Shadows at the Spring Show (19 page)

“Billy boy blue, come blow me your horn, The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn: Is that the way you mind your sheep? Under the haycock fast asleep!” Small, lithographed illustration by Kate Greenaway (1846–1901) for
Mother Goose
(1881). Daughter of an engraver, Greenaway’s depictions of an elegant, graceful, and quaint childhood in which children wore clothing of the late eighteenth century captured the hearts of Victorian England. Reprints of the books she illustrated and reproductions of her drawings are common today. 4 x 6.25 inches. Price: $30.

“I assume you touched this?” Detective Luciani stood over Maggie as she sat at the kitchen table in the room she had thought so peaceful an hour ago. “You opened it?”

“I didn’t think about fingerprints. It all happened so fast. I didn’t expect . . .”

“You’ll have to come down to the station and be fingerprinted, so we can isolate your prints from any others.” He carefully lifted the envelope, with the letter inside, and put it in a plastic bag. “If this is like the ones the agencies got, then there were no prints. Whoever sent it wrote with gloves on. But
maybe we’ll get lucky.” He hesitated. “We’ll have handwriting experts compare it to the other notes, but we may not be able to tell for sure if it’s from the same person. There could be two people, or more, working together. Or someone who’s heard about the letters and sent a copycat one.”

“Whoever sent it had my home address,” Maggie pointed out. But, today there was the Internet. And she was listed in the faculty directory. All that really proved was that someone wanted to scare her.

“This is the first time someone has threatened you personally. The phone message you got was a threat to the show. At this point I’d advise you to lock your windows and doors. Leave lights on if you’re away. The usual. And call us if anything suspicious happens.”

Winslow chose that moment to tear through the kitchen, leap onto the top of the refrigerator, and dislodge the electric wok Maggie had stored there, theoretically out of harm’s way. The wok crashed onto the floor.

She and Detective Luciani both jumped, as Winslow raced past them into a quieter part of the house. Thank goodness that hadn’t happened at three in the morning, Maggie thought. She would have summoned the entire Somerset County police force.

“Is OWOC thinking of canceling the antiques show?” asked the detective.

Maggie hesitated, still feeling silly for the way her heart had raced when the wok fell. “They’ve called a board meeting for tonight to decide.”

“Assuming they go ahead with the show, we’ve already agreed to drive by every hour or two during the show and check out the gymnasium. Maybe we should also check the inside of the building, before you start setting up, and then again before the show opens.”

“That would be reassuring,” agreed Maggie. “I alerted the security people at Somerset College. And Al Stivali, the head of security there, is going to sleep at the gym Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Stivali’s a good guy. I worked with him once when he was still on the Newark force, and a couple of times out at the college,” agreed Detective Luciani. “He doesn’t have any official authority now, but he’s got good sense and knows when to call for backup. Getting him on board was a good idea.”

After the detective left, Maggie covered the sautéed onions and mushrooms and put them in the refrigerator. Where were Gussie and Ben? It was almost five. They were going to hit all the rush-hour traffic coming south on route 287, and then west on 78, just when Gussie would be most tired.

But thank goodness they hadn’t been at her house when she’d opened that letter. Or when Detective Luciani was here.

Gussie would have been able to cope. Gussie was a lot tougher than people assumed she was. Having to use an electric wheelchair didn’t mean you were weak. In fact, it meant the opposite. It meant you hadn’t given up. Gussie wouldn’t be thrilled about the letter, of course. But she’d keep calm and discuss options.

And that’s exactly what Maggie needed to do. Was Carole right in thinking they should cancel the show? If they did, time was disappearing. They’d need to start making telephone calls now.

If they didn’t cancel the show, would it be the rational choice, or just bravado?

No matter what the decision was, Gussie was coming. Will was coming. Ben would be here, too. She wouldn’t be alone.

Thank goodness Ben hadn’t been here this afternoon. He was twenty-one, but he still lived in a world where right was right, and wrong was wrong. And he’d watched enough TV to have a vivid imagination. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted Ben to know about the letter. Or any of the threats.

If only Gussie and Ben would arrive! Maggie glanced at her watch. She’d agreed to meet Al at six. And Gussie had said they’d be arriving between two and four. Something must have happened.

Major road construction? Could they have been in an accident?

Maggie realized she was pacing. And then she remembered she hadn’t checked her answering machine. She hadn’t been in her study since she’d talked with Eric.

Eric.

That was a whole separate issue. Who was this older, more experienced friend of Jackson’s? And if the police hadn’t been able to find him, then how could she?

Two messages waited.

“Maggie? This is Gussie. I’m sorry; Ben and I won’t be making it to Jersey today. Traffic coming off the Cape was heavy, and I guess I just don’t have as much energy as I’d like to think. We’ve stopped at a motel near Hartford. We should be at your place by noon tomorrow. Just leave the key with your neighbor, as you’d planned. I know you’ll be at the gym setting up. Sorry. But I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Maggie felt her shoulders relax. There hadn’t been an accident. Gussie and Ben were all right. Thank goodness. But she’d miss not seeing Gussie tonight.

She pressed the button for the second message. Will’s voice filled the room.

“Maggie, honey, it’s me. I got a late start yesterday, and I’m still on the road, up around Syracuse. It’s about three thirty. Even with a lot of coffee stops I’m not going to make it to your place until really late tonight. Or early tomorrow morning. So don’t worry about me. I may even pull over into a rest stop and take a nap somewhere. I’ll be there by morning, though, so make sure you’ve got plenty of sausage and eggs for breakfast, and I’ll be ready to go to the gym with you. Wish I were there now.”

Maggie shook her head. Neither Gussie nor Will would be here tonight after all. And by the time they
did
get to New Jersey, the show might have been canceled.

Thank goodness she’d agreed to have dinner with Al.

Chapter 26

“Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating some curds and whey; There came a great spider, And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.” Kate Greenaway (1846–1901) pastel illustration for 1881
Mother Goose.
Small girl in late-eighteenth-century dress sitting on the grass, wearing a large hat and eating her breakfast. 4 x 6.25 inches. Price: $30.

Al’s suggestion of the Somerset Diner as a place to meet for dinner wasn’t Maggie’s usual choice of dining locale, but it had two big advantages: it was about halfway between her house and Al’s office at Somerset County College, and the parking lot went right up to the door—no allowances for lawns or trees here—so it was only moderately difficult to dodge the raindrops that were falling again.

She stepped inside the restaurant and shook out the rain hat she’d hoped would keep her a little dry. Her long hair was dripping onto the black and white linoleum floor. She glanced into a mirror by the door. It showed all too well the tiny gray hairs that were beginning to be visible on her temple. She brushed them back with her hand. Al waved from a booth down the aisle.

He stood as she took off her slicker and slid across the seat.
“Hope you don’t mind a diner,” he said when they were both seated again. “Since my wife died, I’ve found these places provide the closest food to home-cooked, at a pretty reasonable price.”

A blonde, heavyset waitress in a white uniform with a pink apron brought a coffeepot over to their table. “Al, you want the usual coffee?”

“You bet, Vera. Maggie, you want some? Great coffee!” The waitress was already pouring Al’s.

“No, thanks. But I would like a glass of ice water and a Diet Pepsi with lemon?”

Vera nodded. “Coming right up.”

Maggie looked around at the pale yellow walls of the diner and the framed photographs of customers, including former Somerset County residents John DeLorean and Mike Tyson, and Christine Whitman, a former New Jersey governor, who still lived nearby. Jackie Kennedy Onassis had also lived in Somerset County, but perhaps she hadn’t patronized the diner.

If this place were spruced up, it could be attractive.

Brighter yellow paint. Narrow curtains at the empty windows. And prints, of course. Late-nineteenth-century lithographs of apples and grapes and raspberries filling the spaces between the windows. They would upgrade the whole look and make the dining room a lot more inviting.

“So you’re known here,” said Maggie, taking note of the dinnertime patrons on a Wednesday night. Dads with kids; moms with kids. Elderly couples. Two women drinking large frosty ice cream sodas through straws. Was that dinner or dessert? How many years had it been since she’d had a chocolate soda with coffee ice cream? She had a fleeting memory of going to a diner in Bloomfield with her big brother and feeling very grown-up as she ordered one.

“I come here once or twice a week. There’s a pretty good coffee shop over in Bridgewater, too. Food’s better than those fast-food places, and I can sit and be quiet a little before going home. And”—he grinned at her—“no dishes to wash!”

“You’ve got a point there,” said Maggie, smiling. Some widowers might have found favorite bars to stop at; Al didn’t seem to be a drinking man. For an ex-cop, that was unusual, she thought. Unless he was on the wagon for a reason. None of her business in any case. “I’ve only been here once or twice before, and not recently. It’s warm and cozy.”

“The food’s decent and they’re generous with portions.” Al’s size verified that information. “I usually order one of the daily specials, but everything is pretty good.”

Maggie quickly decided on a chicken salad with mandarin oranges and almonds. It had been a while since she’d been at a diner. She’d expected her choice to be between meat loaf and chicken potpie. Al ordered a bowl of chili with garlic toast. Maggie smiled; if this had been a date, that odorous a choice would have been considered selfish. For friends having dinner, it was fine.

“Okay, Al. Now we do have to talk.”

“Yes?” He smiled, probably thinking Maggie had a minor complaint to file about his choice of restaurant.

“After we talked this afternoon I got one of those letters. The threatening ones. This time it was addressed to me. Not to the agency.”

Al put his cup of coffee down. “Did it go to your office at the college?”

“No. To my home.”

He took a breath, staying calm for both of them. His expression wasn’t reassuring. “You opened the letter?”

“Yes. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“And?”

“It read, ‘Stop the antiques show or you will be sorry. Ask Jackson.’”

“Jackson’s the boy who was killed, right?”

“Right.”

Al’s voice was careful. “You’ve turned this letter over to the police?”

“I called them as soon as I’d read it.”

“Good. Did they give you any hint about who might have sent it, or whether it was serious?”

“No. They told me to lock my doors and keep my lights on; that they didn’t know whether the letter was part of a hoax, or even a copycat.”

“But the letter did say ‘Jackson.’”

“Yes.”

“That’s the first direct connection between the shootings of Holly Sloane and her son and the antiques show.”

Maggie stopped for a moment. She hadn’t thought of that. The other letters hadn’t mentioned the shooting. And they had been sent to OWOC. She also realized she hadn’t notified the agency of this latest threat. Everything was moving too fast. “I should call Carole Drummond and let her know. I just didn’t think of it.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie. The police have no doubt already told anyone they think needs to know. And we’re going to see Carole at the meeting.”

They both sat quietly for a few minutes before Maggie spoke. “I know it sounds bad. I know the agency may decide to cancel the show. They’re afraid someone might be hurt.” Maggie hesitated a moment. “So am I. But I don’t want us to give in to threats! You were a detective. You’ve dealt with this sort of thing before, Al. What’s your professional take? Would someone really disrupt the antiques show or hurt me? Or is it all a giant practical joke?” Maggie smiled. “I’ll tell you right now, I need some answers before the board meeting tonight.”

Al didn’t smile back. “It might have seemed like a practical joke before anyone was hurt. But you’ve got Holly Sloane with a bullet in her hip, and her son dead. That’s no joke.”

“You’re convinced the same person is responsible for both the warnings and the shootings?”