by Lea Wait
“I didn’t even know there were Maine wines,” said Maggie, as she perused the wine list. “But now that we’re here, I’m not sure I’m in the mood for wine tonight. I can’t resist trying a light Maine beer, though. What great names! Which one do you suggest?”
“My favorite is Shipyard, but there are a lot of good ones. Gritty McDuff’s, Allagash, Geary’s, Pemaquid Ale. There’s also a vodka made in Maine, and a great gin made by Back River,” said Will. “But we can save those for another day. I think you’d love Back River’s cranberry gin.”
“Tempting,” agreed Maggie. “But today, the Summer Shipyard and a large bowl of oyster bisque would be just right.”
“Sounds good to me, too,” he agreed. “A plate of onion rings to share?”
“They’re fried,” hesitated Maggie, remembering her earlier resolution, “but, still, onion rings...sound just like what we need.”
They sat quietly, watching the early evening sun setting over the river. Will’s hand was on Maggie’s, and until their food arrived, they hardly spoke, enjoying the peace of the moment, and trying not to think of Aunt Nettie, and what the tests at the hospital might be showing.
As soon as the bisque and the chilled mugs of beer were on the table their hands separated and occupied themselves with the important business of eating and drinking.
After a few minutes, her initial appetite satisfied, Maggie sat back. “I keep thinking it’s my fault. Whoever broke into Aunt Nettie’s house was looking for something. And we know Betsy Thompson wants that journal I have.”
“Whoa, lady!” said Will. “To begin with, we haven’t gone through the house, so we don’t know if anything is missing. I’ll do that as soon as Nick says it’s okay for me to go back. Even then, I don’t know if I’ll recognize what’s gone. What do burglars usually take? Electronics? Aunt Nettie has a twelve-year-old television no one would want, and it was still in her bedroom. She may have some jewelry, but I don’t remember any real jewels. Only she would know. We know antiques, and I think you’d agree she has nothing of great value.”
“Plus, whoever was there didn’t even seem to touch the first floor, where most of her better furniture and china are. He or she totally tossed the three bedrooms, which just had clothes and bedding and the usual upstairs stuff.” Maggie thought a moment. “People who break in look for drugs or liquor. Did she have any medications that were controlled substances?”
“Not that I know of. She hasn’t had any surgeries that would require painkillers. She kept her blood pressure meds in the kitchen cabinet. I saw them there. I don’t remember anything else. The wine and a few liquor bottles were in the kitchen, too, but you’re right, that room seemed untouched. Besides, I can’t imagine someone breaking in to steal a couple of half-filled bottles of liquor.”
“And why didn’t they choose a time when she was away from home? She goes shopping, and to visit friends, and to the library. Most of the time you can tell she’s gone because her car isn’t there. You and I are both visiting. That means two more vehicles are in her driveway most of the time. Even though you and I left this morning in your RV, it was dark then. Unless someone was watching the house, how would they know we’d both left? Wouldn’t they assume that since my van and Nettie’s car were still there, at least a couple of people were in the house?”
Will shook his head. “Nothing makes sense. But this wasn’t just a burglary. A ninety-one-year-old woman was duct-taped. Maybe questioned. At least they didn’t hurt her more.”
They were both silent for a moment, thinking of what had happened to Carolyn.
“I wonder if she knows who it was?” said Maggie.
“She might. Or whoever it was thought she might be able to identify them. Otherwise they wouldn’t have covered her eyes.”
“I still think someone was looking for the journal,” said Maggie, savoring her final spoonful. “And, by the way, this oyster bisque is fantastic. Sherry, I think?”
“Plus just the right amount of cream. They’ve re-introduced oysters to Maine in the past few years.” Will munched on another onion ring. The pile was decreasing rapidly. “I know you think the journal is important. But the only person who’s said they want to see it is Betsy Thompson. I can’t see Betsy Thompson stomping up those stairs in her high heels, throwing Aunt Nettie to the ground, and then pulling out drawers and throwing pillows and blankets around.”
“No,” Maggie admitted.
“What’s in that journal, anyway?”
“So far, all I’ve read is that Anna May Pratt and her friend Jessie are modeling for Winslow Homer. Jessie has a sweetheart fishing on the Grand Banks, but her parents want her to marry an old guy who’s here in town, and Anna May also has a crush on the young man who’s at sea.”
“Sounds like a soap opera, with Winslow Homer as interesting historical background. Not something worth breaking into a house and knocking an old lady to the ground for.”
“No.” Maggie took another sip of her beer. “But I don’t think Betsy Thompson really knows what is in the journal. She’s just hoping it will help her prove her family’s Homer connection in some way.” She looked up. “In all the excitement, I just remembered. Betsy invited me to come for tea tomorrow, to see her house and look at her husband’s work, and that of her father-in-law. I think she believes I may have some pull with getting their work into New York or New Jersey galleries. She invited you, too.”
“I think I’ll be busy. Do you want to go?”
“I told her I would, but that was before all of this happened. Oh, and she said Kevin Bradman would be there, too.”
“The cast of characters is growing. Who’s Kevin Bradman?”
“I told you about him before. He’s the Harvard doctoral student who’s writing his dissertation about Maine artists. Or Winslow Homer. I’m not really sure. I ran into him at the library again when I was there yesterday. Anyway, Betsy said Kevin was living with her this summer.”
Will looked up at the ceiling. “As in living with her, or as in living at her house or in one of the artists’ cottages on the grounds?”
“I have no clue,” said Maggie. “But I’m curious. I think I will go for tea tomorrow, unless there’s something I’m needed for at the hospital. Or at the police station. Or at the house.”
They looked at each other and both grimaced.
“Enjoying your vacation, my dear?” Will asked.
“Worried about Aunt Nettie,” said Maggie, “when it really comes down to it. And I want to know who killed Carolyn Chase. I came to Maine to see you, to relax, and do some antiquing. Not get involved with another murder. No wonder your friend Nick thinks I’m a little strange.”
Will reached out and took her hand. “He doesn’t know you as I do, Maggie. If he did, he’d know murders don’t just happen when you’re in Maine. They happen when you’re in other places, too.”
Maggie picked up the last onion ring and tossed it at him.
Then his cell phone rang.
Chapter 24
Clusters, Nebulae, and Comets. Black-and-white lithograph from Burritt’s Atlas of the Heavens, 1836. Hole in margin that could be covered by matting. Thirty contiguous, white-framed drawings of comets (e.g., Halley’s Comet, 1682; Great Comet of 1680), clusters (e.g., Cluster in Libra; Perpendicular view of our own cluster), and Nebulae (e.g., Great Spiral Nebula) against black background. 14.5 x 17 inches. Price: $75.
It was Dr. Simpson.
Aunt Nettie’s heartbeat was irregular. It wasn’t serious, but the doctor thought Will should know. They would probably keep his aunt in the hospital for a couple of days.
“That’s the best place for her, under the circumstances,” Maggie said, knowing the words sounded artificial.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Will. “I can’t stand not being able to do anything. We’ve finished eating anyway.”
They stood outside the restaurant and watched the sun set. Cascading streaks of reds and oranges and blues filled the sky and its
reflections in the water before disappearing below the hills on the west side of the river.
“Let’s go back to the motel and get some sleep,” Will said reluctantly. “I have a feeling tomorrow is not going to be easy.”
The wide bed in the motel looked inviting, but the day’s physical and emotional exhaustion had taken its toll. Maggie and Will found quiet comfort in each other’s arms, but the black lace nightgown left on the “crime scene” floor was neither needed nor missed.
Will’s first waking thought was for Aunt Nettie. He dialed the hospital. Her condition was the same.
“Drive me back to her house,” he said to Maggie. “I can get my RV, so we don’t have to be joined at the hip. And let’s hope we can get back into the house to get some clean clothes.”
On the way he gestured to Maggie to pull into a Dunkin’ Donuts. They ordered two bagels, one with salmon cream cheese and one with chive, to go, and a cup of coffee, black. Maggie hoped she could retrieve a diet cola from Aunt Nettie’s refrigerator.
If not, she’d make do with the bagel. They weren’t New York bagels, but for Maine, they’d do.
Yellow crime scene tape was still around the house, and one crime lab van and two sheriff’s department cars were parked in the street. Maggie found a place to pull over further down the street, silently thanking her years of parallel parking experience in New York City. About a dozen neighbors were standing around, watching to see if anything of interest would happen.
“Lookie Lous,” Maggie commented, as she and Will walked past them. “They’ve probably known your aunt all of their lives, and want to know what’s happened.”
“Don’t worry; they know what’s happened,” Will assured her drily. “In Waymouth, anyone at all interested probably knew about the break-in and Aunt Nettie’s being in the hospital before we checked into the motel last night. Which no doubt they now know about, too.”
Maggie stayed on the street, reassessing the joys of small towns, as Will stepped over the yellow tape and knocked at the house’s open front door. “Hello? This is Will Brewer. Can someone tell me what is happening? Hello?” As he stepped inside he was pushed out by a uniformed man half his size.
Maggie couldn’t hear what was said, but clearly it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. After a few minutes Will stomped back down the stairs, glowering at the neighbors who were watching him closely.
“No news!” he shouted to the disappointed observers. When he got to where Maggie was standing he gave her a more detailed report. “That cop said they were going to need the house all day. That Detective Strait will let me know when we can ‘reoccupy’ the house. What a pain! The only good news is that my RV is still mine. I’m taking it and going to the hospital.”
“If I’m going to have tea with Betsy Thompson I’m going to need clean clothes,” said Maggie. “Why don’t I drive to Freeport and buy some in the outlets? I can get some things for you, too, so you can stay at the hospital.”
“I don’t mind L.L. Bean stuff, but this is ridiculous,” Will groused. “We shouldn’t have to buy new underwear because Nick and his pals are futzing around that house.”
“Doesn’t sound as though we have much choice.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll give you my underwear and jean sizes, and a few dollars. And I’ll call the motel and tell them we’ll need the room for another day or so.” Will reached for his wallet.
Maggie hesitated. “You don’t have to give me any money.” Had she reached the point of being comfortable buying him underwear? Although she’d certainly noticed he wore briefs, not boxers. Tight briefs. In dark colors.
Will didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. “There’s an L.L. Bean outlet store and a store nearby that has the other stuff. Get a few basics. T-shirts, jeans. Nothing with fish on it.”
He wrote a couple of notes, and handed them to Maggie with several bills. “Here are my sizes.”
She nodded. Decision made. “I’ll go to Freeport, go back to the motel to change, and then come to the hospital. If you need me, call. I’m not due at Betsy’s until late this afternoon.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Will bent over and hugged her tight. “Have I told you how wonderful you are, special lady?” he whispered. Her ears tingled as his fingers traced their outlines.
Maggie leaned into his arms. For a moment everything happening around them could be forgotten. Then she reluctantly broke away.
“Tell Aunt Nettie to get better fast,” she said. “We need her. But don’t tell her how awful her house looks. We’ve got to get Nick’s friends out of there so we can clean the place up before she gets home, or her heart will really have problems.”
“Nick will probably call me about getting that list of missing items together,” said Will, running his hand through his thick gray hair. “I’m going to have trouble doing that without her input. But I don’t want to ask her what was in her jewelry box until we’re sure she’s going to be all right. Her health is more important than her belongings.”
“Just go to the hospital and be there for her,” said Maggie. “I’m on a quest to Freeport.”
Each year between three and four million people made Freeport, Maine their destination. Maggie was convinced most of them arrived in August. Originally, and still, the home of L.L. Bean, Freeport’s main street was lined with outlets of both major and minor specialty stores. Finding a parking space was a challenge.
She drove around and around, past cars and vans with license plates from as far away as California and Colorado, as well as from every state on the East Coast.
Finally she spotted a family of shoppers loading bags and boxes into a car from Ohio and waited for them to back out so she could pull in. Worse than Christmas shopping at the Bridgewater Mall at home, she muttered to herself as she headed back three parking lots on foot toward L.L. Bean.
An hour later, with jeans for Will, T-shirts for both of them, and a casual tan skirt and matching top she decided would do for her visit to the Thompsons in one large bag, assorted undergarments from another store in a second bag, plus a pair of leather sandals she’d glimpsed in an outlet window and couldn’t resist in a third, she was back at the van, ready to head for Waymouth. Judging from the other shoppers she’d seen, not many visitors escaped from Freeport with fewer than three shopping bags.
A half hour after that she’d also stopped for toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, and a hairbrush she thought would get through her long hair. She’d had a comb and lipstick in her bag, and Will’s beard didn’t require daily shaving gear. With the additions to their wardrobe and toiletries they should be able to survive another day or two even if they couldn’t get back into the house.
Which she certainly hoped they’d be able to do soon.
She put on her new skirt and top and sandals at the motel. Under the circumstances, she looked pretty decent. There was just enough time to stop at the hospital before she went to see Betsy Thompson.
Will was in the small visitors’ room on the second floor. Sections of the Portland Press Herald littered the table in front of him, and the television on the wall was tuned to CNN, where they were reporting fires in Southern California and a record heat wave in Arizona. Will was reading the current issue of Maine Antique Digest.
“How is she?”
“Maggie! Hey, very nice. A skirt! Haven’t seen you in one of those in a while. You should have gone to Freeport a while ago!”
“Thank you,” said Maggie, spinning to model her outfit. “If I’d known skirts were so impressive I would have put one on before this. There’s one back at the house, no doubt on the floor of my room somewhere. What’s been happening here?”
“Aunt Nettie’s sleeping most of the time. She doesn’t seem to understand what happened, or where she is. The doctor said she may have had a mild stroke. It doesn’t seem to have left any specific damage, but she’s definitely not herself. At her age it’s hard to tell how long it will take her to recover.” Will looked exhausted.
&n
bsp; “How do you think she is, Will?”
“I don’t know. She isn’t acting the way she does normally. I don’t know if it’s medical, or emotional, and I’m not getting any real answers from the doctors.”
“Have you been able to talk to her?”
“I go in to see her for a few minutes every half hour or so, which the nurses seem to think is about right. I talk to her. But she doesn’t really talk back. She just lies there, or mumbles a little. Nick called. He’s anxious to talk with her. I’ve told him that the way she is now, she won’t be able to help him at all. I don’t know what she remembers or doesn’t remember.”
“And her heart?”
“They’re monitoring it. The irregular heartbeat is about the same. Periodic. But it doesn’t seem to be getting worse, and Dr. Simpson said she could have had it for years and never noticed it. So that may or may not be a problem.”
“Is there anyone else who could help out...?”
“I’ve called some cousins to let them know what happened. But it’s Tourist Time in Maine; most of them are working two or three jobs this time of year. If you’re asking if there’s someone else who could be here to take care of her, then, no.” Will paused. “I’ve worried in the past few years, as she’s gotten older, but she always seemed so together, and so healthy. Right now, I don’t know what to do.”
“She has to stay here now.”
“And it’s only been about twenty-four hours, so we don’t know how she’s going to be. It could go either way. Even if she’s well enough to go home in a few days, I don’t think I can go back to Buffalo, Maggie. It wouldn’t be safe to leave her alone.”
Maggie was silent. She’d wondered about that, too. “I’ve been wondering how she’ll feel being back in her house after what happened to her there.”
Will stood up and paced from one side of the small room to the other. He turned to Maggie. “I’ve always thought I’d move to Maine someday. Maybe this is the time.”
“But your house in Buffalo. And how can you take care of Aunt Nettie when you’re on the road doing shows most of the time?”