Shadows at the Fair

by Lea Wait

  “Hey, Gussie,” she called. Ben had returned with coffee at least one more time, she was sure. Peeking around the wall, she realized that, despite frequent trips for coffee, two people worked faster than one. Aunt Augusta’s Attic was totally set up. Hand-carved wooden and black-haired china and Door of Hope Mission dolls stood and sat in cases on the back wall out of reach of eager hands, miniatures were in a case to the left, and all manner of tin and iron cars, trucks, banks, and games were on the right table. Gussie had a couple of prints, she noted, and checked them out. Good—only some Kate Greenaways. Nothing that competed with her booth: she had those prints (at lower prices, because they weren’t framed) and more.

  Gussie and Ben had obviously taken off. Maggie decided to get a drink of water and change, then have a real drink. They say you shouldn’t drink alone, so she’d give it another thirty minutes before she broke the rule.

  The fairgrounds rest rooms were large and relatively clean, but far from new. They were in a separate building, on the east side of the parking lot, close to the four exhibit halls. During the show they’d be full of customers. Today the ladies’ room was quiet. Maggie exchanged pleasantries with a dealer she’d never met before (Connecticut—art and Depression glass) who was also changing from jeans into a long skirt.

  The antiques dealers’ uniform, Maggie thought, as she folded her jeans and sweatshirt and straightened the panty hose she’d put on under them in the morning. Like gym class—all the girls getting freshened up after working out. But no showers here.

  She put on a blue square-necked blouse to match her long dark-red-and-blue-patterned India cotton skirt and added some brass Victorian earrings. No necklace; she’d have to wear her dealer’s identification badge anyway. But she pinned one brass M to her waistband for luck. Probably once part of a turn-of-the-century sign, it went with the earrings and was different. You never knew what a customer might want to talk about.

  A little lipstick and blush, and Maggie unbraided her hair, which fell in full waves almost to her waist. I’ll never cut it, she vowed. She shook her head and checked the way the earrings hung. Just right. She curtsied to the cracked mirror, threw her jeans and shirt into the garment bag she’d brought, and headed for the door.

  She ran directly into Gussie. “Maggie—you look terrific, by the way; I love the pin—you won’t believe what I just saw. Stroll—slowly, don’t make a big deal about it—down the aisle near Vince’s desk. And don’t stop to flirt with any admirers along the way.”

  Maggie laughed. “Small chance! Do I look that great?”

  “Just go! I’ll meet you back at the booths. Ritual sherry in ten minutes, okay?”

  “You got it. My turn to tote. I’ve got the bottle and glasses in my van.” Maggie again started for the door. “And I’ll check out Vince’s area on the way.”

  What could Vince be up to?

  Chapter 5

  Tenth Commandment, wood engraving by noted American artist Winslow Homer (1836–1910). Published by Harper’s Weekly, March 12, 1870. Single page. Woman kneeling in church pew while peeking at elegant gentleman, who is looking back at her. Price: $250.

  Maggie hoisted her red canvas garment bag over her shoulder and headed toward the Show Management desk. What could Vince be doing? She’d seen Vince and his women before. She’d seen the coffee turn to something a little stronger about this time of day—or earlier. She’d seen Vince throw dealers out whose merchandise didn’t pass his vetting as genuine antiques, and she’d seen dealers begging for a day’s leeway on paying booth rent because times were rough. How much more exciting could Show Management get?

  Gussie said to be subtle, so Maggie walked through the adjoining aisle first, checking out the competition. Dealers this year were displaying more oak and pine furniture; one dealer she didn’t remember from previous years featured early posters. She wondered if he was replacing one of the dealers who had died and shivered as she passed the booth.

  She paused in front of an exhibit of country pine furniture. That pumpkin pine mirror over the dry sink would look just right in her front hall above the small bureau she used for the gloves and hats and miscellaneous whatevers that were always filling the drawers. Maggie pulled a tape measure out of her skirt pocket. Thirteen inches by eighteen. Perfect.

  They were asking $350, which was a little high for pine, but it was late-eighteenth-century pumpkin pine, that rare and slightly orange shade of pine that increased a piece of furniture’s “country feeling,” and its price. A dealer’s discount would bring it down a bit.

  No one was around. Maggie noted the name and location of the dealer. Booth 3-04. I don’t believe they really call their business Pine Away, she thought. She grimaced as she left a note that Maggie Summer in booth 2–23 was interested in the mirror—would they quote a dealer’s price?

  She started toward her booth, focusing on the mirror, and then remembered—“Check out Show Management”—and turned around. I must be losing my memory!

  She heard voices from Show Management before she could see the booth.

  “Susan, we’ve been over this a thousand times, and this is not the moment.”

  “I don’t know why! Vince, I’m tired of playing all these games. I’m tired, period. I set up my own booth, and then play gofer for you all day, and suddenly you’re too tired to do anything for me. You promised I could have it back for the show. I’ve got a customer coming in to see it!”

  “The reception is going to start in an hour. You need to get cleaned up, and so do I. We can talk after the reception. Right now I have to go shave and begin acting like a host, and you have to act more like the lady you’re obviously not.”

  Maggie turned the corner just in time to see Susan Findley land a well-aimed palm on Vince Thompson’s cheek. Maggie ducked back into the adjoining aisle before either of them could spot her.

  Well! Gussie was right. That certainly was an interesting spectacle. Where was Harry? It was definitely time for sherry.

  She walked quickly toward her van, holding her long skirt up and picking her way carefully between the puddles and mud in the field. At least the rain had stopped. She passed Susan’s van and Joe’s (a recent, navy blue model with J. COUSINS, BOOKSELLER in gold on the side, much more elegant than Joe himself) and the Wyndhams’. They had moved to the “park all night” area, a different part of the field from where people like her were parked, who’d be leaving for the night after the show closed. She hung her garment bag just inside the van’s side door and pulled out a well-worn cooler containing glasses, a bottle of good Portuguese sherry, and a packet of cocktail napkins. Ben was over by Gussie’s van, not far away. “Hey, Ben! Sherry for you?”

  “No thanks, Dr. Summer—I mean, Maggie. I’m not twenty-one yet. Besides, I’m in training.”

  “Training for what?”

  “I run races. I’m on a team. I’m going to practice on the track back there, behind the bathroom buildings, while you and Aunt Gussie are at the reception.” Ben bent to tie his running shoes.

  “Good idea, Ben. Much more interesting than standing around with us oldies.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, still concentrating on his running shoes.

  “Have fun.” He was such a polite, kind young man. Gussie was lucky. Maggie headed back to her booth, cooler in hand. Alcohol wasn’t encouraged for dealers at shows, but at most shows no one came right out and banned it. On a reception evening it was almost required. Abe Wyndham sometimes glared, but even Lydia was known to borrow a silver thermos from someone else’s booth and add something to her herbal tea. Years ago Maggie and Gussie had decided that antiques shows were not the places to be hefting cans of beer, and that they weren’t the type to add bourbon to their cans of diet ginger ale. They had settled on their own quiet bit of elegance.

  Sherry was reserved for shows, and especially, for just before show openings.

  She and Gussie would make an optimistic toast to the spirits of customers to come, and Maggie made a silent plea that t
his show be an especially good one. Once the show started, antiques-dealer etiquette required everybody to respond only “good show” or “not bad” if anyone other than their closest friend asked how they were doing. Too many shows were not good for too many people.

  Antiques dealers might sometimes be cutthroats, but they were courteous cutthroats and would seldom risk embarrassing another dealer—unless, of course, they could make a profit by it. The etiquette went with the role and the territory. Dealers would rarely admit that they hadn’t even made booth rent or, just as rarely, brag that they had sold enough for a buying trip to Great Britain and a vacation in Tahiti. Profits, or the lack of them, were private.

  Maggie sat on the folding chair in her booth and exchanged muddy sneakers for dressy sandals, thinking about what she had seen at Show Management. Susan Findley and Vince Thompson. Odd. She tucked her sneakers under the table covers with her now empty cartons and portfolios and pulled out her sales book and the mahogany stationery box she’d inherited from her grandmother and now used as a cash box for good luck.

  This show was going to be very, very interesting.

  Even without last week’s murder.

  Chapter 6

  Spectacled Owl, Siberian Owl, and Butcher Bird, hand-colored steel engraving by the Comte de Buffon (1707–88), French naturalist who devoted his life to his forty-four-volume Histoire naturelle (1749–94), the first study of natural history that attempted to classify animals and plants. This engraving, 1792. Price: $75.

  Maggie had just finished pouring about three inches of sherry into each of two slender but not irreplaceable wine-glasses when Gussie motored up, dressed in black silk pants and a Chinese silk jacket embroidered with red and gold lotus blossoms.

  “Très chic!” Maggie nodded approvingly. “Your sherry awaits you!”

  Gussie raised her glass and together they chimed, “May they!” For some reason that neither of them now remembered, they began each show they did together with the same toast, short for “May they buy!” Any resemblance to the phrase Mayday, signaling a disaster, was purely intentional.

  “So,” said Gussie, putting down her glass on the table edge nearest to her booth, “did you see them?”

  “I sure did. But I don’t think they saw me. Susan and Vince were having an argument about something. She even slapped him!”

  “Well, when I was there, they sure weren’t arguing. They were, shall we say, mingling closely. A good thing I was driving at a leisurely pace; if I’d been going faster than a crawl, I would have crashed right into them.”

  “Would they have noticed?”

  Maggie and Gussie grinned like two teenagers who’ve caught the head cheerleader with the math teacher.

  “But where is Harry while all whatever-this-is is happening?” Maggie realized that she hadn’t even spoken with Harry today; just waved in his direction as she set up.

  Gussie shook her head. “I don’t know. I saw him earlier—you did, too—helping Joe. I haven’t seen either Harry or Susan near their booth all afternoon.”

  “You’re right. When I first got here, Susan was bringing in that pedestal she’s put in the middle of her booth. She must have hung those embroideries on the quilt frame while I was registering, because I didn’t see anyone near the booth after that. I did take a look before I went to change, though. Did you notice how they’ve diversified their stock this year? I really like one of their Japanese prints.”

  “Harry and Susan seem so perfect together.” Gussie sipped the sherry. “I’ve always been a bit envious. Before last winter, I was even a bit jealous of you and Michael. I’ve been divorced too long, Maggie.”

  Maggie smiled ironically. “What we saw at Show Management didn’t exactly illustrate that ‘perfect couple’ scenario for Harry and Susan. And, of course, you know what happened with Michael and me.”

  “You’re right. Mouth opened before brain was in gear. I know how rough a winter it’s been. I’m sorry we don’t live closer, so I could have been some sort of a help to you.”

  “You’re a good and kind friend, Gussie. But I felt the same way about the Findleys. They seemed to have the perfect setup.” Maggie took another sip of her sherry. “And, no matter what the situation with Harry, Susan is making music with Vince, but it sure wasn’t harmonious when I was there!”

  “It was pretty tuneful when I saw them. If Vince ever put his hands on me, the way he was…well, he isn’t my type. But it just doesn’t make sense. Could Susan really be—seeing—Vince?”

  They were silent for a moment. “Seeing Vince” involved a lot more than a visual experience, and with Vince, “seeing” was always a temporary situation. Vince kept moving, in every sense of the word. Between his shows and his antiques tours he was rarely home. And he was rarely alone, home or away. But Susan certainly was a great flirt. Always had been.

  “If Susan was going to have an affair, why Vince?” Maggie shook her head. “She always seemed smarter than that. A little spacey. But not dumb.”

  “And to jeopardize her marriage to someone as terrific as Harry. And do it right under his nose!”

  “If we saw them, then so did half the dealers here.”

  “Well, she does look terrific, as always. Although I think this time she’s lost a little too much weight.”

  Maggie nodded. Susan was usually on some new health kick. Last year it had been radishes. She’d eaten at least a bowl or two during each day of the show, swearing they would guarantee smoother skin and more energy in one easy, nutritious package. Between customers she was always popping some sort of pill guaranteed to keep her young and beautiful forever.

  “Well, whatever she’s doing this year, she looked tired to me.”

  “Maybe she ran out of radishes.”

  “Or maybe this year it’s kumquats!”

  “The only thing sure about Susan is that every year it’s something different.”

  “Maggie. I just thought. Susan was at Vince’s Show Management area. She’s probably the ‘pretty lady’ Ben spent half the afternoon checking out!”

  “Well, she’s a little old for him, but only by ten or twelve years, I’d guess.”

  Gussie shook her head. “I still can’t put the whole picture together. There must be an explanation.”

  Maggie reached down below the table covering for the bottle to refill their glasses.

  “What is it that you ladies need explained?”

  “Susan!”

  Susan, appearing from the direction of her booth, looked more like a guest at a cocktail party than an antiques dealer waiting for customers. The green brocade dress she was wearing featured a low neckline that framed a large carved-jade pendant.

  She gave Maggie and Gussie each a fast hug and a big smile. Whatever the problem had been with Vince, it didn’t appear to be bothering her now.

  “It’s me—in person! Sorry I didn’t have a chance to chat with you guys earlier; I was helping Vince. But it’s almost magic time, so here I am!”

  Maggie reached out and clasped Susan’s hand for a moment and took a good look at her. Susan had always been tiny and slim. But today her cheekbones were almost protruding, and the low neckline on her dress just accentuated her collarbone. Maybe it was true you couldn’t be too rich, but Susan was a walking illustration that you could be too thin. Her hair, even blonder and frizzier than usual, was loosely curled and accentuated by the silver streak in the front.

  Maggie tried not to stare at her. “Susan, what a beautiful dress. And that incredible necklace makes your eyes look so green!”

  “Thank you. Actually, the green contacts help, too. I just needed to try something new, you know, so this year it’s my eyes. Terrific?” Her eyes were definitely the color of strawberry leaves.

  “It is certainly a new look! Gussie and I were just saying we hadn’t seen you in hours.” At least not in your booth, Maggie thought. “But I did admire your inventory!”

  “Thanks! I’ve gone international this year! Found all kind
s of wild stuff on Vince’s buyers’ trip to Hong Kong and Singapore in early April. I’ve got tons to tell you. What a year! Not to be believed.” Susan paused and looked serious for a moment. “Maggie, I heard about Michael. I’m sorry.”

  “I appreciate that, Susan. It was a hard winter. But life goes on. And where’s Harry? I haven’t spoken with him today, either.”

  “‘Where is Harry?’ The question of the year! Harry’s gone.” Susan gestured dramatically in the general direction of the ceiling.

  Maggie and Gussie looked at each other while Susan recovered from her histrionics.

  “Well, no, I don’t mean he’s disappeared or anything. But he’s gone from my life. Or at least my legal life.”

  “Harry’s here at the show, isn’t he? I saw him earlier, helping Joe set up.”

  “Exactly. That’s it.”

  Gussie shook her head. “Susan, you’ve lost me.”

  “I thought everyone would know by now, actually. It’s been the talk of the circuit.”

  “What, Susan? I’ve been off the circuit—and Gussie lives in Massachusetts. We hadn’t heard anything.”

  “Harry. He and I are still the best of friends—the best! In fact, he’s buying out my share of Art-Effects, and we’ve almost got the paperwork done. It’s complicated by the divorce and all, but since we’re all in agreement, it’s pretty clear.”

  Maggie raised her hands, then let them fall. “Susan, I’m sorry, but this has caught me way off base. You and Harry are divorced?”

  “Will be next week. Harry has been in analysis for a long time and finally decided that he needed to be his own person.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Gussie said. “But why can’t he be his own person and be married to you?”

  “Because Harry’s own person is not married. In fact, Harry’s own person is not even heterosexual. In fact, Harry’s own person is in love with Joe. Which is why you saw them together earlier.”