by Lea Wait
Chief Irons and his wife lived on a street of medium-sized homes about a mile east of town. She pulled up in front. A grayed wooden jungle gym was in the side yard, the posts sunk safely in concrete. The street and yard were silent.
Mrs. Irons would probably think she was crazy. Maybe she was. But in case she wasn’t, she wanted to do this for Diana. And Cordelia.
Would the chief of police have already talked to his wife? On the other hand, not all couples shared everything in their lives.
Maggie had a quick flash of guilt about her decision to adopt that she hadn’t yet shared with Will. But that was different. She and Will weren’t married.
She rang the doorbell.
Although she hadn’t consciously pictured Ike Irons’s wife, the woman who answered the door wasn’t what she’d expected. Taller and slimmer than Ike, at about five feet ten inches, Annie Irons was a bleached-blond knockout. And knew it. Her skin-tight designer jeans and low-cut top left little to the imagination, and she was wearing more makeup than Maggie had seen on any four women since she’d been on the Cape.
Interesting at-home attire for nine-thirty on a Friday morning.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Mrs. Irons?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Maggie Summer, a friend of Diana Hopkins. And Cordelia West. Could I talk with you for a few minutes?”
Mrs. Irons hesitated. “I guess so. Come in. Do you mind the kitchen? I was about to stuff a turkey.”
“That’s fine,” said Maggie, following her through an immaculate living room beautifully decorated with antiques, including a pine corner cupboard displaying a half dozen pieces of Fairyland Lustre that immediately caught her eye. Was Chief Irons’s wife a trust-fund baby?
There were no toys in view, but an infant was sleeping in a pine cradle near the kitchen.
The kitchen was in full operation.
The turkey in question was sitting, naked, in a roasting pan, while the stuffing was being assembled. Enticing smells of onions, sausage, mushrooms, and spices came from various pans.
“Make yourself comfortable; sit down over there,” Maggie was directed. “I’m Annie. You said you’re Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’ll excuse me if I keep cooking. I need to get this bird in the oven. With the storm coming, we may lose power, so I have to cook as much as I can that’ll taste good cold. This fellow’s a twenty-six pounder.” She filled a large mixing bowl with the cooked ingredients and then added celery, parsley, an assortment of spices, and breadcrumbs.
“I’m impressed,” Maggie admitted. “You’re very organized.” Is this what you did when you were feeding a family? When she’d been married she and her husband had eaten out, or taken turns cooking small meals.
Annie began adding heated chicken broth to the bowl and mixing everything together. “Last night I baked a couple of pies and a cake, and two loaves of bread. I have a bin full of carrots and celery and broccoli and zucchini—you know, veggies we can eat raw—so we should be set for a few days even if there’s no power.”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m impressed. I’ve never made bread.” Or roasted a bird that size, much less cooked that much food in such a short time.
Annie shrugged, and started stuffing the bread mixture into the turkey. “My husband’s job keeps him away from home at odd hours, and I have two kids under five. They’re at nursery school this morning, so I need to finish this up before they get home. When the rest of the world is crazy it helps me keep sane if I work.” She stuffed the last of the bread mixture into the turkey, skewered the opening, and slid the roasting pan into the oven. “Now. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”
“No, thanks,” said Maggie. “I won’t bother you for long. By the way, I love the way you’ve decorated. I noticed your pumpkin pine corner cupboard in the living room. And a beautiful pine table and mirror, too. You must love antiques.”
“I do. But on a policeman’s salary I can’t afford everything I love.” Annie didn’t slow down. She started cleaning up while she talked.
Maggie nodded.
“I’m a garage and house sale addict,” Annie admitted, “and I taught myself to refinish. I know refinishing old furniture isn’t in style right now. Antiques dealers have a fit when I say I do that. But I’ve found old pieces of furniture covered with six or seven layers of paint. Dealers don’t want those, either. They want the original blue or red.”
“So you buy pieces with good lines and hope you’ll like the wood when you get down to it,” said Maggie.
“Exactly. It’s like discovering a treasure. Or not. If I don’t like what’s under all the paint, then I finish the piece off anyway and sell it at one of the school fairs, or to one of my neighbors, or even to one of the antiques dealers in town. I’ve never had to keep a piece I haven’t liked.”
“You’re amazing! I don’t know how you find the time to do all that and take care of three children, too.”
“Three? I only have two children; I told you—they’re at nursery school in the morning. That’s my time to work on my projects.”
“But what about the baby?”
Annie frowned. “The baby?” Then she threw back her head and laughed. “Oh! You mean the baby in the cradle?”
Maggie suddenly realized what she must have seen. “Don’t tell me. It’s one of Cordelia’s dolls?”
Annie nodded. “Realistic, isn’t it? You’re not the first person who assumed it’s real. I don’t let the kids play with it, but once they took her out in the yard and someone driving past stopped their car because they thought Nicky was dragging his baby sister by the foot!” Annie laughed again. Somehow Maggie didn’t find it very funny. She changed the subject.
“Is the cradle one of your refinishing projects?”
“Absolutely.” Annie looked down at her hands, which were about to scrub several pans. “I don’t have gorgeous manicured nails, but I’ve never met a man who looked at a woman’s fingers first, if you know what I mean!”
“I do, indeed,” Maggie said, finding herself liking Annie, despite the doll in the cradle.
“And I noticed you collect Fairyland Lustre. I don’t suppose you found that at garage sales.”
Annie glanced at her. “You know your antiques, Maggie. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Those pieces are just reproductions. But you came here for a reason.”
“You’re right. I came because I’m concerned about Diana Hopkins.”
“She seems like a sweet girl,” agreed Annie. “I’ve only met her a couple of times. How do you know her?”
“I’ve only known her a short time, too,” Maggie admitted. “I’m a friend of Gussie White’s; I came to Winslow for her wedding.”
“Wait.” Annie stopped scrubbing for a moment and turned around, drying her hands on a dish towel. “You’re the woman from New Jersey who found Dan Jeffrey’s body, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Annie’s smile had vanished. “What do you really want from me?”
“You’ve heard Cordelia was killed, too.”
“My husband’s the chief of police. Of course I heard. It’s very sad. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Did he also tell you Diana’s his major suspect in her death?”
Annie looked back at her. “I’m his wife, not his detective. He didn’t tell me that. No.”
“That’s why I’m here. I don’t believe Diana’s guilty of killing Cordelia. Or of killing her father, which she’s also suspected of doing.”
“No. I don’t think so either.” Annie sat down.
“Diana told me you came to their house a couple of times to pay your respects after her father died.”
“Yes,” Annie said, softly. “I’m sure others did, too. Cordelia’s lived in Winslow many years.”
“She has. But most who came left flowers or food, and didn’t stay. You did. Diana appreciated that.”
Annie hesitated. “I’m glad. I go
t to know her father quite well when he was here.”
Maggie nodded. “That’s what I suspected.” She paused. “Diana also told me she came home once and interrupted you looking for something in her father’s room.”
Annie flushed and stood up. “Shit. I hoped she wouldn’t remember that.”
“When Dan disappeared, you were afraid the police would search his room as part of the investigation, weren’t you?”
“You’re not going to tell my husband, are you?”
“I’m not. But Diana might. In a strange bit of—luck?—your husband didn’t search Dan Jeffrey’s room until after his death. You found what you were looking for, didn’t you?”
“Maggie, you have to believe I had nothing to do with Dan’s death. You can’t let Diana say anything to my husband.”
“I can’t promise she hasn’t already talked to him about it. But help me to help you. What were you looking for?”
“Letters. Letters I’d written to Dan.” Annie turned back toward the sink, and nosily put one pan inside another. Then she turned back to Maggie. “He didn’t have a phone most of the time he was here. And it was romantic. He and I were lovers. Nothing serious, you understand. But if Ike knew it would ruin my marriage. My life. I was afraid he’d find out. So when Dan disappeared I panicked. I went to his house to try to find them.”
“Did you?”
Annie shook her head. “They weren’t there. I hoped Dan had destroyed them. If he hadn’t, then either Cordelia found them, or Diana did.”
Maggie hesitated. “I don’t think it was Diana. She would have said something. And why would Cordelia have kept them?”
“Maybe to try to blackmail Dan.”
“Blackmail Dan?” Maggie looked at Annie. “He didn’t have any money, did he?”
“That was the problem. She was tired of him living there and not paying her enough rent. The odd jobs he had around town—mowing lawns, substitute bartending—none of them paid much. I met him through Cordelia, and then he did some landscaping for us, and then, one thing led to another. He told me Cordelia complained he didn’t contribute enough toward his room and board. She was trying to force him to get a better-paying job.”
“I’ve wondered how she supported herself just making those dolls,” Maggie said, glancing toward the cradle in the living room.
“I don’t know,” said Annie. “Dan said a lot of people underestimated Cordelia. And then Diana arrived, and everything changed. I don’t know why; I only saw Dan once after that.”
Maggie looked at her. “Can you think of anyone else who knew Dan well?”
“He bartended at the Lazy Lobster sometimes. Men there knew him.” Her eyes filled up. “It’s all happened so fast. Diana arriving, and then Dan disappearing, and now Cordelia. I hope Ike’s able to figure it out. I miss Dan. But I can’t let Ike know what I was doing. Please, Maggie. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Maggie. “Thanks for talking with me.” She left Annie scrubbing her kitchen counter, tears smearing the makeup on her cheeks.
On Maggie’s way back to Six Gables she kept thinking about the Fairyland Lustre in Annie’s corner cupboard. She was no expert on china or pottery, but she’d always coveted that particular Wedgwood, probably because it was designed by Art Nouveau artist Daisy Makeig-Jones. Fairyland Lustre was gloriously colored in vibrant golds, blues, reds, and greens, and depicted magic creatures and the forests and fields in which they lived. Few pieces sold for under $4,000 or $5,000, and she’d read in one of the antiques newspapers recently that a large covered vase in the “Demon Tree of the Ghostly Wood” pattern had brought over $36,000 at auction. Not exactly within her budget.
As far as she knew Fairyland Lustre had never been reproduced.
Even if it had, it wouldn’t have the same glow, the same luster, as the original.
Those were original pieces in Annie Irons’ living room. Maggie was certain of that. But for some reason—maybe fear of burglary?—Annie hadn’t wanted to admit it. Well, she was lucky to have a collection like that.
Will was deep into his novel when Maggie got back to Six Gables. “You were right. That didn’t take long,” he said.
“How’s Aunt Nettie?”
“She sends her love,” said Will. “Tom’s taking good care of her, and Rachel stopped in to see her and brought them lobster bisque for tonight’s dinner and a ham in case there’s a power outage. The oil lamps are cleaned, the bathtub is filled. They’re set.”
“That’s right. You have a well, but the water pump is electric.”
“When the power goes, so does the water,” Will confirmed. “I’m thinking we should invest in a small generator. Enough power to keep the furnace and the pump going, and a few kitchen appliances. At Aunt Nettie’s age, if we had an ice storm and lost power for a week, I don’t think she’d cope well.”
“No power for a week in January in Maine? I’m not sure how well I’d cope,” Maggie agreed. “Sounds as though you should call for an estimate or two.”
“Next week,” said Will. “How’d your meeting go?”
“Educational,” said Maggie. “But I didn’t find out anything absolutely critical. I liked Ike’s wife more than I thought I would. Tell you what: why don’t we go and have lunch? If it’s open, there’s a place a lot of the fishermen around here eat. Not exactly gourmet, but it would be a bit of local color.”
“Do I sense another mission in the offing?” Will asked.
“Perhaps,” said Maggie. “But we do have to eat somewhere. Why not try this place? I’ve been there once, but just for a beer.”
“You don’t like beer,” said Will, raising his eyebrows.
“I’m flexible, remember?” said Maggie.
“What’s the name of this fantastic local establishment?”
“The Lazy Lobster.”
“A Mainer does not eat lobster on the Cape,” said Will, tapping her lightly on the head in reprimand.
“They have hamburgers, too,” said Maggie.
“With blue cheese and bacon?”
“It’s possible,” she said, as they headed out. The wind had picked up, and there was spitting rain in the air. But Hurricane Tasha was still 250 miles south of Cape Cod.
They had plenty of time.
Chapter 33
Rip Van Winkle at the Village Tavern. Wood engraving from Harper’s Weekly, September 20, 1873, by Felix Octavious Carr Darley (1822-1888), who usually signed his work F.O.C. Darley. He was the first well-known American illustrator and provided pictures for books by Cooper, Irving, Dickens, Hawthorne, Poe, Stowe, among others, during the first half of the nineteenth century. This engraving is based on one he did earlier for Washington Irving’s Rip Van Winkle. It shows shiftless Rip, beer mug in hand, being routed out by Dame Van Winkle. Other patrons of the tavern include an obese gentleman smoking an extremely long clay pipe, a boy reading a newspaper, and Rip’s dog, Wolf, his tail between his legs, who knows it’s time to head for home. 9 x 11.75 inches. $75.
The Lazy Lobster was not only open, it was full. Of course, Maggie remembered. Fishing boats were not out. Harbormasters had required them to be dry-docked yesterday.
The storm was closing in, and most men in the Lazy Lobster had either finished storm-proofing their homes and those of their neighbors, or were taking a quick break before returning to their tasks.
One flat-screen TV above the bar was tuned to the Weather Channel. The other was focused on NECN, New England Cable News. Both stations alternated weather maps and scenes of crashing surf, trees bent over in the wind, and scrolling words warning that Hurricane Tasha was moving steadily northeast, and had diminished very little in power.
“Table today?” said a pert young woman who hadn’t been visible during Maggie’s previous visit. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore her white LAZY LOBSTER T-shirt proudly, and scooped low enough to hint at barely hidden cleavage.
“We’d prefer the bar, if there’s room,” said Maggi
e.
“You don’t usually like to sit at the bar,” Will said, as they followed their hostess to two stools at the far end.
“I like this one,” said Maggie. “We can see the weather reports better from here,” she added, guilelessly.
“Right,” said Will. “How could I forget your new-found addiction to the Weather Channel?”
“A girl can never hear too much about the weather. Especially when there’s a hurricane in the offing.” Maggie smiled.
“Nice to see you again, Maggie from New Jersey,” said Rocky. “What can I get you today? Another Sam Adams?”
“Sounds good. And the fried Wellfleet oysters,” said Maggie, pointing at the menu behind the bar.
Will ordered a Narragansett and a blue cheeseburger, extra rare, with bacon.
“You just ordered a coronary,” Maggie pointed out.
“Your fried oysters aren’t the healthiest choice in the world,” Will retaliated. “Especially since you added fries to your order when you thought I wasn’t listening. Now, what are we really here for?”
“I’m not sure,” Maggie said, under the noise of the crowd. “But Dan Jeffrey worked here sometimes. And Bob Silva, the guy who owns the hardware store, said the bartender here knows a lot about what happens in town.”
The waitress slid their lunch plates in front of them with a quick “Enjoy!”
“Speedy service, anyway,” said Will.
“Notice anything unusual about this place?” said Maggie.
“You and the waitress are the only females in here?”
“Right. And everyone’s a waterfront sort. No lawyers or bankers, at least by the look of them.”
“I’d say you’re right. Wide age spread, too. I’d guess from about sixteen—too young to be legally drinking and probably should be in school—up to the old guy in the corner. Maybe in his eighties?”