Last of the Vintage Read online

  LAST OF THE VINTAGE

  A Dulcie Chambers Museum Mystery

  by Kerry J Charles

  EDMUND+OCTAVIA

  THE DULCIE CHAMBERS MUSEUM MYSTERIES

  by

  Kerry J Charles

  An Exhibit of Madness (Previous Title: Portrait of a Murder)

  From the Murky Deep

  The Fragile Flower

  A Mind Within

  Last of the Vintage

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  LAST OF THE VINTAGE Copyright © 2016 Kerry J Charles. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at kerryjcharles.com or Edmund+Octavia Publishing at EdmundOctavia.com.

  Cover Image: A Young Man Drinking

  1700-1750, artist unknown, in the style of Bartolomé Esteban Murillo

  This image is in the public domain.

  ISBN-10: 0-9894576-9-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9894576-9-9

  Edmund+Octavia, Falmouth, Maine, USA

  For Stan

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About this Series

  About the Author

  Have no fear of perfection,

  you'll never reach it.

  ― Salvador Dali

  CHAPTER 1

  The waves crashed against the nearby rocks, dangerously close to the tiny cottage. The entire house shook again and again with an ominous predictability. In the seven years of Hazel’s entire existence living on the island, she had never heard waves like these before.

  She had wanted to go outside to see them, but her mother wouldn’t let her. “No,” her mother had said firmly. “Besides, there’s no moon. You can’t see anything, anyway.”

  This was true. Thick black clouds had rolled in during the afternoon and the winds howled along with them, all through the night. The first hint of light now crept above the horizon, and Hazel couldn’t hold back any longer. She slowly eased herself out of the bed, hoping that her mother wouldn’t wake up just yet.

  Her mother had been awake for nearly the entire night. She had shielded the light of the paraffin lamp so that it wouldn’t shine directly toward the bed. She sat at the table with her book, pretending to read. Hazel knew that she wasn’t. Her mother hadn’t turned a single page.

  Hazel normally slept in the loft upstairs, except during storms. Then she slept in the bigger bed downstairs, at her mother’s insistence. All that her mother could picture was the roof coming off the house or a tall pine tree falling through it.

  Hazel crept toward the door and opened it. She slipped outside. The air was warm and wet, strange for October. She could feel the crash of the surf through the stone step beneath her bare feet. From her vantage point, she could easily see the waves. They were massive, at least four or five times taller than she was. A shiver ran down her spine.

  She followed the swells backward, out toward the open ocean. Something strange caught her eye farther away. It looked like the mast of a ship, except sideways. She squinted in the early dawn light. The object disappeared, then reappeared with each swell. She thought she could see a white sail fluttering around it.

  The waves followed the usual routine of several comparatively smaller swells followed by one or two much larger ones. As she watched, a bigger wave hit the object and it disappeared. It bobbed back up again only to be hit by another large wave. She lost sight of the object again and stood watching, waiting for it to reappear. It never did.

  Hazel stood on the front step for several more minutes wondering what she had just seen. Finally she convinced herself that it was simply a floating log with seagulls flying around it. She had seen debris like that in the water before, and gulls circled anything bobbing around, always looking for an easy meal. She nodded once, happy with her conclusion, yawned, then tiptoed back inside. She slid into bed again beside her mother and fell back asleep.

  #

  Dulcie rummaged through the closet and found her down vest. She slipped into it, zipped it all the way up, then put her winter coat on over it. She was already wearing heavy boots. The coat came down below her knees, almost reaching the tops of the boots. Next she pulled on a knit hat, flipped her hood up over it, then wrapped a scarf around her neck several times until it covered the entire lower half of her face. She looked in the mirror and laughed. Only her eyes and her hands were visible. She made sure that her bag was securely closed, then put on heavy gloves. Slinging the bag over one arm she turned to open the door. She couldn’t grip the knob so she had to take off one glove, grab the knob again, open the door, then put the glove back on. “And we have two more months of this?” she said out loud.

  She stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind her, making sure that it was locked. The first breath that she inhaled made her gasp. Her scarf had slipped down, and the frigid air hit her lungs like a hammer. They now felt like Styrofoam. Her nose seemed to be frozen from the inside as well. She shoved the scarf up with her gloved hand and began to trudge down the street.

  Dulcie hadn’t even attempted to start her vehicle that morning. The old Jeep Wrangler that she loved had seen better days. She knew it would be an exercise in futility to listen to the starter grind over and over again with absolutely no hope of it kicking the engine into action. All it would do was wear down the battery.

  She scuffled down the street, walking quickly to stay warm. Two below, the thermometer had read. It didn’t matter. Once you reach a certain state of coldness it all feels the same. Normally the walk took ten minutes. Today it was much quicker since she nearly jogged the entire distance.

  Oddly, there hadn’t been much snow. Decembers were always iffy in terms of snowfall. Sometimes there was a white Christmas, sometimes not. January typically brought plenty of storms, but this year seemed to be an exception. So far, there were only dustings of an inch or two. It appeared that the weather gods were making up for that by bringing in the subzero temperatures instead.

  When she reached the museum, she glanced out across the harbor. It looked nearly frozen in again. It was a strange sight, a long, gray, very flat surface that suddenly connected two land masses which had been long separated by water. It wouldn’t last, however. The ice breaker would come through it again, chopping a path for boats to use as they came and went. There were always boats in the harbor. Granted, far fewer during the winter months, but some still braved the cold. It was Maine after all. A true Yankee couldn’t let a little thing like below zero temperatures stop the general industry.

  Dulcie unlocked the museum door with some difficulty as she did not want to take off her gloves. She pushed it open and felt a blast of heat hit her. Now she pulled off he
r gloves, pressed the security code on the keypad, and heard the inner door lock click. She leaned against the heavy glass door and went inside.

  In her office it took a good ten minutes to slide off all of her outer layers, change into her shoes, fix her hair, and make sure she was somewhat presentable. Her assistant, Rachel, tapped on the doorframe and popped her head in. “Enjoy the stroll in this morning?” she quipped.

  “Holy cow!” Dulcie replied. “If that doesn’t wake me up, nothing will!”

  Rachel giggled “How about some coffee? I was just getting some. Then we can go over the setup for the new exhibit.”

  “Have I ever told you that you’re an angel?” Dulcie said.

  “I’m just a morning person,” Rachel laughed. “Be right back.” She scooted out of the room.

  “And I am, most decidedly, not,” Dulcie muttered to herself. She took her laptop out of her bag and flipped it open on her desk. First she glanced through her calendar, then quickly flicked through email, pausing to read a few messages, but deleting most. Somehow the spam filter never seemed to catch everything. She was just about to close the computer when a familiar name popped up.

  “Huh!” Dulcie exclaimed, sitting back in her chair.

  “Huh, what?” asked Rachel, walking back in with coffee and her own laptop under her arm.

  “Huh!” Dulcie said again, then looked up at her assistant. “It seems that my old boyfriend from Oxford is coming to town. He wants to have lunch with me.”

  “Oooohhhhh!” Rachel hooted. “And how will the new beau handle that, I wonder?”

  “With poise and decorum, I’m sure. Things have been decidedly over for a long time with Mr. Brendan MacArthur,” Dulcie replied.

  She and Portland police detective Nicholas Black had recently begun dating. They had agreed go slowly. Nick had initiated the relationship, or at least inadvertently revealed his feelings for her, before ending a previous attachment. It didn’t exactly make him appear to be the most trustworthy person in Dulcie’s eyes. She knew that there had been circumstances to explain the entire situation, and everyone else seemed to think that she was making far too much of it, but still. She had always trusted her instincts, and they were always right. Well, they were right most of the time.

  Rachel was still talking. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. What did you just say?” Dulcie asked.

  Rachel snickered. “You’re sure things are over? You looked pretty lost just then!” She put up her hand to stop Dulcie’s retort. “Okay, okay! Yes, I’m sure they are. But what’s up? What brings him here?”

  “I don’t know,” Dulcie said. “He says he’s been working on a project and would love to talk with me about it.”

  “An art project?” Rachel replied.

  “I can’t imagine it would be. Brendan was never really interested in art. It was one of the many things that we did not have in common. He became an archaeologist, but I don’t think it was to learn about antiquities necessarily. The thrill of the hunt seemed far more interesting to him. Once he’d located a site, he seemed less interested and mostly left it up to others to do the excavation. I remember that when we parted ways, he had begun to look for shipwrecks. Last I heard he’d been all over the world with a diving crew. They actually found a few minor wrecks I think.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty exciting,” said Rachel. “But really expensive I’d think. How’d he get the money, I wonder? Grants? University funds?” Rachel could always be counted on to bring practicality into any conversation.

  Dulcie smiled. “That was another thing about Brendan. He was never lacking in funds. He came from money, family money. He could pretty much do whatever he wanted.”

  “Must be nice,” Rachel mused. “So what did you two have in common?”

  Dulcie took a deep breath. What they did have in common was something nearly as ancient as mankind. Something that, at its peak of perfection, was almost indescribable. They had even travelled around Europe hoping to find the hidden and elusive flawless vintage.

  “Wine,” Dulcie said simply. “What we had in common was wine.”

  #

  Detective Nicholas Black looked up from his desk as a shadow loomed over him. “Hey! You’re back!” he grinned.

  “That I am,” answered detective Adam Johnson. He lumbered around his partner and sat down in his battered chair behind the desk facing Nick’s.

  “And looking very svelte, might I add!” Nick exclaimed.

  “Hey, no comments from the peanut gallery!” Johnson growled. “I won that bet fair and square. I just chose to go to the weight loss center. Figured I could learn a thing or two.”

  Johnson had spent an agonizing month trying to lose weight after making a bet with his wife. If she won, he would go to a weight loss center for a week. If he won, he would go to the Boston Red Sox baseball spring training camp in Florida and see them play, “While eating all the sausages I want!” he never failed to mention.

  “You won but you still went to the spa? Are you crazy?” Nick was surprised.

  “Well, here’s how it went down. I lost the ten pounds, so I won the bet. But when I went back to the doctor, he said I was still about ten pounds into the ‘obese’ category. If I lost another ten, I’d merely be in the ‘overweight’ category. I can live with overweight, but obese just made it sound gross.”

  “Literally,” said Nick. He eyed his partner. “Ya know, now that you mention it, you have lost some weight. Did it help with the snoring?”

  Adam Johnson’s wife, Maria, had complained bitterly about his snoring, prompting the initial visit to the doctor. He had objected of course, but was summarily overruled by his wife. Adam had expected to hear that the snoring was normal and nothing could be done. After all, everyone in Johnson’s entire family snored like a freight train. But the doctor said that it was because Johnson was overweight, or rather, ‘obese’ as he had put it. Thinking about it, Johnson realized that pretty much all of his family could fall into that category too. They were a group of hearty eaters. When Maria heard this, she instigated the bet.

  “Maria says it has, but how do I know? I mean, I’m asleep, right?”

  “Good point,” Nick chuckled. “So no Sox games at spring training camp?”

  Johnson stared at him for a moment. “Are you joking? Of course I’m still doing that! I mean, I won the bet!”

  “So I’ll have to learn to live without you for another week in April,” said Nick. “How will I ever face it?”

  Johnson threw a crumpled wad of paper at his partner. “Oops. Sorry. Aiming for the trash can.”

  Nick grabbed it off the floor and flicked it across the room, into the trash. “Yeah, it’s over there numbskull.”

  Johnson ignored him. “So what did I miss?” he asked.

  Nick rolled his eyes. “A whole lotta nuthin,” he answered. “Seriously, not a single case. I’ve resorted to going back through the cold files. Care to hear about any of them?”

  “If I say ‘No’ will it make any difference?” Johnson asked.

  “Probably not,” Nick said. “But job security, after all. Have to stay busy.”

  “Let’s stay busy and go get a coffee,” Johnson suggested.

  “Uh, you do realized it’s like a hundred below out?” Nick replied.

  “Yeah, but you burn more calories in the cold! See, I learned that at fat camp!”

  “I don’t think I need to burn more calories right now,” Nick said.

  “Johnson stood up and started putting on the coat he’d slung over the back of his chair. “Yeah, you think that now, but you just wait another ten years. The ol’ metabolism slows down and you start packing on the pounds before you know it. Best to get into good habits as early as you can!”

  “I’m not sure I like the new and improved Johnson,” grumbled Nick.

  “Yes you do! Of course you do! Now get your lazy butt out of that seat and c’mon.” He was already heading toward the door, pulling on a black knit hat that made him look unn
ervingly like a bank robber.

  Nick shook his head, sighed and, grabbing his own coat, followed Johnson out the door.

  #

  Brendan MacArthur stood in the tiny cabin of the fishing boat he had rented and peeled off his dry suit. One other crew member was doing the same beside him. The other two were on the bridge, steering the vessel back into Portland harbor.

  Earlier in the fall Brendan had carried out methodical research to locate a clipper ship that had gone missing in 1869. He had even located the diary of a woman who, as a little girl, had lived on one of the farthest islands in Casco Bay. In one passage she recalled, “either something real or something I dreamt that looked quite like the mast of a ship with tattered sails amongst huge crashing surf.” Brendan knew that people who lived by the ocean had a far different definition of ‘huge crashing surf’ than those who did not. If this girl said the waves were huge, then they must have been monsters.

  Brendan was thorough. He had found as much information as he could on the woman. He also checked weather records for 1869. There was one major culprit that had slammed into Maine’s coast: the Saxby Gale. It had taken place in October. The woman’s diary recalled that the event had happened in the fall of that year. He carefully pieced together the facts which led him to one conclusion: there was a 19th century shipwreck off the tip of Cliff Island at a location known as Johns Ledge.

  Why hadn’t anyone else found it? Maybe the woman had dreamt the whole thing as a little girl. Maybe it wasn’t really there. Maybe it had broken up to the extent that there was nothing left. Maybe it was covered with so much debris and seaweed that nobody recognized it as a ship.