And now Roger Hopkins, aka Dan Jeffrey, was dead. Again.

Chapter 14

Anatomy: Myology. (The study of muscles.) Two plates, both from 1808 medical book. Black and white detailed line drawings, one showing the back muscles of a male figure, the other the front muscles, with details of muscles of hands, feet, arms, and legs. 8.25 x 11 inches. $60 each.

Maggie had trouble sleeping again that night.

Gussie’d napped until six o’clock, and then they’d raced to meet Jim for a fast dinner, since they all admitted to being weary. Maggie decided not to mention anything she’d found on-line. After all, anyone could find what she had.

The newest wedding-related question was whether a distant cousin of Gussie’s, Sheila from Boston’s North End, was going to host a bachelorette party for Gussie the night before the wedding. She’d volunteered a month before, it seemed, and Gussie had said that would be fine.

But today Lily had received her invitation to the party and promptly called Sheila and told her that the night before the wedding was an inappropriate time for a bachelorette party. The night before the wedding was reserved for the rehearsal dinner. Sheila had, of course, sent emails to Gussie and Jim asking their help straightening out the schedule.

This time Maggie tended to agree with Lily. She wasn’t even sure why there needed to be a bachelorette party for a bride in her late forties. (Or why Lily was invited.) But she kept her mouth closed.

Clearly getting in the middle of a Lily issue was not a wise idea. So she quietly savored her fried clams as Gussie and Jim planned how to explain to Lily that they weren’t planning a rehearsal since the wedding was so small, and that the parties, one for the men and one for the women, were set, and basically, that she should not get involved with scheduling.

Right now, getting Jim and Gussie into their new house seemed a lot more important than what would happen next Friday night. Especially since she knew how tired Gussie was. Maggie kept wishing dinner would be over so she could get Gussie home to rest.

When she’d met Gussie twelve years ago her friend walked with braces and crutches, and Maggie hadn’t known anything about Post-Polio Syndrome, the relentless result of having had polio, as Gussie had, as a child. Gussie’d explained that after years of physical therapy she’d walked without braces or crutches as a young woman, but then had needed to use them again later.

Now doctors knew that forcing muscles weakened by polio would only work temporarily. People unlucky enough to get polio today, as many still did who lived where not everyone had access to vaccine, were told they would have to wear braces for life, and use wheelchairs when they could. They needed to save their muscles, to make them last as long as possible. Gussie had just moved to her electric scooter two years ago. But every time Maggie saw her, it seemed Gussie tired more easily.

Thank goodness she’d now have Jim to help her on a regular basis. Someone who loved her, and knew her strengths and weaknesses. Gussie was a determined and stubborn woman. But her muscles weren’t always going to keep up with her mind.

The more Maggie thought about putting her prints in the back room of Gussie’s store, the better she liked it. That would take pressure off Gussie to get out and buy more merchandise, and would help both of them (she hoped) financially. And although it was a long drive from New Jersey to the Cape (or from Maine to the Cape, she added to herself), it would push her to visit Gussie more often.

Maggie pleaded exhaustion after they finished dinner to make sure Gussie went to bed early. “We were up so late last night, and today was a full day. I want to be sure I can finish the rest of the packing tomorrow so we can get everything out of your old shop and into the new one.”

“You’re not just trying to get me to rest?” Gussie looked at her askance. “You’re sounding like Jim when he wants me to slow down.”

“Me? No! I’m getting old myself,” said Maggie, guilelessly.

“Hah! You’re ten years younger than I am. What Will’s Aunt Nettie would no doubt call a spring chicken. But I’ll take you up on it anyway. I have some thank-you notes to write, and I can take my stationery box to bed with me. After I’m married I’ll have better things to do in bed!”

The conversation might have taken a slightly different turn, but then Maggie’s phone rang.

“It’s Will,” she said.

“You go,” said Gussie. “Give him my love and tell him I’m looking forward to seeing him in a few days.”

“Will do!” said Maggie, turning to her phone. “Hi, friend!”

“So, have you got everyone on the Cape organized and ready to march down whatever aisle is nearby in rank order?” said Will’s ­familiar deep voice.

“Not quite. But I’m working on it. I think Gussie and Jim need more help with moving to their new house and setting up Gussie’s new store then they do with the wedding. One day at a time.”

“I wish I could get away a little earlier, if you need help moving boxes and furniture. But my cousin Tom has agreed to stay with Aunt Nettie for the three days I’ll be down on the Cape, and he can’t stay longer than that.”

“Don’t worry. We have it well in hand. Most of it is packing right now. No one’s asked me to move furniture. I think Jim will find someone else to do that. I hope, anyway.”

“So do I. I’ve had enough of that, moving the few pieces I wanted to keep from Buffalo to Maine.”

Maggie wondered, not for the first time, what it must really feel like for Will. He always talked of the changes he’d made in his life in terms of logistics, not emotions. And the changes he’d made were huge. In the past two months he’d returned to his home in Buffalo, put it up for sale, and given away most of the physical connections to his last twenty years. The few pieces of furniture he wanted to keep, and all the antiques in his fireplace and kitchenware business, he’d trucked to Maine. His books, furniture, and papers were now in a storage unit outside Waymouth; his business inventory was in Aunt Nettie’s attic and barn, which he’d cleaned out. She hadn’t been thrilled at throwing out her “special things” (like canning jars she hadn’t used in twenty years), to make space for his belongings, and neither of them were looking forward to a Maine winter when the barn was too full of cartons for either her car or his RV to fit inside. Will had wanted his inventory nearby so he could continue doing antiques shows easily, and they’d both agreed it would be best if he moved in, “at least for a few months, to see how it works out,” after her troubles in August.

So Will had his hands full. Aunt Nettie was a dear. But she was a ninety-one-year-old dear. Will was already finding he couldn’t take off for a weekend and head for New Jersey, as he used to, or meet Maggie at a show halfway between them. He’d skipped the Rensselaer County show on Columbus Day weekend two weeks ago. Missing shows meant missing income, too.

“So Gussie’s keeping you busy and out of trouble, then?” Will was saying.

Maggie almost told him about finding Dan Jeffrey’s body. And then hearing that Jeffrey had been murdered. And then finding out he wasn’t really Dan Jeffrey. And about Diana. But why bother Will? He’d tell her to let the police handle the situation, that she should focus on Gussie and Jim.

Not a bad idea.

But not what she wanted to do.

And after all, Will wasn’t in Winslow. Yet. What he didn’t know…

“How’s Aunt Nettie?”

“Doing well. She made a terrific apple-cranberry pie today, but then was too tired to get the rest of the dinner, so she talked me into taking her out to dinner at the Waymouth Inn. We had her pie for dessert.”

“I’ll bet you’ll have it for breakfast too. Aunt Nettie’s pies are special. You be careful, though! I don’t want you putting on too much weight! Every time we talk you tell me about her great cooking.”