The central element of Nikki’s booth was a sarcophagus topped with a decorative iron grate to be used—if you owned a property big enough—as an outdoor dining table. There was no rearranging that baby, so Nikki contented herself with tweaking everything else she’d brought: a wrought iron bistro set, antique plant stands, Japanese lanterns, carved stone pots, and a hundred smaller items—busts, birdbaths, and vintage tools—for those of us who didn’t live on huge properties but still wanted to feel like the chatelaines of great estates. Then she moved on to Primo’s pieces.
“If Mrs. Moffitt comes back to see you and happens to also buy my sarcophagus, I will give you anything in my booth as a commission. You’re going to bring me luck, I can feel it. Last year I was next to a couple selling Alaskan fish fertilizer. It was awful,” she said. “Stray cats followed me home.”
After staging his light fixtures, David had a minor crisis when the power in our aisle died. It was as if the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center had failed to light. It was impossible to appreciate the detail and intricacy of his work without a warm light glowing behind the shades and sconces. Forty minutes and a fifty-dollar tip later, all was well, and we wondered if it was the Javits Curse again or one last attempt by Wagner employees to squeeze additional baksheesh out of frantic exhibitors.
When the public address announcer made his first feeble attempt to eject us, all the kinks had been ironed out. The heavy machinery was gone, the carpets were in place, and the industrial-looking building had been transformed into the series of New York gardens the organizers had hoped to inspire.
And while we’d been tinkering with our displays, Cinderella’s mice had been hard at work. Temporary bars and buffet tables had materialized, and in twenty-four hours they’d be filled with finger foods and beverages of every stripe. If Connie Anzalone was correct, some attendees were already laying out their clothing. I hadn’t seen her all day and secretly hoped she’d forgotten my promise to have a drink with her.
“Leave business cards out,” David said, as he packed up. “Business-to-business sales are key. Other exhibitors walk around at off-hours, and they can be some of your best customers.” It was a good tip, and I spent the last fifteen minutes before lights-out doing as David had advised.
I wandered haphazardly and found myself in an aisle dedicated to single plant specimens—the Gloxinia Society, the Hosta Association. The plants were impossibly perfect, like pictures in a White Flower Farm or Park Seed catalog—no brown edges, no yellowing leaves, and no telltale nibbles. Like a kid, I wanted to touch them to see if they were real.
Connie was gone, so I poked around and inspected her garden entry. Coney Island was one of the most famous beaches in the world, although it was anyone’s guess whether or not the creatures and plants Connie depicted could be found there. It didn’t matter. The display was fanciful, whimsical, and the tiniest bit tacky, like the woman herself. As I leaned in for a closer look at her botanical version of a Whack-A-Mole game, I noticed two men in the shadows checking me out. Maybe they were the mob bodyguards Nikki thought Connie’s husband would bring in to protect her plants from human pests. Both men were slim enough to be almost hidden by the trio of rosemary topiaries from a penthouse garden display. I moved on.
There was no major category without a Moffitt entry. I didn’t see how she found the time to submit all the entries I saw. I had only covered one quarter of the room before a loud slam and a dimming of lights told me it really was time to leave.
The two men had disappeared. Only one other person was in sight, a young girl in a polo shirt and khakis taking pictures of a booth designed to re-create the Feast of San Gennaro. I didn’t buy the white hydrangeas as zeppole, but gave the entry extra points for imagination.
On my way out, I swung by the horticultural information booth for handouts on deer-resistant plants and others on hostas, amaryllis, and clivia. I grabbed another called “Poisonous to Pets” as a goodwill gesture to Lucy’s downstairs neighbor. I was tucking them in the outer pocket of my laptop case when a woman I hadn’t seen approached. She shoved handfuls of assorted flyers in her canvas bag. I realized I was staring.
“Getting some for friends?” I asked.
“Stacking them at my own booth as a service to show attendees.” She sounded defensive, as if I were going to report her to the flyer police. Hell, I didn’t care.
“Good idea,” I said.
“Just doing whatever it takes.”
She handed me her card and proceeded to tell me her story.
Seventeen
The woman’s name was Terry Ward, Bagua Designs, certified feng shui practitioner, Dix Hills, New York.
In the 1980s, as feng shui worked its way into America’s lexicon, Terry thought she’d struck gold. She’d always known her obsessive desire to move the furniture was more than just neurotic behavior. It was her struggle to, in her words, perfect her surroundings. And now there was a name for it. If only her husband were still around so she could say I told you so.
Terry had signed up for a three-session course at the Learning Annex, and before it even ended she’d ordered cards for her new venture. Back then, it was easy to be considered an expert when few people could even pronounce feng shui, much less tell you which way they thought their chi should be flowing.
She worked the flower, crafts, and flea markets in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut and the fairs in all five boroughs and Long Island, cobbling together a business from the sale of a staple-bound self-published book and bits and pieces collected from tag and yard sales.
On one fateful trip to the Elephant’s Trunk flea market in Connecticut, Terry reconnected with an old high school friend Kyle DiMucci, who in a fruitless attempt to escape his churlish wife, Doreen, traveled to all markets, preferring the ones farthest from home, where he sold classic television ephemera, mostly lunch boxes and board games. One thing led to another. When Kyle’s wife found out, she threatened to divorce him and torch what remained of his beloved Dark Shadows memorabilia collection. That dried up the flea market scene for Terry.
To refill her pipeline with low-cost feng shui–like tchotchkes Terry found a Chinese wholesaler of resin fountains, chimes, and mirrors. The merchandise had a smaller profit margin than the junk she had bought for a dollar and resold for ten, but avoiding flea markets greatly reduced the chances of bumping into the incendiary Mrs. DiMucci.
“You gotta leave, ladies.” The security guard looked tired and bored. She swung her badge and lanyard around mindlessly over and over again. Unlike Rolanda, she appeared to be an uninterested part-timer filling the extended hours. I didn’t think she cared one lick if we got locked in or backed up a trailer and left with a load of stolen merchandise. But Terry must have been worried she’d get in trouble for taking the flyers, so she scurried off without even saying good-bye.
I walked through the empty convention center hallway to the down escalator and saw Rolanda Knox leaving the security office. “Wait up,” she yelled, but my gloved hand was already on the moving handrail and I’d already started descending. She couldn’t possibly need to see my credentials now. I tapped my fingers and pretended to inspect my coffee-stained glove.
She hurried down the escalator and caught up with me at the bottom.
“Underneath this jacket, I swear, I’m wearing my badge.”
“You crazy?” she said. “I want to ask you something. You ever see that kid again—the one from yesterday who tried to sneak in?”