Shadows on a Maine Christmas (Antique Print Mystery Series Book 7)

Shadows on a Maine Christmas

An Antique Print Mystery

LEA WAIT

2014 • Perseverance Press | John Daniel & Company

Palo Alto | Mckinleyville, California

Poinsettia pulcherrima.
Plate XXXI from Volume I of
Les plantes à feuillage coloré,
written by English botanist Edward (E.J.) Lowe (1825–1900) assisted by W. Howard, and translated from the English by publisher K. Rothschild: Paris, 1867. Beautiful detailed color lithograph of a single poinsettia flower and two leaves. Based on Lowe’s
Beautiful-Leaved Plants, being a Description of the Most Beautiful-Leaved Plants in Cultivation in this Country,
London: Groombridge, 1864. 7 x 10.5 inches. Price: $60.

Christmas on the
coast of Maine with the man she loved. It sounded like an ad for a 1940s romantic movie starring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn.

Maggie’s students and colleagues who’d heard her holiday plans had immediately assumed engagement bells as well as Christmas bells were in the offing. She’d found herself fending off everything from knowing smiles to slightly off-color jokes to well-meaning high fives.

Three people volunteered to take Winslow, her cat, for the holidays. Neighbors had promised to watch her house, and even plow her driveway and shovel her sidewalk should Somerset County, New Jersey be blessed with a white Christmas. Some days even Maggie herself had felt she was getting into the spirit. Admittedly, a few bedtime glasses of sherry had also helped with late-night nerves.

And after all, she told herself on those sleepless nights, she loved Will. He said he loved her. And wasn’t this the season for love to conquer all? (Or was that Valentine’s Day?)

Okay. So they had a few issues to iron out.

She was set on adopting a child. In fact, last week she’d heard she was now officially on her agency’s waiting list for “one girl or two sisters between the ages of five and nine.” Not news she’d shared with Will. Not yet.

Because although he might love her, he’d been clear that fatherhood was not for him.

And then there was the little issue of geography. He’d moved to Maine to care for his ninety-two-year-old Aunt Nettie. Maggie lived in New Jersey.

So, yes, they had a few lifestyle issues to work through.

Maggie kept replaying the moment he’d asked her to marry him when they’d been on Cape Cod in October.

And even more vividly, the moment after that when she’d told him she was having her adoption home study done. The moment he’d backed off. Way off. As in, slamming the door and leaving, off.

Nothing—not even the death of her husband two years ago—had felt as awful. But of course, Michael’s accidental death had also been the end of his philandering. Death had just made a dying relationship officially over. Her experience with Michael was one of the reasons it had taken so long for her to finally trust Will.

Trust him to love her. But whether their love could survive their both being independent individuals with separate dreams and responsibilities? That was still open to question.

Her right hand, which was clenched on the steering wheel, still wore the R-E-G-A-R-D ring Will had given her. It was their private token of friendship; a Victorian ring with stones spelling out the sentiment they’d felt when they were two antique dealers (she specialized in prints; he in kitchen and fireplace wares) getting to know each other. The Ruby, Emerald, Garnet, Amethyst, Ruby, and Diamond still glittered, despite today’s low December clouds.

She’d offered the ring back to him in October. Her heart raced remembering that moment. What if he’d taken it? What if he’d driven back to Maine and they’d never seen each other again?

He’d refused the ring. But she’d almost had to beg for another chance. Promised she’d never keep a major secret, like her adoption plans, from him again. Promised she wouldn’t put crazy distractions like trying to solve murders ahead of being with him.

Now it was two months later. No murders had presented themselves, thank goodness, but she hadn’t given up her dream of opening her home and heart to a child who needed her.

This visit, this Maine Christmas, would be their test. Was their relationship going to work?

Could she give up her desire to be a parent? Or could Will find it in his heart to love a child?

No; this wasn’t going to be a simple, romantic Christmas in Maine.

But she was on her way.

Home For The Holidays.
Wood engraving from January 2, 1869
Harper’s Weekly.
Illustrator: JW. (Full name unknown.) Black-and-white illustration of wooden suburban railway station (“Valley Station”) platform filled with elegantly dressed people of all ages greeting each other; stacks of trunks and carpetbags are waiting to be picked up. Train in distance pulling away from station. 15.5 x 11 inches. Price: $55.

Years ago,
when Maggie had first started her antique print business, she’d named it “Shadows.” That’s what old prints had always seemed to her: shadows; reflections; treasured pictures that gave today’s viewers a window to the past. A glimpse, perhaps, of the people and places they’d come from.

Tonight, as Maggie first saw Waymouth, Maine in Christmas attire, it seemed as though the classic holiday scenes in her print inventory had come to life.

Despite its being close to midnight, the little town on the Madoc River was bright with holiday lights. The Congregational church overlooking Main Street was illuminated, and cascading lights on the Christmas tree on the Green were reflected by the snow below it. Pine trees strung with tiny white lights tied to the bases of street lamps leading down toward the river made the simple drive into town magical. Windows and doors of homes on both sides of the street were decorated with wreaths, many illuminated with welcoming candles or lights.

Disney couldn’t have planned it better if he’d designed this town for the Magic Kingdom. The perfect New England village. Although everyone knew the Magic Kingdom’s perfection was a façade. Not everyone behind those doors was following a script with a happy ending built in.

Maggie turned left on a side street, toward where Will would be waiting.

She pulled into the driveway in back of Aunt Nettie’s familiar small sedan, and hardly had time to remove her keys before Will was outside her van door.

“Where have you been? I expected you two hours ago. I wanted to call or text, but I didn’t want you answering while you were driving if the weather or the traffic—”

And then she was in his arms, his soft beard against her cheek, and the end of the sentence didn’t matter.

At least for a minute or two. Then reality set in. “It’s freezing cold and snowing!” Maggie said, shivering despite his arms around her.

Will laughed. “It’s actually below freezing—about five degrees. And of course it’s snowing. You’re in Maine, in December. Where’re your bag and your coat? We’ll get you in the house. Don’t worry. We’re fully equipped for the modern world. We even have central heating.”

Central heating? She hadn’t considered the possibility they wouldn’t have it. What other possibilities about this week hadn’t she thought of?

“How about hot chocolate?” Maggie shivered, as she pointed out her duffel bag and her coat, and balanced six large tins of Christmas cookies in her arms.

“Chocolate’s possible. I know my lady. I’ve even got the Maine solution to all things winter—Allen’s Coffee Brandy,” said Will, as he hustled Maggie up the steps to the porch.

Maggie wrinkled her nose. “No coffee. Even in brandy. Hot chocolate, please. Maybe with cognac?”

“You didn’t think to wear boots?” Will stared at her sneakered feet.

“They’re in the van,” she said. She focused on getting to the front door before she froze to death. “I’ll find them tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Will, close behind her. “I was afraid I might have to totally outfit you.”

The kitchen was as welcoming as it had been in summer, and almost as warm.

“Merry Christmas, Maggie! Welcome to Waymouth.” Matriarch Aunt Nettie was sitting in her usual chair at the kitchen table, cozily dressed in a gray wool sweater and slacks, a warm red-patterned shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “I couldn’t let Will sit up alone to wait for you. He’s been pacing and looking out the window for hours. Thought certain he’d wear a hole in the floor.”

“Merry Christmas, Aunt Nettie!” Maggie put her boxes of cookies on the counter and bent down to give the old woman a gentle hug. Aunt Nettie had lost weight since her stroke in August. “Thank you so much for including me in your Christmas. I’ve never been to Maine in the winter.”

“So Will tells me. Hope you brought warm underwear. It gets a mite chilly around here this time of year. It’s not the temperature, you know. It’s the wind, coming over the river. Gets me in my bones, especially since I can’t move around the way I used to.”

“You’re looking in good spirits, though,” said Maggie.

“I am. And pleased you’re here. Will needs more company than an old woman, and it’s nice to have a guest over the holidays. You always keep us on our toes, Maggie Summer.”

Maggie hung her coat on one of the iron hooks on the wall near the door. Will had already produced a large mug of hot chocolate, put it at her place at the table, and was reaching for a bottle of cognac. “That sounds like an order.”

“It is. Life was beginning to get a bit dreary around this place. We need some livening up. Right, Will?”

“Something like that,” Will answered. “Now, Aunt Nettie, you’ve stayed up until Maggie’s arrived. Don’t you think it’s time for you to go to bed?”

“In a few minutes,” she said, brushing him off. “I know you young folks want time to yourselves. I’m not a fool. We can wait until tomorrow to make plans. We have a few days before Christmas, so there’s plenty of time.”

“I thought we’d go and cut our tree tomorrow,” Will said, as he and Maggie sat down at the table. He looked at Maggie for confirmation. “Christmas isn’t really Christmas until there’s a tree in the house. Have you ever cut your own tree?”

Maggie shook her head. “In New Jersey they’re shipped in from places like Maine and Vermont, and sold at horribly high prices. Or people have artificial ones.”

Aunt Nettie shuddered. “The bank in town has one of those. Fire regulations, they said. On the television they even showed one that was pink! Horrid thing. Abnormal, if you ask me. Wouldn’t even smell of pine or fir. Give me a nice real tree any day.”

“You can buy trees off lots here, too, but not many people do,” Will added. “You remember Nick Strait? His family has a few acres and he said we could find a nice Douglas fir there.”

“Sounds like fun,” Maggie agreed, sipping her chocolate and beginning to warm up. “How is Nick?” She tried to stifle a yawn. “Never mind. You can tell me about Nick tomorrow. I guess I really am tired.”

“So—what’s in the boxes?” He pointed at the metal tins she’d put on the counter.

“I wanted to contribute a few things to Christmas,” Maggie said, smiling. “Those are cookies. Mincemeat-filled, lemon sugar, regular sugar, shortbread, chocolate chip, butterscotch, snickerdoodles, oatmeal, molasses, ginger, raspberry-filled…you name it. I didn’t know if we’d have time to bake while I was here. And for me, Christmas isn’t Christmas without cookies.”

“I knew there was a reason I’d invited you!” said Will. “Is there a rule we can’t sample now? Or would you like something more substantial to eat? What about a ham sandwich?”

“A sandwich would be good. On the way here all I’ve nibbled on are carrot sticks and chips. But you can have cookies.” Maggie opened one of the boxes and reached in the cupboard above for a plate. “When I was a little girl cookies were only for Christmas Eve and after. But I think under the circumstances we can start our Christmas now.”

“Will, why don’t you get up and make this woman a sandwich? We don’t want her driving all the way here and then starving to death. While she’s eating it, you can help me to bed. Then, after she’s had her food, you two can have time together.” Aunt Nettie actually winked at Maggie, who grinned back, as Will got up and went to the refrigerator. “Will can check out those cookies of yours tonight. I’ll look forward to tasting them tomorrow. I’ll admit I’m a bit weary. This is past my bedtime.”

“Of course. I understand.” Maggie put the plate of cookies down on the table. “Would you like me to help you get ready for bed?” Last summer she’d done that.

“Not tonight. You’ve just arrived. And Will and I’ve gotten used to each other.” Aunt Nettie leaned over and whispered confidentially, “At first I wasn’t too comfortable with his helping me. His being a man and all, you know? But he’s not so bad, after all. And they have male nurses nowadays. So an old lady has to be flexible.” She sat up and said, louder, “We’ve learned to cope with each other in the past months, haven’t we, Will?”

“We have, indeed,” Will said, smiling, as he put a thick sandwich down in front of Maggie. “So, my fine lady, let’s head off to bed. You’ll have plenty of time to talk with Maggie in the morning.”

He handed his great-aunt a cane Maggie hadn’t noticed leaning against the wall and helped her to her feet. She expected them to head for the stairs to the second floor, but instead, they walked slowly toward the living room and turned toward the dining area.

In their telephone calls and emails Will had mentioned he’d made changes in the house to make it more comfortable for both of them. He hadn’t been more specific, and caught up in her teaching, her print business, and her adoption home study, she hadn’t asked. Now she wished she had. Was Aunt Nettie now sleeping downstairs? At the end of August she’d been having a hard time climbing the stairs to her bedroom, but they’d assumed her strength would return.

As Maggie sipped her chocolate and ate her sandwich she listened to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Will had gotten a cousin to stay with his aunt when he’d come to Cape Cod for Gussie’s wedding. She hadn’t realized how necessary that had been. No wonder Will cancelled out of the antiques shows he’d usually done in New York and New Jersey this fall.

By the time he’d returned she’d finished eating, washed up the dishes, and nibbled on a couple of her own cookies.

Will smiled at her appreciatively and offered her a snifter of cognac, sans chocolate, which she accepted, poured himself one, and then focused on the cookies. “I’ve never had mincemeat cookies before. These are terrific.”

“Aunt Nettie’s weaker than I imagined,” Maggie said cautiously, not knowing how sounds would carry in the old house. “How is she, really? And how are you managing? You didn’t tell me she was sleeping downstairs.”

“I didn’t want to bother you with our problems.” He reached for another cookie. “Physically, Aunt Nettie’s fine, considering she’s ninety-two and had a minor stroke four months ago. Mentally, she still has it all together. But she’s lost a lot of strength, and her doctor says chances are she won’t get it back. Climbing the stairs was too hard for her, and installing a stair lift in that narrow old stairway wouldn’t work. So, over her strenuous objections, I convinced her to move downstairs. In case of an emergency it would be a lot easier to get her out of the house if she’s on the first floor.”

“But there’s no bathroom downstairs,” Maggie thought out loud.

“There is now. You’re forgetting all those years I taught carpentry in high school.” Will half smiled. “Tomorrow you’ll see. I built a wall to separate the dining room from the living room to give her some privacy—and me, too, if I have guests. When he wasn’t on duty Nick helped me build a handicapped bathroom in the corner of her room.”

“Wow!” Maggie said. “You’ve done all that this fall?”

“That’s the only construction, other than the ramp I added to the outside steps in the back. Aunt Nettie didn’t want a ramp out front. Her room is just big enough for a bed, even a hospital bed should she ever need one, and a bureau and closet. I’ll warn you, although I bought a TV for her room, and she rests there a lot, she spends most of her time in the living room, or here in the kitchen, instructing me on how I should cook or clean the house.”

“Oh, Will.”

He shrugged. “It’s really not so bad. Fixing the house has kept me busy, and I do love the lady. And once a week or so Nick comes by and pulls me out to have a beer, which is good. And you’ll remember I have cousins in the vicinity, too.”

“I remember,” said Maggie, choosing a piece of shortbread for herself. Will’s cousins were idiosyncratic Mainers, for sure. But they’d come through in past emergencies.

“None of them makes cookies this good, though,” said Will. “How have you kept talent like this hidden so long?”

“This is the only year we’ve spent Christmas together. My cookie-making skills only emerge in December,” Maggie answered.

“Hmm. Well, if we spent more time together that might have to change. My only problem is deciding which kind I like best—the mincemeat-filled, or these lemon ones. The ones with the sprinkles are pretty good, too. I’ll have to have another, to check it out.” He reached toward the plate, which was now almost empty.

“If we spent more time together”? What did he mean by that? She swirled the cognac in her glass and took another sip. It was too early in her visit to start analyzing. So far she was pleased at the reception her cookies had received (maybe six tins of cookies weren’t going to be enough) but shocked at the amount of care Aunt Nettie needed.

“So what have you done with all your stuff? From your business, and your home in Buffalo?” she asked.

“I’ve moved a few of my things into Aunt Nettie’s old bedroom upstairs, which I’ve turned into my office.”

“Your office?” Maggie interrupted.

“I’m trying a couple of new ways to make money from my antiques. Anyway,” Will continued, clearly allowing no time for questions now, “we’ll have time to talk about that later. My business inventory is divided between a storage unit outside town and the barn here. Which means shoveling out any vehicles I’m using, since there’s no space for them undercover in winter.”

“I noticed Aunt Nettie’s car was the one closest to the road.”

“I’ve been using it. She hasn’t fully accepted that she shouldn’t drive, so she hasn’t gotten rid of her car, and it gets better mileage and is more practical for driving locally than my RV. I’ve about decided to let the RV be snowed in. I won’t be doing any antiques shows this winter. I was tempted by a couple of local ones, but I’m not ready to leave Aunt Nettie for a twelve-hour day, much less two or three. And shoveling out both an RV and a car almost every day is getting to be a hassle.”