Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding

by Lea Wait

  “That’s the truth,” seconded the old codger at the corner of the bar. “And it wasn’t for us not asking, that’s fer sure, too!”

  Guffaws from two of the four gents at the bar and a laugh from the booth in the corner.

  “So would you say you were his closest friends while he was here?” Maggie asked.

  The bigger guy shrugged.

  “Friends? He came in pretty regular. He drank. We drank. Sometimes we talked. We watched the games. He was a Sox fan. What would you say, Rocky?”

  Maggie could almost see an invisible curtain sliding down between the men and her end of the bar. If they knew any of Dan’s secrets, they weren’t telling. Men didn’t tell on each other.

  Or maybe they didn’t know anything. Somehow she’d believe that, too. She might as well go for the gold. “Who do you think killed him?” Maggie asked. “His daughter wants to know.”

  “That Dan, he wasn’t the most popular gent in town,” said the old guy. “Maybe some of the ladies liked him. And some of the kids at the high school did.” He glanced over at the boys in the corner, who were now ordering hamburgers and sodas from Rocky, who’d left the bar. “But people like Bob Silva blamed him when Tony died.”

  “Nobody had proof he had anything to do with those drugs,” cautioned the man wearing the faded Pats cap. “No proof. And you know it.”

  “I know it. And I don’t know it. Someone was bringin’ those drugs into town. The kids were buying ’em. And that Silva boy was stupid enough to swallow too many.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if it was Dan selling ’em. Could have been someone else. But I haven’t seen anyone else arrested. Have you?”

  “I think you’ve talked enough for today, old man. Had enough beer, too.”

  “Dan could’ve gone overboard anywhere in Cape Cod Bay, and washed ashore, you know. Pure chance he washed ashore here,” said one of the other men.

  “Pure chance, with a bullet hole in his head?” Maggie pointed out quietly.

  “Could have been a stray shot, you know? Hunting season and all. You never know where a stray shot might end up.”

  Maggie drained the rest of her Sam Adams. “No. You never do. Anyone could mistake a man for, say, a quail or ruffed grouse. But if any of you think of something that might explain what happened to Dan Jeffrey, I’d appreciate—and his daughter would appreciate—if you’d let me know. Or tell Ike Irons. It’s not healthy to have accidents happening in a nice town like Winslow.”

  She put her money on the bar. “You can leave a message for me at the new Aunt Augusta’s Attic on Main Street. Just say the message is for Maggie. I’ll get it.”

  Herring and great black-backed gulls were crying and circling the sky over the tavern. Maggie watched them for a minute, remembering an old mariner’s saying, that gulls were the souls of departed sailors.

  But Dan Jeffrey hadn’t been a sailor.

  Chapter 17

  Boston Lighthouse. Steel engraving, 1843, of lighthouse on rocky island, surrounded by vessels of various sorts, from skiffs to schooners to a steamboat to a small lobster boat with one sail. “Drawn After Nature” by an unidentified artist, and published by Hermann J. Meyer, New York. Paper size: 7.5 x 11 inches. Engraving size: 4.24 x 6.25 inches. Price: $60.

  Maggie added the packages she’d picked up at the post office to the ones already piled in a corner of Gussie’s and Jim’s new living room and walked over to look out the wide windows. “Your view is breathtaking. In the summer the Bay will be filled with sailboats and fishing boats, and you’ll be able to sit in your own living room and watch them. There can’t be many more perfect places than this one.”

  “That view is the reason we bought this place,” said Gussie. “We hesitated because of the price, but then we kept thinking that we’d have that view to look at for the rest of our lives. Two old people looking out at the world together.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “So, when does the unwrapping begin?” Jim asked as he came in the room. “I’ll admit I feel like a kid on his birthday. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  “Now that you’re here, we can start any time,” Gussie answered.

  “I have no idea what our friends will have come up with. Mother keeps telling me about the three silver tea sets she and Dad got for wedding gifts. I keep telling her that when you get married slightly, shall we say, later in life, your needs and interests are a bit different than they are for a couple starting out the way they did, in their early twenties.”

  “Not that we live the sort of life that calls for even one silver tea set,” Gussie added.

  “I’m waiting, notebook and pen at hand, to record the salient facts. Jim, why don’t you get a knife to help open the cartons, and then you and Gussie open the inside boxes together, assuming there is an inside box.”

  “Maggie’s organizing us! She’s stepping up to the maid-of-honor role very well, don’t you think?” said Gussie. “Go ahead, Jim, start with that long heavy box in the corner. I wish Ellen could have been here tonight, but she had to show a client two houses. A client with money gets priority in this housing market.”

  “Maybe Ellen could talk her client into a charming Victorian,” said Jim, thinking of his own house. He picked up the first carton and looked at the return address. “This one is postmarked Maine. Your Maine man, I believe, Ms. Summer. It’s from a Mr. Will Brewer.”

  Maggie smiled. “I suggested going together for your gift, but he had his own idea. I don’t know what it is, but I can guess why it’s heavy.”

  Gussie leaned over toward Jim. “You remember, Will’s a dealer in fireplace and kitchen antiques. Of course, that may have nothing to do with his gift.”

  Jim finished lifting the inside box away from the heavy outside carton. “All set to open the inside box, my love. But it’s heavy, too. Why don’t you read the card while I open?”

  She read, “‘A totally unnecessary gift that will last another two hundred years, although nothing will outlast your love. Will.’ Very sweet. Maggie, have I mentioned he’s a keeper?”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows in mock admonishment, and made a entry in her notebook as Jim lifted out a beautifully burnished, hand-crafted, brass bedwarmer engraved with hearts.

  “Oh, I love it! Very apropos. Bedwarmers—no comments, please, Jim, I mean the non-human kind!—are hard to find nowadays. It’ll look beautiful next to the fireplace in our bedroom.” Gussie reached over and touched it. “Masterful work. Oh, I can’t wait to thank Will in person!”

  “It’s very special,” agreed Jim, taking it over and leaning it against the wall next to their living room fireplace.

  “This is fun! Next, please!”

  Will’s gift had set the tone. Knowing Gussie and Jim loved antiques, most of their friends had found gifts for them that reflected love or marriage.

  A sailor’s valentine, a hanging nineteenth-century shadowbox containing a delicate mosaic design made from small shells in Barbados. A “Home Sweet Home” sampler from 1847 in which the motto was surrounded by small hearts. A small wedding quilt from the 1840s. (“Wherever did she find it?” Gussie, marveled. “What wonderful condition!”) Several people had given them nineteenth-century brass or iron trivets decorated with hearts. (“We can hang them all on one of the walls near the kitchen.”) And one of Gussie’s roommates from Wellesley had sent them a Bride’s Basket.

  “How perfect!” Maggie said. “I wish I’d thought of that.”

  “It’s a beautiful one, too,” said Gussie, admiringly. “So many you see today don’t have both the hand-blown basket and the silver-plated holder. I love the deep pink in the inside with the lighter pink on the outside and the ruffle.”

  Jim didn’t look as thrilled at that gift. “That’s for your dressing table,” he said. “It doesn’t exactly go with our stone fireplace.”

  “Perhaps not. But brides in the 1890s collected them,” Gussie said. “And I’m happy Rachel thought to find one for me. Our frie
nds have come up with wonderful gifts. I love the antiques theme.”

  Not every gift was an antique. An expensive (“Wow! Look at this!” from Jim) bottle of aged cognac was from Police Chief Ike Irons and his wife, Annie, and a hand-woven king-sized blanket came from Jim’s law partner, Andy, and his wife.

  “And what on earth is this?” exclaimed Jim.

  He was unwrapping a delicate blue and red-swirled blown-glass ball, perhaps ten inches in diameter, with a loop at the top.

  “How wonderful!” Gussie said, as Jim read the note.

  “‘This is not an antique, but it does come from Salem. May it keep the bad spirits away from your new home and always keep you safe from things that go bump in the night!’” Jim started to laugh. “From your cousin Sheila. Of course.”

  “Of course. It would be!” said Gussie. “And exactly what we need for our new home!”

  “But what is it?” said Jim, again.

  “It’s a witch ball,” Gussie explained. “A modern one. An old one, even if she could have found one, would have been way over Sheila’s budget. You hang it in a window or doorway of your house. Some people fill it with herbs—Sheila always told me dill was best—and it keeps bad spirits from entering.”

  “Your cousin Sheila. Isn’t she the one hosting your bachelorette party?” Maggie asked.

  “That’s right,” said Gussie. “I haven’t seen her in a while. She’s a bit of a free spirit, but she’s a dear.”

  “She’s the one you said lives in Boston’s North End,” said Maggie, trying to keep everyone straight.

  “That’s right. But she used to live in Salem. Actually,” Gussie winked at Maggie, “Sheila’s a financial adviser now, but that’s her second career. She used to be a practicing witch.”

  Chapter 18

  Mazeppa No. 1, Boston, Massachusetts. Built by Hinckley and Drury, the Mazeppa was the first steam fire engine built at the Boston Locomotive Works in 1858. The model was named the New Era; it was designed by J.M. Stone, and featured a tubular thirty-six-inch boiler, and two hundred and forty-one brass smoke tubes. The double-acting pump and the steam cylinder were placed horizontally on a wooden frame designed to be pulled by horses, or in an emergency, by men. It weighed about 10,000 pounds. This engraving is from a book published in 1886 that chronicled the history of fire engines. Why this engine was labeled the Mazeppa No.1 is a mystery. The only town in the United States named Mazeppa is in Minnesota and it didn’t have a fire department until 1886. Perhaps Stone just liked the name. 4.5 x 7 inches. Price: $35.

  At first Maggie thought the ringing was in her dream. But when it wouldn’t stop she reached out, finally connecting with her cell phone where she’d left it, on the carton next to her bed. “Hello?”

  “Maggie! This is Diana.”

  “Diana?”

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s early.”

  Maggie looked at the time on the phone. Five-ten. “What’s happening?”

  “Someone tried to burn our house down.”

  “Are you all right?” Maggie sat up straight. “What about Cordelia?”

  “We’re both fine. The house is all right.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was asleep. Luckily, Cordelia doesn’t sleep well. She gets up early and works on her dolls. She went downstairs to make coffee and surprised someone. Whoever it was poured some liquid, maybe gasoline, on the back porch, but when Cordelia turned on the overhead light they got scared and ran.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “She has a TDD machine to call for help. She did that and then woke me up. By the time I got downstairs the police and a fire truck were both here.”

  “Did she see who the person was?”

  “No. They wore dark clothes and a hoodie.” Diana paused. “I’m scared, Maggie. Really scared.”

  “What did the police do?”

  “They said they’re going to watch the house. But I’m scared anyway. I think Cordelia is, too. We’re both just sitting here.”

  “Did you tell her you were calling me?”

  “Yes. She nodded. I don’t think she knows what to do. She keeps walking around the house, looking at everything.”

  “Try to stay calm. I’ll talk to Gussie and Jim, and then I’ll come over. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  “Be brave. If anything else happens, call me again. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you, Maggie.”

  Maggie got up and threw on her clothes. This was not exactly the way she and Gussie had planned to start the day, but she couldn’t leave two frightened women alone. At least not without making sure everything possible was being done to make sure they were safe.

  “Gussie?” she said outside Gussie’s door.

  “I’m awake,” Gussie answered. “Come in. I heard the telephone. What’s happening?”

  “Someone tried to set fire to Cordelia’s house. She scared them away, but she and Diana are still nervous. The police and fire department have been there, and the police say they’ll be keeping an eye on the place, but from what Diana said it doesn’t sound as though she and Cordelia are handling it well.”

  “Why would anyone want to hurt one of them?” said Gussie.

  “I don’t know. But we don’t know why anyone wanted to kill ­Diana’s father, either,” said Maggie. “And we don’t know what the police investigation has found, if anything.”

  “Let me guess. You told Diana you’d go over there.”

  “I can talk to Cordelia. And Diana told me a little. Cordelia didn’t want to talk to Jim the other day.”

  “Jim should be involved. He can talk to the police with some authority.”

  “I agree. You call Jim, and see if he can stop by. But give me an hour or so to see what I can find out first.”

  “Maggie, are you sure you want to get this involved?”

  “I already am this involved,” said Maggie. “I want Diana and Cordelia to be safe. Someone dangerous is out there, and I want him stopped. Maybe I can help. Maybe I can’t. But at least I can let those two women know someone cares about them. I haven’t seen this town doing much so far besides sending over cookies.”

  “I’ll call Jim,” said Gussie. “But remember not to let them depend on you too much. That will just make it harder for them when you have to leave.”

  “I know,” said Maggie. “I keep thinking about that.”

  “Don’t forget it. Sometimes it’s better not to get involved than to make promises you can’t keep,” warned Gussie.

  Maggie drove by the bakery and was pleased to see it had opened at 5:30. She was in time to pick up a box of assorted Danish, and not knowing what Diana or Cordelia would want, decided to go for comfort food, and ordered three large hot chocolates with whipped cream. Even she would forego a Diet Pepsi for a hot chocolate on a damp and chilly October morning.

  The sky was dark, and the dew was heavy. Wet orange and yellow leaves were pasted onto the sidewalk and street in the center of downtown and stuck under Maggie’s windshield wipers. Luckily she didn’t have far to drive.

  Before she got out of her van the door of the house opened. Diana’d been waiting for her.

  “Here,” said Maggie, thrusting the box of drinks at Diana, “something to warm you up this dank morning. And I brought other goodies.” She followed the young woman into the house, where Cordelia sat at the kitchen table. They both looked pale and tense.

  “I’m so glad you came,” said Diana. “I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.” She held up the goodies so Cordelia could see them.

  “I brought hot chocolate and…sweet things,” Maggie signed, unsure of how to sign “Danish” except by spelling it. Cordelia smiled at her hesitation.

  “Thank you,” she signed back.

  The three women sat at the kitchen table and opened their cups of chocolate capped generously with whipped cream. Some moments called for chocolate and sugar. This morning seemed to qualify.

  A few minutes later Mag
gie wiped off her fingers and signed, “You have no idea who was on the porch earlier this morning?”

  Cordelia shook her head. “It was too dark to see. I only saw the beam from a flashlight, and turned on the porch light. Then I saw liquid thrown out of the darkness onto the porch. At first I didn’t dare open the door. Then I did, and smelled gasoline, or kerosene, and called the fire department.”

  Diana asked, “Is she sure she couldn’t recognize the person again?”

  Maggie checked. Cordelia was adamant. “I don’t even know if I saw a man or a woman. Or how tall the person was. It was all so fast, and so dark.”

  “Maybe the police will find some clues,” Maggie said. “Maybe the person left footprints. And whoever it was will certainly smell of gasoline or kerosene.”

  “Anyone who works on the water or in a garage could smell of gasoline,” signed Cordelia. “And a shower could take the smell away.”

  “But not off all his or her clothes,” Maggie pointed out. “Not immediately. We can hope.”

  “Why would someone want to burn the house?” asked Diana.

  “That’s what I would like to know,” said Maggie. “Cordelia, can you think of any reason someone would want to destroy this house, or anything in it?”

  The woman shook her head slowly, looking puzzled. “My things are here. Nothing anyone else would be interested in.”

  “What about Diana’s father? Is there anything he left that anyone would want to destroy?”

  Cordelia stopped for a moment, thinking. “His things are in the bedroom he used. I never went in there. There was no reason.”

  “Diana, have you gone through what your father left in his room?”

  Diana looked down. “Yes. When he didn’t come home I wanted to find out why. I tried to find something that would give me a hint of where he’d gone.”

  “Did you find anything someone might want to destroy?”

  Diana shook her head. “Just a few clothes. He must have had his telephone with him. There weren’t any papers. No pictures, and no computer. Nothing.”