Текст книги "Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding"

Автор книги: Lea Wait

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter 16

Great Black-Backed Gull.Hand-colored steel engraving from 1865 edition of A History of British Birds, written and illustrated by the Reverend Francis Orpen Morris (1810-1893), naturalist and Vicar of Nafferton. Morris, an early advocate of conservation, was also one of the founders of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. Illustrations for his seven-volume history were engraved by Alexander Francis Lydon, hand-colored by a team of women colorists, printed and bound in the North Country village of Driffield, and shipped in tea chests to London. It went through various editions from 1851 until 1903. Print shows gull standing on beach, rocks and sailboat in distance. 6.75 x 10 inches. Price: $150.

With four of them working together and chatting, and pizza as a motivator, the emptying of the former location of Aunt Augusta’s Attic and then the deposit of all the cartons at its new location went even more smoothly and quickly than Gussie’d hoped.

Ben and Ellen were able to wave their good-byes and return to the real estate office by two-thirty. Diana stayed a little longer to help Gussie and Maggie sort the cartons, but it was clear Gussie was beginning to tire when Diana received a text from Cordelia.

“Chief Irons stopped in at the house. He wants me to come to the station. What’s that about?” she wondered out loud, picking up her backpack.

“Remember not to answer any questions without Jim being there,” Gussie cautioned her.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Diana assured her. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He probably wants to know something about my dad. I’ll go now, and then go back to Cordelia’s. See you tomorrow?”

“Call me in the morning and I’ll let you know,” said Maggie.

“Tomorrow I’d like to focus on unpacking and arranging merchandise here at the shop,” Gussie put in.

“Talk with you tomorrow, then,” said Diana as she headed off.

“Why don’t you go home and rest,” Maggie said to Gussie. “I’ll pick up whatever’s at the post office, put the cartons Diana and I packed yesterday in my van, and take everything over to the new house when we meet Jim there later to open the wedding gifts.”

“Would you do that? I’d appreciate an hour or two of down-time,” said Gussie. “I’ve been keeping quite a pace the past couple of weeks.”

“And it isn’t going to slow down until you’re safely in your new house, you have that gold band on your hand, and your shop is organized and open, the future Mrs. Dryden,” said Maggie.

“Not Mrs. Dryden, you old-fashioned woman,” said Gussie as they headed to their vans and she handed Maggie her post office box key. “I’ll still be Gussie White. I’m not changing my name. But Jim and I will be wearing matching bands. That’s a tradition I do believe in.”

Peggy the postmistress recognized Maggie immediately. “How’s Gussie doing? Is she very excited? Is everything organized for the wedding? Has she managed to move out of her old house and shop yet?” She handed Maggie a stack of cards Maggie recognized as wedding RSVPs. A little late. Those people had probably already gotten calls from Lily Dryden.

“Gussie’s tired, but she’s going strong. She’s almost out of the old house and shop. I think we’ll start getting the new shop organized tomorrow.”

“I hear Cordelia West’s young cousin’s been helping her.”

The postmistress did know everything happening in Winslow.

“That’s right. She’s been very helpful.”

“Such a shame, that other cousin of Cordelia’s, Dan Jeffrey, going and getting himself killed. Cordelia’s such a sweet woman. Can’t hear or say a word, of course, but she’s always baking cookies for people, or bringing me wildflowers to decorate the office. A sweet little woman.”

“Then you know her well?”

“Well, she’s lived in Winslow for twenty years or so. Gets her mail here most days. And we do a pickup at her place over on Apple Orchard Lane on Fridays.”

“Pickup?”

“Packages. The post office does that, you know. Got to compete with those other delivery services. She sends out all her packages on Fridays, regular as clockwork.”

“I understand she makes dolls. But I’ve never seen any. Have you?”

“I’ve seen a couple of her baby dolls. She makes those newborns. Gets supplies delivered all the time,” said the postmistress. “From all over the country, and Canada. Even Europe, sometimes. She ships dolls in the bigger boxes. Maybe one or two a week. Used to ship more. But the past couple of years she’s been sending smaller packages. Ten of those every Friday. Those go to post office boxes in different places. Boston, northern Maine, Washington, D.C. She has customers all over.”

“What does she sell besides the dolls?” asked Maggie.

“I’ve wondered that myself,” said the postmistress. “But I can’t talk with my hands, like she can, so I haven’t asked. She puts the value at fifty dollars for each box, so whatever it is can’t be too valuable. The big boxes, that hold the baby dolls, those she values at a thousand dollars. Sometimes more. I figure maybe now she’s making smaller dolls, and selling on eBay. Lots of people do that today, you know. How’re the wedding plans coming?”

“Fine. Did Gussie get any packages today? She and Jim have been saving their gifts. They’re going to open a pile of them tonight.”

“Let me check.” She went into the back of the crowded room. “I’m pretty sure I saw a pile of boxes for those two in here somewhere. Yes, here they are.” She reappeared carrying a stack of four boxes. “All different sizes this time. I’ll admit I’ve been curious about these gifts. Most times when people get married we get boxes from the big department stores, or from Sears, or when they’re summer folks, even from a place like Tiffany’s. But all the boxes Gussie and Jim have gotten have been wrapped by hand. Not a store name in sight.” The postmistress handed them over one by one, after recording their arrivals.

“I can see that,” said Maggie.

“ ’Course, them being an older couple, I suspect they didn’t put their names on a bridal registry saying they were looking for a set of white towels or a toaster oven, when it comes to it,” she added. “Between the two of them they probably have towels and toaster ovens to spare.”

Maggie laughed. “I guess they’ll find out once they get everything unpacked,” she said. “Thank you!”

She sat in her van for a few minutes and checked her watch. Two hours until the official gift opening.

Why had Ike Irons wanted to see Diana again? Maggie hoped the girl was smart enough to know if she needed to call Jim, or just say the magic word, “Lawyer.” Nowadays you’d think anyone who watched TV would know that. You’d hope. But despite all she’d been through, Diana seemed awfully naïve. Or maybe being young was, by definition, naïve.

When I was twenty-one, was I that innocent? Maggie thought back. Senior in college in New Jersey on scholarship. Working two jobs, so not much time for socializing. Not really innocent. But she hadn’t guessed the family situation her roommate, Amy, was coping with. She’d thought anyone who lived in a big house in Short Hills must be happy.

Yup. Twenty-one could be very naïve.

That’s why she often felt protective of her students at the college. And now she felt protective about Diana. The world took advantage of the young too often.

The sooner Chief Ike Irons and his detectives found out who’d murdered Diana’s father, the sooner she could be on her way. Whatever she decided to do with her life, she needed to put the past behind her and get on with her future. It probably wasn’t by chance that her father’d been shot and dumped in Cape Cod Bay. But whatever trouble he was in wasn’t Diana’s trouble. It shouldn’t have to make a difference to her future.

Would her daughter or daughters be able to deal with whatever their early lives had dealt them? She’d have to help them begin again. Clean slate. Memories, yes. It would take time. But another chance.

Maggie’s mind was whirling with possibilities as she drove through the quiet streets of Winslow. Then, on her left, she saw the Lazy Lobster, the tavern Jim’d mentioned where Dan Jeffrey had hung out. At four o’clock on a brisk October Monday afternoon three well-used pickups were parked outside, and one salt-rusted Ford sedan. She hesitated, and then turned her New Jersey van in to join those with Massachusetts SPIRIT OF AMERICA or CAPE COD AND ISLANDS license plates.

All five men at the bar inside turned to look at her.

Clearly this was an establishment for locals. Fishermen, by their garb and the décor. The nets on the wall weren’t the colorful sort hung in places looking to attract tourists. These nets were used and grungy, smelling faintly of long-dead fish and the sea, and now the repository of old pinups, photos of fishermen with their catches, newspaper articles, and assorted empty beer cans and beer bottle labels. Sort of a grease-encrusted work in progress, an ode to those who worked the sea, drank beer and whiskey, and ate the burgers and chowder listed in smudged black marker on the mirror in back of the bar. It was a limited menu, but Maggie suspected the cook didn’t get many complaints.

Five teenage boys came in after Maggie. One of them wore a T-shirt that read TOO MEAN TO MARRY. And clearly too young to sit at the bar, at least legally. They sat in a corner booth.

“Can I help you?” asked the tall, bald man behind the bar. He wore a shirt embroidered Rocky and had a dragon tattoo on his neck that led down to places Maggie was grateful were left unseen.

“Beer,” Maggie said, sliding onto one of the bar stools. She glanced over at the taps. “Sam Adams, please.” She almost asked for Oktoberfest, but sensed that wouldn’t be on the menu here.

“You got it,” said Rocky, drawing her a tall draft. “Visiting Winslow?”

“I’m here from New Jersey for Gussie White’s and Jim Dryden’s wedding.”

“So why aren’t you partying it up with them?”

“I heard this was where Dan Jeffrey used to drink.”

There was sudden silence. Maggie had the attention of every man in the place. Maybe she’d been too out-front. Why hadn’t she been more subtle? Oh, well. Too late now.

“You a friend of Dan’s?”

“I know his daughter.”

Two of the men looked at each other and one shrugged slightly. The other one spoke up. “Dan never said he had no daughter.”

“No?”

“He never said much, did he, Earl, when you think about it.”

“Nope. Never did. Never even said where he come from.”

“Told me he come from out West,” said the bartender.

“Hey, Rocky, but Cordelia West, that deaf-and-dumb broad he was staying with, he said she was his cousin, right? And she’s from the Vineyard.”

“That’s what he said,” agreed Rocky, quietly.

“You’d know that, I figured,” Earl put in.

The heavier guy added, “I always wondered about that cousin part. But she didn’t seem his type, you know. So maybe if they were relatives, that would explain his staying there so long.”

“What was his type?” Maggie asked.

The man shifted uneasily. “I didn’t mean nothing by that. I meant, you know, he was a real man, with appetites and such, and Cordelia West, why, she’s a quiet little woman. Real nice lady, I suppose. Wouldn’t you say that, Rocky?”

“So did he have a lady friend?” Maggie sipped her beer.

No one said anything. Then Rocky answered. “Jeffrey didn’t talk much. He was in town a couple of years, and I don’t think you’ll hear from anyone he was exactly a model of piety. He had his women. But he never talked about ’em. Give him that, wouldn’t we, boys? He never named names.”

“That’s the truth,” seconded the old codger at the corner of the bar. “And it wasn’t for us not asking, that’s fer sure, too!”

Guffaws from two of the four gents at the bar and a laugh from the booth in the corner.

“So would you say you were his closest friends while he was here?” Maggie asked.

The bigger guy shrugged.

“Friends? He came in pretty regular. He drank. We drank. Sometimes we talked. We watched the games. He was a Sox fan. What would you say, Rocky?”

Maggie could almost see an invisible curtain sliding down between the men and her end of the bar. If they knew any of Dan’s secrets, they weren’t telling. Men didn’t tell on each other.

Or maybe they didn’t know anything. Somehow she’d believe that, too. She might as well go for the gold. “Who do you think killed him?” Maggie asked. “His daughter wants to know.”

“That Dan, he wasn’t the most popular gent in town,” said the old guy. “Maybe some of the ladies liked him. And some of the kids at the high school did.” He glanced over at the boys in the corner, who were now ordering hamburgers and sodas from Rocky, who’d left the bar. “But people like Bob Silva blamed him when Tony died.”

“Nobody had proof he had anything to do with those drugs,” cautioned the man wearing the faded Pats cap. “No proof. And you know it.”

“I know it. And I don’t know it. Someone was bringin’ those drugs into town. The kids were buying ’em. And that Silva boy was stupid enough to swallow too many.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if it was Dan selling ’em. Could have been someone else. But I haven’t seen anyone else arrested. Have you?”

“I think you’ve talked enough for today, old man. Had enough beer, too.”

“Dan could’ve gone overboard anywhere in Cape Cod Bay, and washed ashore, you know. Pure chance he washed ashore here,” said one of the other men.

“Pure chance, with a bullet hole in his head?” Maggie pointed out quietly.

“Could have been a stray shot, you know? Hunting season and all. You never know where a stray shot might end up.”

Maggie drained the rest of her Sam Adams. “No. You never do. Anyone could mistake a man for, say, a quail or ruffed grouse. But if any of you think of something that might explain what happened to Dan Jeffrey, I’d appreciate—and his daughter would appreciate—if you’d let me know. Or tell Ike Irons. It’s not healthy to have accidents happening in a nice town like Winslow.”

She put her money on the bar. “You can leave a message for me at the new Aunt Augusta’s Attic on Main Street. Just say the message is for Maggie. I’ll get it.”

Herring and great black-backed gulls were crying and circling the sky over the tavern. Maggie watched them for a minute, remembering an old mariner’s saying, that gulls were the souls of departed sailors.

But Dan Jeffrey hadn’t been a sailor.

Chapter 17

Boston Lighthouse. Steel engraving, 1843, of lighthouse on rocky island, surrounded by vessels of various sorts, from skiffs to schooners to a steamboat to a small lobster boat with one sail. “Drawn After Nature” by an unidentified artist, and published by Hermann J. Meyer, New York. Paper size: 7.5 x 11 inches. Engraving size: 4.24 x 6.25 inches. Price: $60.

Maggie added the packages she’d picked up at the post office to the ones already piled in a corner of Gussie’s and Jim’s new living room and walked over to look out the wide windows. “Your view is breathtaking. In the summer the Bay will be filled with sailboats and fishing boats, and you’ll be able to sit in your own living room and watch them. There can’t be many more perfect places than this one.”

“That view is the reason we bought this place,” said Gussie. “We hesitated because of the price, but then we kept thinking that we’d have that view to look at for the rest of our lives. Two old people looking out at the world together.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“So, when does the unwrapping begin?” Jim asked as he came in the room. “I’ll admit I feel like a kid on his birthday. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

“Now that you’re here, we can start any time,” Gussie answered.

“I have no idea what our friends will have come up with. Mother keeps telling me about the three silver tea sets she and Dad got for wedding gifts. I keep telling her that when you get married slightly, shall we say, later in life, your needs and interests are a bit different than they are for a couple starting out the way they did, in their early twenties.”

“Not that we live the sort of life that calls for even one silver tea set,” Gussie added.

“I’m waiting, notebook and pen at hand, to record the salient facts. Jim, why don’t you get a knife to help open the cartons, and then you and Gussie open the inside boxes together, assuming there is an inside box.”

“Maggie’s organizing us! She’s stepping up to the maid-of-honor role very well, don’t you think?” said Gussie. “Go ahead, Jim, start with that long heavy box in the corner. I wish Ellen could have been here tonight, but she had to show a client two houses. A client with money gets priority in this housing market.”

“Maybe Ellen could talk her client into a charming Victorian,” said Jim, thinking of his own house. He picked up the first carton and looked at the return address. “This one is postmarked Maine. Your Maine man, I believe, Ms. Summer. It’s from a Mr. Will Brewer.”

Maggie smiled. “I suggested going together for your gift, but he had his own idea. I don’t know what it is, but I can guess why it’s heavy.”

Gussie leaned over toward Jim. “You remember, Will’s a dealer in fireplace and kitchen antiques. Of course, that may have nothing to do with his gift.”

Jim finished lifting the inside box away from the heavy outside carton. “All set to open the inside box, my love. But it’s heavy, too. Why don’t you read the card while I open?”

She read, “‘A totally unnecessary gift that will last another two hundred years, although nothing will outlast your love. Will.’ Very sweet. Maggie, have I mentioned he’s a keeper?”

Maggie raised her eyebrows in mock admonishment, and made a entry in her notebook as Jim lifted out a beautifully burnished, hand-crafted, brass bedwarmer engraved with hearts.

“Oh, I love it! Very apropos. Bedwarmers—no comments, please, Jim, I mean the non-human kind!—are hard to find nowadays. It’ll look beautiful next to the fireplace in our bedroom.” Gussie reached over and touched it. “Masterful work. Oh, I can’t wait to thank Will in person!”

“It’s very special,” agreed Jim, taking it over and leaning it against the wall next to their living room fireplace.

“This is fun! Next, please!”

Will’s gift had set the tone. Knowing Gussie and Jim loved antiques, most of their friends had found gifts for them that reflected love or marriage.

A sailor’s valentine, a hanging nineteenth-century shadowbox containing a delicate mosaic design made from small shells in Barbados. A “Home Sweet Home” sampler from 1847 in which the motto was surrounded by small hearts. A small wedding quilt from the 1840s. (“Wherever did she find it?” Gussie, marveled. “What wonderful condition!”) Several people had given them nineteenth-century brass or iron trivets decorated with hearts. (“We can hang them all on one of the walls near the kitchen.”) And one of Gussie’s roommates from Wellesley had sent them a Bride’s Basket.

“How perfect!” Maggie said. “I wish I’d thought of that.”

“It’s a beautiful one, too,” said Gussie, admiringly. “So many you see today don’t have both the hand-blown basket and the silver-plated holder. I love the deep pink in the inside with the lighter pink on the outside and the ruffle.”

Jim didn’t look as thrilled at that gift. “That’s for your dressing table,” he said. “It doesn’t exactly go with our stone fireplace.”

“Perhaps not. But brides in the 1890s collected them,” Gussie said. “And I’m happy Rachel thought to find one for me. Our friends have come up with wonderful gifts. I love the antiques theme.”

Not every gift was an antique. An expensive (“Wow! Look at this!” from Jim) bottle of aged cognac was from Police Chief Ike Irons and his wife, Annie, and a hand-woven king-sized blanket came from Jim’s law partner, Andy, and his wife.

“And what on earth is this?” exclaimed Jim.

He was unwrapping a delicate blue and red-swirled blown-glass ball, perhaps ten inches in diameter, with a loop at the top.

“How wonderful!” Gussie said, as Jim read the note.

“‘This is not an antique, but it does come from Salem. May it keep the bad spirits away from your new home and always keep you safe from things that go bump in the night!’” Jim started to laugh. “From your cousin Sheila. Of course.”

“Of course. It would be!” said Gussie. “And exactly what we need for our new home!”

“But what is it?” said Jim, again.

“It’s a witch ball,” Gussie explained. “A modern one. An old one, even if she could have found one, would have been way over Sheila’s budget. You hang it in a window or doorway of your house. Some people fill it with herbs—Sheila always told me dill was best—and it keeps bad spirits from entering.”

“Your cousin Sheila. Isn’t she the one hosting your bachelorette party?” Maggie asked.

“That’s right,” said Gussie. “I haven’t seen her in a while. She’s a bit of a free spirit, but she’s a dear.”

“She’s the one you said lives in Boston’s North End,” said Maggie, trying to keep everyone straight.

“That’s right. But she used to live in Salem. Actually,” Gussie winked at Maggie, “Sheila’s a financial adviser now, but that’s her second career. She used to be a practicing witch.”