The sooner Chief Ike Irons and his detectives found out who’d murdered Diana’s father, the sooner she could be on her way. Whatever she decided to do with her life, she needed to put the past behind her and get on with her future. It probably wasn’t by chance that her father’d been shot and dumped in Cape Cod Bay. But whatever trouble he was in wasn’t Diana’s trouble. It shouldn’t have to make a difference to her future.
Would her daughter or daughters be able to deal with whatever their early lives had dealt them? She’d have to help them begin again. Clean slate. Memories, yes. It would take time. But another chance.
Maggie’s mind was whirling with possibilities as she drove through the quiet streets of Winslow. Then, on her left, she saw the Lazy Lobster, the tavern Jim’d mentioned where Dan Jeffrey had hung out. At four o’clock on a brisk October Monday afternoon three well-used pickups were parked outside, and one salt-rusted Ford sedan. She hesitated, and then turned her New Jersey van in to join those with Massachusetts SPIRIT OF AMERICA or CAPE COD AND ISLANDS license plates.
All five men at the bar inside turned to look at her.
Clearly this was an establishment for locals. Fishermen, by their garb and the décor. The nets on the wall weren’t the colorful sort hung in places looking to attract tourists. These nets were used and grungy, smelling faintly of long-dead fish and the sea, and now the repository of old pinups, photos of fishermen with their catches, newspaper articles, and assorted empty beer cans and beer bottle labels. Sort of a grease-encrusted work in progress, an ode to those who worked the sea, drank beer and whiskey, and ate the burgers and chowder listed in smudged black marker on the mirror in back of the bar. It was a limited menu, but Maggie suspected the cook didn’t get many complaints.
Five teenage boys came in after Maggie. One of them wore a T-shirt that read TOO MEAN TO MARRY. And clearly too young to sit at the bar, at least legally. They sat in a corner booth.
“Can I help you?” asked the tall, bald man behind the bar. He wore a shirt embroidered Rocky and had a dragon tattoo on his neck that led down to places Maggie was grateful were left unseen.
“Beer,” Maggie said, sliding onto one of the bar stools. She glanced over at the taps. “Sam Adams, please.” She almost asked for Oktoberfest, but sensed that wouldn’t be on the menu here.
“You got it,” said Rocky, drawing her a tall draft. “Visiting Winslow?”
“I’m here from New Jersey for Gussie White’s and Jim Dryden’s wedding.”
“So why aren’t you partying it up with them?”
“I heard this was where Dan Jeffrey used to drink.”
There was sudden silence. Maggie had the attention of every man in the place. Maybe she’d been too out-front. Why hadn’t she been more subtle? Oh, well. Too late now.
“You a friend of Dan’s?”
“I know his daughter.”
Two of the men looked at each other and one shrugged slightly. The other one spoke up. “Dan never said he had no daughter.”
“No?”
“He never said much, did he, Earl, when you think about it.”
“Nope. Never did. Never even said where he come from.”
“Told me he come from out West,” said the bartender.
“Hey, Rocky, but Cordelia West, that deaf-and-dumb broad he was staying with, he said she was his cousin, right? And she’s from the Vineyard.”
“That’s what he said,” agreed Rocky, quietly.
“You’d know that, I figured,” Earl put in.
The heavier guy added, “I always wondered about that cousin part. But she didn’t seem his type, you know. So maybe if they were relatives, that would explain his staying there so long.”
“What was his type?” Maggie asked.
The man shifted uneasily. “I didn’t mean nothing by that. I meant, you know, he was a real man, with appetites and such, and Cordelia West, why, she’s a quiet little woman. Real nice lady, I suppose. Wouldn’t you say that, Rocky?”
“So did he have a lady friend?” Maggie sipped her beer.
No one said anything. Then Rocky answered. “Jeffrey didn’t talk much. He was in town a couple of years, and I don’t think you’ll hear from anyone he was exactly a model of piety. He had his women. But he never talked about ’em. Give him that, wouldn’t we, boys? He never named names.”
“That’s the truth,” seconded the old codger at the corner of the bar. “And it wasn’t for us not asking, that’s fer sure, too!”
Guffaws from two of the four gents at the bar and a laugh from the booth in the corner.
“So would you say you were his closest friends while he was here?” Maggie asked.
The bigger guy shrugged.
“Friends? He came in pretty regular. He drank. We drank. Sometimes we talked. We watched the games. He was a Sox fan. What would you say, Rocky?”
Maggie could almost see an invisible curtain sliding down between the men and her end of the bar. If they knew any of Dan’s secrets, they weren’t telling. Men didn’t tell on each other.
Or maybe they didn’t know anything. Somehow she’d believe that, too. She might as well go for the gold. “Who do you think killed him?” Maggie asked. “His daughter wants to know.”
“That Dan, he wasn’t the most popular gent in town,” said the old guy. “Maybe some of the ladies liked him. And some of the kids at the high school did.” He glanced over at the boys in the corner, who were now ordering hamburgers and sodas from Rocky, who’d left the bar. “But people like Bob Silva blamed him when Tony died.”
“Nobody had proof he had anything to do with those drugs,” cautioned the man wearing the faded Pats cap. “No proof. And you know it.”
“I know it. And I don’t know it. Someone was bringin’ those drugs into town. The kids were buying ’em. And that Silva boy was stupid enough to swallow too many.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if it was Dan selling ’em. Could have been someone else. But I haven’t seen anyone else arrested. Have you?”
“I think you’ve talked enough for today, old man. Had enough beer, too.”
“Dan could’ve gone overboard anywhere in Cape Cod Bay, and washed ashore, you know. Pure chance he washed ashore here,” said one of the other men.
“Pure chance, with a bullet hole in his head?” Maggie pointed out quietly.
“Could have been a stray shot, you know? Hunting season and all. You never know where a stray shot might end up.”
Maggie drained the rest of her Sam Adams. “No. You never do. Anyone could mistake a man for, say, a quail or ruffed grouse. But if any of you think of something that might explain what happened to Dan Jeffrey, I’d appreciate—and his daughter would appreciate—if you’d let me know. Or tell Ike Irons. It’s not healthy to have accidents happening in a nice town like Winslow.”
She put her money on the bar. “You can leave a message for me at the new Aunt Augusta’s Attic on Main Street. Just say the message is for Maggie. I’ll get it.”
Herring and great black-backed gulls were crying and circling the sky over the tavern. Maggie watched them for a minute, remembering an old mariner’s saying, that gulls were the souls of departed sailors.
But Dan Jeffrey hadn’t been a sailor.
Chapter 17
Boston Lighthouse. Steel engraving, 1843, of lighthouse on rocky island, surrounded by vessels of various sorts, from skiffs to schooners to a steamboat to a small lobster boat with one sail. “Drawn After Nature” by an unidentified artist, and published by Hermann J. Meyer, New York. Paper size: 7.5 x 11 inches. Engraving size: 4.24 x 6.25 inches. Price: $60.
Maggie added the packages she’d picked up at the post office to the ones already piled in a corner of Gussie’s and Jim’s new living room and walked over to look out the wide windows. “Your view is breathtaking. In the summer the Bay will be filled with sailboats and fishing boats, and you’ll be able to sit in your own living room and watch them. There can’t be many more perfect places than this one.”