Shadows at the Spring Show

by Lea Wait

  She wouldn’t make a fortune on this afternoon’s buying trip, Maggie thought. But the search was part of the game, and the paper show had taken her mind off the antiques show. And whoever was wishing it harm.

  Why? And who? The questions haunted her as she headed for home.

  Chapter 4

  Godey’s Fashions for February 1873. The Ladies Book, founded in New York in 1830 and renamed for publisher Louis Antoine Godey when he became the sole owner, was the first successful magazine for women. It featured fiction, recipes, patterns, and hand-colored fashion plates, some the size of one magazine page, and some foldouts. This engraving is a foldout, with the two fold lines visible. It pictures five elegant women in a salon, wearing pleated and ruffled and bowed dresses. There is very little color in the plate: a blue ribbon on one dress, a pink on another, and a lavender on a third. In front of the women stands a young boy, perhaps six years old, dressed in a bright blue suit with orange tights and a hat with an orange feather. He is holding a child’s bow and arrow and is pointing the arrow at one of the women. 9.6 x 11 inches. Unmatted. Price: $65.

  It was late Sunday morning. Maggie moved Winslow off her lap, stood up, and stretched. The world outside her window was glorious, but she was stuck inside with piles of paperwork to do, and she was restless. She’d eaten one “everything” bagel, toasted, with cream cheese and lox and onions and capers. She’d skimmed the Sunday Times. She’d corrected a dozen exams, finished a glass of Diet Pepsi, and answered all of her e-mails. Maybe she should check her computer again.

  Yes! A message from Will.

  Dear Maggie,

  And Happy Mother’s Day to someone who is not (yet!) a mother, but who’s helping families and children find each other by organizing a great antiques show! Buffalo is still chilly. I spent yesterday morning at an auction, and then went to the antiques mall to reorganize my exhibit for spring. Too bad you’re not closer. You could add some feminine touches. Although I did get carried away and put a leafy plant in one of my hand-forged copper saucepans. (A plastic plant, of course. Wouldn’t want dripping water to damage the copper.) Somehow my new shelf of sadirons doesn’t brighten the place up much, however I rearrange it. Hope exams are almost over, grades are in, and you can get some downtime before showtime. Have you decided what you’re taking to the Rensselaer County show over Memorial Day? Hard to believe that show will be our one-year anniversary. But what better place to have met than at an antiques show! Looking forward to helping set up those rented tables with you (am I a manipulated male?) in four days. And wishing you a happy Sunday, Mother’s or otherwise.

  Will

  Maggie teared up a bit and blew her nose. Mother’s Day. It was sweet of Will to mention it. She looked down at the regard ring he had given her last fall, and that she’d worn on her right hand ever since. R-e-g-a-r-d. A small Ruby, Emerald, Garnet, Amethyst, Ruby, and Diamond set in a line in classic Victorian fashion.

  The ring meant a lot to her. But every time she looked at it she remembered Will didn’t want to be a father. That part of her life would be so simple if he just wanted children, too. At thirty-eight—almost thirty-nine, she reminded herself—she was flexible. No matter how hard she tried to stop herself, she felt a few pangs of envy every time she saw Josie Thomas. Two adopted sons and a baby on the way. And a caring husband to help out with all three.

  Will was caring, but he’d decided years ago he wasn’t cut out to be a father, and he hadn’t changed his mind. Maggie paced the room. Winslow wove his way between her feet and meowed his sympathies.

  It just wasn’t fair; a widow at thirty-eight, she had finally found a wonderful and even antiques-loving man. But if she didn’t have children, she’d always regret it. Why couldn’t she have both the man she loved and the children she longed for? Why did life seem so simple for some women, and so complicated for her?

  She was tired, she was confused, she was bored with grading exams. Last night she’d finished the pile of term papers, but the exams never seemed to end. And they deserved her full attention.

  She stopped and looked around the room that was both her office and the headquarters for her antique-print business. Her prints and even Will’s sadirons were bits and pieces of life as it had been 150 years ago. Or more. Had life always been so complicated?

  Right now her life was filled with portfolios of prints ready to take to antiques shows. The labels were clear: “Fashion,” “Anatomy,” “Insects,” “New York/Hudson River,” and dozens more. She’d need them all for the show in New York State over Memorial Day. Will was right to remind her. Getting ready for that show was a major project.

  And there were three piles of prints waiting on her matting table. Just yesterday she’d carefully removed the cover of the Good Housekeeping she’d bought and placed it on the top of one of those piles. Everything there had been purchased this spring and had to be sorted, matted, and inventoried before it could be put in a portfolio.

  She didn’t want to set up a major show with the same prints she’d had the last time she’d been there. At minimum, she needed to update her Winslow Homer inventory. And she’d bought some beautiful Cassell ferns that would be just right for that show, if only they were matted; preferably in dark green. But when would she find the time? Maybe she should call Brad and Steve, her local framers, to see if they’d be able to do some work for her in the next two weeks.

  She looked back at her desk.

  Exams had to be finished. Today. The spring session at Somerset College was over Wednesday. Will and her friend Gussie would arrive Wednesday. Thursday they’d start setting up the gyms. There’d be ten days between the OWOC show and the one at Rensselaer County: enough time to at least check the signs and prices on her framed prints, clean the glass and frames, and pack her van.

  The ringing telephone interrupted her planning.

  “Carole? . . . What? . . . No. I haven’t had the radio or TV on today.” Maggie sat down.

  She hadn’t expected to hear from the director of OWOC today. Carole was strict in designating Sundays as family days.

  Carole’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky. “I almost didn’t call you, because, after all, you’re not officially an OWOC parent yet, but you are in charge of the antiques fair, and all the publicity is not going to be good. Someone is bound to ask you questions.”

  “Questions about what? Carole, what’s happened?”

  “Someone shot Holly Sloane as she was bringing in her newspaper this morning. And her son Jackson is missing.”

  Holly Sloane. The woman with fourteen children; the woman who counseled others on how to deal with traumatized children. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so.”

  Maggie took a deep breath.

  “Rob got back from the grocery and found her almost immediately. She was shot in the hip, and she bled badly. She’s at Somerset County Hospital.”

  “And Jackson? That’s one of her sons who goes to Somerset College, right? Was he shot, too?” Maggie had a vague picture of a slender young man with a shy smile.

  “No one knows anything about Jackson. He’s just gone. Rob called me from the hospital to let me know. Jackson went out with friends last night, and Rob and Holly thought they’d heard him come in late. But maybe he never got home. The police are looking for him, since he’s missing, and he’s got a history of problems.” Carole took a deep breath. “Rob kept a gun locked in his desk. The gun is gone, too. The police think Jackson might have shot Holly.”

  Chapter 5

  Accidents and Emergencies: How to Stop Bleeding. Illustration from a medical textbook published by I. W. Wagner, New York, 1912, showing arteries, veins, and pressure points. Includes such notes as “For snake or mad dog bite put pressure above the wound on the veins.” 7 x 9.75 inches. Price: $45.

  Maggie put the telephone down. There must be more to Holly’s being shot. She’d said Jackson was having problems, but she’d also said he wasn’t violent. Was he more seriously troubled than she�
�d known? Some of Holly’s children had major emotional problems. They’d survived abuse and neglect for years before finally coming home to Holly and Rob. But that didn’t mean one of them would shoot their mother! Had anyone else threatened the family? Had anyone nearby seen anything?

  All questions the police must be asking.

  She could already see the headlines Carole Drummond was imagining: “Mother Shot by Adopted Son on Mother’s Day!” It was horrible that Holly had been shot, no matter who’d fired the gun. But somehow the shooting was worse because it was on Mother’s Day. It was just the sort of publicity adoption agencies and adoptive parents dreaded. When biological children acted out, they were just called “children.” When an adopted child got media attention, the word adopted was almost always a part of the headline, emphasizing that adopted kids were different. And, the media often assumed, more troubled than other children.

  Which, of course, might be true if they’d lived in five or six neglectful or abusive households before they’d come home.

  Maybe Rob’s missing gun had nothing to do with the shooting. But why did he have a gun in a house with so many children in the first place? Even if it had been locked up. Probably the police would find Jackson at a friend’s house and establish he had nothing to do with the shooting. Maybe someone nearby discharged a gun by accident and it just happened to hit Holly. Maybe . . . but no matter how optimistic she was, Maggie couldn’t think of a lot of positive scenarios. She just hoped Holly would be all right. And Jackson would be found.

  She rinsed out Winslow’s water dish, emptied his litter box, opened a new bottle of Diet Pepsi, and poured herself a glass, with lemon, on the rocks. How could she concentrate on grading exams or papers now?

  Winslow jumped up into Maggie’s chair and meowed at her, then rolled over. That meant she was supposed to sit down and rub his tummy.

  “It’s good to know someone needs me.” Maggie sighed as she moved Winslow over so they could share her chair.

  But she couldn’t concentrate, not even on the task of rubbing Winslow’s tummy.

  She’d call Gussie. After talking herself out, she’d be ready to settle in to more grading.

  She and Gussie had been close friends since they’d met at an antiques show ten years ago. Gussie had a shop on Cape Cod and also did shows with her antique dolls and toys. Since they both knew Maggie would be too busy to have her own booth at the OWOC show, Gussie had suggested they share a large booth this time.

  “You’d just better make sure every print on display is well labeled,” Gussie had said when she volunteered to act as cashier for their joint booth. “I’ll keep some of your cash books. The only challenge will be if someone wants two Henry Alken hunting prints, and one Shirley Temple doll.”

  “I guess that will just have to mean two cash books,” Maggie had agreed. “And some true-up accounting between the two of us after the show. Are you sure you want to do this, Gussie?”

  “What are friends for? It would be a shame if you’d organized this great show and didn’t have any of your prints in it. If we have everything in one booth, I can handle it without any major difficulties. Plus, Ben will be with me to lift toys or framed prints down from the walls and help pack things up.”

  Ben was Gussie’s nephew. He often helped Gussie in her shop and traveled with her when she did shows. Gussie’s postpolio syndrome now kept her in a motorized wheelchair. Ben’s Down syndrome meant he had trouble making out sales slips. Together, they were a team.

  Maggie dialed her number by heart. “Gussie! I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “I’m not celebrating Mother’s Day either. Where did you expect me to be? The Boston Marathon is over for the year!”

  Maggie relaxed and chuckled. “I just needed to talk. I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

  “So what else is new? You’re the one who has two jobs, a house, and keeps saying you want to add motherhood to your résumé. Maggie, if you’re serious about that, you’d better get used to being overwhelmed.”

  “Guess you’re right. Will sent me an e-mail today. It was sweet. But he’s in Buffalo, and I’m here. I’m exhausted from grading papers and planning the show. And every time I think life is organized, something else happens.”

  “No, Maggie. In your life? I can’t believe that.” The sound of Gussie’s laugh reassured Maggie. Maybe she wasn’t crazy. “Your problem is you think you can organize life. Once you accept that most life events refuse to fit on a list, you’ll feel much better.”

  “You’re right. And school is out for the summer on Wednesday.”

  “And you’ve still resisted signing on to teach this summer?”

  “I have. I could use the money, but I keep thinking that when I’m not teaching, I can do more shows, and travel a little, and maybe make as much money as I could sitting here in New Jersey and grading papers. Have more fun, too.” And, if she should adopt a child, it might be the last summer she could do whatever she wanted. Much as she yearned to be a parent, the reality of what it would mean to be a mother twenty-four hours a day for the rest of her life sometimes felt overwhelming.

  “Good! I’m glad having fun is on your list. Because I hope you’re planning to come to the Cape for at least a week.”

  “You’ve got it. For the Provincetown Show, and then for a good visit, if you’ll have me. And I’m going to do some traveling in New York State, and other parts of New England.”

  “Would Will have anything to do with those travel plans?”

  “I hope so! He even mentioned possibly visiting Quebec. I haven’t done that in years and would love to go. French food, wine, small antiques shops in the country . . .” Maggie was momentarily distracted from her daydream. How would she manage seeing Will when she was a parent? Especially since he didn’t want to be involved? She changed the subject to Gussie’s love life. “How’s Jim?”

  Jim and Gussie had been a couple for over a year now. “He’s fine. Busy, as usual. Lawyers always are, even in small towns. He’s catching up with paperwork and then coming over for dinner later.”

  “Give him my best.”

  “I will. Now, what’s gotten to you this afternoon? Sounds as though Somerset College issues are under control. Any problems with the show?”

  Maggie paused. But there wasn’t much she didn’t tell Gussie. “The logistics are all in order, although I’m sure little things will pop up in the next few days. And maybe I’m crazy for being concerned about anything else. But some strange stuff is happening at the agency. It may have nothing to do with the show. I hope it doesn’t. But it’s upsetting Carole Drummond, the director of OWOC.”

  “And that upsets you. Of course, Maggie. So what’s the problem?”

  “Two problems, actually. The first is that the agency’s gotten a couple of threatening letters, and the one received Friday mentions the dates of the antiques show.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “And this morning one of the most well-known parents from the agency, Holly Sloane—she and her husband have adopted eleven hard-to-place children, Gussie, most of them teenagers!—was shot.”

  “Shot!” Even unflappable Gussie sounded shocked.

  “No one seems to know if it was an accident, or if it was intentional. She was shot right in her own driveway, when she went out to get the morning paper.”

  “How is she?”

  “Carole said she’s injured, but not critically. She’s in the hospital. But one of her sons is missing, and the police are looking for him.” Maggie paused. “The cops are implying he’s a suspect.”

  They were both silent. Then Gussie said, “Maggie, do you think there’s any connection? Between the threatening letters and the shooting?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “We don’t know why the person sending the letters is upset about the agency, so I guess anything is possible. Carole said it might be someone who’s disgruntled because their home study wasn’t approved. But how would that connect to
the shooting? I don’t think the letters mentioned any individuals. And Holly is an adoptive parent. She’s an active member of their adoptive parent organization, but she’s not an agency employee.”

  “But she did adopt her children through OWOC.”

  “Yes. She and her husband.” Maggie gave Winslow an extra scratch behind his neck. “No. I can’t imagine the letters and the shooting are connected. But the timing is awful for everyone.”

  “Is Carole talking about canceling the show?”

  “She never mentioned that.” Maggie sat back in her chair, scrunching Winslow a bit. “And I hadn’t thought of it. Now you’ve really given me something to worry about. Can you imagine what I’d have to do to call things off at this point?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. But it does seem strange to have two violent, or potentially violent, events connected to the adoption agency you’re supporting. I don’t normally turn on the TV to check on terrorism at adoption agencies.”

  “That’s why it’s all a bit unreal. And the shooting is close to home. I wish we knew for certain that it was an accident.”

  “No wonder you’re on edge. But you said your grading will be done today. Then you can concentrate on the show, and on slowing down a bit.”

  “And on doing everything I can to ensure there aren’t any more problems at OWOC. Although I really don’t know how anyone can do that.”

  Maggie took her Pepsi to the study and switched on the local news. Would they cover Holly’s shooting? Or maybe something else was going on in the world. Something positive.

  Temperatures in the high seventies tomorrow and sunny. That was nice. A car bombing in the Middle East. Not so nice. A meeting of the relatives of 9/11 World Trade Center victims from New Jersey to discuss a memorial to those who’d been killed. Maggie sat up and stared closely for a minute. She knew the young man sitting in the second row. It was Abdullah Jaleel, the bright star of her Myths in American Culture course this semester. Someone in his family must have died in the World Trade Center disaster. Unfortunately, he wasn’t unique. Twenty-five percent of those killed—murdered—in the World Trade Center had been from New Jersey. It didn’t matter what your background was or where you were from if you happened to be working in one of the Towers that day.