“I don’t know, Diana.”
“I want to know why he left me. Why didn’t he think he could trust me enough to tell me about it? And what was he doing here? The first time, I accepted that he’d died in an accident in Colorado. But people don’t kill other people by accident. He must have been in trouble here.”
“That’s the job of the police. Chief Irons and his detectives will find out what happened.”
“I hope so. But Cordelia doesn’t think they’ll be able to find out who did it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She doesn’t talk, but she writes notes to me. After Chief Irons was at the house the first time, to tell us Dad was dead, Cordelia looked sad. But she wasn’t surprised. She wrote, ‘Dangerous friends’ on a piece of paper, and shook her head. So when the chief came back and said Dad had been murdered, it wasn’t really a shock. I think we were both expecting it.”
“But why don’t you think the police will find the killer?”
“Because I said what you did. I wrote that Chief Irons would find whoever killed Dad. And Cordelia wrote, ‘The Cape has many harbors.’ And she’s right. Dad was on the beach. He’d been in the water. Who could tell where he went in the water? There are lots of towns and harbors on the Cape. How can one little police department know what’s happening everywhere?”
“I’m sure Chief Irons has contacts in other departments, and with the state police,” said Maggie. “Although you’re right that your dad could have been on a boat out in Cape Cod Bay, and his body washed ashore. He wasn’t necessarily killed here in Winslow.”
“Maggie? Diana? How’re you ladies doing up there?” Gussie called from downstairs.
“We’ve almost finished two closets.” Maggie answered. “Do you need help downstairs?”
“I was thinking it might be time for a tea or cola break. Sound good to you?”
“Fine with me,” said Maggie.
Diana glanced at her watch. “Oops! I didn’t realize it was this late! I planned to stop and get a bottle of port for Cordelia on my way home. She likes a glass after dinner. We have tons of what she calls ‘funeral food’ at home, but no port. I should get back to be with her.”
“Thank you for helping, Diana. And I know Gussie’s planning to pay you a little for your time.”
“That would be great. But it was fun. Thank you for listening…” Diana hesitated.
“Why don’t we exchange telephone numbers,” said Maggie. “I’m sure we could use your help with other things during the next week, and if you want to get in touch with me for any reason, don’t hesitate to call. Even just to talk.”
The two exchanged cell phones, and entered their numbers.
“We’re officially on each other’s speed dials now,” said Diana. “Thank you, so much. I’ll say good-bye to Gussie downstairs.”
“Tell her to come on upstairs and we’ll have that tea and soda,” said Maggie. “I’m ready for a sit-down, too.”
Chapter 13
Tower Rock, Garden of the Gods.Wood Engraving by Thomas Moran for Volume 2 of Picturesque America, two volumes describing and picturing the scenery of the United States. Published monthly and then in bound volumes in 1872 and 1874, they were the first attempt to picture all of America. The two volumes, edited by poet William Cullen Bryant, contained over nine hundred wood engravings and fifty steel engravings. Their publication increased tourism, encouraged population growth in the West, and contributed to the call for preservation of state and national park lands. The Garden of the Gods, which Picturesque America says is five miles northwest of Colorado Springs, was later given to that city by the children of General William Jackson Perkins. Black and white; L-shaped. 6.25 x 8.50 inches if it were a complete rectangle. Price: $45.
“Sorry to be a party pooper,” said Gussie. “But I need to lie down a while.”
Maggie was immediately on alert. “Is your Post-Polio Syndrome getting worse? What can I do to help?”
“You’re helping by being here,” said Gussie. “And of course it’s getting worse. That’s what it does. Besides: what rational person moves their home and their business and gets married within a two-week period? Anyone would be tired! You must be tired, too; you drove up from Jersey yesterday, and we’ve been on the go since then. I just need a short nap; I’ll be fine.”
“Do you still have Wi-Fi here?” asked Maggie. “If so, I think I’ll have that cola you mentioned and check my email and do some research on-line.”
“My personal computer’s still here so I haven’t discontinued the service yet. Make yourself at home. If I’m not up by six o’clock, wake me,” said Gussie, as she headed for her bedroom.
Maggie took a Diet Pepsi from the supply in the refrigerator and opened her laptop.
Diana either wasn’t telling the whole story about what had happened in Colorado Springs, or she didn’t know it. It didn’t make sense that a loving father would disappear for no reason and not tell his daughter. Or that a man would be declared dead if there were no body, even if there was an accident.
Maggie searched for “Roger Hopkins Colorado” and immediately there were hits.
Everything Diana had said checked out. Roger Hopkins was a loan officer for the Rocky Mountain Savings and Loan in Colorado Springs. Two years ago he was on his way home from visiting homeowners who were behind in their mortgage payments. (Read: telling them they’d be foreclosed on if they didn’t pay up. Nasty job.) His car swerved coming down a steep, icy road and plunged into a ravine, where the gas tank caught fire. Flames could be seen for miles. Fire and police departments were on the scene as soon as they could, but nothing could be done.
Roger Hopkins, widower, had left one daughter, Diana Emily, a sophomore at the University of Colorado.
But that wasn’t all.
Eighteen months before the accident Roger Hopkins had made the Colorado Springs Gazette for another reason. His name was mentioned in a small story with the dateline Cripple Creek.
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.