Shadows at the Spring Show

by Lea Wait

  Maggie shook her head. Neither Gussie nor Will would be here tonight after all. And by the time they did get to New Jersey, the show might have been canceled.

  Thank goodness she’d agreed to have dinner with Al.

  Chapter 26

  “Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating some curds and whey; There came a great spider, And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.” Kate Greenaway (1846–1901) pastel illustration for 1881 Mother Goose. Small girl in late-eighteenth-century dress sitting on the grass, wearing a large hat and eating her breakfast. 4 x 6.25 inches. Price: $30.

  Al’s suggestion of the Somerset Diner as a place to meet for dinner wasn’t Maggie’s usual choice of dining locale, but it had two big advantages: it was about halfway between her house and Al’s office at Somerset County College, and the parking lot went right up to the door—no allowances for lawns or trees here—so it was only moderately difficult to dodge the raindrops that were falling again.

  She stepped inside the restaurant and shook out the rain hat she’d hoped would keep her a little dry. Her long hair was dripping onto the black and white linoleum floor. She glanced into a mirror by the door. It showed all too well the tiny gray hairs that were beginning to be visible on her temple. She brushed them back with her hand. Al waved from a booth down the aisle.

  He stood as she took off her slicker and slid across the seat. “Hope you don’t mind a diner,” he said when they were both seated again. “Since my wife died, I’ve found these places provide the closest food to home-cooked, at a pretty reasonable price.”

  A blonde, heavyset waitress in a white uniform with a pink apron brought a coffeepot over to their table. “Al, you want the usual coffee?”

  “You bet, Vera. Maggie, you want some? Great coffee!” The waitress was already pouring Al’s.

  “No, thanks. But I would like a glass of ice water and a Diet Pepsi with lemon?”

  Vera nodded. “Coming right up.”

  Maggie looked around at the pale yellow walls of the diner and the framed photographs of customers, including former Somerset County residents John DeLorean and Mike Tyson, and Christine Whitman, a former New Jersey governor, who still lived nearby. Jackie Kennedy Onassis had also lived in Somerset County, but perhaps she hadn’t patronized the diner.

  If this place were spruced up, it could be attractive.

  Brighter yellow paint. Narrow curtains at the empty windows. And prints, of course. Late-nineteenth-century lithographs of apples and grapes and raspberries filling the spaces between the windows. They would upgrade the whole look and make the dining room a lot more inviting.

  “So you’re known here,” said Maggie, taking note of the dinnertime patrons on a Wednesday night. Dads with kids; moms with kids. Elderly couples. Two women drinking large frosty ice cream sodas through straws. Was that dinner or dessert? How many years had it been since she’d had a chocolate soda with coffee ice cream? She had a fleeting memory of going to a diner in Bloomfield with her big brother and feeling very grown-up as she ordered one.

  “I come here once or twice a week. There’s a pretty good coffee shop over in Bridgewater, too. Food’s better than those fast-food places, and I can sit and be quiet a little before going home. And”—he grinned at her—“no dishes to wash!”

  “You’ve got a point there,” said Maggie, smiling. Some widowers might have found favorite bars to stop at; Al didn’t seem to be a drinking man. For an ex-cop, that was unusual, she thought. Unless he was on the wagon for a reason. None of her business in any case. “I’ve only been here once or twice before, and not recently. It’s warm and cozy.”

  “The food’s decent and they’re generous with portions.” Al’s size verified that information. “I usually order one of the daily specials, but everything is pretty good.”

  Maggie quickly decided on a chicken salad with mandarin oranges and almonds. It had been a while since she’d been at a diner. She’d expected her choice to be between meat loaf and chicken potpie. Al ordered a bowl of chili with garlic toast. Maggie smiled; if this had been a date, that odorous a choice would have been considered selfish. For friends having dinner, it was fine.

  “Okay, Al. Now we do have to talk.”

  “Yes?” He smiled, probably thinking Maggie had a minor complaint to file about his choice of restaurant.

  “After we talked this afternoon I got one of those letters. The threatening ones. This time it was addressed to me. Not to the agency.”

  Al put his cup of coffee down. “Did it go to your office at the college?”

  “No. To my home.”

  He took a breath, staying calm for both of them. His expression wasn’t reassuring. “You opened the letter?”

  “Yes. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

  “And?”

  “It read, ‘Stop the antiques show or you will be sorry. Ask Jackson.’”

  “Jackson’s the boy who was killed, right?”

  “Right.”

  Al’s voice was careful. “You’ve turned this letter over to the police?”

  “I called them as soon as I’d read it.”

  “Good. Did they give you any hint about who might have sent it, or whether it was serious?”

  “No. They told me to lock my doors and keep my lights on; that they didn’t know whether the letter was part of a hoax, or even a copycat.”

  “But the letter did say ‘Jackson.’”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the first direct connection between the shootings of Holly Sloane and her son and the antiques show.”

  Maggie stopped for a moment. She hadn’t thought of that. The other letters hadn’t mentioned the shooting. And they had been sent to OWOC. She also realized she hadn’t notified the agency of this latest threat. Everything was moving too fast. “I should call Carole Drummond and let her know. I just didn’t think of it.”

  “Don’t worry, Maggie. The police have no doubt already told anyone they think needs to know. And we’re going to see Carole at the meeting.”

  They both sat quietly for a few minutes before Maggie spoke. “I know it sounds bad. I know the agency may decide to cancel the show. They’re afraid someone might be hurt.” Maggie hesitated a moment. “So am I. But I don’t want us to give in to threats! You were a detective. You’ve dealt with this sort of thing before, Al. What’s your professional take? Would someone really disrupt the antiques show or hurt me? Or is it all a giant practical joke?” Maggie smiled. “I’ll tell you right now, I need some answers before the board meeting tonight.”

  Al didn’t smile back. “It might have seemed like a practical joke before anyone was hurt. But you’ve got Holly Sloane with a bullet in her hip, and her son dead. That’s no joke.”

  “You’re convinced the same person is responsible for both the warnings and the shootings?”

  “The cops might not agree, but I’m not on the force anymore, and I’m just giving you my opinion, okay? How many crazies do you think a place like Somerset County has at any one time? Well, we’ve got our share, of course. Wherever there are people, there is always a certain percentage who’re put together a little like Tinkertoys. But most of them have settled in and don’t bother no one. But this guy—probably it’s a guy, but we don’t want to take anything for granted, now—this guy is way out in front of himself. He’s warning people about what he might do. I don’t get why Mrs. Sloane and her son were shot. But when somebody threatens, you know they’re real upset about something. In this case, assuming for argument’s sake that it was the same guy, he’s upset enough to shoot two people. You got to take that kind of upset seriously.”

  “Then the show is in danger?” Maggie hesitated. “Then I’m in danger?”

  “The good news, Maggie, is that you probably aren’t in danger right this minute. But he wants you to be real scared. For some reason he doesn’t want that antiques show you’re running to happen. He started by warning the agency. Then there were the shootings, which don’t fi
t in directly right now, because we haven’t got the whole picture. Then he threatened you. He may figure you’ll be afraid, and the agency will listen to you and call off the show.”

  “If that’s what he believes, he’s right. I am afraid. Or at least I’m nervous. For myself, and for everyone who may be at that show this weekend.”

  “And you’re not the only one who’s not sure how to deal with the situation; that’s why they’ve called the board meeting for tonight.”

  “But I don’t know what to say to the board. Should we cancel the show? Are we putting a lot of people in harm’s way by going on with our plans?”

  “Did you stop flying in airplanes after 9/11, Maggie?”

  “Of course not. That would have been giving in to terrorists.” She sat back. “I see what you’re getting at. If we cancel the show, that’s what we’ll be doing. Giving in to someone we don’t know for some unknown reason. I’ve been telling Carole we can’t do that. But, Al, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s the right course. If anyone were hurt, after I encouraged OWOC to open the show, then I’d blame myself.”

  “It’s not an easy choice, for sure.”

  “Plus, the agency dropped their other fund-raisers, a cocktail party and a family trip to the United Nations, because they assumed this event could make more money for the time involved. If we cancel the show now, the agency won’t make money. They’ll lose it.” Maggie shook her head.

  “Organizing this show’s taken a lot of your time, I’ll bet,” said Al, buttering one of the warm buttermilk biscuits Vera had set in the center of the table.

  “More time than I’d anticipated,” said Maggie. “I don’t know if I’ll volunteer to do it again. But it’s for a good cause. If it’s successful, it will have been well worth the time.” She watched a mom at the next table carefully cutting up her toddler’s hamburger into bite-size pieces. Would that be her someday?

  “How complicated are the logistics? Could you stop the show at this point if the board voted to do that?”

  “Sure. But there would be a lot of calls to make and a lot of frustrated and angry people. There’s no way to get in touch with all those people now.”

  Plus, think of all those frozen cookies and cupcakes and muffins in Ann Shepard’s freezer. Maggie had a sudden vision of thousands of frozen blueberry and banana and cranberry and cheese muffins neatly arranged in a line across Somerset County. If we canceled the show, she thought, we could still have one hell of a bake sale.

  “We’re not going to cancel. Period. We just can’t lose all the time and money so many people have put into planning this show just because some idiot out there likes to send nasty letters and make phone calls!”

  “Okay, okay!” Al said, raising his hand in protest. “I got it. The show goes on. I agree. That’s what needs to happen. If, of course, you’re able to convince the board.”

  “The way I see it, I’m not in any danger now. Whoever is threatening me wants the show canceled. I haven’t done that yet. But he thinks there’s still a chance we’ll cancel. Right?”

  “Possibly. That may be why he’s trying to scare you into making that decision.” Al shook his head and downed part of a glass of water. The chili must be hot. “I wish we knew just why this fellow—whoever he is—wants the show canceled. I’m wondering about any connections between the agency and the college. You said Jackson’s brother Eric is working for facilities management?”

  Maggie nodded. “He’ll be helping us out during the show.” She took another bite of chicken. Not gourmet. She wasn’t sold on the diner food so far, although the Diet Pepsi and the onion rings were just fine. She pushed a still-damp wave of brown hair back from her face. “Eric called me this afternoon. He said Jackson made some new friends a few months ago. He thinks those were the people Jackson was planning to see last Saturday night. Eric thought one of the new friends might be the one who killed Jackson.”

  “He had no idea who the friends were?”

  “He said not. Except he thought maybe the friends might be biracial.”

  “Biracial what?”

  “He didn’t say. I don’t think he knew.” Maggie paused. “Jackson was black/white.”

  Al shook his head. “That doesn’t give us anything. We have no place to start.”

  “There might be a campus connection, though. Jackson and Eric were both taking courses at Somerset County. Jackson’s new friends could be people he met there.”

  “Sure. But we have over three thousand students, when you count everyone who’s there even part-time. Not to mention everyone who works there.”

  “Maybe someone else on campus saw Jackson with them.”

  “Maggie, it’s semester break. Almost no one’s on campus except for some people in admissions and accounting, and groups like facilities management and security. Besides, if the police have been doing their job, they’ve already covered that territory. As soon as Jackson disappeared, they were investigating where he’d gone that Saturday night.”

  “But I can’t help thinking about possibilities. You remember, Al, when I heard the threat on my answering machine, I thought it was a voice I recognized. But I couldn’t identify it. I keep thinking that if I knew the voice, it must be someone connected to the college.”

  “Or to the agency. You said you’d gotten to know a lot of people there: staff, adoptive parents, prospective parents.”

  “That’s true. But why would anyone connected with the agency be opposed to a fund-raiser for it?”

  “Maggie, we’re going around in circles. What you need to do is relax and, just like the cops told you, watch what you do and where you go, and make sure you don’t do anything stupid, like leaving your car or house unlocked.”

  “I won’t, Al. I’m going to stay calm. We’ll go to the board meeting tonight and help convince them that the show should go on, and then I’ll go home and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll be at the gym. The company putting down the protective floor will be there at eight thirty.”

  “And your friends? When will they be arriving?”

  “They were delayed. Tomorrow morning. One very early, and one about noon.”

  “Good. Then you won’t be alone.” Al took a last bite of his chili. “I’m going to stay pretty close to my office this week, too, Maggie. And, tomorrow, before anyone else gets there, I’m going to go over the whole gymnasium area myself, to make sure there’s no place someone could hide, or leave something we wouldn’t see. If I make sure everything is in order before your flooring people arrive, it should be easier to keep an eye on the place and make sure nothing is out of place.”

  “That would be great. All I want right now is for this show to be over!”

  “You mean you wouldn’t consider some strawberry pie for dessert?” said Al, grinning.

  “Priorities are priorities,” Maggie said, smiling back.

  Chapter 27

  Steeplechase. Limited-edition etching (black-and-white) by Frederick L. Owens, ca. 1930. Owens was born in Prince Edward Island, Canada, but studied in New York City and was a member of Associated American Artists. His work received special mention in the 1933 edition of Fifty Best Prints of the Year. Five jockeys leaning forward, guiding their horses in a jump over a hedge, with water on the far side. Small, semicircular fox mark in lower right corner. 8 x 12.24 inches. Price: $150.

  Al had an errand to do, but agreed to meet Maggie at the board meeting at eight thirty. She stopped at the local police department and was fingerprinted, as Detective Luciani had requested that afternoon.

  “Will you keep the prints on file?” asked Maggie as she cleaned the ink off her fingers with the wipes supplied by the young blonde woman who was the clerk on duty.

  “They’ll be filed electronically,” she said, nodding. “So if anyone ever has to identify your body, they’ll know who you are.”

  That was not exactly what Maggie had had in mind. “I meant, if I file a petition to adopt a child from overseas, will I have to h
ave my fingerprints done again?”

  The clerk looked blank. “You mean, like if you applied for a gun license?”

  Gun licenses and adoption applications, it turned out, were two of the most common reasons people went to police departments and requested to be fingerprinted. Not counting the fingerprinting now required for some employment applications and usually done at work locations.

  And, yes, she’d have to go through the whole procedure again.

  So now I’m part of the wonderful world of people who can never get away with doing anything illegal that involves leaving fingerprints, Maggie thought to herself as she drove to the adoption offices. The way this benefit antiques show was going, she was ready to require fingerprints from everyone involved in the entire production. Including the customers.

  She was still chuckling at that thought when she reached the Our World Our Children offices.

  No one else there was laughing.

  Carole was seated, and so was Al. His errand must have taken less time than Maggie’s fingerprinting. At the head of the table was a man Maggie had never met, although she’d read his name on the OWOC letterhead: Duncan Thompson, Esq. President of the Board of Directors of OWOC. Mr. Thompson did not look overjoyed.

  Nor did the four other board members at the table. Maggie slid into the seat Carole gestured toward and nodded at Al.

  “Carole, can we expect anyone else to join us?” Mr. Thompson was looking at his watch. Whatever plans he had made for this evening, they had obviously not included a stop at the agency.

  “No,” said Carole calmly. “Jim and Hank are out of town on business, and Elizabeth couldn’t make it either. I’d like you to meet Maggie Summer, the prospective parent and professor at Somerset County College who organized the show for us.”