“And when I have a child I might not be able to do as many shows. This might be a way to bring in more income,” Maggie mused. “How would you want to do it financially? Would I pay you rent or commission? I’d want to be fair to you.”
“Since right now I don’t have any inventory to go in the room I wouldn’t be making any money from it anyway. What if you supply the tables and table covers and easels—anything you need to set the room up the way you want it to be. And you set the prices. Pay me twenty percent of any sales.”
“Twenty-five percent.”
“Done,” said Gussie, holding out a hand sticky with cinnamon and sugar. “Partner!”
Chapter 8
Anatomy: Organs of Sense: Ear.Steel Engraving (1808) from Dr. Rees’s New Cyclopaedia or Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, First American Edition, Philadelphia. Engraved by B. Tanner. Eleven detailed engravings on one page of parts of the ear. 8 x 11 inches. Price: $60.
While Gussie unpacked cartons in the store office, the only area ready for work so far, Maggie measured off the room she was now excitedly envisioning as a mini-Shadows Antique Prints shop.
Gussie’d been right: she’d have space for several tables, and floor stands for larger shrink-wrapped prints, in addition to the wall space for framed prints. She took careful notes.
The room was larger than her booth at most shows. She had enough table covers, but she’d have to buy two additional tables. The ones she owned she needed for shows. She’d have to invest in more floor stands and easels, too.
She’d also need more permanent, detailed signs than the ones she used for shows. Her prints would have to speak for themselves if she wasn’t there to speak for them.
This would take work. But she could already see her large framed Selby Fulmar Petrel, that most people thought was a gull, hanging on the wall where customers would see it as soon as they walked in, and a selection of her Curtis, Sowerby, and Loudon botanicals on one of the center tables. She had enough of those so she could display some here and still have a selection for shows. Morris seabirds. Definitely; she’d bring those. They didn’t sell well in New York and New Jersey anyway. And those pages of dried seaweed that Gussie remembered would look stunning on these walls.
Lights. She’d need to bring extra lights.
She’d been thinking of having a new sign made for her booth. She’d have one made for here, too. SHADOWS ANTIQUE PRINTS. She’d named her business that because her prints had always seemed to her like shadows left behind by lives long past. Maybe the concept seemed esoteric. But she loved it.
Bringing Shadows to Cape Cod would take time and money. But it might bring in the extra income she’d need for adoption fees, and for the expenses of having a child. Or children. Being a mother meant more than giving love. There’d be clothes. Toys. Books. Would her daughter want to join the Girl Scouts? Take art lessons? Learn karate?
Doing this would help Gussie, too. The more Maggie thought about it, the better she liked it. Having a branch of Shadows in Winslow, Massachusetts, was a wonderful idea.
“Gussie, you said you’re planning to open the shop as soon as you can after your wedding, right?” she asked, as she went into the office where Gussie was transferring files from a carton to a file cabinet.
“Right. The other shop’s already closed, and almost everything there is packed. Today’s Friday. The guys doing the carpentry and painting here say they’ll be finished by late tomorrow. Then it’ll be a mad rush to put everything on shelves and decorate the windows. I’ve already transferred the credit card and computer connections.”
“I’ll need a couple of weeks,” said Maggie. “I’ll need to go through my inventory and put together what I’ll need. On top of getting caught up with my classes when I get back home, I don’t see being able to get the print room set up until Thanksgiving break.”
“That’s fine,” said Gussie. “Whenever you get here. In fact, consider yourself invited for Thanksgiving dinner. You haven’t really celebrated Thanksgiving until you’ve attended the lighting of the Pilgrim Monument on Thanksgiving Eve in Provincetown.”
“That sounds like fun. I haven’t been to Provincetown in the off-season in years. Put me on your guest list!”
“Will do. In the meantime, I’ll hang that quilt we talked about. After you have the print room set up we’ll put a special ad in the local paper and have a ‘second grand opening.’ That way we might catch some of the Christmas traffic. Don’t forget to bring your Christmas prints. I’d love to have two or three of your Thomas Nast Santas as backdrops in the windows.”
“I’ll send those to you as soon as I get home,” Maggie agreed. “This is exciting! I’m so glad you thought of it, Gussie. But promise, if the prints don’t sell, or if you build up your inventory and want that space for yourself, you’ll throw me out.”
“Absolutely. I’m just glad you like my plan. I was afraid you’d think it was crazy, or Winslow was too far away for you.”
“We’ll make it work. And besides seeing you and Jim, I can check out all the antiques stores and galleries on the Cape that I never get a chance to see. In fact, do you know if the Edward Gorey Museum in Yarmouthport will be open Thanksgiving week? I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Already planning time away from the shop? Maggie Summer, you’re coming for Thanksgiving to get Shadows set up here. And I suppose I can check and see if the Gorey Museum is open that week, too.” She glanced at her watch. “I want us to get over to Cordelia’s house. How did it go at the police station?”
“No problem,” said Maggie. “Jim was more protective than he had to be. I signed a statement saying I was walking on the beach and saw the body and dialed 911. No major insights.”
“Did you get a hint about who they think might have killed Dan?”
“Ike said someone was angry because he thought Dan had gotten his son involved with drugs. Do you know anything about that?” By that time Gussie and Maggie had left the shop, and were in Gussie’s van, headed toward 17 Apple Orchard Lane.
“Not much. Last spring Tony Silva, one of the boys at the high school, died of an OxyContin overdose. People around town talked about where he might have gotten the pills. Some people said he’d gotten them in Boston; others said there was a dealer here in Winslow. Other kids may have known, but no one talked. Dan Jeffrey was relatively new in town and people blamed him. I never knew why. Tony’s dad, Bob Silva, made a scene at the Lazy Lobster one night. It made the local paper. Sounded to me as though everyone involved had too much to drink and got all wound up.”
“Was there any evidence it was Dan Jeffrey?”
“Not that I know about. But if there were, Ike Irons would know.”
Gussie parked in front of a small, weathered-gray home. Gold and orange marigolds bloomed under the windows, and a jack-o’-lantern sat near the doorway. A small yellow VW with Colorado plates was in the driveway.
“Looks like your friend Cordelia already has company,” Maggie pointed out.
“It does,” said Gussie. “Well, we won’t stay long. You bring the cupcakes, while I get my scooter down.”
The young woman who opened the door looked like one of Maggie’s students on exam day. Her shoulder-length brown hair hung limp. She hadn’t attempted makeup, and her jeans and skimpy long-sleeved T-shirt both looked as though they’d been worn a few days. Her swollen eyes suggested a deeper connection to the deceased than that of someone who’d stopped to pay a condolence call. “Yes?” she said. Clearly she also wasn’t the Cordelia they were there to see.
“I’m Gussie White, and this is my friend, Maggie Summer. We brought something for Cordelia,” said Gussie. Maggie handed the girl the box of cupcakes. “We came to see her; to ask if there were anything we could do to help.”