Shadows at the Spring Show (5 page)

“Guess you’re right. Will sent me an e-mail today. It was sweet. But he’s in Buffalo, and I’m here. I’m exhausted from grading papers and planning the show. And every time I think life is organized, something else happens.”

“No, Maggie. In your life? I can’t believe that.” The sound of Gussie’s laugh reassured Maggie. Maybe she wasn’t crazy. “Your problem is you think you
can
organize life. Once you accept that most life events refuse to fit on a list, you’ll feel much better.”

“You’re right. And school is out for the summer on Wednesday.”

“And you’ve still resisted signing on to teach this summer?”

“I have. I could use the money, but I keep thinking that when I’m not teaching, I can do more shows, and travel a little, and maybe make as much money as I could sitting here in New Jersey and grading papers. Have more fun, too.” And, if she should adopt a child, it might be the last summer she could do whatever she wanted. Much as she yearned to be a parent, the reality of what it would mean to be a mother twenty-four hours a day for the rest of her life sometimes felt overwhelming.

“Good! I’m glad having fun is on your list. Because I hope you’re planning to come to the Cape for at least a week.”

“You’ve got it. For the Provincetown Show, and then for a good visit, if you’ll have me. And I’m going to do some traveling in New York State, and other parts of New England.”

“Would Will have anything to do with those travel plans?”

“I hope so! He even mentioned possibly visiting Quebec. I haven’t done that in years and would love to go. French food, wine, small antiques shops in the country . . .” Maggie was momentarily distracted from her daydream. How would she manage seeing Will when she was a parent? Especially since he didn’t want to be involved? She changed the subject to Gussie’s love life. “How’s Jim?”

Jim and Gussie had been a couple for over a year now. “He’s fine. Busy, as usual. Lawyers always are, even in small towns. He’s catching up with paperwork and then coming over for dinner later.”

“Give him my best.”

“I will. Now, what’s gotten to you this afternoon? Sounds as though Somerset College issues are under control. Any problems with the show?”

Maggie paused. But there wasn’t much she didn’t tell Gussie. “The logistics are all in order, although I’m sure little things will pop up in the next few days. And maybe I’m crazy for being concerned
about anything else. But some strange stuff is happening at the agency. It may have nothing to do with the show. I hope it doesn’t. But it’s upsetting Carole Drummond, the director of OWOC.”

“And that upsets you. Of course, Maggie. So what’s the problem?”

“Two problems, actually. The first is that the agency’s gotten a couple of threatening letters, and the one received Friday mentions the dates of the antiques show.”

“That sounds serious.”

“And this morning one of the most well-known parents from the agency, Holly Sloane—she and her husband have adopted eleven hard-to-place children, Gussie, most of them teenagers!—was shot.”

“Shot!” Even unflappable Gussie sounded shocked.

“No one seems to know if it was an accident, or if it was intentional. She was shot right in her own driveway, when she went out to get the morning paper.”

“How is she?”

“Carole said she’s injured, but not critically. She’s in the hospital. But one of her sons is missing, and the police are looking for him.” Maggie paused. “The cops are implying he’s a suspect.”

They were both silent. Then Gussie said, “Maggie, do you think there’s any connection? Between the threatening letters and the shooting?”

“I don’t know! I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “We don’t know why the person sending the letters is upset about the agency, so I guess anything is possible. Carole said it might be someone who’s disgruntled because their home study wasn’t approved. But how would that connect to the shooting? I don’t think the letters mentioned any individuals. And Holly is an adoptive parent. She’s an active member of their adoptive parent organization, but she’s not an agency employee.”

“But she did adopt her children through OWOC.”

“Yes. She and her husband.” Maggie gave Winslow an extra scratch behind his neck. “No. I can’t imagine the letters and the shooting are connected. But the timing is awful for everyone.”

“Is Carole talking about canceling the show?”

“She never mentioned that.” Maggie sat back in her chair, scrunching Winslow a bit. “And I hadn’t thought of it. Now you’ve really given me something to worry about. Can you imagine what I’d have to do to call things off at this point?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But it does seem strange to have two violent, or potentially violent, events connected to the adoption agency you’re supporting. I don’t normally turn on the TV to check on terrorism at adoption agencies.”

“That’s why it’s all a bit unreal. And the shooting is close to home. I wish we knew for certain that it was an accident.”

“No wonder you’re on edge. But you said your grading will be done today. Then you can concentrate on the show, and on slowing down a bit.”

“And on doing everything I can to ensure there aren’t any more problems at OWOC. Although I really don’t know how anyone can do that.”

Maggie took her Pepsi to the study and switched on the local news. Would they cover Holly’s shooting? Or maybe something else was going on in the world. Something positive.

Temperatures in the high seventies tomorrow and sunny. That was nice. A car bombing in the Middle East. Not so nice. A meeting of the relatives of 9/11 World Trade Center victims from New Jersey to discuss a memorial to those who’d been killed. Maggie sat up and stared closely for a minute. She knew the young man sitting in the second row. It was Abdullah Jaleel, the bright star of her Myths in American Culture course this semester. Someone in his family must have died in the World Trade Center disaster. Unfortunately, he wasn’t unique. Twenty-five percent of those killed—murdered—in the World Trade Center had been from New Jersey. It didn’t matter what your background was or where you were from if you happened to be working in one of the Towers that day.

A commercial for SUVs was blaring as Maggie sat back. What did she have to worry about? So many people in the world had lost so much. She was one of the lucky ones. She had a home, food, two jobs, and people who cared about her.

The newscaster went on to a story about a fire in a Paterson warehouse. Maggie clicked off the television and refilled her glass of Diet Pepsi. Winslow had just settled himself on the floor next to the French doors to watch robins in the backyard when the doorbell rang.

Chapter 6

Farmer
and
Farmer’s Wife.
Pair of prints by Grant Wood (1892–1942), American artist whose work featured stern Midwesterners and stylized landscapes; best known for his painting
American Gothic.
Only occasionally did Wood illustrate books. These stark, two-dimensional portraits are from
Farm on the Hill,
1939. The farmer is sitting on a tree stump, eating a sandwich from his lunch bucket. His wife is peeling apples into a wide wooden bowl. Both portraits are on orange backgrounds. 6.75 x 9.5 inches each. Price: $110 for the pair.

She wasn’t expecting anyone to stop in. Feeling ridiculous for being paranoid, Maggie peeked out a front window. A woman was standing on her front steps. It wasn’t a woman she knew, but, probably irrationally, she felt safer with an unknown woman than an unknown man. She opened the door.

The woman was bent, her hair graying, and Maggie noted that her hands, clasping a large leather-bound volume in front of her, were heavily veined, and their joints were swollen and deformed by arthritis. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her green, patterned dress hung loosely on her slight body.

“You’re Maggie Summer. The print dealer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Agatha Thurston, from over in Somerville. I’m sorry to bother you without calling, but I was visiting my grandchildren here in Park Glen. One of them, Storm Hayden, took a class with you last semester. He told me how you teach at the college and have a business, too.”

“Yes?” Storm Hayden. A tall, skinny boy with thin, blond hair. “That’s right. I teach and I have an antique-print business.”

“So I thought maybe you’d be interested in buying this,” continued Mrs. Thurston, thrusting the large volume she was holding toward Maggie.

Maggie’s heart sank. She hated unexpected visits like this. “Won’t you come in, Mrs. Thurston?” She directed the elderly woman to her small living room just to the right of the front hall. It wasn’t a room she used often, so it was kept neat and “readied up for company,” as her mother would have said. Maggie had hung five dramatic Seguy lithographs of butterflies on one wall, and the upholstery on two modern couches and a comfortable armchair reflected the blues and pinks of the prints. Other people bought prints to match their furniture. Maggie upholstered to match her prints.

Both Mrs. Thurston and Maggie sat on the couch nearest to the front windows, and Maggie turned on a cut-glass lamp so they could see better. She piled up the copies of
Time, Antiques, Smithsonian, Folk Art,
and
New York
on the glass-topped coffee table. Then she took the book out of Mrs. Thurston’s hands and put it on the table so they could both see it.

Her first guess had been right. It was a Bible.

People often brought books and prints to show to Maggie. Sometimes they just wanted to know the value of what they owned or had inherited or bought at a yard sale. Sometimes they were interested in selling. Sometimes Maggie bought. But all too often the cherished possessions they brought her were treasures only to their owners. Just because something was old didn’t mean it was valuable.

“This was my great-grandmother’s Bible,” said Mrs. Thurston. “Her family was from up in New York State. She left it to me.”

Maggie nodded.

“But I haven’t looked at it in years. I have a small Bible I keep next to my bed to read in the morning. This one is just too big. And my children and grandchildren aren’t interested in it. I’m trying to decide whether I’ll sell it or keep it. Could you give me some advice? My grandson said you were a very nice, honest lady.”

“I’d be happy to look at it.” Maggie opened the heavy black book. In the front was a traditional family listing of births, deaths, and marriages framed by an elaborately chromolithographed scrolled decoration.

Mrs. Thurston pointed at one of the listings. “That’s my mother, Emma, and the date she was born,” she said proudly. “The minister read from this Bible when my mother was married, and then when I was married.”

“It has a very special history,” agreed Maggie. She turned the pages carefully. The Bible had been printed in 1878 and contained a dozen lithographs illustrating famous biblical stories such as the Garden of Eden, Noah and the animals, and the birth of Jesus. “And this is a lovely edition.” Maggie noted that some pages were more worn than others; some passages had been underlined. “It’s meant a lot to your family.”

“Yes. It has,” agreed Mrs. Thurston. “But I’m the only one who seems to care now, and I’m getting older. Is it worth any money?”

Maggie hated to disappoint the woman. “I’m afraid not very much. There are so many family Bibles, even lovely ones like yours, and very few people are interested in collecting them. They really should be kept in the original families for as long as possible. It’s sad to see Bibles selling at auctions for thirty-five or fifty dollars when they contain the history of a family.”

“But this one has such pretty pictures in it!” Mrs. Thurston paged through the book and pointed at one of Moses. “That’s
why I thought maybe a print dealer like you would be interested in it.”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry. The lithographs are lovely. But there isn’t a big market for biblical engravings or lithographs.” Of all the prints, Maggie thought, the one of Noah and the animals might be salable. But not quickly. She didn’t even have a category of “religious prints” in her business. They just weren’t what people were looking for at antiques shows today. “I’d hate to see this Bible leaving your family. Are you sure none of your grandchildren would be interested in it? Perhaps in a few years, if not now.”

Mrs. Thurston smiled at her. “They aren’t yet, but you’re right, maybe as they get a little older they will be. I’ll keep the Bible. At least now I know it doesn’t have a large dollar value.” She stood and picked up the book.

“It’s a lovely family treasure,” agreed Maggie, also standing. “I hope someone in your family appreciates it someday.”

“And in the meantime it will stay right with me, as it has for the past fifty years. Thank you for taking the time to tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news,” said Maggie, as they walked back to the front door.

“But you have, you know. You’ve reminded me that this book means something to me and to my family, even if they don’t realize it just now. Young people today are just so busy with their computers and TVs and such they don’t pay much attention to the past. But one of the jobs of us older folks is to keep the stories of our family alive. I’ve been thinking about writing down the stories of our family. Leaving the stories with the Bible might mean more to some of my grandchildren when they get a little older and have children of their own.”