Shadows at the Spring Show (21 page)

Maggie had no desire to go through all the gory details. She hoped Thompson wasn’t really interested in them. “On-site preparations for the show will begin tomorrow morning. Somerset College personnel, and one or two people I know well, will be in the gym tomorrow and Friday morning, when tables will be brought in, and booths will be laid out. The dealers will set up between four and ten Friday night. The gym will be open to them at eight thirty Saturday morning, and the doors will open for customers at ten. We’ll close at five Saturday. Our hours Sunday will be eleven until four.”

“And during all that time there will be police patrolling the area?”

Al answered, “Yes. And in addition to the police I’ll have Somerset College security people in the parking lots and in the gyms. Both the police and I will go through the gymnasium building tomorrow morning before anyone enters to check that all is in order, confirm that doors that should be locked are, and so forth. And I will personally be spending Friday and Saturday nights in the gym, in addition to hourly police patrols through the campus.”

“Stivali, you’ve been a detective. You know the community, and you know the campus. What risks are we taking?”

“If you cancel the show, there will still be people coming to the campus who’ll assume the show is proceeding as it’s been advertised. There have been advertisements and signs for a couple of hundred miles around to attract customers. All appropriate precautions are being taken by your agency personnel, by us at the college, and by the local police. If you cancel the show you’ll lose money, and, what’s more important, lose some credibility in the community.”

“I understand losing the money; Carole’s briefed me on that,”
said Thompson. “But credibility? If we open a show and anyone is hurt, it seems to me we’ll be risking our reputation a lot more than if we canceled it.”

“There are strong feelings, perhaps particularly here in New Jersey, about giving in to threats. After 9/11 people don’t want their actions and decisions dictated by people who don’t agree with them. Personally, I think security is well in hand for your show, and it would be a shame to cancel it now.”

“There is one other point, too,” Carole added. “If anyone should attempt to disrupt the show, we will have Mr. Stivali’s staff available, plus the local police, to intercept any actions. If we cancel the show, who knows what this person may want us to do next? We’d be giving in to blackmail. Especially as we don’t know why they’re upset about support for OWOC.”

Thompson nodded. “That makes sense to me. If we knew more, maybe our decision would be different. But these notes and telephone calls may just be from some kid who’s just trying to make trouble. They could even,” he said, looking at Carole, “be from one of the young people we’ve placed for adoption. We all know sometimes adolescent adoptees have strong reactions against their adoptive parents and even against the agencies that placed them.” He paused. “We’d all feel safer, certainly, if the police had found whoever shot Holly Sloane and murdered her son. But from what’s been said here, that very sad and tragic situation may have no relation to the show this weekend.” He stood up. “I suggest we go ahead with the show. Does anyone disagree?”

The other board members, none of whom had said a word, shook their heads. Maggie wondered if all OWOC board decisions were made so simply.

“Then it’s decided. We will not cancel the benefit antiques show. Professor Summer, I’ll see you at the show Saturday.” Thompson pushed his chair in and left the room.

The show was on.

Chapter 28

The Same Old Christmas Story Over Again.
Wood engraving by Thomas Nast (1840–1902), the nineteenth-century political cartoonist and creator of the image of Santa Claus as we know him today.
Harper’s Weekly
centerfold, January 1872. The heads and shoulders of two sleeping children are surrounded by dozens of characters from their dreams: Santa Claus and his reindeer, Little Red Riding Hood, the cow jumping over the moon, a witch on a broomstick, Ali Baba, Robinson Crusoe, Little Boy Blue, and many more. Delicately and memorably drawn. This copy has been hand colored lightly. 16 x 22 inches. Price: $365.

Wednesday night was “full up with weather,” as Maggie remembered a Maine meteorologist saying when she’d been Down East last summer. The wind howled, and the rain poured. At least the thunder and lightning seemed to have stopped.

Per police instructions, and on the possibility that Will would appear, Maggie left all her outside lights on. By ten she’d refrigerated her now defrosted filet and made an executive decision not to pack her van with the portfolios and racks she’d piled near the study doors. She was only sharing a booth at this show,
so she wasn’t taking as many prints as usual, and there was no way she’d take her inventory, even protected by portfolios, out in bad weather. Maybe Ben or Will could help her pack the van tomorrow.

Winslow sat on a kitchen windowsill staring out at the sodden yard illuminated by the high lights Maggie’d installed late last fall. Occasionally he reached out a paw in hopes of catching one of the raindrops dripping down the outside of the glass.

Maggie left him in charge of the kitchen and headed for bed, but slept little. Wind and rain banged on the roof and windowpanes. Twice she got up to make sure all the windows and doors were locked. Dreams of bodies and bombs and fires and children kept her alert to the slightest noise in the house. At some point Winslow joined her. When he jumped off the foot of her bed at about three thirty, the movement startled her out of her few moments of deep sleep.

She got up and checked her yard and the street in front of her house. Will’s RV hadn’t arrived. He’d probably stopped for some sleep along the way. It was safer that way.

For him, anyway.

Back under the covers, she listened to the rain. Usually she felt cozy and safe and peaceful when she was inside on a rainy day. Now the dank air was suffocating and the heavy rains threatening. Maggie thumped her pillow and turned over. She had a hard day ahead of her, physically and emotionally. She needed sleep. She refused to be intimidated.

At six she woke again. The rain had stopped, and May sun was already drying the puddles and wet trees and lawns left by last night’s storm. Will’s silent RV was parked in front of her house.

Maggie felt herself relaxing. She took a fast shower, put on enough makeup so she didn’t look as though she’d had almost no sleep, and headed for the kitchen. Winslow endorsed Will’s order of sausage and eggs. He watched as Maggie began heating the sausages and warming the mushrooms and onions she’d
sautéed last night. They had been planned for the filet, but would be just fine added to scrambled eggs this morning.

She set the table and made coffee. After Maggie admitted she had somehow missed out on Coffeemaking 101, Will had given her a coffeepot for Valentine’s Day. Along with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Michael had been a tea drinker and Maggie’s usual breakfast drink was Diet Pepsi with ice. She carefully measured out the coffee she’d stored in her freezer since Will’s last visit. When he knocked on the door at seven thirty the table was set, juice poured, and the smells of sausage and coffee filled the kitchen.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Maggie said, once they’d untangled themselves and were just standing holding hands.

“Glad to be of service. As I remember, today is the day we get to watch other people put the floor down, and then do a lot of bending and measuring and duct-taping to mark out booth locations.”

“On target,” said Maggie. “You do read my e-mail messages!”

“I treasure every one, my dear. Almost as much as I’ll treasure that breakfast. It smells fantastic in here.”

“We have forty-five minutes to enjoy it all before we have to head for the college.” Maggie served the eggs and vegetables and put a platter of sausages between them on the table.

“Where are Gussie and Ben, by the way? I expected to see Gussie’s van in your driveway.”

“They hit bad traffic coming off the Cape yesterday, and Gussie was too tired to drive the whole way. They stayed in a motel near Hartford and should be here this morning.”

“Sorry we both let you down last night. Shows are getting harder and harder for Gussie to do, aren’t they?”

Maggie nodded as she sat down and picked up her fork. “I’m afraid so. The growing exhaustion is part of the postpolio syndrome. She’s canceled out of a lot of shows, but she wanted to come for this one.”

“Of course. Because you were running it!”

“She’s doing the Rensselaer show with us at the end of the month, too. I think after that she’ll be home for the summer. Summer visitors to Cape Cod should keep the cash register in her shop ringing.”

“I’d guess buying is becoming an issue, too. She won’t be able to get to as many other shops and flea markets and auctions and such.” Will chewed thoughtfully.

“She still does some, and her sister is doing a little buying for her. She’s been in business long enough so sometimes people bring things they’re interested in selling to her shop.”

“Thank goodness she has Ben.”

Maggie nodded. “And Jim. He doesn’t know much about antique dolls and toys, but he’s stuck with her even when she’s had bad days. That must be an enormous emotional help.”

“Knowing you’re here is an enormous emotional help to me, too,” said Will. “But there are moments when being closer would help considerably with the physical aspects of our relationship.”

Maggie chewed her sausage and smiled. “At least Gussie and Jim don’t have that issue. They live within a few miles of each other.”

“So, before we go out into the wilderness of New Jersey, give me an update on terrorism and adoption.”

Maggie took a deep breath, prepared to tell all. She was interrupted by the telephone.

“Maggie Summer? This is Jim Hunter. I called you yesterday and left a message, but you didn’t return my call.”

Maggie sat down, telephone in hand. “I remember. I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.” Who was this man?

“I thought you might have tried to call when I was out, so I decided to try again.”

Maggie didn’t say anything. Then she remembered. “You’re the one who wanted to know something about one of my students! Has someone applied for a job with you?”

“Ah . . . no. Actually I called to tell
you
something about one of your students.”

“Mr. Hunter, we’re between semesters just now.”

“I know, but he told me he’d be working for you on a special project this week.”

Special project? The antiques show.

“Who is the student?”

“Abdullah Jaleel.”

Maggie relaxed. “He was one of my best students this past semester. And he’s volunteered to help out at an antiques show that’s being held at the college this weekend.”

“He told me he’d be there for several days.”

“He was at our meeting for volunteers on Wednesday. As I remember, he volunteered to be a porter Friday night, and then help with any errands or cleanups that were needed during the show, and be a porter again after the show closes Sunday night.” Maggie paused. She still didn’t know who this man was. “Are you a relative?”

“No, no. I’ve been working with Abdullah on a committee raising funds to establish a memorial for New Jersey residents killed in the World Trade Center disaster.”

“He mentioned he was on that committee.” Or, rather, I mentioned I’d seen him on television, Maggie remembered. So many people in New Jersey had lost loved ones and neighbors on 9/11. “I’m sorry, was someone you knew . . .?”

“My wife. She was on the ninety-seventh floor of the South Tower. She worked with Abdullah’s brother.”

“I’m so very sorry.” Maggie paused. What could she say that meant anything to someone who had lost so much? “I saw a television broadcast about the memorial and mentioned it to Abdullah. He said his brother had been in the Trade Center. That’s the first time he’d mentioned it.”

“That’s what I thought. He’s alone now, since his mother died, and his father lives in Saudi Arabia. He doesn’t talk to many people. I think he just holds it all in.”

“Was his mother in the World Trade Center, too?”

“No. It’s complicated, and I don’t know all the details. But
she killed herself about a year after 9/11. It’s been a rough couple of years for Abdullah.”

“And you called me because . . .?”

“He’s mentioned you several times, Professor Summer. He respects you. I think he’s very lonely and feels isolated. Being Muslim after 9/11 wasn’t easy. And at the same time he had to deal with his brother’s death, at Muslim hands. I’ve been worried that he keeps too much to himself; he thinks too much. So when I saw him at the meeting and he mentioned he was going to work on your benefit, I was very pleased. It’s the first time he’s mentioned doing something other than studying.”

“I was pleased, too, Mr. Hunter. Abdullah seems to be a fine young man. I hadn’t realized he was coping with so much tragedy in his personal life.”

“He doesn’t tell people. But now someone at the college will know, so if he should say something a little emotional at some time, you would understand.”