“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?”

“Maybe to try to blackmail Dan.”

“Blackmail Dan?” Maggie looked at Annie. “He didn’t have any money, did he?”

“That was the problem. She was tired of him living there and not paying her enough rent. The odd jobs he had around town—mowing lawns, substitute bartending—none of them paid much. I met him through Cordelia, and then he did some landscaping for us, and then, one thing led to another. He told me Cordelia complained he didn’t contribute enough toward his room and board. She was trying to force him to get a better-paying job.”

“I’ve wondered how she supported herself just making those dolls,” Maggie said, glancing toward the cradle in the living room.

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “Dan said a lot of people underestimated Cordelia. And then Diana arrived, and everything changed. I don’t know why; I only saw Dan once after that.”

Maggie looked at her. “Can you think of anyone else who knew Dan well?”

“He bartended at the Lazy Lobster sometimes. Men there knew him.” Her eyes filled up. “It’s all happened so fast. Diana arriving, and then Dan disappearing, and now Cordelia. I hope Ike’s able to figure it out. I miss Dan. But I can’t let Ike know what I was doing. Please, Maggie. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Maggie. “Thanks for talking with me.” She left Annie scrubbing her kitchen counter, tears smearing the makeup on her cheeks.

On Maggie’s way back to Six Gables she kept thinking about the Fairyland Lustre in Annie’s corner cupboard. She was no expert on china or pottery, but she’d always coveted that particular Wedgwood, probably because it was designed by Art Nouveau artist Daisy Makeig-Jones. Fairyland Lustre was gloriously colored in vibrant golds, blues, reds, and greens, and depicted magic creatures and the forests and fields in which they lived. Few pieces sold for under $4,000 or $5,000, and she’d read in one of the antiques newspapers recently that a large covered vase in the “Demon Tree of the Ghostly Wood” pattern had brought over $36,000 at auction. Not exactly within her budget.

As far as she knew Fairyland Lustre had never been reproduced.

Even if it had, it wouldn’t have the same glow, the same luster, as the original.

Those were original pieces in Annie Irons’ living room. Maggie was certain of that. But for some reason—maybe fear of burglary?—Annie hadn’t wanted to admit it. Well, she was lucky to have a collection like that.

Will was deep into his novel when Maggie got back to Six Gables. “You were right. That didn’t take long,” he said.

“How’s Aunt Nettie?”

“She sends her love,” said Will. “Tom’s taking good care of her, and Rachel stopped in to see her and brought them lobster bisque for tonight’s dinner and a ham in case there’s a power outage. The oil lamps are cleaned, the bathtub is filled. They’re set.”

“That’s right. You have a well, but the water pump is electric.”

“When the power goes, so does the water,” Will confirmed. “I’m thinking we should invest in a small generator. Enough power to keep the furnace and the pump going, and a few kitchen appliances. At Aunt Nettie’s age, if we had an ice storm and lost power for a week, I don’t think she’d cope well.”

“No power for a week in January in Maine? I’m not sure how well I’d cope,” Maggie agreed. “Sounds as though you should call for an estimate or two.”

“Next week,” said Will. “How’d your meeting go?”