by Lea Wait
Maggie knocked softly. Will opened the door almost immediately and gestured to her to be quiet as he stepped outside. “Susan’s asleep inside. She went back to her van with one of the detectives, so they could search it, and then she came here and collapsed. Where’ve you been?”
“Talking with Lydia. Remember she said she’d seen Harry talking with Vince earlier? I wanted to know whether she’d overheard what they’d been talking about.”
“Well, while you’ve been playing detective, the police think they’ve solved the crime.”
She looked up quickly. “Who?”
“Ben. They’ve taken him down to the local police station for questioning.”
Already. She’d thought she had some time. What would Gussie think?
“Did they arrest him?”
Will shook his head. “I think they’re waiting to see if they can get some more solid information.”
Maggie sat down on the nearest picnic-table bench. “When did it happen?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. It seems Susan told the police Ben had come flying at Harry, and she’d run away. Some other dealers saw Susan running from in back of the rest rooms, and then, a few minutes later, Ben running from the same place. Plus, when they asked Ben, he didn’t lie.”
“He told them he’d knocked Harry down.”
“Of course. And the police want this to be simple. A young, retarded boy gets a crush on Susan—several people saw him following her around today—and then kills her husband out of jealousy. He doesn’t really understand what he’s doing, of course, but Harry is dead.”
“Do you believe that, Will?”
“Hell, no. Even if he’d been able to knock Harry down hard, resulting in that gash in Harry’s head, it doesn’t explain how Harry got from in back of the rest rooms to the middle of the parked vans. Either he walked, or someone carried him, through a lighted area where people were talking. So far no one’s come up with a reasonable explanation.” Will paused. “I suspect even the police are trying to figure out how Ben moved the body.”
Maggie started up. “Gussie—”
“I’ve already called her. Ben’s been told not to say anything more. Gussie said she had a lawyer she was going to call.”
“Ben’s retarded. Can the police just take him away like that?”
“They’re just questioning him. And Gussie did tell him not to talk. Ben probably won’t even ask for a glass of water.”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s all happening too fast. Will, we have to figure out who really killed Harry. We can’t let Ben be blamed just because he’s young and has Down’s syndrome.”
“And just happened to knock down someone who was found murdered an hour later? Maggie, the police did the obvious thing.”
“Then we have to do something not so obvious. If they’ve arrested Ben, they’re not going to keep looking for the murderer, and he—or she—is going to get away with it!”
“Whoa. I didn’t say we wouldn’t do anything. But what can we do? For example, you talked with Lydia tonight. What did she know?”
“Not much. She said she’d seen Harry and Vince together after the show closed. Sounded as though she’d gotten as close as she could to try to check it out, too.”
“Depend on Lydia! She and Abe are a strange couple. She seems definitely in charge. He never says much except about that mourning stuff he collects. Poor Abe. Henpecked and nowhere to escape in that trailer of theirs!”
“Abe collects mourning things? I didn’t know that.”
“Well, he did a year ago anyway. I had a mourning vial of tears—you know, one of those small blown-glass bottles that Victorian women used to collect tears shed for the dearly beloved? It was even filled and sealed. Just the thing for a cheery mantel decoration. Anyway, it was in a box of early iron kitchen utensils I bought at an auction. I was doing a show in Ohio that week, and I put it out just for the novelty, since I don’t usually carry that sort of thing. Abe practically grabbed it off the table. I let him have it for a reasonable price, and he told me that he had cartons of the stuff. Mourning jewelry, hair wreaths, jet jewelry, calling cards for those in mourning, mourning samplers—you name it. He even took me inside that trailer of theirs. He has cartons of really terrific stuff. Said he and Lydia argued about it all the time. He feels it’s his right to collect, while Lydia wants him to put some of his collection in the business and see if they can make a profit on it. The old guy told me he puts aside the money she gives him to buy sodas and then doesn’t tell her when he adds to his collection.”
“But in that trailer? Where would they have any room for a collection of anything, between their clothes and the inventory and cases for the business? And they don’t look as though they’re making a mint in the business.” Maggie thought of that crowded, rusting trailer. “I think I’m on Lydia’s side.”
Will shrugged. “Well, that’s their problem. Anyway, I gather she didn’t have much information.”
“No. Did Susan say anything after the police questioned her?”
“Just that she didn’t want to talk to anyone; she wanted to sleep. So I let her.”
“Is the fairground still closed?”
“For the duration. I think you’re the only one here who hadn’t planned to spend the night.”
Will failed to squelch a yawn.
“I think it’s time for us to collapse. I have one more bed to offer.” Will attempted a lewd wink. “But, in case you don’t want to share, I also have a sleeping bag I can use.”
“Is that a proposition?”
“Hell—I wish I had the energy to make it one!” They climbed into the van as Maggie thought fleetingly of the soft, unreachable bed she was paying for across the street at Kosy Kabins.
But the single bed felt just fine, and with thoughts of Ben and how frightened he must be, Maggie fell into a restless sleep.
Chapter 15
Vanda Insignis (small orchids), German chromolithograph, c. 1880. Price: $85.
Maggie woke to the sound of the RV door closing. She stretched and felt her muscles resisting. She was going to pay for all the toting and carrying she’d done on Friday, combined with the night of little sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, realizing that she was alone. She looked at her watch: almost seven o’clock. Had Ben been able to sleep at all?
Outside, she made a quick trip to the ladies’ room. The mirror reflected a thirty-eight-year-old woman who’d stayed up until 2 A.M. talking murder and then sleeping in her clothes. It wasn’t a pretty reflection. A shower and clean clothes would be essential if she was to greet customers civilly at 10 A.M.
Will was at the trailer when she returned.
“Good morning, sleepyhead! Susan’s gone to change, and the police have opened the fairgrounds for the show, since they’ve got their suspect and Vince pressured them to let him open the show on schedule at ten this morning. But I’m told we’re all still considered witnesses, so if you want to go back to the motel, you’ll have to show identification at the gate, answer a few questions, and leave word where you’ll be for the next twenty-four hours.”
“‘They’ve got their suspect!’ How can they really believe Ben could kill someone?” Maggie thought of Ben’s open face and usual grin, and of Gussie, alone at the motel. “Will, have you talked with the police?”
“Briefly, after Susan went back to her van.”
“Was she all right?”
“She seemed in pretty good shape. She said she had some telephone calls to make.”
Susan had said Harry’s father had been missing for years and his mother had died, but he might have other relatives to notify. “What kind of questions are the police asking?”
“Basically just how well we knew Harry, and whether we saw him last night. That sort of thing. Apparently not many people knew him well; most are saying they wouldn’t have recognized him. So the questioning is going fast.”
“I need to get in line, then.” Maggie ran her hand through
her hair in an attempt to put it in order. “And I really need to get back to the Kabins to check on Gussie, and then shower and change before the show opens.”
“I’m going out for a hot breakfast. There’s a diner down the road about a mile. Care to join me?”
“Sure, but seeing Gussie and taking a shower take priority. How would eight-fifteen sound? We’ll need to get back here by nine-thirty at the latest; customers start lining up by then.”
“It’s a deal.”
The police were working from the two picnic tables they had pulled together the night before. They, too, looked as though they hadn’t had much sleep. Officer Taggart wasn’t among them.
“I’m Maggie Summer. I was staying over at the Kosy Kabins and would like to go back to shower and change before the show.” One look and they should be able to see that it was a reasonable request.
The same young detective Maggie had seen last night nodded wearily. “Okay. Just a few questions.”
He turned the notebook he was carrying to a new page.
“Name?”
“Maggie Summer.”
“Occupation?”
“My antiques business is called Shadows. I also teach at a college in New Jersey.” Maggie pulled out a business card to give him her address and telephone number.
“Did you know Harry Findley?”
“Yes. He and his wife had the booth next to mine. I’ve known him for about six years.”
“Did you see him last night?”
“Not after the show. Not until Susan started screaming.”
“Do you know if Harry Findley had any enemies?”
Maggie thought fast. She knew several people who were not thrilled with Harry, but none of them were really enemies. She wished she knew more. “No.”
“Where were you at ten-thirty last night?”
“Here. I came over with Ben Allen to check something. Everything was all right, so we were on our way back to the Kabins when we heard Susan.”
“What was Ben Allen checking?”
Maggie took a deep breath. “Ben had been running on the track, and on his way back to the motel he saw a man and a woman arguing. He thought the man was going to hit the woman, so he tried to stop him and pushed him to the ground.”
That was what Ben had told her, and Maggie believed him.
“How do you know that?”
“Ben panicked; he thought he might have hurt the man. So he went to his motel room to tell Gussie White, his aunt. I was there. Gussie was very tired so I agreed to go back with Ben to see if the man was hurt.”
“Anyone else with you and Ben?”
“Will Brewer was with us most of the time. We also spoke with Lydia Wyndham.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No; there was no one near the area where the confrontation occurred.”
“What did you do then?”
“From Ben’s description, Will and I thought that the woman involved was Susan Findley, so we looked for her. When she wasn’t at her van, Ben and I decided to go back to the motel. Will was walking us to the front gate when Susan started screaming.”
The officer sighed. “Okay. You’re going to the Kabins now?”
Maggie nodded. “I’ll be back by nine-thirty to prepare for the show’s opening. Then I’ll be here all day. I have a reservation for the Kabins again for tonight.”
“I may come by to say hello during the show, since you were the victim’s neighbor, and you spent part of last evening with Ben Allen. We’ll want to verify some of the time periods involved. But I think we have this case pretty well wrapped up. If you think of anything else we might find helpful, get in touch with me.”
Maggie resisted a strong desire to tell the young officer he had no idea what he was doing.
“Do you know how Harry died?”
He hesitated. “You saw the body?”
Maggie nodded.
“Then you know someone hit him on the left side of his head from the back.”
“The traditional blunt object?”
“Lady, we’re conducting a murder investigation here. Not writing a novel.” He sighed. “We’ll get the results of the autopsy later today. That should fill in some of the details.” He looked down at the notes in front of him. “You can go. But don’t leave the Kabins or the fairgrounds without telling one of us.” He gestured at himself and at the slightly older man who sat to his right, who looked, if possible, even more tired. His eyes were almost as red as the ink he was using.
“Officer, do you think the murderer could have been the same person who murdered John Smithson last week?”
“That’s the question of the day. But, no, I don’t. Most murderers stick to the same style. Harry Findley was bludgeoned; John Smithson was poisoned. Not the same modus operandi at all. This looks like a separate situation. And, of course, we do have a suspect in this case.”
“Ben just couldn’t have done it! I’ve known Ben for years; he’s kind, and gentle, and he had no reason to hurt Harry!”
“We’ll see. That’s why Ben Allen is being questioned. I think that’s all we need from you right now.”
Maggie glared at him.
“You can go to the motel if you like.”
“I was going to have breakfast at the diner.”
“You and every other antiques dealer. Yes, you can go to the diner. Just don’t disappear.”
What she needed was a hot shower, and to get away from this place and think.
An hour later, clean and dressed in a tailored denim shirt-waist dress, a red scarf, gold M earrings, and a pair of comfortable shoes, Maggie pushed open the heavy glass door to Marvin’s Diner. There had been no answer at Gussie’s Kabin, and her van was gone. She was no doubt at the police station with Ben. There would be a lot of catching up to do if and when she saw Gussie at the show.
For a Saturday morning the diner was surprisingly full, and not surprisingly, most of the red vinyl booths were filled with familiar faces. The dealers were getting in a good meal before a long day. Although there were food concession stands at the fairgrounds, dealers had to have someone watch their booth at all times: leaving your booth could mean losing a sale. Most dealers took some food to the show with them or depended on a partner to go and get coffee and sandwiches. Dealers who worked alone, such as Maggie, knew they’d have to ask someone to “booth-sit” at least once or twice during a show.
Will waved from the third booth up on the right. He’d changed into a sports jacket and slacks. The blue tie he was wearing made his eyes look bluer than she remembered. She shook her head mentally and told herself to keep cool as the waitress stopped to fill their cups with coffee.
“Diet cola, please,” Maggie asked, covering her cup. “Will, are the police still all over the fairgrounds?”
“They don’t have much more time before the crowds arrive. I saw some cars turning into the customer parking lot.”
“I keep trying to think who might have killed Harry. Susan did say that he’d made some enemies. In fact, she said you were on the list.”
“I guess it’s good that I have an alibi for most of last evening, then, isn’t it? Harry wasn’t my favorite person. But enemy sounds a little strong.”
“What problem did you and Harry have?”
“I met Harry through a mutual acquaintance in New York. When I told him I specialized in early fireplace equipment and kitchenware, Harry said he had a new customer, someone who had just bought an old home out in the Hamptons, and who wanted to decorate authentically. He said the guy didn’t have much money left after buying the house, and Harry was helping him pick up some quality items to set the decorating tone. The house featured an old fireplace in a part of the house that had once been a kitchen, and he wanted to decorate it with period fireplace furnishings.”
“Sounds like a good customer for you.”
“I thought so. Harry hinted that when his client had a little more money, he’d be back for more. So I quoted him a low price, on t
he theory that this was just the beginning.” Will paused for a sip of coffee. “Over the next couple of months Harry bought about a dozen really good pieces from me. Again, I gave him a deep discount, so he wouldn’t have to mark them up very much higher for his client. You know the drill.”
Maggie nodded. Dealers usually gave discounts to each other, and if you bought a group of things, often the discount was higher. It kept merchandise circulating. At some shows, more buying and selling went on between dealers than between dealers and customers.
The waitress stopped at their table to bring Maggie her cola and waited expectantly.
“Three eggs scrambled, with home fries, bacon, waffles, and orange juice. Maggie?”
“Orange juice, two eggs scrambled, and raisin toast, please.” Maggie handed her menu to the waitress and hoped she’d ordered enough. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she’d looked at the menu. “And Harry didn’t come back for additional items?”
“No. But that was only part of it. About a year later I was at my dentist’s office and I picked up a copy of House Beautiful. There was a six-page spread on a home in the Hamptons that had been renovated. There, in living color, was a photo of the kitchen, featuring all the things I’d sold to Harry. Everything was there: the iron crane and kettle, the tin oven, the brass trammel, all the iron spoons and forks, the handcrafted dough board. Turns out the owner wasn’t a real-estate impoverished young man; he was one of those guys who made a mint in Internet stocks and sold them at the right time. I asked around. Seems Harry had been bragging about what a bargain he’d gotten on the fireplace stuff, and how he’d really soaked the client, charging him ten times what the stuff was worth.” Will’s large hands on the cup of coffee grew tense. “What would you have thought?”
