Shadows at the Fair Read Free

head.
    “Some people would call it that. Or a ‘temple dog.’ But it’s really a smaller version of the immense bronze lions that guard the sacred way, or Shen-tao, on the way to the tombs of emperors of the Southern Dynasties. They’re called chimeras.”
    “I didn’t realize you knew Chinese art.”
    He shrugged. “I’ve led enough antiques-dealer tors to Hong Kong and Singapore to know some of the basics. I’m no expert.” He looked down at his balance sheet. “That’s a balance of eight hundred and seventy-five dollars before setup.”
    She reached inside her tote bag for her business checkbook.
    “What’s the story about a murder at the Westchester Show? I hadn’t heard.”
    “Awful situation. John Smithson.”
    “John Smithson!” He’d always had a booth down the aisle from Maggie’s. Architectural details and turn-of-the-century wrought-iron furniture. A friendly, rather pale young man. He’d shared the coffee and soda run at last fall’s show.
    “He was doing the Westchester Show last Saturday and just keeled over. No one could do anything. Right in the middle of the customers and everything. Really upsetting. Some customers asked to have their admission fees refunded.”
    “Why did the officer at the gate say it was murder?”
    “Seems John had been taking medication, and some of his capsules had been tampered with.” Vince hesitated. “It probably had nothing to do with the antiques show, but it got a lot of publicity around here, so I wanted to make sure we didn’t lose any customers because of it. The local police agreed I could have extra security. I was lucky to fill John’s booth space at such short notice. A fellow named Will Brewer, from near Buffalo, called and said he was in the area and could fill a last-minute cancellation. So it worked out.”
    For everyone except John Smithson.
    “Actually we have several new dealers here this spring as a result of deaths.”
    Maggie shivered. “Who else died?”
    “Jim Singleton, Don Worthington, and Thom Reardon. Must have been a rough winter.”
    For sure. She hadn’t known any of those dealers—at a 250-dealer show you only got to know the people whose booths were near yours. “There are a few deaths every year; that’s what happens in a business where lots of people go into the trade when they’ve retired from other jobs.”
    “You’re right. It’s not unusual. Although, come to think of it, all of those fellows were young. One car accident; one fire. I don’t know about the other one. Sad.”
    Vince took another sip from his coffee cup. TAKE THE MONEY ! was imprinted on its side in green.
    “Have you seen your neighbors yet—Susan or Harry Findley, or Joe Cousins?”
    “All of them—they were unloading and setting up when I walked by.”
    “Have you been in touch with anyone? I mean, since last fall’s show?”
    Maggie handed Vince the check for the balance of her booth rent. “No. Not really. I’ve talked with Gussie White and exchanged Christmas cards with other people, but that’s about it. You know what it’s like—being off the circuit and all.”
    Vince looked amused. “Well, you’ll have a lot to get caught up with then. Glad you’re back.”
    “Been looking forward to it. Refreshments for the dealers this year?”
    “All the coffee and tea you can drink until the show opens. Just around the corner, outside, under the overhang.”
    Maggie shook her head. “No coffee or tea for me; what I really need is a diet cola.”
    “You’re on your own for that. There’s a machine near the rest rooms.”
    “No problem. My major priority is unloading my van. I want to get my prints inside the building before it rains.”
    Maggie stuck her envelope of show papers in her now overflowing canvas bag.
    “I’m on my way.”
    “Good show!” Vince said.
    Yes, thought Maggie. Let it be a very good show.

Chapter 4
    Raiden (Japanese god of thunder), 1902 print from portfolio Mythological Japan, published in New