by Lea Wait
Kevin put the tray on the table in front of them, smiled at Maggie, and then sat beside her. Maggie watched in fascination as Betsy poured each of them half of a tiny cup of tea and then looked up. “Maggie, do you take cognac?”
“No, thank you. I’m driving,” she said.
Betsy nodded, and added more tea to Maggie’s cup, while filling hers and Kevin’s with light golden liquid from the pitcher.
“You’ve met Kevin, haven’t you, Maggie?” she asked.
“Yes; at the library. Twice,” Maggie answered, feeling as though she were at the tea party in Alice’s Wonderland.
“Kevin, did you tell Win our guest was here?”
“I told him, but he was very involved with his painting,” Kevin answered, sipping his tea.
“Are you sure you told him we had potato sticks?” asked Betsy.
“I told him,” said Kevin.
“What about Josh?”
“He’ll be here soon,” Kevin assured her.
“Every afternoon we have tea together,” Betsy explained to Maggie. “And every day I try to think of some little treat for Win. He’s getting older, you know, and he does have his preferences. I’m sure you understand.”
Maggie nodded. But she had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Potato sticks? Weren’t they a snack food you bought in cans at the grocery store? She was very sure she’d never connected them with a tea party of any sort. But she hadn’t come here for the tea. She’d come here to find out about the Thompsons.
So far she’d found out quite a bit. But nothing that connected anyone at this strange old house either to Carolyn’s death or to what happened to Aunt Nettie.
“Betsy, I’m glad you invited Kevin to be here, too. What I’m curious about is the connection you mentioned between your family and Winslow Homer. I’d always heard that although Homer had a crush on at least one woman, he never had a real romantic relationship with any woman...or man.”
“It really is all very simple, Maggie. It happened in 1890.”
Maggie put her tea cup down. Of course. That was the year of Anna May Pratt’s journal.
“My husband’s grandmother lived here in Waymouth, and she posed for Winslow Homer. Well, you know about artists and their models.” Betsy actually winked, as she smiled at Kevin.
Maggie wondered again exactly what the relationship was between those two.
“His grandmother got pregnant. I can’t imagine Winslow Homer not making a decent woman of her, but he didn’t. Or maybe she didn’t tell anyone right then that he was the father. In any case, her family sent her away to have the baby.
“She met Wesley Thompson in Boston, and he married her anyway, and gave little Homer his last name. Homer Thompson, they called him. His mother didn’t tell young Homer his real daddy was Winslow Homer until after Mr. Thompson died, in 1925, and of course Winslow Homer was long dead by then.”
“He died in 1910,” said Maggie.
“Right,” said Betsy. “So there was no way to prove it one way or another. But Homer Thompson was also a talented painter. He’s the one who turned Mirage, his family’s summer cottage, into an art colony. When he and his wife had a child they continued the family tradition and called their son Winslow. Winslow is my husband.”
Maggie started adding up the years. “Pardon my asking, Betsy. But your husband...must be a few years older than you are?”
“My goodness, Maggie, I would hope so. He’s almost eighty!” Betsy said, as though she’d just been accused of robbing a bank. “He and I have only been married a few years.”
Just then the back door to the room opened and a young man about Kevin Bradman’s age came in, wearing jeans and a very tight black tank top.
“Josh! I’m so glad you’ve come to meet our guest!” said Betsy. “Even if you didn’t have the courtesy to dress appropriately.”
Josh walked over to the group at the tea table, and poured himself a full teacup from the pitcher of cognac. “Always good to see you, too, Stepmum,” he said.
Then he bent down and kissed Kevin dramatically on the lips.
“Josh! Not in public!”
“Artistic lives are lived in public, Betsy dear,” he said, downing his “tea” and refilling his cup.
Maggie watched, fascinated, as Betsy’s cheeks reddened, and then blanched.
“Maggie, would you mind awfully much if we looked at those paintings another day?” she said, standing. “I do believe I feel a dreadful headache coming on.”
Maggie stood slowly, hating to leave the scene. “But you didn’t finish the story,” she said, as she followed Betsy to the front door. “What was the name of your husband’s grandmother, who posed for Winslow Homer?”
“Jessica Wakefield,” said Betsy. “Jessie was what her family called her.”
Chapter 27
The Brain and the Nerves. Colored lithograph, 1909, showing longitudinal section through head and neck, including parts of the brain, nose, oral cavity, cavity of the jaws, and larynx. 8 x 10 inches. Price: $40.
Maggie left. She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do: she’d found the connection between Anna May Pratt’s journal and Betsy Thompson.
She’d also found that doctoral student Kevin Bradman clearly had a connection to at least one Thompson. Possibly two.
She didn’t know whether Homer Thompson, founder of the Mirage art colony in the 1930s, was a great artist himself, but clearly his artistic friends were not going to go down in American art history.
So far the only Waymouth artist she was sure would be included in art history books was Helen Chase. What had happened to the two Helen Chase paintings she and Will had seen at the auction gallery? She hadn’t even had a chance to think about that since Friday.
The concerns of the living always overshadowed those of the dead.
She drove directly to Rocky Shores Hospital. Will looked somber. The wrinkled clothes he’d been wearing for the past two days didn’t improve the picture. Across from him in the small waiting room Detective Nick Strait was taking notes.
Neither of them looked up.
She was about to join them when a pink-outfitted nurse pushed by her. “Mr. Brewer? There’s been a change. You’ll want to see your aunt now.”
Will got up immediately, and saw Maggie. “Good; you’re finally here. Come with me,” he said, sweeping her with him down the hall. “I was waiting for you.”
“I just got back from the Thompsons’. A really strange experience. How’s Aunt Nettie?”
“She’s been about the same all day.” Clearly Will wasn’t expecting any miracles. Maggie noted that Nick Strait was following them.
Aunt Nettie’s bed was in the area behind the nurse’s station, one of several “observation” beds separated only by privacy curtains. The curtains in front of her bed were open, and the nurse was helping her to sit up.
“Will! Maggie! It’s about time you two came to see me,” she said. “This young woman’s been telling me I’m in Rocky Shores Hospital. Would you please tell her there’s been some mistake, and I’d like to go home now, please?”
“Aunt Nettie!” Will reached over and gave his aunt a hug and kissed the top of her head. “You’re feeling better!”
“I’m feeling just fine, thank you. Now, why is this needle in my arm, and why am I hooked up to all these contraptions? Why am I here to begin with?” Then Nettie saw Detective Strait in back of Will.
“Nicky! You’re here, too! Are you sick? I can’t believe you just stopped in to have a beer with Will at the hospital.”
“No, Miss Brewer.” Even Nick Strait was grinning. “I’m fine. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. You don’t remember what happened?”
“Miss Brewer, don’t overdo. You’ve had a lot happen in the past two days,” said the nurse who was checking Aunt Nettie’s IV line.
“Stop fussing with that, girl, and leave me be. Seems to me I should know what happened if I can clear my mind a little.” She hesitated. “Did
you people drug me, or am I just an old woman who doesn’t know her own mind?”
The nurse tried very hard not to smile. “I can see you know your own mind, Miss Brewer. You’re on some medications. Your heartbeat was a little irregular, and your blood pressure was down, so we’re monitoring you. You were dehydrated, so we’re giving you liquids. You’ve been sleeping for a while. You may feel a bit confused.”
“Confused? Never clearer in my life. Except I don’t know why I’m here.”
Nick spoke gently. “What’s the last thing you remember, Miss Brewer? Before now?”
Aunt Nettie hesitated. “Are you asking me as Nicky Strait, or as Detective Strait, young man?”
“As Detective Strait, I’m afraid,” Nick replied. “I hope you’d give me the same answer, either way. Do you remember Saturday morning?”
“What’s today?” asked Aunt Nettie.
“It’s Sunday afternoon,” said Maggie.
“Sunday afternoon. Well, that’s not so bad. I was afraid you’d say Thursday or Friday, or it was December instead of August.”
“No, Aunt Nettie,” Will said. “It’s still August. Yesterday it rained a lot and Maggie and I left early to go to an antiques show.”
She stared at her hands for a few moments, and at the red marks and bruises on her wrists. “I remember. It was raining hard. I heard you leave, and took another little doze, and then I got up, and dressed, and went down to make tea.”
They were all silent.
Then, slowly, Aunt Nettie pointed at her left wrist with her free hand, the one the IV needle was not taped to. “That’s what happened, wasn’t it?” she asked. “Someone came into the kitchen, and grabbed me. I screamed, but he put that sticky silver tape over my mouth, and carried me upstairs.”
“Aunt Nettie, did you see him?” Will asked.
She shook her head. “No. He covered my eyes with something. But it was a man. It felt like a man when he picked me up. He was taller than I am. And his legs should be bruised. I kicked him as hard as I could!”
“I’ll bet you did!” Will reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank goodness he didn’t hurt you any worse.”
“He put me on the floor of my bedroom and wrapped that tape around my ankles and my wrists. I tried to get it off. I tried so hard. I heard him...”
“What did he say, Miss Brewer?” asked Nick. “Did he ask you any questions?”
“He didn’t say anything,” said Aunt Nettie. “But I think he messed up my house. I heard things falling, and doors slamming, or drawers closing. I couldn’t tell. I was just trying to get free. I had trouble breathing, with that tape on.” She was quiet, as she looked from Will to Maggie to Nick. “That was yesterday morning? It wasn’t just a bad dream?”
“It was yesterday, Aunt Nettie. But it’s over now.”
“And my house? My things?”
“We’ll clean everything up as best we can, before you go home,” Maggie assured her.
“Did he take anything?” Aunt Nettie asked.
“We don’t know,” said Will. “You’ll have to tell us that, when you get home.”
Aunt Nettie was quiet for a moment.
“I’ve lived in that home almost seventy years. I’ve always felt safe there. Your home is a place you should feel safe.” She looked over at Nick. “Will I be safe if I go home now, Nicky?”
Chapter 28
Crabe and Homard (Crab and American Lobster). Hand-colored steel engraving; two separate drawings on one sheet, the crab above the lobster, both on seaweed-covered rocks, the sea and a small fishing shack in the background. Artist: Félix Édouard Guérin-Méneville (1799-1874), a French entomologist who had several beetles named after him. His beautiful natural history drawings, most of them combining unusual mixtures of plants, animals, and insects, often with scenic elements in the distance, were published without commentary (published separately) in his Dictionnaire Pittoresque d’Histoire Naturelle from 1836-1839. 11.33 x 7.75 inches. Price: $95.
Despite Aunt Nettie’s insistence that she needed to go home immediately, Dr. Simpson was definite. She must stay in the hospital for observation at least one more night.
Will decided she was well enough to ask for anything she wanted, and told her to rest. “I’ll talk to your doctor on the telephone, and see you probably late tomorrow morning, Aunt Nettie,” he said, bending to kiss her forehead. “Your job is to get a good night’s sleep.”
“She’ll need some follow-up appointments, but clearly she’s survived, and is ready to carry on.” Will chuckled in relief, as he and Maggie left the hospital together. “We Brewers are tough. What I’d like now is to go back to the motel, take a quick shower, and put on some of those clean clothes you got for me in Freeport.”
“What about the house? Did Nick say when we could get in to start straightening it up and get our own clothes?”
“The evidence crew should be finished tomorrow morning. At least we’ll be able to start sorting through things before Aunt Nettie’s released. Despite her insisting that she’s fine, the nurse on duty told me they won’t let her go before tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
“After you get cleaned up, I’m guessing both of us will be ready for dinner.”
“Actually, I’m starved. I didn’t have any elegant tea this afternoon.”
Maggie didn’t volunteer exactly what elegant tea at the Thompsons had involved. “Early dinner sounds good to me, too. What about the Waymouth Inn?”
“Fine. We each have our own wheels, so why don’t you go ahead and get us a table. The Inn could be crowded on a Sunday night in August. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”
“Take your time,” said Maggie. “I’ll order a glass of wine. I have a book to read.” She patted her bag that held the journal.
She got them a table in a corner of the Inn, safely out of sight of prying eyes, and ordered a bottle of Champagne for when Will arrived, and a glass of sparkling water for now. And opened the journal.
Monday June 23, 1890
With great delight I can write that Mr. Micah Wright was the driver of the wagon that came for Jessie and me this morning. The day was a perfect one; the fog had burned off by the time we drove through the marshlands leading up to Prouts Neck, and both Jessie and I craned our necks looking at all of the carriages now at the summer boarding houses and fine hotels. Summer visitors began arriving during the ten days since we visited here before.
Boys and girls playing with marbles and hoops, many of them dressed more elegantly than Jessie or I, were outside several of the houses on or near the cliffs or beaches, and horses were tied at the blocks outside the inns. Some of the houses which take summer guests are large enough to hold several families; others only offer their facilities to one group, particularly since most households come from Boston or Hartford or New York with their maids and nursemaids and butlers and drivers. Even the servants appear very elegant.
South Gate House and The Willows and West Point House and, largest of all, Checkley House, which is close by Mr. Homer’s residence, are the grandest of all, and have dozens of rooms. Perhaps hundreds! I could not begin to tell. I wanted to ask Mr. Wright about those places, but there was no time during our drive, as Jessie and I were sitting in the back. Our eyes were wide open the entire time, I can assure you, and when one of us saw something, or someone, of particular interest, we poked the other. Ladies never point.
Although I had visited this area before occasionally in spring or fall, I had never been there in the height of the season, when it turns into a summer colony.
Posing for Mr. Homer is opening windows to worlds I had only imagined.
But my imagining those refined occasions ended when we arrived at his studio. Sam was barking furiously at a large white duck that Mr. Homer himself, despite being dressed in his usual city attire, was chasing around the yard, between stacks of lumber, while the carpenters working on the addition to his studio laughed loudly!
Mr. Wright jumped down from the
wagon immediately and joined in the chase, which added to the amusement. Jessie and I laughed as much as the carpenters, I must admit. And I was much surprised when, finally having caught the duck, Mr. Wright carried it to the studio, and put it inside, shutting the door.
He then straightened his clothing, brushed off the feathers, and came to assist Jessie and me down from the wagon.
“What is the duck doing here? And why did you put him in the house?” I couldn’t help giggling.
“His name is Duck,” Mr. Homer answered, quite seriously. “And he is quite a good duck. Normally he does not run about so. He was startled by so many people appearing at once, with the men building, and then your wagon coming down the street, and Sam’s barking. Sam,” he addressed the dog, who wagged his tail wildly and did not seem at all contrite, “you must behave yourself around Duck.”
“Mr. Homer wanted to paint a duck, so he asked me to get one to model for him,” explained Mr. Wright, grinning. “He planned for me to kill the creature and stuff him, so he could be posed appropriately. But Duck has won everyone’s heart, so Duck will be remaining quite alive, I believe.”
“He most certainly will,” agreed Mr. Homer. “Now, have you explained to these young ladies what we are to do this week?”
“No, sir; I believe you can best do that.”
Mr. Homer explained that he needed us to pose in the studio this week, taking turns holding ourselves in various positions so that he could work on sketches and watercolors he had done some years ago in England, and a few he had worked on in Florida more recently. He is organizing his studio while the construction is going on, and desires to finish work he started earlier. His agent, he said, was waiting for new work, but this would have to do.
Mr. Wright stayed outside and helped one of the young carpenters who was making a special house for Sam, and enclosing a separate area for Duck, so Duck would not have to remain in the studio all of the time.
