“He’s a good man, Maggie.”
“I know. You don’t have to keep telling me that!” said Maggie, rearranging a set of Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House series so that they were all on one shelf.
“Have you seen him since you were up there in August?”
“We met in New York State one weekend in late September when he was on his way between Buffalo and Maine. That’s the only time.”
Gussie shook her head. “I don’t know how you two have managed a long-distance relationship this long. It’s about eighteen months now, isn’t it?”
“About,” Maggie agreed. “But we’re both busy. We don’t sit around between visits. And we keep in touch. Email, telephone.”
“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.”