Shadows at the Spring Show (12 page)

“You need to get to the police, Maggie. Whether you recognize the voice or not.”

“I will. Today. Right after I drop some food off at the Sloanes’ home. Did you see in the paper? Holly Sloane is the adoptive mother who was shot Sunday morning.”

“I did see that. And she’s connected to the same agency that you’re doing the antiques show for?”

“She runs a support group at OWOC. She and her husband have adopted eleven hard-to-place kids. And one of her sons is missing. They’re trying to find him, too.”

“This could all be connected, Maggie.”

“I don’t understand how, or why. But that’s why I really need your help on security for this show.”

“Any chance you or the agency will cancel the show?”

“No! We’re not going to give in to this . . . adoption terrorist!” Maggie slammed her fist on the arm of the chair she was sitting in.

Al smiled slightly, but his eyes were steady. “
Terrorist
is probably a strong word. But I think you should take him or her, or even them, seriously. I’ll stay at the show myself Friday and Saturday nights. Pretty quiet at my place, since my wife died. Give me something different to think about. So don’t you worry.”

“I’d really appreciate that. I don’t think we should panic anyone about this, either, right?”

“Absolutely. Although most of my guys are pretty calm about stuff like this. I’ll tell them some crazy has been writing letters and we hope he doesn’t show up. If he does, we call the police. That’s all. They’ll be more alert, and no one will start carrying as a result.”

“Good. That sounds just right.”

“But keep me tuned in, Maggie. If you get any more messages from this guy or find out anything about whoever shot Mrs. Sloane, let me know. Or even if you just need someone to talk with. I haven’t been a detective for a while, but I’m not totally out of the loop. This is a lot to have on your shoulders. I’d like to help.”

“Thanks, Al. I promise. I’ll tell the police. And I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“And, Maggie? If you remember the voice? The one that called and threatened you? Tell someone. Right away. I don’t want to scare you, but that could be critical. If that man doesn’t want anyone to know who he is, and you do know, you could be in danger.”

Chapter 15

Who Is Coming?
Charming Victorian lithograph of three small children, one holding a doll, peeking out a doorway with their dog into a snow-covered yard. C. 1885. 6.5 x 9.5 inches. Price: $70.

Maggie knew she had to report the threatening telephone message to the police. But priorities were priorities. She’d packed the tuna salad and baked-bean casserole in large coolers filled with ice, and the warm May sun had already turned some of the ice to water.

Her next stop would have to be the Sloanes’ house, before the food went bad.

Their large Victorian-era home had once been the center of a farm. The barn now housed cars instead of cows, and more cars, in various stages of repair, were parked in the yard. Usually broken-down cars on property indicated a broken-down house. But here the house was intact and newly painted. Maggie pulled into the wide driveway and parked her faded blue van between a small navy sedan and a large brown station wagon.

The girl who answered the door looked about thirteen and might have been part African-American and part Asian. She wore faded jeans and a cropped T-shirt. “Yes?”

“I’m Maggie Summer, a prospective parent from OWOC. I know your parents, and I was here for the picnic in April.”

The girl opened the door a little farther. “You’re not a newspaper person?”

“No! I just brought by some food. Carole Drummond said maybe you could use it.”

“Hey, Dad! Some lady’s at the door who says she knows you!” The girl kept the door half-closed.

Maggie suspected a number of unknown, and unwelcome, people had knocked on this door in the past couple of days. In the background several radios or CD players were loudly emitting contrasting sounds. A couple of figures walked through a room at the end of the entrance hallway.

“Dad!” The girl’s voice was piercing.

Then Eric appeared at her side. “Hey, Kim, what’s the deal?” He looked at Maggie. “Hi, Professor Summer. What’re you doing here?”

At least this was someone who recognized her, who didn’t think she was a reporter or some other unwanted voyeur. “Carole Drummond suggested you and your family could use a little sustenance, so I brought a couple of things you could have for lunch or dinner.” She thrust the large bowl into his hands. “This is a tuna-pasta salad. I have a casserole in my van.”

By the time she returned to the door, Eric had deposited the salad in the kitchen and Kim had disappeared. “Why don’t you come in, Professor Summer?”

“Just for a moment,” said Maggie, curious about both the house and its residents. The picnic had been held outside, and so many parents and adopted children had been attending she hadn’t been able to connect most of them with their families. She held the casserole and followed Eric through a hall lined with racks of jackets and baseball caps, softball bats and umbrellas, into a large kitchen.

Eric put the casserole in one of the two large refrigerators. “Would you like something to drink, Professor Summer?”

“Water would be fine, Eric,” Maggie said. “How’s your mother doing?”

“She’s healing.” Eric handed Maggie a glass of ice water. “She’s going to need physical therapy, but she should be home in a couple of days. Thanks for the meals, though. We seem to go through a lot of food.”

Maggie noted a dozen empty pizza boxes piled in the corner.

“Dad’s back and forth to the hospital. Astrid and I try to keep everybody together, but it’s not easy. Right now she’s at the grocery store with some of the kids. Dad just left for the hospital, to see Mom.”

“Kim was calling him.” Maggie took a drink of the water.

“She usually has her headphones on and doesn’t keep in touch with the real world.” Eric smiled. “It’s a little crazy here, but we’re fine. We’ll be better when Mom’s home. Somehow she keeps it all together.” He hesitated a minute, and despite his bravado, Maggie suspected she saw tears in his eyes. She looked away, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. “We miss her. A lot.”

“Of course you do. Are you and Astrid the oldest two at home, then?”

“Right now. Tom and Beth live in Philadelphia. Tom has a job, and Beth’s in college there. They were home for the weekend. For Mother’s Day.” Eric swallowed hard. “Dad sent them back when we knew Mom would be okay. Dad’s word is the rule. And”—he paused—“you know about Jackson.”

“You haven’t heard from him.”

Eric shook his head, and his voice was quiet. “We’ve called everyone we could think of, and the police have been looking.”

“Has he ever disappeared before?”

Eric hesitated. “Well, you’re involved with the agency, so I guess you know, our family isn’t exactly a calm place. Just about everyone’s taken off at some point or another. But Jacks hasn’t done it in a while. And never for this long. He wouldn’t leave if he knew Mom was hurt, for sure. He talks up a storm in public
about how horrible his life is, but he’s really close to Mom. That’s why it’s weird he hasn’t come home.”

“It’s been on the news, and in the papers.”

“I know. And the cops’ve been saying maybe he shot her.” Eric’s voice rose in controlled anger. “He wouldn’t have done it. I mean, they had some arguments. Everybody has arguments. Saturday night, sure, he and Mom were yelling pretty loud. But not as loud as Mom and Dad did after Jacks left! Yelling is just part of being a family, sometimes. If no one cared, no one would yell. But to take a gun . . .”

“I heard the gun was your father’s.”

Eric was clearly frustrated. He paced across the kitchen. “They don’t know that for sure. They just know Dad’s gun is missing and the bullet that hit Mom came from the same kind of gun he had. Hell. I’ve lived here for six years and I didn’t know he had a gun. How would Jacks know? Mom and Dad never even allowed water pistols in the house. And Jacks may have weird friends, but I don’t think they carry. I told the cops. But they don’t listen. I’m black, and so is Jacks, so they probably figure we’re guilty of something.”

“Is that what they said?”

Eric stopped and looked straight at her. “See, you’re white. You don’t know. They never
say.
They just
imply.
And they sure
implied
that since Jackson wasn’t right here, then he was the one responsible. Easier saying that than trying to find the person who’s really guilty.”

“I’m sorry, Eric. This must be awful for you.”

“It’s sure not fun.”

“You know I’m a prospective parent, Eric. If it isn’t too awkward for you to answer, it would help me to know. Do you think your parents understand what it’s like for you to be black?”

Eric frowned, but the question didn’t seem to bother him. “They try really hard. They’ve read all the books and they know what happens. But they’re not black, so they don’t feel race the same way Jacks and I and the other kids do. Sometimes Jackson’s
really angry about being in this family. He thinks it would have been easier for him if Mom and Dad had been black. I’m not so sure. No parents are perfect. I’m a whole lot better off here than I was anywhere else. After seven foster homes you’d have to be pretty dumb not to figure that out. And about half of us in the family are at least part black, so it isn’t as if we’re isolated or anything.” Eric paused. “I guess there isn’t an easy answer. I think the kids who are Asian or white or Hispanic have it easier, but they might not agree. And I know kids who live with one or both of their biological parents, and the parents don’t match, if you know what I mean?”

Maggie nodded.

“Some of those kids are a lot angrier than anyone I know who’s been adopted. At least if you’re adopted, the issue of race, or culture, is right out there. The agency talks about it, and your parents talk about it, and they’re always trying to look for role models and cultural stereotypes to talk about and books about heritage. Most kids I know who live with their bio parents don’t have a lot of that. I guess their parents just figure they’re living the experience; they don’t need to talk about it. Maybe more of them should. Especially when the parents are two different races. Or even two different religions.”

Maggie took a sip of her water. “Thank you for sharing that. I know it’s pretty personal.”

“Yeah. But that’s another thing about being adopted, especially when you have parents like ours. We’re always talking to other parents, and prospective parents. You hear this stuff all the time. So it isn’t as big a deal as it might be. Sometimes I think I could deliver the message as well as Mom and Dad do—or better.”

“The message?”

Eric grinned and struck a pose, listing his points on his fingers. “‘Don’t adopt a child of another race unless you have friends of that race. Study the culture. If language is involved, at least learn some key words. Learn to cook the food. Celebrate the holidays. Value your child by valuing his heritage!’” He
relaxed. “You’ve been around the agency long enough to know the drill.”

Maggie laughed. “I guess I do. But it can be intimidating to someone who’s considering adoption.”

“That’s good, though. Because adoption isn’t simple. That’s part of the message—‘love isn’t enough.’ And it isn’t. But it’s still a damn good place to start.”

“I’ve kept you too long, Eric,” said Maggie, getting up. “But thank you for talking with me. I’ve left heating instructions on the casserole. The salad can be eaten cold or hot.”

“Thank you. We all thank you.”

“Well, I appreciate all your parents have done for the antiques show. And you, too, Eric. I look forward to working with you this weekend.”

Eric nodded. He seemed much more relaxed than he had only a few minutes before.

“I’ll see you at the gym, right? Thursday morning, if you can be there. The floor coverings will be put down then.”

“Right, Professor. At the gym.”

“And I hope Jackson is home soon. Your mom, too.”

Eric hesitated. “Professor Summer, if someone knew something that might help find Jackson, but that they didn’t want the police to know, what should they do?”

Maggie looked at him. His gaze was steady.

She pulled one of her cards out of her pocketbook. “I’d be willing to talk.” She thought of Al Stivali. “And I know someone else who might be able to help.”

Eric took her card and slipped it into his pocket without looking at it. “If my friend wants to talk, then I’ll tell him. Thank you.”

Maggie backed her van carefully around two bicycles in the driveway and waved toward a blonde girl, maybe sixteen, who was working under the hood of one of the cars. As she pulled out of the driveway, an old tan station wagon full of teenagers pulled in. Maybe Astrid, returning from grocery shopping.

What had Eric meant about knowing something but not
wanting to tell the police? Was the “friend” really him? Or was there someone else who could help but who was keeping quiet?

Either seemed possible. Some of the Sloane kids had been in trouble with the law at different times, she knew, and might not want to talk to the authorities.