Shadows at the Fair (9 page)

She was learning.

“Well, this professor decided to help Harry, and Harry helped me. The professor had friends with big money who were real well-known interior designers and decorators and all that. The Park Avenue kind. And he knew what kind of stuff they liked—sort of unusual and funky and Art Deco, art nouveau, Erté, you know?”

Maggie knew just the kind of art and sculpture on the borderline between great and garish that a type of Upper East Sider would pay big money to display in his off-white, Bloomingdale’s-inspired living room.

“Well, the professor told Harry that if he could find the kind of stuff those designers and friends of his were looking for, he’d buy it from Harry. That would help Harry pay his tuition and expenses. Harry and I had met in Introduction to Design, and we were hanging out together, and he told me about the deal, and we decided to do it together. Harry knew how to bargain, and it turned out I had a pretty good eye for what these uptowners liked, so we went to all the flea markets and Lower East Side places, and sometimes even out to Jersey, and we found this stuff. We sold it to Professor Hochman, and then he sold it to his uptown friends.”

Susan took a sip of her mineral water. “We got good at it. Real good. Only problem was, we spent so much time together looking for stuff and selling it that we didn’t have much time for classes and assignments. But then Harry got the idea that we didn’t need the professor; we could sell direct to his pals. We’d met some of them already. And why should the professor be making money when we did the work? He’d made a bundle off us before we caught on to just how much people would pay for all this stuff we were finding. So we got married. Harry said it would look better. My family in Bayonne sure thought so, too, and they’re the kind that gives money for wedding gifts, even when they don’t have much. We took all the cash we could get our hands on, and we got the loft, and we put all the stuff in it, artistically arranged—sort of like those department-store rooms, you know? Only a little more arty. And then we started to have parties. We invited all those decorator types, and they brought their friends. They thought it was slumming—coming to visit these young artists in their loft who had all this great stuff. But they kept coming. And that’s how we got started. That was twelve years ago.”

Susan took another sip. “We were partners in everything, Harry and me. We bought, and we sold, and we gave big parties, and we were invited to these really spiffy places where we didn’t fit in, but that’s why they invited us, so we had fun anyway, and we did what we wanted. We weren’t like those people, Maggie. And we knew it. But that’s why they liked us. We always were just a little more different than they wanted to be. They thought we were ‘amusing.’ We didn’t care. We worked hard, we had fun, and we got to know all kinds of posh types.”

Maggie listened with some amazement. She believed every word Susan was saying, but it certainly wasn’t the usual story of “how I became an antiques dealer.”

“How did you get started doing antiques shows?”

“Maybe six or eight years ago we met Vince at some big decorator’s party. He was with a really rich lady who was looking to decorate her new weekend place up in Connecticut. He was helping her to find people who had the accessories she wanted. Vince liked us; he said, ‘Come do my antiques shows, you’ll meet some classy people and make some bucks, because no one at antiques shows has the stuff you have,’ so we thought, what the hell, we’d try it. We’ve done all four of Vince’s shows each year since then. We’ve met some new customers at the shows. And it’s a nice thing to be able to drop at parties, you know, that you do antiques shows, even though we only do the four. ’Cause some people don’t think the kind of stuff we carry is really antique, because it’s twentieth century and all. Although that’s changing.”

Maggie agreed. Even some shows that vetted were now allowing items from up to the 1930s to be displayed. “Susan, what happened after you and Harry argued tonight?”

“Well, your retarded pal there came racing up as though he were going to save the world, and I took off. I was going to leave anyway. That’s what I always do. Lets Harry cool down. I went to my van to change, and then I went to wash up for the night. On the way back I stopped at Joe’s van, to see if Harry was there. To keep everything calm. But no one was there.

“So I started walking back to my van. And—I saw him. And I started screaming. Then everyone else came. You were there.”

“And that’s all? Did you see anyone else nearby?”

“No. And I hadn’t seen Harry from the time the kid—Ben—came at us from out of nowhere, until I saw him lying on the ground out there.”

“Susan, think for a minute. Did you see Ben knock Harry down?”

“Did he really do that?” She almost chuckled. “Well, good for him. I’ve tried a couple of times myself. No. I just saw Ben coming and decided to get the hell out of there. I’d let Harry take care of it. Ben’s not that big, so I just thought Harry’d cool him off a little.”

“About how much time was there between the time you left Harry and the time you—found—him again?”

“I don’t know exactly. What time is it now?”

Maggie looked. It was about twelve-thirty.

“Then I’d guess an hour. I took some time in the van, you know, straightening up and figuring out what to wear tomorrow. I had to take some medication. I haven’t been feeling so well recently. Maybe an hour. I didn’t look at the clock.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the side of the trailer.

“Mrs. Findley? Officer Taggart. The detective needs to ask you some questions. Could you come with me?”

Susan took a last sip of mineral water and went to the door. Taggart was there, accompanied by a young policeman with a notebook, metal-rimmed glasses, and a slightly green expression.

“Will this take long, Officer?”

“That depends on how much you know, Mrs. Findley. I realize this is a difficult time, but the more you can tell us, the faster we’ll be able to find out what happened to your husband.”

Susan hesitated, looking back at Maggie. “Would it be all right if I came back here…after? I don’t want to spend the night alone.” She looked even paler and thinner than usual, and very vulnerable.

“Of course, Susan.” Maggie offered Will’s hospitality without thinking. “I think it’s going to be a long night.”

“And you will help me?”

Maggie nodded. Although she couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t need help right then. She could have used a hug herself. And her husband hadn’t just been murdered.

Maggie stepped down from Will’s RV and looked around. It was almost one in the morning. The show was due to open in only nine hours. But no one was sleeping. The field looked as though it were under siege. Groups of dealers had gathered and were talking quietly.

The police had pulled several picnic tables together, and two detectives were questioning Susan and taking notes. Although the sirens had stopped, the area where Harry’s body had been discovered was still brightly illuminated. They must be taking pictures or gathering trace evidence, Maggie thought. She hoped they had removed Harry’s body. She didn’t want to see it again. She did want to find out where Harry had been this evening, and whom he had talked to.

Maggie made a mental list. Harry knew Will and Gussie and Joe, and Lydia and Abe Wyndham, and Vince. If you add me to the list, and Susan, we’re probably the ones here who knew Harry best. We’re the likely suspects. Ben, of course, would have to be on any list, although he didn’t even know who Harry was. Gussie is the only one of us who isn’t a possibility. She had no motive and no opportunity. And I didn’t do it.

Maggie knew she’d have to talk with Ben again, preferably before the police did, and she wanted to find out why Susan had said Will hated Harry. But right now Ben and Will weren’t here.

One person she might be able to find was Lydia Wyndham. Lydia kept her eyes open and was always a good source of gossip. And she had said she’d seen Harry talking to Vince earlier that night.

Abe and Lydia had a motor home that no one could miss. It was not only the oldest vehicle used by any dealer Maggie knew, it was the most dilapidated. The outside must once have been white, or maybe gray; now the paint was totally gone in large areas, particularly near the underside, where patches of rust were fast turning into major holes. One of its windows had been broken and patched by cardboard, duct tape, and a heavy garbage bag, and only the broken pieces of what might once have been a luggage rack were on the roof.

Maggie knocked.

“Yes? Oh, Maggie. I thought you might be the police. Abe is sleeping, and I was afraid someone might wake him up.” Lydia answered the door wearing a floor-length flannel nightgown that had once had flowers on it; it was so faded that in the dim light Maggie couldn’t tell what color the flowers had been. As Lydia turned to reach for something, Maggie got a glimpse of the inside of the home. It was as cluttered as Will’s had been neat: uneven boxes were piled to the ceiling, and garbage bags filled most of the otherwise open space. The bags could have held anything from clothes to bedding; it was hard to see. The odor of azaleas was strong. Lydia must have liberated some blossoms from the bushes surrounding the fairgrounds.

Lydia pulled on a long gray man’s sweater that covered two-thirds of her nightgown. Perhaps it was Abe’s. It could as easily have been pulled from a rummage-sale bag. There were runs in three or four different places, and as Lydia pushed up the sleeves, Maggie saw a large hole in one elbow. She had items in her own wardrobe that were definitely past even the “comfortable” stage. But she wouldn’t have worn them to open the door in the middle of the night. Particularly if she expected the police to drop in.

“Could we talk for a few minutes?”

Lydia nodded as she reached behind herself and shut the door softly. “I couldn’t sleep either. Isn’t it horrible? And after the murder last week at Westchester. It’s almost like fate; all these antiques dealers dying.”

Fate? That someone gave the dealer in Westchester a poisoned pill, and that Harry’s head was caved in? Maggie shivered. Not what she’d call fate.

“I can’t even close my eyes, just thinking about it. Abe was so upset I gave him some chamomile tea. He’s just fallen asleep. Deaths upset him, ever since our son passed away.” Lydia looked closely at Maggie. “This must be hard for you, too, dear. Your husband’s passing so recently and all.”

“It’s not easy.” Maggie didn’t allow herself to think about that; there just wasn’t time. She’d be like Scarlett O’Hara: think about it tomorrow. “I didn’t know you’d had a son.”

“We don’t talk much about poor Danny, but never a day goes by that we don’t think of him.”

Maggie was sorry for Lydia, but they needed to get back to the subject of the evening. She went right to the point.

“Do you think Susan could have done it?”

“Susan’s always been a little…different. I guess she and Harry had one of those ‘open’ marriages.”

“She may just be flirting.”

Lydia looked at her. “Maggie, I may be older than you are, but I’m not daft. Susan’s never figured out that the field on the other side of the fence may be greener, but that’s because it’s full of crabgrass. But she and Harry were getting a divorce. Maybe Harry woke up and smelled the coffee.”

“She said she and Harry were still going to be in business together. He was going to buy her out.”

“Oh? Everyone knows Susan’s been hanging around Vince like a bee to an apple tree in bloom. I thought she might be trying to hang on to him. She wouldn’t be the first to try. But no one’s tied Vince down yet.”

“Earlier, when I was looking for Susan’s van? You said you’d seen Harry talking to Vince.”

“They were talking real serious like. I saw them when I was looking for Abe earlier. Wanted to make sure he’d had some supper before he settled in.”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“No. They were too far away. And they were talking low. I couldn’t hear even when I walked by pretty close.”

Maggie contained a smile. Lydia had probably done her best to tune in, too.

“They weren’t just chatting. I could tell. Harry kept shaking his head and trying to hand Vince a piece of paper. Vince wouldn’t take it. He backed up a few feet, you know, like someone who’s trying to get away. But I was just walking past. I didn’t get a real chance to see.”

She’d done all right for someone who was just walking by. “About what time was that, Lydia?”

“I’d guess about nine-fifteen. The show had just closed. The police were still shooing people out of the buildings.”

Before Harry and Susan had talked.

“Maggie, what do you think is going to happen? Will the police ask all of us questions?” Lydia was obviously hoping to be on their list.

“I don’t know, but I’d guess so. Harry’s dead. Murdered. Someone here must have done it.”

“You know, I always thought the antiques business would be a calm, sort of aristocratic, way to make a living.” Lydia leaned back against a spot on her trailer that was almost red with rust.

Maggie hoped the side wouldn’t cave in.

“When Abe and I lived back in Iowa, we thought it would be a good way to spend our golden years. See the world, meet some nice people, and not have to worry about mowing the lawn and what the neighbors thought.”

Maggie had never imagined Abe and Lydia living anywhere but in that trailer. “How long have you been in antiques?”

“Full-time since about 1990. Not too long.”

Lydia looked around, as though someone might be listening. “Abe and I, we had a good life in Iowa. We’re both university graduates, you know. He had a good job at the First Federal Bank, and I taught botany and zoology at the high school and sometimes at the community college, when they needed someone. We worked hard, too. A penny saved is a penny earned. Both our families were there. I never really thought we’d leave. But, life changes.” She looked at Maggie. “Sometimes the Lord hands you problems to deal with that make life pretty difficult.”

Maggie wondered. “And so you left your home and your families?”

“It was hard after Danny died.”

Maggie looked at her questioningly.

“He was a good boy, but, you know, bad things sometimes happen to good people. The good die young. Anyway, life wasn’t the same for Abe and me after that, so one day Abe came home and said he’d just up and retired early from the bank, and we put the house up for sale. I’d been collecting silver flatware and jewelry and such for years, after I inherited some from an aunt in St. Louis. So we took my collection and we started to do some shows. We took the money from selling our home and we got a good deal on a used trailer.”

She turned around and looked at her mobile home. “At first it was fun. After thirty years of fixing supper at six o’clock and going to school meetings and choir practices, it felt great to have no deadlines or schedules, except for the dates we had shows lined up. We’ve traveled all over the East Coast and the Midwest. Before, I’d only been as far east as Chicago, once, to see Danny.”

“You mean you really live out of the trailer all the time? You don’t have a home?” Maggie tried to think of all that would mean. “Where do you get mail?”

“We use my brother’s address. He collects mail for us. Once a month or so we let him know where we’ll be and he sends it on to us. Sometimes in care of the show manager, you know. And we call back to the family every few weeks. We keep in touch. But it’s not as easy as we’d thought. When shows go well, we’re okay. But if we get a couple of bad shows in a row, well, we don’t have that many friends we can stay with. Most of the folks we know live in Iowa, and there aren’t that many shows there. We go south in the winter. There are lots of shows along the Gulf, and the weather’s warm. Then we come north in the spring and do New England and Ohio and all in the summer. But the trailer’s getting a bit of wear on it.”

That was a major understatement. Maggie wondered how they even got it to start. And with the rust patches it looked as though it would soon be hard to guarantee that anything in the trailer would still be there after they’d driven over a bump.

“The Lord is there to lead and protect us, isn’t he, dear? Beggars can’t be choosers. So we’re doing all right. Although we’re getting a little old to do this all the time.” She leaned even closer. “I’m thinking that maybe we should just stay on the circuit six months of the year. You know, find a little place back in Iowa for some of the time. Be better for Abe, as he’s getting on and doesn’t seem as interested in the traveling as he used to. Maybe it’s time we thought about retiring again.”

Maggie agreed. “Makes sense to me. By the way, did you see Harry anywhere else tonight?”

“Just talking with Vince, like I said. And then—after Susan started screaming.”

“What about Joe? Or Susan?”

“Didn’t see Joe. Susan I saw a few minutes after I saw Harry. She was walking at a right fast pace, heading toward her van. She went past Abe and me here; we were having some tea and tuna sandwiches, you know, before bedding down. I don’t think she even saw us; we had pulled out our folding chairs and were sitting here in the doorway, where we’re standing now. But she looked as though she had something on her mind. She was going along a mile a minute. You’d think she’d be tired after a setup day, and then the reception. My feet were aching like two coals pulled out of a hot stove.”

Maggie nodded. Her feet sometimes felt like that, too, after a long day. Although she’d never phrased it quite that way.

“Who do you think killed Harry?”

Lydia looked at her as though she were crazy. “Maggie, the Lord knows. He’ll take care of it. You go back and get some rest. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” Lydia turned toward her door. “Leave well enough alone. Whatever will be, will be.” The door shut, and Maggie was left in the dark by the trailer.

Well, maybe the Lord knew. But that wasn’t going to help her. Or help Ben.

She glanced at her watch. No wonder she was tired. It was close to 2
A
.
M
. Maybe there wasn’t much more to be done tonight.

Will’s trailer looked like a sanctuary as Maggie made her way back through the now quiet lines of vans and trucks. It had been a long day. Most of the dealers, including Maggie, had been up at dawn or before to pack vans, then drive at least several hours, set up, and get dressed for a reception. Even the excitement and fear of a murder hadn’t been enough to keep exhaustion away, and most people had retired to their sleeping bags or cots. A couple of uniformed policemen were still walking the grounds and talking to each other on radios, but no one was being questioned at the picnic tables.

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.”