Текст книги "Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding"

Автор книги: Lea Wait

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter 32

C. Brandauer and Co.’s Circular-Pointed Pens.Wonderful wood-engraved full-page advertisement from the September 25, 1886 edition of The Illustrated London News. An elegantly dressed woman wearing an engagement ring sits at her desk with her pen and open inkwell, writing a love letter. She’s assisted by three winged cherubs; one whispering in her ear, one guiding her pen, and one examining the pen points in a box on her desk. Above her, in the clouds of her dreams, three more cherubs paint a large C. Brandauer & Co. Circular Point. In very small type in the margin below the engraving are the words, “The course of a true love letter runs smoothest when written with one of C. Brandauer and Co.’s Circular-pointed Pens. These pens neither scratch nor spurt, the points being rounded by a new process.” Page size, 11 x 16 inches. Price: $60.

“What’s on the agenda this morning?” Will asked, bending down to nibble Maggie’s ear as she attempted to pin her hair up. “The day before the wedding of the century there must be bridal errands to take care of.”

“You mean, aside from the hurricane bearing down on the Cape and the bachelorette party I have to attend tonight?” Maggie asked. “I hear Jim’s friends have some sort of fun evening in mind for him, too, and you, as the special out-of-town guest of the maid of honor, are included in that gathering.”

“Jim told me, last night. I’ve been to a couple of those fun events in my jaded lifetime. They usually involve beer, shots, and an occasional stripper. I’d rather spend the evening with you.”

Maggie sighed. “I wouldn’t count on the stripper. Although you never know. I’m not too thrilled with my evening plans, either. Especially in the middle of a hurricane. Seems to me storm parties should be spent cozily indoors, behind battened-down hatches, preferably with company of one’s choice.” She turned and kissed her favorite freckle at the base of Will’s neck. “And perhaps a bottle of wine and some pâté or cheese.”

“A cheeseburger would be fine by me,” Will answered. “Although something that doesn’t require cooking would probably be a more intelligent choice, since I suspect we’ll lose power somewhere along the line.” He switched on the television set.

“Hurricane Tasha is currently passing over the eastern end of Long Island,” the announcer was saying. “She’s still a Category Three hurricane, with winds of approximately ninety-five miles per hour. Towns along the coasts of Connecticut, Rhode Island, Cape Cod and the Massachusetts Islands are preparing for her to hit there later this afternoon or early this evening, before she heads further north, becoming the first hurricane in more than a decade to make landfall along the coast of Maine.”

Will clicked off the television. “No change in the forecast. I hope Aunt Nettie will be all right.”

“Tom’s with her. And you said you’d already taken the porch furniture in and closed everything up.”

“And I have her car, so if it’s crushed by a tree it’ll be a Massachusetts tree,” Will said, pacing the room. “Her home won’t flood. It’s on that hill, and too high above the river to be touched by tidal surges. Wind or rain would be the problems, or falling trees or branches.”

“You’ll be home in two days,” said Maggie. “And other people in your family are near Waymouth. She’s not alone, Will. You deserve a few days off.”

“I do. You’re right. But I worry just the same.”

“Let’s get some breakfast downstairs, and then call Gussie and check in. Jim probably left hours ago to pick up his mother in Providence, assuming she made it in last night. If there are wedding-related errands we should do them before the weather starts going downhill. And I wonder if anything will change with Diana’s status today.”

“I’d guess the police will be focused on the hurricane for the next twenty-four hours,” said Will as they headed to the dining room. “They know where Diana is, and they’ll have to wait for forensic reports before they do much more. This isn’t CSI. Results take time. I’ve heard that hundreds of times from my friend Nick Strait. You drove him crazy about that case last summer, Maggie, but since I moved to Waymouth I’ve seen him a lot. He keeps calling to ask me to have a beer and tell me his State Trooper stories.”

Maggie nodded. “You see? I helped you renew an old friendship. Give Nick my best.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Speaking of talking to people, there are a couple of people I’d like to see before everyone closes up today,” she added, sitting down at the table. “Those blueberry pancakes look delicious. And are those pumpkin muffins?”

“They are,” said Mrs. Decker. “After all, it is the end of October. Even if we are expecting Southern company tonight.” She sniffed and headed back to the kitchen.

“Southern…oh, Hurricane Tasha.” Maggie slathered butter on her muffin. “Let’s stop somewhere and find diet soda.”

“My poor lady,” said Will, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. “I should have thought of that last night at the pizzeria. No diet soda for breakfast.”

“I’ll manage.” Maggie sipped orange juice. “I can be flexible.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Will, his eyes twinkling.

“Shush!” she said, elbowing him and blushing in spite of herself. “It’s already Friday, and we have to head for our respective homes Sunday. I don’t feel comfortable leaving…” she glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen door “…the situation the way it is. I’d like something resolved before we leave. I don’t want to drive off and leave Gussie and Jim newly married with…the situation…on their hands.”

“Maggie, it’s not your issue. They’re grown-ups. They live here. Jim’s a lawyer. It’s his job to handle…” Will lowered his voice and whispered dramatically in her ear “…situations.”

“Oh, shush. You know what I mean.”

“Drink your juice and finish your pancakes. Call Gussie and see what she has in mind for us to do. We’re here for Gussie and Jim, remember? Their wedding? Tomorrow?”

“I do, Will,” said Maggie, wickedly. “I certainly do.”

But as it turned out, Gussie had no immediate plans other than to “get a little more rest.” Diana was happily engaged in making medium-sized white bows for the church pews, and as Maggie’d guessed, Jim had left early to drive to Providence. Lily’s plane had touched down at one o’clock that morning.

“You and Will take some time for yourselves,” Gussie said. “Relax. Tonight and tomorrow are totally booked. You haven’t seen each other in a while. Enjoy!”

“We’re on our own?” said Will after Maggie got off the phone.

“We are,” Maggie replied. “But you won’t mind if I steal a smidgen of time to drop in on the wife of the chief of police, will you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I won’t take long. Promise.” Maggie dug in her bag. “I looked up the address at Gussie’s last night. It isn’t far. And she might not even be home.”

“I know there’ll be no peace if I don’t agree. Normally I’d check out the antiques shops in town, but I suspect nothing will be open hours before a major storm is expected to hit.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Maggie kissed him. “The rest of the day is yours.”

“Promise?”

“Until the parties tonight, or until Gussie needs something, anyway,” she modified.

“Go ahead. I’ll call Maine and see how Aunt Nettie is. And I did bring a book,” Will admitted. “The new Paul Doiron mystery. Just in case. I’m discovering Maine’s home to some terrific mystery writers.”

“Love you!” Maggie blew him a kiss and headed for the door.

The storm might be several hundred miles away, but the sky was already darkening, and there was a freshening to the air. Occasional gusts sent the red, yellow, and orange leaves already on the ground whirling through the streets and up over rooftops, almost in warning of what was to come.

Most businesses in town were already closed; those still open had signs posted in their windows declaring NO BOTTLED WATER or WE HAVE CANNED FOOD. Maggie glanced at her fuel gauge when she saw a NO GASOLINE sign at one station and a long line of cars waiting at another. She had half a tank left. That would get her to Connecticut on Sunday, assuming the roads were open and not bumper-to-bumper. Would there be a shortage there, too? She hoped Will had enough gas to get off the Cape when he headed north.

Chief Irons and his wife lived on a street of medium-sized homes about a mile east of town. She pulled up in front. A grayed wooden jungle gym was in the side yard, the posts sunk safely in concrete. The street and yard were silent.

Mrs. Irons would probably think she was crazy. Maybe she was. But in case she wasn’t, she wanted to do this for Diana. And Cordelia.

Would the chief of police have already talked to his wife? On the other hand, not all couples shared everything in their lives.

Maggie had a quick flash of guilt about her decision to adopt that she hadn’t yet shared with Will. But that was different. She and Will weren’t married.

She rang the doorbell.

Although she hadn’t consciously pictured Ike Irons’s wife, the woman who answered the door wasn’t what she’d expected. Taller and slimmer than Ike, at about five feet ten inches, Annie Irons was a bleached-blond knockout. And knew it. Her skin-tight designer jeans and low-cut top left little to the imagination, and she was wearing more makeup than Maggie had seen on any four women since she’d been on the Cape.

Interesting at-home attire for nine-thirty on a Friday morning.

“Yes? May I help you?”

“Mrs. Irons?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Maggie Summer, a friend of Diana Hopkins. And Cordelia West. Could I talk with you for a few minutes?”

Mrs. Irons hesitated. “I guess so. Come in. Do you mind the kitchen? I was about to stuff a turkey.”

“That’s fine,” said Maggie, following her through an immaculate living room beautifully decorated with antiques, including a pine corner cupboard displaying a half dozen pieces of Fairyland Lustre that immediately caught her eye. Was Chief Irons’s wife a trust-fund baby?

There were no toys in view, but an infant was sleeping in a pine cradle near the kitchen.

The kitchen was in full operation.

The turkey in question was sitting, naked, in a roasting pan, while the stuffing was being assembled. Enticing smells of onions, sausage, mushrooms, and spices came from various pans.

“Make yourself comfortable; sit down over there,” Maggie was directed. “I’m Annie. You said you’re Maggie?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you’ll excuse me if I keep cooking. I need to get this bird in the oven. With the storm coming, we may lose power, so I have to cook as much as I can that’ll taste good cold. This fellow’s a twenty-six pounder.” She filled a large mixing bowl with the cooked ingredients and then added celery, parsley, an assortment of spices, and breadcrumbs.

“I’m impressed,” Maggie admitted. “You’re very organized.” Is this what you did when you were feeding a family? When she’d been married she and her husband had eaten out, or taken turns cooking small meals.

Annie began adding heated chicken broth to the bowl and mixing everything together. “Last night I baked a couple of pies and a cake, and two loaves of bread. I have a bin full of carrots and celery and broccoli and zucchini—you know, veggies we can eat raw—so we should be set for a few days even if there’s no power.”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m impressed. I’ve never made bread.” Or roasted a bird that size, much less cooked that much food in such a short time.

Annie shrugged, and started stuffing the bread mixture into the turkey. “My husband’s job keeps him away from home at odd hours, and I have two kids under five. They’re at nursery school this morning, so I need to finish this up before they get home. When the rest of the world is crazy it helps me keep sane if I work.” She stuffed the last of the bread mixture into the turkey, skewered the opening, and slid the roasting pan into the oven. “Now. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Maggie. “I won’t bother you for long. By the way, I love the way you’ve decorated. I noticed your pumpkin pine corner cupboard in the living room. And a beautiful pine table and mirror, too. You must love antiques.”

“I do. But on a policeman’s salary I can’t afford everything I love.” Annie didn’t slow down. She started cleaning up while she talked.

Maggie nodded.

“I’m a garage and house sale addict,” Annie admitted, “and I taught myself to refinish. I know refinishing old furniture isn’t in style right now. Antiques dealers have a fit when I say I do that. But I’ve found old pieces of furniture covered with six or seven layers of paint. Dealers don’t want those, either. They want the original blue or red.”

“So you buy pieces with good lines and hope you’ll like the wood when you get down to it,” said Maggie.

“Exactly. It’s like discovering a treasure. Or not. If I don’t like what’s under all the paint, then I finish the piece off anyway and sell it at one of the school fairs, or to one of my neighbors, or even to one of the antiques dealers in town. I’ve never had to keep a piece I haven’t liked.”

“You’re amazing! I don’t know how you find the time to do all that and take care of three children, too.”

“Three? I only have two children; I told you—they’re at nursery school in the morning. That’s my time to work on my projects.”

“But what about the baby?”

Annie frowned. “The baby?” Then she threw back her head and laughed. “Oh! You mean the baby in the cradle?”

Maggie suddenly realized what she must have seen. “Don’t tell me. It’s one of Cordelia’s dolls?”

Annie nodded. “Realistic, isn’t it? You’re not the first person who assumed it’s real. I don’t let the kids play with it, but once they took her out in the yard and someone driving past stopped their car because they thought Nicky was dragging his baby sister by the foot!” Annie laughed again. Somehow Maggie didn’t find it very funny. She changed the subject.

“Is the cradle one of your refinishing projects?”

“Absolutely.” Annie looked down at her hands, which were about to scrub several pans. “I don’t have gorgeous manicured nails, but I’ve never met a man who looked at a woman’s fingers first, if you know what I mean!”

“I do, indeed,” Maggie said, finding herself liking Annie, despite the doll in the cradle.

“And I noticed you collect Fairyland Lustre. I don’t suppose you found that at garage sales.”

Annie glanced at her. “You know your antiques, Maggie. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Those pieces are just reproductions. But you came here for a reason.”

“You’re right. I came because I’m concerned about Diana Hopkins.”

“She seems like a sweet girl,” agreed Annie. “I’ve only met her a couple of times. How do you know her?”

“I’ve only known her a short time, too,” Maggie admitted. “I’m a friend of Gussie White’s; I came to Winslow for her wedding.”

“Wait.” Annie stopped scrubbing for a moment and turned around, drying her hands on a dish towel. “You’re the woman from New Jersey who found Dan Jeffrey’s body, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Annie’s smile had vanished. “What do you really want from me?”

“You’ve heard Cordelia was killed, too.”

“My husband’s the chief of police. Of course I heard. It’s very sad. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“Did he also tell you Diana’s his major suspect in her death?”

Annie looked back at her. “I’m his wife, not his detective. He didn’t tell me that. No.”

“That’s why I’m here. I don’t believe Diana’s guilty of killing Cordelia. Or of killing her father, which she’s also suspected of doing.”

“No. I don’t think so either.” Annie sat down.

“Diana told me you came to their house a couple of times to pay your respects after her father died.”

“Yes,” Annie said, softly. “I’m sure others did, too. Cordelia’s lived in Winslow many years.”

“She has. But most who came left flowers or food, and didn’t stay. You did. Diana appreciated that.”

Annie hesitated. “I’m glad. I got to know her father quite well when he was here.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s what I suspected.” She paused. “Diana also told me she came home once and interrupted you looking for something in her father’s room.”

Annie flushed and stood up. “Shit. I hoped she wouldn’t remember that.”

“When Dan disappeared, you were afraid the police would search his room as part of the investigation, weren’t you?”

“You’re not going to tell my husband, are you?”

“I’m not. But Diana might. In a strange bit of—luck?—your husband didn’t search Dan Jeffrey’s room until after his death. You found what you were looking for, didn’t you?”

“Maggie, you have to believe I had nothing to do with Dan’s death. You can’t let Diana say anything to my husband.”

“I can’t promise she hasn’t already talked to him about it. But help me to help you. What were you looking for?”

“Letters. Letters I’d written to Dan.” Annie turned back toward the sink, and nosily put one pan inside another. Then she turned back to Maggie. “He didn’t have a phone most of the time he was here. And it was romantic. He and I were lovers. Nothing serious, you understand. But if Ike knew it would ruin my marriage. My life. I was afraid he’d find out. So when Dan disappeared I panicked. I went to his house to try to find them.”

“Did you?”

Annie shook her head. “They weren’t there. I hoped Dan had destroyed them. If he hadn’t, then either Cordelia found them, or Diana did.”

Maggie hesitated. “I don’t think it was Diana. She would have said something. And why would Cordelia have kept them?”

“Maybe to try to blackmail Dan.”

“Blackmail Dan?” Maggie looked at Annie. “He didn’t have any money, did he?”

“That was the problem. She was tired of him living there and not paying her enough rent. The odd jobs he had around town—mowing lawns, substitute bartending—none of them paid much. I met him through Cordelia, and then he did some landscaping for us, and then, one thing led to another. He told me Cordelia complained he didn’t contribute enough toward his room and board. She was trying to force him to get a better-paying job.”

“I’ve wondered how she supported herself just making those dolls,” Maggie said, glancing toward the cradle in the living room.

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “Dan said a lot of people underestimated Cordelia. And then Diana arrived, and everything changed. I don’t know why; I only saw Dan once after that.”

Maggie looked at her. “Can you think of anyone else who knew Dan well?”

“He bartended at the Lazy Lobster sometimes. Men there knew him.” Her eyes filled up. “It’s all happened so fast. Diana arriving, and then Dan disappearing, and now Cordelia. I hope Ike’s able to figure it out. I miss Dan. But I can’t let Ike know what I was doing. Please, Maggie. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Maggie. “Thanks for talking with me.” She left Annie scrubbing her kitchen counter, tears smearing the makeup on her cheeks.

On Maggie’s way back to Six Gables she kept thinking about the Fairyland Lustre in Annie’s corner cupboard. She was no expert on china or pottery, but she’d always coveted that particular Wedgwood, probably because it was designed by Art Nouveau artist Daisy Makeig-Jones. Fairyland Lustre was gloriously colored in vibrant golds, blues, reds, and greens, and depicted magic creatures and the forests and fields in which they lived. Few pieces sold for under $4,000 or $5,000, and she’d read in one of the antiques newspapers recently that a large covered vase in the “Demon Tree of the Ghostly Wood” pattern had brought over $36,000 at auction. Not exactly within her budget.

As far as she knew Fairyland Lustre had never been reproduced.

Even if it had, it wouldn’t have the same glow, the same luster, as the original.

Those were original pieces in Annie Irons’ living room. Maggie was certain of that. But for some reason—maybe fear of burglary?—Annie hadn’t wanted to admit it. Well, she was lucky to have a collection like that.

Will was deep into his novel when Maggie got back to Six Gables. “You were right. That didn’t take long,” he said.

“How’s Aunt Nettie?”

“She sends her love,” said Will. “Tom’s taking good care of her, and Rachel stopped in to see her and brought them lobster bisque for tonight’s dinner and a ham in case there’s a power outage. The oil lamps are cleaned, the bathtub is filled. They’re set.”

“That’s right. You have a well, but the water pump is electric.”

“When the power goes, so does the water,” Will confirmed. “I’m thinking we should invest in a small generator. Enough power to keep the furnace and the pump going, and a few kitchen appliances. At Aunt Nettie’s age, if we had an ice storm and lost power for a week, I don’t think she’d cope well.”

“No power for a week in January in Maine? I’m not sure how well I’d cope,” Maggie agreed. “Sounds as though you should call for an estimate or two.”

“Next week,” said Will. “How’d your meeting go?”

“Educational,” said Maggie. “But I didn’t find out anything absolutely critical. I liked Ike’s wife more than I thought I would. Tell you what: why don’t we go and have lunch? If it’s open, there’s a place a lot of the fishermen around here eat. Not exactly gourmet, but it would be a bit of local color.”

“Do I sense another mission in the offing?” Will asked.

“Perhaps,” said Maggie. “But we do have to eat somewhere. Why not try this place? I’ve been there once, but just for a beer.”

“You don’t like beer,” said Will, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m flexible, remember?” said Maggie.

“What’s the name of this fantastic local establishment?”

“The Lazy Lobster.”

“A Mainer does not eat lobster on the Cape,” said Will, tapping her lightly on the head in reprimand.

“They have hamburgers, too,” said Maggie.

“With blue cheese and bacon?”

“It’s possible,” she said, as they headed out. The wind had picked up, and there was spitting rain in the air. But Hurricane Tasha was still 250 miles south of Cape Cod.

They had plenty of time.