by Lea Wait
Ben could never have murdered anyone; he couldn’t have. Thank goodness his parents had driven the five hours from the Cape last night. At least he must know they were here, and Jim was here, doing their best to help him.
“Maggie!” Gussie backed her scooter so she could see into both their booths and not block the wide aisle. “Did you find out anything? What did Vince say?”
“Not a lot. He was pleased the police have caught Harry’s killer quickly so nothing will disturb the workings of the show.”
Gussie’s face fell. “I really hoped he might know something helpful.”
“Well, I did learn a few interesting facts. Seems Vince and Harry had a little talk after the show last night during which Harry asked Vince to keep an eye on Susan because she wasn’t well, and he had to go out to the Coast for some business reason.”
“That is interesting. The husband asking the lover…strange.”
“I agree. Especially since Vince denied knowing anything about the divorce. He also did not agree to watch over Susan; he told Harry that was his job.”
“Well, that rings true. I can’t imagine Vince taking responsibility for someone else unless the situation was very temporary and he was going to make some money out of it.”
“Vince focuses on business; not on people. Harry focused on business, too. But Harry did make commitments to Susan, and, Susan says, to Joe.” Maggie paused a moment. “Speaking of Joe…?”
Gussie glanced over her shoulder at the J. COUSINS, BOOKSELLER sign. Joe was in the rear of his booth, discussing something with a tall, thin man with very little hair. Gussie and Maggie moved in unison so their backs were discreetly turned away from Joe’s booth.
“He’s obviously very upset about Harry’s death. In fact, he started to tear up a little when I said he must have been close to Harry. He’s obviously not coping well, but I talked to him for quite a while. I was glad when a customer interrupted us.”
“What did you learn?”
“Well, Joe kept rambling; I couldn’t get many direct answers.”
“Was he avoiding the questions?”
“He seemed just too upset to concentrate.”
Maggie looked over her shoulder at him. “He seems to be making sales. If he’s upset, he’s not showing it from this distance. But who knows? Maybe he’s giving terrific bargains.”
“Or maybe he’s able to block all this out when he’s dealing with books. He always seemed more comfortable with books than with people anyway, Maggie. You know he never talked much at the shows. Smiled, nodded, but never chatted the way the rest of us did.”
“True. I remember someone’s once telling me that Joe pretty much grew up in the business. His shop was his father’s before it was his.”
“That’s what he told me. His father had the shop, and Joe did shows. He inherited the whole business when his father died three years ago. Harry met him here and went to him a couple of years ago looking for books that were beautifully leather-bound. It didn’t matter what the books were. They would be sold by the foot, to line studies and offices with the look of old money and education.”
Maggie smiled. “Like buying ancestors.”
“Right. Anyway, it seems Joe’s clients had always been other dealers, whom he would see at his shop or at antiquarian-book fairs, or collectors. He had never thought of some of the more commercial properties of books—such as books purchased as decoration. So when Harry explained what he could sell to interior decorators, it was a whole new look at the world of bookselling.”
“Wouldn’t all book dealers know about that kind of purchase?”
“Apparently not Joe. Maybe he’d spent too much time in New Haven. In any case, he started to look for decorator books and sold them through Harry.”
Just as Will had sold fireplace equipment, Maggie thought. Only Will didn’t think working with Harry was such a terrific deal.
“He seemed really impressed by Harry. He kept talking about how kind Harry was, and how intelligent, and how he always treated Susan well.”
“For two people about to get a divorce, everyone seems to agree they were a great couple.”
“Well, add Joe to the list. Harry and Susan started inviting him to their parties a year or so ago, and for a while he stayed with them when he was in New York City.”
“That must have been cozy. Did he mention that Harry was going to divorce Susan to be with him?”
“Not exactly. He did say that Harry had seemed distracted recently, but he assumed it was because of everything that had to be done before the divorce.” Gussie paused. “He did say one interesting thing. He said the paperwork was finished last Wednesday.”
“For the divorce? Susan said it wouldn’t be complete until next week.”
“No. Not for the divorce. We knew that Harry was going to buy out Susan’s share of Art-Effects, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, guess where he was going to get the cash?”
Maggie took a deep breath. “You’re serious? From Joe?”
“Seems Joe inherited something over half a million from his father’s life insurance three years ago. He hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. He had it in a savings account.”
“Three years ago! At least he could have put some of it in a bond fund!”
“I don’t think Joe is a financial genius. He may know books, but not financial markets. In any case, Harry suggested Joe lend him the money so he could buy out Susan.”
“So, in effect, Joe was paying for Harry’s divorce! Was he going to become a half owner in Art-Effects?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but apparently not. Harry just wanted a personal loan. He told Joe he’d pay him back within a year—maybe sooner—since he had a big deal brewing.”
“And Joe just handed him the money?”
“Sounded that way. He said his father’s lawyer had drawn up some IOU papers, but that he trusted Harry, so he just wrote him a check. Last Wednesday.”
“So Harry already had the money.”
Gussie nodded. “According to Joe he deposited it on Wednesday. The check should have cleared by now.”
“If there’s not even an IOU in Harry’s estate, Joe has no claim on the money.” Maggie paused. It sounded as though Joe hadn’t just lost a lover; he’d lost part of his inheritance. “But Susan is—was—still Harry’s wife. She’ll inherit his estate. Maybe Joe thinks she’ll just hand him back the money.”
“I don’t know. Joe was funny about it. He kept saying he needed to talk with Susan. That he wanted Susan to have the money anyway. Of course, I asked him why.”
“And?”
“He just kept saying Harry would have wanted it that way.”
“Did Joe say where he was last night?”
“He said he left right after the show with a local collector who wanted him to see a collection of transcendentalist first editions—you know, Emerson, Hawthorne, Bronson Alcott—that might be for sale soon. The guy met him here and drove him in his own car, so Joe wouldn’t have to find the place.”
“When did he get back?”
“About midnight; by that time the fairgrounds were covered with police, who wouldn’t let him in. They just told him there’d been an accident, and no one could come in. I take it the collector wasn’t thrilled, but drove him back to his place for the night, and then dropped him at the entrance about nine this morning. Joe didn’t find out about Harry until then.”
“Sounds like a pretty tight alibi for last night. There’d be no reason to invent a story like that. And no doubt the collector would vouch for him.”
“That’s what I think, too.” Gussie paused. “He seemed genuinely upset that Ben had been arrested. Said the police always blame the wrong people.”
“Well, he’s right in this case, anyway.”
“Agreed. But it seemed like a strange remark. I was going to ask him who he thought might have murdered Harry, but we were interrupted. And it’s not an easy question to raise i
n a casual conversation with someone who’s just lost his dearest friend. That’s what he called Harry. Several times.”
“I’m sorry for him. He always seemed like a loner; the stereotype of the traditional quiet little man in the patched tweed jacket who spends his time with old books instead of new people.”
“I felt the same way. I almost invited him to dinner with Jim and me and my family tonight, but then thought better of it. We need to concentrate on Ben. I keep wondering what is happening in the world outside the antiques show today.”
“No one got much sleep last night.”
“That’s for sure. I did go to bed, but I kept wondering what was happening, and when Will called to tell me about Ben at two, I was still awake. And then, of course, I had to call the Cape and wake everyone there. By the time they were on the road, it was almost four, and I was much too worried to get much sleep.” Gussie looked at her watch. “It’s almost ninety minutes to go until closing. I hope I make it!”
Lydia crossed the aisle, her perpetual cup of tea in hand. “Abe is going to make a stop at the concession stand. Can he get anything for either of you? A late-afternoon snack? Life must go on, you know.”
“That would be great, Lydia. I think I need a triple espresso.”
Lydia hesitated. “Do they have that at the concession stand?”
Gussie shook her head. “No; that was a joke. Just wishful thinking. But a couple of chocolate chip cookies would be great.”
Maggie added, “Double the order and get me some?” She reached into her cash box for some money.
“No problem. Anything to drink? I know you two aren’t tea people. Susan and I have been sharing blends all day.” Lydia glanced at Gussie. “Most without caffeine, though. Caffeine is bad for the heart, you know.”
“No drink; thanks. I still have some cola left. Gussie?”
“Actually, plain coffee would be good just now. Heart problems or not. Thanks.” Gussie waved a thank-you to Abe, who was back in Silver in Mind’s booth.
As a young woman approached Gussie to ask about turn-of-the-century paper dolls, Lydia touched Maggie’s arm and gestured for her to move down the aisle, out of Gussie’s hearing range. “I know you’re fond of that poor retarded boy, Maggie, but sometimes people like that are unpredictable, you know. Don’t know their own strength. Don’t understand how serious things are.”
“Ben may be slow about some things, but he understands right and wrong. And he’s not violent!”
“You just never know, Maggie. Why, back in Iowa there was a boy like Ben. His parents lived about four farms down from where my folks lived. They kept people at home in those days, you know. They couldn’t afford one of those institutions, and no boys like that went to regular schools until very recently. Not that they get that much out of it, anyway, but that’s what the federal government says people have to do. This boy—his name was Alfred, as I remember—well, Alfred helped around the farm, feeding the chickens and doing other chores and such. One of his jobs was chopping firewood. Back when I was a girl, you know, a lot of people still used wood-burning stoves, and that’s what his folks had. Well, one day he was out chopping wood, and his mother, dear soul that she was, the very definition of patience, she came out and asked him, was he almost finished? And, nice as could be, he just turned about and started chopping at her. And then, when there was no point in doing that anymore, he finished chopping the wood, and was sitting there, all covered with his poor mother’s blood, when his father came home from the fields.”
Maggie just looked at Lydia. “Well, I don’t think Ben would do that. Or anything even close to that.”
“That’s just my point, dear. With those people you never really know, do you?” Lydia patted Maggie on the arm. “Now, just you relax. I’m sure the police are doing everything they can. That nice detective was over here this morning, and I’ve seen him wandering about during the day. I’m sure he’ll do the right thing. I just wish Susan would eat something. She’s looking paler all the time. I’ve been giving her a lot of honey in her tea, for energy, you know? But I’m not sure she can hold up for the rest of the afternoon.” Lydia shook her head. “Such a horrible situation. Poor Harry. And now Susan, left to cope with everything.”
“You’re right. I think I’ll ask if she’d like someone to watch her booth for a while. My booth is the closest to hers.” Maggie got up. “Customers are quiet at the moment, anyway.” And helping Susan would get her away from Lydia and her stories.
As Abe headed toward the concession stands with a list of orders, Maggie walked around the corner of Susan’s booth. Lydia was right; Susan didn’t look well. Everything that had happened during the last twenty-four hours must have been hitting her. She was slumped in her chair, her head on her hand. Next to her was a half-empty cup, and three prescription bottles: one held white capsules with a blue band around the middle; one tablets; and one small, round white pills. “Susan, are you all right?”
Susan looked up slowly and seemed to have trouble focusing. “No, not really. I took my medication.” She waved toward the pills. “It usually helps me. And I’ve been drinking teas that should help, too. But I’m so tired. And I guess I’m too nervous to eat anything. My stomach is really upset.” She hesitated. “Maggie, I can’t believe that Harry’s gone.” One tear dripped down the side of her nose and she didn’t even bother to wipe it away. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”
Maggie put her hand on Susan’s shoulder in sympathy.
“At least your husband died in an ordinary way. No one murdered him!”
That was a strange thing to say, but Susan was under stress. Vince had said she had felt faint several times on the Far East tour. Maggie wondered if she was going to faint now. “Do you feel light-headed? Do you want to put your head down?”
“No. I don’t think so. I just feel so foggy. And nauseated.” Susan looked up. “How can I feel nauseated when I haven’t had much to eat? I had some breakfast, and you brought me that tuna fish for lunch, but I couldn’t get much of it down.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. Can we get you something else to eat? Abe just went out for some snacks for us; he could get something for you, too.”
Susan shook her head listlessly. “Lydia already asked me. I told her I didn’t think I could keep any food down. All I want to do is sleep.”
“Susan, if that’s what you need, then let me take you back to your van. I’ll ask Will to look after your booth, and Gussie to look after mine. Then I’ll come back here, and between Gussie and me we’ll take care of everything for the rest of the afternoon.” Maggie glanced at her watch. “It’s almost four-thirty; the last hour and a half are always the slowest anyway.” Susan really didn’t look well. “Let me take you back to your van to rest. Please.”
“Maybe that would be good. I do think I need to lie down.” Susan reached under one of her tables for her small soft-sided cooler.
“Just give me a minute.” Maggie made hurried stops to talk with Will, Gussie, and Lydia, who all agreed to help. She then came back and helped Susan find her pocketbook, put most of the cash from her cash box in it, picked up the cooler, and put her arm around Susan as they headed out the building, dodging a few customers. Susan stumbled as though she’d had a little too much wine for lunch.
“I don’t know why I feel so awful,” Susan said as they walked slowly toward her van. “Sometimes I get faint and tired, but not this bad. I guess it’s the shock. All I want to do is sleep.”
“You’ve been doing too much,” Maggie said. “Harry’s dead, and you’ve been trying to carry on as if nothing had happened. You need to take care of yourself. You’re just exhausted, physically and emotionally.”
Susan’s van was farther off than Maggie had remembered. It was a relief when they finally got there, and Susan lay down on a cot.
“You’ll feel better soon.” Maggie covered her with a blanket.
But Susan was already asleep. She looked dead to the wo
rld.
Chapter 18
An Auction Sale, wood engraving by W. L. Sheppard, published in Harper’s Weekly, April 30, 1870. Elegantly dressed auctioneer, standing on a chair, trying to sell a painting to a group of elegant, but uninterested, viewers. Price: $65.
Maggie realized her hands were shaking.
Harry’s death had been so sudden; like Michael’s. Maggie concentrated on the steps she was taking, the vans she was walking around, the people milling around the food stands. Anything but remembering the pain of coming home to an empty house after Michael’s funeral.
She had walked in, exhausted, and relieved that finally everything was over.
But Michael was everywhere she looked. The oil painting of the Duomo he had bought for her on their honeymoon to Florence, the houseplants he had carefully moved outdoors to the patio every spring, the chair where he always put his feet up to read the Sunday Times.
She had walked from one room to another, seeing Michael in the choice of colors and furniture; the lavender and magenta vase his parents had given them that both of them hated. The Civil War histories he read, the jazz he listened to, the burgundies he had preferred in the wine rack.
She’d felt smothered by physical possessions that represented whole years of memories. Michael would never be really gone from her life; he would just not be present.
Now Susan would have to live through the same realization. Being a widow meant starting down a new road, but it also meant carrying the weight of what was, and what might have been.
But what had to be focused on today was the Rensselaer County Spring Antiques Fair. Maggie had spent long hours in March and April preparing for this show, as she did every year. She’d checked the inventory and replaced prints sold in last year’s shows and matted new ones. She’d have to decide what categories to feature this year. Sporting prints? Botanicals? Perhaps the work of one person—Maxfield Parrish or Winslow Homer?
