by Lea Wait
“It’s not the same,” Gussie declared.
“Anyway. He’ll be here in a few days. And I’m busy here with you.”
“Which I’m grateful for. And although I know I’ve said a few things about your spending time with Cordelia and Diana, I know they’re grateful, too. I know you, Maggie. You get involved with people. Especially when you think you can help. Or when you think there’s danger or injustice involved.”
“You know me too well, Gussie. And I’m afraid about both of those things. There’s nothing that makes sense about this situation. Just a lot of dangling threads. Twenty years ago a man moves to Colorado with his wife and child, leaving his cousin in his house here, more or less as a house-sitter, so far as I can tell. Then he fakes his own death, probably because he’s been threatened as a key witness in a mob-related court case, leaves his only child, and shows up at the old homestead, under an assumed name. Two years go by. No one recognizes him except the cousin, until his daughter shows up, and three days later he’s murdered. A couple of days after that someone pours gasoline on the porch of the house, which looks pretty much like an attempt to burn it down, taking the daughter and cousin with it.”
Gussie looked at her. “Good summary.”
“So? Who would benefit from Dan Jeffrey’s death?”
Gussie was quiet for a moment. “No one directly. He didn’t even exist. Roger Hopkins was already legally dead. I suppose keeping him dead would be easier, legally, for Diana. But not easier emotionally. The house is Cordelia’s, so she loses a tenant, assuming he was paying rent. And he may not have been doing that. So no reason for murder that’s obvious.”
“Anyone else?”
“Bob Silva blamed him for Tony’s death. If he’s still angry, there’s that.”
“Right.”
“I’m assuming there’s no double jeopardy, so there’d be no problems left over from the Colorado murder case.”
“That’s what I figured, too,” Maggie agreed.
“But the gasoline on the porch. Putting Cordelia or Diana in danger. That doesn’t fit. And I’m not convinced it’s Bob Silva. This is the end of October. Tony died in March. He may have blamed Dan last spring, but by now I’d think he’d have calmed a bit. Maybe even had second thoughts.”
“The local newspaper didn’t mention any drug investigations, or arrests, or even other parties with young people. Could everything to do with drugs suddenly have come to a standstill with Tony Silva’s death last spring?”
“I don’t know, Maggie. The police probably kept looking for whoever supplied Tony with those drugs. But you’re right. I haven’t heard anything about that in months.”
“I need to talk with Bob Silva.” Maggie’s look of determination left no room for questioning. “But, don’t worry.” She smiled. “I’ll be nice.” She looked around at the beginning-to-look-like-an-antique-toy-store Aunt Augusta’s Attic. “So. What do you need from the hardware store?”
Chapter 23
Wild Flowers. Bright and decorative hand-colored engraving (1863) of Wood Hawkweed, Chicory, Melancholy Thistle, Corn Bottle, Mountain Cudweed, Coltsfoot, Sea Feverfew, Ragweed, Daisy, and Corn Marigold; by artist, writer, and naturalist Margaret Mary Plues (1828-1901) from her book Rambles in Search of Wild Flowers. Plues was born in Yorkshire, England. Never married, by 1881 she was head of a household in Kennington where she lived with sixteen other women, thirteen of whom were dressmakers. Her occupation was listed as “artist and designer.” 4.5 x 7.5 inches. Price: $55.
Winslow Hardware was designed to provide its local customers with supplies they needed immediately. Its owner understood that if you were building a house, buying a major appliance, or painting your barn you’d probably head over to one of the chain stores near Hyannis.
But if you needed twenty-five pounds of birdseed, washers for your kitchen sink, pellets for your wood stove, a few boards of #2 pine for a bookcase, or shovels, salt, or sand when snow was forecast, Winslow’s Hardware was convenient and fast, and free advice came with your purchase. Maggie noted that postcards were part of their inventory, no doubt for summer visitors who stopped in to buy a new mailbox or flyswatter. She picked out several colorful ones to send to Aunt Nettie.
Candles, batteries, and flashlights were piled on one large table. Preparation for winter, Maggie thought. Will was probably stocking up in Maine, too.
“Need any help?” A tall, well-built man wearing a flannel shirt and an orange hunting vest (hunting and fishing supplies filled one corner of the store) asked. “You’re welcome to take your time, but if you’re looking for anything in particular, let me know.”
“I’m helping Gussie White set up her new store,” said Maggie. “She could use a can of wood filler, and a few picture hangers.”
“How much wood filler?” asked the man. Maggie looked for a nametag, but didn’t spot one. “The medium-sized one,” she guessed, as he held up two cans. “It hardens fast, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Better to come back and get more if you’re not going to use it right away,” he advised. “Next aisle over there’s hardware for hanging pictures. You should find what you’re looking for next to the electrical section.”
Maggie nodded. “You wouldn’t happen to be Bob Silva, would you?”
The man smiled. “At your service. Why do you ask?”
“Gussie said you owned the store, and were very helpful. She said to ask for you if I couldn’t find what I was looking for.”
Flattery never failed. Bob Silva beamed. “Pleased she said that. I try to meet the needs of the people of Winslow. It’s a challenge, you know, to run a small business these days, when you’re competing with all those big-box stores. Customer service is what separates us from those places.” The man was practically preening. “And you are?”
“Maggie Summer. Here for the wedding.”
“This next Saturday, isn’t it? Nice Gussie and Jim are finally tying the knot. They’re good folks.”
Maggie looked past the man toward the front of the store. Hanging from the ceiling were sports uniform shirts printed with WINSLOW HARDWARE and player numbers. She took a chance.
“She also told me you do a lot for the community. You work with young people in town. Your store supports some of the teams?” She pointed at the shirts.
“We do. It’s a community thing. I sponsor a Little League team, and a bowling team. And I donate money for uniforms for one of the kids’ baseball teams.” His smile was fading. “Done it for years. Builds good will.”
“I’m sorry. She also told me your son died recently. I’ve reminded you, haven’t I? How stupid of me. He played baseball, didn’t he?”
Silva nodded. “He wasn’t a great player, but he was getting better. He was working at it. A lot of kids need time to mature, you know.”
“It must be hard for you.”
“It’s been a rotten year,” Silva acknowledged. “No one who hasn’t lost a kid can know what it’s like. Do you have children, Ms. Summer?”
“Not yet.”
“They’ll tear your heart out,” said Silva. “They’ll fill your heart and make it feel as big as the moon, then they’ll break it into little pieces. But my Tony, he was a good boy. Never got in any trouble. Worked hard. No genius at the books, you understand, but got pretty decent grades. And was getting better at sports. He had asthma so it was harder for him than it was for some of the other boys. He had to train a little more. Boys, they mature at different times.”
“You sound as though you know a lot about sports, Mr. Silva.”
“I was pretty good myself, when I was younger. Made all-state as a first baseman. Even got the attention of some scouts. Thought I might even make it to the majors. Then I busted my leg in a stupid car crash. My left leg was never the same. None of the teams were interested in me after that.”
“You must have been very disappointed.”
“Oh, yeah. Still think about what might have been. But that was a long time ago. I’d hoped
Tony would’ve had the chance I never had. But someone gave him a few little pills, and—bang! His life is over. And no one’s on the hook for it, neither. Burns me up, I can tell you!”
Bob Silva’s face was getting redder.
“They never found out how he got the drugs?”
“The police wimped out, if you ask me. I gave ’em my ideas, and the boys on Tony’s team told ’em what they knew. Police never followed up. No one was ever arrested. Ike Irons said he was doin’ what he could. He knew Tony; even trusted him to baby-sit his own kids, for Christ’s sake! And even with that, no one did one day of time for my boy’s death. Not one day.”
“Tony baby-sat for Chief Irons?”
“A couple of times. That same spring. He and his wife, Annie, like to go out for a nice dinner. They’d put their kids to bed and Tony’d go over and do his homework at their place, so there’d be someone in the house, you know? In case one of the kids woke up. We only lived a couple of houses away. Ike would never have asked him to sit if he hadn’t trusted Tony; if he hadn’t thought he was a good kid, would he?”
“I wouldn’t think so. So you never had any proof of where Tony got the drugs?”
“Not exactly proof. But I had a feeling. A gut thing, you know? There was this guy in town used to hang around when the kids were playing baseball. No one knew him too well. Everyone else was just regular. The same folks been here for years. It couldn’t be any of them. So I figured, it was this new guy. What was he in Winslow for, anyway? He didn’t seem to have, you know, a purpose to be here.”
“So did you talk to him?”
“Oh, yeah. I talked to him. ’Course, he said he had nothing to do with it. Said he had a kid of his own. He wouldn’t hurt any kid.” Bob shook his head. “I didn’t believe him. I’d had a few drinks. I popped him a couple. I probably shouldn’t of. But I’ve been so damn frustrated about this! Wouldn’t you be?” Bob Silva’s eyes glazed over with tears. “I heard the guy’s dead now, so I’ll never know if it was him. What if one day your kid came home and just swallowed a handful of heavy-duty pills. Wouldn’t you want to know where they came from?”
Maggie reached out and touched his arm. “Yes. I’d want to know, too. Thank you for telling me. I’ll get those picture hangers now.” She went to the next aisle, leaving Bob Silva a little privacy, and his memories.
Maggie wasn’t convinced. Had Bob Silva killed Dan Jeffrey? Jeffrey’s death left Silva with too many unanswered questions.
After dinner that night Gussie smiled and announced, “You’ll never guess. I’ve decided to do something for the wedding that Lily suggested.”
Jim actually put down the snifter of brandy he’d been savoring. “Did she call again? I thought we had everything worked out about the guests.”
“No, this is something else entirely.” Gussie looked at them both. “I’ve been thinking. I know this is Lily’s first wedding as a mother of the groom. I’ll admit, she’s reminded me of it often enough. But maybe I’ve been underestimating how important that was. So, I’ve decided to wear the family veil Lily sent. It is beautiful.”
“Gussie, are you sure?” Jim asked. “I want you to do what’s right for you. Not just something for my mother.”
She put up her hand to stop him. “I want to. I’ll have to fold it, because I don’t want it to get caught in the wheels of the scooter. We sent the dress back, but I kept the veil to give to Lily myself so it wouldn’t be damaged. Last night I tried it on. And I think it’ll work. I can pin it to the top of my hair so it’ll be secure. And the soft cream of the old lace will look lovely with my yellow dress. So the veil will be my ‘something old,’ from your family, and the dress will be ‘something new.’” She turned to Maggie. “Do you have something I could borrow?”
Maggie smiled. “You’re ahead of me! I was going to give it to you, but if you need it to be borrowed…” She reached into her canvas tote and pulled out a small crimson silk bag and handed it to Gussie.
Jim leaned over. “What is it? I thought I was in charge of jewelry for the big day.”
“It’s not jewelry,” said Maggie.
Gussie opened the bag and emptied it onto the table. “Oh, I don’t believe it! You’re wonderful, Maggie. And I do want it to be borrowed. Because then you can have it back to use at your wedding someday, too!”
“Okay, ladies. Explain what’s so special about that coin,” said Jim.
Gussie handed it to him. “The full saying is ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence for your shoe.’ It’s a sixpence, Jim. They aren’t minted any longer, so in a lot of ways they’re antiques. Brides put them in their shoes during the wedding ceremony for good luck.”
He looked over the coin and handed it back to Gussie. “That’s a new one to me. Won’t it be uncomfortable?”
“Usually the bride takes it out of her shoe after the ceremony,” Maggie explained. “I thought it would be fun.”
“Absolutely,” said Gussie. “I’ll ask Ellen to bring a pin for the veil, and that will be borrowed. And I guess I’ll just have to wear blue panties.”
Maggie burst out laughing. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tell the groom details like that.”
“What details? I didn’t hear a thing,” Jim said, covering his ears dramatically and grinning.
“What are you wearing, Jim?” Maggie asked.
“An elegant dark gray suit, with a white shirt. And it just so happens I have such garments in my wardrobe.”
“And,” said Gussie, “here’s the latest wedding party bulletin. Jim, your mother has found a flower girl. Little Steffie is five, and as it turns out, is the niece of a distant cousin of mine who lives in Connecticut. Lily’s talking to Steffie’s mother about her dress. Prepare yourselves for flounces galore in a mini size. And that’s fine. Actually, I think it’ll be fun.”
“Does Lily realize the ceremony’s not going to be color-coordinated?” asked Maggie.
“She’s figured that out. She’s a bit shocked, but she’s coping. After all, what can you expect from a Yankee wedding?” grinned Gussie.
“True,” agreed Maggie. “The country lost all couth when we won The War.”
Jim almost choked.
“What flowers are you going to carry?” asked Maggie innocently, anxious to change the subject.
“I wanted to take a page, literally, from the Victorians,” said Gussie. “Years ago I found a mid-nineteenth-century book called The Language and Poetry of Flowers. I never wanted to sell it. I always knew that flowers, and many trees and fruits, had special meanings then. But it’s such fun to look up all the obscure meanings. Did you know the cypress tree meant death and eternal sorrow, for example? Or that the dandelion was an oracle? Or that if someone sent you a daffodil it meant ‘deceitful hope’?”
“Well, I’m glad no one has ever sent me a cypress tree!” said Maggie. “And I still love daffodils, although some years they do deceive us about the coming of spring. But what did you decide on for your bouquet?”
“It wasn’t as easy as I thought. ‘Love Returned’? That’s the ‘ambrosia flower.’ Ever hear of it? Well, we now call it ragweed. Not exactly something you can order at the florist. Or would want in your bridal bouquet. And ‘matrimony’ is the American linden tree. Again, not exactly right for a bouquet. ‘True love’ is the Forget-me-not, but those flowers are so fragile they couldn’t really be part of a bouquet either.”
“Now you really have me curious. What did you come up with?”
“I found a few possibilities, and then I went to Abigail at Floral Fantasies and explained the situation. She loved the whole idea, and is searching nurseries and florists to see what she can find. She’s not even going to tell me ahead of time. She considers my bouquet a creative quest. The flowers or plants I suggested were ferns, for sincerity; rue, for reason; everlasting peas, for lasting pleasure; ivy, for fidelity; pinks, for elegance; and chamomile flowers, which look like daisies, for energy in
adversity.”
“Oh, what fun! So you don’t know exactly what your bouquet will look like—or even what colors it will be!” said Maggie. “And by the way, I think I’ll lay in a supply of chamomile. I like that ‘energy in adversity’ idea. And here I always thought chamomile was supposed to relax you.”
“I did, too. But I guess not in Victorian times. And no, I won’t know exactly what my bouquet will look like until I see it. Abigail has a friend who does calligraphy; she’s going to have her friend write down everything that’s in the bouquet so I’ll have it as a souvenir. Whatever she finds, I’ll have a bouquet of good wishes from the past for the future.”
Maggie’s phone hummed. “Excuse me a minute.” She glanced down. “It’s a text, from Will,” she said. “He wonders whether the storm has made any difference in your plans. Have either of you heard anything about a storm?”
Chapter 24
Professor John David O’Flynn. “Professor John David O’Flynn / Oft played on his dear violin. / Then the people would say: / ‘There’s a cyclone to-day!’ / And to cellars would promptly go in!”Amusing illustration of a wigged gentleman wildly playing his violin; his stool and his music stand are both falling, and his coat-tails are flying. French artist Edmund Dulac (1882-1953) dropped out of law school and studied at the École des Beaux-Arts. In 1904 he left for London, where he and Arthur Rackham became the most popular illustrators of “gift books” of their time, their paintings of wild and wonderful subjects reproduced in the new color separation process and then “tipped in” to illustrate books. This amusing illustration is dated 1906, just before Dulac got his first major contract. Bordered in black. 6 x 8 inches. Price: $60.
“A couple of days ago Mother mentioned something about a hurricane off the coast of Florida that she hoped wouldn’t interfere with her flight to Boston Friday morning,” said Jim. “I didn’t think much about it.”
None of them had been listening to weather forecasts. “Our cable’s disconnected at the old house, and not connected yet at the new one,” said Gussie. “But that doesn’t sound like anything serious. A hurricane off Florida in late October? This is Cape Cod. Not to worry. Jim, Maggie and I moved everything in the store to the new location, and have even started unpacking and setting up. What do you think, Maggie? Another two full days,” she looked at Maggie meaningfully, “and we’ll have enough arranged, and maybe the windows done, and I’ll be able to put up the sign saying I’ll be open next week.”