by Lea Wait
Eric put the casserole in one of the two large refrigerators. “Would you like something to drink, Professor Summer?”
“Water would be fine, Eric,” Maggie said. “How’s your mother doing?”
“She’s healing.” Eric handed Maggie a glass of ice water. “She’s going to need physical therapy, but she should be home in a couple of days. Thanks for the meals, though. We seem to go through a lot of food.”
Maggie noted a dozen empty pizza boxes piled in the corner.
“Dad’s back and forth to the hospital. Astrid and I try to keep everybody together, but it’s not easy. Right now she’s at the grocery store with some of the kids. Dad just left for the hospital, to see Mom.”
“Kim was calling him.” Maggie took a drink of the water.
“She usually has her headphones on and doesn’t keep in touch with the real world.” Eric smiled. “It’s a little crazy here, but we’re fine. We’ll be better when Mom’s home. Somehow she keeps it all together.” He hesitated a minute, and despite his bravado, Maggie suspected she saw tears in his eyes. She looked away, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. “We miss her. A lot.”
“Of course you do. Are you and Astrid the oldest two at home, then?”
“Right now. Tom and Beth live in Philadelphia. Tom has a job, and Beth’s in college there. They were home for the weekend. For Mother’s Day.” Eric swallowed hard. “Dad sent them back when we knew Mom would be okay. Dad’s word is the rule. And”—he paused—“you know about Jackson.”
“You haven’t heard from him.”
Eric shook his head, and his voice was quiet. “We’ve called everyone we could think of, and the police have been looking.”
“Has he ever disappeared before?”
Eric hesitated. “Well, you’re involved with the agency, so I guess you know, our family isn’t exactly a calm place. Just about everyone’s taken off at some point or another. But Jacks hasn’t done it in a while. And never for this long. He wouldn’t leave if he knew Mom was hurt, for sure. He talks up a storm in public about how horrible his life is, but he’s really close to Mom. That’s why it’s weird he hasn’t come home.”
“It’s been on the news, and in the papers.”
“I know. And the cops’ve been saying maybe he shot her.” Eric’s voice rose in controlled anger. “He wouldn’t have done it. I mean, they had some arguments. Everybody has arguments. Saturday night, sure, he and Mom were yelling pretty loud. But not as loud as Mom and Dad did after Jacks left! Yelling is just part of being a family, sometimes. If no one cared, no one would yell. But to take a gun . . .”
“I heard the gun was your father’s.”
Eric was clearly frustrated. He paced across the kitchen. “They don’t know that for sure. They just know Dad’s gun is missing and the bullet that hit Mom came from the same kind of gun he had. Hell. I’ve lived here for six years and I didn’t know he had a gun. How would Jacks know? Mom and Dad never even allowed water pistols in the house. And Jacks may have weird friends, but I don’t think they carry. I told the cops. But they don’t listen. I’m black, and so is Jacks, so they probably figure we’re guilty of something.”
“Is that what they said?”
Eric stopped and looked straight at her. “See, you’re white. You don’t know. They never say. They just imply. And they sure implied that since Jackson wasn’t right here, then he was the one responsible. Easier saying that than trying to find the person who’s really guilty.”
“I’m sorry, Eric. This must be awful for you.”
“It’s sure not fun.”
“You know I’m a prospective parent, Eric. If it isn’t too awkward for you to answer, it would help me to know. Do you think your parents understand what it’s like for you to be black?”
Eric frowned, but the question didn’t seem to bother him. “They try really hard. They’ve read all the books and they know what happens. But they’re not black, so they don’t feel race the same way Jacks and I and the other kids do. Sometimes Jackson’s really angry about being in this family. He thinks it would have been easier for him if Mom and Dad had been black. I’m not so sure. No parents are perfect. I’m a whole lot better off here than I was anywhere else. After seven foster homes you’d have to be pretty dumb not to figure that out. And about half of us in the family are at least part black, so it isn’t as if we’re isolated or anything.” Eric paused. “I guess there isn’t an easy answer. I think the kids who are Asian or white or Hispanic have it easier, but they might not agree. And I know kids who live with one or both of their biological parents, and the parents don’t match, if you know what I mean?”
Maggie nodded.
“Some of those kids are a lot angrier than anyone I know who’s been adopted. At least if you’re adopted, the issue of race, or culture, is right out there. The agency talks about it, and your parents talk about it, and they’re always trying to look for role models and cultural stereotypes to talk about and books about heritage. Most kids I know who live with their bio parents don’t have a lot of that. I guess their parents just figure they’re living the experience; they don’t need to talk about it. Maybe more of them should. Especially when the parents are two different races. Or even two different religions.”
Maggie took a sip of her water. “Thank you for sharing that. I know it’s pretty personal.”
“Yeah. But that’s another thing about being adopted, especially when you have parents like ours. We’re always talking to other parents, and prospective parents. You hear this stuff all the time. So it isn’t as big a deal as it might be. Sometimes I think I could deliver the message as well as Mom and Dad do—or better.”
“The message?”
Eric grinned and struck a pose, listing his points on his fingers. “‘Don’t adopt a child of another race unless you have friends of that race. Study the culture. If language is involved, at least learn some key words. Learn to cook the food. Celebrate the holidays. Value your child by valuing his heritage!’” He relaxed. “You’ve been around the agency long enough to know the drill.”
Maggie laughed. “I guess I do. But it can be intimidating to someone who’s considering adoption.”
“That’s good, though. Because adoption isn’t simple. That’s part of the message—‘love isn’t enough.’ And it isn’t. But it’s still a damn good place to start.”
“I’ve kept you too long, Eric,” said Maggie, getting up. “But thank you for talking with me. I’ve left heating instructions on the casserole. The salad can be eaten cold or hot.”
“Thank you. We all thank you.”
“Well, I appreciate all your parents have done for the antiques show. And you, too, Eric. I look forward to working with you this weekend.”
Eric nodded. He seemed much more relaxed than he had only a few minutes before.
“I’ll see you at the gym, right? Thursday morning, if you can be there. The floor coverings will be put down then.”
“Right, Professor. At the gym.”
“And I hope Jackson is home soon. Your mom, too.”
Eric hesitated. “Professor Summer, if someone knew something that might help find Jackson, but that they didn’t want the police to know, what should they do?”
Maggie looked at him. His gaze was steady.
She pulled one of her cards out of her pocketbook. “I’d be willing to talk.” She thought of Al Stivali. “And I know someone else who might be able to help.”
Eric took her card and slipped it into his pocket without looking at it. “If my friend wants to talk, then I’ll tell him. Thank you.”
Maggie backed her van carefully around two bicycles in the driveway and waved toward a blonde girl, maybe sixteen, who was working under the hood of one of the cars. As she pulled out of the driveway, an old tan station wagon full of teenagers pulled in. Maybe Astrid, returning from grocery shopping.
What had Eric meant about knowing something but not wanting to tell the police? Was the “friend” really him? Or wa
s there someone else who could help but who was keeping quiet?
Either seemed possible. Some of the Sloane kids had been in trouble with the law at different times, she knew, and might not want to talk to the authorities.
No matter what, Jackson needed to get back to his family. And so did Holly. Healing was more than physical.
And Maggie needed to get to the police station. How could she expect Eric—or his friend—to share something with the police when she hadn’t even told them about her threatening phone call?
Chapter 16
Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary. Print of the classic nursery rhyme, drawn by children’s illustrator Clara M. Burd for The Brimful Book, 1927. 9.5 x 12 inches. Price: $60.
Detective Dawn Newton, a serious, young black woman with a no-nonsense, cropped hairstyle, followed Maggie home, complete with her own tape recorder, to make an official copy of the threat left on Maggie’s answering machine.
They listened to it together. Newton shook her head. “Not sure how much help this’ll be. How many people have heard about the hate letters OWOC’s been getting?”
“Carole told me. I assume her whole staff knows. She told the police. The only person I’ve told is Al Stivali, the head of security at Somerset College. And I told him after I got this message. Oh, and I told a friend of mine in Massachusetts.”
“Your message could be a copycat. You said you recognized something in the tone of the voice, which means the message was probably left by someone you know. The other contacts were by mail. Usually someone sending anonymous letters doesn’t switch to anonymous phone calls.” Detective Newton took a few notes.
“You think someone heard about the letters and then that person called me?”
Detective Newton shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll take this recording and see if we can find out anything. May we check your telephone records to see if we can identify where the call came from?”
“Sure. I haven’t got any secrets. And I’ll admit the call’s made me nervous. At this point I’ll be very glad when this antiques show is over.”
“Truthfully, so will I,” agreed the detective. “Chances are, nothing will happen. But you never know. In the meantime, if you get any more messages, from any source, call us immediately.”
“The show opens in four days; we start setting up Thursday,” Maggie reminded her. “We’re not talking about a lot of time.”
Detective Newton nodded. “I know. Just keep in touch, and remember he’s probably not going to hurt anyone. He’s trying to scare you.”
Maggie grimaced. “He succeeded.”
“Don’t let him know that. If he should call again, and you answer the phone, let him talk and take down as much as you can of what he says. His exact words. I doubt he wants to have a conversation with you. He’ll probably hang up if you answer the phone. But once in a while someone surprises us. If he does talk to you, you may recognize the voice or get some valuable information.”
“Will you tap my telephone? To hear if he calls again?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. You’ve only had one call, and it basically left the same message that was in the letters. If you start getting more calls, or calls that escalate to anger or threats, then we’ll consider getting permission to put a tap on.” She turned toward the door. “Take a lot of deep breaths and make sure your car and home are well secured. You’ll feel better, and probably nothing more will happen. I think this whole thing will blow over and disappear after the antiques show.”
“But what about Holly Sloane being shot?”
The detective hesitated. “At this point we don’t see that connected to the letters or to your phone call. It’s probably a domestic matter. But we’re looking at every angle, of course. We can’t rule any possibilities out.”
A domestic matter? They must still think Jackson was responsible.
Maggie’s head was throbbing by the time Detective Newton left. She’d done the right thing. She’d told the police. And she’d felt like a fool when Detective Newton had pretty much told her the call meant nothing.
She got out her black binder and checked over her to-do lists for the show. Everything seemed in order. Tomorrow she’d meet with the volunteers from the college and finalize planning. Tomorrow Will would arrive, and Gussie and Ben. Doing the show was so much more complicated than she’d imagined in January, when it seemed a great way to earn some money for the agency. And to make some money for dealers in the area, too.
Maggie crossed her fingers and knocked on her wooden desk. People would come. People would buy.
Chapter 17
Untitled angel. Young girl in white fur coat and shawl, standing in snow, cradling a nest full of birds. The girl has large pink wings. German lithographed die cut from about 1885. Figure, 4.5 x 11.5 inches. Mounted on a lavender background, matted in mauve, in a modern gold frame. Price: $125.
Maggie sorted her piles of prints in waiting and separated out the Cassell chromolithographed ferns. She had some left from an earlier purchase, already matted and in her “Ferns” portfolio. She’d file the ferns that were duplicates. She had enough forest green, acid-free mat board to mat six additional prints to take to the New York show. There wasn’t time to order more; she should have done that a couple of weeks ago. After the OWOC show she’d order all she’d need for the summer. Or at least enough to catch up with her recent purchases. “Investments,” Maggie mentally corrected herself. Her prints were investments.
She was debating whether to mat six vertical ferns, or three horizontal and three vertical, when the telephone rang.
“Maggie? It’s Al Stivali, in security.”
“Yes, Al! No problems, I hope?”
“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you’d told the police about that telephone call you got.”
“I stopped and told them earlier this afternoon, and Detective Newton came and recorded it.”
“Good. Things were easier with the old answering machines when you could just take the tape out and hand it over. Glad you got that taken care of.”
Maggie didn’t admit that the police had first asked her for the remote-access code for her answering machine so they could listen to the message at the station. She’d never paid attention to the remote-access feature and didn’t remember how to make it work.
Winslow slumbered happily on a sunny windowsill. He didn’t have to worry about log-ins and access codes.
“They didn’t seem very concerned. They said I should call immediately if I got any more messages like that, though.”
“They’re right. I’m sorry to have called you, Maggie, but this whole situation is nagging at me. Maybe I’m itching to get back to my detective days. But I keep thinking about your friend who adopted all those kids. It’s hard to understand why one of her kids would have shot her. But if he didn’t, then why hasn’t he gone home? There are some really troubled kids out there, I know. But it seems logical that if the boy isn’t involved he’d at least call the police and tell them whatever alibi he has. It doesn’t make sense for him to disappear. Unless he’s guilty. Or unless he’s hiding something else. Or someone else.”
“I visited the Sloanes’ home after I saw you. I brought them some food and talked with Eric. He’s one of their older sons and works for George Healy over at the gym. Sort of a general helper, custodian, and so forth.”
“Healy’s a good guy. If he hired the boy, I’m sure the kid is doing a good job.”
“Anyway, he’s black. And Jackson, the boy who’s missing, is biracial, black/white. I got the feeling Eric wasn’t comfortable talking to the police. So maybe Jackson isn’t either. Although Detective Newton, who came to my house today, is black.”
“She may be the only black detective on the Somerset County force. Some of the other detectives around here can be a little rough on certain potential suspects.”
“But Eric isn’t a potential suspect! He’s the brother of the boy who’s missing, and the son of the mother who’s
been shot!”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not a suspect. I know what the Constitution says, Maggie, but when you’re in police work, everyone’s a suspect until you know they’re not. What’s your young fellow’s alibi?”
“I assume he was in the house with everyone else. Except Jackson, of course.”
“So everyone was at home except the one boy when the mother was shot.”
“Rob, her husband, was out, I think. Carole told me he’d gone out to do an errand and drove in and found her right after she was hit. He’s the one who called 911.”
“What is their relationship like, do you know? The husband and wife’s?”
“Fine, I’m sure! Al, you don’t think . . .”
“Maggie, I was a policeman for too many years. When the wife’s shot, the husband’s the first one you check out. In this case, with the boy missing, they’ve got two potential suspects. I’m sure right now they’re keeping a tight eye on everyone who lives in that house.”
“I hadn’t even considered that Rob might be a suspect.”
“Remember what I said: everyone’s a suspect. Until you know who did it, or you know for sure someone didn’t.” Al paused. “Anyway, I just wanted to check that you’d told the police, and that you were okay. You’re a good lady, Maggie, and I don’t want you to have any problems.”
“I appreciate the concern. I’ll let you know if anything else develops.”
“My card has my pager number on it. Call me anytime.”
Maggie put down the telephone and walked into her kitchen. Frozen pizza. Diet Pepsi. The good things in life. Winslow followed her and meowed meaningfully toward the cupboard holding cans of delicacies such as tuna fish. Maggie opened a small can of tuna, changed Winslow’s water, and preheated the oven. While Winslow devoured his meal without even a word of thanks, Maggie sliced a portobello mushroom, some black olives, and part of a red onion and added the results to the top of a frozen pizza.