But here’s a new feeling—as if sinking. Literally sinking. Aztec, he is sinking under me. Collapsing.
“Aztec, no!” Mike’s voice is alarmed.
Dear God, heart attack, the horse dying right under me. Nearly killing me… and then dying.
“No, Aztec!”
It is all slow motion now, the horse down and down, Mike dismounting and running, calling, “No!” as I try to get off.
But my left foot is stuck in the stirrup, stuck as the horse sinks—and then begins to roll left. Roll onto me. Not collapsing, not at all. It’s a deliberate move, to roll.
One thought: if I do not clear my foot, the horse will roll over me. Crush me. It whinnies, neighs. What does a breaking bone sound like? Pelvis? I thrash, jerk my left foot—
And break free, free my leg and jump aside just as Aztec completes his rollover, stands, flicks his tail, and trots barnward. A bird cries, a plane flies overhead. Mike is at my side holding Red’s reins. He breathes hard, puts his hand on my shoulder as I pant, wheeze, feel the upsurge deep inside my gut, turn sideways, and throw up.
Chapter Twenty-six
Still nauseated, I ransack Jo’s medicine chest this same evening for antidotes to the runaway and rollover horse. The raging question: was I set up, or did I set myself up?
Like a tape loop, the post-Aztec moment in the barn obsessively replays in my mind: “Naughty Aztec,” chided Eleanor Comber as I stumbled in, wiped my mouth, and asked for water. She handed me two of Steven’s prize ribbons and a photo. “Naughty, naughty boy!”—this as I dropped the chaps while a horse thundered in a stall deep inside the barn. Diablo?
“Walk Azzie and cool him down, Mike,” said Eleanor. “He’s lathered.”
“Ms. Comber—Eleanor,” I asked her, “is Drew expected here this evening? I’d like to talk with him… about the memorial service.”
“If he comes, he’ll want to ride, not reminisce.”
“It’ll only take a little while.”
“My son needs relaxation, Regina, not grief.”
“I can wait.” Though sweat-soaked and close to retching, I held my ground, threatening a sit-in. The push-pull with Eleanor Comber got me this: an appointment to speak with Andrew Vogler at Corsair Financial tomorrow afternoon. That’s how Eleanor got rid of me—for now.
What was she thinking?
Jo’s medicine chest has a box of Epsom salts for a tub soak, a chance to think and plan. With the tap open, hot water thunders into the deep old tub, and I get out the fluffiest, biggest bath towel and a new bar of lavender soap, test the temperature, and ease in and down to my chin. The blissful spa feeling comes over me, and for moments I am weightless in the salts bath and released from thought itself.
When reflection presses in, it’s rueful. The horse show ribbons that Eleanor has lent me are not Steven’s first-place blues, but yellow and green. Even in death, he’s an honorable mention, a stablemate but not a winner. Both Leonard and Eleanor disdained a man who was gay—and ethnic. Steven’s hardscrabble family on Croker Street is the surface, but Eleanor’s scorn goes deeper, to the “Slovaks.” Does she know Steven’s family name was once Damelinski? From his boyhood, did she give her son the message that Steven Damelin’s life was second-rate?
Or dispensable?
The phone rouses me from the tub. Perhaps it’s Maglia to say that Alex Ribideau has been found? No, it’s Molly. What am I up to? she asks.
“A nice bath.”
“Mom, you’re a shower girl. Why the tub?”
“I’m trying some bath salts, dear. What’s new?” She tells me that sculptor Tom Chou is still unsure about the blood marks on my door and wants to consult pals from the Chinese mainland. It’s beyond exasperation. “Since when does it take Beijing and Shanghai?”
“Mom, I’m just telling you what he said. I’m just the messenger, okay?”
Okay. “Molly, tell me, does the term ‘helping hand’ have any special meaning in your generation?”
“No.”
“Maybe from a song lyric?”
“Not from the indie bands that I listen to, Mom. Maybe commercial pop, but I doubt it.”
“I thought maybe it’s new slang among younger people.” I do not admit to having googled it at the first minute back at Barlow Square—“Steven Damelin + Helping Hand.” Nothing came up.
“So how about that hot lunch date, Mom? Is the guy taking you dancing?”
“Actually, Mol, dancing is on my mind.” Fact: the Web site of the Jeremiah Steele Dance Company shows Alex Ribideau in a gazelle midleap and proclaims him an acclaimed dancer. An AWOL dancer? A killer?
“Message me, Mom. Bye.”
“Bye, dear. Take care.”
I towel dry and pull on a sweat suit. Can I relax, walk the dog, and settle in with a book, a little TV? Walk Biscuit, yes, but there’s unfinished business here in my house: Steven’s bottle, the whiskey bottle he gave Jo, the bottle that Crystal sneered at.
The pale green bottle that brought on those voices, the shouts of anger, the hard crack on the head. There it sits—QUART—with bric-a-brac atop the shelf. But Jo felt its power, and I, too, before the crack on the head… can I hold it once again and perhaps learn something more about Steven? Can it teach me, offer a clue to help track a killer even if it deals me a blow?
In minutes, it’s in my hands: Blanchard & Farrar, Dock Square, Boston. Biscuit watches with mild interest. So far, nothing psychic is happening. I walk the bottle from the front room to the kitchen. The dog follows. Still nothing. I hold it closer against me. The glass clinks against a zipper tab. Am I resisting? Blocking a vision? I hug it tighter, then outstretched in my hands like an offering. A moment passes, two, three. Wait, Reggie. Let the moment be.
Then the kitchen light flickers, and Biscuit whines. Now it starts, a low rumble, voices, the utterances I can’t make out. They’re guttural, dissonant, heavy on consonants. They gather at the mouth of the bottle and come through a mist like frosty breath on a cold day. I sense men’s whiskers, women’s cloaks, and again the babushkas. The volume intensifies, and arguments erupt, loud and heated, and shouting, the feeling of a crowd. The voices shout at one another in a mix of fears. Yes, it’s fear, but along with it a surge of… of energy. An updraft of energy. Something wants to fly, to soar amid this fear.
Then an aroma… like cabbage, like a soup broth. But now comes whiskey, as if the bottle were uncorked, surely self-suggestion on my part. I must be carried away with the object in my hands, my sixth sense prompting the tang of distilled spirits. And now another scent… bread. Yes, a fresh-baked loaf, yeasty and warm. There’s no loaf here in my kitchen. Am I hungry? Am I somehow intervening in this vision?
Now an image… it’s floral, a bright red. There are no cut flowers in my house. A few mums out front, but this is different. It’s a rose, roses. I’m smelling cabbage and whiskey and fresh bread. I see a bouquet of roses as the voices rise to a near roar. The odors sharpen, each distinct, a loaf of bread, and cabbage and whiskey. And the roses. Biscuit is yelping and rolling on her back on the kitchen floor in a frenzy. I’m dazed, intoxicated by the sights and sounds and spirit.
And then bang, the crack on my head. Sudden as before, it’s hard glass against my skull. This time I brace my legs, release the bottle, and grab the countertop. I manage to remain standing. Biscuit is crouched down, growling low. The scents now fade, evaporate. The quarrelsome crowd is going, gone. QUART lies on the counter, inert and benign.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” It’s 10:01 a.m., as A. Arthur Graver, specialist in antique glass, opens its door for business here on Charles Street at the foot of Beacon Hill. Holding a polishing cloth, a short, round, aproned man says, “Forgive the butlery. I’m giving a few fruit compote bowls a quick lick. I’m Arthur Graver. How might I help you?”
“I’m Regina Cutter, Mr. Graver. I have a bottle in this bag. Perhaps I should’ve phoned. This isn’t fine glassware. I have an old whiskey bottle, and I
’m hoping for—”
“An appraisal?”
“Not for monetary value. I’d like information on its history.”
His eyes and eyeglasses form one bright twinkle. “Let’s have a look.”
QUART is shrouded in a towel, and I hold my breath as he pulls it from the canvas Bean tote and grips it in both hands. “It’s not a bottle.”
“What?”
“It’s a flask, because of the flattened sides.” He turns it, holds it to the light. I’m uneasy. Suppose this man begins to hear the voices… or smell the odors.”
“It’s molded glass with a double collar lip and a heavily whittled neck. There’s some light stain but no chips or cracking. It’s a nice old piece, early twentieth century. What else do you wish to know?”
“Anything… you don’t sense any… energies?”
“From the flask? Superstitious feelings, madam, are not my forte. Is it the glassware that interests you, or the distiller?”
“It came from a family in Lawrence. I realize it’s not your specialty.”
He chuckles. “This flask reminds me of the barn auctions of my younger days. We sold off a good many bottles and flasks. I may still have a reference book…” From the rear of the shop, he brings a binder and goes through it while I eye the bottle—flask—as if it might explode. “Blanchard & Farrar, Dock Square, here we are. You say price isn’t your concern.”
“No. Was the whiskey distributed as far as Lawrence?”
“Very likely. Rail service was excellent between Boston and Lawrence by the turn of the century. Of course, the temperance folks fought the whiskey business, but Blanchard is a good old New England name, and the Blanchard & Farrar distillery bottled several different brands.” He runs a finger down a page. “My book lists Old Dock and Clover Leaf, but the premium whiskey was Beacon Club. Your flask… its paper label is long gone, but I’d guess it’s the cheaper spirits.”
“For public taverns?”
“And kitchen barrooms.”
“What?”
He chortles. “Just what it sounds like, taverns in home kitchens in Lawrence.”
“Family taverns?”
“Women typically ran them, but the patrons were men. The kitchens were warm in the winter, homey and comfortable. The men played cards, and the women had themselves a nice little business. Of course, the city fathers tried to shut them down, but they dotted the neighborhoods of the mill workers. You do know about the Lawrence mills?”
“A little.”
“Chances are, if it came from Lawrence, your flask contained the whiskey of mill workers. They probably tippled in a kitchen bar in an area called the Plains.”
“The Plains—that’s it. That’s the neighborhood.”
“There you are. Mystery solved.”
I wish.
The Orange Line subway car clanks and jerks and smells of hot grease and ripe sneakers. Every seat is taken. It’s 2:08 p.m., and I’m avoiding the parking hassles around the Corsair Financial building. QUART is back on my top shelf, untouched by me, thanks to several towels, though I don’t feel closer to finding Steven’s killer. The flask took me to a world of primal fear and hope in the Plains neighborhood where Steven’s family toiled as immigrants. Though the kitchen bar was a business venture. Someone in Steven’s family defied the odds and got a business going on the side. How does that history connect to his life?
To his death?
I grip a pole in this subway car and flex knees in a ski-slope tactic to stay upright. At each lurch, my muscles cry foul from day-after miseries of Flint Ridge Trace’s beloved Aztec.
Suppose Drew Vogler follows the family tradition of near misses. If not a slamming car trunk or runaway horse, maybe some kind of hanging plant falling from its bracket. In a gray and cream basket-weave skirt and jacket, I’ve got the Xerox of the Corsair sheet that the Right True Clean crew found behind Steven’s mantel. At the right moment, I’ll ask. Maybe it’s connected to Helping Hand.
The man who greets me on the seventeenth floor of a brass and glass high-rise looks uncannily like Steven except for the mustache. He’s about six feet, thirty-plus, in dark slacks, a navy blazer, and club tie, his face the jaundice yellow of a fading tan. “Andrew Vogler,” he says. “Call me Drew. Welcome.”
But we shake hands with conspicuous delicacy on his part. No wonder. The fingers and the backs of his hands are raked with raw cuts and deep red gashes.
“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Cutter? Sarita, please hold my calls.” This to a gorgeous Latina receptionist with espresso eyeliner. We enter a small conference room with Aalto chairs and paintings of clipper ships and horses.
“Ms. Cutter, I’m sorry about your mishap with Aztec yesterday. My mother is seriously concerned. Everyone’s embarrassed. Please sit here so you don’t have to look at any horses, not even in picture frames.”
His courtesy is touching. He holds my chair, seats me before a bank of sailing ships across the birch table. He displays his hands in plain sight, like a European at dinner.
“My mother hopes you’re feeling better.”
“Eleanor needn’t worry. No one forced me into the saddle. Please tell her I’m a bit sore but unharmed.”
“You’re a good sport. But I can tell you that horse is—excuse my vulgar language, Aztec is a crotch rocket, especially on the creek trail. You’re not the first, but I guarantee you’re the last. This time Mother’s learned her lesson.”
So Andrew Vogler practically admits I was booby-trapped. Keep calm, Reggie. Keep your head. The fact is, I’m fixated on his hands, trying not to stare. Steven’s death wounds fill my mind. Have the police seen these gashes?
“How about coffee, Ms. Cutter—or join me in a bottled water?”
Deft as a Ritz bartender, Andrew flaunts the wounds while handling glasses and ice from a concealed fridge. He winces but chats as if nothing’s wrong.
“Sorry, fresh out of lemon wedges.” We drink. Then he reaches gingerly into his inside pocket and puts an envelope on the table between us. “This is a list of names for the memorial service—Corsair people and old acquaintances from a few years ago. They’re on address labels. We put a roll of stamps in there.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Sarita worked hard to get everybody, but it’s been so hectic and miserable around here.”
“Since Steven’s”—I say it deliberately—“murder.”
He looks me straight in the eye and nods. “Savage, barbaric… no words fit. We’re all in shock. The whole office is on edge. The police have been here every day to question our brokers. Dad flew in for a long interview with them last week. My turn’s this afternoon. I understand you were… Steve’s new landlady?”
“Yes.”
“They say you found the… him.”
“They say?”
“Nobody in particular. Office talk, e-mails across the cubicles.”
So I’m a Corsair factoid. “It’s true,” I say. “And it was gruesome beyond description.”
His face pales beneath the yellowed tan. “But we’re very thankful for your help on the memorial service. You’ll want to ask my sister about singing. She does Mozart, all the classical. Here’s her number. She hangs out at a boathouse on the Charles, the Renfrew Rowing Club.” Andrew spells “Renfrew.” “Steve loved Dani’s pop style. ‘I Will Always Love You’ was his favorite.”
Suddenly he breaks off, squeezes his eyelids shut, takes out a handkerchief, and daubs his eyes. “Excuse me… losing it. This is the first death of someone really close, and the service is going to be tough.” His eyes film over. “Damn.”
“I know you were close to Steven. Both your parents—and Margaret—told me you were like brothers.”
“Since grade school. Practically a whole lifetime.”
“And you saw one another almost every day.” Which I know is untrue. I want to see his reaction.
He keeps blinking. “Actually, in recent years, Ms. Cutter, I didn’t see Steve that much. Our sc
hedules didn’t fit. He worked out of his apartment, and he came into the office at odd hours. Outside Corsair, we traveled different routes. I think we just took each other for granted. He was around, I was around. We e-mailed constantly, moved the paperwork—but mostly from our workstations. Workwise, we were in sync. If you don’t mind—I’m trying to kick the cigarettes.” He pops a piece of beige gum. “Nicotine to combat nicotine. Strange. Everything feels strange now. I hope the church is big, because it’s going to be crowded. Most people on that list would tell you Steve did them some special favor. Me most of all.”
“Because you were so close.”
He nods. “Steve’d give the shirt off his back. To me, he was like a counselor. A couple years ago, I was ready to quit Corsair. Money isn’t everything. I felt stuck in an office with a phone grafted to my ear. A fishing camp in Maine was up for sale. It seemed a better bet.”
“You felt burned-out?”
“Burnout for sure. I called Steve, and we went out for chicken fingers and a bucket of brews. And I told him I felt like a money machine. He knew I couldn’t tell my dad. He built Corsair from nothing. It’s his big success… did he tell you about the cranberries? Well, let’s not go into that. Anyway, I laid it out to Steve. And you know what? When we left that eatery, my life was turned around.”
“No more Maine?”
“Here’s what Steve said to me: ‘You’re not their money machine, you’re their pilot. You fly them to their destination.’ It’s service work. That’s the point.”
“Like, humanitarian service?”
“It’s not so far-fetched. A high-energy investor can get reckless, a timid one too cautious. Opportunities are lost either way. People’s lives can take off or crash. Look at the market collapse, the stock scandals. Investment is personal. The right advice means everything. You see, our specialty here at Corsair is select stocks we earmark for high performance in the short run. Contrary to some viewpoints, the creation of wealth need not move at a snail’s crawl nor risk disaster. The hare can beat the tortoise.”
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