Shadows at the Fair Read Free Page A

York. Raiden has a fierce expression, two goatlike horns, and is surrounded by eight drums. He is endowed with the power to produce thunder by striking the drums with more or less vigor. Price: $40.
    The soda tasted cold and metallic and delicious. Some days Maggie felt diet soda was the one constant in her life.
    She took another deep drink from the icy can, then walked to her van and started unloading table covers, piling them on a small dolly, along with all the tools of a print dealer doing an antiques show: drill, hammer, nails, wire, wire cutters, string, and large clips to hang pictures; pegs and clamps for the Peg-Boards she’d attach to the back of her tables; masking tape to secure table covers and for any last-minute repairs to mats or backboards; scissors and razor-blade knives; tape measures; levels; and a large box of adhesive bandages for occasions when her aim wasn’t perfect. At every show the equipment bag seemed heavier. Next show, for sure, she’d splurge and hire a porter.
    Inside, between sips of soda, she covered her tables with navy material and tacked her SHADOWS — PINE CREST , NEW JERSEY sign on the back wall of the booth.
    She’d named the business Shadows because that’s what old prints were—outlines of worlds to which the doors have closed; shadows of pasts that have vanished except for memories and remembrances. She often borrowed prints from her business to illustrate lectures on American civilization or women’s studies at the college.
    Lydia and Abe Wyndham were arranging cases full of nineteenth-century cameos, garnet bracelets, and silver flatware on their tables across the aisle. Vintage jewelry was always popular at antique shows. The kind Grandma should have left you.
    “Glad you’re back,” Lydia called out. “We missed you in January.”
    “Glad to be back.” Maggie tried to look busy. Once Lydia started talking you could forget about working. The older woman crossed the aisle, her omnipresent cup of herbal tea in hand. “Sorry to hear about your husband, dear. All things come to an end, and we can’t second-guess the Lord, you know. When he closes a door, he opens a window, I always say.”
    Yes, she did.
    “And isn’t it just awful about that nice young John Smithson?” She took a step closer. “They say he was poisoned.”
    “It is awful. But awful things do happen—I guess the antiques business isn’t exempt.”
    “Vince has certainly increased security around here. I’m glad. I’ve always been nervous about leaving all of our jewelry and silver here overnight with just a watchman for protection. Vince says he’s going to make sure there are police here all the time. And he’s even sleeping in his van this year as an extra precaution.”
    “He is?” Maybe Vince was anticipating a decrease in the number of customers at the show, and therefore a direct decrease in revenue to Vince. It wasn’t like Vince to deprive himself of a comfortable hotel room with an attractive assistant. Maybe the situation was more serious than Maggie had assumed.
    Lydia was still chattering. “The man they gave your booth to, in January? Not at all pleasant. Just not our type of person at all.” She looked around and lowered her voice, although her husband, Abe, was the only one nearby. “He had lots of those art nouveau statues—you know the kind? I told Abe, ‘Don’t be throwing any stones, now,’ but Abe almost decided we wouldn’t do this show again. I had to talk him into it.” She gave a quick nod toward Abe, who was arranging jewelry cases on their back tables. “Sometimes he can be stubborn, you know.”
    Maggie didn’t know. “I guess we’re all stubborn sometimes.” Abe didn’t look as though he had the energy to object to anything. Even his mustache seemed to be hanging at a dejected angle this year. “But I’m glad you’re here. It’s like coming home, to see everyone.” Art nouveau statues? Maggie guessed some of them were not clothed quite