratulations, Rachel.” Will bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’m happy for you. I’m surprised Aunt Nettie hasn’t told me. She usually fills me in on all the family news within ten minutes of my arrival.”
“You’re one of the first to know. We just decided a couple of days ago.”
“Rachel! There’s a line at your desk!” The summons came from a heavy-set man in his early thirties who looked more like a construction worker than an auction gallery attendant.
Rachel glanced back at the bidders’ registration desk in the corner and lowered her voice. “That’s the new guy. Lew Coleman. Walter hired him to do a friend a favor, and he’s driving the rest of us crazy. A control freak. I have to get back to work. But I couldn’t resist coming to tell you.” She grinned at Maggie and glanced at her left hand. “Now, if you two should have any news to share, you’ll know where to find me!”
Maggie found herself blushing, and closing the fist of that significant hand as Rachel walked back to her desk. No news of that sort, and not ready for any, thank you. She turned to Will. “Rachel looks terrific! I’m glad she’s found someone. I worried about her last summer. She seemed so alone after Crystal died.”
“She did,” Will agreed, looking after his cousin. “Somehow I never thought she’d get married.”
“Life works in strange ways,” Maggie agreed. “Why don’t we each buy auction catalogs and take off on our own? We’ll meet back here in,” she checked her watch, “say, half an hour?”
“Sounds good,” Will agreed, as he put his hand on Maggie’s back and they worked their way through the crowded showroom to where a young man was selling lists of all the items to be auctioned, with brief descriptions and estimates of what they might sell for. “Two catalogs, please,” said Will, handing him a ten-dollar bill.
He headed for the back of the large room filled with “Furniture and Accessories,” while Maggie went toward a side room labeled “Art.”
On the way she passed tables covered by cartons of leather-covered books. A quick glance told her these books were not of interest to her, but her antiquarian book dealer friend, Joe Cousins, would have coveted them, not for their literary value but because they’d be useful to a decorator.
Someone who wanted an elegant library would buy these books for their bindings, no matter what the pages inside looked like. She smiled, remembering Joe telling her that one of his decorator customers had bought a beautifully bound set of nineteenth-century laws of Connecticut from him, and then had “antiqued” labels printed and pasted on their spines, identifying the books as the complete works of Shakespeare. His client was thrilled. They looked distinguished in his library, and he had no intention of ever reading Shakespeare.
No doubt these leather-bound books would meet a similar fate and be sold as books-by-the-yard to someone feeling the need to appear more “old money” than literate. Or maybe they’d end up in an ad for Ralph Lauren attire. Or as background for an interior country estate scene in a movie.
The peg-boarded walls in the Art room were covered, floor to ceiling, with framed oils, watercolors, prints, engravings, and Art Nouveau and World War I posters. Unframed work was in boxes on tables in the middle of the room. Each piece, or group of pieces, was labeled with its lot number, the number which identified it in the auction catalog, and would indicate the order in which it would be auctioned.
Some of the lot labels already sported blue or green dots. Maggie checked the back of the auction catalog to see which code Walter English used. A blue dot meant the item already had one or more “left bids.” Those were bids by people who would not be present at the auction and whose bids would be executed by the auction staff. A green dot meant a telephone bid: someone to be called during the auction so they could bid live from a remote location.
She glanced at the artwork on the walls, but didn’t see any black dots. They would indicate Internet bids. Some auction houses put a new dot up to indicate each bid. Walter English was more subtle. He wanted to let prospective bidders know there would be competition for some items, but wasn’t hinting at just how much competition there might be.
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An auction was no longer just open to the people gathered in one room. For the right merchandise a good auctioneer could entice bidders who were collectors, dealers, and representatives of institutions on several continents.
Most of the lots in the Art room were oils and watercolors. If the price were right Maggie occasionally added a painting to her inventory to attract different customers to her booth. Some people would always prefer an inferior oil painting to an exceptional print, to her frustration. At least if they came into her booth she had a chance of showing them alternatives. An oil painting or two could be bait.
Today she didn’t see any paintings that fit with her inventory.
She’d turned to leave the room when she spotted a familiar style on a large canvas on the wall to her right and went to investigate. Sure enough, it was a Charles Dana Gibson. She had a portfolio of his elegant cartoons of gentlemen and ladies from the early twentieth century, when his drawings for magazines like Life and Collier’s Weekly earned him a thousand dollars each, making him a wealthy man. Those were the works he was most remembered for today.
Although they were black-and-white, prints of “Gibson Girls” playing golf and tennis and making buffoons of the wealthy men in their lives appealed to modern women, and Maggie usually had a few in her business. In excellent condition they sold for sixty to eighty dollars each.
Gibson was one of the many artists who’d loved Maine. In 1903 he’d bought land on the island of Islesboro and built a home and studio there. Later in his life he’d painted many oils of his wife and other members of his family in Maine. Maggie looked closely. This, she suspected, was one of those, dated in the early 1920s. That would explain how it had ended up in a Maine auction house.
Today Islesboro was still an island divided between the homes of wealthy summer people and those of year-round residents who’d made their living on the island or on the water. Now it was more a retreat for those who had made their money in Hollywood or New York than an art colony. She wondered if Gibson’s home and studio were still there, or whether they’d been razed to make room for more modern residences.