Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding (4 page)

Dried Seaweeds, or Sea Mosses.
In the nineteenth century seaweeds were called sea mosses. These delicate dark pink mosses were collected by Miss Marnie Wall of Crescent City, California, pressed in pleasing patterns, dried, placed in an album, and then presented to Charles N. Kendall (perhaps her fiancé?) in 1880. They’ve been carefully removed from the album, double-matted in dusky pink and moss green to form a shallow shadow box, and then framed. 12 x 15 inch-modern gold frames. Price: $150 each.

“I come bearing gifts
, courtesy of your devoted fiancé,” Maggie announced, as she opened the door of Gussie’s new store and looked around. “Jim went on to his office. Wow. This is fantastic, Gussie! It’s twice the size of your old store.” She put the two boxes of pastries on the counter, which looked as though it only needed one more coat of varnish, and started walking around.

Gussie was talking with the carpenter on the other side of a pile of boards in the back of the store. “I’ll be with you in a minute!” she called out.

Deep shelves lined the walls on two sides of the large room, and unpainted stands and tables clearly intended for the center of the store were piled in one corner. The rest of the store included the bathroom; a separate office, clearly delineated by the desk, computer, printer, copier, and file cabinets already set up there; and another display room which formed an ell off the front room. That room hadn’t been equipped with shelving yet.

Maggie couldn’t wait for the cinnamon rolls. “Mmmm. Delicious!” She licked her fingers, as Gussie joined her. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll weigh an extra ten pounds by your wedding.”

“So. What do you think of the space?” said Gussie, taking a bite of her roll.

“It’s perfect. You have so much room, and light. And the large display windows will be terrific showcases for your dolls and toys. Your old store was nothing like this.”

Gussie nodded. “I’m especially excited about the windows. The first exhibits will be for Christmas, of course. I’m planning to set up an artificial tree in one window, with Victorian ornaments and ­Santas and Christmas books and dolls and toys underneath it. The other window will be a fireplace, complete with filled stockings, and of course, more toys. I’m already getting ideas for other holidays later in the year. Valentine’s Day, Easter, summer at the beach. One month I could set up a birthday party.”

“I can see why window-display designers have full-time jobs.”

“True. But at least the first year it should be fun.” Gussie dabbed her chin with her napkin. “My one concern for the store is that I’ll run out of inventory. In the old shop I never seemed to have enough space. Here, I may have too much. I haven’t been doing as many shows recently. Antiques shows aren’t as profitable for dealers as they used to be, as you well know, and they’re getting harder for me to do physically, so I haven’t been buying as much.”

“It’s hard. The most popular ‘antiques’ now are twentieth-century design items: architectural elements, furniture, and the kinds of pieces creative sorts can ‘repurpose,’ the new name for taking something old and finding a use for it that makes it appear modern and unique. That’s hard to do with the antiques you and I specialize in: dolls, toys, books, and prints.”

“Agreed. Our things are wonderful as ‘one of a kind’ items, or as small collections, displayed in special ways.”

Maggie nodded. “It’s interesting, though, to see what used to be considered boring black and white nineteenth-century industrial engravings now framed in black, grouped, and thought very chic and modern. I’ve sold some that have been featured in decorating magazines. Very far from traditional botanical or bird prints.”

“That’s why I loved the framed dried seaweed you had at the ­Provincetown show,” agreed Gussie. “And why I sell more individual toys or dolls today. People may not want to collect toys the way customers used to, but they do want one wooden folk art doll to put on a mantel or bookshelf, or one iron bank to give to an executive for his desk. Or perhaps they’re looking for an old Tonka truck to remind them of their childhood. They want an antique to make a statement.”

“With all this space you could showcase larger things: children’s furniture, or rocking horses. Things you couldn’t take to shows or put in your old shop,” Maggie suggested.

“Maybe in the future. But right now I don’t have anything to put in the back room.”

“An antique screen could hide the entrance. I have a three-­paneled Victorian screen with oil paintings that would be perfect. I wish I’d known. I’d have brought it for you.”

“I was thinking of hanging a quilt there. I have a couple I use for wall backgrounds at shows.”

“That would work,” Maggie agreed.

“But that would be temporary. For the long run I’ve a better idea for that space.”

“Yes?” Maggie turned from looking out the front window.

“There’s a fair amount of wall space there, plus room for at least four tables in the center. And easel space, too, depending. How would you like to take that room for some of your prints?”

“What? My prints?” Maggie checked to see if she’d heard Gussie correctly.

“Think about it, before you say no. I have extra space. You don’t have a shop for Shadows Antique Prints, and you don’t show your prints in any antiques malls. You could use the room however you wanted to. I think your children’s prints, and those related to the sea, to Massachusetts, and your shorebirds, ships, sea creatures, fish, that sort of thing, would do well here on the Cape. I’d have an extra draw to bring people to the shop. You’d have a place to show your prints.”

“But I use the prints at shows.”

“Of course you do, so you’d have to plan around that. And you’d have to come and change them periodically, so you wouldn’t always have the same prints here. But you’d always have a place to stay, with Jim and me, and it’s sort of halfway between Will in Maine and your home in New Jersey.”

“And when I have a child I might not be able to do as many shows. This might be a way to bring in more income,” Maggie mused. “How would you want to do it financially? Would I pay you rent or commission? I’d want to be fair to you.”

“Since right now I don’t have any inventory to go in the room I wouldn’t be making any money from it anyway. What if you supply the tables and table covers and easels—anything you need to set the room up the way you want it to be. And you set the prices. Pay me twenty percent of any sales.”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Done,” said Gussie, holding out a hand sticky with cinnamon and sugar. “Partner!”

Anatomy: Organs of Sense: Ear.
Steel Engraving (1808) from
Dr. Rees’s New
Cyclopaedia or Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences
, First American Edition, Philadelphia. Engraved by B. Tanner. Eleven detailed engravings on one page of parts of the ear. 8 x 11 inches. Price: $60.

While Gussie unpacked
cartons in the store office, the only area ready for work so far, Maggie measured off the room she was now excitedly envisioning as a mini-Shadows Antique Prints shop.

Gussie’d been right: she’d have space for several tables, and floor stands for larger shrink-wrapped prints, in addition to the wall space for framed prints. She took careful notes.

The room was larger than her booth at most shows. She had enough table covers, but she’d have to buy two additional tables. The ones she owned she needed for shows. She’d have to invest in more floor stands and easels, too.

She’d also need more permanent, detailed signs than the ones she used for shows. Her prints would have to speak for themselves if she wasn’t there to speak for them.

This would take work. But she could already see her large framed Selby Fulmar Petrel, that most people thought was a gull, hanging on the wall where customers would see it as soon as they walked in, and a selection of her Curtis, Sowerby, and Loudon botanicals on one of the center tables. She had enough of those so she could display some here and still have a selection for shows. Morris seabirds. Definitely; she’d bring those. They didn’t sell well in New York and New Jersey anyway. And those pages of dried seaweed that Gussie remembered would look stunning on these walls.

Lights. She’d need to bring extra lights.

She’d been thinking of having a new sign made for her booth. She’d have one made for here, too. SHADOWS ANTIQUE PRINTS. She’d named her business that because her prints had always seemed to her like shadows left behind by lives long past. Maybe the concept seemed esoteric. But she loved it.

Bringing Shadows to Cape Cod would take time and money. But it might bring in the extra income she’d need for adoption fees, and for the expenses of having a child. Or children. Being a mother meant more than giving love. There’d be clothes. Toys. Books. Would her daughter want to join the Girl Scouts? Take art lessons? Learn karate?

Doing this would help Gussie, too. The more Maggie thought about it, the better she liked it. Having a branch of Shadows in Wins­low, Massachusetts, was a wonderful idea.

“Gussie, you said you’re planning to open the shop as soon as you can after your wedding, right?” she asked, as she went into the office where Gussie was transferring files from a carton to a file cabinet.

“Right. The other shop’s already closed, and almost everything there is packed. Today’s Friday. The guys doing the carpentry and painting here say they’ll be finished by late tomorrow. Then it’ll be a mad rush to put everything on shelves and decorate the windows. I’ve already transferred the credit card and computer connections.”

“I’ll need a couple of weeks,” said Maggie. “I’ll need to go through my inventory and put together what I’ll need. On top of getting caught up with my classes when I get back home, I don’t see being able to get the print room set up until Thanksgiving break.”

“That’s fine,” said Gussie. “Whenever you get here. In fact, consider yourself invited for Thanksgiving dinner. You haven’t really celebrated Thanksgiving until you’ve attended the lighting of the Pilgrim Monument on Thanksgiving Eve in Provincetown.”

“That sounds like fun. I haven’t been to Provincetown in the off-season in years. Put me on your guest list!”

“Will do. In the meantime, I’ll hang that quilt we talked about. After you have the print room set up we’ll put a special ad in the local paper and have a ‘second grand opening.’ That way we might catch some of the Christmas traffic. Don’t forget to bring your Christmas prints. I’d love to have two or three of your Thomas Nast Santas as backdrops in the windows.”

“I’ll send those to you as soon as I get home,” Maggie agreed. “This is exciting! I’m so glad you thought of it, Gussie. But promise, if the prints don’t sell, or if you build up your inventory and want that space for yourself, you’ll throw me out.”

“Absolutely. I’m just glad you like my plan. I was afraid you’d think it was crazy, or Winslow was too far away for you.”

“We’ll make it work. And besides seeing you and Jim, I can check out all the antiques stores and galleries on the Cape that I never get a chance to see. In fact, do you know if the Edward Gorey Museum in Yarmouthport will be open Thanksgiving week? I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Already planning time away from the shop? Maggie Summer, you’re coming for Thanksgiving to get Shadows set up here. And I suppose I can check and see if the Gorey Museum is open that week, too.” She glanced at her watch. “I want us to get over to Cordelia’s house. How did it go at the police station?”

“No problem,” said Maggie. “Jim was more protective than he had to be. I signed a statement saying I was walking on the beach and saw the body and dialed 911. No major insights.”

“Did you get a hint about who they think might have killed Dan?”

“Ike said someone was angry because he thought Dan had gotten his son involved with drugs. Do you know anything about that?” By that time Gussie and Maggie had left the shop, and were in Gussie’s van, headed toward 17 Apple Orchard Lane.

“Not much. Last spring Tony Silva, one of the boys at the high school, died of an OxyContin overdose. People around town talked about where he might have gotten the pills. Some people said he’d gotten them in Boston; others said there was a dealer here in Winslow. Other kids may have known, but no one talked. Dan Jeffrey was relatively new in town and people blamed him. I never knew why. Tony’s dad, Bob Silva, made a scene at the Lazy Lobster one night. It made the local paper. Sounded to me as though everyone involved had too much to drink and got all wound up.”

“Was there any evidence it was Dan Jeffrey?”

“Not that I know about. But if there were, Ike Irons would know.”

Gussie parked in front of a small, weathered-gray home. Gold and orange marigolds bloomed under the windows, and a jack-o’-lantern sat near the doorway. A small yellow VW with Colorado plates was in the driveway.

“Looks like your friend Cordelia already has company,” Maggie pointed out.

“It does,” said Gussie. “Well, we won’t stay long. You bring the cupcakes, while I get my scooter down.”

The young woman who opened the door looked like one of Maggie’s students on exam day. Her shoulder-length brown hair hung limp. She hadn’t attempted makeup, and her jeans and skimpy long-sleeved T-shirt both looked as though they’d been worn a few days. Her swollen eyes suggested a deeper connection to the deceased than that of someone who’d stopped to pay a condolence call. “Yes?” she said. Clearly she also wasn’t the Cordelia they were there to see.

“I’m Gussie White, and this is my friend, Maggie Summer. We brought something for Cordelia,” said Gussie. Maggie handed the girl the box of cupcakes. “We came to see her; to ask if there were anything we could do to help.”

The girl stared at them. “Nobody can do anything. He’s dead.”

“I know. I was the one who found him on the beach, yesterday,” said Maggie, softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind the girl she saw a woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, looking at them from a room away. Maggie shifted her body slightly so that the woman could see her hands. “We came to say we’re sorry for your loss,” she signed.

Gussie waved at the woman, who then came forward. She and Gussie looked at each other for a moment. Then Gussie nodded and reached up her arms. Gussie rocked her for a moment as though she was a child, while Maggie and the younger woman watched.

Then the two women broke apart. “Maggie, I’d like you to meet my friend, Cordelia West,” Gussie, said, gesturing toward the woman she’d hugged. “Cordelia, this is my dear friend, Maggie Summer, who’s visiting.”

Cordelia smiled at Maggie and signed, “I’m pleased to meet you. You sign ASL.”

“A little,” Maggie signed, and smiled. “I’m Maggie. I teach; some of my students use ASL.”

Cordelia nodded, gesturing that Gussie and Maggie should come inside.

She indicated a chair in the small living room where Maggie could sit, and then at the box the younger woman was still holding, and the back of the house. The younger woman nodded her head and left, presumably to take the cupcakes to the kitchen.

“We’re so sorry about your cousin Dan’s death,” said Gussie. “Maggie, tell Cordelia.”

“Gussie wants me to say we’re very sorry about your cousin’s death,” signed Maggie.

“I thank you both,” signed Cordelia. “It’s a sad time.”

Maggie paused a moment. “I should tell you. I was the person who found your cousin’s body on the beach yesterday.”

Cordelia winced. “Thank you for calling the police. Chief Irons brought me a note last night to tell me. We’d been very worried. He’d been missing for two, almost three, days.”

“We?” Maggie asked.

“Diana.” Cordelia indicated the kitchen. “Dan’s daughter.”

Gussie looked from one of them to the other. “What’s she saying, Maggie?”

“She says the young woman who opened the door is Diana, Dan’s daughter.”

“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” said Gussie. “Ask Cordelia if she’s been here long.”

“Only about a week,” signed Cordelia. “She’s very confused and upset. If you could help her in some way?”

The young lady in question returned, carrying a large tray of cookies, brownies, and the cupcakes Jim had bought at the bakery that morning. Clearly neighbors had started early bringing funeral food. She put the tray on the coffee table. “Would anyone like coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you,” said Gussie. “But thank you for asking. Why don’t you sit and join us? Let me introduce myself officially. I’m Gussie White. I’m moving into a house a little ways down the beach. And this is Maggie Summer, my friend from New Jersey. Cordelia told us you’re Dan’s daughter.”

“Except he wasn’t Dan then!” said Diana. Her tears started to flow. “None of this is right. None of it!”

Gussie and Maggie exchanged looks.

“What do you mean?” Gussie said.

“It’s all been so hard! Cordelia’s trying to be kind, but she doesn’t understand anything I say. I thought Dad was dead, and then I found him again. Alive! And then a few days later he disappears, and now the police say he’s dead, again, and someone killed him! And he wasn’t even using his real name, and no one will tell me anything!”

“Diana, I don’t know what’s happening. I’m not even from Wins­low. I’m guessing you’re from Colorado, right?” Maggie spoke ­directly to Diana. She felt as though she was back on campus. So many times she’d sat with young people who were close to hysterical about minor issues. Diana’s problems were clearly larger ones.

Diana looked confused. “How did you know I was from Colorado?”

“I saw your car outside. The license plates.”

“Oh, yeah. That. Not a big secret, I guess. Yeah, I’m from Colorado Springs. Grew up there, and was going to college there, until Dad was killed in a car accident. At least I thought he was killed.”

“What made you look for him here?” asked Gussie.

“I wasn’t looking for him. I was taking a vacation. I’d decided to sell our house, to help with tuition and all the bills after Dad died. Or after I thought he’d died. So I was cleaning. I found old pictures of Mom and Dad when they were first married. They lived here then. They looked so young! Happy. Dad was so skinny. And his hair was so long!” She smiled a little. “Not the way I remembered him. When he’d died, when I thought he’d died, in Colorado, he was a lot heavier. He had a pot belly, and he’d lost most of his hair. Anyway, I decided to get away. Travel. Dad always said I had no family left, but they’d come from Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard. I decided to visit where it all started, where my family began. So I came here.”

“And?” said Maggie.

“I found Winslow, and I even found the house where we used to live when I was a baby. This house. I got up my courage and decided to ask the current owner if I could look inside. And Dad answered the door.” Diana looked from Gussie to Maggie and back. “It freaked me out. For a few minutes I thought it was someone else; someone who looked like him. He’d lost the pot belly, but he’d shaved the hair on his head and grown a beard. He really looked different. Then I thought I was seeing a ghost. Maybe I was going crazy. Or I was in a time warp; I’d gone back in time to when Dad lived here.” Diana shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. My head was exploding with crazy ideas. I guess he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.”

“Did he explain why he was here? Why he hadn’t told you he was still alive?”

“At first he was really upset I was here. Then he told me he wasn’t Roger Hopkins anymore. He was Dan Jeffrey. And he introduced me to Cordelia. He told me I could stay a few days, but that was all. Then I had to leave, and forget I’d seen him. I shouldn’t tell anyone who I was, or who he was. I needed to go back to Colorado.”

“He didn’t explain why you couldn’t tell anyone, or why he was using another name?”

Diana shook her head. “He said it was complicated, and he didn’t want me to get involved. That it would be better if I didn’t know. That I should go on living my life the way I had been.” The tears started flowing again. Cordelia reached out for a box of Kleenex on a side table and handed Diana some tissues. “I didn’t know how I could do that! I was furious. Did he have any idea of what he’d put me through? I kept asking him to trust me! To tell me what was going on! Then Monday he didn’t come home. I was so worried. I thought he’d run off; that he’d disappeared again. That he didn’t want to see me. I even called the police and told them he was missing. Mrs. Irons, the chief’s wife, stopped in. But no one else seemed to care. And now he’s dead, so none of that matters, does it? He really isn’t coming home again. Ever! This time he really
is
dead!” Diana’s tears were flowing.

Gussie and Maggie looked at each other.