There were no toys in view, but an infant was sleeping in a pine cradle near the kitchen.
The kitchen was in full operation.
The turkey in question was sitting, naked, in a roasting pan, while the stuffing was being assembled. Enticing smells of onions, sausage, mushrooms, and spices came from various pans.
“Make yourself comfortable; sit down over there,” Maggie was directed. “I’m Annie. You said you’re Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’ll excuse me if I keep cooking. I need to get this bird in the oven. With the storm coming, we may lose power, so I have to cook as much as I can that’ll taste good cold. This fellow’s a twenty-six pounder.” She filled a large mixing bowl with the cooked ingredients and then added celery, parsley, an assortment of spices, and breadcrumbs.
“I’m impressed,” Maggie admitted. “You’re very organized.” Is this what you did when you were feeding a family? When she’d been married she and her husband had eaten out, or taken turns cooking small meals.
Annie began adding heated chicken broth to the bowl and mixing everything together. “Last night I baked a couple of pies and a cake, and two loaves of bread. I have a bin full of carrots and celery and broccoli and zucchini—you know, veggies we can eat raw—so we should be set for a few days even if there’s no power.”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m impressed. I’ve never made bread.” Or roasted a bird that size, much less cooked that much food in such a short time.
Annie shrugged, and started stuffing the bread mixture into the turkey. “My husband’s job keeps him away from home at odd hours, and I have two kids under five. They’re at nursery school this morning, so I need to finish this up before they get home. When the rest of the world is crazy it helps me keep sane if I work.” She stuffed the last of the bread mixture into the turkey, skewered the opening, and slid the roasting pan into the oven. “Now. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”
“No, thanks,” said Maggie. “I won’t bother you for long. By the way, I love the way you’ve decorated. I noticed your pumpkin pine corner cupboard in the living room. And a beautiful pine table and mirror, too. You must love antiques.”
“I do. But on a policeman’s salary I can’t afford everything I love.” Annie didn’t slow down. She started cleaning up while she talked.
Maggie nodded.
“I’m a garage and house sale addict,” Annie admitted, “and I taught myself to refinish. I know refinishing old furniture isn’t in style right now. Antiques dealers have a fit when I say I do that. But I’ve found old pieces of furniture covered with six or seven layers of paint. Dealers don’t want those, either. They want the original blue or red.”
“So you buy pieces with good lines and hope you’ll like the wood when you get down to it,” said Maggie.
“Exactly. It’s like discovering a treasure. Or not. If I don’t like what’s under all the paint, then I finish the piece off anyway and sell it at one of the school fairs, or to one of my neighbors, or even to one of the antiques dealers in town. I’ve never had to keep a piece I haven’t liked.”
“You’re amazing! I don’t know how you find the time to do all that and take care of three children, too.”
“Three? I only have two children; I told you—they’re at nursery school in the morning. That’s my time to work on my projects.”
“But what about the baby?”
Annie frowned. “The baby?” Then she threw back her head and laughed. “Oh! You mean the baby in the cradle?”
Maggie suddenly realized what she must have seen. “Don’t tell me. It’s one of Cordelia’s dolls?”
Annie nodded. “Realistic, isn’t it? You’re not the first person who assumed it’s real. I don’t let the kids play with it, but once they took her out in the yard and someone driving past stopped their car because they thought Nicky was dragging his baby sister by the foot!” Annie laughed again. Somehow Maggie didn’t find it very funny. She changed the subject.
“Is the cradle one of your refinishing projects?”
“Absolutely.” Annie looked down at her hands, which were about to scrub several pans. “I don’t have gorgeous manicured nails, but I’ve never met a man who looked at a woman’s fingers first, if you know what I mean!”
“I do, indeed,” Maggie said, finding herself liking Annie, despite the doll in the cradle.
“And I noticed you collect Fairyland Lustre. I don’t suppose you found that at garage sales.”
Annie glanced at her. “You know your antiques, Maggie. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Those pieces are just reproductions. But you came here for a reason.”
“You’re right. I came because I’m concerned about Diana Hopkins.”
“She seems like a sweet girl,” agreed Annie. “I’ve only met her a couple of times. How do you know her?”
“I’ve only known her a short time, too,” Maggie admitted. “I’m a friend of Gussie White’s; I came to Winslow for her wedding.”
“Wait.” Annie stopped scrubbing for a moment and turned around, drying her hands on a dish towel. “You’re the woman from New Jersey who found Dan Jeffrey’s body, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Annie’s smile had vanished. “What do you really want from me?”
“You’ve heard Cordelia was killed, too.”
“My husband’s the chief of police. Of course I heard. It’s very sad. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Did he also tell you Diana’s his major suspect in her death?”
Annie looked back at her. “I’m his wife, not his detective. He didn’t tell me that. No.”
“That’s why I’m here. I don’t believe Diana’s guilty of killing Cordelia. Or of killing her father, which she’s also suspected of doing.”
“No. I don’t think so either.” Annie sat down.
“Diana told me you came to their house a couple of times to pay your respects after her father died.”
“Yes,” Annie said, softly. “I’m sure others did, too. Cordelia’s lived in Winslow many years.”
“She has. But most who came left flowers or food, and didn’t stay. You did. Diana appreciated that.”
Annie hesitated. “I’m glad. I got to know her father quite well when he was here.”
Maggie nodded. “That’s what I suspected.” She paused. “Diana also told me she came home once and interrupted you looking for something in her father’s room.”
Annie flushed and stood up. “Shit. I hoped she wouldn’t remember that.”
“When Dan disappeared, you were afraid the police would search his room as part of the investigation, weren’t you?”
“You’re not going to tell my husband, are you?”
“I’m not. But Diana might. In a strange bit of—luck?—your husband didn’t search Dan Jeffrey’s room until after his death. You found what you were looking for, didn’t you?”
“Maggie, you have to believe I had nothing to do with Dan’s death. You can’t let Diana say anything to my husband.”
“I can’t promise she hasn’t already talked to him about it. But help me to help you. What were you looking for?”
“Letters. Letters I’d written to Dan.” Annie turned back toward the sink, and nosily put one pan inside another. Then she turned back to Maggie. “He didn’t have a phone most of the time he was here. And it was romantic. He and I were lovers. Nothing serious, you understand. But if Ike knew it would ruin my marriage. My life. I was afraid he’d find out. So when Dan disappeared I panicked. I went to his house to try to find them.”
“Did you?”
Annie shook her head. “They weren’t there. I hoped Dan had destroyed them. If he hadn’t, then either Cordelia found them, or Diana did.”
Maggie hesitated. “I don’t think it was Diana. She would have said something. And why would Cordelia have kept them?”