“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.”

“That view is the reason we bought this place,” said Gussie. “We hesitated because of the price, but then we kept thinking that we’d have that view to look at for the rest of our lives. Two old people looking out at the world together.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“So, when does the unwrapping begin?” Jim asked as he came in the room. “I’ll admit I feel like a kid on his birthday. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

“Now that you’re here, we can start any time,” Gussie answered.

“I have no idea what our friends will have come up with. Mother keeps telling me about the three silver tea sets she and Dad got for wedding gifts. I keep telling her that when you get married slightly, shall we say, later in life, your needs and interests are a bit different than they are for a couple starting out the way they did, in their early twenties.”

“Not that we live the sort of life that calls for even one silver tea set,” Gussie added.

“I’m waiting, notebook and pen at hand, to record the salient facts. Jim, why don’t you get a knife to help open the cartons, and then you and Gussie open the inside boxes together, assuming there is an inside box.”

“Maggie’s organizing us! She’s stepping up to the maid-of-honor role very well, don’t you think?” said Gussie. “Go ahead, Jim, start with that long heavy box in the corner. I wish Ellen could have been here tonight, but she had to show a client two houses. A client with money gets priority in this housing market.”

“Maybe Ellen could talk her client into a charming Victorian,” said Jim, thinking of his own house. He picked up the first carton and looked at the return address. “This one is postmarked Maine. Your Maine man, I believe, Ms. Summer. It’s from a Mr. Will Brewer.”

Maggie smiled. “I suggested going together for your gift, but he had his own idea. I don’t know what it is, but I can guess why it’s heavy.”

Gussie leaned over toward Jim. “You remember, Will’s a dealer in fireplace and kitchen antiques. Of course, that may have nothing to do with his gift.”