Shadows at the Spring Show (13 page)

No matter what, Jackson needed to get back to his family. And so did Holly. Healing was more than physical.

And Maggie needed to get to the police station. How could she expect Eric—or his friend—to share something with the police when she hadn’t even told them about her threatening phone call?

Chapter 16

Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary.
Print of the classic nursery rhyme, drawn by children’s illustrator Clara M. Burd for
The Brimful Book,
1927. 9.5 x 12 inches. Price: $60.

Detective Dawn Newton, a serious, young black woman with a no-nonsense, cropped hairstyle, followed Maggie home, complete with her own tape recorder, to make an official copy of the threat left on Maggie’s answering machine.

They listened to it together. Newton shook her head. “Not sure how much help this’ll be. How many people have heard about the hate letters OWOC’s been getting?”

“Carole told me. I assume her whole staff knows. She told the police. The only person I’ve told is Al Stivali, the head of security at Somerset College. And I told him after I got this message. Oh, and I told a friend of mine in Massachusetts.”

“Your message could be a copycat. You said you recognized something in the tone of the voice, which means the message was probably left by someone you know. The other contacts were by mail. Usually someone sending anonymous letters doesn’t switch to anonymous phone calls.” Detective Newton took a few notes.

“You think someone heard about the letters and then
that person
called me?”

Detective Newton shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ll take this recording and see if we can find out anything. May we check your telephone records to see if we can identify where the call came from?”

“Sure. I haven’t got any secrets. And I’ll admit the call’s made me nervous. At this point I’ll be very glad when this antiques show is over.”

“Truthfully, so will I,” agreed the detective. “Chances are, nothing will happen. But you never know. In the meantime, if you get any more messages, from any source, call us immediately.”

“The show opens in four days; we start setting up Thursday,” Maggie reminded her. “We’re not talking about a lot of time.”

Detective Newton nodded. “I know. Just keep in touch, and remember he’s probably not going to hurt anyone. He’s trying to scare you.”

Maggie grimaced. “He succeeded.”

“Don’t let him know that. If he should call again, and you answer the phone, let him talk and take down as much as you can of what he says. His exact words. I doubt he wants to have a conversation with you. He’ll probably hang up if you answer the phone. But once in a while someone surprises us. If he does talk to you, you may recognize the voice or get some valuable information.”

“Will you tap my telephone? To hear if he calls again?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. You’ve only had one call, and it basically left the same message that was in the letters. If you start getting more calls, or calls that escalate to anger or threats, then we’ll consider getting permission to put a tap on.” She turned toward the door. “Take a lot of deep breaths and make sure your car and home are well secured. You’ll feel better, and probably nothing more will happen. I think this whole thing will blow over and disappear after the antiques show.”

“But what about Holly Sloane being shot?”

The detective hesitated. “At this point we don’t see that connected to the letters or to your phone call. It’s probably a domestic matter. But we’re looking at every angle, of course. We can’t rule any possibilities out.”

A domestic matter? They must still think Jackson was responsible.

Maggie’s head was throbbing by the time Detective Newton left. She’d done the right thing. She’d told the police. And she’d felt like a fool when Detective Newton had pretty much told her the call meant nothing.

She got out her black binder and checked over her to-do lists for the show. Everything seemed in order. Tomorrow she’d meet with the volunteers from the college and finalize planning. Tomorrow Will would arrive, and Gussie and Ben. Doing the show was so much more complicated than she’d imagined in January, when it seemed a great way to earn some money for the agency. And to make some money for dealers in the area, too.

Maggie crossed her fingers and knocked on her wooden desk. People would come. People would buy.

Chapter 17

Untitled angel. Young girl in white fur coat and shawl, standing in snow, cradling a nest full of birds. The girl has large pink wings. German lithographed die cut from about 1885. Figure, 4.5 x 11.5 inches. Mounted on a lavender background, matted in mauve, in a modern gold frame. Price: $125.

Maggie sorted her piles of prints in waiting and separated out the Cassell chromolithographed ferns. She had some left from an earlier purchase, already matted and in her “Ferns” portfolio. She’d file the ferns that were duplicates. She had enough forest green, acid-free mat board to mat six additional prints to take to the New York show. There wasn’t time to order more; she should have done that a couple of weeks ago. After the OWOC show she’d order all she’d need for the summer. Or at least enough to catch up with her recent purchases. “Investments,” Maggie mentally corrected herself. Her prints were investments.

She was debating whether to mat six vertical ferns, or three horizontal and three vertical, when the telephone rang.

“Maggie? It’s Al Stivali, in security.”

“Yes, Al! No problems, I hope?”

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you’d told the police about that telephone call you got.”

“I stopped and told them earlier this afternoon, and Detective Newton came and recorded it.”

“Good. Things were easier with the old answering machines when you could just take the tape out and hand it over. Glad you got that taken care of.”

Maggie didn’t admit that the police had first asked her for the remote-access code for her answering machine so they could listen to the message at the station. She’d never paid attention to the remote-access feature and didn’t remember how to make it work.

Winslow slumbered happily on a sunny windowsill. He didn’t have to worry about log-ins and access codes.

“They didn’t seem very concerned. They said I should call immediately if I got any more messages like that, though.”

“They’re right. I’m sorry to have called you, Maggie, but this whole situation is nagging at me. Maybe I’m itching to get back to my detective days. But I keep thinking about your friend who adopted all those kids. It’s hard to understand why one of her kids would have shot her. But if he didn’t, then why hasn’t he gone home? There are some really troubled kids out there, I know. But it seems logical that if the boy isn’t involved he’d at least call the police and tell them whatever alibi he has. It doesn’t make sense for him to disappear. Unless he’s guilty. Or unless he’s hiding something else. Or someone else.”

“I visited the Sloanes’ home after I saw you. I brought them some food and talked with Eric. He’s one of their older sons and works for George Healy over at the gym. Sort of a general helper, custodian, and so forth.”

“Healy’s a good guy. If he hired the boy, I’m sure the kid is doing a good job.”

“Anyway, he’s black. And Jackson, the boy who’s missing, is biracial, black/white. I got the feeling Eric wasn’t comfortable talking to the police. So maybe Jackson isn’t either. Although Detective Newton, who came to my house today, is black.”

“She may be the only black detective on the Somerset County force. Some of the other detectives around here can be a little rough on certain potential suspects.”

“But Eric isn’t a potential suspect! He’s the brother of the boy who’s missing, and the son of the mother who’s been shot!”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not a suspect. I know what the Constitution says, Maggie, but when you’re in police work, everyone’s a suspect until you know they’re not. What’s your young fellow’s alibi?”

“I assume he was in the house with everyone else. Except Jackson, of course.”

“So everyone was at home except the one boy when the mother was shot.”

“Rob, her husband, was out, I think. Carole told me he’d gone out to do an errand and drove in and found her right after she was hit. He’s the one who called 911.”

“What is their relationship like, do you know? The husband and wife’s?”

“Fine, I’m sure! Al, you don’t think . . .”

“Maggie, I was a policeman for too many years. When the wife’s shot, the husband’s the first one you check out. In this case, with the boy missing, they’ve got two potential suspects. I’m sure right now they’re keeping a tight eye on everyone who lives in that house.”

“I hadn’t even considered that Rob might be a suspect.”

“Remember what I said: everyone’s a suspect. Until you know who did it, or you know for sure someone didn’t.” Al paused. “Anyway, I just wanted to check that you’d told the police, and that you were okay. You’re a good lady, Maggie, and I don’t want you to have any problems.”

“I appreciate the concern. I’ll let you know if anything else develops.”

“My card has my pager number on it. Call me anytime.”

Maggie put down the telephone and walked into her kitchen. Frozen pizza. Diet Pepsi. The good things in life. Winslow followed
her and meowed meaningfully toward the cupboard holding cans of delicacies such as tuna fish. Maggie opened a small can of tuna, changed Winslow’s water, and preheated the oven. While Winslow devoured his meal without even a word of thanks, Maggie sliced a portobello mushroom, some black olives, and part of a red onion and added the results to the top of a frozen pizza.

Dinner, plus Diet Pepsi on the rocks.

If Al was right, then the police were looking at Rob Sloane and his son Jackson as suspects in Holly’s shooting. No one had mentioned a gun being found, so there couldn’t be direct evidence linking Rob’s gun to Holly’s wound. But it didn’t look good that her husband owned the same caliber gun she’d been shot with.

If they were still investigating suspects, the police must have ruled out other possibilities, like someone cleaning their gun across the street and shooting Holly accidentally.

It was Tuesday evening. The pizza was heating. She switched on the television; maybe somewhere there was good news.

“This just in.” The commentator interrupted Maggie’s thoughts. “The body of a man has been found in a wooded area of Somerset County, New Jersey. No identification has been made, and no cause of death has been announced. The Somerset County Police Department asks that anyone who believes they have information about this situation should contact them as soon as possible.” An 800 number flashed on the screen.

Somerset County, New Jersey. Maggie shivered. The newscast hadn’t mentioned any identifying information. No age, race, or even the town where the body was found.

If only she knew Jackson Sloane was safe at home.

Chapter 18

The Last Load.
Winslow Homer wood engraving, from
Appleton’s Journal of Popular Culture,
August 7, 1869. Homer frequently drew haying scenes. This one shows two women and a man wearily looking over a recently mowed hayfield, an oxen-drawn, hay wagon in the background. 4.5 x 6.5 inches. Price: $150.