Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding (11 page)

Kirtland Raspberry.
Hand-colored steel engraving of a raspberry branch, showing seven ripe red raspberries and five leaves. Published by New York
Commissioner of Agriculture, 1866. Now considered an “heirloom raspberry,” the Kirtland was a new variety in 1866, developed by Dr. Jared Peter Kirtland (1793-1877), a nineteenth-century naturalist from Lakewood, Ohio, who was one of the founders of both the Cleveland Museum of Natural History and Western Reserve Medical School. 5.5 x 9 inches. Price: $45.

Any food would
have been a letdown after tasting that wedding cake, and when Jim said he’d need to talk to Gussie about the guest list (“Some of the Southern cousins don’t seem to be on the list at all, and others are having trouble getting plane reservations into Boston”) over lunch, Maggie decided to bow out.

“I’d like to wander around Winslow and sightsee,” she said, before either of them could interrupt her. “And I know you’ll want to rest after lunch, Gussie. Why don’t I meet you back at the store at about three-thirty. We can finish unpacking the books and toys for the back wall then.” She waved and kept walking.

She wanted some time by herself.

And she couldn’t add anything to discussions about Southern relatives.

Her walk took her to the Winslow Library. People kept referring to the death of Tony Silva last spring. The local newspaper would give more details. Not every small-town paper was on the Internet yet.

The librarian at the front desk was happy to refer her to the reading room, where stacks of local newspapers were piled on a bookcase along with copies of the
Boston Globe
. Of course, Maggie immediately realized, the disadvantage to having the actual newspapers in front of her was, there was no index.

But she hadn’t gotten her doctoral degree without being comfortable with research challenges. Tony Silva had died last spring; everyone agreed about that. And it had shaken the town. It had certainly been a front page story locally. She’d start there.

She started looking in February; she found the headline in mid-March. TONY SILVA, 15, WINSLOW FRESHMAN, FOUND DEAD. She started reading. And taking notes. Then, based on what she’d read, she went back to issues earlier in the year. And then to later issues.

By the time she’d finished, Maggie had a much better idea of what had happened in Winslow. It was more complicated than one boy having somehow, possibly mistakenly, taken an overdose of prescription medications.

Small towns, Maggie kept reminding herself. Small towns took care of their own.

Beginning as early as January the “Winslow Police Blotter” had reported teen parties that were rowdy and “out of control,” and where there was “no adult supervision present.” Some of the parties included young people, usually boys, as young as thirteen.

Some gatherings appeared to have been at closed-up homes belonging to summer people, because trespassing was among the charges mentioned. In most cases charges were dropped and the “juveniles were remanded to their parents.”

Right, Maggie thought. Send them home with a lecture.

In mid-February a small article on the front page announced a new lecture series at the high school focused on both the medical and legal problems of drugs and alcohol. The school doctor was to talk about the medical dangers of substance abuse, and Chief Irons would discuss the legal consequences. That would certainly make a difference to teenagers, Maggie thought. Explain to the kids they’re rotting their brains; they’ll change their evil ways and never have another drink or touch a joint again. Right. That’s always worked. And make sure you tell them they’re breaking the law, since they never knew that.

Similar talks were scheduled at the middle schools.

Clearly, Winslow thought it had a problem last spring.

Maggie thought of the suburban Somerset County towns near where she taught in New Jersey. A student could probably find alcohol or drugs in any of them if they were looking. And drug and alcohol education was a required part of the curriculum in New Jersey. Wasn’t it in most states today?

But the public emphasis on it in Winslow last spring was unusual. Something out of the ordinary had been happening here. Something more than a few kids getting their older brothers to buy them beer.

And then: mid-March. Tony Silva was found dead at his home. Not at a wild party at someone’s home where everyone brought a bottle of pills filched from their parents’ medicine cabinets and mixed them together in a salad bowl. Not a gathering on the beach where crazy kids had built a fire and were warming up with ever-larger shots of brandy or cans of beer, and one dared another to swallow some pills, too.

Tony Silva, who everyone agreed hadn’t been to any of the questionable parties, and was a quiet kid who liked to play baseball and work out on exercise equipment in his own basement, had been home alone in his bedroom when he swallowed at least a dozen OxyContin pills.

His dad was out having dinner with friends, and thought Tony was asleep when he came home. He found his son’s body in the morning when the boy didn’t come down for breakfast.

And the town of Winslow turned all its frustration with their young people into grief for one boy. Maggie read through his obituary, and the letters to the editor, and the tributes from friends. The school declared days of mourning, and brought in grief counselors. The paper ran two pages of pictures of students crying.

What wasn’t in the articles or tributes was any reason for Tony to have taken the pills. Of course, he could have taken them as an experiment, Maggie thought. Kids, unfortunately, do. But this particular kid was, according to the reports in the paper, a fitness freak. If he’d taken steroids, that might have made sense. But that many painkillers? By himself, at home?

Had Tony Silva known what he was doing?

But the possibility of suicide was never mentioned. And even if his overdose had been intentional it left open the question of where he’d gotten the pills.

Bob Silva was clear there’d been no OxyContin pills in his home.

Chief Irons was quoted as “looking for the evil snake who has invaded our fair community and poisoned our children.”

In an April issue Maggie read the police note about windows being broken on Apple Orchard Lane: the rocks thrown through Cordelia’s windows. In June, police broke up a fight between Daniel Jeffrey and Robert Silva at the Lazy Lobster. No charges filed. So Bob Silva was still angry, and still convinced Dan Jeffrey was the one who’d brought the drugs to Winslow that killed his son.

Maggie kept reading, checking the headlines and the Police Blotter.

But after Tony Silva’s death there were no mentions of wild parties. Or drug arrests. It was as though whatever had been happening in Winslow last winter and spring had ended with Tony Silva’s death.

Raggedy Ann in Hot Water.
Johnny Gruelle (1880-1938) created the Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls and wrote and illustrated the stories for his daughter Marcella (whom he made a character in the books). Marcella died when she was thirteen. When the stories became popular, others also wrote Raggedy Ann and Andy stories and made the rag dolls, so collectors need to be certain they are buying original Gruelle books or dolls. This illustration is a lithograph from the first of Gruelle’s books,
Raggedy Ann Stories
, 1918. Raggedy Ann has gotten herself dirty, and Dinah, the stereotypical black maid, is boiling her in a pot of water to clean her. Raggedy Ann is peering over the edge of the pot, hoping Marcella will rescue her. 4.5 x 7 inches. $60.

Maggie arranged several
McLoughlin Brothers children’s books face out on a high shelf in the front room at Aunt Augusta’s Attic. “You have a great selection of illustrated children’s books. I think McLoughlin did the best chromolithographs in this country in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. You’d have to go to Edinburgh or Germany to equal them.”

“I love McLoughlin books,” agreed Gussie. “And the prices aren’t too high. Most of the illustrations wouldn’t make good stand-alone prints, so you print dealers aren’t looking to buy them and take them apart. That helps keeps the prices down.”

“Usually there are too many words on the pages, and the illustrations are too specific to the stories for prints.” agreed Maggie. “I’ve had some breakers—books in which the binding was already broken—but even then I haven’t been tempted to mat and try to sell the prints separately. They just don’t work outside the books.”

“When I first started dealing in toys, years ago, I looked for the McLoughlin name. They made the finest paper dolls, blocks, and games. I knew if I was in doubt that buying a McLoughlin item was the right choice. I still love them. Now a lot of McLoughlin toys are being reproduced. I can spot them immediately, but sometimes new collectors get fooled. Several times a month people bring me reproductions and ask me their value. Or try to sell them to me, thinking they’re authentic antiques.”

Maggie nodded. “I wish all reproductions had dates on them. Or were marked ‘Reproduction.’ But not all do. Wasn’t McLoughlin sold to one of the big toy companies?”

“Milton Bradley, in 1920. Early Milton Bradley games are also collectable, if they have all their pieces, but few do after all these years. And their boards aren’t as beautifully printed as McLoughlin ones.”

Maggie shelved the last of the picture books and started in on a box of books for older children. “Gussie, how long has Ike Irons been in charge of the police department here in Winslow?”

“Maybe fifteen years? I think he came from Mashpee. He’s not a native of Winslow. But not from far away. Mashpee has a much larger police force, so he may have gotten his training there. Why?”

“I was over at the library while you were resting. I wanted to read about what happened last spring, when Tony Silva died.”

“That was horrible,” said Gussie. “Sad. Poor Bob Silva. His wife died of cancer when his son was still in nursery school. Since then he’d focused his life around the boy. He took it hard. The whole town did, actually. It’s the sort of thing people in a small town don’t expect to happen to their children.”

“And yet no one expects murder in a small town, and no one seems too upset about Dan Jeffrey’s murder.”

“Tony was fifteen. Dan was a quiet man who hadn’t been here long; he didn’t have a family, except for Cordelia; and he didn’t have many friends. I suspect not many people even know about his death.”

“And those who’ve heard his name connect him with Tony Silva’s death last spring, because Bob Silva’s been pretty vocal about blaming him. Or so I’ve heard.”

“That’s possible. Bob isn’t the sort to hold his tongue once he gets something in his head.”

“I assume Chief Irons is checking out Bob Silva’s alibi for the day Dan Jeffrey disappeared.”

“I guess so. He’s the one in charge, you know. You’re here to help me with the shop and the wedding.”

“Right! Like, where do you want these Horatio Alger books?”

“Ah, yes. I keep waiting for someone to write a best-selling novel based on some titan of industry who’s patterned his life on one of those books, so they’ll skyrocket in value,” said Gussie. “Or maybe there’ll be an expose on Alger, who was probably a pedophile. For now, put them up on the top shelf. They’re not exactly big sellers. Although I do sell them once in a while to people whose name, or whose husband’s or son’s name, is in the title.”

“Like
Phil the Fiddler,
or
Paul the Peddler,
or
Joe’s Luck
, or
Mark the
Match Boy
?” said Maggie.

Gussie agreed. “Rags to riches. Still a great theme.”

“I talk about Alger in my American Intellectual History course,” said Maggie. “His works really are classics. You can still buy a paperback of
Ragged Dick
.”

“Well, don’t tell my customers. Here they can buy a copy from a hundred years ago, or more,” said Gussie. “All the dreams of America between two covers. All you need to succeed is to be born a boy, work hard, be virtuous, and then do a good deed for a rich man who’ll appreciate your pluck and give you your first big break.”

“And it’s straight to the top from there,” agreed Maggie. “It also helps if you marry the rich man’s daughter.” She looked around. “Now, where are your other books? I assume you have all the other childhood classics?”

“Of course. I only take a few to antique shows because they’re heavy, but I do want to have a selection in the shop for people to choose from. Isaiah Thomas Books in Cotuit is a wonderful antiquarian bookshop on the Cape, of course, and I don’t attempt to compete with them. But my selection isn’t bad.”

“I’m impressed. I know how hard it is to find copies of books for children in good condition. Well-loved children’s books are too often in well-loved condition. Where are the rest of your books?”

“They’re in cartons creatively labeled BKS and stacked on the wall in back of the bathroom. There’s a dolly there, if they’re too heavy.”

“I’ll take them one carton at a time,” called Maggie. She returned with one in a moment. “Do you want them all out?”

“One copy of each title, to begin with. Alphabetically by author.” Gussie started arranging an assortment of cast iron banks. “Have you talked with Will recently? Is there any chance he’ll be able to drive down early?”

“We talked two nights ago.” She should have called Will last night. But she’d gotten so involved with Cordelia and Diana she’d forgotten. And then she was going to call this morning, but there was the almost-fire. “He can’t come earlier than he’d planned; there’s no one else to stay with Aunt Nettie.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine. Cooking up a storm. He doesn’t like leaving her alone, in case she were to fall, or something else were to happen.”

“He’s a good man, Maggie.”

“I know. You don’t have to keep telling me that!” said Maggie, rearranging a set of Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House series so that they were all on one shelf.

“Have you seen him since you were up there in August?”

“We met in New York State one weekend in late September when he was on his way between Buffalo and Maine. That’s the only time.”

Gussie shook her head. “I don’t know how you two have managed a long-distance relationship this long. It’s about eighteen months now, isn’t it?”

“About,” Maggie agreed. “But we’re both busy. We don’t sit around between visits. And we keep in touch. Email, telephone.”

“It’s not the same,” Gussie declared.

“Anyway. He’ll be here in a few days. And I’m busy here with you.”

“Which I’m grateful for. And although I know I’ve said a few things about your spending time with Cordelia and Diana, I know they’re grateful, too. I know you, Maggie. You get involved with people. Especially when you think you can help. Or when you think there’s danger or injustice involved.”

“You know me too well, Gussie. And I’m afraid about both of those things. There’s nothing that makes sense about this situation. Just a lot of dangling threads. Twenty years ago a man moves to Colorado with his wife and child, leaving his cousin in his house here, more or less as a house-sitter, so far as I can tell. Then he fakes his own death, probably because he’s been threatened as a key witness in a mob-related court case, leaves his only child, and shows up at the old homestead, under an assumed name. Two years go by. No one recognizes him except the cousin, until his daughter shows up, and three days later he’s murdered. A couple of days after that someone pours gasoline on the porch of the house, which looks pretty much like an attempt to burn it down, taking the daughter and cousin with it.”

Gussie looked at her. “Good summary.”

“So? Who would benefit from Dan Jeffrey’s death?”

Gussie was quiet for a moment. “No one directly. He didn’t even exist. Roger Hopkins was already legally dead. I suppose keeping him dead would be easier, legally, for Diana. But not easier emotionally. The house is Cordelia’s, so she loses a tenant, assuming he was paying rent. And he may not have been doing that. So no reason for murder that’s obvious.”

“Anyone else?”

“Bob Silva blamed him for Tony’s death. If he’s still angry, there’s that.”

“Right.”

“I’m assuming there’s no double jeopardy, so there’d be no problems left over from the Colorado murder case.”

“That’s what I figured, too,” Maggie agreed.

“But the gasoline on the porch. Putting Cordelia or Diana in danger. That doesn’t fit. And I’m not convinced it’s Bob Silva. This is the end of October. Tony died in March. He may have blamed Dan last spring, but by now I’d think he’d have calmed a bit. Maybe even had second thoughts.”

“The local newspaper didn’t mention any drug investigations, or arrests, or even other parties with young people. Could everything to do with drugs suddenly have come to a standstill with Tony Silva’s death last spring?”

“I don’t know, Maggie. The police probably kept looking for whoever supplied Tony with those drugs. But you’re right. I haven’t heard anything about that in months.”

“I need to talk with Bob Silva.” Maggie’s look of determination left no room for questioning. “But, don’t worry.” She smiled. “I’ll be nice.” She looked around at the beginning-to-look-like-an-antique-toy-store Aunt Augusta’s Attic. “So. What do you need from the hardware store?”