by Lea Wait
Dear Will,
All looks OK for the show so far, although it will look a lot better after you get to Jersey. Only two days! Drive carefully. The agency has been getting nasty letters from someone angry about something, but it’s all a little unclear. We’ll up the security a bit for the show, just in case there’s a problem. Probably just someone who wants to picket or send a nasty letter to the editor. They say any publicity is good publicity, right? We need droves of customers! I haven’t started on inventory items for the Rensselaer County show. Just turned my grades in, so maybe tomorrow I can do a few things. Looks as though I’ll be recycling my inventory, not displaying a lot of new items. Hope this summer is going to be one long buying spree. Still looking for some early (pre-1840s) astronomy prints, should you happen to see any. Looking forward to seeing you Wednesday. I miss you. And I could use a hug. Would be willing to share!
Yours, Maggie
Maggie pressed “send and receive.” The two messages she’d sent disappeared. The only new message that appeared asked, “Would you like to make your date as hot as the Equator?” Delete.
Maggie stared at the computer screen and realized sitting and thinking were just driving her crazy. What could she do that would make a difference?
What had women done for centuries when there was a problem, or when nerves needed to be soothed?
Well, a couple of things, actually. But, above all, they cooked. She, who had planned to eat frozen pizza until her guests arrived and then distribute menus for Chinese restaurants and pizza parlors, had promised to supply food for a small army called the Sloane family.
The occasion called for large amounts of food that were soothing. Pasta was an obvious solution. Maggie assessed the contents of her kitchen cabinets and decided: macaroni salad with tuna fish. She’d add some of the vegetables she’d bought for her frozen pizza. Mushrooms, peppers, red onions. Plus mayo. A touch of mustard. Maybe she’d sneak some capers in, too. She could make it tonight and it could be eaten hot or cold. Perfect.
She heated a large pan of water to cook the packages of whole-wheat macaroni she found in her cabinet and got out her largest mixing bowl for the salad. But what if someone didn’t like tuna or salad? What did teenagers eat?
Maggie looked in her freezer for inspiration. Two lamb chops. A sirloin steak. Hamburger. And the solution: three packages of hot dogs she’d bought to take to a neighborhood barbecue a couple of weeks ago. The barbecue had been rained out, so she’d stuck the hot dogs in the freezer. She knew Will’s aunt Nettie in Maine would have palpitations that she wasn’t cooking them from scratch, but she’d combine canned baked beans with the sliced hot dogs, add some tomatoes and onion and . . . voilà! Baked bean and frank casserole.
An hour later, the casserole ready to heat and the salad made, Maggie sat down. She’d nibbled a hot dog and a little pasta herself along the way. Not exactly gourmet, but she was full, and she had two containers of food ready for delivery tomorrow. How were the Sloanes doing? How was Rob coping with fourteen children—no, make that eleven, assuming Jackson was still missing and the oldest two were still in Philadelphia—who wanted their mother safe and available? She hoped Jackson had returned by now. She hoped Holly was healing quickly and would go home soon. She hoped the police found whoever had shot her.
And she hoped whoever had shot Holly Sloane had nothing to do with the letters sent to Our World Our Children. Or with the message left on her own answering machine.
Tomorrow morning she’d meet with the head of security at Somerset County College. She’d tell him security might be a bigger issue than any of them dreamed.
Then she’d go to visit a family missing a mother. And a brother.
Before she went to the police.
Chapter 14
Council with White Man’s Horse. Plate XVII, lithograph (1855), engraved by Stanley and published by Sarony, Major & Knapp, NYC, for the General Report of the United States Surveys, 47th & 49th Parallels. Blackfoot Indians meeting with a group of white men on the prairie, outside what appears to be a Native American village. All in shades of black, white, and orange/tan. 8.24 x 11.5 inches. Price: $50.
It haunted Maggie that she couldn’t identify the voice making the telephoned threat. She was sure she’d heard it before. At five in the morning she went downstairs and listened to the message over and over. Why couldn’t she recognize the voice? It made her angry, and it scared her. If the person making the threat was someone she knew, the possibility of real danger was a lot greater than if the caller was a stranger.
But how would a stranger know her connection to the show, and her unlisted home telephone number? She kept hoping that at any moment the caller’s name would somehow emerge from her subconscious. Then she could call the police with real information.
In the meantime, she went ahead with Tuesday’s schedule.
Her meeting with the security staff was in their basement office at the far end of Somerset College’s administration building. If office location meant anything in terms of prestige, then security was not a priority at Somerset College. Thank goodness it had never needed to be. The college was just over a highway hour west of New York City in an area of suburban sprawl that was threatening the existence of small dairy farms and stables. An area where most crimes involved automobiles or burglaries.
Where did her caller fit into the picture? What kind of person tried to scare people working on behalf of abandoned children?
Maggie walked with a determined stride. She wasn’t going to let anyone scare her. Whether or not she herself ever had the courage to adopt, Our World Our Children was one of the most deserving organizations she knew. No crazy person who didn’t understand the needs of children could discourage her from helping them.
Al Stivali, a retired policeman in his midfifties, was Somerset College’s head of security. He’d walked the beat in Newark for twenty years and deserved every hour of peace he’d found after that. His profile was no doubt a bit more paunchy than when he’d been chasing drug dealers and angry kids in city streets, and his hairline had receded, but his senses and brain were still alert. Maggie noted a copy of The House of Seven Gables on the corner of his desk next to a pile of well-worn notebooks. Stivali had been auditing some courses recently, including one of Maggie’s. She’d enjoyed having him in her front row.
One wall of his office was covered by a white board listing schedules for the college guards who reported to him. Some of the guards were also retired cops; some had been MPs; some had little experience but were looking for a quiet second or even third job.
Al put down his coffee cup as Maggie walked in. “Professor Summer! Glad you stopped by. Can I offer you some coffee? It’s strong.”
“No, thanks, Al. And call me Maggie. Professor sounds so formal.”
“Then, Maggie.” Al smiled as Maggie sat down. “I think we’ve exchanged enough notes to have a good idea of what you’re looking for.” He got up and pointed at the dates May 12 through May 15 on his white board.
“You’ve got suppliers coming in Thursday and Friday morning, and then the antiques people are arriving around four o’clock Friday afternoon. They’ll do their thing and be out by ten. You’ll have people in the gym Saturday morning starting around eight and going until six in the evening, and then again Sunday, from nine until six. That cover it?”
“Pretty much. There will be some people working later Sunday night, after the dealers have packed up, to pile up tables and chairs. Monday morning the rental people will pick up their tables, and the company that put the pads on the floors will be back to take them up. If all goes smoothly, everything should be back to normal by noon on Monday.”
Al had returned to his desk and was making a couple of notes. “There shouldn’t be any problems. I’ve got a couple of guys who can work overtime that weekend. The new semester doesn’t begin until June, so we usually operate with a skeleton crew at this time of year. But we can pull people in.”
“Two things I’d lik
e your help on. The first is parking. I’m going to ask the dealers to move their vans and trucks into the dorm parking lot during the show so there’ll be lots of space for customers to park by the gym. I’d really appreciate your guys keeping an eye out for any dealers who don’t move. You tell me license plate numbers and I’ll find the owner of the vehicle. All dealer vehicles should have placards stuck on their windshields. And I know you always check for unauthorized cars in the handicapped areas, but I’d like special attention paid there during the show. I don’t want any potential customers to leave because there aren’t enough handicapped parking spaces. Antiques shows tend to have older visitors than most events here on campus.”
“No problem, Maggie,” Al said, making another note. “We have temporary handicapped designation signs. Shall we increase the number of handicapped spaces by the gym?”
“That would be great! Three or four more spaces should be plenty. And make sure at least two are wide enough for vans with wheelchair lifts. There’s one space there already, but I’m going to reserve it for one of the dealers. There should be at least one other for customers.” Gussie wouldn’t ask for any special privileges, but there was no reason someone using an electric wheelchair should have to maneuver her chair all the way from the dorm parking lot. So far as she knew, none of the other dealers doing this show were disabled. If someone was, she’d make adjustments.
“Okay, parking. What else do you need our help with?”
“Friday and Saturday nights the dealers are going to be leaving their antiques in the gym. I know the college has insurance, and most of the dealers do, and Our World Our Children took out a separate policy to cover this show. But none of us want to test those policies. There will be valuable inventory items in the gyms. They’re even priced, so someone who doesn’t know antiques could figure pretty quickly what was worth stealing. The estate jewelry dealer will take his top-end merchandise home every night, but most people will leave everything here. I’d feel better if there were someone in the gyms overnight—we could even put in a cot, if they were a light sleeper—to make sure no one tried to break in.”
“You want one of my guys to sleep in the gym?” Al raised an eyebrow. “Those antiques must really be big-ticket items.”
“Perception is reality. Tell people there’s a building full of antiques and they’ll imagine hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of items. And when you multiply the retail value of even a relatively small inventory by thirty-six dealers . . .”
Al nodded. “Got it.”
“I’d planned to ask one of the adoptive fathers connected with the agency to stay overnight. But now the situation is more complicated. The agency has asked the local police to keep an eye on the gym, but that just means they’ll drive by once an hour or so. I’d like someone there who knows what to do in case of an emergency.”
Al put his pen down. “Professor, I mean, Maggie, what’s the real deal? There’s something you’re not telling me. What’s this ‘complicated situation’?”
Al seemed incredibly sane and easy to talk with. And trustworthy. “This has to be just between you and me. But Our World Our Children has been receiving threatening letters from someone who is angry about something the agency does. Or did. We don’t know what.”
“My niece and her husband out in Ohio adopted a real sweet little girl from China. I don’t see how anybody could be upset about people bringing kids and families together.” Al leaned back in his chair.
“Exactly. I have no idea what the problem is either.”
“They must be nuts!”
“Maybe. A lot of nuts are out there.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Al sat up straighter and paid close attention. “Talk to me about these threats.”
“Carole Drummond, the head of Our World Our Children, has gotten several hate letters in the past couple of months. They were nasty, but they weren’t threatening. The local cops said there was nothing they could do.”
“Right. Can’t arrest anyone for words. Just actions.”
“Then last week the agency got another letter. This one said they should stop the antiques show. It specifically mentioned the dates. Carole talked to the police yesterday and they connected it to letters sent to an adoption agency in Trenton.”
“Same sort of language?”
“Apparently. But all the letters are postmarked near here, in Somerville. I haven’t told anyone yet, Al, but yesterday someone left a threatening message on my home answering machine. It sounded like the same sort of rhetoric. And mentioned the show.”
Al looked sternly at her. “You haven’t told the police?”
“Not yet.”
“You need to do that, Maggie. Today. Did you erase the message?”
“No. I listened to it several times. And that’s what stopped me from calling anyone. Al, I think I’ve heard the voice before. I’m pretty sure it was a man, but he was speaking in a high voice.”
“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-do
wn 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.
