The House at Hull

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 3

  At ten the next morning, we met Billy at the Brownstone. There was yellow crime tape blocking the door. He pulled it down and fitted the key into the lock. Wow . . . that’s all I could say. Tasteful, elegant. I recognized a Copley, “Watson and the Shark”, not an original, but one damned fine copy, staring down at us in the foyer. Much of the art was more contemporary. The mix was anything but subtle, yet it had a designer’s flair. Colors transitioned and melted into small spectacles. A mahogany table with plates of what I guessed to be Royal Doulton was flanked by a few personal photographs. I picked up one of the family on the stern of a huge sailboat, probably the FLASH. The four of them looked like the living embodiment of the American dream.

  The living room was comfortable, but sumptuous. A vase of wilted flowers tried to right itself on the coffee table. More art, more photos, the random piece of marble sculpture surrounded by bits of brass and silver. The Bridgeton’s taste was somewhat eclectic, but elegant and immaculate. Every room bore its own signature. I stared and waited, but the vibes did not come.

  I watched Eleisha as she picked up various items, waiting for something to strike a responsive chord. Nothing.

  We spent a couple of hours going through stuff. Billy followed us like a faithful hound, doing his own brand of sniffing. I was a bit exasperated and finally bored. I can only do so much beauty and good taste. Even then it needs to be small doses. I looked at Eleisha. She shrugged, shook her head, and rolled her black eyes. It was a signal. She was satisfied that we were wasting our time.

  “Thanks, Billy. It didn’t help much, but it didn’t hurt. I think it’s time to talk to Todd, but I’d like to catch him when he hasn’t had time to plan his reactions or formulate answers to questions that might make him uncomfortable. Can you arrange it?”

  “He’s in school, but he spends a lot of time at the Dewey Library of Management and Social Studies. It’s at 30 Wadsworth St., east end of the campus. They’ve got computers, books, magazines, monographs, any and everything that can dole out information to curious minds looking to make their first million, or in his case the twelfth or fourteenth. I’ll call him, apologize for the short notice and tell him you’re coming over.”

  He pulled out his cell and hit the number. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but he hung up and nodded. Then he handed me a temporary Boston Police ID.

  The Dewey was easy to identify. It’s a very modern edifice, a bit too boxy for me, but then I’m more of a Federalist kind of guy when it comes to education and government stuff. It was named after a former Economics Professor and contains all manner of info on business stuff, i.e. making money off the suckers. He had told Billy he’d be in a carrel on the east end of the second floor studying for an upcoming exam in Best Management Practices.

  We took a cab over to the Dewey and entered. The place literally smelled of scholarship and money. It was only one flight up on the stairs. Todd was exactly where he said he’d be, a Megyn Kelly clone leaning over his shoulder and whispering in his ear. She heard us approach and stood tall, and shapely, an intense and curious look in her startling blue eyes. I guessed it was the heir to Shipley Fine Foods, guarding, and maybe protecting her wealthy paramour. She went into the next carrel and burrowed in a flickering computer screen, but still within eavesdropping distance.

  “I’m E. C. Dombroski, consultant to the Boston Police Department, and this is my associate, Eleisha Mountcastle.”

  He stood and offered a hand.

  “I know who you are. I must say this is somewhat irregular, but I am determined to follow any avenue which might lead to the whereabouts of my family. Let us sit.”

  He pointed to a round table just behind us. We each took a chair. The clone was still within hearing distance. Todd was dressed in full yuppie mode, L.L. Bean khakis, and a Polo in shocking pink. No socks, two-tone brown and tan Sperry Billfish on his feet. He was immaculately groomed, a trim that probably cost $150, no facial hair, and nails that had obviously been manicured recently. His voice was perfectly modulated, somewhat soft, but with that authoritative tone that comes with old money. His brown eyes were tepid, but cautious.

  “So how can I help you? Or better yet, how can you help me?” he asked.

  “As you must know, the police are somewhat stymied. They only call us in when their options are limited. We may not be able to help, but we have had some success when there are cases that defy conventional solution. I assure you, we don’t mean to intrude, but the answers to a few questions could lead to something useful.”

  “I must be honest. I don’t hold with the mumbo-jumbo that most of your clan claims as truth, but as I said before, I am willing to try anything. I loved those people dearly. They have been the center of my heart and life for too long to deny any possibility of assistance. If Detective Frye endorses you and your assistant, I will cooperate.”

  I felt Eleisha cringe at the use of the word “assistant”, but she kept her mouth shut and pretended obeisance. I thanked him and proceeded.

  Eleisha and I instantly caught the past tense in his usage of the word “loved”. Did he know they were dead, or was it just a slip of the tongue? Eleisha gave me a dark look and I nodded imperceptibly. Unfortunately, we learned nothing else that wasn’t readily apparent. He treasured his family, respected his father, mother, and adored Cherie. The house at Hull had been a family sanctuary. They’d gone there for years to fish, walk the beach, play, use the yacht, and generally unwind. He was proper, polite, and somewhat distant. It all seemed appropriate, given the circumstances of our meeting. I found out that he and the shapely Miss Shipley had recently become engaged. The date for the wedding had been set, but was on hold pending the outcome of the family’s disappearance. Again appropriate. He seemed relieved when I signaled a conclusion to our interview. Eleisha and I stood and I thanked him.

  When we started back down to the hall, the blond clone hurried over to the table and put an arm around his neck. She pecked him on the cheek and glanced at us with obvious disdain as we closed the distance to the steps.

  “So what’s your take?” I asked as we waited for our cab.

  “I know you caught the “loved” thing. Other than that, there wasn’t much we didn’t already know. Still, two things occur to me. We need to talk to the fiancée. I’m sure she heard every word we said, and if she didn’t, he repeated every word right after we left. She may be more involved than we know. And we need to get out to Hull soon, maybe even stay in the house overnight. I mean you’re the Spook. You might get something out there that isn’t apparent in the brownstone. We need to keep asking questions we already know the answers to. Maybe the rest will come.”

  I’d learned a long time ago not to ignore Eleisha’s suggestions. She got things that I didn’t . . . and she did it on a regular basis. That’s just one of the things that makes her such a damned good partner. And by the way, notice I didn’t use the word assistant.