Shadows at the Fair

by Lea Wait

  There was nothing illegal in what Harry had done; dealers sometimes lucked out and made large profits. But in a case where he knew he could make a bundle, Harry shouldn’t have asked Will to increase the discount he was giving. The fair thing would have been to pay Will’s asking price, or slightly below it.

  Maggie grimaced. “All’s fair in love and commerce. But you’re right. I’d have been plenty aggravated if that had happened to me.”

  “Well, it got to me. It was right about the time when I was trying to turn my business into a full-time occupation, and every dollar was important. I decided if he ever wanted anything else from me, he’d have to pay full price. But”—Will looked up as the waitress slipped his breakfast in front of him—“I never had the chance. He avoided me after that.” He raised his fork toward the eggs. “Probably just as well.”

  They both concentrated on food for the next few minutes; breakfast never tastes as good as when you’re not sure when you’ll have lunch.

  Maggie took a sip of juice. “Do you know anyone else at the show who might have had similar dealings with Harry?”

  “Could have been anyone, I guess. Although Harry wasn’t really into antiques shows. Most of his contacts were with decorators or auction houses. I suspect the reason he came to me was that he didn’t know anyone else who specialized in early kitchen gear and tools.” Will paused. “I don’t like to think it was also because I lived in Buffalo, so he wouldn’t be running into me very often. I’m doing a lot more shows now, but, as it’s turned out, this is the first show I’ve done with him.”

  “I think he and Susan only do Vince’s shows. You were lucky to get in. You must have called at just the right moment.”

  “I was at the show in Westchester last week, when John Smithson died. I’d seen discount cards for this show in his booth, so I took a chance and called Vince. This is a show I’ve been wanting to get into.”

  “Don’t you feel a little like a grave robber?”

  “Someone had to fill the space; John wasn’t going to be here, and Vince wouldn’t have left the space empty. I figured I might as well be the one.” Will took a bite of his waffles. “Am I still on your list of possible murderers?”

  “Susan told me you were looking for Harry after the show closed last night. Did you find him?”

  “I saw Harry leaving right after the show-closing announcement. I did want to talk with him to tell him what I thought of him, so I tried to follow him. But I saw him with Vince, and I had second thoughts. I went back to my RV and made myself a sandwich. After dinner I went for a walk around the fields and didn’t speak with anyone until I saw you and Ben.”

  “Do you think all the dealers will be at the show today? Surely Susan won’t.”

  “She told me this morning that she was staying; certainly she could pack up if she wanted to. Even Vince wouldn’t make her remain under the circumstances. But the police wanted her to stick around, and she said she needed any money the show might bring in.”

  “Not acting the grieving widow role.”

  Will shrugged. “Looked to me like she and Harry just had a marriage of convenience anyway. From what I saw when I met them in New York, marriage didn’t appear to be slowing down her social life. And Harry didn’t seem to mind; he always had his own agenda.”

  “And what about Joe? I wonder if he’ll be there today.”

  “I’d guess, yes. Besides, even if the police think they’ve got the killer, they’re certainly not encouraging anyone to pack up and leave.”

  “I didn’t see Joe anywhere around last night. But I’m assuming he was there.”

  “I don’t know him well, but I have run into him at a couple of shows. He doesn’t seem to socialize a lot. Probably last night he was just minding his own business. And he really seemed to like Harry. He may be the really bereaved person in this scenario.”

  “I wonder if he has an alibi.”

  “Maggie, leave the detecting to the police. You have a show to do today. Think of all those prints you’re going to sell.”

  “I haven’t forgotten them. But I’m so worried about Ben. Harry was no angel, but I just can’t imagine anyone hating Harry enough to kill him. And I know for sure that Ben didn’t do it.”

  “What about Susan? She had a motive—I heard Harry was divorcing her for Joe.”

  “Jealousy? It’s possible. But, as you said, Susan always seemed to have other interests of her own. Vince, for instance. I’m thinking more about the money involved. She told you she was staying at the show to make money? Married to Harry, she had a half interest in the business; divorced from Harry she would have cash for her share of Art-Effects; widowed, she’d have all of the business and any insurance Harry might have had.”

  “You’re right, Maggie. It sounds strange. But maybe money is a problem. It could be anything. Gambling? Maybe she borrowed some money and is under pressure to return it. Maybe she made some investments that went sour. Maybe she wants a month at a spa. She looks as though she could use some rest.”

  “What about Vince? He knew them both well.”

  “What would be his motive? Jealousy? Vince seems to have had Susan. Business? He and Harry didn’t compete, so far as I know. Different interests. Doesn’t add up.”

  “Someone has to have a motive. Could you keep an eye on my booth if I do a little wandering today? I’ll ask Gussie, too, assuming she even comes to the show. She must be frantic about Ben.”

  “Okay. I’ll help. But I think you’re crazy to play amateur detective.” He picked up the check that lay on the table. “Tell you what—if you figure out the murderer, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Well, you’d better stay by your booth long enough to make some big sales. Because I plan on being very hungry.”

  Maggie smiled. “Then I guess it’s a date.”

  Chapter 16

  City of New York from Brooklyn Heights, hand-colored steel engraving by A. G. Warren, New York, 1872. Scene includes many sailing vessels and one steamboat as well as the Brooklyn Bridge, which was then under construction. Price: $125.

  By 10 A.M. the line of customers waiting to pay the $8 admission charge was already snaking around the exhibit buildings. Maggie heard Vince Thompson wondering whether the murder had encouraged curiosity seekers. Although it had happened too late to make the local papers, radio stations had picked up the news and were headlining, “Second Antiques Dealer Murder.” Customers who hadn’t heard of the grisly events must have been puzzled by the presence of so many police.

  As Maggie was straightening prints that had gone off-kilter the night before, Gussie arrived. Her scooter practically left skid marks as she stopped right in front of Maggie. “What a night! I can’t believe this nightmare! They’re still holding Ben. Jim arrived two hours ago. He’s making sure Ben doesn’t say anything and is hunting down a local criminal attorney just in case we need one.” She took a deep breath. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “Whoa! They were keeping all potential witnesses on the grounds, so, as I told you last night, I slept in Will’s RV. I stopped in to see you when I got off the grounds this morning, but you weren’t there.”

  “Sorry. I was having breakfast with my sister and her husband. They told me I should go ahead and manage my booth; they don’t hold me responsible. But I can’t help thinking, Why didn’t I keep Ben with me all the time? Why did I think he’d be all right by himself, in a new place?”

  “Gussie, it wasn’t your fault. Ben was just in that classic wrong place at the wrong time.” Maggie reached over and touched Gussie’s hand. “If you need help with anything, I’m here. I’ve just about finished checking my booth.”

  “Thank you, Maggie. I just need someone to reassure me that I’m going to wake up any minute and find it’s all a mistake and Ben is back helping me put miniature furniture on the high shelves.” Gussie turned and took a deep breath. “I will be all right; really I will be. Be my friend today and keep me
sane?”

  Maggie nodded. “I’ll do everything I can, Gussie. To help you, and to try to figure out what really happened last night.”

  Gussie looked over at Will’s booth, where he was adjusting a wooden fireplace frame he was using as a background for his Colonial kitchen equipment.

  “And I must thank Will! He was with Ben when the police picked him up for questioning…and he’s the one who called me.” Gussie moved up the aisle to Will’s booth. She was back in a moment. “He is really a nice man. You spent the night with him?”

  “Go dust your dolls and your dirty mind!” Maggie grinned. “Yes, we spent the night together. Will and I and Susan. It was a wild time, Gussie!”

  “Give me five minutes, and then you’ve got to tell me everything.” Gussie arched her eyebrows. “And I mean everything. Maybe it’ll get my mind off Ben.” She turned into her booth and started uncovering her tables.

  Maggie sat down and checked once more that her prints were straightened, business cards out, magnifying glass and tape measure handy. Diet cola. To hold sold merchandise, plastic bags stashed optimistically near her chair, but hidden by the table covers. She really did hope it would be a good show. She wasn’t as desperate for money as Susan appeared to be, but she could certainly use some extra cash flow. Just being away from home this weekend meant she’d had to hire a neighbor boy to mow her grass. One more $40 expense to have someone else do something Michael had always taken care of.

  She looked around. Susan was in her booth, as Will had predicted, nibbling on what looked like fast-food scrambled eggs and a bagel. She looked less like the grieving widow. She was talking to a dealer Maggie didn’t know, although he looked familiar. Maybe he was the one selling embroideries and laces over in building one. Will was gulping another cup of coffee he’d clearly picked up from one of the concession stands on his way in. Lydia and Abe were unlocking their glass cases of jewelry and sterling flatware. And Joe was in his booth, straightening shelves of leather-bound books.

  The show must go on, Maggie thought, as Vince’s voice boomed over the intercom.

  “All dealers in their booths. Welcome to the Twenty-third Annual Rensselaer County Spring Antiques Fair. The show is now open. Concession stands are on the south side of the grounds. If you plan to leave the show grounds and return, please take your stamped admittance ticket with you. Porters are available to help you take your purchases to your vehicles, and shipping arrangements can be made in the Show Management booth. Enjoy the show!”

  Gussie motored around the side of the booth. “All right; now, before the onslaught begins, tell me everything you know. Anything that will help Ben. I don’t even know exactly what happened. When I saw Ben at the station, he was in a daze, crying and scared.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows exactly what happened, Gussie. But I can tell you what Ben and I did.”

  Gussie nodded when Maggie finally ended her account of the evening’s events.

  “It all happened too quickly,” Maggie added. “We ran back and there was Susan, standing over Harry’s body. He’d been hit on the head.”

  Gussie paled. “Could Ben…?”

  “I don’t think so. But the police apparently think he did, so they’re not looking very hard at other possibilities. They’re just trying to tie Ben to the time and place. They’ve got his virtual confession that he hit Harry, and they have the blood on his hand. Chances are, it’s Harry’s blood. That’s why we’ve got to figure out who is responsible. They have a long list of everyone who was here last night, including Ben and me, but the murderer most likely is one of us who knew Harry well enough to want him dead.”

  “No signs of robbery?”

  “I didn’t ask. But anyone wanting to steal last night would have hit the exhibit area. There are hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of antiques in here. Why kill someone in the parking lot?” Maggie paused. “No, I think it had to be someone who knew Harry well, and who was very angry.”

  “What about the John Smithson murder?” Gussie shivered. “This is the second antiques dealer to die in two weeks. Is anyone looking at that?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I asked the detective who interviewed me. He said most killers with more than one victim use the same method all the time. John Smithson was poisoned; Harry was hit on the head.”

  “How is Susan taking it?” They both looked toward Susan’s booth. She was laughing with an overweight gentleman who seemed to share her amusement.

  “Right now, she seems to be taking it well,” Maggie replied dryly. “But last night she was hysterical. She and Harry may have had an untraditional relationship, but I think they really cared for each other. All those years we thought they were the ideal couple! But I guess each couple defines its own relationship. Harry and Susan shared their business. And apparently, they shared a belief in open marriage.”

  “Until now, when Harry left her for Joe.”

  “Even that situation doesn’t seem clear to me. Last night she described the divorce as basically a financial rearrangement. She needed cash, and Harry was buying out her share of the business. It didn’t sound as though either of them planned to move out of their loft, for instance.”

  “Harry was always charming to me, but I’ve heard he was really manipulative. He took care of Harry first, Susan second, and anyone else a far third, depending on how valuable the relationship was to Harry.”

  Maggie nodded. “That’s what Will told me. He was involved in a deal with Harry where nothing illegal happened, but Will felt Harry had used him.”

  “That sounds like Harry. There are always rumors about dealers, but I never heard any about Harry being involved in anything illegal. Just that he was good at maneuvering people. That you had to watch him. And that Susan was a bit of a sycophant. But they always seemed close.”

  Maggie turned to smile at the young couple looking through her Maxfield Parrish prints. “That’s a good example of Parrish blue,” she pointed out. “He loved pure colors and seldom blended them; he was so known for his use of cobalt blue that his contemporaries named it after him.”

  “I like the print, but I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Parrish, N. C. Wyeth, and Jessie Willcox Smith were the three best-known students of the Brandywine School. They all worked in the early part of the twentieth century.”

  “That was Howard Pyle’s group, wasn’t it?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “All his people look the same.” The young woman, red sunglasses perched precariously on her blonde hair, had lined up several of the Parrish prints. “Men and women; old and young. There’s something similar about them all.”

  Maggie peeked over her shoulder. “All those prints were taken from oil paintings Parrish did, and for years he only used one model—Susan Lewin. He would pose her in various costumes and roles. Sometimes he photographed her in different positions and then painted from the photograph.”

  “And then did he marry her and live happily ever after?”

  Maggie smiled. “Actually, no. He was already married. Lewin was a young woman he had hired to help his wife with the housework and to care for their four children. As you guessed, she became his mistress. She lived in an apartment over his studio, which was only a few feet from his house in cornish, New Hampshire. Certainly an interesting arrangement for the early twentieth century. The three of them—Parrish, his wife, and his mistress—lived that way for almost forty years.”

  The young man spoke up. “I think I’ve seen prints like this at the Westchester Mall. Are these really from the early twentieth century?”

  “Absolutely,” Maggie assured him, pointing at the “1904” penciled below the price on the print. “All my prints are guaranteed to be the age I’ve indicated. In Parrish’s case, they are the first printing of the illustration: usually a book plate or a magazine cover or illustration. Parrish has become popular recently, and you can find modern copies of his work in almost any poster store today. But these are originals.” />
  The couple conferred a bit before deciding to purchase The Lantern Bearers, a print showing Susan Lewin in six different overlapping poses, each figure identically dressed as a clown holding a large moonlike glowing ball reflecting the moon in a navy blue night sky, done for Collier’s Magazine in 1912.

  “I just love the real thing, don’t you?” bubbled the blonde.

  Maggie nodded as she wrote up the sales slip. What was even nicer was the real money she was now adding to her cash box.

  She made two other, smaller sales, after that—a Denton salmon, and a late-nineteenth-century lithograph of girls playing with a hoop. An unusually large number of customers were at the show, and a good percentage of them seemed to be carrying bags. Even if they weren’t interested in prints today, they had to be finding something they liked. That’s what kept people coming back to this show.

  Maggie noticed Lydia Wyndham wrapping up several good-sized pieces of Victorian sterling, and Will attempting to find a bag strong enough to support a copper kettle. So far so good, for all of them.

  “Gussie, would you like some diet soda? I picked up some extra cans this morning and put them in my cooler.”

  “Thanks, Maggie; that sounds great. I’m just not focused today. I have iced tea in my van, but I forgot to bring it in.” Gussie took a can of cola.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine. I had to ask one of the customers to lift down a doll he wanted to look at, but there was no problem. In fact”—she raised her can in the general direction of the crowd—“he bought it.”

  “Not bad for the first couple of hours.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’ve made a couple of sales, including one Parrish print. And the usual number of people who say they’re interested but want to see the whole show before they make a decision.”

  Gussie nodded. “The ‘be backs.’ Well, sometimes they do come back.”