All in One Piece

by Cecelia Tishy

“Or did you see a teen boy named Luis?”

  “Louise?”

  “Luis. Luis Diaz. He’s Latino. Steven tried to help him.”

  “Sounds like a foreigner.”

  “He’s in high school.”

  “They’re taking over, you know. I’ll tell you this—”

  “Tell me.”

  “My neighbors got miffed when cars parked up and down the street. That’s why Stevie shoveled the O’Learys out in winter. And the Bollingers too.” Alice crumples the tissue and licks her finger, her gaze wandering to my face. “You brought me a basket.”

  “I did.”

  “Next time, I want Three Musketeers.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “And cream sherry too. My Harold made sure there was cream sherry in the house. He said it was the mark of a respectable home.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I’m in a McDonald’s off the Stoughton exit. I have a Big Mac, fries, and a Coke, and it’s all delicious, the special sauce, lettuce and pickle and cheese, and the fries bathed in ketchup from a half dozen packets. My fingers are greasy, and I’m wolfing every bite. The icy Coke slides down my throat in fizzy perfection. Little kids are squealing and crawling like gerbils in the play pods, and construction workers are lined up six deep at the front. It’s lunchtime, and I’m in time-out heaven.

  It lasts to the very last bite, till I crush the wrappers and tilt my tray toward the trash can and get a coffee to sip for ten minutes before the Beetle takes me on the last leg of the trip from the Brockton Silver Ridge Village to Barlow Square.

  What did I find out from Alice Collier? That the financial bonanza moved her to sink every last dollar into Helping Hand, and finally to mortgage her home—thanks to Steven Damelin’s investment “advice.” In short, Alice was indeed beckoned, stroked, and comforted by a hand that proceeded to choke the financial life out of her.

  Helping Hand. The very phrase sounds neighborly. It would be irresistibly seductive to the Alice Colliers of the world who are bewildered by PIN, passwords, downloads, robot voices, and so-called customer service that’s a joke. Imagine, investment in real live personal services to provide aid and assistance with everything from fixing the toaster to straightening out those monthly Bank of America or Citi statements. Helping Hand, it sounds like a mix of the Red Cross and a valet. You wouldn’t have to be gullible to invest, just stressed. And overwhelmed. And frightened by the demands of modernity.

  Or idealistic? As idealistic as Josephine Cutter? No, my Aunt Jo was neither gullible nor greedy. But she was superaware of how others struggled, how thin the resources to help them. She was the world’s greatest believer in public, civic assistance. But this is the age of privatizing. The balance long ago shifted to the market. That’s what Steven pretended to offer, a private business whose mission was to help others. He could have persuaded Jo that, as an investor, her money supported a humane good cause in the era of the market. As for the promised investment returns, Steven could have shown Jo how she could help her niece and nephew and also donate money to any number of worthy causes, including the Roxbury clothing consignment shop that helped poor women get on their feet. Win-win-win.

  So suppose Jo’s “deal” with Steven was investment angled at philanthropy. His charm and the very name Helping Hand probably dulled her judgment just enough to lull her into skipping background checks on the business and on its young entrepreneur. As sharp as she was, Jo couldn’t resist the notion of helpful outreach. She took Steven’s word. Her “skeptic” switch was off.

  But unlike Alice Collier, Jo got sick. My guess: she got her diagnosis just at a point when Steven was ready to hit her up for major money, her pension, and the mortgage on the Barlow Square town house. Everything she had would be sucked into his scheme. Jo’s illness aborted the plan. She was “saved” by terminal cancer.

  And I was saved. My home, my rental income, are the result of fateful timing. Had Steven lived, I, too, might have been subjected to his pitch, this helpful and charming young man offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to mortgage my inherited property to increase wealth while supporting my nearest and dearest. Would I have resisted? I like to think so. Can I say one hundred percent for sure? At this point in life, total certainties are rare.

  Steven Damelin, that charming young man. A con man, a crook. What did Matt Kitchel say? That Steven’s goal was to check the box that says “self-employed.” A self-employed white-collar criminal, is that it? Is that the end point of the Damelinskis who toiled in the Lawrence mills and huddled in the kitchen bar of the Plains in the dead of winter to plan the strike for living wages and self-respect? Did the enterprising immigrant family who launched the kitchen bar get warped over the generations? Did their initiative turn corrupt, as if the very chromosomes broke down? In the twenty-first century, does it come down to financial crimes at Corsair and a side business bilking older women? Is that the American dream of today?

  But how exactly did he operate? I go to the counter for a coffee refill and decide to sit for another few minutes, then shut my eyes to picture the Deary Street house. Steven rented a back apartment, no doubt with its own private entrance. But it was close quarters, and he could have talked with Alice often, person-to-person. A bottle of cream sherry would be a passport to her home day or evening.

  Yet Alice says he talked about Helping Hand on the phone when he traveled, that his phone calls kept her company. Did he simply keep her pacified while on the road? Did he check in with his various victims, coaxing, cajoling, issuing veiled threats as necessary to keep the checks coming? As attractive as he was in person, the suave Steven was perhaps especially effective on the phone, a disembodied voice. Maybe it was simply more efficient to make calls.

  Somehow I remember the cell phones—old Motorolas and Nokias—when Stark and I moved furniture to my basement. I’d thought it was a touching sign of a techie guy infatuated with the latest models and happy to discard the old. At that moment, it reminded me of my son, Jack, collecting e-gadgets the way Steven apparently collected phones. But maybe there was more to it. Maybe the phones were precision tools of Steven’s vile trade.

  And what about the movie? What kind of movie? It was Luis who first asked about it that rainy day in Jamaica Plain. Luis was disappointed to be offered the gift of a Lava lamp instead of a movie or video. Did he, too, play a part for a camera, perhaps firing a pass or throwing a baseball? Would a Latino boy be useful for Helping Hand, perhaps for a link to tutoring or ESL? Or was he to be the image of a yard worker who’d also provide a helping hand in winter by shoveling your walk and driveway? Was Steven producing a cassette or DVD for potential Helping Hand victims? Shots of Alice at her table befuddled by a sea of bills would surely inspire investors readily identified with her plight.

  But who killed him?

  I stand and toss out my coffee cup and head for the Beetle. Outside, it’s gray and cold. I ought to go home, exercise Biscuit, and work on “Ticked Off.” Instead, I head for the Charles.

  The Renfrew Rowing Club is a two-story clapboard barn affair, with double doors facing the Storrow side, sliding doors and ramps on the Charles River. Under a rooftop gable, an insignia of crossed oars flashes orange and green. The inside smells of wood, oil, sweat, and river. A Nordic blond guy lifts a pair of oars.

  “I’m looking for Dani Vogler.”

  “Dani’s sculling. Out there.” He points midriver to a single woman rowing a boat as narrow as a knitting needle. A crew of eight lines up to lift a long boat—is it a shell?—being lowered on a crane. They’re like a precision team, or pallbearers. “Starboard, one foot in and down… ports… hold for cox—”

  Coxswain, that’s the one who sits in back and shouts. I step aside and see boats stored on high racks, most of fiberglass, though two wood ones way up high blend into the rafters and look as nostalgic as a Victorian attic when shafts of light wash bright gold through sooty panes in its high gables. This must be almost the end of the season.

&nb
sp; A light bump at the dock signals Dani Vogler coming ashore. She stows her oars. She’s tiny yet quick, with wind-whipped streaked hair and a high forehead and a doll’s complexion. The sun has come out, and in the light her upper body is a picture of health, arms and shoulders toned and strong. Waist down, however, Dani Vogler is a wraith, a skeleton in spandex.

  “May I speak to you for a moment? My name is Reggie Cutter.”

  “Oh, you’re the woman… about Steve. The service.”

  “Could we talk for a moment?”

  “Guess I have to.” From a dusky corner, she fetches a battered bench, swings it in an arc, and sets it against the wall, then pulls on a Renfrew Rowing Club sweat suit, sits beside me, and rubs her palms on her thighs. Her hands are sinewy. She has her mother’s jaw. “I talked to both my dad and mother. They say I have to sing.” Resignation dampens every syllable.

  “Your family volunteered your talent. I understand that ‘I Will Always Love You’ was Steven’s favorite.”

  “I sang it on Margaret’s birthday. They got the piano tuned, so I couldn’t say no.”

  “Your brother says you spend a lot of time here.”

  She twists her hair. “I do. And why do you suppose that is? You met my mother? And Margaret too? Wouldn’t you hang out here if you were me?”

  Avoid this one, Reggie. “Do you race?”

  “Not single shell. For crews, yes. I’m coxswain. It’s the one and only advantage of being small.”

  “So you yell through a megaphone?”

  She laughs. “There’s a couple old megaphones still around here in the boathouse somewhere. Today we use a battery-powered cox box, and I wear a headset. Speakers are spaced every other seat. Everybody can hear me.”

  She reties a sneaker and looks mournful. “So what else do you want me to sing?”

  “What’s easiest?”

  “Not to choke me up, you mean.” Her eyes tear. “It’s horrible. I can’t sleep. Maybe I’ve led a sheltered life, but nobody you actually know is supposed to get murdered. It’s like there’s a rule. Nobody you grew up with—that stuff’s on TV, not your real life.”

  I hand her a Kleenex and remind myself that for Dani, Steven’s death is a tragic loss, not the cessation of larceny. “Did you ever visit Steven at Barlow Square?”

  “His temporary place?” She nods, blows her nose. “Nice apartment. It’s yours, right? And the lady that owns it died?”

  “Yes, that was my aunt. Steven knew her.”

  “She was the psychic one?” I nod. “Steve said she worked for the police. How cool is that?” She squints against the sun. “So you’re psychic too? Steve said it runs in families.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it like dreams in the daytime?”

  “In a way. It’s like… intense symbols. They’re almost physical.”

  “Cool-o.” She squints at my face, as if to get a good look at something exotic. “Anyway, your aunt’s apartment is lots better than that old woman’s house out in the boonies.”

  “Hyde Park?”

  “That place was depressing. It smelled like fungus. Steve said he needed a cheap place for a while.”

  “Did he say why?”

  She gives me a sharp glance. “That’s his business. I mean, it was.” Her lip trembles. “The good part of it is, he was excited about getting a condo of his own.”

  I work to keep my voice conversational. “Do you know a close friend of Steven’s named Alex Ribideau?”

  “Close friend? That’s so quaint, ‘friend.’ You mean Steve’s ex, the dancer. For a couple years straight, you never saw Steve without him. They were, like, joined at the… well, not the hip. I saw him dance last year. Steve got tickets. Margaret was supposed to go. She’s got a thing for Alex. But she had a flare-up, so I’m the only family member who went. Steve brought this high school kid.”

  “Luis Diaz?”

  “You know him?”

  “Steven said he was mentoring Luis. He seemed very proud.”

  “Yeah, he wanted me to teach him to row, but we don’t have a junior program. Frankly I was glad.” She cracks her knuckles. “The usual body type for a rower is tall and lean. That’s the mechanics of it. This kid’s built like”— She opens her arms wide—“thick, like a block. Like a wrestler. He was Steve’s charity case. I guess he’s big enough to overpower Steve.”

  “You mean murder him?”

  “That’s what the police asked me, two detectives. And a lot of questions about Alex too. I don’t know where he is. I said I didn’t know. That’s a lot, accusing somebody of a murder.”

  “Do you have any idea?”

  “They asked, I couldn’t help. They grilled my brother. The last time I saw Steve was early October. I told the detectives it was a visit, which it was. He made Manhattans. Actually I stopped by his place to pick up some goggles.”

  “For skiing this winter?”

  “Swimming. He had these special goggles from this guy’s boat.”

  “What guy? I’m responsible for the memorial service invitations. If there’s somebody I ought to include—”

  “I don’t know his name. The boat is called… something Oriental.”

  “Oriental?”

  “A place, Shangri-La… no, Shanghai, that’s it, Shanghai.”

  “The city in China? Is the man Chinese?”

  “I don’t know. Steve went with him on cruises. Sometimes he flew places, met the boat. Sometimes the boat was here in the harbor.”

  “A yacht?”

  “It’s a tugboat. A tugboat with a hot tub.”

  “Who owns Shanghai? Whose boat is it?”

  She rubs her hands. “When you start to row, your hands blister and peel. Then they get calloused. That’s what you want. That’s what I want for my feelings. I don’t know who Steve hung out with. My brother might know. Or Alex, if you can find him. Steve and I went to formals, you know? I was his date. How about this—I’ll sing Schubert. I’ll work it up, and it won’t affect me one way or the other. You could try rowing. I recommend it. It tires you out, and you beat guys arm wrestling. Helps you sleep too—as long as nobody you danced with gets murdered in cold blood.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Howie, this is Reggie from Cutter Provision.” I’m in the kitchen with the yellow pages opened to Marine, Docks, Massachusetts Port Authority. I’ve dialed the Boston Towing & Transportation Company and got Howie on line two. “We’ve got an order for a tugboat named Shanghai, and our computer’s down. Is she your boat?”

  “Nope, she’s not ours. Try Water Boat Marina on Long Wharf.”

  So I do. CeeZee answers. She asks, “Truck or tender?”

  Tender? It’s lingo I don’t know. “Truck.”

  “She’s here. We’re right by the Marriott. Ask for Rory. He’s dockmaster.”

  The Marriott looks like a big brick cruise ship beside the docks of Long Wharf. The wind is up, and the autumn tourists look like chilled birds. I could use a hat.

  “Are you Rory?”

  “I’m Sam.”

  He taps the “Sam” patch on his jacket and brushes past. I stare at a half dozen gleaming white gin palaces moored dockside here in the harbor in the off-season. They’re bobbing in choppy water, straining at the lines. I’m stopped at a locked gate with a sign: “No Unauthorized Visitors or Personnel Beyond This Point.” Here comes a man in heavy denim who nods when I ask, “Rory? I’m looking for a tugboat named Shanghai.”

  He’s about forty, ruddy-cheeked and bushy-browed. “Right out there. The furthest out.”

  A huge dull gray-brown vessel bristles with antennas and radar at the very end of the main dock. “No, I don’t mean a ship,” I say, “but a tugboat.”

  “That’s it. It’s an ocean salvage tug—or was. It’s a yacht now. A shipyard in Louisiana did the conversion. It’ll go anywhere in the world. You’re looking at the newest thing in luxury yachts.”

  “A former tugboat… does it have a hot tub?”

&nb
sp; “And a grand piano, so they say. Can’t swear to it. I haven’t been belowdecks.”

  “Do you know the owner’s name?”

  “It’s Wing.”

  “Is he Chinese?” He’s eyeing me now. “The reason I ask, a friend of the owner died recently, and I’ve brought an invitation to his memorial service.” Reaching into my purse, I wave the paper proof. “I brought this invitation personally. I wasn’t sure the Shanghai would be here.”

  “She heads for Nova Scotia tonight. She’ll try to beat the front coming in.” He sees my puzzlement. “The marine forecast calls for gale-force winds after midnight. You’ll want to stay ashore, inside.”

  “Will do. Can you help me? I want to deliver this invitation. The owner of the Shanghai was a good friend of the young man who’s deceased. Did you perhaps know him?” I step close as wind cuts through my jacket. “Steven Damelin. I understand he was a frequent guest on the Shanghai.”

  “Him and every Tom, Dick, and Nevermind. It’s a big party boat.”

  “If I could just deliver this in person.”

  “Sorry, strict rules. I can’t let you…” But he eyes a shivering woman on a sad mission in the autumn wind. “Ah, what the heck, we’ll give it a try. C’mon.” He unlocks the gate, leads me to the massive tugboat, steps aboard, and reappears with a ponytailed woman in a turtleneck and Levi’s. “This is Hailey. She’ll take your message. Shut the gate behind you, okay? The lock’s automatic.” Rory pivots. He’s out of here.

  “Hailey, are you the steward?”

  “Crew.”

  “I’m Regina Cutter. You can take a message to—is it Mr. Wing?”

  “I’ll take it.” She has narrow shoulders, no hips, hair that’s nearly white. The radar thing on a mast revolves. Nothing about this vessel says yacht.

  I take out the invitation and envelope. “To put Mr. Wing’s name on the outside… is there a flat surface I can write on?”

  Hailey signals me across the gangplank onto the deck and through a door—a hatch?—and we enter a compartment paneled in rosewood and lined with charcoal leather banquettes. The lamps are soft etched glass. From hidden speakers come baroque violins. It’s Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. There’s a small desk, also rosewood. “You can’t get this anymore,” I say. “It’s an endangered wood.”