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

by Lea Wait

Maggie wondered for a moment if she should have called first. This didn’t look like Maine. This looked like a Madison Avenue boutique. Maybe she should have dressed up. But, too late. She hadn’t. Her jeans and jacket would have to do.

  “May I help you?” A slim redhead wearing a gray sheath and pearls approached her. Definitely not Miranda. She’d been a little older, a little heavier, and not a redhead.

  Maggie had planned to glance at the clothing, merge with the crowds, pretend to be shopping, and then ask for Miranda. But no other customers were in sight, no SALE signs, and it was apparent this was not the sort of shop where one rummaged through racks. It was more a “what may I bring you from the back, if you really think you can afford us,” establishment.

  “I’m Maggie Summer. I met Miranda Hoskins on Christmas Eve, in Waymouth. I wondered if I might speak with her briefly.”

  The redhead seemed doubtful, but glanced toward the back of the store. “May I ask what about?”

  “It’s personal. A family matter.”

  The redhead checked Maggie out, from head to toe. The look clearly said, You? Miranda’s family? “I’ll see if Ms. Hoskins is free.”

  While she was gone Maggie walked over to a rack of short silk dresses in different rainbow shades. The sort a confident business executive might wear to a meeting or conference. One had a price tag: $3,500.

  Not in a college professor’s or antique print dealer’s league.

  “Ms. Hoskins can see you for a few minutes.” The redhead led Maggie down a mirrored hallway past a series of dressing rooms and a raised platform partially surrounded by additional mirrors to an office in the back corner. She knocked on the closed door, and left.

  “Come in!” said a voice from inside.

  Miranda Hoskins was dressed for her role. Her brown hair, streaked (professionally?) with white was short and she wore long gray slacks and a matching sweater; not so unusual in itself. But the sweater was beautifully cut with wide sleeves (there was a name for those sleeves, Maggie thought, but she couldn’t remember it) and accessorized with a long hand-painted scarf in shades of blue and green and gray. Gold bracelets and earrings completed the ensemble.

  Maggie doubted Miranda had shopped at Reny’s or L.L. Bean recently. She was clearly a representative of one of the “other” Maines. The Maine that had money.

  “Suzanne said I’d met you Christmas Eve. I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”

  “I was at Ruth Weston’s party. I came with Nettie and Will Brewer.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Clearly Miranda had no clue who she was.

  “And you’re here now, because?”

  “I assume you heard about Carrie Folk’s death.”

  “Nick Strait called Christmas morning to let us know. We’d wondered why she hadn’t shown up for work.”

  So Carrie had been expected to come and take care of Betty Christmas morning.

  “It must have been very upsetting.”

  “For my Aunt Ruth, certainly. She’s been depending on Carrie to help with my mother for over a year now. As far as I’m concerned, it may be a blessing.”

  “A blessing? Why?”

  “I don’t mean it’s a good thing the woman was murdered, of course. That’s dreadful. But I’ve been wanting Aunt Ruth to put Mother in a nursing home with an Alzheimer’s unit; a place they have trained staff to take care of her twenty-four hours a day. It would be better for Mother, and better for Aunt Ruth, too. They’re wearing each other out; they both look worse every time I see them. I’d like Mother to be in a good, safe facility, maybe halfway between Portland and Waymouth, so I could visit her more often, and Aunt Ruth could see her, too. Mother doesn’t know either of us on more days than Aunt Ruth wants to admit. She won’t miss being at home. Maybe now, with Carrie Folk gone, Aunt Ruth will come to her senses. I’ve given her information about a couple of good places. I’ve told her I’d cover the cost. There’s no reason she shouldn’t agree now.”

  “I see.”

  “But what do you have to do with any of this?”

  Maggie suspected this woman was not to be trifled with, or told some story. “You know Carrie Folk was murdered. Because I’ve had experience in similar situations, Nick Strait, the state trooper in charge of this case, asked me to talk to a few of the people involved.”

  “So? Why me? Certainly I’m not involved.”

  “Carrie Folk was blackmailing people in Waymouth. Your Aunt Ruth was one of them.”

  “Aunt Ruth? Are you sure?”

  “She’s said so. She gave Carrie money.” Maggie watched Miranda’s face. “So, you didn’t know anything about that.”

  “No! I hadn’t even seen Aunt Ruth or talked to her for the past couple of weeks, except to plan Christmas. What was she blackmailing Ruth about?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  Miranda leaned back in her chair. “Why would you ask that? How should I know?”

  “The assumption is that Carrie got her information from shreds of memories, images, maybe parts of stories, that your mother told her.”

  “My mother? My mother doesn’t even know who I am or where she is most of the time. How could she tell secrets or confidences from the past?”

  “That’s part of the problem. Most likely she wasn’t totally coherent. Carrie may have confused random events she heard about that weren’t connected. Misunderstood what she heard. Things that would be embarrassing to people, or to families.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Miranda hesitated, and then leaned forward. “Has she said anything about my father?”

  “What about your father?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. She’s never told me anything about him. I wondered, if she was saying things about the past, whether she’s said anything about me. Or him.”

  Maggie shook her head. “You’d have to try to ask her. Or your aunt.”

  “As though I’ve never done that before.” Miranda got up suddenly and looked at a small oil portrait of a mother and daughter hung behind her desk. Mothers and daughters. Relationships that were seldom simple.

  “You didn’t stay at the house after the party Christmas Eve,” Maggie said.

  “No. I didn’t want to cope with Brian’s pain-in-the-ass trophy wife. We made reservations at the Captain’s Quarters Inn. After we left the party we went to the carol sing, and then The Great Blue and had a couple of drinks before going back to the Quarters. We were there until about eleven o’clock, when we walked up to the church for the candlelight service. After the service we walked back to the inn and went to bed, where we stayed until we went back to the house for breakfast at about eight Christmas morning.” Miranda looked straight at her. “Does that adequately cover my alibi for the time Carrie Folk was killed?”

  18

  Portland, from Peak’s Island. Circular wood engraving from Picturesque America, 1876, foreground picturing boy and girl playing with dog and pulling smaller child in a wooden wagon. Behind them, and framed by trees, a view of Portland Harbor, with the city of Portland in the distance. Several boats and one ship are in the harbor, including one sailing vessel. A charming black-and-white Victorian illustration. 7 x 7 inches. Price: $50.

  True to his word, and clearly aggravating to the Elegant Attire’s “hostess,” Will was standing in the middle of the shop, holding a bakery bag whose fragrance was wafting through the front of the boutique. “Here she is,” sniffed Suzanne. “Her brief meeting took a little longer than anticipated.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Maggie said sweetly to her, taking Will’s arm. “And thank you for waiting.”

  They joined the crowds outside, and Will reached in the bag and handed her a croissant. “I bought cinnamon rolls, too, but if we ate them on the street we’d end up needing to wash off half our outside clothes, they’re so sticky,” he admitted. “So they’ll be for later. Maybe at home. I left them in the car.”

  “Why not for dessert tonight?” agreed Maggie. “And the
se croissants are fantastic! I didn’t know Portland had a bakery that produced good pastries.”

  “Several, actually,” Will said. “It’s become a real foodie destination. How was your talk with Miranda?”

  “She’s interesting. Definitely runs a high-end shop. I won’t be one of her customers unless I win the lottery and my lifestyle changes big-time. She didn’t seem to know anything about the blackmail, and didn’t guess what it might be about. She did ask whether I’d heard anything about her father.”

  “Her father?” Will had stopped and was looking in a home design shop window. “Sure you wouldn’t be interested in a couch covered with fabric featuring life-sized green and red lobsters? There are lampshades to match.”

  “Not in the market,” she answered. “Not today. Not ever. Anyway, Miranda wanted to know about her father. When I told her Betty was telling old stories, she wondered whether maybe she’d said anything she, Miranda, was trying to find out.”

  “Interesting. But makes sense,” said Will, reaching into the bag. “Another croissant?”

  “Not for me. One was plenty.” Maggie brushed flakes of her croissant off the front of her jacket. “Miranda didn’t seem too disturbed about the murder. With Carrie gone, she thought Ruth might consider moving Betty to a nursing home. She’s already picked out several possibilities.”

  “Hardly a motive.”

  “I agree.”

  Most of the stores were selling decorative items or souvenirs neither Will nor Maggie were interested in. Neither of them needed clothing (“I’ll get anything I need at Reny’s, thank you,” said Will, mentioning the Maine chain store that discounted name brands) and jewelry wasn’t in the cards for this occasion. The galleries and bookstores were tempting, but today they were more in the mood to people watch.

  “Next stop is the Ice Bar,” said Will. “We won’t stay long, but you’re not allowed to order a Diet Pepsi there. This is a Maine experience.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Maggie. “Order received.”

  “We’re headed to the Casco Bay Hotel,” he added.

  “A hotel?”

  “To the bar at the Casco Bay Hotel,” he clarified, with a slight leer. “Although if you insist,” he glanced at his watch, “we do have a few free hours.…”

  “Never mind,” laughed Maggie. “I’m having too much fun.”

  And there it was. On the patio of the Casco Bay Hotel (“carved from twenty thousand pounds of ice,” the bartender informed them) was a bar made of ice, surrounded by ice sculptures of fish and lobsters. And wine bottles, of course. Chairs and barstools, also carved from ice, were covered by (pseudo) animal skins. Even the shot glasses were made of ice. The sign above listed “ice-tastic” special cocktails, with a percentage of sales going to charity.

  “Only in Maine!” said Maggie. “Choose a drink for me. I don’t care which one. This is an adventure.” They stood on the snowy patio sipping their cocktails and watching post-Christmas shoppers go by laden with shopping bags.

  “Ice bars are a new fad. They appear in several places in Maine in winter, usually for a couple of weeks,” Will said. “I checked before we came today to see if there was one in Portland now. Cool, right?”

  “Downright frozen, actually,” said Maggie. “Which is definitely more than cool. What happens if there’s a heat wave and temperatures go above thirty-two degrees?”

  “Unlikely. But I assume they have ice sculptors and refrigeration units on retainer,” said Will. “Now, finish your drink, because our next course is down the street.”

  “Oh? You mean after croissants and cocktails there’s another course?”

  “Absolutely,” he said seriously. “We’re going to have Belgian French fries.”

  It must have been whatever was in that icy cocktail. Because Maggie started to giggle. “No snow cones?”

  “Not today,” said Will, putting their empty glasses back on the bar. “Belgian fries.”

  The restaurant’s name was simply Duckfat, which was what the potatoes were fried in. They arrived in cone-shaped containers with a tempting choice of dipping sauces such as “truffle ketchup” and “lemon–herb mayonnaise.”

  Maggie picked up the menu. “There’s nothing here I wouldn’t like. Even the milkshakes sound great, although I don’t think I want one after that cocktail. And they have poutine. I haven’t had that in years.”

  Will shook his head. “Don’t even look. Believe me. We’re here for the Belgian fries. Another time we’ll order from the menu.”

  “Got it.” And she did. And was grateful for the advice. They even requested second orders of fries, with different dipping sauces.

  “Now,” he said, “we drive to the Victoria Mansion.”

  “Now I’ve gained ten pounds and could use a nap,” said Maggie.

  “Not allowed. We have promises to keep. And miles to go …”

  “Got it,” said Maggie. “Victoria Mansion. Are you playing tour guide?”

  “Yup. Showing my girl the joys of my new home state. Got an agenda here.”

  So far that day they’d seen what Maggie considered high fashion, eaten French croissants, had a drink at the kind of establishment Maggie had thought only existed in Iceland or Norway, eaten Belgian fries, and soon they were touring an amazing home built between 1858 and 1860 for a man who’d made his money building hotels in New Orleans, but who wanted a summer home where it was cool. He chose Portland. Unfortunately (by Maggie’s standards) he and his wife had no children, but their four-story home, complete with tower, allowed plenty of space for guests and their servants.

  The elaborate home was now a museum, and decorated lavishly for the holidays. Maggie could see why many Mainers made a visit there an annual part of their Christmas celebration.

  “Inspired?” she asked Will. “Is that how you picture the Victorian you’re bidding on? Because this house started out more elaborate and better built than the one in Waymouth.”

  “I’ll admit that,” said Will. “And it is one story higher. And a bit larger …”

  “A bit!” said Maggie. “Twice as big.”

  “Maybe,” said Will. “And although I’d love to restore my house—if it is my house someday—to its Victorian splendor, I’d also modernize parts of it. They’ve kept the Victoria Mansion the way it was. I wouldn’t want to own a museum.” He paused and looked up at it as they got in the car. “It is a beauty, though, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Maggie agreed. “But no one lives there, or sells antiques there. Drive on, friend. I might just have enough energy and,” she glanced at the clock in the car, “we might have enough time to see those Homers at the art museum.”

  The Portland Museum of Art was small compared to the New York City museums Maggie knew well, but she loved it immediately. Floors of Maine-related art and special exhibits. She glanced at the floor plan and wanted to see everything. She lingered at the small bookstore and gift shop, looking at the tempting selection they had for children. And the Winslow Homer souvenirs. Postcards and notecards and books of prints, including books about his wood engravings, she was pleased to note, since she featured those in her business. But who bought Winslow Homer soap? Winslow Homer mustaches? Or, perhaps strangest of all, a Winslow Homer mustache bottle-stopper? The genteel artist, who so valued his privacy that he escaped cities to the Adirondacks of New York or the coast of Maine or the islands of Cuba or the Bahamas to paint, must either be laughing or shuddering in his grave.

  She proudly noted that the museum displayed several of Homer’s wood engravings, all of which she had. But it was the Homer paintings she’d come to see. Will was right. Compared to collections in one of the major museums, there weren’t many. But they were worth a visit. Maggie paused for several minutes looking at Weatherbeaten, his masterpiece of surf pounding the rocks at Prouts Neck, Maine, where she’d visited the summer before. And she gazed at Homer’s watercolor box in the display case nearby, half-used, as though he’d put it down while taking a nooning break.r />
  She could have spent much more time there. But Will tapped his watch.

  Time to go.

  “We’ll come back?”

  “Maine will be here.”

  Aunt Nettie was fine. The meatloaf was savory. They devoured the cinnamon rolls for dessert. Bedtime came early.

  It wasn’t until the next morning that Aunt Nettie remembered to give them two messages.

  19

  Winter Has Come (Godey’s Paris Fashions Americanized). Hand-colored steel fashion engraving for Godey’s Lady’s Book, engraved by J.I. Pease, c.1860. An example of French fashions simplified and designed for American women or their dressmakers to replicate, typical of Godey’s. Two women standing on stark ground, in front of bare trees and a towered Gothic building. Both women are wearing bonnets tied under their chins and knee-length capes (one green and one black), and one is carrying a fur muff. Their sleeves and the part of their skirts showing are blue in one case; mauve in the other. (The woman in black and mauve is clearly in mourning.) 6.4 x 9 inches. Price: $60.

  “Last night it was so much fun hearing about what you did in Portland I plain forgot to tell you,” Aunt Nettie apologized the next morning. “Nicky called. He wanted to know what we’d found out from Ruth. I told him, and said you’d already talked with Owen, Maggie, and you were in Portland to talk with Miranda. Nicky wants to talk with both of us again as soon as possible. I told him you’d call him when you got home. I guess you’d better call him this morning.”

  “I’m sure you told him everything we found out, which wasn’t much,” said Maggie. “But I’ll call him.”

  “Good. I don’t want him thinking I’m getting forgetful, or like Betty. And, Will? A Mr. Krieger called for you. Something about the building inspection.”

  “That could be important. Why didn’t he call on my cell phone?” Will muttered. He headed toward his office, calling back over his shoulder, “My paperwork is upstairs. I’ll be back after I talk with him.”

  “I assume Will’s going ahead with trying to buy that house from Walter English,” said Aunt Nettie.