Shadows of a Down East Summer

by Lea Wait

  Will picked up a pile of towels he’d folded and started tucking them inside the small bureau he’d restored to its usual place in the hallway.

  “Speaking of things missing. Have you seen her old photograph album? The one bound in red leather that she showed us the first night I was here.”

  Will stopped for a moment. “Isn’t it on top of the pine bookcase in the living room?”

  “I checked there. And everywhere else I could think of. I don’t think it’s downstairs. I hoped she’d taken it up to her room.”

  “If she did, then I didn’t see it.” Will’s shoulders sagged. “Hell. I hope we find it. That’s the first thing we’ve identified that might be missing. And it’s something that can’t be replaced. Maybe Aunt Nettie won’t notice it’s gone right away. We may still find it.”

  “But why?” said Maggie. “Why would anyone want a book of old photographs?”

  “Most of them were of my family,” said Will. “But there were pictures of Carolyn’s family, too, you’ll remember. Things seem to circle back to Helen and Carolyn Chase.”

  “They do,” said Maggie. “The journal, written by Carolyn’s great-grandmother. Her mother’s paintings at the auction house. Carolyn’s murder, and her house searched. Now Aunt Nettie’s house searched, too, and Nettie hurt, and all we’ve found missing so far are those photographs. But that doesn’t explain why.”

  “Let’s just be thankful only one person was killed,” said Will.

  Chapter 30

  Upset, 1936 lithograph by American regional painter Grant Wood (1891-1942). Born and based in Iowa for most of his life, Wood is best-known for his painting American Gothic, one of the most recognizable images in American art. He also founded the Stone City Art Colony in Iowa during the Depression. This print is from one of the few books Wood illustrated: Farm on the Hill, written by the wife of one of his fellow professors at the University of Iowa, Madeline Horn, and published in a limited edition. It has an orange background, and shows a dismayed boy covered with milk, holding a milking stool, in front of a cow who has kicked over a milking pail. 7 x 9.5 inches. Price: $70.

  Aunt Nettie was a great deal better, her doctor reported when Will called. She’d been moved to a semi-private room. But the doctor would, to his aunt’s aggravation, like her to stay one more night to make sure all her systems were working properly and she was strong enough to go home.

  “She’s fussing like an old hen whose chicks have been taken away, but she’s fine so far,” the doctor reported.

  “I promised we’d stop to see Aunt Nettie later this afternoon,” Will told Maggie, as they headed for the library to meet Rachel. “Her staying in the hospital does give us one more day to clean the other rooms. I still don’t think we should leave her alone right away when she gets home.”

  Maggie nodded. “Not until we see how strong she is.” Will hadn’t mentioned moving to Maine to take care of Aunt Nettie since Sunday night. She certainly didn’t want Aunt Nettie to fall, or be left alone in a home where she had been attacked. But she had so little time with Will. If he moved to Maine, when would she ever see him?

  Aunt Nettie was lucky to have someone like Will, who loved her, and was clearly willing to turn his life upside down if she needed him. Most women would kill for a man like Will. So why did she find herself feeling almost jealous of a ninety-one-year-old woman?

  As they paused at a stop sign, Maggie put her hand on Will’s for a moment and gave it a quick squeeze.

  He looked at her and smiled. “What was that for?”

  “Just because,” she answered. “You’re a very special guy. Aunt Nettie’s lucky to have you as a nephew.”

  “And you?”

  “I’d be lucky if I had a nephew like you, too,” she teased, wondering to herself how she would manage if she were Aunt Nettie’s age and in the hospital. She had no family. No close friends she could count on to help. There were assisted-living centers and nursing homes full of women like her. She was thirty-nine. How much would a long-term-care insurance policy cost?

  “You look very serious,” Will said, looking over at her as he pulled into a parking spot near the Waymouth Library. “And you haven’t heard anything I’ve said in the past couple of minutes. Where are you, Maggie Summer?”

  “Sorry! Daydreaming. Onward to meeting Rachel.”

  Rachel was at the front desk with another woman, but after a hurried conversation, she grabbed the key to the archives room, and gestured to Will and Maggie to follow her. She closed the door after them.

  “Why all the secrecy?” asked Will.

  “Because I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know who’s involved in it!” Rachel said. She put up her fingers and started counting. “First, Carolyn Chase is murdered. Second, you guys imply that Walter English is auctioning off stolen paintings, and then police swarm all over the auction house the day before a sale. Great for buyer confidence, I assure you. That alone got me in seriously boiling water. Then I hear Aunt Nettie got mugged in her own house Saturday. And then yesterday, to top it all off, I almost got fired because I took a couple of telephone messages. So.” Rachel folded her arms as though she were a principal examining two truant adolescents and looked from Will to Maggie and back again. “You both owe me an explanation.”

  Will just looked at her. “Don’t you want to know how Aunt Nettie is?”

  Rachel relaxed a bit and Maggie thought she saw a hint of a grudging smile. “I heard she was doing better. True?”

  “True. She’s doing much better. If all continues well, her doctor says she’ll probably be able to come home tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. Now. What about all the other stuff?”

  “Rachel,” Maggie asked, “who blamed you for the police removing the two Helen Chase paintings from the auction sale?”

  “Lew, mostly,” Rachel answered.

  “That’s Lew Coleman?” asked Will. “The guy who told you to get back to work when you were talking to us on Thursday?”

  “That’s him. He knows you’re my cousin. His dad told him that, I guess, after he met Maggie—”

  “Whoa!” said Maggie. “I met his father? Who’s his father?”

  “Henry Coleman. He used to teach math at Waymouth High.”

  “Ah,” Maggie remembered, turning to Will. “He was at that genealogy meeting I went to with Carolyn, here at the library. Henry Coleman. He was writing a history of the schools in this county, or region, or something like that.”

  “Well, anyway,” Rachel continued, undissuaded, “Lew knew Will was my cousin, and his girlfriend was a friend of Carolyn Chase’s, and knew about American art. So after he saw me talking to you both, and then Nick Strait came in, claiming some art expert had said there were unidentified Helen Chase paintings in the sale, and asking their provenance, Lew put it all together.”

  “What was their provenance?” asked Will. “Who was the seller? Because if whoever it was proved they owned the paintings, or had the right to sell them, then there was no problem in their being auctioned. The auction house could always say they didn’t know they were Helen Chase works. ‘Buyer beware’ can also be ‘seller beware.’”

  “Not something the seller would like, certainly,” Maggie added quietly. “Since the paintings would sell for a lot less than if they were identified. And the chance that Walter English didn’t recognize them as her work seems rather remote.”

  “I know, I know,” said Rachel. “All those things are problems. Walter is always very careful about keeping detailed paperwork about consigners. He has notes on who appraised the items in his sales, or what reference sources he used for his own appraisals. But in the excitement of last week’s auction no one could find any of the paperwork for those two items.”

  Maggie and Will looked at each other. “There was no paperwork for the paintings?” Maggie asked. “Nothing?”

  “The file was empty. It didn’t even list the person who consigned them. Walter was furious at having to give bot
h the paintings to the police, but without proof of where they’d come from, Nick said they could be evidence. Walter was furious. As soon as Nick left he yelled at Lew. He said Lew had been the one who’d been the contact for the consigner, so he was responsible for the paperwork. Lew kept saying he’d done it, and it had just been misplaced.”

  “Did he say who he’d gotten the paintings from?” asked Maggie.

  “He said some young woman had brought them in. He didn’t remember her name. And then as soon as Walter had gone back to his office, Lew turned around and blamed me for the whole mess. He said you were my cousin, Will, and if you hadn’t brought Maggie to the sale, then this wouldn’t have happened.” Rachel looked as though her whole world was about to collapse.

  “Sounds as though he was looking to blow off steam, and you happened to be in his line of fire,” said Will. “I’m sorry about that. But you had nothing to do with what we saw at the sale, or what we did about it.”

  “I know that. But he really was ready to fire me when I left those two messages for him on the bulletin board yesterday. Here I thought I was doing him a favor. Instead, he hit the roof.” Rachel shook her head. “I had nightmares all last night.”

  “What kind of messages were they?” Maggie asked.

  “Nothing exciting. Or at least I didn’t think so. We were all there yesterday, doing the auction cleanup. Calling everyone who’d left bids to tell them whether they’d gotten their items, and if so, when they could pick them up. Arranging shipping for the large pieces of furniture. Adding up the accounts for each of the people who’d had consigned items sold.” Rachel looked at each of them. “There’s an incredible amount of paperwork that has to be done before and after each auction. Everyone was so busy that when Lew’s line kept ringing, I thought he’d appreciate my answering it.”

  “Do you usually answer the telephones?” Will asked.

  “No. But as I said, it was crazy there, and I thought maybe a customer had a question I could answer. Instead, it was someone I didn’t know. An Alex Daggett. He called twice; said he could only talk to Lew, and it was important. The second time he said he was from Sotheby’s.”

  “Did you give the messages to Lew?”

  “I looked everywhere for him, of course. But I had work to do. I wrote the message out and stuck it on the bulletin board right at the entrance to where the offices are. We all leave messages there for each other. I knew Lew’d see it whenever he went back to his desk.”

  “And did he?”

  “He sure did. He grabbed it off the board, tore it into little pieces, and then came in and dropped the pieces all over my desk. He said he never wanted me to pick up his line ever again. It was private, and that I’d already done enough to ruin his life.”

  “Ruin his life?” Maggie said. “That sounds a bit dramatic.”

  “You’re not kidding,” said Rachel. “Luckily, it was close to the time I was scheduled to leave, so that’s what I did. I’m not sure I ever want to go back. Walter English isn’t bad to work for. But dealing with that Lew Coleman isn’t worth the hassle.” She twisted the ring on the third finger of her left hand. “I don’t really have to work anymore. I’m doing it to be independent and to have some money in the bank that’s just mine. I don’t want to be yelled at and blamed for crazy reasons.”

  “No,” agreed Will. He paused. “Had the paperwork on those paintings showed up by the time you left yesterday?”

  “I don’t think anyone was even looking for it,” she answered. “That was Friday’s problem. During the auction Walter just announced that those lots had been withdrawn. No one asked any questions.” She looked at them. “I feel better, having told you both. I know you can’t do anything about it. But I was so angry that I was being blamed for doing what I thought was the right thing.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Will. “But I think Nick Strait ought to know about those phone calls for Lew.”

  “Why would Nick Strait care about them?” asked Rachel. “It’s not unusual for people at one auction house to call people at another.”

  “No. But on the day after an auction... Do you know if the Sotheby’s guy...Alex Daggett?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “If Alex Daggett bid on anything at the auction?” asked Maggie.

  “Nothing I know about,” said Rachel. “But I didn’t see all the bids. There were left bids and phone bids and Internet bids. Not even counting the people who were there in person.”

  “Of course, he might not have used his own name,” Maggie pointed out.

  “No,” agreed Will. “Rachel, are you going back to the auction house today or tomorrow?”

  “I’ve pretty much decided to quit,” she said. “I’ll probably go back tomorrow to give notice. They may ask me to stay the next couple of weeks to do the Labor Day sale, though. That’s one of the biggest sales of the year. It wouldn’t be fair to everyone else for me just to leave.”

  “When you go back, would you check something for me?” asked Will. “Out of curiosity. And if you have any trouble doing it, don’t go any further. But if the records are clear, I wonder if you could find out who placed absentee bids of any kind on those two lots Nick Strait removed from Saturday’s auction.”

  “The two paintings?” said Rachel.

  “Right. The names and contact information for anyone interested in them. It might be important.”

  Rachel looked from one of them to the other. “You’re doing it again, like last summer, with my Crystal. You’re trying to figure out what happened with those paintings, aren’t you?”

  “If we can,” said Maggie. “Of course, that’s Detective Strait’s job. But if we have any ideas that might help...”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Rachel promised. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Maggie and Will stood up to leave. “By the way, Rachel, how long has Lew Coleman worked for Walter English?” asked Maggie.

  “Only about five or six months,” said Rachel. “Before that he worked in New York City. He came back to Waymouth to take care of his dad, who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s about a year ago. He’s not too bad yet, but Lew gave up his life in New York to come back here and watch out for him. Pretty nice, right? Even if he was mean to me.”

  “Very nice,” said Maggie. “Not every son would do that.”

  “They would if they loved their father,” said Will. “Maybe Lew’s under a lot of stress at home; maybe that’s why he’s been so jumpy recently, and misplaced the papers.”

  “Maybe,” said Rachel. “But I’ll try to find out who was interested in those paintings.”

  Chapter 31

  Ship-Building, Gloucester Harbor. Wood engraving by Winslow Homer for Harper’s Weekly, 1873. One of his most famous engravings. Boys building toy boats from discarded wood shavings next to a ship being built in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Homer’s “Gloucester Series,” picturing people on the beach and boating in the harbor, is considered his finest group of wood engravings, and was published shortly before he turned to painting in oils and watercolors full-time. Many images in the series reappeared in his paintings. 10.5 x 15 inches. Price: $600.

  “Will, would you drop me at home while you go to see Aunt Nettie?” said Maggie, as they left the library.

  “Sure,” he answered. “But why?”

  “I could do more laundry. The sheets in both our rooms are still on the floors and our clothes from the past week need to be washed. I’d like to have all that finished before Aunt Nettie gets home. Our rooms need to be cleaned, too. While you’re visiting Aunt Nettie I could get a lot done.” She was justifying not going to the hospital, but there was a lot to do. She’d rather accomplish something than sit around a waiting room. And there was the journal to read.

  Will agreed, reluctantly. “I hate having you do all the grunt work, though. I won’t stay at Rocky Shores too long.”

  “Stay as long as you need to,” Maggie urged. “I don’t mind.” She leaned over and kiss
ed him on the cheek. “Aunt Nettie doesn’t need both of us there.”

  Back at the house she gathered laundry, which turned out to be a bigger job than she’d anticipated, started the washing machine, and settled down at the kitchen table with the journal. Somewhere in that little book there must be answers.

  July 7, 1890

  Jessie could hardly stop talking during our trip to Mr. Homer’s studio this morning. I had noted her family’s absence in church yesterday, but had not dreamed it was due to an invitation Mr. Colby had issued, inviting all of them to his parents’ home up in Augusta for the day.

  Jessie was furious, for the invitation had been extended not to her, but to her father, on all of their behalves. It was clear the purpose of the invitation was for Orin Colby’s parents to meet her and her family and determine whether she would meet whatever criteria would be required to become a part of their family.

  Jessie said Orin (she is now calling him “Orin,” I noted, and not “Mr. Colby,” as she was only ten days ago) seemed quite perturbed at her excitement upon hearing of the rescue of Luke Trask’s ship, and swiftly spoke to her father. She is afraid he will make an offer for her hand before Luke is able to return to Waymouth, and that her father will accept the offer for her.

  She admitted that Orin’s family seemed pleasant enough, but old and dull. She reported she hardly said three words in the day she was with them, despite significant glances from her mother. Orin said, indeed, she impressed his mother as being an “attractive and modest” young woman, which infuriated Jessie still more. I have never seen her less composed than she was this morning.

  Micah Wright was, as I had hoped, our driver this morning, but I had little chance to speak with him, as had been my plan. Jessie’s concerns filled my ears from Waymouth until we reached the shore of the Atlantic.

  Mr. Homer was waiting for us. He is quite excited about an idea for a new painting. He did not explain it all to us, but said that on the evening of the Fourth, guests at the Checkley House had celebrated on the beach below the hotel, which is visible from the balcony above his studio. He watched the partying, and went down on the cliff walk above the partygoers to sketch them dancing in the moonlight. Now he would like to paint the scene, and he wants Jessie and me to pose as two young women dancing together on the beach.