“Shush!” she said, elbowing him and blushing in spite of herself. “It’s already Friday, and we have to head for our respective homes Sunday. I don’t feel comfortable leaving…” she glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen door “…the situation the way it is. I’d like something resolved before we leave. I don’t want to drive off and leave Gussie and Jim newly married with…the situation…on their hands.”

“Maggie, it’s not your issue. They’re grown-ups. They live here. Jim’s a lawyer. It’s his job to handle…” Will lowered his voice and whispered dramatically in her ear “…situations.”

“Oh, shush. You know what I mean.”

“Drink your juice and finish your pancakes. Call Gussie and see what she has in mind for us to do. We’re here for Gussie and Jim, remember? Their wedding? Tomorrow?”

“I do, Will,” said Maggie, wickedly. “I certainly do.”

But as it turned out, Gussie had no immediate plans other than to “get a little more rest.” Diana was happily engaged in making medium-sized white bows for the church pews, and as Maggie’d guessed, Jim had left early to drive to Providence. Lily’s plane had touched down at one o’clock that morning.

“You and Will take some time for yourselves,” Gussie said. “Relax. Tonight and tomorrow are totally booked. You haven’t seen each other in a while. Enjoy!”

“We’re on our own?” said Will after Maggie got off the phone.

“We are,” Maggie replied. “But you won’t mind if I steal a smidgen of time to drop in on the wife of the chief of police, will you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I won’t take long. Promise.” Maggie dug in her bag. “I looked up the address at Gussie’s last night. It isn’t far. And she might not even be home.”

“I know there’ll be no peace if I don’t agree. Normally I’d check out the antiques shops in town, but I suspect nothing will be open hours before a major storm is expected to hit.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Maggie kissed him. “The rest of the day is yours.”

“Promise?”

“Until the parties tonight, or until Gussie needs something, anyway,” she modified.

“Go ahead. I’ll call Maine and see how Aunt Nettie is. And I did bring a book,” Will admitted. “The new Paul Doiron mystery. Just in case. I’m discovering Maine’s home to some terrific mystery writers.”

“Love you!” Maggie blew him a kiss and headed for the door.

The storm might be several hundred miles away, but the sky was already darkening, and there was a freshening to the air. Occasional gusts sent the red, yellow, and orange leaves already on the ground whirling through the streets and up over rooftops, almost in warning of what was to come.

Most businesses in town were already closed; those still open had signs posted in their windows declaring NO BOTTLED WATER or WE HAVE CANNED FOOD. Maggie glanced at her fuel gauge when she saw a NO GASOLINE sign at one station and a long line of cars waiting at another. She had half a tank left. That would get her to Connecticut on Sunday, assuming the roads were open and not bumper-to-bumper. Would there be a shortage there, too? She hoped Will had enough gas to get off the Cape when he headed north.

Chief Irons and his wife lived on a street of medium-sized homes about a mile east of town. She pulled up in front. A grayed wooden jungle gym was in the side yard, the posts sunk safely in concrete. The street and yard were silent.

Mrs. Irons would probably think she was crazy. Maybe she was. But in case she wasn’t, she wanted to do this for Diana. And Cordelia.

Would the chief of police have already talked to his wife? On the other hand, not all couples shared everything in their lives.

Maggie had a quick flash of guilt about her decision to adopt that she hadn’t yet shared with Will. But that was different. She and Will weren’t married.

She rang the doorbell.

Although she hadn’t consciously pictured Ike Irons’s wife, the woman who answered the door wasn’t what she’d expected. Taller and slimmer than Ike, at about five feet ten inches, Annie Irons was a bleached-blond knockout. And knew it. Her skin-tight designer jeans and low-cut top left little to the imagination, and she was wearing more makeup than Maggie had seen on any four women since she’d been on the Cape.

Interesting at-home attire for nine-thirty on a Friday morning.

“Yes? May I help you?”

“Mrs. Irons?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Maggie Summer, a friend of Diana Hopkins. And Cordelia West. Could I talk with you for a few minutes?”

Mrs. Irons hesitated. “I guess so. Come in. Do you mind the kitchen? I was about to stuff a turkey.”

“That’s fine,” said Maggie, following her through an immaculate living room beautifully decorated with antiques, including a pine corner cupboard displaying a half dozen pieces of Fairyland Lustre that immediately caught her eye. Was Chief Irons’s wife a trust-fund baby?

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.”