Shadows on the Ivy

by Lea Wait

  “That’s one of the wonderful things about a community college. Few students attend because their parents packed them off and told them to achieve. They’re here because they decided on their own that they want a degree. And that they were willing to work for it.”

  “If they can learn to be good students, then I can learn to be a better teacher. I’ve always been a fast learner.” Paul picked up the now empty bottle of wine. “Another bottle?”

  She hoped he wasn’t planning to drive far. His voice was beginning to have that blur that said “too much.” “I don’t think so. I have to get home. And load my van, remember?”

  “Waiter! Two Sambucas, please.”

  Maggie frowned.

  “You don’t have to drink it. Just sip.”

  How much had Paul had to drink before she had arrived? He had been sitting at the bar when she’d arrived. Maggie left her glass on the table as Paul raised his Sambuca in her direction.

  His voice was slightly slurred. “Sometime I must go to one of your antique shows. The walls in my apartment are embarrassingly empty. My ex-wife took most of our artwork.”

  Ex-wives were not a topic Maggie wanted to pursue. “It must be strange, having known Oliver at work in New York, to see him at home here.”

  “I didn’t see him in his office too often. I saw him in the gym and then, sometimes, in social milieus.” His slight smirk suggested he wasn’t talking about trips to the opera.

  Maggie choked a bit. “Social milieus?”

  “You know. Places outside the usual spots he and Dorothy are seen here in Jersey.” Paul lowered his voice. “Many men have, shall we say, interests outside their families? And sometimes maintaining those—interests—requires that there be someone else, known to the family, who they can go places with. Or—not.”

  “In other words, you gave Oliver an alibi.” Maggie was more amused by Paul’s not-so-subtle description than she was shocked. Oliver had worked long hours in New York City, and Dorothy had mentioned how glad she was when he retired and could be at home more. Those long hours in New York had sometimes required he use a company suite in a hotel instead of coming home to New Jersey. It had been clear to Maggie then, if not to Dorothy, that a company suite could be used for a multitude of purposes.

  “And he’s a fair man. Turn and turn alike!” Paul actually winked at her.

  Was this his idea of a suave gentleman having a discussion with a colleague? Maggie had the distinct feeling that she was on Paul’s ex-wife’s side of whatever disagreements had led up to his divorce. “New Jersey must seem very tame to you after all that excitement.”

  “Oh, New Jersey isn’t all that boring, really.” Paul glanced around all too obviously and lowered his voice. No one at nearby tables was paying any attention. “Oliver has his interests here, too.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Maggie suddenly felt uncomfortable. Oliver Whitcomb was a Somerset College trustee; his wife was someone who trusted Maggie enough to confide in her. She did not want to know things about their life together that would make it awkward for her to work with either of them in the future. “Oliver Whitcomb’s personal life is his personal business.”

  “I’ve never told anyone, Maggie. I’m discreet.” Paul raised his glass and downed the rest of his Sambuca. “But you care about your students. And maybe someone should know about Oliver’s…interests.”

  “I do care about my students. But I really don’t care about Oliver’s interests. They’re his business. And his wife’s.” Maggie hesitated. Was this just gossip? Or could Paul be saying something she needed to understand? “Unless his interests have to do with my students?”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered why Oliver is so supportive of those single mothers at Whitcomb House?”

  “Whitcomb House is Dorothy’s project.” And just today she’d heard a great deal about why Dorothy Whitcomb had chosen that particular charitable endeavor.

  “Oliver’s pretty interested in it, too, Maggie. After all, it’s his money Dorothy is spending on those students.”

  “He’s always been very enthusiastic about the project.” Maggie tried to keep her voice steady.

  “Think about why a mature, educated, wealthy man like Oliver Whitcomb might be so interested in that group of young women, Maggie. Think about motives. Not all motives are altruistic, you know. Not even in the suburbs.” The waitress dropped their bill on the table and Paul fumbled with his wallet before pulling out a gold card. Maggie decided she wouldn’t fight for the bill. “I won’t tell anyone anything. I’ve promised not to. Oliver helped me to get my job. But someone needs to ask some questions. Before anyone else gets hurt.” For a moment Paul looked at her directly. In that second he appeared completely sober.

  Before anyone else gets hurt! Oliver was interested in “that group” of young women? Was another student in danger? Maggie swallowed deeply. Could Oliver Whitcomb have been involved with Sarah? His wife’s daughter? “Who should be doing the questioning, Paul? Dorothy?” Maggie hesitated. “The police?”

  “I’ve already said too much. You’re a smart woman, Maggie. You’ll figure it out.”

  As they walked into the parking lot, Paul stayed close to Maggie, their shoulders almost touching. She moved a bit away. Whatever scent he used was attractive. It was somehow mellow and spicy at the same time. She enjoyed the totally unimportant exercise of analyzing it as they walked toward their cars. It took her mind away from what she had just heard.

  Their steps crunched through the dry red and brown leaves in the parking lot. The air was cooler than it had been earlier today. Somewhere nearby a solitary cricket was chirping November time. As they got to Maggie’s van, Paul turned her around gently and she let the kiss happen. His lips were gentle, and his arms felt strong around her. For a moment Maggie relaxed. She wanted so much to be able to lean on someone.

  Then reality hit, like a chill breeze. This man was a colleague. He clearly had relationships with many women. She was involved with Will. Maggie stepped back, pushing Paul away. Besides, he was at least a little drunk.

  “No. I’m sorry. No.” She got into her van and closed the door, not waiting for a response.

  He stepped back, shaking his head slowly at her.

  She wished she couldn’t still feel his lips on hers or smell the light, intoxicating scent of his cologne.

  Chapter 17

  Presented to…Steel-engraved Plate VI in Gaskell’s Compendium of Forms, 1882; beautifully drawn dove demonstrating calligraphy techniques. Above the quotation (also in calligraphy): “‘The schoolmaster is abroad! I trust more to him, armed with his primer, than I do to the soldier in full military array.’—Lord Brougham, in 1860.” Lord Henry Peter Brougham (1778–1868) was a Scots-born lawyer and liberal leader in the House of Commons who proposed educational reforms and was a founder of the University of London. 8 x 10.5 inches. Price: $60.

  Maggie shook off thoughts of Paul that were anything but businesslike and headed her van toward the hospital.

  But Dr. Stevens wasn’t there, and Sarah’s condition appeared the same.

  “Mrs. Whitcomb’s been here most of the day,” said the intensive care nurse. “She left about seven; you just missed her.”

  Maggie glanced at her watch. It was seven-thirty.

  “A man called here, asking about Sarah. I told him she couldn’t have visitors and gave him Dr. Stevens’s number.”

  Could that have been the same man who’d tried to reach Sarah at Whitcomb House? What man could be asking about Sarah? “Did you get his name?”

  “No. I just talked with him briefly.” The nurse hesitated. “Should I have found out who he was? Was that important? I know Ms. Anderson is involved in a police matter.”

  “I don’t know. But it might have been.”

  “Maybe Dr. Stevens would know.”

  “Would you have him call me?” He should have gotten the toxicology reports back by now, too.

  Maggie’s home was only a five-minute
drive from the hospital, in a section of Park Glen that had been built up in the early 1920s after the train line from Hoboken was extended, making it possible to commute to New York via train and the Hoboken ferry across the Hudson. Houses in Park Glen were larger and better made than those built later, in the housing boom after World War II, but they were set close together. Maggie’s neighbors were teachers and small-business owners and middle-management executives. The town where Oliver and Dorothy lived insisted on five-acre zoning and attracted investment bankers and the horsey set. That neighborhood was far beyond Maggie’s means.

  She and Michael had bought their house when they were first married, with the help of a loan from his parents. The house needed a lot of repairs, but they’d had two incomes and thought it was a bargain. Since then most of the houses on their street had been restored, and taxes had gone up with the appearance of the area. Maggie’d thought of selling and moving last spring, but she loved the house too much, and some of her neighbors were now her friends. Jerome and Ian next door kept an eye on her house when she was away doing antique shows or on vacation. And the Cushmans across the street included her whenever they entertained, even after Michael’s death, when her presence meant an uneven number of guests. Suburban social life was like Noah’s ark: everyone two by two. The number of social invitations Maggie received had dropped dramatically in the past year. For the most part, she didn’t care. Between teaching and running her business she didn’t have a lot of unscheduled time. But there were moments when she missed dressing up for dinner parties and seeing people she didn’t work with.

  Dorothy and Oliver, for example, could be busy every night if they chose to be. But tonight, while she and Paul were having dinner, Dorothy had been with Sarah. Maggie wondered where Oliver was. How credible were Paul’s implications that Oliver was involved with the women of Whitcomb House? Were Paul’s hints the result of his having too much to drink? Or was he drinking to get up enough courage to say something important?

  She sighed deeply as she unlocked her back door. It had been a long day.

  Winslow ran to greet her, meowing a welcome and rubbing himself against her legs, clearly letting her know she was late and his dinner bowl was empty. She filled the dish with tuna and made a decision.

  “I will not sit down or listen to my messages or check e-mail,” Maggie told Winslow. “Not until I’ve packed the van.” Winslow was concentrating on the tuna and didn’t appear to have an opinion on the matter.

  She stowed her day’s pile of students’ papers, lecture notes, and lists of tomorrow’s appointments on the kitchen counter and put on her old red L.L. Bean field jacket. The November evening was now decidedly chilly.

  Packing her van for an antique show was both a physical and intellectual chore. For the next hour she blocked out all thoughts about Sarah, Aura, Dorothy, Oliver, Paul, or anyone else connected with Somerset Community College.

  She’d contracted with the Morristown show promoter to provide four eight-foot tables for her booth; she packed two light five-foot folding tables in her van to use in front of the heavier tables that would border her booth. She needed six table covers, and Peg-Boards to clamp to the backs of the tables to provide space for prints to be displayed above the tabletops. A deep display easel would hold an assortment of her larger prints.

  First she packed the heavy tools of her trade: the furniture, including a folding ladder to be used during setup, her bag of tools, and a separate bag of tapes—duct tape, masking tapes of different widths, transparent tape, archival tape—to attach matted prints to backgrounds, or to repair prints or mats that required maintenance during a show.

  She packed her large portfolios next. Some of them held a hundred prints. Every January Maggie went through her portfolios, replacing those that were worn. But it was now November and many of the portfolios were missing handles or had torn sides or even bottoms. By this time of the show season she had liberally applied tape to repair torn seams on almost every one of her dozens of portfolios. Maggie made a mental note to stop at the local office supply store and order new portfolios, and then to set aside one day of Thanksgiving vacation to make new labels (Nests and Eggs; Winslow Homer Civil War; Human Anatomy; Nursery Rhymes) and transfer the prints into the new containers.

  In the meantime she carried most portfolios by cradling them in her arms. Like mothers would carry children, she thought wryly. Maggie’s paper children. A broken portfolio could drop hundreds, or even thousands of dollars’ worth of prints on a sidewalk or floor. And if that sidewalk should be wet…Maggie had insurance, but her premiums would have gone through the roof if she’d put in claims for every print that had been damaged by rain or snow when she was moving prints in and out of antique shows. She hoped this weekend the weather would be clear. Dampness was the enemy of paper.

  She stood her largest portfolios up and stored them vertically across the back of her van, carefully alternating framed prints between portfolios to cushion the glass from abrupt stops or hard surfaces. Then she stacked medium-size portfolios in back of the large ones, finally piling her small portfolios in rows.

  The bulkiest things she had to pack were the many plastic and wooden racks and holders she used to showcase the prints. Some holders had been designed as kitchen storage pieces; some had been intended to hold greeting cards or posters at book or art stores. Maggie had made the wooden racks when she’d started Shadows fifteen years ago.

  She’d been only twenty-three then, and working on her doctorate, much younger than most people entering the world of antiques. She was looking for a way to have fun, make some money, and ensure that she didn’t spend the rest of her life in libraries. She and Michael hadn’t even met then.

  Starting the business had been an adventure: searching antique shows, flea markets, antiquarian-book fairs, paper shows, and auctions for bargains. Matting the treasures she found and then designing her booths. As Maggie carefully fit her racks above and between her portfolios, she smiled to herself as she thought of those first shows. In those days she’d designed the placement of items on the walls before she left for the venue, ensuring that she had enough inventory to fill the booth—and enough equipment to display it well. Many of the racks and display techniques she used today she’d created then.

  Now she never had enough booth space for everything she’d like to display. Should she take fish and shells and maritime prints to an inland location? Wall Street prints to Cape Cod? For Morristown she packed Christmas prints, and engravings of New Jersey and Manhattan. She had dozens of nineteenth-century wood and steel engravings depicting scenes in North America and Europe, but most customers wanted pictures of local sites. Maggie did shows throughout the Northeast, but she had a backlog of Colorado and California views.

  Maybe some summer she’d travel and do shows in other areas of the country. Nashville had a great show, she’d heard. And St. Louis. Of course, traveling would be more difficult if she had a child…

  By the time the van was packed, Maggie was exhausted. Dinner with Paul seemed hours ago.

  She hung her jacket on one of the hooks behind the kitchen door, thought of soda, then of cocoa, and took out one of the Edinburgh Crystal cut-glass brandy snifters she’d paid too much for at a show last year and poured in a small amount of Courvoisier.

  She walked to her bedroom, kicked off her shoes, curled up in her reading chair, and breathed in the aroma of the cognac. As she savored the feel of the heavy crystal, she warmed the glass with her hands.

  A worn iron horseshoe hung above her bedroom door. It was upside down, of course, so her luck wouldn’t fall out. Tonight she felt as though she needed every bit of that luck.

  Then the telephone rang.

  Chapter 18

  Tobacco. Lithograph of the tobacco plant in bloom. First used by Native Americans, then imported to Europe, it is now cultivated in every part of the globe with an appropriate climate. From The Grocer’s Encyclopedia, compiled by Artemas Ward, New York, 1911. Quotation from
the Encyclopedia: “We cannot honestly say more against tobacco than can be urged against any other luxury. It is innocuous as compared with alcohol; it does infinitely less harm than opium and is in no sense worse than tea.” 8 x 11 inches. Price: $65.

  Maggie put down her cognac and reached for the telephone.

  “Professor Summer? Dr. Stevens.”

  “How is Sarah?”

  “The same. No changes. The good news is that she hasn’t gotten any worse. But I called because we got back the preliminary toxicology report.”

  “Yes?”

  “I called the police immediately, but then I had an emergency. Sorry not to have gotten to you earlier.”

  “So there was definitely poison?”

  “Sarah swallowed an overdose of nicotine.”

  “Nicotine? But she didn’t smoke!”

  “Which would make her even more vulnerable to nicotine poisoning.”

  Maggie remembered: Sarah’s breath had smelled like cigarettes. “But even if she didn’t smoke…I’ve never heard of anyone going into a coma from experimenting with a cigarette!”

  “I don’t think she smoked a cigarette. Or even two or three. That might have made her dizzy or nauseated since she wasn’t used to it, but it wouldn’t have sent her into a coma.”

  “Then?” How could anyone get nicotine poisoning without smoking?

  “It could have entered her system in one of several ways. It could have been through wearing several nicotine patches—the kind designed for people trying to stop smoking. Or it could have been through ingestion.”

  “Ingestion? Why would anyone eat tobacco?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, does it? Usually we see nicotine poisoning only in children or pets who have chewed cigarettes or chewing tobacco or snuff, or even a nicotine patch or gum. Nicotine is highly toxic, especially to people whose systems are not used to it. As little as two to five milligrams can cause nausea, and ingesting forty to sixty milligrams can kill someone. There was a case in Florida a couple of years ago where a woman murdered a man who was mentally ill by forcing him to eat two tins of snuff. Children have been poisoned by biting into a nicotine patch, or chewing a piece of nicotine gum.”