Shadows at the Spring Show (10 page)

Maggie hesitated. “Is he still a suspect?”

“There is that missing gun. But since it
is
missing they don’t know for sure it was the one Holly was shot with.” Carole hesitated. “It was the right caliber. But Rob doesn’t know how long the gun’s been missing. He says he hadn’t unlocked the box it was in for months.” She paused. “Rob also says Jackson and Holly had a big argument before he went out Saturday night. Nothing major; she didn’t like one of his friends and she wanted him to stay home. But under the circumstances . . .”

“The police are considering every possibility.” If only Jackson would go home. Then maybe the police would investigate other suspects. Maggie didn’t know Jackson, but she knew she didn’t like the idea of an adopted son shooting his mother. On Mother’s Day! No matter how big their argument had been. The media coverage implying he’d shot her was awful. And no matter how it turned out, people remembered dramatic headlines, not the articles that corrected them.

“Is there anything Holly or Rob were doing for the antiques show that now needs to be done by someone else?” Carole asked, ever the efficient manager.

“I can’t think of anything. Most of their work was on the program and in getting the raffle items, and that’s been done.
The program is at the printer. It just has to be picked up. I don’t think there’ll be a problem with coverage. I’m more worried about their family, actually. Is there anything I can do to help them?”

“Several of the kids are in counseling, and all the counselors have been notified. Rob’s taken time off from his job, and Holly should be able to come home in a couple of days.” Carole hesitated. “If you’d really like to do something, maybe you could drop off a meal for the family. With about a dozen people at home—the oldest two kids went back to their apartment in Philadelphia—they can always use more food. A couple of the kids are cooking, and Rob is trying, but they have other priorities just now, and even spaghetti for twelve or thirteen is a major job.”

“I’d be glad to.” What could she make in quantity? Maggie’s specialties were quiet dinners for two, or maybe four. Not the sort of repast she suspected the Sloane family was used to. “I’ll stop at their house tomorrow with something, after my morning meeting.”

“Actually, that’s what I called about. Your security meeting.”

“Have the police find out anything about the person who sent those letters?” Maggie asked.

“No. They took the last one and said they’d check it for fingerprints, but they didn’t seem confident they’d be able to identify anything.”

“And there haven’t been any more letters since Friday?” Maggie asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer. Maybe if she didn’t know, she could forget she’d heard about them in the first place.

“No more letters.”

“That’s good news!”

“But the police do have some new information. It seems whoever is sending us letters may have other targets, too.”

“Other adoption agencies?”

“An agency in Trenton. There was an article about some of their families in a Philadelphia newspaper around Valentine’s
Day. One of those ‘loving families make the world go around’ stories. It featured several large transracial families like the Sloanes. Right after the article appeared, that agency received the first of several letters like ours, although none connected threats with specific dates.”

Maggie suddenly thought of an article she’d read in
The Star-Ledger.
“Weren’t Holly and Rob featured in a similar story earlier this year?”

“Yes. It’s scary.”

“How did the police here know the other agency had received threats?”

“Pure chance. Someone on the force here has a cousin who adopted through the agency in Trenton, and the cousin mentioned the notes at a Mother’s Day family picnic. Click. They realized it sounded like the same person sending the letters. Or group of people, with one person writing the letters.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“None they can identify. But the letters are all postmarked in Somerville, so it sounds as though the problem is in our court.” Maggie could almost see Carole wincing. “Literally.”

“What are the police going to do about it?”

“They’re digging through old files to see if they can come up with any similar cases from the past. They’ll also patrol the school and the agency during the antiques show. There’s not much else they can do.”

Maggie hesitated. “What about Holly? Is there any chance her shooting has anything to do with the letters?”

“None of the adoptive families from the Trenton agency have been bothered. The police still think Jackson had something to do with the shooting here; that it had nothing to do with the agency. That’s why I wish he’d come home and tell everyone where he’s been.”

“How much should I tell the security people at Somerset College tomorrow?” asked Maggie. “I want them to be extra vigilant, but I don’t want to panic anyone.”

“No one should go overboard. Just tell them there’s a crazy out there who’s been sending hate letters. The police know about it and will be patrolling, but we need to be extra careful and aware during the days of the show.” Carole stopped. “There’s no reason to connect this to Holly’s shooting, Maggie.”

“Got it. I’ll talk to them, of course.” Maggie paused. “Anything else I should know about?”

“I think that covers it. And don’t worry, Maggie. You’re doing a great job. I’m sure we’ll be laughing at all this a week from now.”

Chapter 12

“He presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm.” Arthur Rackham (1867–1939) illustration for
The Wind in the Willows,
1940. Badger presenting Mole with their evening’s supply of liquid refreshment. Rackham was one of the foremost Edwardian illustrators, known for his work with magical, mystical, and legendary themes. 9 x 6 inches. Price: $65.

Winslow jumped up onto Maggie’s lap and settled himself in. He’d finished his snack and was ready for his nap. She idly scratched his neck as she contemplated the answering machine and its still-blinking light. Six more messages to go. She might as well listen to them all at once. Then she’d call Gussie back.

She moved Winslow a bit so she could take notes if necessary.

“Maggie? This is Vince. Vince Thompson. Just thought I’d check in and see how my newest competitor in the antiques show promotion game was doing. Sorry I won’t be able to come to your show, but will see you Memorial Day weekend at the Rensselaer County show. Unless you have time before that to meet me in the city for a glass of wine, and whatever? Give me a call.” Maggie shook her head. Vince was one of the best promoters
in the business, and she had called him several times earlier this spring to get advice about setting up this show. She hadn’t wanted to forget anything, and Vince knew the game well. He knew other games, too.

She’d call him sometime next week, after the show, and hope she’d miss him and just be able to leave a message. Too much was on her plate to even consider “a glass of wine in the city.” Especially with Vince. She’d see him over Memorial Day. For work; not wine.

“Maggie, this is Elsie, from Old Things and New. I’m signed up for your show, but my mother just had a heart attack and I’m going out to the coast to be with her, so I’ll have to drop out. Can you send my refund for the booth deposit to me in California, please? Thank you!”

Elsie was the third person who’d dropped out in the past two weeks. Maggie made a note to send Elsie her $50. Most shows had nonrefundable booth-rent deposits. But with a new show . . . She had just hoped no one would cancel out. At this late date she’d never be able to get someone to fill Elsie’s booth. Would one of the current dealers be interested in expanding their space? Drat. This was not the fun part of managing a show. She wondered when—or if—that part would start.

“Maggie, it’s Carole again. I’m really worried about—oh, never mind. We just have to go on. I’ve already left you a message. Talk with you later.”

That was strange. Carole sounded much more upset than she had on the telephone a few minutes ago. What had made her call twice? Maggie hesitated. Was there something happening Carole hadn’t told her? Or maybe Carole was just tired. Managing an adoption agency all day and then coming home to her own family must certainly be stressful. Not to mention little problems like hate mail and an adoptive mother being shot.

Would Maggie be able to handle the conflicting demands of jobs and children? If she did adopt, then she’d have to. All day, every day. And she wouldn’t have a husband, as Carole did, to share responsibilities.

She sipped her Diet Pepsi. Some days she had trouble just managing the stress she was dealing with now. If she were a parent, she’d have to put all that aside to meet a child’s needs. Could she do that? Do it well? If she was going to be a parent, she wanted to be a good parent.

Three more messages. One from the mother of a student who’d missed his exam: he’d been in the hospital having his appendix out. Pretty decent excuse. She’d give him an incomplete and have Claudia call his mother and set a date for a re-exam when he’d recuperated.

One from a local Chinese restaurant, alerting Maggie to their new delivery service. Chinese sounded good. A little moo shu pork, and some hot and sour soup.

She hit the play button once more for the final message. The voice was high and effeminate and obviously disguised. “Hey, lady, America is heating up, and prints and papers and people can burn. Adoption is a cause, not a solution. Kill the antiques show. Now. Before someone else does.”

Maggie shivered. The words were angry, but the tone was frighteningly calm. This was not a random call. She played it again, hoping to recognize the voice. The tone was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

She stood up, brushing Winslow off her lap. Something dangerous was going on. That was for sure. And she was in the middle of it.

Chapter 13

October.
1888 print of small Victorian girl dressed in white, holding a spray of red maple leaves above her head, by Maud Humphrey (1865–1940). Today she is best known as the mother of actor Humphrey Bogart. Her drawings have been reproduced in ceramics, as dolls, and as posters. Printed by Frederick Stokes & Brother. Stokes also edited several books Humphrey illustrated. 6.5 x 8.5 inches. Price: $85.

Maggie paced the length of her study. Winslow watched, but didn’t join her.

Should she call the police? Probably. But not this minute. The voice sounded so familiar. Maybe if she listened to the message often enough and thought hard enough, she’d remember where she’d heard it. The more information she could give the police the better. She’d call them as soon as she could identify the voice. Tomorrow, at the latest. From what Carole had said, the police couldn’t do much anyway. And, Maggie admitted to herself, she just didn’t feel up to coping with the police.

There was no doubt the threat was to the OWOC antiques show. She shivered. The reference to “burning” was frightening.

All of a sudden Maggie felt very alone. She checked the lock
on the outside door to her study and then walked through the house, closing the windows she’d opened. The house might be stuffy, but at least she’d be certain she was the only one in it.

She sat down at her computer. Right now she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not the police, and not even Gussie. She needed to think. E-mail seemed the solution. Communication without involvement.

Hi, Gussie,

Got your message. I’m fine—not to worry! Holly is healing and won’t be in the hospital long. Her son still hasn’t come home. But there are no major problems with the antiques show. I’m going to make some food to drop off tomorrow for the Sloanes. Hope weather at the Cape is warming up. Will see you and Ben in two days. Can hardly wait!

Maggie

That should let Gussie know she was all right. And she was, wasn’t she?

Nothing had actually happened. Carole had said the police couldn’t do anything unless more than threats were involved. The old rhyme “Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you” came to Maggie’s mind. But Holly had been hurt by more than a stick or stone. She shook her head and started writing another message.