Shadows on a Maine Christmas (Antique Print Mystery Series Book 7) (5 page)

“There were. And we did have fun,” agreed Aunt Nettie.

“I don’t know what I would have done when Jonas died, if it hadn’t been for our group.”

“That was one of the hard times. But we pulled together and got through it. And the other times, too.” Aunt Nettie looked around the room. “And now there are only four of us left. Four of us who remember.”

Maggie stood at the door and listened, as the little girl Doreen had done years before in the backseat of a car at a drive-in.

She watched as they all looked at Betty, who was happily, obliviously, finishing the wineglass full of water.

Quatrain XX.
Edmund Dulac’s 1930 lithograph in blues and greens of a mysterious Mideastern castle-like building. An illustration for the
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
, translated by Edward Fitzgerald. New York: Doubleday. 7.5 x 9 inches. Price: $60.

“Jo Heartwood
is going to meet Maggie and me at Walter English’s old mall,” explained Will the next morning. He kept glancing at the clock and was clearly rushing Aunt Nettie through her second cup of coffee. Even she had slept in a little. It was nearly nine o’clock.

But her party had been a success, and she was still reliving it. “Betty doesn’t look at all well, does she,” Aunt Nettie repeated for the third or fourth time. “She’ll probably be the next of us to go. Although God works in mysterious ways. Gloria had a heart attack and died in her sleep when she was only sixty-two, and we thought she was the healthiest of us all at the time.”

She didn’t mention Betty’s strange outburst when Will was in the room, and neither Will nor Maggie asked about it. Betty was confused. Sadly, her words didn’t seem to warrant examination.

“Why don’t I pour you another cup? You can sit in the living room and watch TV while we’re out,” suggested Will. “We won’t be gone long.”

“I don’t see why Maggie has to see that old building. She saw it when it was a mall, as I remember. And my memory is fine, thank goodness. I know you’ve got it in your head that you might buy the place—you can’t keep secrets like that from me—but if you want to start your own antiques mall, why don’t you look at buildings on Route 1, where there’s more traffic? A building there would be newer, and you’d have less upkeep. An old dowager Victorian like Walter’s place will cost a fortune to fix up and maintain. That’s why he’s trying to get rid of it, Will.”

“I know, Aunt Nettie. I’ve thought of all that. Now, where should I put your coffee?”

Will was not to be dissuaded by his aunt’s logic.

Nettie settled on the living room couch with the remote control in her hand and a cup of coffee and a plate of Christmas cookies on the table in front of her. (Maggie was beginning to think she’d have to bake more if they were going to have any left on the actual holiday.)

Will handed Maggie her coat and headed her toward the door.

The snow wasn’t drifting down gently, as it had most days. This morning the sky was low and gray and a curtain of snow shielded most of the river from view. Today’s snow was going to accumulate more than just a cover for yesterday’s two inches.

Will brushed the new snow from the car as Maggie hugged herself, wondering if the inside of the car would warm up before they got to see Will’s dream house. It wasn’t far. On a summer’s day it might be a comfortable half hour’s walk. But in this weather? No, thank you.

This time she paid closer attention to the neighborhood the house was in. The only Victorian in a block of sea captains’ colonials, it was certainly visible. But it was two blocks off Route 1, and parking was limited to the street and the wide driveway, now covered with several feet of snow, leading to the barn. A local artist had an in-barn studio and gallery down the street, but other than that it was a residential block. Maggie noted a SCHOOL BUS STOP sign two houses away. It would be a nice place to raise a family. She wasn’t as sure about its future as an antiques mall. It
had
failed once. Could Will afford to put most of his savings into a business with a questionable future?

It was Will’s decision, she reminded herself. Not hers.

They’d talked about money before, but always in terms of her business and his business. Buying this house was the riskiest decision she’d ever seen him consider.

Will pulled up in back of a red Subaru wagon. “That’s Jo’s car. Let’s go.”

Jo Heartwood looked almost as young as one of Maggie’s students. Blond, and very earnest, her smile for Will was sparkling. “I’m so glad you decided to take one more look.” She turned to Maggie. “And you must be his friend from New Jersey! Merry Christmas, and welcome to Maine. I’m Jo.”

Maggie accepted her outstretched mittened hand. She’d imagined a real estate agent as someone in their forties. Or fifties. Someone with experience and know-how. How could this girl know anything about Victorian houses? And how many times
had
Will looked at this house before?

“Let’s take a look, shall we? I’m afraid it’s snowing hard enough that they may declare an early closing at school and I’ll get a call to pick up my kids. I want you two to have as much time as possible inside.”

“You have children?” Maggie blurted as she and Will followed Jo up onto the wide porch that circled two-thirds of the house. Jo looked about twenty-two. At most.

“Three, actually,” said Jo. “Christa’s ten, Joey’s eight, and Sophie’s five. Full house.”

“Sounds like it,” Maggie agreed, taking another look at Jo.

“Jo’s husband was in the Army Reserves,” said Will quietly. “He was deployed to the Middle East. Didn’t make it back.”

Maggie’s guilt went into high gear. How could she suspect anything of an armed forces widow with three children? “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“No way you would,” said Jo, glancing at Will. “You’re here to see the house. Will shouldn’t have bothered you with my problems.” She punched the code in the lockbox and took out a key. The two front doors were paneled with beautiful nineteenth-century stained glass. “Will’s been real nice to me the past couple of months, when I’ve had rough days. He’s a good listener.” She pulled the door open and led them inside.

“I’m glad to hear he’s been helpful,” said Maggie, wondering just how helpful Will had been. “I imagine with three children you have your hands full.” He didn’t want to be a father, but he was happy to be a good listener to someone with three young children?

“I do. But you’re here to see this wonderful home. Or business,” Jo added quickly. “I always think of this place as a home, but of course, it was set up as a business and that’s what Will has in mind, too.” She hesitated. “The electricity is on, but the heat is turned just high enough so the pipes don’t freeze. Will, you’ve been here so many times before. Would you like me to leave you here by yourselves for an hour or so? I could come back and lock up then.”

“Thank you. I’d like that, Jo,” said Will.

“Then I’ll go and do my grocery shopping before they’re all sold out of the kids’ favorite cereal and popcorn. That always seems to happen when we get a snow day. And I have a couple of errands for Santa to do, too. See you in about an hour. If you finish before then, turn off the lights so I know you’ve left, and close the door.” She touched him on the arm (does a businesslike realtor do that?) and left.

“She seems…nice,” said Maggie.

“She is. She’s a friend of my cousin Rachel’s. And she’s been very patient with me. I’ve been in and out of here for a couple of months now. Luckily, no other buyer has been as interested, so I haven’t had pressure to make up my mind. But if I’m going to get any kind of business up and running by next summer I have to make an offer soon.”

“You’ve done some serious thinking about this,” Maggie said, resolving not to make any other comments about Jo unless she knew more. No matter how tempted she was. But the way Jo Heartwood had looked at Will definitely had put her on high alert.

She swallowed hard and walked into the room on the right. “I remember this place when it was crammed with antiques. It looks a lot bigger empty.”

Will grinned. “Enormous, isn’t it? Almost every room has a fireplace. None of them are lined so they’re not safe to use now, but they’d be showcases for my fireplace and kitchen inventory. And come back to the main hall again.” He pointed up. “The front staircase goes all the way to the third floor, and then a smaller staircase goes to the tower room above that.”

“I remember that.” Maggie smiled. “I loved that little room. Glass all around, and a great view of the harbor and the village. If I’d lived in this house that would have been my hideaway.”

“All the rooms on the second and third floors on the south side have great harbor views. Walter English squeezed as many dealers as possible in here, so no one ever noticed. If each dealer had one room, we could emphasize the views.”

Maggie walked down the hallway, peeking into what had been the dining room and the sitting room. “But the work these rooms will need, Will. Taking down the layers and layers of wallpaper. Removing the heavy paint on the wonderful old woodwork so you can really see it. And the size and numbers of windows are wonderful, but dealers would want even more light. The place might have to be totally rewired.”

“It would. I’m thinking of starting on the first floor, and trying to get that, and the new roof, taken care of so I could open at least a few rooms by summer. The second floor could be worked on more gradually, and other dealers added later.”

Maggie found herself getting more enthusiastic as they walked through the house, and Will pointed out details like the laundry chute and the dumbwaiter, both of which went all the way to the third floor. “Probably to serve the needs of a nursery,” said Maggie, musing about why such things would have been installed. “I can’t imagine servants being provided with a dumbwaiter.”

“There are only a few closets, of course,” Will pointed out. “But for a business, that isn’t a problem. And I keep hoping to find a secret passageway. But so far I haven’t pressed the right spot on the woodwork.”

Maggie looked at him. “Of course, if the business doesn’t do well…”

“If the business doesn’t do well, I’ll have to deal with the lack of bathrooms and closets,” Will agreed. “But for now, adding shelves to meet the needs of specific dealers should be all that’s necessary. Supply houses will rent display counters and cases.”

“I assume you’ll leave that up to the dealers you rent space to.”

“Unless they pay me a premium to handle it.” Will grinned.

He’d thought this out. On the third floor, Maggie went straight to the little staircase and climbed up to the crow’s nest room high above Waymouth. Will followed her.

The falling snow blurred the view, making them feel as though they were inside a snow globe. Maggie turned slowly, seeing the harbor and town below her. She ended her turn in Will’s arms. “I give up being practical. Buy this place if you can, Will. It’s wonderful. Magical. It will be an incredible amount of work. It will eat up your time and your money. But it’s a great project, and, I hope, will eventually bring in a good return. For whatever reason you want my approval, you have it.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her. Softly, and deeply.

“I shall, of course, expect email and telephone updates, complete with pictures, as the work progresses,” she added, as she moved out of his arms and took one last look down at the transformed town. Seen from this height, the snow cover was complete. It could have been the model for a large-folio Currier and Ives
New England Winter Scene
if it weren’t for the lone lobster boat on the river strung with Christmas lights and a few cars moving on Main Street. And Currier and Ives would have added a skating pond, of course.

Waymouth, Maine. How could anything bad ever happen in a place as beautiful, as perfect, as this one?

Christmas Post.
Black-and-white wood engraving by Thomas Nast (1840–1902) for cover of
Harper’s Weekly
, January 4, 1879 showing a young boy with his dog in a snowstorm, putting an envelope addressed to “St. Claus, North Pole” into a United States post box. A toy store with a Christmas tree in front of it is in the background. Thomas Nast, often called “the man who invented Santa Claus,” produced Christmas drawings for
Harper’s
regularly from the 1860s until 1886. Although he based his “Santa” on Clement Moore’s poem, he added details such as Santa’s living at the North Pole and having a toy workshop, and children writing letters to Santa. Nast also popularized the Democratic donkey and created the Republican elephant, and his political cartoons helped take down Tammany Hall in New York City. 10 x 15 inches, including
Harper’s Weekly: Journal of Civilization
masthead. Price: $225.

Despite the snow
, the U.S. postal carrier had made his or her appointed rounds. Aunt Nettie was opening mail at the kitchen table as Maggie and Will stomped back into the house, scattering clods of snow as they shook off their jackets and took off their boots.

“Glad you’re home,” she said, looking up from a pile of Christmas cards and letters. “I was beginning to worry about you two. It’s really coming down out there.”

“We noticed,” said Will, giving Maggie a fast hug. “We were inside the house most of the time, though. I see we got a lot of cards today.” He peeked over his aunt’s shoulder at her collection of Christmas trees and angels and photographs of families posed with family dogs, cats, dead moose, and in one case, a newly purchased home in San Diego.

“From family, mostly,” she said. “Quite a few were addressed to both of us. Do you want to look at those? I’ve separated them. I put your mail on the counter.”

“I’ll look at mine first. You go ahead and put the cards on the mantel. I’ll look at them later.”

“Do you need any help, Aunt Nettie?” Maggie asked.

“I’ll be just fine, dear. Thank you.” Aunt Nettie stood up and slowly walked with her cane toward the living room carrying a stack of cards, while Will started looking through his mail. Maggie poured herself a Diet Pepsi and then followed Aunt Nettie.

The elderly woman glanced through the cards, hesitated, and then slipped one envelope into her pocket before carefully arranging the others on the mantel among the pine boughs.

Maggie smiled to herself. Even Aunt Nettie had her secrets. Perhaps an old admirer? Or a special card she’d kept to put in her own room.

“The cards look very festive there,” she commented. “You’ve gotten so many you’ll need to find another place to put them soon.”

“They do look nice, don’t they,” said Aunt Nettie, standing back a bit. “I always do enjoy getting Christmas cards. It’s like seeing all your old friends and family at the holidays, even if they’re not with you in person. Every name on a card brings back memories. At my age, what more can I ask for?”

“Now, that’s not true!” said Maggie. “As long as you’re still alive, you’re still having experiences. Making new memories.”

“You’ll see, the older you get. At every age you experience life differently. When you’re a child all you can think about is growing up. Every hour seems to last forever. Then you’re a teenager, like Doreen’s granddaughter, Zelda, full of horrible and wonderful emotions, all at the same time. You’re sure no one else has ever felt the way you do. Then, all of a sudden, you’re grown up. You still have hopes and dreams and all the crazy plans you had as a teenager, but now you also have responsibilities. Some people ignore the responsibilities and refuse to grow up. Some people ignore the dreams.”

Maggie listened.

“Neither of those ways works in the long run. You’re grown up a long time. You need those dreams to keep you focused. But the responsibilities you take on…they’re what earn you your place in this world.”

“Do you still have dreams, Aunt Nettie?”

“At my age, they’re more like hopes. But, oh my, yes.”

“What do you hope?”

Aunt Nettie paused. “I hope I’ll live a bit longer, but not be in pain. I hope when my end comes it’ll be quick, and I won’t be a bother to anyone. And I hope I’ll be around long enough to know what happens to people I care about. People who’re making decisions that will make a difference to the rest of their lives.”

Maggie grinned at her. “You know a lot, don’t you?”

“I keep my eyes and ears open, young woman. Life would be pretty boring if I didn’t. You’d be wise to do the same. And,” she looked directly at Maggie, “if an old woman can be forgiven one bit of advice. Don’t be foolish. You’ll regret the things you didn’t do, not the things you did. Now—what’s that man in the kitchen going to suggest we have for lunch on this snowy day? Or is he going to leave that to us women?”

Lunch turned out to be grilled ham and Swiss sandwiches with potato chips. Will declared he’d become addicted to Cape Cod chips after his October trip to the Cape. Maggie grated carrots, cabbage, and a bit of red onion, and made coleslaw while he was grilling.

After lunch she cleaned up while Will helped Aunt Nettie settle in for her afternoon nap. She’d almost finished when she heard Will on the telephone.

Maggie couldn’t hear every word, but she was pretty sure he was talking to Jo Heartwood, making an offer on the Walter English house. She crossed her fingers that it was the right thing for him to do, and that the emotions of the moment hadn’t pushed her too far when she encouraged him. And that the only offer he was making to Jo was for the house.

It truly was a majestic house, full of possibilities. His possibilities.

“Offer made?”

Will had come back into the kitchen.

“I couldn’t help hearing you on the phone.”

“Offer made, to Jo, anyway. She’ll call Walter’s realtor. If the deal looks as though it’ll go through I’ll have to get a lawyer,” Will said, almost as though he was talking to himself. “I don’t want to use Aunt Nettie’s lawyer. He’s a strange old guy, and at some point there might be a conflict of interest.”

Maggie nodded. “I was thinking about making hot chocolate. You?”

“Coffee, I think.”

A few minutes later Will had a fire burning in the fireplace, the Christmas tree lights were on, and Will and Maggie were snuggled on the couch, their cups almost forgotten on the coffee table in front of them.

Will was the first to speak, softly. They both knew Aunt Nettie’s room was only a wall away. “I know I’ve done a lot of the talking since you’ve arrived. I wanted you to see what I’ve been doing. What I’ve been thinking about for the future, here in Waymouth. How Aunt Nettie was doing.”

Maggie held his hand tightly and reached up and kissed his cheek. “I understand that. I didn’t know what you were coping with. I’d imagined she was back the way she was before the stroke. And I hadn’t realized you’d had to make as many changes in your life. I’m impressed, and frankly, a bit overwhelmed with everything you’ve had to do.” She squeezed his hand. “I honestly don’t think I could do what you’re doing. Aunt Nettie’s very lucky to have you in her life.”

“I’m lucky, too. Since my mother and father died she’s been a sort of surrogate parent to me. Someone who’s known me all my life, and who’s listened and given me sound advice when asked, and kept her mouth closed when I haven’t asked.”

Maggie felt a twinge of envy. There was no Aunt Nettie in her life. And, she thought, Will’s aunt had been giving her advice, too. What advice had she been giving Will? “She’s special, that’s for sure.”

“She’s ninety-two, Maggie. Our family has good genes, but I won’t have her in my life forever. I want to give back a little of the comfort and care she’s given me over the years. Plus, of course, I’ve always wanted to live in Maine, so being here is not exactly a sacrifice. It will take time to figure out how everything’s going to work. One of the big questions is the financial one. I don’t want to make any commitments until I have that figured out.”

Will needed to feel he could support himself. Maggie got that. But in the meantime, her life was moving on. Her decision to adopt was a final one; one that would change the rest of her life.

“But all that’s me. Remember what we said in October. No more holding back.” Will squeezed her hand.

Maggie could feel her heart beating. Was this going to be a repeat of the scene they’d had on the Cape when she’d said what she wanted, and Will had walked out?

That time she’d talked him into coming back. They were still together. Here. In Maine. At least for now. This was another chance.

She could feel his arm around her tighten, very slightly.

“So—I want an honest answer.”

She didn’t let go of his hand. She thought of what Aunt Nettie had said. “I love you. I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

“I’m glad.” Will bent down and kissed her. “In fact, I’m happier than that. I’m delighted and relieved. And I love you, too. But that’s not the answer to my question.”

She turned to look at him, steeling herself. He was going to ask about her adoption plans. This was it.

“Maggie, if I buy the Victorian house—would you exhibit your antique prints in it?”

“What?” The bubble of tension she’d built up collapsed. That was his big question?

“I know you’ve never exhibited in an antiques mall, but I think it would be a great venue for you. You could design one of the rooms, or the hallway, the way you wanted to. And I’d give you a special rate.”

Maggie turned away from him and started laughing.

“What? You think that’s such a crazy idea? If you do, I need to know why.”

“No. It’s nothing. I guess I’m tired.” She turned back toward him. Maybe this was a message. A sign they were on very different wave lengths. “I agree. My prints would look wonderful in one of the rooms. Or in the hall, if the lighting were much better. Of course, I’d need to see your contract to make sure I could afford to be a tenant in such an upscale establishment,” she teased. “But assuming all terms were to my liking, I think you have your first dealer.”

She reached out her hand and they shook on it. Which might have led to further words…or interactions…if Will’s telephone hadn’t rung.

“Drat,” he said, disentangling himself. “But it might be Jo.”

It wasn’t. It was Nick Strait.

“Nick gets off at four o’clock this afternoon. He wanted to know if we’d meet him at The Great Blue for a drink before dinner. I told him we would,” said Will, returning to the couch.

“In this snow?”

Will shrugged. “It’s Maine. The plows are out, and I can dig out the car. The Great Blue will be open. And I thought I’d make a light Alfredo sauce and throw the leftover shrimp from yesterday’s party together with pasta for dinner tonight, so that will be easy. Aunt Nettie will be fine for an hour or two.”

Conversation about adoption…postponed. “All right, then. I’d like to see Nick.”

“Then I’ll go and clear away the snow that’s fallen since we came in.”

“I have Christmas wrapping to do, so I’ll finish that while you’re shoveling,” replied Maggie, looking wistfully at the fire and cozy couch.

Will kissed her forehead. “We’ll only be gone for a while. The evening and night are still ahead.” He winked at her. “Partner.”

The snow wasn’t falling as persistently as it had been earlier. Streets and parking lots were plowed, stores were open, and the weather didn’t seem to have slowed commerce in any major way. About a dozen customers were at The Great Blue, at the bar or at tables near the welcoming fireplace, ablaze with warmth.

Maggie walked over to the windows overlooking the Madoc River. “In the summer I’ve looked out these windows and seen sailboats and lobster boats and cormorants drying themselves on the pilings and herons on the mud flats at low tide. Seeing the flats covered with snow and crackled ice is like being in an entirely different place.” She turned to Will. “Through the flurries the weathered gray pilings from the old wharves are like a veiled forest of bones sticking out of the mud flats. But it’s still beautiful, isn’t it?”

“And when the sun comes out tomorrow and all that ice sparkles, it’ll be spectacular. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything.”

“Trying to sell Maggie on Maine winters?” Nick had come up behind them. “Welcome to Maine, Maggie.”

“Good to see you again, Nick. If he’s trying to sell me on Maine, he’s doing a pretty good job,” Maggie admitted. “Although tramping through your field to get to the woods to cut a Christmas tree wasn’t my favorite part of the week.”

“Her boots weren’t high enough,” Will explained.

“Ah. Feet got a bit soggy, then,” Nick said. “But you found a right good tree?”

“We did,” Maggie agreed. “It’s up and decorated, in the living room. You should come and take a look.”

Nick shrugged. “I’ve seen a few Christmas trees. But glad you found a good ’un. Bar or table, Will?”

“Since Maggie’s with us, why not table? It’s easier for three to talk there.”

Maggie ordered a Sam Adams, Nick a Shipyard, and Will a Gritty McDuff’s, and three bottles quickly appeared on the table.

“So, how’s the crime business, Nick?” Will took a long slug of his beer.

“Luckily, Homicide’s pretty quiet now. Around holidays it can pick up fast, though, so I’m on call pretty much twenty-four/seven. People drinking too much. Families finding reunions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be in the movies. Old quarrels being revived. The usual.”

“What made you decide to be a state trooper, Nick? I’ve always been curious about what would draw someone to a profession like that,” Maggie asked.

“You mean a job dealing with the rotten sides of people?” Nick asked. He paused. “Funny. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that. My grandpa farmed; my dad lobstered. Mainers through and through, both of ’em, though one took to the land and one to the sea. When I was growing up they each tried recruiting me. Telling me why his way was best.” He smiled and drank. “Guess I was more like ’em both than they wanted to know, ’cause I chose my own way. Decided to be a cop, or a trooper—whoever solved murders—when I was about eight or nine. That’s when a girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, was found dead a few blocks from here, in the cellar of an old building that’d burned down years before.”