by Kathi Daley
I couldn’t guess who might have poisoned Palmer or how. Could the poison have been delivered in a specific food or beverage that had been taken away after the toxin had been ingested by the target? If that was true, it seemed more likely a friend or neighbor might be involved. Someone who brought something to Palmer and then waited around while he ate or drank it, so that they could take the container with them when they left so no evidence could be found afterward. And if it had been a friend or neighbor who had brought Palmer the tainted food or beverage, all we really needed to do to find the murderer was to locate someone who had seen this individual coming or going.
Nikki had come by last night to pick up a key to the cottage. She planned to stay there the whole time we were away, which was comforting to both Georgia and me; we were happy the animals wouldn’t be alone. Before we hit the road, Georgia took Ramos out for a long walk while I saw to the cats. Then we loaded our things in my vehicle and headed to Velma’s place to pick her up. By the time the sun was high in the sky, we were crossing the border from Maine into New Hampshire.
“I think we have plenty of time to grab an early lunch and still make it to the ferry,” I said.
“I know of a lobster shack right on the water not far from here,” Velma said. “It’s casual, has good food, and should be a lot quicker than some of the restaurants we’ll pass.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Just tell me where to go.”
“Continue down this road for another few miles,” Velma answered. “I’ll let you know when we get to the turnoff.”
Georgia rolled down her window about a third of the way as we made our way toward the water. She took in a deep breath of the salty air. “I can’t believe what a nice day it is today. It is the first time I really feel like spring might actually be around the corner.”
“It is unseasonably warm,” Velma agreed from the back seat. “I’ve known it to snow well into March, but this year, while admittedly wet, has been fairly warm. I’m hoping for an early spring, but not a hot summer, which is what we had a few years ago.” Velma placed a hand on the back of my seat and leaned forward slightly. “Okay, in about a mile you will see a road that veers off to the left. Follow that all the way down to the water and then stay right for about a quarter mile. The lobster shack will be on the left. You’ll see it.”
As Velma had promised, the place was easy to get to, the service was efficient, and the food delicious. The best part, however, was the large patio that looked out over the sea. It was chilly in the shade but warm in the sunshine, so we chose to sit outside at a table near the glass wall that protected the patio from the wind.
“So, have you spoken to TJ since you told her we were coming?” Georgia asked Velma after we ordered our meal.
“No. I told her that we would see her on Tuesday but haven’t spoken to her since. If I know her, however, she’s been looking into your mantel.” Velma looked at me. “Did you send her the photos of the mantel as you said you would?”
I nodded as I sipped my diet cola. “I did. So far, Bobby hasn’t found any secret compartments, but he’s been focusing on the crown molding and so hasn’t spent a lot of time on the mantel. I think he was planning to do some of the preliminary work on the refurbishment today, though.”
“I found out a few fun facts,” Georgia said, entering the conversation. “It turns out there was a tavern called The Gilded Feather in Boston where educated and informed men would gather to drink ale and discuss the latest political developments. The building it was located in has since been torn down, but I dug around and found a sketch of the place. The artist who drew the sketch was an Irish-born immigrant named Darby Boyle, who married an Englishwoman and came to British America in the early seventeen seventies. The sketch was dated 1774, and the mantel in the background looks a lot like ours. Again, it isn’t a perfect match so I don’t believe they’re one and the same, but the mantel in the sketch could very well have been created by the same artist.”
“That really is fascinating,” I said. “Did you come up with anything about Samuel Garrison himself?”
Georgia nodded. “Garrison was born in Yorkshire, England, to wealthy parents. He came to the Americas in the seventeen hundreds and settled in the Boston area. He was a talented artist who was commissioned to do a sculpture for a wealthy businessman named Frederick Coleman. That gained him a certain amount of recognition, which seemed to serve him well. While he was a talented sculptor, his real love was wood carving, and in addition to his statues, he began producing other items. I’m not sure how he got in to mantels, but it seems by the time of the Revolution, his mantels were in a lot of the finer homes, inns, and taverns in New England. I don’t know where all of them ended up, but there is one in an inn just north of Boston.”
“Which, I suppose, gives me another reason to visit Boston,” I said.
“You’ve never been?” Georgia asked.
“No. I’ve always wanted to, but I’ve never managed to make it.”
“When we have time, I’ll take you and show you around,” Georgia promised. “There are some wonderful sites that were so important to our history. Sites that really should be experienced.”
We finished our lunch and piled back into my vehicle and headed toward the ferry terminal. We had plenty of time to get there, but knowing that traffic could and most likely would be unpredictable, I wanted to leave a comfortable cushion to avoid the stress of racing against time only to find that the road ahead had come to a standstill. The perfect weather continued as we passed into Massachusetts. With any luck at all, it would hold until we returned home on Wednesday.
“It looks like the ferry won’t be overly crowded today,” Velma said as we pulled into the line to board.
“I tried to make the crossing once on a weekend and the ferry was sold out,” Georgia said. “Of course, that was during the summer. There won’t be as many visitors crossing today.”
Once we boarded the ferry, the three of us made our way up onto the deck and stood at the railing, looking out to the sea. We had on warm coats, which, despite the brilliant sunshine were welcome as we got underway. The sea sparkled as the sun reflected off the surface. Harbor Seals played in the wake as we made our way south. I took several deep breaths, which I blew out slowly, willing the last of the tension I’d brought with me from Holiday Bay to dissipate.
“So, where are we staying?” Georgia asked Velma, who had offered to make reservations for all of us.
“I booked us rooms at a historic inn not far from shopping and restaurants. It was built as a private home for a wealthy sea captain in the nineteenth century and converted to an inn in the 1950s. While it maintains its historic charm, it has been modernized and upgraded. It has a nice water view and an attached pub that serves pub-style food as well as alcohol and is open until eleven, if you feel like a drink or a snack before bed.”
Georgia grinned. “It sounds perfect. I can’t wait to get settled in.”
As soon as we arrived on the island, Velma gave me directions to the inn, which was weathered and gray on the outside but quite nice inside. The rooms were on the small side, but each had an attached bath, and while it wasn’t on the waterfront, there were filtered views of the ocean through most of the windows. We decided to take an hour to settle in and rest up from our drive before meeting in the lobby to walk into town for dinner. The sky was still clear of clouds, but the temperature had dropped with the setting sun, so I dug into my overnight bag for the warmest clothes I’d brought, which, as it turned out, consisted of heavy wool slacks and a cashmere sweater. I figured I could pull on my heavy jacket as well if need be, but it was a casual one that didn’t do much for the outfit. Oh well; I figured it was better to be warm than to make a fashion statement.
******
In the Town of Nantucket, we walked up and down the cobblestone streets looking for a restaurant. There were a lot of really great-looking places to choose from, which made choosing all that much harder. We eventually opted f
or a cozy establishment on a busy corner that promised home cooking at its best. After selecting a booth near the window, we placed our order and then settled in to watch the people walk by outside.
“This really is an adorable town,” I said as couples holding hands or groups of friends passed by.
“It is a fun place to window-shop,” Velma said. “In the past, I’ve stumbled onto all sorts of finds in out-of-the-way places. Hopefully, we will have time to browse after we speak to TJ tomorrow.”
“We might even be able to find some fun pieces for the inn,” Georgia said.
“I’d love to find some original artwork. Something that speaks to the history and culture of New England.”
“Maybe we can find another sketch by CW,” Georgia said. “We talked about trying to expand our collection beyond one.
“CW?” Velma asked.
“When Georgia and I were antiquing with Lacy, we came across a sketch of my house,” I answered. “It was dated 1896 and signed by a CW. We thought that perhaps the sketch could have been done by the man who built the house, Chamberlain Westminster. We planned to do additional research on the sketch, but so far we haven’t found the time.”
“You think the man who built your house was an artist?” Velma asked.
Georgia shrugged. “We don’t know for certain, but given the fact that the sketch was dated to line up with the year when the house was built, we thought it was possible.”
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “From what Lonnie told me, Chamberlain Westminster built the house I now own in 1895 for his wife, Abagail. She died just four months after they were married, and he left the United States for England shortly after that. The timeline for him to have sketched the house once it was finished would be tight, but we figured he could have finished the building before the first snowfall in 1895 and made the drawing in early 1896, just before his wife passed.”
“I guess it could have happened that way,” Velma admitted. “I’d love to see the sketch.”
“You can come over anytime, or we can bring it to you,” I offered. “I have to say, the house seems to be wrapped up in a lot more interesting history than I imagined when I bought it.”
“I have to agree with you,” Velma said. “I always thought of that place as the dilapidated mansion on the bluff. It never occurred to me to stop and wonder about its history. I’m glad I am able to share this journey of discovery with you.” Velma took a sip of her tea. “By the way, did you ever sort through the stuff in the attic?”
“No,” I admitted. “I do intend to. In the beginning, I figured I had a lot of time, but Lonnie is starting on the third-floor suites soon, which means he’ll be ready to do the demo on the attic next. There is a lot of stuff up there, so going through it all is going to take some time. I have no idea if I’ll find anything of value, but I can’t see getting rid of it without carefully inspecting every box and piece of furniture.”
“Especially after the things you’ve already found in that house,” Velma said. “You just know there have to be more treasures just waiting for you to stumble over them.”
“I’ll get to it in the next few weeks,” I promised. “I might have an antique dealer come by to look at the furniture.”
“Ask Lacy to take a look at everything first,” Georgia said. “You know she has a good eye, and she’ll be straight with you. After she has made an initial pass, you can always call in a dealer.”
“There might be pieces you can use in the house,” Velma suggested.
“There might be,” I agreed. “I noticed a secretary desk shoved back in one corner of the attic that would be perfect for the entry.”
“I wonder if there are items up there that belonged to Chamberlain and his bride. It did sound like he just up and left after his wife died,” Georgia said. “I know that a lot of the furniture must have been sold off over the years, but one of the previous owners had to have stored everything that’s up there.”
“It would be fun to find more letters, like the ones in the library, or old photos. Maybe even documents with names on them. The story of the Westminsters is tragic, but it fascinates me. The idea that Chamberlain met this woman and fell so madly in love with her that he gave up his home and his country to be with her is so touching.”
“I suppose there could be more to it than that,” Velma said.
“Perhaps,” I admitted. “But sometimes a grand gesture is just a grand gesture.”
Chapter 7
Thomas Jefferson Franklin was an absolute hoot. A tiny little thing with short, curly hair, huge eyes, and a wide grin, she seemed to bounce around the shop while she spoke in a tone of voice I could only describe as melodic.
“I was so extremely excited to hear about your mantel.” TJ grabbed my hand in both of hers after Velma introduced us. “To think that you might have an authentic Samuel Garrison in your own home. It must just give you goosebumps.”
“Sure, I guess,” I said as I glanced at Georgia, who glanced back at me with a look of delight. She knew I was out of my element with the overly friendly woman and was enjoying every moment of it.
“I’ve called everyone I’ve ever known who might know something about your find,” TJ bubbled. “I think I have some very important news for you.”
“You do?” I raised a brow. “Already?”
TJ nodded and then hugged me tightly around the waist. “I do. But first tea. I just don’t know where my manners are not to have offered you tea the moment you walked in.”
It felt like we had just walked in, but whatever. I followed TJ toward the back of the store, where she had a round table covered with a white tablecloth and six chairs around it. She opened a cupboard and took out four teacups and four matching saucers. She motioned that we should all take a seat and then she disappeared into the back. She must have had tea warming, because less than a minute later she returned with a teapot and a platter with small cakes of some sort.
“So, about your mantel,” TJ said after pouring us each a cup of the dark, hot brew. “I am fairly certain that I found the tavern from which it was first housed.”
I leaned forward. “That’s great. Where do you think that was?”
TJ pulled out an old book of historical buildings. Toward the back was a section on historical taverns in Massachusetts. Each article described the location of the tavern, the famous patrons who were known to frequent it, and other information relating to its historical significance. Many of the articles were accompanied by sketches, although a few of the articles about taverns that were either still standing or had been standing until at least the nineteenth century contained photographs.
TJ pointed to a page. “Does this look like your mantel?”
I looked at the photo carefully. “It does.”
“The photo you are looking at is of an oil painting that was commissioned by Charles Langford, who owned a tavern and inn called The Yellow Dog. It was located on Water Street in Boston and was purportedly frequented by many of our founding fathers looking to pour down a cold one or hunker in for the night. The painting depicted in the photo hung above the bar until the building was sold and torn down in 1894.”
The oil painting showed four men sitting at a table in front of a brick fireplace with an intricately carved mantel that looked exactly like the one in my house.
“Who are the men?” I asked.
“There is actually debate as to who the men sitting around the table might be. Most believe that Samuel Adams, Paul Revere, and others frequented the establishment, but to be honest, I’m not sure who the figures sitting around the table are supposed to represent. They are looking toward each other and not toward the artist. Additionally, they were roughly sketched and don’t appear to have any significant identifying characteristics. That might be intentional. I really don’t know. What I do know is that based on the painting, I would say there is a very good chance that the mantel in your home was originally commissioned by Langford for his tavern.”
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br /> I glanced at Georgia. She appeared to be transfixed by the sketch. It was pretty humbling to see my mantel in the same painting with men who were more likely than not American patriots. The timing was right. If the Yellow Dog was torn down in 1894 and my house was built in 1895, Chamberlain Winchester could definitely have known of the demise of the tavern and purchased the mantel for the house he was building.
“Is there a way I can prove that my mantel is this one for sure?” I asked.
“Maybe,” TJ said. “The mantels built by Garrison were numbered. There should be a number hidden within the design. If you can find the number, you might be able to track down the specific mantel that you have. Garrison’s mantels were said to be unique, with no two exactly the same, although they were similar. Based on the photo you sent me and this sketch, I think it is possible that the two are the same, but without someone with a lot more knowledge than me to authenticate your mantel, I don’t think you’ll be able to say for sure.”
“Would you be able to put me in touch with someone who might be able to authenticate it?” I asked.
“I do know a man. His name is Bronson Holding. He is an art dealer who knows quite a bit about colonial art. I can give you his number. If he feels that you might have something, I think he might be willing to make the trip to look at your piece.”
“Thank you. I will give him a call.”
After we left TJ’s, we decided to find somewhere for lunch. The streets were busier today than they had been last evening, but not so busy as to make finding restaurants without a wait impossible.
“This place looks nice,” I said, pausing to read the menu taped to the window. I liked the fact that the restaurant had a good selection of fresh salads and seafood.