by Lea Wait
The True Old English Pit or Warrior Game. Drab brown hen and dramatic red and green and black cock, drawn and lithographed by Harrison Weir, 1901, for The Poultry Book, 1903. 7 x 9.5 inches. Price: $50.
There were too many things to think about; too many possibilities.
Much as Maggie wanted to see Gussie and Ben and, especially, Will right now, she didn’t feel like playing hostess. She headed for home anyway.
Jackson was dead. Carole was seriously thinking of canceling the show.
Maggie changed Winslow’s water, gave him a little canned chicken, and cleaned his litter box. Routines on a nonroutine day.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost one thirty. Gussie and Ben could arrive at any moment.
She put clean sheets on all the beds, the only task she hadn’t done Sunday night. Doing housework helped her avoid her answering machine. Carole’s message about Jackson would be on it, and probably other people asking her to accomplish things. Right now she didn’t want to do anything. If she didn’t know what she’d been asked to do, she wouldn’t feel guilty for not having done it. Shaky logic, but right now it made perfect sense.
She couldn’t stop thinking of Jackson, shot and lying in the woods. She wondered how Holly and Rob were coping with the death of one of their children. She didn’t want to imagine how they felt.
And people had been blaming Jackson for shooting Holly! His body could have been lying there since last Sunday.
No more excuses. Maggie looked toward her portfolios, but walked to her chair, removed Winslow, who had claimed it, and picked up paper and pencil. She had to face those answering machine messages before Gussie and Ben arrived. She didn’t want them hearing the news from a machine. And she needed to call Al to see if he was free for tonight’s meeting.
“Maggie? This is Carole. It’s Wednesday morning and you should know the police have identified Jackson Sloane’s body. It looks as though he was shot. Call me when you can.”
Two hang-ups.
Wrong numbers? Something more? But she’d rather have people hang up than leave nasty or threatening messages.
“Professor Summer? Maggie? Eric Sloane. I need to talk with you. Don’t call me at home; I’ll call you later.”
Eric’s voice was shaky. He must be taking his brother’s death hard. Maybe he had just called to say he was going to miss this morning’s meeting. Or . . . did he have something else on his mind? Maggie swallowed and listened to the next message.
“Ms. Summer? I’m Alice Cleary, the head librarian at the Park Glen Library. I’ve heard you’re a real expert on early natural history prints, and wondered if you’d be willing to do a little talk at the library next fall. We’re finalizing our speaking schedule, so do try to get back to me as soon as possible.”
Maggie shook her head. She’d get back to Alice Cleary another day.
“Professor Summer? This is Jim Hunter. You don’t know me, and I know this sounds strange, but I’m worried about one of your students, and he doesn’t have any family to talk with. He once mentioned your name, so I thought maybe you’d be able to help. He doesn’t know I’ve called you. Please call me when you get a chance.”
One of her students? Maggie frowned. The semester was over; she wouldn’t be seeing her students. But she would get back to him. Jim Hunter. She wrote down the name and number. It didn’t sound like the kind of emergency she was coping with right now. Mr. Hunter could also wait.
“Maggie, this is Al Stivali, over at security. I heard they found that young man’s body. I figured he was the one you were worried about. If I can do anything to help, you be sure to let me know.”
Al was a good man, Maggie thought. She had been much less worried about security for the show since she’d talked with him. And now she needed his help with the meeting tonight. At least she wouldn’t have to tell him about Jackson; he already knew and no doubt had some thoughts on how the death might influence the show. As soon as she’d heard all the messages, she’d call Al.
“Maggie? Mike Blanchard here. Something’s come up, and I won’t be able to do your show this weekend. Sorry. Send me the refund when you can.”
Maggie underlined Mike’s name three times. Another cancellation. Not even an attempt at an excuse. She should have made the deposit nonrefundable, as it was at most shows. Mike Blanchard had a great collection of Belleek and Staffordshire and majolica, all interesting, and very different, types of china. She’d never get anyone else with merchandise that good this close to the show date.
She’d just have to shift the booths, leaving more room for the café. At this point it didn’t matter how uneven the rows of booths were, as long as their arrangement looked intentional.
She needed to talk to someone. Someone who would understand her concerns and tell her whether she was being paranoid. Or hysterical. Someone with credibility.
She picked up the phone and dialed the number for Somerset County College. “Security, please.”
Al’s voice was comfortable and strong. “Security here. Stivali.”
“Al, this is Maggie Summer. Sorry to bother you—”
“Maggie! You’re not bothering me. I told you to call anytime, didn’t I?”
Maggie smiled. Al sounded like a concerned father would. If his daughter had a boyfriend problem, he would probably have stared the young man down and then run him off the premises. Her own father would have told her to call 911 and stop disturbing his nap.
She didn’t need a father at her age, but, still, it was nice to have someone reliable to talk with. Someone who cared. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back sooner.”
“I’ve been thinking about you and your antiques show ever since I heard the news about them finding that Sloane boy’s body. Horrible situation. And I knew you were connected to the family.”
“Indirectly, yes,” Maggie admitted. “Through the agency. And Jackson’s brother is the one in facilities management group who was going to help us during the show.”
“And what about those letters, and that telephone message you got? Any more of that going on?”
“No more messages.”
“Good.”
“But there’s another problem, Al. Our World Our Children is getting really worried about security for the show. They were a little nervous, but now with Jackson’s death . . .”
“They’re going to cancel it?”
“They may. Carole Drummond, the director, has called an agency board meeting tonight to make the decision as to whether or not the show should go on as planned. I’ve been asked to go.”
“It’s a hard call, Maggie,” said Al. “Lots of arguments on both sides.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’d really appreciate your going with me to the meeting. Carole asked if you would. You have experience, and you’ll be at the college this weekend. You could help to pinpoint some of the real issues and eliminate those that aren’t so real.”
Al hesitated. “The decision is the agency’s, Maggie.”
“Yes. But I’ve organized the show, and it’s going to be at the college.”
Al hesitated. “How are you, Maggie? Really?”
“I’m okay. A little shaky. I wish the show were now, so we could all be doing something concrete instead of just talking about it.” In the background Maggie heard a clap of thunder. Just what she needed. A late-day thunderstorm.
Winslow heard the thunder, too. He jumped into Maggie’s lap and tucked his head down between Maggie and the arm of the chair. Big brave cat. Maggie absently rubbed his neck harder than usual. He shook his head and jumped down from her lap, dodging under the couch. “And, yes, I’m scared. Especially since I don’t know what, or who, to be scared of.”
“Where are you?”
“Now? At home. I’m expecting some friends who’re coming to help with the show. I guess they’ve been delayed.” Maggie paused. “I’m going a bit nuts.”
“Can your friends get into your home if they arrive while you’re out?”
“Yes.” Where were
Gussie and Ben?
“Then why don’t you let me buy you dinner. It’s a dreary time to be home alone in any case. We can plan what to say at the board meeting. And do some brainstorming about what you should do.”
“To protect the antiques show?”
“To protect yourself.”
She needed Al’s help, and his opinions. “The board meeting is at eight thirty. Would six be too early for dinner?” Gussie would understand.
“Six o’clock, then. At the Somerset Diner? We’ll talk. And if you still want me to go to this board meeting with you, then I will.”
“See you then. And thank you!” Maggie put down the phone and took a deep breath. Managing this show was getting more complicated every hour.
The telephone’s ring interrupted her thoughts.
“Professor Summer? This is Eric Sloane. I really need to see you. Can you meet me at Parkside Library? Over near the reference room. In half an hour.”
Chapter 23
Spring Farm Work—Grafting. Winslow Homer wood engraving done for April 30, 1870, Harper’s Weekly. Young man standing on ladder, grafting a small branch. Barn, hay pile, and geese in background. WH initials on tree trunk. (Homer did not always sign his work.) 6.75 x 9.25 inches. Price: $150.
What could Eric want to talk to her about? Maggie called Ian, her next-door neighbor. Ian was a graphic artist who’d added enough skylights and windows to his home so his attic was now a studio. He and Maggie had long ago exchanged keys to their homes, in case of emergency. She explained about Gussie and Ben, and Ian promised to let them into her house in case she hadn’t returned by the time they arrived.
Then she drove to the Parkside Library faster than she should have. Parkside was several towns away, but she knew where the library was. It was an old granite building. She’d driven past it often enough, but never been inside.
Eric and his family must be devastated at Jackson’s death. They’d already had to deal with their mother being shot in their own front yard. How could this be happening in Somerset County, New Jersey? Somerset County was one of the places people moved to to escape the random violence of New York and Philadelphia. Maggie drove through the quiet suburban streets of Parkside and wondered how many secrets were hidden behind the modern colonial facades and ranch houses. Wide, black-top driveways and pampered lawns shouted their owners’ control over their environment. There must be a local ordinance banning dandelions. Much less any other damaging elements.
The main reading room of the library was silent except for the giggles of three middle-school girls crowded together at one of the tables looking at a large book. Anatomy? Maggie remembered when she was thirteen. It seemed a long time ago. An older man sat by the window, immersed in a magazine.
On one wall hung three of John Gould’s (1804–93) hummingbirds. Had they been donated to the library individually, or inherited with a collection of books? Automatically, she walked toward them. Nicely matted and framed. Gould birds were large, Victorian-era lithographs; he had overseen more than three thousand prints of birds from around the world. Unframed, most of the lithographs retailed for $800 to $1,600, depending on their condition and the popularity of the bird.
Some “Gould birds” were actually done by Gould; others were done by other carefully selected artists, including his wife, who worked under his direction. The most popular of his prints were his 360 chromolithographs of hummingbirds published between 1849 and 1861. They used special oil colors and varnishes over gold leaf to capture the iridescence of the tiny birds’ wings. His formula worked. The wings glimmered. She’d seen those advertised at more than $2,000. Sometimes considerably more than $2,000. The Parkside Library was lucky to have three.
Eric had said he’d meet her “near the reference room.”
“Where is Reference, please?” Maggie asked the young woman wearing a yellow, flowered dress who was sorting through magazines at the center desk. The librarian pointed past where the girls were seated, to a hallway.
Eric was hunched over on a window seat near a large section of bookcases. He straightened up and smiled when he saw her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “You said if I needed to talk with someone, then I could call.”
“I did. And I just heard this morning. I’m very sorry about your brother.”
“We all are.” Eric looked out the window for a few minutes as Maggie pulled over a nearby chair. She didn’t want to rush him. Whatever he said had to be on his own time.
“We are—were—almost the same age. Jacks was twenty-two, and I’ll be twenty-two next month. But I always thought of him as my younger brother, since I came home before he did. We’d both been in bad family situations and then foster care, and it wasn’t easy being moved around a lot. Not being able to count on anyone to be there when you needed them.”
Eric’s shoulders slumped and he clasped and then unclasped his hands. He looked out the window instead of at Maggie. A small flock of sparrows was chattering and fluttering about one area of the lawn. Someone had probably left part of their lunch sandwich out there.
“Anyway, Mom and Dad wanted us all to be in counseling for a while after we first came home. That was one of the family standards, as Dad says. He believes everyone should have someone to talk with outside the family, and a counselor gave us someone responsible to vent to, or ask advice from, before we were ready to share all that with people inside the family.”
“Did it help?”
“It helped me. Yeah. It did. We all had different counselors, because of privacy issues. The guy I talked to was black. He was cool. He understood a lot of the anger I felt about having had such a messed-up life, and being alone so much, and then trying to find my place in this crazy family.” Eric looked around at Maggie. “At first, like most of the kids, I put up a big fuss. Didn’t want no counseling. Didn’t need no help from any shrink. But, yeah, it did help.”
This was interesting, but why had Eric wanted to talk with her?
“Jacks wasn’t like that. When he said he hated counseling, he really meant it. Once he told me he never talked to his counselor. Never. He went because Dad said that was a rule, but he didn’t open his mouth. Just sat there during his sessions.” Eric shook his head. “Once in a while I’d try to talk with him. Say, ‘Hey, man, how’s it going? What’re you thinking?’ But even though we shared a room and I saw him at school and all, Jacks didn’t talk back. Not about anything important. We just talked about school and girls and work and how the little kids were a pain. Everyday stuff.
“I mean, I knew some things. Like, his bio mom was white and his dad was black, and he felt he wasn’t black or white. He hung around mostly with the black kids, but he didn’t really fit in.”
“Aren’t several of your brothers and sisters biracial?” asked Maggie.
“Five of them. Since I’m all black, that’s one issue I haven’t had to cope with. But I know some of the others have had problems. There’s always the question of who you hang with. How you fill out forms. What color you feel inside. Everyone treats it differently. For most of the kids it isn’t a big deal. It’s just part of the package they were handed. Like having white parents now. Weird to some people, but not so unusual for adopted kids. And we know a lot of adopted kids. Those adoptive-parent picnics and Christmas parties and all make sure we do. That’s good. People outside the family sometimes have funny reactions to us. Kids see us with our family and ask if we’re from the UN or from some exchange program. But we know there are lots of kids in families like ours.” Eric seemed comfortable talking about being adopted, maybe because the Sloanes were so open about it. She wondered how it felt to deal with issues of family and race daily.
“But Jacks was mad about the whole deal. Mom thought he was her special boy. He hung around her and talked to her and helped her around the house. More than I did, for sure.” Eric looked at Maggie a little guiltily. “But then he’d come upstairs and wonder if his white bio mom was like her. If she was, then why did she
dump him and end up in jail? He’d cuss them both out. He used to say if he’d had two parents the same color then he wouldn’t be all mixed up the way he was, and living in this crazy family.”
“Did he talk to anyone else about how he felt?”
“Not for a long time. Once I told him he should talk to his counselor, but he got angry. Said I could wimp out and talk to some headshrinker, but no way was he going to. That no one knew what was inside his head, and he wanted it to stay that way. After that I left him alone.”
“But he did talk to someone?” Maggie persisted, and leaned toward Eric. There was something important in what he was saying. She was sure of it.
“I think so. About six months ago, about the time I started working at the college so I could get some classes paid for, he started hanging around with a couple of new guys. I don’t know who they were; he wouldn’t tell me. But he said he’d finally found people who understood him, who knew what it was like to feel like a zebra and to hate it.”
“Where did Jackson meet these guys? How old were they?”
“He never said. He did say they’d lived more than most of us kids. I figured that meant the guys were older than us. Or at least had a lot more experiences. But I don’t think they were a lot older. I mean, I can’t see Jacks hanging around with someone in his thirties or something!”
Maggie, aged thirty-eight—almost thirty-nine—tried not to grimace. “He never said who these people were?”
Eric shook his head. “Just that they were like him. I figured maybe they were biracial, since that’s what Jacks thought a lot about. Anyway, I didn’t want to tell the police, because it sounds stupid that I know there’re people out there who might be able to help, but I don’t know who they are, or where they are.” Eric looked at Maggie and took a deep breath.
“Saturday night Jacks and Mom had a big argument. He wanted to go out and she wanted to know where he was going.” Eric shrugged. “They always want to know where we’re going. Some of us—oh, hell, we all!—stretch the truth a little when we feel it’ll keep the peace. Four of us are over twenty-one! Jacks could have said he was going to a movie with any of the others who were going out, or with someone Mom knew. But he didn’t. He made a big scene by telling Mom it wasn’t any of her business where he went. She wasn’t his real mom, and if his real mom didn’t care, then why should she?”
