Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding (16 page)

“But you’ve got so much to do for the wedding. And that room isn’t set up,” said Diana.

“A mere detail,” said Jim. “It won’t take long to set up a bed.”

“You and Maggie packed the sheets and blankets. See if you can dig some out of the cartons; they have to be unpacked some time anyway. That room has its own bathroom, so you’ll have some privacy,” Gussie pointed out.

“Thank you,” said Diana. “I’d much rather stay here than go back to that house by myself anyway. At least tonight.”

“Then that’s settled,” said Jim. “Don’t drink too much of that beer, guys. We have one more chore to take care of. Diana here needs a bed put together.”

“I’ll find you a T-shirt and sweats to sleep in,” said Gussie. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s get Diana organized before we all collapse after this day. Tomorrow night is the bachelorette party, you know!”

“Is that still on?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, yes.” Gussie rolled her eyes. “Did I forget to tell you? This morning Sheila called to say she’d put everything she needed in her car and was heading for the Cape today so she’d be sure to get here before they closed the bridges. She was actually very excited that the party might take place at the same time as the hurricane hit. She said that would ‘heighten the atmosphere.’”

“Not sure that’s what you want during a hurricane,” said Maggie, “but…okay.”

“You’re having a bachelorette party tomorrow night?” said Diana. “During the storm? What fun!”

“You come too,” said Gussie. “Why not? I suspect not everyone who’s invited will make it, and you’ve been a big part of this last week. You should be here for the whole celebration.”

“I’d love to be there!” said Diana. “You’ve all been so wonderful to me! I feel as though you’ve adopted me in the past week.”

Adopted her? Maggie felt her cheeks redden as Gussie glanced at her with raised eyebrows. That was an interesting word for Diana to use. With everything else going on, she’d done a good job of repressing how to broach the whole subject of adoption with Will.

But it was still out there. He might not know it, but Hurricane Tasha wasn’t the only storm ahead.

No wonder she was focused on finding a murderer. Murders were simple compared with relationships.

South Boston Horse Railroad Depot, Summer Street.
A wood engraving by Alfred Waud, 1859, showing a church in the background and an elegantly dressed couple waiting as three horse-drawn “railroad cars” meet at the depot. The cars resemble trolleys, their metal wheels fitting on tracks in the road, but each pulled by two horses. This horse railroad and another between Boston and Cambridge opened in 1856, replacing the omnibus (stagecoach) providing transportation before then, “proof of the progressive spirit of the day.” South Boston, sometimes referred to as “Southie” by those who’ve lived there, was for many years the center of Boston’s Irish community. 7 x 10 inches. Price: $60.

Two hours later
Maggie and Gussie were alone. Andy and Mel had gone home, and Will, Jim, and Diana had gone in search of pizza for dinner.

“Not bad,” Gussie said, surveying the house. “The plywood covering the windows kills the view, but in the past couple of hours with everyone’s help we’ve gotten another room set up.”

“Gussie, before the others get back with the pizza. Do you know Ike Irons’s wife well?”

“Annie Irons. Not well. Why? She comes into my store once in a while to buy mechanical banks for her sister’s husband. He collects them. She seems nice enough, but I doubt she has twenty cartons of books in her garage like we do, if you know what I mean.”

“I remember you said she and Ike weren’t from here.”

Gussie shook her head. “They’re Massachusetts people, but not from Winslow. I think maybe Annie’s from South Boston.” She looked inquiringly at Maggie. “Why all the questions?”

“Just wondering. She must have been a friend of Cordelia’s. Diana said she’d been there a couple of times. I wondered about the connection.”

Gussie shrugged. “Maybe she liked the dolls? I have no idea. I still can’t believe Cordelia’s dead.”

“What possible motive could anyone have?” mused Maggie.

“That’s one problem for Diana,” Gussie said. “Jim told me something Ike probably doesn’t know yet. I don’t even know if Diana knows. But if she does, it gives her a motive.”

“What?” asked Maggie.

“Right after Dan Jeffrey’s body was found Cordelia went to Jim and had him draw up her will. I don’t know if she’d had one before. But her new will leaves everything, including of course, her home, to Diana.”

“Why would she do that? She’d only known Diana a week or so.”

Gussie shook her head. “Maybe she liked her. Maybe Diana was her only relative. I have no idea.”

“But you’re right. If Diana knew she was Cordelia’s heir, that would give her a motive. You told me that house is worth a small fortune.”

“So let’s hope Ike finds someone with a better motive, and a gun that matches the bullet Cordelia was shot with. Otherwise our young friend could be in a lot more trouble than she imagines.”

Maggie sat for a moment. “But even if—and it’s a big ‘if’—Diana shot Cordelia, what about her father? I can’t see that she would have shot him. She’d have no reason to do that.”

Gussie sighed. “I was thinking about that the other night. Her father faked his own death. She inherited the money from his life insurance and property. If the insurance company discovered he was still alive her father would be charged with fraud, and have to pay back everything Diana inherited after his ‘death.’ Plus, he’d probably do prison time.”

“I don’t know how much insurance there was, but I’m sure she doesn’t have much money now. She told me she put their house in Colorado on the market to help pay bills and tuition. Would she be liable for the money she inherited when she thought her father was dead?”

Gussie shook her head. “I don’t know. But I’ll bet the courts would take back anything she hadn’t spent. It would be a mess, no matter what, and there’d be a nasty court case. She’d have lost her dad again, for sure. This time to prison.”

“You’re saying it would be simpler for Diana if he’d stayed dead,” said Maggie.

“It’s a horrible thought. But it made me wonder.…”

The door opened, and pungent odors of tomato and sausage filled the room.

Maggie watched as Diana laughed and picked the anchovies off her pizza, and they joked about changing the wedding reception menu to include spumoni and tortoni.

Diana couldn’t be a killer. Could she?

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!”