by Lea Wait
Mother sat with us and talked about the need to be prepared for whatever the future might bring, and be content with our fates. I kept my eyes lowered and focused on the pink and blue wildflowers I was stitching. I wonder what kind of flowers Mr. Micah Wright prefers? Or Luke Trask? Or perhaps men do not have preferences of that kind. I wish I had a brother of whom I could ask questions of that sort. There are moments I feel I know so little about men. But, oh, I imagine so much.
June 12, 1890
A beautiful day followed the deluge of yesterday. The wagon arrived for Jessie and me at seven this morning, but it was not driven by Mr. Micah Wright, and the aged gentleman holding the reins said little.
I wonder where Mr. Wright is? I wore my lavender skirt, which is last year’s, and has a gray bodice to go with it, so as not to look too elegant. I also took a grayed apron from the kitchen, thinking the combination might appear more likely to suit a fisherwoman in Mr. Homer’s eyes. And my eyes do reflect well in lavender, I am told, although Mr. Wright was not to see how the outfit set me to advantage.
I wore my hair down. Mother questioned my hair, but I was able to tell her the truth: Mr. Homer had asked for it to be worn that way.
She shook her head, but did not interfere.
Jessie did not take the pins out of her hair until we were well on our way. She said her mother was not as understanding as mine. She would never approve of Jessie’s being seen in company with her hair flowing like that of a young girl.
We both felt quite reckless and free.
Jessie is worried because there has been no word from Luke Trask. Yesterday’s storm would have been a rough one in the north sea.
I assured her Luke would send word with another fishing vessel, as he always has, but now I am worried as well. Luke is at sea and Micah Wright is not here. There is only old Mr. Homer on whom to practice lowering my eyes just the right distance.
Jessie prattled on again about Orin Colby, and how boring he was, and how dreadful it was to endure his attentions.
I will admit to feeling jealous of Jessie, despite our close friendship. Jessie has Luke’s affections, which I have always envied, and now she has the admiration of Orin Colby. I would not have Orin, but he is considered a fair and honorable man, and I told Jessie so, but quietly, for she does not wish to hear well of Orin from me.
And I, for all Mother ensures I have lovely clothes and embroidered pillowcases, have no beaux at all. If only Micah Wright were to pay attention to me, then perhaps I could put my envy of Jessie to rest.
The day went by without Mr. Wright’s appearing at Prouts Neck. Mr. Homer hardly said a word to either Jessie or me as we posed again with the smelly kelp and net on the beach. My arms ached from holding it, and my mind ranged in directions a young woman’s should not.
By the time the wagon returned us home I was weary and not in good temper. I told Jessie it was the wrong time of the month for me, but it was not.
I will need to hold my tongue in the future. Jessie and I need to remain friends for any of my plans to work.
Chapter 17
A Maine Sea Captain’s Daughter. Illustration by N.C. Wyeth for Kenneth Roberts’s Trending into Maine, 1938, book of essays on the history and culture of Maine. N.C. Wyeth and Kenneth Roberts were friends, and the very proper mid-nineteenth-century lady in this lithograph holding her teacup while looking out a window at rooftops and a Maine harbor is said to be based on a family portrait of Kenneth Roberts’s grandmother. 5.75 x 8.75 inches. Price: $70.
Maggie woke Friday morning to the distant ringing of the house telephone. She opened her eyes enough to see the 1950s beige plastic alarm clock on the pine table next to her bed.
Seven o’clock. Too early for someone on vacation. She pulled the feather pillow over her head for a moment, and then released it.
Someone had answered the phone. Aunt Nettie or Will, or both of them, were already up. With a deep sign she stretched and resigned herself to giving up another hour’s sleep.
By the time she reached the kitchen Will was already outside, painting, and Aunt Nettie was pulling a pan out of the oven.
Maggie took a deep breath. “What is that wonderful smell?”
“My favorite blueberry cake, and the lemon sauce I always make to go with it,” Aunt Nettie answered. “Sit yourself down. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
Maggie obeyed without hesitation. It had been a long time since a maternal figure in her life had given such calm and explicit instructions, and she found herself luxuriating in the feeling of being cared for.
“Everyone makes blueberry pie, but my mother’s recipe for blueberry cake is a favorite of mine, and I wanted you to try it,” Aunt Nettie continued.
“Shall I call Will?” Maggie asked. Certainly he wouldn’t want to miss Brewer family-heritage blueberry cake.
“Don’t bother. He’s trying to get part of the back wall painted before the rain starts. Forecast for this afternoon and the weekend is pretty dire. There’ll be plenty of cake left for when he comes in.”
“A rainy weekend? That’s not good news for the outdoor show Will is doing tomorrow.” And for me, who volunteered to help out, Maggie thought. Rain was one of the reasons print dealers didn’t do outdoor shows.
She poured herself one of the diet sodas she’d stashed in the refrigerator two days before. Aunt Nettie, clearly in charge of her territory, removed the blueberry cake from its pan, cut two generous slices, and poured warm lemon sauce over them.
“This is fantastic.” Maggie savored each bite. “The lemon sauce is perfect with the blueberries. Is it a lemon curd?”
“Not sure what you’d call it nowadays. I just know Mother always served it with blueberry cake, so I serve it with blueberry cake,” Aunt Nettie said, taking another bite. “Doesn’t seem like summer unless I make it at least once or twice.”
“I’d love to have the recipe,” Maggie said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
Aunt Nettie paused. “There was a time I wouldn’t have given it to you. But I’m getting along, and someone needs to be able to make it for Will. Mother wouldn’t want her lemon sauce and blueberry cake dying with me. I’ll write it up for you later. Just you remember, it has to be made with wild Maine blueberries, now, none of your big New Jersey blueberries. They don’t taste near the same.”
“I’ll remember,” Maggie promised. “May I have another piece?”
“Go ahead, dear. Cut yourself one. There’s plenty,” said Aunt Nettie, clearly pleased her blueberry cake had found a welcome reception. “Oh, and you had two telephone calls earlier. Before you were up.”
“I had two telephone calls?” said Maggie, sitting back down with another generous slice of the cake. The calls must have been from people here in Waymouth. Her friends and colleagues in New Jersey called her cell phone.
“Brad Pierce called. He wants you to call him back at his office. At your earliest convenience, he said. I wrote his number down over there.” Aunt Nettie gestured at a pad of paper near the telephone on the counter. “Then Betsy Thompson called. She said she wants to see you. She left her number, too.”
“Brad Pierce? He was Susan’s lawyer. And was helping Carolyn.”
“That’s right. I asked him when Susan’s funeral was going to be, since he should be the one to know. But, just like a lawyer, he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Said Carolyn’s murder was holding things up and they might hold a joint funeral, but nothing’s been decided yet. Something about trying to contact family members from out of state. Can’t imagine who. There’s no one left in that line I can think of who’s taken the time to visit Susan in years.”
“Maybe Susan or Carolyn had information in their wills.”
“Perhaps so. If they did, he didn’t share it with me. I asked him what he wanted with you, but he wouldn’t tell me.” Aunt Nettie smacked her lips quietly and patted them with her napkin. Every crumb of the blueberry cake on her plate was gone. “I can imagine what Betsy Thompson wants, but how does she know you ha
ve it?”
“Betsy Thompson. Isn’t she the one who’s convinced her husband’s descended from Winslow Homer?”
“She’s the one all right. She married Winslow Thompson a few years back and thinks she married not only his money, most of which she’s already spent, but every one of his ancestors as well.”
“She was at the genealogy meeting at the library Carolyn took me to.”
“Of course. I should have thought. Betsy’s a regular there.” Aunt Nettie leaned in. “That journal you have, Maggie. That’s what she’s after. Don’t let anyone know you have it.”
“She said she was doing family research, and was interested in the 1890s,” Maggie remembered. “Carolyn told her about the papers and the journal, and said I was going to help with the research.”
“Well, you just play dumb. Don’t get involved with that woman. Winslow Thompson’s a harmless enough fellow. Likes to paint pictures of the ocean and the rocks and the fall foliage and keeps pretty well to himself. Spends most of his time in that old barn studio his father built.”
“So his father was really an artist, too? I’d never heard of the Thompsons until this week.”
“No, likely not. Winslow’s father, Homer Thompson, was more of a host than an artist. Had lots of friends who were painters. Inherited money back in the twenties, and used his house and land to show it off. Winslow and Betsy still live in that place, along with Winslow’s son, Josh, who’s a whole other story. Not a story I’d care to tell, since I don’t tell tales. Anyway, in his day Homer Thompson, the old man, imagined himself a patron of the arts. He painted some himself, and he invited other artists to come and stay with him, room and board free, and use his studio. Had half a dozen little cabins built for them.”
“Like an artists’ colony.”
“So he imagined. Seemed to most of us in town that those who stayed in the cabins did more drinking and talking than painting. Weren’t a lot of famous artists like in Ogunquit or Monhegan, but there were always folks hanging around who said they were artists. Especially during the thirties, when board and room was hard come by. I imagine the thought of a summer on a river in Maine with food and drink and art supplies included must have sounded pretty good. Weren’t too many who stayed for winter.”
“Did Helen Chase know him?”
“She did. But she didn’t get involved with him or his friends. She came to Maine to get away from the art world, not bring it with her. But she knew they were here, and on one or two of her visits she went over to the Thompsons for an evening.”
Maggie stood up. “There’s a lot I don’t know about this town, and about Helen Chase. I guess I’d better start by finding out what Brad Pierce wants.”
He answered her call immediately. “Ms. Summer? I mean, Dr. Summer?”
“Maggie is fine.”
“Then, Maggie.” The voice hesitated. “We’ve never met, but we need to come to an understanding. I had a call from Detective Strait last night. He was asking about two Helen Chase paintings. He said you and Will Brewer thought they might have been removed from Susan Newall’s home.”
“I saw them at Walter English’s auction house. Carolyn Chase told me none of her mother’s Maine paintings had ever been shown or sold.”
The lawyer’s voice interrupted Maggie’s. “I’m sure you meant to be of help, Dr. Summer, but please remember this is a small town, and there’s a murder investigation going on. We don’t need extraneous questions distracting from the crime that was committed.”
“I understand, Mr. Pierce. But I thought the paintings might have some connection—”
“I want to assure you, I’m not aware of any Helen Chase paintings having being removed from the Newall home. To be sure, Detective Strait is following up with the auction house.”
“I appreciate that. Those paintings are worth a great deal of money,” Maggie put in.
“Dr. Summer, just because we’re from Maine doesn’t mean we’re uneducated. Everyone involved with Susan Newall’s estate and Carolyn Chase’s unfortunate demise is quite aware of the value any paintings connected to Helen Chase could have. Frankly, your coming into our peaceful community and accusing local people of crimes is not very smart.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked Maggie. Her voice stayed even, but she felt the muscles in her shoulders tightening.
“I’m telling you the truth. A murder has been committed. The police have a lot of questions to answer. I’m asking you to stay out of this investigation, Maggie Summer. Just stay out.”
The connection clicked off.
“Well,” said Aunt Nettie, who’d been listening to Maggie’s end of the conversation. “That didn’t sound like a courteous conversation. What bee has Brad Pierce gotten into his bonnet?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. “Right now I’m clearly not on the top of his popularity list. He’s not happy I told the police about seeing those Helen Chase paintings at the auction gallery yesterday.” She sighed, thinking of the journal she had. “And you were right, Aunt Nettie. I’m not going to tell anyone except you and Will that I have that journal.”
“You’re a smart woman, Maggie. I knew that from the start,” nodded Aunt Nettie. “You’d be even smarter to burn the darn thing and be done with it.”
“No. At least not yet,” said Maggie. “Right now I’m going to call Betsy Thompson and see what she wants. I have a feeling that whatever it is, I won’t have it.”
Chapter 18
“Guimauve” (Marsh Mallow). A lovely woman wearing a dress of marsh mallow plant leaves and roots is giving a cup of medicine to a frog who is in bed suffering from a sore throat. Delicately colored steel engraving. The herb marsh mallow (not like the sweet white marshmallows used in cocoa) is a plant whose roots and leaves contain a slightly sticky substance that, when mixed with water, forms a gel said to soothe painful throats and stomachs and allow swallowing, or applied to the skin, heal chafing. Drawn by “J. J. Grandville,” (1803-1847) the name used by French caricaturist and illustrator Jean-Ignace-Isidore Gérard, whose drawings satirized political and social figures. “Guimauve” is one of Les Fleurs Animeés, his “animated flowers,” published in Paris just after his death in 1847. 7 x 10.5 inches. Price: $150.
What Betsy Thompson wanted was to meet with Maggie.
“At the library, or perhaps we could have lunch together,” she’d suggested. “Or you could come by my home for tea.”
“At first I thought tea at her house might be interesting,” Maggie explained to Aunt Nettie. “I’d love to see her home, after hearing you describe it. But that might commit me to staying too long. And I’d like to check the archives of the Waymouth Library to see what information they might have on this fabled connection between Winslow Homer and the Thompson family that seems so important to Betsy. I’m going over to the library this morning, and she’s going to meet me there at eleven o’clock.”
“Be careful,” warned Aunt Nettie. “Betsy Thompson gets what she wants to get, and I imagine what she wants right now is that journal. Don’t be letting on you know anything about it.”
“I’ll be fine,” Maggie assured her. “I’ll be back in time to help Will if he needs me to help prepare for tomorrow’s show.”
Anna May Pratt’s journal was tucked carefully inside her bag. Will’s advice to keep it with her was still good. She made sure she had a notebook for any information she wanted to write down, and she checked to see that the small tape recorder she always carried with her was working. Sometimes it was easier to speak notes than write them.
Will was painting the second floor of the house, and her view of him from the ground by the ladder looked good. Temptingly good, in fact.
Luckily, heights were not her favorite thing, so she didn’t feel enticed to climb up after him. Instead, she blew him a kiss, glad she wasn’t expected to help him with chores that involved climbing two-story-high ladders, and realizing, not for the first time, that bedrooms at opposite ends of Aunt Nettie’s hall had defi
nite disadvantages.
Rachel Porter was working at the front desk of the Waymouth Library. “Morning, Maggie! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”
“The auction gallery didn’t need you this morning?”
Rachel shook her head. “Several of us alternate working the desks there in the days before an auction. There’s enough work to keep several shifts busy. I’ll be there this afternoon, and during the auction tomorrow, and then Sunday, to help with accounting and call people who left bids. I still work at the library mornings. Are you looking for anything special, or just for a relaxing vacation read?”
Rachel looked so helpful, and she was Will’s cousin, and certainly knew this library and Waymouth, inside out. But she also worked at the auction house. Maggie hesitated. “I teach American Civilization, and I’m always fascinated by library archives. Carolyn Chase brought me to one of the Tuesday night genealogy meetings, and it intrigued me. I wondered if I could see your genealogy section, just to browse and learn something about the old families in town.”
“Of course,” said Rachel. “That’s one of our most popular areas. We get a lot of people coming to Maine in the summer to look for their roots. Let me get the key.” She went into a small office in back of the desk and came back in a moment. “We keep our archives room locked so children, or anyone else who can’t be trusted with old documents and papers, won’t go in there. Just sign our guest book, and you’re welcome to make yourself at home. If you’d like, I’ll take you up and give you a tour.”
Maggie signed her name, noting that the names Carolyn Chase, Betsy Thompson, and Kevin Bradman appeared frequently in the register for the past month. Kevin Bradman, she thought. The young man from Harvard who was working on his thesis. “I’d love a tour.”
She followed Rachel up the curved stairway to the second floor of the old library. Tucked in a corner of the long corridor at the head of the stairs was a door bearing the brass sign ARCHIVES. Inside, brown and green file cabinets of all sizes lined two walls, map and document cabinets filled spaces between the windows that looked down on Waymouth Harbor, and the inside wall was lined with bookcases. Several short aisles of additional bookcases took up half the room. The rest of the space was filled by an old oak table surrounded by chairs. Maggie resisted looking out the windows and focused on Rachel, who was proudly pointing out the resources they’d collected.