Shadows on a
Cape Cod Wedding
An Antique Print Mystery
Lea Wait
2013 • Perseverance Press / John Daniel & Company
Palo Alto / McKinleyville, California
This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.
Copyright © 2013 by Lea Wait
All rights reserved
Cover image: Red Dory, © Christopher Seufert Photography, www.CapeCodPhoto.net
Dedicated to my aunt Jane Bennett Smart (1926-2011), one of several people who, together, were my models for Gussie White
and
to my husband, Bob, who believed in my dreams decades before anyone else did, and who hasn’t given up on me yet. It’s impossible to fully return such faith and love with words, so I hope ample supplies of chocolate and Scotch will also be acceptable.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Wreck of the “Atlantic”—Cast Up By the Sea.Wood Engraving by Winslow Homer (1836-1910) from Harper’s Weekly, April 26, 1873. Body of drowned woman, lying in surf on rocky shore, being discovered by fisherman. A ship is sinking in the distance. On April 1, 1873, the transatlantic liner RMS Atlantic, whose route was Liverpool to New York City, ran into rocks off the coast of Nova Scotia and sank. Although residents of nearby fishing villages tried to rescue passengers, 535 people were drowned, including all the women and children on board. The Atlantic was owned and operated by the White Star Line, which later owned the Titanic. Winslow Homer, one of America’s most important artists, was still working as an illustrator for Harper’s Weekly in 1873, and this full-page illustration was his tribute to those who’d perished. 9.125 x 13.75 inches. Price: $250.
The body was bloated and discolored, and mercifully half-covered by the rockweed tangled around the sand-encrusted legs and torso. It sprawled on the sand just within the dark high-tide line, a few feet from where breakers of ebbing waters were slowly returning to Cape Cod Bay. Gulls and crabs hadn’t feasted. Much.
“Welcome to Massachusetts,” Maggie Summer thought, and immediately gave herself a mental slap. Whoever this poor man was, he deserved respect. Someone, somewhere, had loved him. Maybe he had a wife and children waiting for him to return home.
She pulled her challis scarf closer against the chill October sea breezes, glanced at the dunes above the boardwalk, and looked up and down the beach. Empty. Bleak.
Her drive from New Jersey had taken less time than she’d estimated. Ten minutes ago she’d thought a quiet beach walk in salt air would relax her while she waited for Gussie to return home. Winslow’s town beach was only a short block from the house Gussie and Jim were having refurbished, where they’d planned to meet. She’d parked in their driveway and headed for the dunes.
But right now being the only person on the beach, or at least the only living one, wasn’t relieving her stress levels.
Maggie pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.
Police on Cape Cod would be prepared for occasional drownings. But she hated that, on top of everything else that had gone wrong, this unfortunate soul had been washed ashore so close to Gussie’s new home days before the wedding.
Only one thing could be worse, Maggie thought, as she waited for the emergency operator to answer. That would be if Gussie or Jim, her husband-to-be, had known him.
“Dan Jeffrey. His daughter called a couple of days ago and said he hadn’t come home,” Winslow Police Chief Ike Irons pronounced as he looked down at the body. “I didn’t worry much. He’s a grown man, known to hoist a few. I figgered he and his cousin Cordelia’d had a spat, and he’d gone for a long walk. Or was visiting someone in Boston for a day or two.” He shook his head. “Poor fellow. Guess I should’ve paid more attention.”
The chief had shown up at about the same time as the ambulance. “Looks drowned to me, but the law says someone official’s got to tell me that,” he said to the driver, as though the situation needed explaining. “He goes to the state medical examiner’s office in Sandwich.” The EMTs half lifted, half rolled the unfortunate Dan Jeffrey into a body bag, lifted the bag onto a stretcher, and wheeled him up the dune and into the back of the waiting ambulance.
Then Irons returned to Maggie. “You’re the one found him, so I guess I’d better get basic information.” He pulled out the black notebook that’s a part of every crime fighter’s equipment. “Name?”
She already had her driver’s license out. “Margaret—Maggie—Summer, from New Jersey. I’m here visiting Augusta White, for her wedding a week from Saturday.”
“So you’re a friend of Gussie’s, eh?” said Chief Irons, glancing at the license, and then looking her over, from her long wind-blown hair to her L.L. Bean jacket and jeans. He made a point of checking out her naked ring finger, so she did the same to his. The fourth finger of his left hand was clearly taken.
The significant ring Will had given Maggie, the Victorian ring whose small Ruby-Emerald-Garnet-Amethyst-Ruby-and-Diamond spelled out the word “regard,” wasn’t on her left hand, but she flashed it anyway. That ring had been given in serious friendship, but had come to mean more than friendship to both Will and Maggie. She never took it off.
Chief Irons glanced up toward the road above the dunes. “I didn’t think they’d moved in yet. Their fancy house’s still under construction, far as I know.”
“Gussie’s going to meet me there.”
He refocused on the purpose of their conversation. “How’d you happen to find Mr. Jeffrey?”
“I came down to the beach to walk. To stretch my legs after my drive from Jersey.”
“Did you touch the body?”
Maggie recoiled slightly, without meaning to. “No. It was obvious he was dead.”
“Right.”
“I called 911. And went up to the road to wait for someone to come.” She hadn’t exactly wanted to hang around with the body, and clearly the tide was going out. The body wasn’t going anywhere.
Chief Irons snapped his notebook shut. “Okay. That’s about it. If I think of anything else to ask, will you be staying with Gussie, or at one of the B and Bs in town?”