Maggie signed that suggestion to Cordelia, who nodded, and signed back, “Yes, please. For Diana.”

Diana nodded. “I guess so. I don’t know what’s important and what’s not. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I don’t know what my dad was doing here.”

“Exactly,” said Maggie, as Gussie called Jim on her cell phone. “It would be good if you talked with a lawyer. For your own protection.”

“Like on television programs, right?” said Diana, brightening a little. “Lawyers aren’t only for guilty people; lawyers help protect people who’re innocent, too.”

“That’s right,” said Maggie, as Gussie talked quietly on her phone.

“Thank you.” Diana sniffled again, and blew her noise noisily on the Kleenex. “I really want to find out why my father ran away from Colorado and came here, and why he was using another name. He let me, and everyone he knew in Colorado, think he was dead. It was awful.”

“What about your mother?” asked Maggie.

“She died when I was ten,” said Diana. “Breast cancer. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I had to cope with everything. I’d begun to feel I had it under control: the legal mess, the paperwork, the ­finances: everything. And then this week it all started again.” She was trying very hard not to start crying again.

“Jim’s on his way over,” said Gussie. “He’d be happy to represent you, Diana. And, I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”

“Diana Hopkins. My dad was Roger Hopkins,” Diana said. “And, thank you.”

Maggie looked over at Cordelia, who’d been watching them all closely. “Jim Dryden, Gussie’s fiancé, is going to come here to talk with Diana,” she signed. “He’s a good lawyer. He should be able to help. Would you like to talk with him, too?”

To her surprise, Cordelia stood up and signed, “No thank you.” She walked toward the stairs to the second floor. As she reached the lower stairs she turned around. “Your friend can talk with Diana, but not me. Go. Leave. I need to be by myself. I don’t need a lawyer.”

Chapter 9

“Allow Me To Examine The Young Lady.”Winslow Homer wood engraving, an illustration for a story in Harper’s Weekly, February 18, 1860. A young woman, appearing distressed, is being addressed by a man (perhaps a judge?) standing on a platform. In back of him other men at a desk are checking large books and taking notes. At the time this was published, twenty-four-year-old Winslow Homer was living in New York City and supporting himself by providing illustrations to Harper’s Weekly and other newspapers. Occasionally he illustrated fiction as well as news stories. Homer did not sell his paintings until the mid-1870s. 4.5 x 4.5 inches. Some foxing. Price: $70.

Maggie looked at Diana and Gussie. “If Cordelia wants some quiet time by herself, that’s understandable. Gussie, how long will it take for Jim to get here?”

“He should be here any time,” she answered. “Diana, why don’t you get your purse, or anything else you need, and meet us outside. We’ll wait there for him.”

Diana nodded, and ran up the stairs after Cordelia.

“We seem to have found another issue to deal with,” Gussie said quietly, as she and Maggie headed out the front door. “She seems very young, and lost somewhere between grief and anger.”

“And very alone. It’s strange her father lived here for two years, and then was killed a few days after she arrived. He may have told her not to tell anyone who he was, but she told us right away. Who else might she have told? And why was he here in the first place? I can’t imagine why he’d leave a daughter her age and let her believe he was dead.” How could anyone desert their child? Under any circumstances.

“We don’t know anything about their life in Colorado. Maybe she knows something that puts her in danger, too,” said Gussie. “That’s why Jim should be involved. He’ll know how to handle this from a legal perspective.”

Diana joined them, a small backpack slung over her right shoulder. A couple of minutes later Jim’s car pulled up. Maggie went over to him and gestured to Diana to join her. “Jim, this is Diana Hopkins, Dan Jeffrey’s daughter. She’ll tell you the details. Could you take her to your office to talk, and then bring her home here?”

“Sure. No problem.” He held out his hand, “Nice to meet you, Diana. I’m Jim Dryden. Sorry about your dad. I’ll do what I can to help, and make it as easy as I can for you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dryden. I’d appreciate that.”

“And I’ll see you two ladies for lunch in about an hour and a half, right?” said Jim.

“Right! I’m looking forward to checking out the Winslow Inn in person after that delicious dinner you had them make for us last night,” Maggie said.

“And we’re looking forward to showing off the reception site to the maid of honor. And, Gussie? Not to worry. I made sure the dresses were FedExed back to Georgia this morning, first thing.”

“Maid of honor?” said Diana. She looked from Gussie to Jim. “You’re getting married soon?”

“One week from tomorrow, unless there’s an earthquake or volcano,” said Jim. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How wonderful!” said Diana. Her tone of voice showed she’d put aside her grief for a moment and was in full young-woman-in-love-with-weddings mode. “If I can do anything to help, anything at all, please ask me! Doing something for a wedding would keep my mind away from everything else that’s happening.”

“I’ll see if we can think of anything,” said Gussie. “There are always last-minute details that need taking care of.”

“Please, do. Don’t forget.” said Diana, as she got into Jim’s car. “I really would love to help!”

As the car drove off, Gussie grinned. “Sounds as though the best way to get that young woman to stop crying is to hand her a centerpiece to arrange or a bunch of ribbons to tie. Let’s hope Jim decides she’s fine, legally. We could use an extra pair of hands for a few days, and I suspect Cordelia would appreciate our keeping her busy.”

“You’re right. There may not even be a funeral until Chief Irons decides what direction to go with his investigation.”

Gussie shook her head. “Even writing her father’s obituary will have its challenges, since he had two names. I wonder whether he might even have a third name floating around somewhere.”

“In the meantime, where to?”said Maggie, settling herself in Gussie’s van.

“Post office. With us between residences, so to speak, they’re holding our mail there. Jim’s been picking it up, since it takes him less time, but if you don’t mind hauling?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m here to be of service.”

“That’s what I counted on. I knew Jim would be tied up at his office this week, so I told him we’d do the mail runs. Especially since he agreed to take care of the dresses. He’s warned Peggy at the post office you’d be coming in.”

“They’ll let me pick up your mail?”

“When we’ve already signed that you can do it. And when you come in with my post office box key to prove it’s you,” said Gussie, pulling in to the parking lot. “Plus, Peggy’s a dear. I wouldn’t even bother with the mail except for the wedding RSVPs and the gifts coming in. I don’t want us to get too far behind on them.” She handed Maggie a key. “My post office box is number 457. Just go in and open the box and get the mail. If there’s a yellow package slip inside, give it to Peggy at the window and tell her you’re Gussie’s friend, come to get her mail, and that I’m in the parking lot.”

Maggie saluted. “Got it!” She was back three minutes later with a handful of envelopes and two packages. “Two packages. Peggy says they look like wedding gifts. I could tell she was dying to know what was inside.”

“I’ll tell her next time I see her. Now,” Gussie said, pulling out, “let’s stop at the church; I want to check in with Reverend Palmer, and then we’ll go straight to the restaurant. It’s only two blocks from the church.”

“The advantages to being in a small town,” said Maggie, as they headed toward the center of town.