used in twenty years), to make space for his belongings, and neither of them were looking forward to a Maine winter when the barn was too full of cartons for either her car or his RV to fit inside. Will had wanted his inventory nearby so he could continue doing antiques shows easily, and they’d both agreed it would be best if he moved in, “at least for a few months, to see how it works out,” after her troubles in August.
So Will had his hands full. Aunt Nettie was a dear. But she was a ninety-one-year-old dear. Will was already finding he couldn’t take off for a weekend and head for New Jersey, as he used to, or meet Maggie at a show halfway between them. He’d skipped the Rensselaer County show on Columbus Day weekend two weeks ago. Missing shows meant missing income, too.
“So Gussie’s keeping you busy and out of trouble, then?” Will was saying.
Maggie almost told him about finding Dan Jeffrey’s body. And then hearing that Jeffrey had been murdered. And then finding out he wasn’t really Dan Jeffrey. And about Diana. But why bother Will? He’d tell her to let the police handle the situation, that she should focus on Gussie and Jim.
Not a bad idea.
But not what she wanted to do.
And after all, Will wasn’t in Winslow. Yet. What he didn’t know…
“How’s Aunt Nettie?”
“Doing well. She made a terrific apple-cranberry pie today, but then was too tired to get the rest of the dinner, so she talked me into taking her out to dinner at the Waymouth Inn. We had her pie for dessert.”
“I’ll bet you’ll have it for breakfast too. Aunt Nettie’s pies are special. You be careful, though! I don’t want you putting on too much weight! Every time we talk you tell me about her great cooking.”
“I think cooking for me gives her a reason to keep going. She hasn’t wanted to go to her genealogy group or her book group at the library, or invite any of her friends over. And she hasn’t been going out for walks, the way she did last summer, remember?”
Aunt Nettie’d walked everywhere in town. She’d scolded if Maggie or Will said they were driving to the post office. “You have perfectly good feet. You young folks should be hoofing it.”
“She says she’s too tired to walk too far. And once winter sets in it’ll be harder for her to get out, because of the ice. So if cooking keeps her busy, then I encourage it. I make the sacrifice of having to eat it all.”
Maggie grinned. For over ten years now Will’d been a widower who didn’t cook for himself. She suspected he was enjoying being the object of Aunt Nettie’s home-cooking demonstrations.
“You give Aunt Nettie a big hug for me. Tell her I miss her.”
“She doesn’t understand why you don’t come up and visit more often. She likes you, Maggie.”
“I assume you’ve told her I have a job, and an antiques business. I can’t exactly race back and forth to Maine all the time.”
“I’ve mentioned those other activities of yours. Of course, she seems to think Maine holds certain attractions which should pull you away from everything else in your life.”
“You tell her Maggie has bills to pay,” said Maggie. “I’ll send her some postcards from the Cape. And I’ll see you soon.”
“Looking forward. Very forward,” Will whispered softly.
“Hmmm. I won’t mind that,” said Maggie. “Miss you.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Maggie lay awake, wishing Will were there. But if he were, she’d have to tell him about the murder. He was very patient, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t be enthused about her getting involved. Not to speak of the adoption issue, which she was trying to repress this week.
She touched her R-E-G-A-R-D ring, rolled over, and punched her pillow. Hard.
Chapter 15
Homard et Langouste. (Two species of lobsters.) Signed aquatint by Swiss artist Fifo Stricker (1952- ) First strike of eight. Two orange-red lobsters, tail to tail, behind jade architectural window-like frame; Art
So Will had his hands full. Aunt Nettie was a dear. But she was a ninety-one-year-old dear. Will was already finding he couldn’t take off for a weekend and head for New Jersey, as he used to, or meet Maggie at a show halfway between them. He’d skipped the Rensselaer County show on Columbus Day weekend two weeks ago. Missing shows meant missing income, too.
“So Gussie’s keeping you busy and out of trouble, then?” Will was saying.
Maggie almost told him about finding Dan Jeffrey’s body. And then hearing that Jeffrey had been murdered. And then finding out he wasn’t really Dan Jeffrey. And about Diana. But why bother Will? He’d tell her to let the police handle the situation, that she should focus on Gussie and Jim.
Not a bad idea.
But not what she wanted to do.
And after all, Will wasn’t in Winslow. Yet. What he didn’t know…
“How’s Aunt Nettie?”
“Doing well. She made a terrific apple-cranberry pie today, but then was too tired to get the rest of the dinner, so she talked me into taking her out to dinner at the Waymouth Inn. We had her pie for dessert.”
“I’ll bet you’ll have it for breakfast too. Aunt Nettie’s pies are special. You be careful, though! I don’t want you putting on too much weight! Every time we talk you tell me about her great cooking.”
“I think cooking for me gives her a reason to keep going. She hasn’t wanted to go to her genealogy group or her book group at the library, or invite any of her friends over. And she hasn’t been going out for walks, the way she did last summer, remember?”
Aunt Nettie’d walked everywhere in town. She’d scolded if Maggie or Will said they were driving to the post office. “You have perfectly good feet. You young folks should be hoofing it.”
“She says she’s too tired to walk too far. And once winter sets in it’ll be harder for her to get out, because of the ice. So if cooking keeps her busy, then I encourage it. I make the sacrifice of having to eat it all.”
Maggie grinned. For over ten years now Will’d been a widower who didn’t cook for himself. She suspected he was enjoying being the object of Aunt Nettie’s home-cooking demonstrations.
“You give Aunt Nettie a big hug for me. Tell her I miss her.”
“She doesn’t understand why you don’t come up and visit more often. She likes you, Maggie.”
“I assume you’ve told her I have a job, and an antiques business. I can’t exactly race back and forth to Maine all the time.”
“I’ve mentioned those other activities of yours. Of course, she seems to think Maine holds certain attractions which should pull you away from everything else in your life.”
“You tell her Maggie has bills to pay,” said Maggie. “I’ll send her some postcards from the Cape. And I’ll see you soon.”
“Looking forward. Very forward,” Will whispered softly.
“Hmmm. I won’t mind that,” said Maggie. “Miss you.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Maggie lay awake, wishing Will were there. But if he were, she’d have to tell him about the murder. He was very patient, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t be enthused about her getting involved. Not to speak of the adoption issue, which she was trying to repress this week.
She touched her R-E-G-A-R-D ring, rolled over, and punched her pillow. Hard.
Chapter 15
Homard et Langouste. (Two species of lobsters.) Signed aquatint by Swiss artist Fifo Stricker (1952- ) First strike of eight. Two orange-red lobsters, tail to tail, behind jade architectural window-like frame; Art
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