by Lea Wait
She checked her catalog. Walter English was estimating this painting would go for thirty to forty thousand dollars. Out of her range, but a nice acquisition for a museum. Or for the living room of someone who could afford to enjoy it for a while, and then perhaps donate it.
She moved on.
Most of the rest of the art was too recent to interest her. There were three N. Curriers (Nathaniel Currier’s company before he’d gone into partnership with his brother-in-law) and several Currier & Ives, but they’d been selling slowly recently, and the ones here were not in good shape. Not for her. Condition, condition, condition. Those customers who objected to a small mark on an otherwise pristine print would never tolerate a tiny tear, even if the tear were in the margin. The margins on these Curriers had been trimmed, killing their value for a collector.
A box of old maps, most of them backed in cardboard and shrink-wrapped, was on one of the tables in the center of the room. Probably the auction house had done the shrink-wrapping for the showing; backing with cardboard wasn’t archival and wouldn’t preserve the maps for any length of time, but for now it kept eager lookers from damaging fragile paper.
Maps were hot these days. They’d come back into style within the last ten years, and seemed likely to stay. As with other “old paper,” the most popular and rare ones (early maps of Manhattan that appealed to Wall Street brokers looking to decorate their offices, for example) were being reproduced, although attractive nineteenth-century maps were still around and could be picked up fairly reasonably, if you were lucky.
Today Maggie wasn’t. These maps were in poor condition, and didn’t have the elaborate borders that more desirable maps by publishers like Johnson or Colton did. Those maps, if they were of New England or of the mid-Atlantic states, where she did shows, would be worth pursuing. But a small, torn map of several western states from an 1880s school atlas? Not old enough to be interesting, and in that condition not even someone from one of the pictured states would want it.
Maggie took one more look around. She’d seen everything there she needed to look at.
Except... Two paintings were on the floor in the far corner, leaning against the wall. She hadn’t seen them before because they’d been blocked by a large balding man in a dark green Notre Dame T-shirt.
As he moved away, pointing out a Lawrence Sisson seascape to the woman with him (a Sisson would go high, Maggie thought in passing; Sisson now lived in the Southwest, not in Maine, and wasn’t painting as many seascapes and harbor scenes as he used to) Maggie maneuvered her way through the crowd. “Excuse me,” she said softly as she squeezed past two young women examining the maps she’d just finished glancing through.
She looked at the painting in front, and bent down to examine it closely. Then she looked at the other painting, and checked both their lot numbers and descriptions in her catalog. She circled both, and left the room.
She had to find Will.
Chapter 14
An Auction Sale. Wood engraving drawn by W.L. Shepard, published in Harper’s Weekly, April 30, 1870. Scene at city auction. Auctioneer standing on chair, gesticulating as he sells an oil painting to the crowd of elegantly dressed men and women, some of whom are bidding, some examining household furnishings yet to be auctioned. Two men are removing a painting of a ship sinking in a storm, with people on the beach trying to launch a dory in hopes of saving its passengers and crew. 10 x 15 inches. Price: $85.
It took Maggie a few minutes to find Will.
The auction house was filled with furniture, from Queen Anne mahogany dining tables to 1950s Formica dinette sets to New England pineapple-stenciled chairs to a pine church pew to Victorian oak horsehair sofas and chairs to Mission oak china cabinets. A pile of oriental carpets (or oriental-style carpets) several feet high filled the center of the room.
Next to the carpets were two carousel horses, a captain’s chest (mint condition, she noted, wondering whether it was really all original) and a pale blue Victorian wardrobe with sprigs of wild flowers delicately painted on its doors. Painted Victorian cottage bedroom sets had been going low in the past few years, especially the wardrobes that were part of them. The closets of the past were out of style unless someone turned them into entertainment or office-supply cabinets. That charming and lovingly painted wardrobe would probably go for a couple of hundred dollars.
She slipped past a line of women checking the case of estate jewelry and silver. Vintage jewelry often fetched bargain-basement prices at auctions. She was tempted to peek, but the size of the crowd was discouraging, and right now she was focused on art, not jewelry.
She passed a rack holding several elaborately embroidered black-and-red Japanese silk robes and three or four mink coats. In Maine, those coats would sell for a couple of hundred dollars each. Despite the anti-fur lobby, their purchasers would be warm next winter.
Where was Will?
Light fixtures, some of them Tiffany or Tiffany-imitation, hung from the ceiling. In the back of the long room Maggie could see two mantels most likely removed from homes that had either been updated or torn down. That would be the place to look for fireplace equipment. And Will.
She passed three beds, a triumvirate of modern sofas, a Barcalounger, and a jukebox. Auction houses took items of value. Most didn’t define of value to whom, or how old the items had to be. That’s what made auctions, especially country auctions, interesting, and meant buyers who were looking for genuine age should beware. Not everything in this room that looked old, was old. That was certain. “Vintage” would be the most overused word at the auction itself, Maggie would bet. It sounded serious, and meant nothing.
There was Will, examining a set of electrified mirrored sconces hung next to the more elaborate of the mantelpieces. She walked faster, moving between two teenaged girls admiring a dressing table and their father, who was focused on primitive decoys displayed on a side table.
“Will, you have to come outside with me. Now.” Maggie tugged a little on his arm, as Will turned toward her.
“What?”
“I need to talk to you. But not here, where someone could overhear us.”
Will looked around. The room was full of prospective bidders and auction staff, and although the noise level was low, there wasn’t anyone close to them.
“You suspect someone is spying on us? I’m almost finished looking. Did you find anything you want to bid on?”
“No.” Maggie hesitated. “I need to talk to you!”
“One more second.” Will smiled down at her. “The antiques won’t get noticeably older in another few minutes. I’ll meet you out front, as we planned. We’ll talk there.”
Maggie nodded. Clearly she wasn’t going to get Will to leave possible treasures. She hadn’t even asked him if he were going to leave a bid.
The parking lot was busy. Cars and vans with licenses from states as far away as Wyoming and Texas parked next to vehicles from New England states. This was summer in Maine, and Walter English could count not only on local and regional dealers, but on dealers from out-of-state who were here to do shows or were here on buying trips. Even better for an auction house were collectors who were in Maine on vacation, or people looking for a souvenir to take home as a memory of a Maine auction (“Such a bargain I got!”) or an item to furnish their home. Or their second or third home.
The dealers’ mantra was “Somewhere there’s a customer for everything.” The challenge was to find that right customer. Here at a Maine auction in August there was a good or better chance of finding him or her, and auctioneers knew it.
Where was Will? Maggie paced the parking lot. She needed to talk with him. Now. If what she’d seen was what she thought it was, they needed to talk to the police.
Before this auction took place.
Chapter 15
The Author Painting a Chief at the Base of the Rocky Mountains, 1841 hand-colored steel engraving by George Catlin (1796-1872) depicting Catlin standing with palette and easel, painting a Native American c
hief in formal dress, surrounded by other natives watching the process. Catlin was the first artist to study and realistically paint representatives of forty-eight nations of Native Americans. In the 1830s he traveled throughout what is now the American West. In 1841 he published Manners, Customs and Conditions of the North American Indians. This engraving is from that work. 6.5 x 8.5 inches. Price: $400.
“Will! Finally!” Maggie took his arm and towed him toward a quiet corner of the parking lot outside the auction house.
“Whoa! I haven’t been that long!” He divested himself of her hand and looked down at her, his blue eyes looking directly into her green ones. “Calm down!” That look usually made her melt. Right now it made her angry.
“I think two of Helen Chase’s paintings of Maine, the ones that should have been in Susan Newall’s house, may be here, listed to be sold Saturday.”
Will frowned. “How could that be? Aunt Nettie said they were hanging in Susan’s house a year ago.”
“Remember? Carolyn told me she’d only seen three or four. There should have been more. We wondered where they’d been put.”
“Are you sure the paintings you saw were by Helen Chase?”
“Almost one hundred percent. But they weren’t listed that way. See,” Maggie pulled out her catalog, where she’d circled lot numbers 107 and 108, “they’re listed as ‘OOC, oil on canvas, paintings of coastal Maine, c. 1960.’”
“They’re not signed?”
“It doesn’t say so in the catalog. But they’re signed ‘HC’ in the lower left corner, which I’m pretty sure is how Helen Chase signed her work.” Maggie kicked a small granite stone across the parking lot. “If only Carolyn were here. She’d know for sure. She never said anything about her mother’s work being consigned.”
“Walter English is estimating the value of the paintings at fifteen hundred dollars each. If they were confirmed Helen Chase paintings, what would their value would be? Ten times that?” Will asked, looking at the listing Maggie was holding.
“Try at least a hundred times that. Her oils have been going up every year since she died, and I don’t think many people even know about her Maine work. There wouldn’t be comparable listings to check with. These paintings would be a major discovery for a New York auction house.”
“Could Carolyn’s Aunt Susan have needed the money for nursing home expenses, and decided to sell the paintings without telling Carolyn?”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Maggie said. “But if that were so Walter English would have known they were Helen Chase paintings. And even if they weren’t identified as such when they came to the auction house, they’re signed, and this is Waymouth. Auction houses do research. Walter English stands to lose major dollars if the paintings only sell for what he’s suggesting here. He charges a fifteen percent buyer’s premium of the sale price. Helen Chase is an artist with local ties. I can’t imagine anyone here not putting two and two together.”
“There are three possibilities,” said Will. “One, that you’re mistaken; the paintings aren’t by Helen Chase. In which case we’re getting excited about absolutely nothing.”
He looked at Maggie, who was beginning to pace again. “Let’s assume you’re right. The paintings are by Helen Chase.”
“Thank you,” said Maggie, nodding to confirm the intelligence of Will’s judgment.
“Two, assuming they are by Helen Chase, then Walter English and his auction house are woefully uninformed about art. That’s hard to believe, especially considering Helen Chase’s ties to Waymouth.”
“And number three,” added Maggie, “the paintings may have been consigned illegally. If so, then Walter English doesn’t have the right to auction them.”
“He has the right to auction them as long as they came from a source he had no reason to question,” Will added. “We’re the ones who don’t have the legal right to question. But my old friend Nick Strait does.”
They walked together toward Will’s car. It only took them ten minutes to get to the Waymouth Police Department. Detective Strait was in his office.
“So, you’re here because you think that maybe two paintings at Walter’s auction house may be Helen Chase paintings that may have been stolen?” Nick Strait leaned back in his chair and looked at Maggie and Will. “Will, it’s always good to see you again. But I will say, the last couple of times you’ve come to Maine you’ve gotten involved with some interesting situations.” He looked directly at Maggie. “I suppose I could call Walter and ask him who consigned the paintings. Although I believe that sort of information is normally kept private, between the seller and the auctioneer, if the seller requests anonymity.”
“From the police?” Maggie blurted.
“I could press the question,” Nick agreed calmly. “If an investigation depended on the information. But at the moment I’m investigating the death of Carolyn Chase. If the paintings had been stolen from her at the time of her murder, that would be one thing. But that auction’s been set up for some time. I’m not an antiques buff, but I know auction catalogs are printed at least a few weeks in advance. My sister works at Kennebunk Printing, and she mentioned staying late to get them finished several weeks ago. If those paintings were stolen, they were stolen from Susan Newall, and there’s no question about the cause of her death. Susan herself could have consigned the paintings before she went into the nursing home. Or even afterward, with the help of a friend, or of her lawyer. Or Carolyn Chase could have consigned the paintings. She was the one living in Susan Newall’s home. If the paintings were, indeed, in that home as you believe, then she was the one with the most access to them.”
Maggie sat on the edge of her seat. “Carolyn told me she wouldn’t sell her mother’s paintings of Maine, and there were only three or four in the house. And it doesn’t make sense for someone to consign them and then sell them for the estimates listed in the catalog! In New York those paintings would be worth over a hundred thousand dollars! A New York dealer or an auction house in New York would get a much higher price than Walter English is estimating. He’s not even identifying the work as that of Helen Chase.”
Nick Strait took his feet off the desk. “The paintings are worth that much money? Over a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Absolutely. Helen Chase’s work is getting more popular, and more valuable, every year.”
“Then that is curious. Someone from Waymouth might not know precisely how much the paintings were worth, but they would sure know who she was. At the very least I’d think Walter English would put her name on the catalog listings. He knows enough to check prices with galleries and auction houses in New York, and let interested buyers there know when he has an item they might be interested in.” Nick took a few notes. “Last year he auctioned a sampler a friend of Paul Revere’s daughter made. Perfect condition, with the history of the girl and her family and everything. Her father was the one who took Revere to his boat that night. Sampler went for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” Nick shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it. Made CNN when that happened. Walter English sure contacted the right people about that piece of embroidery!”
“Who’s had access to Susan Newall’s house in the past year besides Carolyn?” asked Will, trying to get back to the subject at hand. “Aunt Nettie mentioned Susan had a home health aide there before she went into the nursing home.”
“I think that’s right. And friends visited her. Probably the minister. Brad Pierce, her lawyer. Could be anyone. I’ll give Walter a call and check into who consigned the paintings.” Nick stood up dismissively. “But you understand my focus is still on the murder investigation, not on the possible misappropriation of a couple of paintings. Even valuable paintings.”
Will and Maggie also stood.
“Thanks for listening, Nick,” said Maggie.
“I’ll be in touch.” He turned to Maggie. “I understand you’re one of the beneficiaries of Carolyn Chase’s will, Dr. Summer.”
“Indirectly,” said Maggi
e.
“For people who’d only known her a few days, you both seem very interested and involved in this whole situation. You’re staying in Maine a while?”
“I have an antiques show this weekend, Nick, and we’re both doing one next weekend,” answered Will. “We’re at Nettie’s.”
Nick nodded. “I know where to find you. Don’t worry.”
Somehow neither of them were worried. Not about that.
Chapter 16
Distressed Sailors, c. 1820. One of a series of six aquatints of street criers by George Cruickshank (1792-1878) the foremost political caricaturist of Regency London. Shows three sailors, one with a stump leg, two with crutches, one pulling a model of a ship, all begging for money in the streets. (“Distressed” meant drunken.) Several major artists illustrated “Cries of London,” as Cruickshank did here. 3.5 x 6 inches. Set of six, in three frames. Price: $400.
June 11, 1890
It rained and the wind blew dreadfully today; almost a nor’easter, which is most unusual for June. A young man (I do not know if it was Mr. Micah Wright) delivered a message early this morning, before I had even risen from bed, saying that there would be no posing today. Instead, a wagon would be sent for Jessie and me tomorrow, should the weather warrant. Today Mr. Homer would work on canvases inside his studio.
Although the skies finally cleared in time for there to be a sunset, it was a long, dank day indoors. Mother set Sarah and me to embroidering pillowcases for our hope chests. Sarah finds such work more tedious than I, but that is because she does not see a need for such items. She is too young to be interested in men or marriage, and certainly she is not interested in pillowcases.