Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding (7 page)

“I don’t know, Diana.”

“I want to know why he left me. Why didn’t he think he could trust me enough to tell me about it? And what was he doing here? The first time, I accepted that he’d died in an accident in Colorado. But people don’t kill other people by accident. He must have been in trouble here.”

“That’s the job of the police. Chief Irons and his detectives will find out what happened.”

“I hope so. But Cordelia doesn’t think they’ll be able to find out who did it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She doesn’t talk, but she writes notes to me. After Chief Irons was at the house the first time, to tell us Dad was dead, Cordelia looked sad. But she wasn’t surprised. She wrote, ‘Dangerous friends’ on a piece of paper, and shook her head. So when the chief came back and said Dad had been murdered, it wasn’t really a shock. I think we were both expecting it.”

“But why don’t you think the police will find the killer?”

“Because I said what you did. I wrote that Chief Irons would find whoever killed Dad. And Cordelia wrote, ‘The Cape has many harbors.’ And she’s right. Dad was on the beach. He’d been in the water. Who could tell where he went in the water? There are lots of towns and harbors on the Cape. How can one little police department know what’s happening everywhere?”

“I’m sure Chief Irons has contacts in other departments, and with the state police,” said Maggie. “Although you’re right that your dad could have been on a boat out in Cape Cod Bay, and his body washed ashore. He wasn’t necessarily killed here in Winslow.”

“Maggie? Diana? How’re you ladies doing up there?” Gussie called from downstairs.

“We’ve almost finished two closets.” Maggie answered. “Do you need help downstairs?”

“I was thinking it might be time for a tea or cola break. Sound good to you?”

“Fine with me,” said Maggie.

Diana glanced at her watch. “Oops! I didn’t realize it was this late! I planned to stop and get a bottle of port for Cordelia on my way home. She likes a glass after dinner. We have tons of what she calls ‘funeral food’ at home, but no port. I should get back to be with her.”

“Thank you for helping, Diana. And I know Gussie’s planning to pay you a little for your time.”

“That would be great. But it was fun. Thank you for listening…” Diana hesitated.

“Why don’t we exchange telephone numbers,” said Maggie. “I’m sure we could use your help with other things during the next week, and if you want to get in touch with me for any reason, don’t hesitate to call. Even just to talk.”

The two exchanged cell phones, and entered their numbers.

“We’re officially on each other’s speed dials now,” said Diana. “Thank you, so much. I’ll say good-bye to Gussie downstairs.”

“Tell her to come on upstairs and we’ll have that tea and soda,” said Maggie. “I’m ready for a sit-down, too.”

Tower Rock, Garden of the Gods.
Wood Engraving by Thomas Moran for Volume 2 of
Picturesque America
, two volumes describing and picturing the scenery of the United States. Published monthly and then in bound volumes in 1872 and 1874, they were the first attempt to picture all of America. The two volumes, edited by poet William Cullen Bryant, contained over nine hundred wood engravings and fifty steel engravings. Their publication increased tourism, encouraged population growth in the West, and contributed to the call for preservation of state and national park lands. The Garden of the Gods, which
Picturesque America
says is five miles northwest of Colorado Springs, was later given to that city by the children of General William Jackson Perkins. Black and white; L-shaped. 6.25 x 8.50 inches if it were a complete rectangle. Price: $45.

“Sorry to be a
party pooper,” said Gussie. “But I need to lie down a while.”

Maggie was immediately on alert. “Is your Post-Polio Syndrome getting worse? What can I do to help?”

“You’re helping by being here,” said Gussie. “And of course it’s getting worse. That’s what it does. Besides: what rational person moves their home
and
their business
and
gets married within a two-week period? Anyone would be tired! You must be tired, too; you drove up from Jersey yesterday, and we’ve been on the go since then. I just need a short nap; I’ll be fine.”

“Do you still have Wi-Fi here?” asked Maggie. “If so, I think I’ll have that cola you mentioned and check my email and do some research on-line.”

“My personal computer’s still here so I haven’t discontinued the service yet. Make yourself at home. If I’m not up by six o’clock, wake me,” said Gussie, as she headed for her bedroom.

Maggie took a Diet Pepsi from the supply in the refrigerator and opened her laptop.

Diana either wasn’t telling the whole story about what had happened in Colorado Springs, or she didn’t know it. It didn’t make sense that a loving father would disappear for no reason and not tell his daughter. Or that a man would be declared dead if there were no body, even if there was an accident.

Maggie searched for “Roger Hopkins Colorado” and immediately there were hits.

Everything Diana had said checked out. Roger Hopkins was a loan officer for the Rocky Mountain Savings and Loan in Colorado Springs. Two years ago he was on his way home from visiting homeowners who were behind in their mortgage payments. (Read: telling them they’d be foreclosed on if they didn’t pay up. Nasty job.) His car swerved coming down a steep, icy road and plunged into a ravine, where the gas tank caught fire. Flames could be seen for miles. Fire and police departments were on the scene as soon as they could, but nothing could be done.

Roger Hopkins, widower, had left one daughter, Diana Emily, a sophomore at the University of Colorado.

But that wasn’t all.

Eighteen months before the accident Roger Hopkins had made the
Colorado Springs
Gazette
for another reason. His name was mentioned in a small story with the dateline Cripple Creek.

Cripple Creek. That was the old mining town in the Rockies where there was now gambling, Maggie remembered. Her brother, Joe, whom she hadn’t heard from in years, had once sent her a postcard from there. She’d looked it up because she’d been fascinated by the name.

For some reason Roger Hopkins was in Cripple Creek, in a bar, in the middle of the day. Had he been visiting another homeowner to be foreclosed on? Was he there to gamble?

According to the article, he was by himself. While he was there a group of three young men started arguing loudly. When the bartender told them to take their problem outside, one of the men pulled a gun and shot the other two, the bartender, and the only other person in the bar: Roger Hopkins. Hopkins was seriously wounded. The ­others died.

Maggie looked up from her screen.

Clearly, he’d survived. But he’d been the only witness to three homicides.

She looked through the other references.

Nothing else that added to information about “Roger Hopkins.”

What if she looked under “Cripple Creek homicides”?

Sure enough. Good work, Colorado State Police. Six weeks after the shooting, a young man “with ties to organized crime” was arrest­ed and charged with the shooting deaths of three men in Cripple Creek and the attempted homicide of a fourth. No mention of Roger Hopkins by name. But he must have been involved in identifying the man. He was the only person who could have helped lead them to the killer.

Maggie searched under that man’s name. His trial was eighteen months ago. The verdict was “not guilty on all charges.”

She closed her laptop.

Roger Hopkins should have testified in that trial. He was the only witness. But he’d “died” six months before then.

Had they bought him off? Had he been threatened and afraid to testify? In either case, Roger Hopkins hadn’t been in the courtroom and a mob-related killer had gone free in Colorado.

And now Roger Hopkins, aka Dan Jeffrey, was dead. Again.

Anatomy: Myology.
(The study of muscles.) Two plates, both from 1808 medical book. Black and white detailed line drawings, one showing the back muscles of a male figure, the other the front muscles, with details of muscles of hands, feet, arms, and legs. 8.25 x 11 inches. $60 each.

Maggie had trouble
sleeping again that night.

Gussie’d napped until six o’clock, and then they’d raced to meet Jim for a fast dinner, since they all admitted to being weary. Maggie decided not to mention anything she’d found on-line. After all, anyone could find what she had.

The newest wedding-related question was whether a distant cousin of Gussie’s, Sheila from Boston’s North End, was going to host a bachelorette party for Gussie the night before the wedding. She’d volunteered a month before, it seemed, and Gussie had said that would be fine.

But today Lily had received her invitation to the party and promptly called Sheila and told her that the night before the wedding was an inappropriate time for a bachelorette party. The night before the wedding was reserved for the rehearsal dinner. Sheila had, of course, sent emails to Gussie and Jim asking their help straightening out the schedule.

This time Maggie tended to agree with Lily. She wasn’t even sure why there needed to be a bachelorette party for a bride in her late forties. (Or why Lily was invited.) But she kept her mouth closed.

Clearly getting in the middle of a Lily issue was not a wise idea. So she quietly savored her fried clams as Gussie and Jim planned how to explain to Lily that they weren’t planning a rehearsal since the wedding was so small, and that the parties, one for the men and one for the women, were set, and basically, that she should not get involved with scheduling.

Right now, getting Jim and Gussie into their new house seemed a lot more important than what would happen next Friday night. Especially since she knew how tired Gussie was. Maggie kept wishing dinner would be over so she could get Gussie home to rest.

When she’d met Gussie twelve years ago her friend walked with braces and crutches, and Maggie hadn’t known anything about Post-Polio Syndrome, the relentless result of having had polio, as Gussie had, as a child. Gussie’d explained that after years of physical therapy she’d walked without braces or crutches as a young woman, but then had needed to use them again later.

Now doctors knew that forcing muscles weakened by polio would only work temporarily. People unlucky enough to get polio today, as many still did who lived where not everyone had access to vaccine, were told they would have to wear braces for life, and use wheelchairs when they could. They needed to save their muscles, to make them last as long as possible. Gussie had just moved to her electric scooter two years ago. But every time Maggie saw her, it seemed Gussie tired more easily.

Thank goodness she’d now have Jim to help her on a regular basis. Someone who loved her, and knew her strengths and weaknesses. Gussie was a determined and stubborn woman. But her muscles weren’t always going to keep up with her mind.

The more Maggie thought about putting her prints in the back room of Gussie’s store, the better she liked it. That would take pressure off Gussie to get out and buy more merchandise, and would help both of them (she hoped) financially. And although it was a long drive from New Jersey to the Cape (or from Maine to the Cape, she added to herself), it would push her to visit Gussie more often.

Maggie pleaded exhaustion after they finished dinner to make sure Gussie went to bed early. “We were up so late last night, and today was a full day. I want to be sure I can finish the rest of the packing tomorrow so we can get everything out of your old shop and into the new one.”

“You’re not just trying to get
me
to rest?” Gussie looked at her askance. “You’re sounding like Jim when he wants me to slow down.”

“Me? No! I’m getting old myself,” said Maggie, guilelessly.

“Hah! You’re ten years younger than I am. What Will’s Aunt Nettie would no doubt call a spring chicken. But I’ll take you up on it anyway. I have some thank-you notes to write, and I can take my stationery box to bed with me. After I’m married I’ll have better things to do in bed!”

The conversation might have taken a slightly different turn, but then Maggie’s phone rang.

“It’s Will,” she said.

“You go,” said Gussie. “Give him my love and tell him I’m looking forward to seeing him in a few days.”

“Will do!” said Maggie, turning to her phone. “Hi, friend!”

“So, have you got everyone on the Cape organized and ready to march down whatever aisle is nearby in rank order?” said Will’s ­familiar deep voice.

“Not quite. But I’m working on it. I think Gussie and Jim need more help with moving to their new house and setting up Gussie’s new store then they do with the wedding. One day at a time.”

“I wish I could get away a little earlier, if you need help moving boxes and furniture. But my cousin Tom has agreed to stay with Aunt Nettie for the three days I’ll be down on the Cape, and he can’t stay longer than that.”

“Don’t worry. We have it well in hand. Most of it is packing right now. No one’s asked me to move furniture. I think Jim will find someone else to do that. I hope, anyway.”

“So do I. I’ve had enough of that, moving the few pieces I wanted to keep from Buffalo to Maine.”

Maggie wondered, not for the first time, what it must really feel like for Will. He always talked of the changes he’d made in his life in terms of logistics, not emotions. And the changes he’d made were huge. In the past two months he’d returned to his home in Buffalo, put it up for sale, and given away most of the physical connections to his last twenty years. The few pieces of furniture he wanted to keep, and all the antiques in his fireplace and kitchenware business, he’d trucked to Maine. His books, furniture, and papers were now in a storage unit outside Waymouth; his business inventory was in Aunt Nettie’s attic and barn, which he’d cleaned out. She hadn’t been thrilled at throwing out her “special things” (like canning jars she hadn’t used in twenty years), to make space for his belongings, and neither of them were looking forward to a Maine winter when the barn was too full of cartons for either her car or his RV to fit inside. Will had wanted his inventory nearby so he could continue doing antiques shows easily, and they’d both agreed it would be best if he moved in, “at least for a few months, to see how it works out,” after her troubles in August.

So Will had his hands full. Aunt Nettie was a dear. But she was a ninety-one-year-old dear. Will was already finding he couldn’t take off for a weekend and head for New Jersey, as he used to, or meet Maggie at a show halfway between them. He’d skipped the Rensselaer County show on Columbus Day weekend two weeks ago. Missing shows meant missing income, too.

“So Gussie’s keeping you busy and out of trouble, then?” Will was saying.

Maggie almost told him about finding Dan Jeffrey’s body. And then hearing that Jeffrey had been murdered. And then finding out he wasn’t really Dan Jeffrey. And about Diana. But why bother Will? He’d tell her to let the police handle the situation, that she should focus on Gussie and Jim.

Not a bad idea.

But not what she wanted to do.

And after all, Will wasn’t in Winslow. Yet. What he didn’t know…

“How’s Aunt Nettie?”

“Doing well. She made a terrific apple-cranberry pie today, but then was too tired to get the rest of the dinner, so she talked me into taking her out to dinner at the Waymouth Inn. We had her pie for dessert.”

“I’ll bet you’ll have it for breakfast too. Aunt Nettie’s pies are special. You be careful, though! I don’t want you putting on too much weight! Every time we talk you tell me about her great cooking.”

“I think cooking for me gives her a reason to keep going. She hasn’t wanted to go to her genealogy group or her book group at the library, or invite any of her friends over. And she hasn’t been going out for walks, the way she did last summer, remember?”

Aunt Nettie’d walked everywhere in town. She’d scolded if Maggie or Will said they were driving to the post office. “You have perfectly good feet. You young folks should be hoofing it.”

“She says she’s too tired to walk too far. And once winter sets in it’ll be harder for her to get out, because of the ice. So if cooking keeps her busy, then I encourage it. I make the sacrifice of having to eat it all.”

Maggie grinned. For over ten years now Will’d been a widower who didn’t cook for himself. She suspected he was enjoying being the object of Aunt Nettie’s home-cooking demonstrations.

“You give Aunt Nettie a big hug for me. Tell her I miss her.”

“She doesn’t understand why you don’t come up and visit more often. She likes you, Maggie.”

“I assume you’ve told her I have a job, and an antiques business. I can’t exactly race back and forth to Maine all the time.”

“I’ve mentioned those other activities of yours. Of course, she seems to think Maine holds certain attractions which should pull you away from everything else in your life.”

“You tell her Maggie has bills to pay,” said Maggie. “I’ll send her some postcards from the Cape. And I’ll see you soon.”

“Looking forward. Very forward,” Will whispered softly.

“Hmmm. I won’t mind that,” said Maggie. “Miss you.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Maggie lay awake, wishing Will were there. But if he were, she’d have to tell him about the murder. He was very patient, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t be enthused about her getting involved. Not to speak of the adoption issue, which she was trying to repress this week.

She touched her R-E-G-A-R-D ring, rolled over, and punched her pillow. Hard.