by Lea Wait
“Tuna sandwich.”
“Well?”
“I am not going to call a lawyer. Yet. There’s no word of a solution to John Smithson’s murder. That’s three antiques dealers dead in one week. It doesn’t make sense to think there’d be three different murderers. But nothing is making sense. The big question is motivation. Who would have wanted Harry and Susan—and John Smithson—dead?”
“It could be more than one killer. Maybe someone is taking advantage of the situation to make everyone think there’s only one person involved. There could be two—or even three—separate killers.”
Maggie shuddered. “But why?” She twisted an escaped strand of hair around a finger. “Why here, at the show? If someone really wanted to kill Harry or Susan, why not do it far away from a large crowd of people; here someone was bound to see something.”
“What about John Smithson last weekend? Maybe there’s some pervert around who’s preying on antiques dealers.”
“What connection could there have been between Harry and Susan and John Smithson?”
Gussie shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t even think they knew each other, other than seeing each other at this show.”
“That’s why I keep thinking we’re missing something. There’s a piece of this puzzle we’re not seeing.”
“Isn’t it dreadful? That awful detective is saying that someone killed poor Susan!” Lydia Wyndham’s voice was higher than usual. “I feel like a pig in a paper bag! Dark corners everywhere you turn. There’s just no way to explain this. Susan was a little silly, of course, but such a dear, sweet person. And so careful of her health.”
Gussie and Maggie looked at each other.
“It just goes to show: you never know what tomorrow will bring. Just yesterday Susan was so sad about Harry. I made her a cup of chamomile tea, because that’s calming you know, and she said it truly helped. Susan always liked my teas, although she always added too much honey for my taste, and here it’s one day later, and she’s gone to the Lord. Mr. Wyndham is just awfully upset, too, you know.”
Maggie glanced over at Silver in Mind. Abe was sitting in his customary chair at the side of the booth, reading the same book he’d been reading since Friday. If he’d been any more upset, he might have blinked.
“In any case, though, dears, life does go on, doesn’t it, and, Maggie, have you had a chance, and I know you certainly have had your mind full, what with Harry, and Susan, and customers, and all, but have you had a chance to look for those herb prints you said you might have?” Lydia turned to Gussie. “You know, tomorrow is another day, and my niece will still be getting married, and I just had it all planned that I could give her and her husband-to-be those prints of coffee and tea plants.”
Gussie smiled sweetly at her. “Well, certainly, priorities are priorities, Lydia.” Gussie almost winked at Maggie. “Maggie, you have looked for those prints, haven’t you?”
“Actually, no, I haven’t, Lydia. But I was just about to do that.” Maggie patted Lydia on her shoulder. “I know they’d have to be in one of a couple of portfolios, so it won’t take long for me to look.”
“Thank you so much, dear. I do hope you’ll be able to find them for me.”
Lydia smiled at Joe, who was still talking earnestly into his cell phone and ignoring two customers who were looking through his Hemingways and Faulkners, and returned to her booth. Her perennial cup of tea was waiting, as was a woman looking for a sardine fork in the Chantilly pattern. Sundays weren’t usually heavy customer days, but you could still make some good sales.
No customers were in Maggie’s booth, however, so she resolved to put aside thoughts of murder and concentrate on prints. She had several portfolios of prints from classic British herbals. Collections of drawings and descriptions of plants that had practical uses, whether for food, medicine, scent, or flavor, were particularly popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Many of the plants and flowers in the prints were considered only decorative today, such as the rose or the lily. Their popularity in medieval gardens was based on their “virtues,” or religious associations or their edibility. Some of the earliest herbals were beautifully hand-drawn and colored and had carefully scripted Latin descriptions of what the plant could be used for.
But none of those would contain coffee or tea, Maggie realized as she interrupted her search to sell two astrological prints to a gentleman wearing a Hawaiian shirt just short enough to reveal a rolling stomach.
Chamomile or sage or dandelions or poppies or tobacco or marijuana she could find, but not coffee or tea. She thought a few minutes. Coffee and tea were both evergreen trees, or large bushes. She did have a portfolio full of prints of trees, with full descriptions of the uses of their berries, leaves, or bark, and their pharmaceutical uses. Some, like the willow, the source for aspirin, had been used in Native American medicine. Some, like coffee and tea, had found their way into mainstream contemporary life. That was the portfolio she needed.
As part of her marketing and presentation strategy, Maggie always researched the subjects of her prints. That meant digging up historical details about the subject of the print, or particularly interesting information about the artist or engraver who had produced it. For some of her botanical prints Maggie had researched the uses of the plants. She often shared them with her social history classes to illustrate changing cultural perceptions of the environment.
She pulled out a portfolio labeled “Misc. Trees & Plants, with Historical and Current Uses” and quickly thumbed through it. Some were trees whose fruits or nuts had dual uses, some whose bark was used for medicines, some, like coffee and tea, whose berries or leaves were used. Willows, hickories, elms, azaleas, spruce—and here were coffee and tea. Luckily for Lydia Wyndham’s niece they would make a nice matching pair.
Maggie tucked the portfolio under the table and took the prints over to Lydia. “This is the only pair I have. Look them over, and if you’re still interested, I’ll quote you a dealers’ price.” Lydia nodded eagerly and then was distracted by a customer.
There were no customers in Maggie’s area. She walked up the aisle a little and looked at Susan’s booth. It was closed; chairs blocked the entrance. Someone had put two lilies of the valley on the center chair.
A nice gesture. Although Susan wasn’t exactly the lilies type, Maggie thought ironically. She focused on what was displayed in the booth. Vince had been carrying something under his coat this morning, and he had left it here. She was sure of it. Why would he have had something that belonged to Susan? And if he did have something, why return it today?
Nothing was noticeably different from yesterday afternoon. There were four Japanese wood-block prints; the pedestal was still in place; the embroidered hangings were still all here.
Suddenly she sensed someone near her. She whirled around, coming almost face-to-chest with Will.
“Whoa!” He took a step backward. “Sorry to crowd you!” Will’s green-and-blue tie was crooked; Maggie resisted the urge to reach up and straighten it.
“Sorry. I’m a little jumpy. You’ve talked with the friendly local policeman?”
He nodded. “Pretty awful, isn’t it?”
“Especially for those of us who brought Susan tuna salad for lunch yesterday.”
“At least you didn’t go home and whip up your own special mayonnaise to mix in it.”
Maggie made a face at him. “Will, do you remember talking with Vince this morning?”
“Sure. He came by to make sure Susan’s booth was closed off. He’s going to get some porters to help repack her stuff in the Art-Effects van tonight once the police have finished going over it.”
Her van. The last place I saw Susan, Maggie thought. She tried to erase the picture of Susan lying on her cot, pale and exhausted.
“Vince and Joe are going to make sure all Harry and Susan’s stuff gets back to their loft.”
Maggie nodded. For disposition by whoever was their beneficiary. She shuddered a bit. Sh
e knew all too well just how complicated dealing with estate laws and lawyers could be. And she hadn’t had to handle anything as remotely complicated as the Findleys’ estate would be.
“Will, I’m pretty sure I saw Vince hiding something under his jacket when he was here this morning, and then, later, when he was talking with you, whatever he was carrying had disappeared.”
“Dr. Summer, your eyes are not failing you. But your intuition may be turned on high. Vince wasn’t hiding anything. He was just returning a temple lion he had borrowed from Susan.” Will gestured toward the back table in Susan’s booth, where a pair of bronze Chinese chimeras, each standing about a foot tall, were facing each other.
“Of course.” Maggie looked at the lions. “There was only one here yesterday, and they almost always come in pairs. You know, I admired that lion on Vince’s desk Friday; it was with a couple of other Asian antiques. He said they weren’t his, but I didn’t connect it with the one Susan had.”
“Well, the lion is now back where it should be. He said he’d borrowed it from Susan so a photographer could take some pictures of it for his next brochure advertising dealers’ trips to Asia. He wanted to make sure it was back with her things before they were packed up and sent back to New York.”
“That makes sense.” There were often photographers from the antiques trade papers at the Rensselaer County Fair, and one of them might have volunteered to do a special job for a few extra dollars.
She looked at the lions. “They are handsome. Do you think anyone would mind if I took a closer look?”
“I’ll fight off the hordes. No one said anything about not touching her booth; it’s just closed to the public.”
“And we’re not public—right?”
Will smiled. “I’ll stand guard.”
Temple lions traditionally guarded the entrances to important tombs in southern China. These appeared identically and elaborately molded in bronze; every surface was etched or sculpted, from their large, clawed feet to their traditionally fierce faces. The bronze was slightly worn by time, and perhaps weather. Maggie lifted one. It was heavy. About the weight of the ten-month-old baby one of her students had brought with her to class a week ago—perhaps eighteen pounds. She examined the lion carefully.
No polish had disturbed the patina that showed its age, which was probably at least one hundred years. She wished she knew more about Asian art.
Maggie picked up the second lion and turned it over. She pulled her magnifying glass out of her pocket and checked all four feet carefully, then did the same with the first lion.
As Will watched, she replaced the lions on the table and moved the chairs back to block the booth.
“Well? I’m learning more about you every day. I didn’t realize you were so interested in Asian art.”
“Do you know which of those lions was the one Vince returned this morning?”
“No. I didn’t pay attention.” Will looked back over her shoulder at the table. “From here they look identical. Does it matter?”
“It could.” Maggie took a deep breath. “I’m going to go and have a chat with Vince.” She glanced around. “It’s pretty quiet anyway. Would you keep an eye on my booth for me?”
“No problem. But what do you need to talk with Vince about in such a hurry?”
“I just need to know where those lions were all weekend.” Maggie hesitated. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I have a hunch, and I need to check it out.”
“A hunch?”
“A hunch that the foot of one of those lions was the blunt object that killed Harry.”
Chapter 23
A Distinguished Fisherman Enjoying His Well-Earned Vacation, wood engraving published in Harper’s Weekly, August 16, 1884. Citified and serious man with elaborate rod and reel sits in a small rowboat while rural guide with beard and fishing net awaits the catching of a fish. Price: $50.
Vince was getting his own coffee. A bit of his carefully coiffed hair slipped over his forehead as he bent forward and carefully added artificial sweetener to his cup.
Goodness, thought Maggie, here we’ve all been concerned about Harry’s death, and Susan’s, and we never thought to worry about Vince. There’s been no one to get his coffee for him since Friday night. She shook her head as she approached his Show Management tables. How could we all have forgotten?
“Vince, I really need to talk with you.”
There were dark lines under his eyes, and the hands holding the coffee were shaking slightly. “Of course, Maggie. I know this has been an upsetting weekend for all of us. I certainly hope it hasn’t discouraged you from continuing to participate in our spring and fall shows? In fact”—Vince patted a carton of files on the table in back of him—“I have your fall contract right here. If you’d like to sign it and put your deposit down now, it would save you the bother of having to send it in later.”
“Vince, I need to talk to you about this weekend.”
He gestured toward the carton.
“You can send me my fall contract later. I’ll sign it.”
He looked visibly relieved. Maggie wondered how many dealers had changed their minds about participating in a show during which two dealers had been murdered.
“You know the police have released Ben Allen. They’re opening questioning about both Harry’s and Susan’s deaths.”
Vince nodded and took a sip of his coffee. The knuckles on his hand holding the cup were white. “I know they say they have no proof. But they have no proof for anyone else either. Ben could have killed Harry.”
“He didn’t do it, Vince. I know he didn’t do it.”
“He’s retarded, Maggie. Sometimes those people don’t know what they’re doing.”
“And sometimes”—Maggie’s fingernails made a pattern in her palm—“sometimes they know exactly what they’re doing. And what is right and wrong. Ben knows those things.”
Vince shrugged. “Maybe. The police didn’t seem to think so yesterday.”
“That was before they found someone who’d seen Harry alive after the time Ben was supposed to have killed him. And if the murderer wasn’t Ben, chances are it was someone connected to the show. Someone who is here this afternoon. And who could be gone tonight.”
“It’s possible. But that’s the police’s job, Maggie, not yours or mine. You’re a beautiful woman, Maggie, and you should be thinking about your future, and about your prints. Not bothering about all this nasty murder business.” The words were there, but they were obviously an effort.
“You knew Harry and Susan well.”
“I know all my dealers.”
“Some you know better than others.”
Vince looked over her shoulder, speaking at her instead of to her. “They were friends of a friend. That’s how I met them. I asked them to do some of my shows.” He paused. “That was several years ago.”
“And you and Susan were lovers.”
The paper coffee cup in his hand crumbled and the remaining coffee dripped down the side of his immaculately pressed slacks.
“Half the downtown art community had slept with Susan.”
“But you’d spent a lot of time with her recently.”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday you told me Harry came to you Friday night and asked you to take care of Susan; to help her if she had any problems.”
“Yes. He did that.”
“And you told him no.”
“I don’t have time to pick up his pieces for him. She was his wife, not mine.”
“But they were getting divorced.”
“I didn’t know that until you told me, yesterday.”
“So, Harry just came up to you and said, ‘Hey, Vince, old pal, do me a favor and look after Susan?’”
“Basically, yes. He was going out of town. Sounded like an extended trip. He asked me to be available.”
Maggie thought back quickly through all the conversations she’d had with Susan, and with Joe. Neither of them had mentioned Harry’s planning a tri
p. “Where was he going? Who was going to take care of his business?”
“He said Susan would, and that Joe might help her. But that she was pretty sick, and they’d need help.” Vince looked at her. “Maggie, I have a pretty good idea of what it’s like when a man doesn’t want to make a commitment to a person, or to a situation.”
That was probably true.
“Harry wanted out. He was ready to travel, soon, and I don’t think he was planning to come back. And when a man’s ready to travel like that, he doesn’t usually leave a forwarding address.”
If Vince was right, then maybe neither Joe nor Susan knew Harry was leaving. And Harry had Joe’s $500,000 in his bank account for airfare.
“You knew Susan was very ill.”
“Hell, Maggie, I’m not stupid and I’m not naive. But I don’t like being lied to.” Vince’s usually calm and professional veneer had broken. His face looked pale, and then it reddened. Vince was terrified. “Susan had lost a lot of weight, and she had fainting spells. She told me she was anemic, and I figured she was a bit of a hypochondriac.” He looked at her. “Have you seen all the vitamins and stuff she took?”
Maggie nodded. Susan had fooled a lot of people.
Vince’s voice lowered, and he glanced around, making sure no one overheard. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t know she had AIDS. I’ve known people who had AIDS. In this business you can’t avoid it. I’ve gone to hospitals, and I’ve gone to funerals. Do you think I’m stupid enough to sleep with someone who has AIDS?”
Maggie reached out and put her hand on his arm. “You didn’t know?”
“How could she not have told me?” His voice weakened. “How could she have done that to someone?”
No wonder Vince was terrified.
“You didn’t—take precautions?”
“I had no reason to think she was sick. She used to joke about people who practiced safe sex. She called them paranoid cellophane collectors.”
Vince looked down at his trembling hands and reached out to pour another cup of coffee from the carafe. “She said Harry wasn’t HIV-positive, and that she wasn’t stupid. And I should trust her, and not invest in a conspiracy by the condom companies. She never told me she was HIV-positive.”
