by Lea Wait
Maggie had made the decisions for this year with difficulty. It was so hard to concentrate on anything, and with Michael gone this year’s antiques shows seemed more important than ever. The money was important; the independence was important; coming home to an empty house after a full weekend was important. They were all steps toward the freedom Maggie had always assumed she had, but in which she now felt isolated.
Maggie had chosen Currier & Ives prints to feature this year because sorting through them had been familiar and reassuring. Her first antiques print purchase had been Maggie, one of a series of Currier & Ives prints depicting women with popular nineteenth-century names. At the time Maggie hadn’t realized it was one of a series. She was just a starving college student on her way to join friends for pizza at a small shop on Bloomfield Avenue in Montclair, New Jersey, where she was a history major at Montclair State. She had turned a corner and was stopped by the portrait of a smiling woman in the window. When she got close enough to see that the print was titled Maggie, she knew it was meant for her.
The elderly antiques dealer, pleased at a young woman’s interest, let her make a deposit on it and agreed to accept the money in ten weekly payments. Although at $35 ($3 a week) the print was certainly not the most expensive that Maggie had ever bought, it remained one of her favorites. It had always hung in the room she used for her inventory and study, reminding her of the young woman who had seen herself, around a corner, in the past. Earlier this spring she had moved it to a prominent place in her living room.
That print had led to her investigation of other prints, especially American prints. As a graduate history student, Maggie had written a series of papers on American prints as reflections of American life and culture, and for her doctoral dissertation she had written about Thomas Nast’s influence on the American political conscience.
Collecting prints for her own enjoyment and for her research had led Maggie down the road that had brought her to the Rensselaer County Spring Antiques Fair this warm Saturday May afternoon. But she had never moved totally away from seeing prints as illustrations of America’s intellectual and social history, and she often shared prints with her students, as illustrations for her lectures. Over the years she had also created a small following of young people interested in prints—some from a historical perspective, and others just for the joy of bringing a little of the past into their lives.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur: Maggie and Will watched Susan’s booth and made a few minor sales for her, although neither of them were experts in the early-twentieth-century items Susan and Harry stocked.
Maggie herself sold several botanical lithographs and four prints of different varieties of New York State apples to someone who planned to frame and hang them in a kitchen overlooking an orchard. And she spent about twenty minutes with a woman who was interested in herbs, and who, in addition to looking through the group of prints Maggie had labeled “herbs,” also looked through the rest of the botanical prints to find plants that could be used in cooking. Nasturtiums, the woman swore, made a delicious and colorful addition to any tossed salad.
Maggie smiled and nodded and tried to pay attention to her booth and to Susan’s. The abbreviated sleep she’d had the night before was showing. She hoped Susan was getting some good rest.
“You’re trying to do too much, dear,” counseled Lydia from across the aisle. “Too many irons in the fire. Just take some deep breaths. It’s almost five-thirty; we only have to get through another half hour. Why don’t you try some chamomile tea?”
Maggie smiled. She had just sold a chamomile lithograph.
“Sorry. I think I need a little caffeine. In fact”—she yawned—“maybe a lot of caffeine.”
Before Lydia could make another comment about caffeine’s effect on the heart, Joe stepped across the aisle, now only partially filled with customers. “I need a break, and I was going to bring back coffee. I’ll get one for you, if you’d like.”
“Thanks, Joe. But I think I’ll just open another can of cola.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you something? We’ve all had a rough weekend.” Joe looked as exhausted as Maggie felt.
“No, I’m fine. It seems incredible that it’s only Saturday afternoon. We have tomorrow yet to go. It feels as though we’ve been here a lifetime.”
Joe nodded and headed out toward the rest rooms and concession stands.
Maggie stood midway between her booth and Susan’s so she could keep an eye on both of them. A white-haired woman in a tailored pink pantsuit had just leaned her gold-headed cane against one of Susan’s tables and was looking closely at some Japanese porcelains. She had better not leave that cane for long; it was a beauty, and canes were becoming more collectible every year, with baby boomers approaching the age at which canes became a necessity. If the baby boomers started using them, canes would become the fashion accessory of 2010, and antique canes with gold heads would shoot up in value.
Maggie thought of the antiquarian-book sale she’d been to recently. She often looked for “breakers”—books with tattered bindings and missing pages that were not of great value to a book dealer or collector, but, especially when their plates were hand-colored, might be valuable to a print dealer. First editions of Little Golden Books—those inexpensive little books everyone’s mother had bought for him or her in groceries and dime stores in the 1950s—were selling for $30 and more!
The most valuable were the original 1940s editions with blue bindings complete with dustcovers encouraging the purchase of U.S. Savings Stamps. Other titles escalating in price were those that had not been reprinted many times, such as Little Black Sambo, published in 1948 and later viewed as racist; or books that still included the puzzles or gimmicks they had come with, such as Dr. Dan the Bandage Man (which had come with bandages), or that featured television characters of the fifties, such as Howdy Doody, Hopalong Cassidy, or Rootie Kazootie. First editions featuring Disney characters were among the most valuable.
Any parent who had tried hard but had never actually got Johnny to read should check the attic. If Johnny’s books were in pristine condition, they might now be minor treasures.
You’re getting old when your childhood memories turn into someone else’s antique, Maggie, she told herself. She wished she had a child to share those memories with, and to help create a few for the next generation.
Ever since Michael’s death Maggie had found herself thinking more and more about being a parent. She wasn’t too old. There were ways, with or without a husband. Or maybe she’d adopt. If parenthood was something she wanted, then she would have to do something about it. In the near future. She and Michael had put off too many decisions too long. She didn’t want to make the same mistake again.
On the other hand, how would she ever be able to cope with being an antiques dealer and having a child? Day care centers would help with teaching hours, but she would never be able to just pop a baby into a carrier and hustle off to a two-or three-day antiques show. Reality, Maggie, she thought to herself. Get real. You’re thirty-eight years old.
“Lady, you’re looking depressed as well as exhausted. Let me keep an eye on Susan’s booth while you sit down in yours for the last half hour and talk with Gussie. She looks as though she could use some company.”
Will’s voice brought Maggie back to today.
“Thanks, Will. I’ve just about had it.”
“Figured out whodunit yet?”
“No way. Actually,” Maggie admitted as she looked around Susan’s booth, “I keep coming back to Susan. She had both motive and opportunity. She was the one who found Harry. They’d had an argument that night. He was leaving her for someone else; she needed money for some reason, and now she’ll get not only the business, but also any insurance he might have had.”
Will nodded. “It’s hard to believe, but you’re right. A lot of people weren’t thrilled with Harry, but I can’t think of anyone else who had a strong motive. And”—he glanced down the aisle at Joe’
s booth—“who was here last night.”
“I hope it wasn’t Susan. But I’m sure it wasn’t Ben, and he’s the one the police have in custody.”
“Has Gussie’s friend gotten him out?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been so busy here I haven’t even talked with her in the last hour.”
“Well, why don’t you do that? I think she needs a friend.”
Maggie nodded as Joe stopped on his way back from the concession stand. “We’ve got just a short time left, and then I’m going to go check on Susan and see if I can take her out for some dinner.”
It might look strange to others, but Joe had been a friend to both Susan and Harry. He seemed sad as he went to his booth.
“You’ll need to eat, too, Maggie, and we do have a deal. I’m not letting you out of the agreement, although I won’t hold you to paying,” Will said. “What if I give you an hour or so to collapse, and then I come over and we find someplace with wine and peace?”
Maggie looked at him. The top three buttons of his blue tailored shirt were now open, revealing smooth skin dotted with five small, dark spots. She had to resist the urge to connect the dots. “Wine and peace sound wonderful. Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ll see you at about seven-thirty, then?”
“I’m in Kabin A twenty-three. First row on the left as you drive in to the Kabins.”
Maggie tried to remember whether she’d brought anything more interesting to wear than the pantsuit she’d planned on putting on tomorrow.
“I’ll find you.” Will winked, and Maggie returned to her booth, wondering how she was going to cope simultaneously with a suddenly attractive man, a murder, and exhaustion. Life didn’t play fair. That was for sure.
Gussie grinned at her. “Great news! One of the dealers came forward and told the police he saw Harry walking out from in back of the rest room about quarter to ten Friday night. And the autopsy results show Harry had a bruise and small cut on the opposite side of his head from the blow that killed him. They’ve released Ben, although they still want him close by. Jim went back to the motel to make some calls. He’s still trying to find a decent local criminal attorney, just in case. But it looks as though Ben is off the hook!”
“Gussie, that’s wonderful! But why can’t Jim be his lawyer?”
Gussie shook her head. “He’s great at small-town wills and mortgages, not criminal law in another state. But he knows people who know other people, so he’s playing his networks.”
“How’s Ben holding up?”
“All right, I guess. He told my sister that the policemen were really nice, and the food wasn’t bad, but that he was missing his practice times on the track.” She paused. “He also asked whether he was going to be hanged or put in an electric chair.”
Maggie winced. “Not good.”
“No. But it’s hard for him to focus on everything. Right now I suspect he’s back in the motel taking a nap.”
Maggie shook her head. “There’s an answer to all of this. An answer that does not involve Ben.”
“Have you found out anything new?”
“Not since I talked with you last.”
“You got Susan to rest?”
Maggie nodded. “I took her back to her van. She really didn’t look well. I think the shock of the whole situation was beginning to get to her. Joe’s going to check on her after the show and make sure she gets something to eat.”
“Good for him.” Gussie nodded approvingly. “He’s not exactly had a terrific day himself, but he’s thinking about other people. And that’s the first step in getting your own life in order.”
“I just keep thinking there’s a piece of the puzzle I haven’t found yet. Unless…” Maggie hesitated.
“Yes? What?” Gussie leaned back in her scooter. “Out with it, Maggie. What?”
“The only person who seems to have both motive and opportunity is Susan.”
“Do you really think she could have killed Harry?”
“I can’t seem to come up with any other suspects.”
Gussie shook her head. “Much as I’d like someone to be responsible other than Ben, I can’t believe it’s Susan. She just isn’t that strong a person—mentally, or even physically. She looks as though she could hardly lift a pocketbook, much less something that would crush the skull of the man she says she loved.”
“She certainly looks weak. But yesterday she was carrying a pedestal that looked pretty heavy.”
“The one in her booth?”
Maggie nodded.
“I’d bet it’s at least partially hollow. She didn’t pick it up, lift it over her head, and hit someone with it.”
“No, Gussie, I don’t think she did. Although that would have been some blunt object!”
They both smiled slightly.
“Ben saw Harry last night. Susan talked with Harry. Vince talked with Harry. Joe did not talk with Harry. Who else was around?”
“Lydia and Abe; she saw Harry. Will. Me. Lots of other dealers, too, but I think we can rule them out as murder suspects; they didn’t even know who Harry was when the police arrived. Harry wasn’t as well known on the antiques show circuit as he was in other circles.”
“Maybe it wasn’t someone he knew. Harry was hit on the back of the head, right? Doesn’t sound as though he was having a serious discussion with anyone at that precise moment.”
“Well, it certainly turned serious enough.”
They both thought for a few seconds.
“There were people in the south field while that was happening; you and Will and Ben were there, and so were at least a couple of dozen other dealers.”
“Right.”
“I know several people identified Ben as someone who was running around just after nine-thirty looking disheveled and scared.”
Maggie nodded. “No doubt that he was. Now if just one person remembers seeing Harry talking with someone who might have killed him…” She paused. “I still think we’re missing something. But my mind isn’t coming up with anything right now.”
Gussie glanced at her watch and started closing her cash box. “Right now we’ve all got too much information on our minds and too much exhaustion on our bodies.”
The public address system broke the silence as Vince’s voice filled the four exhibit buildings. “Good evening, dealers and customers of the Rensselaer County Spring Antiques Fair. The show is closing for the evening. Please conclude your purchases. If you wish to return to the antiques fair tomorrow, please get a readmission ticket as you exit. Dealers, please close your booths. The show will be open to dealers at ten-thirty Sunday morning and will open to the public at eleven. Please drive carefully, and have a relaxing evening.”
Maggie gave the nearest speaker in the ceiling an ironic glance. “Just like last night, Vince? A nice, relaxing evening.”
“Well, I’m heading back to the Kabins.” Gussie fit her cash box and receipts into a wide canvas bag imprinted with a lighthouse and VISIT THE CAPE! “I’m going to join the family for a celebration dinner.” She hesitated as she turned her scooter toward the door. “Want to come?”
Maggie shook her head. “Thanks, but no. Family time is important.” She threw a large sheet over her tables and pulled a chair across the entrance, adding a red-and-white BOOTH CLOSED sign. “And, if I have the energy, I have a date.” She gestured toward Will’s booth, which was already empty.
“Fast work!” Gussie smiled. “Have a great time. And remember all the good details for tomorrow.”
“Only if you do the same.” Maggie hoisted the bag holding her cash box and her pocketbook to her shoulder. “I’m too exhausted for an X rating; I definitely predict a PG-rated evening.”
“Well, at least try for an R,” Gussie said, grinning, as she turned and waved on her way to the side door.
Joe had also finished putting chairs in front of his booth. “Thanks again for helping Susan this afternoon, Maggie.”
“No problem. I really hope she’s been able to
get some rest.”
“I’m going to drop my stuff at my van and then go and check on her. There may be some calls I can help her with, or at least maybe I can get her to go out and have something to eat.”
Maggie nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I’ll be across the street. Will and I are going to have dinner somewhere, but we won’t be late.”
“I’m sure Susan will be fine.” Joe shifted one of the canvas bags he was carrying to his other hand. “She’s been through rough times before. She’s stronger than she sometimes appears.”
“I think most of us are,” said Maggie. “No one is ever prepared for what life delivers…but, somehow, we get through it.”
Joe nodded and started up the aisle. As Maggie started to follow him toward the parking lot, he turned toward her. “At least nothing can be worse than last night. And we all got through that.”
“You’re right,” Maggie said. “Nothing could be that bad.”
Chapter 19
Pheasants à la Finauciere, pheasants garnished with crayfish, surrounded by other elegant dishes. Hand-colored engraving from the famous Book of Household Management by Mrs. Beeton, published in London, 1861, which covered everything from wages for domestics to how to wash butter freshly removed from the churn. It was the first widely used recipe book in England and went through many editions. Price: $65.
Maggie turned her room radio loud enough so she could hear the local news (Harry’s death wasn’t mentioned) while she was in the shower. It was loud enough so she didn’t hear the red-and-white ambulance screaming up to the Rensselaer County Fairgrounds for the second time in under twenty-four hours. It moved rapidly around the last few customers’ cars leaving the parking lots, heading toward the same section of dealers’ vehicles it had visited the night before. Within minutes it was on its way back to Rensselaer Hospital.