by Lea Wait
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.
Chapter 14
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.
Chapter 15
Homard et Langouste. (Two species of lobsters.) Signed aquatint by Swiss artist Fifo Stricker (1952- ) First strike of eight. Two orange-red lobsters, tail to tail, behind jade architectural window-like frame; Art Deco sun above them. Matted in gray; narrow black frame. 25 x 28 inches. Price: $895.
Since all that was left in Gussie’s kitchen was teabags, cans of diet cola, and two of the bottles of champagne Maggie had brought, Jim’s arrival the next morning bearing hot breakfast sandwiches from the Salty Dog Diner was a happy surprise. “My kitchen’s pretty much empty,” he admitted. “I had a feeling yours was, too.”
“Have you heard anything about the investigation of Dan Jeffrey’s murder?” Maggie asked, she hoped casually.
“Talk around town is it was a drug deal gone bad,” said Jim. “Bob Silva’s saying he was always sure Jeffrey was responsible for his kid’s death last spring. He’s just sorry he wasn’t the one to kill him. Frankly, no one seems too interested. I’m surprised a murder in town hasn’t stirred up more feeling.”
“Dan had only been around a couple of years. If he was involved with drugs and someone from Boston or somewhere else far from Winslow killed him, then no one here’s in danger, so no one needs to worry,” said Gussie. “Makes sense. This is a closely knit community.”
“Bob Silva. He’s the one you were telling me about, right, Gussie?” asked Maggie, taking the last bite of her sandwich. If anyone believed Jeffrey was responsible for his child’s death, wouldn’t that be a good motive? In addition to a mysterious drug dealer from Boston, whom she wasn’t ruling out. Or someone connected to the victim’s previous life in Colorado.
“Silva’s the one. When his son died of an overdose, pretty much the whole town went to the funeral.”
Jim nodded. “At first his dad, Bob, blamed everyone. His teachers, for not teaching drug education. The police, for allowing drugs in the community. Chief Irons had a hard time with him. Then Bob decided someone in the community must have given Tony the drugs, and got the idea it was Dan.” Jim shrugged. “No one ever proved where the boy got the drugs. They were prescription meds, so they could have come from anywhere. But Dan was the newest face in town, and he didn’t have a history here. Bob followed him around and harassed him. I think he threw a rock through the window at Cordelia’s once.”
“That’s more than just bad-mouthing someone,” Maggie pointed out.
“True. Ike talked to him about it more than once, I know. Bob has a tendency to drink when he’s angry, and he gets angrier when he drinks. After his son’s death…well, the whole town was making allowances for him. I guess Ike was, too. Or else he couldn’t do anything about it. Anyway, everyone pretty much ignored the situation.”
“It sounds awful for Dan.”
“Must have been,” agreed Jim. “As I think about it, that’s probably why I hadn’t seen him around town much the past couple of months. He was probably staying out of Bob’s way.”
“He’s the one Ike Irons said he’d be checking out when you asked if he had any leads in the case. He certainly sounds as though he had a motive.”
Jim shrugged again. “I guess. But I suspect Ike thinks he’s what they call in Texas, ‘all hat and no cattle.’ Bob yelled a lot, but I’ve known him all the years I’ve been here and the only time I’ve seen him throw a punch was once last spring when he and Dan got into it at the Lazy Lobster.” He looked at Maggie. “But, you’re right. He had motive. I’m sure Ike’ll be checking him out.”
Maggie wasn’t convinced. Besides, Dan Jeffrey, as he was called here in Winslow, was shot. You didn’t need to get up close and personal with someone to shoot them. “If I were making a list of suspects, Bob Silva would be on it. Just sayin’.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with your students,” said Gussie. “Or maybe with Diana.”
“Diana?” asked Jim.
“Remember? You said it would be all right if she helped us with the move and the wedding. She was here yesterday to help us pack,” said Maggie. “She’s had a rough time of it.”
“True,” Jim agreed. “Just don’t get too involved.”
“Does he sound like me?” asked Gussie.
“I mean,
you’ll be heading back to Jersey after the wedding,” said Jim. “I don’t know how long Diana will be staying here, or what she’ll want to do next. She has no roots now. I suspect she’ll want to stick around here until she gets some answers about her father’s death.”
“Do many people in Winslow know Dan Jeffrey was her father?” Maggie asked.
Jim shook his head. “She’s only been here a few days. Dan didn’t tell anyone he had a daughter so far as I know.”
“You don’t think she’s in any danger, then.”
“Diana? I wouldn’t think so.” Jim looked at her. “Let me guess. You looked up her father on the Internet. Right?”
Maggie nodded.
“You didn’t think I’d take her on as a client without a bit of background checking, did you? Sure, I’ve got some reservations about her father and why he left Colorado so suddenly. But that guy he saw doing the shooting was freed.”
“What’s this all about? What guy? What shooting?” asked Gussie, looking from one of them to the other.
“I’ll fill you in after Jim’s gone,” said Maggie. “Promise.”
“In any case, there’s no double jeopardy. He couldn’t be tried again. There’d be no reason for anyone connected with that situation to follow Diana or her father to Cape Cod and kill him here. Unless there’s something we don’t know, that problem was solved. Over. Finito. Somehow I think the now-Mr. Jeffrey got himself into another mess here on Cape Cod. And this one he really did have to die to get out of.”
Maggie put up her hand. “One minute.” Her phone was ringing. She glanced down. “Diana’s texting. She wants to know if we’d like her to help again today. Chief Irons’s wife brought over flowers and she’s allergic.”
“Sounds to me like an excuse to get out of the house,” said Gussie. “But, sure. Tell her to come over. The more the merrier.”
Jim got up and brushed the crumbs off his lap. “Sounds like my cue to go to the office. I emailed Lily our list of people who hadn’t RSVP’d by now. She’s going to call them today. I figured she couldn’t mess that up. Okay with you?”
