Shadows at the Fair (12 page)

“Excuse me, but is this your booth?” A woman in yellow shorts pushed a stroller containing two-year-old twins (also wearing yellow shorts) into Gussie’s booth, blocking the entrance. “I’m collecting ‘twin things.’ You see—I have twins! Do you have anything that is twinnish?”

Gussie began telling her about a Dionne-quintuplets book she had, but Mother of Twins was not to be distracted. “No. I’m just interested in twins. No supertwins.”

“Sorry, I don’t think so. Unless you count Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy?”

The twin lady didn’t think so.

“Why don’t you ask across the aisle?” Gussie suggested. “There are several groups of twin books—
The Bobbsey Twins, The Twins of Different Nations
series, the…,” but the twin lady had already turned and blocked Joe’s booth with her stroller.

“Well done!” Maggie congratulated. “If he makes a sale, he owes you one. And even if not, you tried—at least he owes you a thank-you!”

“Unless, of course, that double stroller blocks his booth and keeps out customers looking for autographed Hemingway first editions,” said Gussie.

Maggie’s search for Vince was further delayed by the arrival of a large man wearing bright blue slacks and a knit shirt embroidered with a yachting club logo. He was searching for a print to give his son to commemorate his graduation from dental school, a print his son could hang in his first office. Maggie was happy to show him a selection of several plates of cross sections of teeth, and of jaws with teeth, all originally produced as plates for nineteenth-century medical books.

That sale was immediately followed by one of an 1867 wood engraving of women dressed in full-skirted dresses, heeled kid shoes, and mandatory hats and men in suits (and hats) playing croquet in a pastoral setting overlooking a river. Older couples chatted and children romped in surrounding areas, ensuring that the young couples remained well chaperoned.

“Did you know,” Maggie explained, “that croquet was the first sport in which it was acceptable for women to compete with men?” She read a line from the article accompanying the engraving, which she had attached to the back of the mat that now framed it. “‘To the interest of the game is added the relish of out-of-doors, and, possibly the strongest charm of all, the little coquetries and gay flirtations which summer pastimes may innocently include.’”

The woman who bought the print, a croquet enthusiast, was thrilled with both the print and the information. “I can’t wait until I tell my husband! I’ve finally convinced him to buy us a new croquet set for our summer place. We can hang this print right above the rack I’m having built to hold the mallets!”

Often Maggie sat at a show and twiddled her thumbs for long minutes at a time between customers. Today, when she wanted to leave her booth, customers kept buying. Nice, but ironic.

She finally drained her soda can and motioned to Gussie that she was going for a short walk. Gussie nodded back as she continued her discussion of toy stuffing with an earnest-looking man holding three teddy bears. On her way up the aisle, Maggie also nodded at Will, who was trying hard not to get in the middle of a disagreement between two people, presumably husband and wife, about what size their fire-place was.

Across from Will’s booth Susan was sipping a cup of tea. A half-eaten bagel sat next to her cash box. That was good. Susan should eat something. And Lydia would know the right kind of tea to help Susan get through the day.

Vince’s Show Management booth was quiet. A couple of porters waited behind the desk for requests to carry newly purchased Queen Anne bureaus or mahogany sideboards to a buyer’s car or truck. A representative of a local trucking company was also present, so customers could arrange to ship furniture or anything else to the far corners of the country.

“Can I help you?” one of the porters asked, glancing at her dealer’s badge. “Do you need a porter at your booth?”

“No, thanks. I was just looking for Vince.”

“And here he is.” Vince came up in back of her, his arms full of brochures for future shows and subscription forms for antiques magazines and journals. “What can I help you with, Maggie?” He dropped the piles on the desk and started re-sorting and straightening them. “We had too many materials for the information tables between the buildings, so I thought I’d leave some piles here, in case anyone was interested.” Maggie noted that brochures for his future buying trips to Europe and the Far East were on top.

“I just wanted an update on the investigation. We’re all pretty upset, you know.” Maggie fluttered her eyelashes a little. It wasn’t her usual style, but maybe Vince would think she was just a concerned and silly woman. “Harry and Susan had the booth next to mine. And, of course, with Ben being arrested, we’re very concerned.”

“Yes. The police are right on top of the situation, aren’t they? It’s all so very unfortunate. A mentally disabled young man, confused, and poor Harry a victim.”

Maggie took a deep breath. “Vince, I’m sure Ben didn’t do it. He’s a very kind and friendly young man, and he had no reason to hurt Harry.”

“Well, the police don’t seem to agree with you, Maggie, and they’re the experts.” Vince rearranged another pile of brochures. “I heard Susan spent the night with you and Will last night. That was good of you. Susan and I are friends, you know, and I was concerned about her. And I had so many things to take care of, with the police here, and the show opening today and everything.” He looked at Maggie as though he were waiting for her to say something else. “How is she taking it?”

“Having her husband murdered at an antiques show where she thought she was among friends and colleagues was obviously upsetting. But she’s tougher than some people think. You know, she’s working her booth today.”

“First thing this morning I told her she could go home; forget the show contract, I told her. This is a unique, a tragic, situation. A couple of other dealers volunteered to fill her space, and I could have gotten porters to help her pack up and get out before the show opened.” Vince shook his head a little. “I wouldn’t have held it against her. I would have offered her a contract next year.”

“You’re a generous man, Vince,” Maggie said dryly.

“I try to be,” he agreed. “Susan’s a special lady. And she and Harry were a special couple.”

“Maybe. But, after all, they were getting divorced, so I guess their relationship wasn’t quite what it used to be.”

Vince started slightly. “Getting a divorce? I didn’t know. Who told you that?” He had turned visibly paler behind his gray and black mustache. Clearly, Susan and Harry’s divorce was news to him.

“Susan told me yesterday. She said they were signing the final papers next week, and that Harry was buying out her share of Art-Effects. She was going to stay on as an employee, though.” Maggie looked carefully at Vince to see if any of this meant anything to him. Something did; he looked like a pigeon who had plumped himself up and was ready to sputter.

“I’m sure Susan mentioned it to me; I just must have forgotten.”

Sure he had. But why hadn’t Susan told him if she’d told everyone else?

“Lydia Wyndham saw you and Harry talking last night.”

Vince looked straight back at Maggie. “As I told the police, Harry and I had a short discussion after the show. Harry was going out to the Coast for a while, and he asked me to keep an eye on Susan. He said she hadn’t been feeling too well.”

“Really? Did you agree to do that?”

“Well, normally, of course, I would have been glad to help out. I told him I was sorry about Susan. She’d have gotten a little faint several times when we were in the Far East last month. Once I had to hold up the tour for her. Luckily, not too many people complained. But I can’t keep watching out for her. I have other commitments in the near future. A tour to the UK and Paris, for one. She was his wife, not mine. I told him she was his problem. He’d have to find someone else to help out.”

“Does Susan know you’ll be away soon?”

“I’m sure she knows about the tour; there are brochures all over, and some of the people who went on the Far East tour are going. The trip’s been fully booked for almost a year.”

“Why was Harry going to California?” Susan hadn’t said anything about Harry’s planning to go out of town.

“He didn’t say. Something about business. Said he’d be leaving soon.”

Instead, he was killed.

“Did you talk with Susan last night?”

Vince looked around impatiently. “Listen. I’m not on trial here.” He paused for a moment. “But I have no secrets. Susan and I talked off and on all day. She helped me with dealer registration. After Harry’s body was found I was with the police most of the time. At first they actually wanted to cancel the show for today! Can you imagine what the dealers—and the customers—would have said? It took me most of the night to convince them that none of the dealers would leave today. The best way to keep us all in town was to open the show. They had us all imprisoned by economics. Right, Maggie?” Vince shook his head. “But then, luckily, they found their prime suspect, your friend Gussie’s nephew. That made them feel better about the show’s opening, and there was no real reason to hold everyone else up.”

“But they don’t have good evidence against Ben,” Maggie said. “No one actually saw Ben knock Harry down.”

“I think several people mentioned his behavior to the police. He spent a lot of time yesterday hanging around here, staring at Susan. And then, last night, a couple of us saw him running around the field. He was sweaty, and he looked very anxious.” Vince shrugged. “And I understand he confessed.”

“He said he’d run into Harry and Susan last night. He certainly didn’t say he’d murdered anyone.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

Maggie changed the subject. “Then you didn’t talk with Susan after the show closed last night?”

“I don’t think so.” Vince shook his head and touched his mustache. “I talked briefly to a lot of people. It’s a lot of work to make sure a show this large runs smoothly, Maggie.” He looked thoughtful. “No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. She was working at her booth last night; I had to play host and organizer. After the show closed, I locked the area and then walked around the buildings with Officer Taggart to make sure everyone had left and the buildings were locked for the night. We had just finished doing that when…we all heard Susan.”

Maggie frowned. She was missing something, but she couldn’t think what it was. “If you think of anything that might help, Vince, would you let me know?”

“Maggie, there are police investigating Harry’s murder. You have a beautiful booth, where dozens of people are probably standing with their checkbooks open right now. You had a rough winter, but this is spring.”

Vince put his arm around Maggie and headed her back in the direction of her booth. “You go and make lots of money, and then come back and tell me what a wonderful show this is, and what a wonderful promoter I am, and by that time the police should have had this totally wrapped up.” He looked at Maggie as she started to say something. “I know this is difficult for Susan. I want to help. I even went out this morning and got her some fresh-squeezed orange juice, the way she likes it.”

Orange juice would certainly make a difference when your husband had just been murdered.

“You’re a caring person, Maggie, and Gussie is your friend. But Harry Findley is dead. And the police have found his killer. Just leave well enough alone. After all—the show must go on.”

Maggie headed back to her booth. Vince knew something. But what? And why would Harry ask Vince to take care of Susan?

Maggie wove through the crowds of customers who filled the aisles and most of the booths. Vince was right. It was silly to leave her booth. She needed the sales. Gussie and Will would both try to keep an eye on her booth, but no dealer could speak for another, and neither Gussie nor Will knew much about prints. The antiques business was so specialized that everyone in the business, dealer or collector, spent sizable chunks of money and time on buying and studying reference books that helped to separate the old from the new, the desirable from the merely interesting, the popular from the trite. To know more than a few areas of antiques in depth was rare. Auctioneers tried; appraisers tried; but even they depended on specialists for advice and counsel. There was simply too much to learn about antiques.

And not enough to learn about Harry’s murder. How could it have happened so fast, with all of them so close by? Vince’s reporting of his conversation with Harry didn’t really give any clues, other than that Harry had been concerned about Susan’s health. Well, maybe if she ate more than vitamins and vegetables, she’d be healthier, Maggie thought. What a problem! Susan was too skinny. True. But a good talking to and maybe a dietitian would solve that problem. It wasn’t a matter of life and death. Or, was it?

Maggie stopped at the concession stand to get a couple of tuna sandwiches to share with Susan and Gussie, then headed back to her booth.

The minister and her husband were thrilled when they saw Maggie’s N. Currier (the company originally founded by Nathaniel Currier in 1835, before he formed a partnership with his brother-in-law, James Ives, in 1857),
The Tree of Intemperance
(1849). Originally part of a pair (the other half of which was, of course,
The Tree of Temperance
), the print was of a dark green tree emerging from roots labeled “Wine,” “Beer,” “Cider,” “Rum,” “Gin,” and “Brandy,” its trunk encircled by the snake named “Alcohol.” Its branches,
Lea Wait
labeled “Disease,” “Misery,” “Poverty”—and Maggie’s personal favorite—“Insanity,” were broken and yielded fruits ranging from “Degradation,” “Ignorance,” and “The Wrath of God,” to “The Alms House,” “Robbery,” “Murder,” and “The Gallows.” On the right side of the tree were a sobbing woman and her three children. On the left side were two men brawling in front of a tavern.

“I love it!” the minister said as she read yet another “fruit”: “‘A Feeble Body.’ ‘Blasphemy.’ ‘Failure in Business.’ My husband and I have been collecting temperance materials—posters, books, political buttons. We hang them on the walls around our bar. This is perfect!”

Her husband agreed. They left their names in case Maggie found a copy of the matching print. “It would be lovely to have the pair,” the young minister said, smiling. “And if you ever have any other temperance or Prohibition materials, please, give us a call!”

Maggie filed their names with her list of customers looking for specific materials, then turned the sales book to a clean page.

Her booth had been busy since she’d returned; both Will and Gussie were no doubt glad she was back. Sales, after all, were why they were all here. Being asked to watch a friend’s booth was not an unusual request, but it could mean having to choose between your own customers and those in another booth. Not an easy choice.

Maggie glanced around. The early steady stream of customers had abated, but a good number of people were still browsing through the aisles.

Gussie was talking with an elderly couple who had brought two dolls to the show, hoping to sell them to a dealer. Will was reading a book in between customers. Maggie couldn’t see Susan, but occasionally her voice rose above the partition separating her booth from Maggie’s. Abe Wyndham must have gone for a walk; Lydia was showing berry forks to a young woman.

Maggie straightened her cash box and reorganized a few prints that customers had left in the wrong piles. It was hard to concentrate on keeping her booth arranged and smiling for customers when she knew a killer was nearby. A killer who was no doubt relaxing, since he—or she—knew the police had a suspect. She wondered if Gussie’s friend Jim had been able to get Ben out of jail. Could a young man with Down’s syndrome be held legally responsible for a crime? In many ways he was a child. But he did know right from wrong. It was lucky that Gussie’s friend was a lawyer.

Gussie had told her stories about Ben years ago. He was always the gentlest of children, the child who cried when the boy next door made a game of stepping on ants or throwing stones at herring gulls. Ben had never understood that some people couldn’t be trusted; Gussie often mentioned his wandering off and befriending anyone he met until his anxious family could find him. His parents were always scared for him; Ben was never scared for himself.

Ben could never have murdered anyone; he couldn’t have. Thank goodness his parents had driven the five hours from the Cape last night. At least he must know they were here, and Jim was here, doing their best to help him.

“Maggie!” Gussie backed her scooter so she could see into both their booths and not block the wide aisle. “Did you find out anything? What did Vince say?”

“Not a lot. He was pleased the police have caught Harry’s killer quickly so nothing will disturb the workings of the show.”

Gussie’s face fell. “I really hoped he might know something helpful.”

“Well, I did learn a few interesting facts. Seems Vince and Harry had a little talk after the show last night during which Harry asked Vince to keep an eye on Susan because she wasn’t well, and he had to go out to the Coast for some business reason.”

“That is interesting. The husband asking the lover…strange.”

“I agree. Especially since Vince denied knowing anything about the divorce. He also did not agree to watch over Susan; he told Harry that was his job.”

“Well, that rings true. I can’t imagine Vince taking responsibility for someone else unless the situation was very temporary and he was going to make some money out of it.”

“Vince focuses on business; not on people. Harry focused on business, too. But Harry did make commitments to Susan, and, Susan says, to Joe.” Maggie paused a moment. “Speaking of Joe…?”

Gussie glanced over her shoulder at the
J
.
COUSINS
,
BOOKSELLER
sign. Joe was in the rear of his booth, discussing something with a tall, thin man with very little hair. Gussie and Maggie moved in unison so their backs were discreetly turned away from Joe’s booth.

“He’s obviously very upset about Harry’s death. In fact, he started to tear up a little when I said he must have been close to Harry. He’s obviously not coping well, but I talked to him for quite a while. I was glad when a customer interrupted us.”

“What did you learn?”

“Well, Joe kept rambling; I couldn’t get many direct answers.”

“Was he avoiding the questions?”

“He seemed just too upset to concentrate.”

Maggie looked over her shoulder at him. “He seems to be making sales. If he’s upset, he’s not showing it from this distance. But who knows? Maybe he’s giving terrific bargains.”

“Or maybe he’s able to block all this out when he’s dealing with books. He always seemed more comfortable with books than with people anyway, Maggie. You know he never talked much at the shows. Smiled, nodded, but never chatted the way the rest of us did.”

“True. I remember someone’s once telling me that Joe pretty much grew up in the business. His shop was his father’s before it was his.”

“That’s what he told me. His father had the shop, and Joe did shows. He inherited the whole business when his father died three years ago. Harry met him here and went to him a couple of years ago looking for books that were beautifully leather-bound. It didn’t matter what the books were. They would be sold by the foot, to line studies and offices with the look of old money and education.”

Maggie smiled. “Like buying ancestors.”

“Right. Anyway, it seems Joe’s clients had always been other dealers, whom he would see at his shop or at antiquarian-book fairs, or collectors. He had never thought of some of the more commercial properties of books—such as books purchased as decoration. So when Harry explained what he could sell to interior decorators, it was a whole new look at the world of bookselling.”

“Wouldn’t all book dealers know about that kind of purchase?”

“Apparently not Joe. Maybe he’d spent too much time in New Haven. In any case, he started to look for decorator books and sold them through Harry.”

Just as Will had sold fireplace equipment, Maggie thought. Only Will didn’t think working with Harry was such a terrific deal.

“He seemed really impressed by Harry. He kept talking about how kind Harry was, and how intelligent, and how he always treated Susan well.”

“For two people about to get a divorce, everyone seems to agree they were a great couple.”

“Well, add Joe to the list. Harry and Susan started inviting him to their parties a year or so ago, and for a while he stayed with them when he was in New York City.”

“That must have been cozy. Did he mention that Harry was going to divorce Susan to be with him?”

“Not exactly. He did say that Harry had seemed distracted recently, but he assumed it was because of everything that had to be done before the divorce.” Gussie paused. “He did say one interesting thing. He said the paperwork was finished last Wednesday.”

“For the divorce? Susan said it wouldn’t be complete until next week.”

“No. Not for the divorce. We knew that Harry was going to buy out Susan’s share of Art-Effects, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, guess where he was going to get the cash?”

Maggie took a deep breath. “You’re serious? From Joe?”

“Seems Joe inherited something over half a million from his father’s life insurance three years ago. He hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. He had it in a savings account.”

“Three years ago! At least he could have put some of it in a bond fund!”

“I don’t think Joe is a financial genius. He may know books, but not financial markets. In any case, Harry suggested Joe lend him the money so he could buy out Susan.”

“So, in effect, Joe was paying for Harry’s divorce! Was he going to become a half owner in Art-Effects?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but apparently not. Harry just wanted a personal loan. He told Joe he’d pay him back within a year—maybe sooner—since he had a big deal brewing.”

“And Joe just handed him the money?”

“Sounded that way. He said his father’s lawyer had drawn up some IOU papers, but that he trusted Harry, so he just wrote him a check. Last Wednesday.”

“So Harry already had the money.”

Gussie nodded. “According to Joe he deposited it on Wednesday. The check should have cleared by now.”

“If there’s not even an IOU in Harry’s estate, Joe has no claim on the money.” Maggie paused. It sounded as though Joe hadn’t just lost a lover; he’d lost part of his inheritance. “But Susan is—was—still Harry’s wife. She’ll inherit his estate. Maybe Joe thinks she’ll just hand him back the money.”

“I don’t know. Joe was funny about it. He kept saying he needed to talk with Susan. That he wanted Susan to have the money anyway. Of course, I asked him why.”

“And?”

“He just kept saying Harry would have wanted it that way.”

“Did Joe say where he was last night?”

“He said he left right after the show with a local collector who wanted him to see a collection of transcendentalist first editions—you know, Emerson, Hawthorne, Bronson Alcott—that might be for sale soon. The guy met him here and drove him in his own car, so Joe wouldn’t have to find the place.”

“When did he get back?”

“About midnight; by that time the fairgrounds were covered with police, who wouldn’t let him in. They just told him there’d been an accident, and no one could come in. I take it the collector wasn’t thrilled, but drove him back to his place for the night, and then dropped him at the entrance about nine this morning. Joe didn’t find out about Harry until then.”

“Sounds like a pretty tight alibi for last night. There’d be no reason to invent a story like that. And no doubt the collector would vouch for him.”

“That’s what I think, too.” Gussie paused. “He seemed genuinely upset that Ben had been arrested. Said the police always blame the wrong people.”

“Well, he’s right in this case, anyway.”

“Agreed. But it seemed like a strange remark. I was going to ask him who he thought might have murdered Harry, but we were interrupted. And it’s not an easy question to raise in a casual conversation with someone who’s just lost his dearest friend. That’s what he called Harry. Several times.”

“I’m sorry for him. He always seemed like a loner; the stereotype of the traditional quiet little man in the patched tweed jacket who spends his time with old books instead of new people.”

“I felt the same way. I almost invited him to dinner with Jim and me and my family tonight, but then thought better of it. We need to concentrate on Ben. I keep wondering what is happening in the world outside the antiques show today.”

“No one got much sleep last night.”

“That’s for sure. I did go to bed, but I kept wondering what was happening, and when Will called to tell me about Ben at two, I was still awake. And then, of course, I had to call the Cape and wake everyone there. By the time they were on the road, it was almost four, and I was much too worried to get much sleep.” Gussie looked at her watch. “It’s almost ninety minutes to go until closing. I hope I make it!”

Lydia crossed the aisle, her perpetual cup of tea in hand. “Abe is going to make a stop at the concession stand. Can he get anything for either of you? A late-afternoon snack? Life must go on, you know.”

“That would be great, Lydia. I think I need a triple espresso.”

Lydia hesitated. “Do they have that at the concession stand?”

Gussie shook her head. “No; that was a joke. Just wishful thinking. But a couple of chocolate chip cookies would be great.”

Maggie added, “Double the order and get me some?” She reached into her cash box for some money.

“No problem. Anything to drink? I know you two aren’t tea people. Susan and I have been sharing blends all day.” Lydia glanced at Gussie. “Most without caffeine, though. Caffeine is bad for the heart, you know.”

“No drink; thanks. I still have some cola left. Gussie?”

“Actually, plain coffee would be good just now. Heart problems or not. Thanks.” Gussie waved a thank-you to Abe, who was back in Silver in Mind’s booth.

As a young woman approached Gussie to ask about turn-of-the-century paper dolls, Lydia touched Maggie’s arm and gestured for her to move down the aisle, out of Gussie’s hearing range. “I know you’re fond of that poor retarded boy, Maggie, but sometimes people like that are unpredictable, you know. Don’t know their own strength. Don’t understand how serious things are.”