The Chesapeake Diaries Series (207 page)

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Ellie told her. “I don’t know anything about her either.”

“Oh, my. This is decadent. Oh, and there are shards of dark chocolate in there, too. Yum.”

“How did I miss chocolate?” Ellie frowned and dug for a dark shaving in her bowl.

“So how do you suppose Lilly would have been related to Carolina?”

Ellie thought for a moment. “Lilly was my great-grandfather’s sister. My grandmother’s aunt. So she would have been Carolina’s daughter.” She frowned. “Lilly’s maiden name was Ryder, so her mother’s last name would have been Ryder, too. Why wouldn’t she have signed her paintings,
Carolina Ellis Ryder
?”

“Good question.”

“I’ll bet Grace Sinclair would know. She knows everything about everyone in St. Dennis.”

“Can you call her?”

“I don’t have her number but I’m pretty sure she lives at the inn that her family owns. It should be easy enough to get a number for it.”

It was. A quick search on her phone brought up an app for the Inn at Sinclair’s Point. She called the number and in minutes had been connected to Grace’s line. After a few preliminary niceties, Ellie cut to the chase.

“Grace, I’ve found some paintings in my house that were all done by the same artist, Carolina Ellis, and I’m curious about her. Would you happen to know …?”

“Of course, dear.” Grace cut her off. “Carolina Ellis was Lilly’s mother.”

Ellie gave a thumbs-up to Carly. “But I wonder why she didn’t sign them ‘Carolina Ellis Ryder.’ ”

“Oh, her husband wouldn’t have stood for that. He wasn’t at all pleased to learn belatedly that he’d married a serious artist,” Grace said. “For a time, he’d actually forbidden her to paint. Said she spent too much time locked away with her paints, that it was unhealthy. But it’s more likely that he was jealous of the time she devoted to her work. Less time devoted to him, you see. The story I heard was that she became so depressed, that he finally relented and allowed her to work again, but only if she never signed his family name to any of her paintings, and she wasn’t permitted to sell them.”

“So if she wanted to sign her paintings, she had to sign only her maiden name?”

“That’s the way I heard it from my grandmother.”

“Sounds as if he … her husband … had some real control issues.”

“Not particularly uncommon in the early part of the twentieth century. A woman’s place was in the home, you know. That meant taking care of the house and the children and the husband. Any other pursuits were not encouraged.” Grace laughed. “Thank God that’s all changed.”

“Interesting. Thank you, Grace. I appreciate the information.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Grace said before she hung up.

Ellie put her phone back into her pocket. “Carolina’s husband didn’t like the amount of time she spent on her work and forbade her to paint. She became depressed, he gave in, let her work again but she couldn’t sign her paintings with her married name and she wasn’t allowed to sell any of them.” Ellie paused. “That last part seems strange.…”

“Not when you consider the time. No husband of means wanted his wife’s hands to be sullied by currency, for heaven’s sake. That was
his
place.”

“I guess, but it still seems silly.”

“It’s outrageous to us, but that was the way it was. If your wife worked, it meant that you couldn’t afford to support your family.”

“I feel very badly for Carolina—I mean, all this creative talent and to not be able to find an outlet for it must have been hell. No wonder she became depressed.”

“On the other hand, if she’d been able to sell her paintings,” Carly pointed at the paintings on the
walls, “these wouldn’t be hanging here now for you to sell.”

“An excellent point,” Ellie agreed.

“So barring any other bequests on Lilly’s part, the paintings could all belong to you outright through your mother.” Carly appeared thoughtful. “Any idea how you could get a copy of Lilly’s will?”

“The same law firm drew up Lilly’s and Mom’s wills, so I should be able to get a copy on Monday.”

“Great. Maybe you could give them a call first thing and ask.”

“I will.”

Carly sighed again.

“What?” Ellie asked.

“Every gallery owner dreams of finding some great work that no one’s seen before. Some work that, up until that time, had been unknown. And here there’s a whole collection of work that I doubt anyone even knows exists. It’s such a thrill for me … I don’t have words.”

“Don’t get too excited. Maybe no one will care.”

Carly laughed. “The art world will care. What a coup for Summit Galleries, to be able to display such treasures.” A dark cloud crossed her face. “Is there a security system in place here?”

“My mom had one installed but it hasn’t been updated in terms of the technology. It was pretty basic to begin with and hasn’t been on because it kept blowing fuses. But the locals keep an eye on the place, so the house has been surprisingly secure given how long it’s been vacant.”

“Now might be a good time to beef up the amps in
this place and have the security system updated. If someone breaks in and steals them …”

“Seriously, I doubt anyone knows they’re even here, Carly.” Ellie brushed her off. “People around here just think of this place as Lilly Cavanaugh’s old house, and the people in town who knew her have taken great pains to protect it.”

“You lucked out there.”

“I know. It was a bit of a shock to find some silver pieces in the sideboard and a few others here and there. And the duck decoys are worth something as well, from what I understand. No break-ins, no thefts.”

“Like I said, you’ve been very lucky, but I’m still not comfortable with all this incredible artwork at risk.” Carly finished the last of the ice cream in her bowl and plunked the spoon down inside it with a
clunk
. “Finish those last few bites or I’m taking off for the second floor without you.”

Ellie laughed. “You go on ahead. I’ll take these things back into the kitchen so that Dune doesn’t help herself to something she shouldn’t have, then I’ll join you.”

“How will I know where to look?” Carly paused in the doorway.

“Think of it as a scavenger hunt.”

Carly had already hit the top of the stairs. “Oh, my God. One, two, three … right here on the landing. I didn’t even notice them before. Oh, my God, Ellie …”

“Guess she found something she liked,” Ellie said to Dune. “Come on, girl. I’ll give you one of those little liver treats you like for being such a good girl.
Then we have to find some smelling salts and take them up to Aunt Carly, because when she sees what’s hanging over the bed in that back bedroom, she’s going to—”

“Oh. My. God. Ellie …!”

Chapter 11

“Y
ou make the best pancakes ever.” Ellie leaned an elbow on the kitchen table and watched Carly at the stove.

“It’s true.” Carly flashed a grin over her shoulder. “I love to cook. I’ve missed it these past few weeks while I’ve been traveling. I was so happy to see the blueberries in your refrigerator this morning.”

“No accident there. I have to admit I had high hopes for those berries this morning.”

“They’re not bad for out of season.” Carly popped one into her mouth before pouring a measured amount of batter into the hot frying pan. “And I love using this old cast-iron pan to make them in.” She paused for a moment. “Remember when your parents’ cook taught us how to make these in sixth grade?”

“I remember she taught you how to make them. It all went right over my head. I wasn’t much interested in cooking back then.”

“And now?”

“Now I wish I’d paid more attention because a cook did not come with this house. Though a lot of
what my parents’ cook taught me is slowly coming back.”

“Cooking is easy,” Carly told her. “All you have to do is read and follow the directions.”

“I’m learning. I can now honestly say I know how to make something other than reservations.”

“You can make dinner tonight.”

“I’d planned on it. I found a recipe for chicken that uses red Thai curry paste and chickpeas that looks interesting.”

“Have you made it before?”

Ellie shook her head.

“You know you’re not supposed to try out a new dish on company, right?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Left it in London.”

“And since when have you been company?”

“Good point.”

Carly lifted out the first of the pancakes and stacked them on a plate. “What time do we have to get to this … what is it?”

“First Families Day.” Ellie twisted around so she could see the clock on the stove, which she’d found to be forty-three minutes slow. “Everyone said we need to be there by eleven if we want to hear the speeches and see the reenactment of whatever it is they’re doing this year.”

“No one said what they’re doing?”

Ellie shrugged. “I guess we’ll see when we get there.”

“And who’s ‘everyone’ who said to be early?”

“Just some people I met from town.” The coffeepot finished percolating and Ellie rose to fill their mugs.

“Cameron the contractor?”

“Among others.”

“So maybe I’ll get to see this guy?” Carly wiggled her eyebrows.

“Maybe.” Ellie shrugged as if the prospect of running into him hadn’t occurred to her. “He mentioned that he’d be there.”

“Well, then. I suppose I should speed up this production.” Carly flipped a pancake onto the waiting plate. “I’d hate to miss an opportunity to meet him.”

“We’re going to take Dune with us.” Ellie changed the subject. “Maybe her owner will be there.”

“And if he or she isn’t?”

“Then we’ll bring her back and wait to hear from the police. I keep meaning to call the vet here in town to see if he recognizes the description of the dog, or if he’s gotten a call from anyone reporting her missing, but I keep forgetting.” Ellie watched the dog, which at that moment was standing on her hind legs and sniffing the air. “She’s thinking I should have bought bacon to go with those pancakes.”

“She’s right. But who needs the calories and the fat? I’d rather save up for more ice cream from that shop where you got last night’s entry for best ice cream ever.” Carly sighed and put several more pancakes on the plate. “It was certainly the best I ever had.”

“I’ve had the apple cinnamon raisin and it was phenomenal.”

“Perhaps we’ll have to stop there after the festivities.”

“An excellent idea. The weather forecast has promised us an unseasonably warm day.”

“Great.” Carly put the last pancake on the plate and brought it to the table along with the maple syrup that Ellie had heated.

Ellie poured more coffee and the two women sat and ate for a moment in silence.

“Delicious,” Ellie finally said.

“If I do say so myself,” Carly agreed. “You know, I’m almost tempted to stay here and spend the day going from painting to painting and just staring. I’m black-and-blue from pinching myself.”

“Maybe when we get back, we should look in the attic and see if there’s—”

Carly stood up and looked as if she were ready to bolt from the kitchen.

“Down, girl. I don’t know that there are any more in the house.”

“Can we go look now?”

Ellie glanced at the clock. “We need to leave here before eleven. How ’bout if we save the attic for later?”

Carly groaned.

“It’s always good to have something to look forward to, don’t you think?” Ellie grinned and helped herself to another pancake.

“The suspense may kill me.”

“Doubt it.”

“Do you think there are any paintings up there?”

“I saw some landscapes and a couple of portraits when I was up there last week, but I didn’t check the signatures.”

“Carolina Ellis didn’t paint portraits,” Carly said, “and she isn’t known for landscapes, just seascapes and beachy paintings.”

“The ones that are up there are probably nothing, then.”

“We should still check,” Carly told her.

“And we will. Later. Right now we’re going to get dressed and go to the First Families Day whoop-de-do.” Ellie drained her coffee mug. “I doubt it’ll last more than an hour. It’s a small town. How long could it take for a couple of speeches, and I doubt there’s much to reenact.”

Cam rechecked the contents of his gym bag before closing it. The last thing he wanted to do today was to get into town and find he was missing some vital part of his costume for today’s reenactment. He tucked his hat under his arm and headed into the kitchen, where he washed down half a bowl of soggy cold cereal with the remaining mouthful of coffee in his mug. He’d been looking forward to this day since the idea for this year’s reenactment was first proposed by Clay Madison, and he didn’t want to be late.

He left his breakfast dishes in the sink and headed out to his pickup, his gym bag in one hand and his hat in the other. It had been a long time since he’d had a chance to play dress-up games with his friends. Last year he’d been laid up with a broken foot—dropped a table saw and didn’t get out of the way quickly enough—and he’d missed out on the reenactment of the War of 1812. The other guys got to shell the harbor with a fake cannon that was mounted on the bow of Hal Garrity’s cruiser. He’d had to watch from the dock while his buddies got to send those blasts
of smoke out over the Bay. This year, he planned on being right in the middle of the action. They’d gotten the okay to use the cannon again, so that was cool. Any day a guy got to blow things up—even for pretend—was bound to be a good day.