All in One Piece

  “No, he didn’t drown. Just as you didn’t.”

  “But if he was unconscious—”

  “He came to. He was drifting with the current, just as you did, and he managed to get to shore. He was weakened and cold.”

  “But how did he get to Barlow Square. In a taxi?”

  Maglia looks sly. “We located a driver who picked up a man along Storrow that Tuesday night. The driver thought he was drunk because the man was soaking wet and incoherent. He got the address from his wallet and took him home.”

  “To 27 Barlow Square? How did you find the taxi driver?”

  “We’re detectives, Ms. Cutter. We investigate. That’s what people like yourself pay us to do.” The moment sours.

  “That still doesn’t explain how he got… nailed.” I wince at the word.

  Maglia says, “We theorize that Dani Vogler saw Steven come out of the river and decided to follow him to his apartment to finish what she started.”

  “And he let her in? After she nearly killed him?”

  “She appealed to their closeness over many years. She begged to come in and apologize and explain and help him. He was very weak. She brought the drill and went to work.”

  “And he couldn’t fend her off because he didn’t have the strength?”

  They both nod. Devaney says, “She saw leather strips and tied them on his wrists to implicate his ex-lover. But the drill wasn’t her weapon of choice, Reggie.” He pauses. “It was the nail gun.”

  “The Crowninshed nail gun.”

  “As I believe you know.”

  I nod. My arm aches up and down. “Then what about the Chinese calligraphy on my door. It means death trap, you know.”

  “It means pineapple.” Maglia and I glare at one another.

  Devaney says, “It was probably a deliberate diversion. We understand that Ms. Vogler is something of an artist.”

  “She took art classes. And she lettered the family holiday cards.” The “girl” art supposedly sheltered her from her brother, though I didn’t think to connect Dani’s calligraphy to my door. “It wouldn’t be hard to work up Chinese characters, would it? And how about that Survival Handbook with the threatening note? Did she shove it into my mail slot?”

  “We think so. At this time, we believe she acted alone. We also think she tried to run you down the day you moved in.”

  Dani in the blue car. “But why? Why kill Steven—or me? I can’t believe her brother had nothing to do with this. Andrew Vogler is corrupt. He lies. He might be involved.”

  “We won’t rule him out yet. But, Reggie, motives can twist down deep. You say this woman was passionate about rowing. She had another passion.”

  They wait for me to add it up. “Not Steven?”

  “Steven.”

  “His Helping Hand scheme—was she involved?”

  “We doubt it.”

  “She told me she met Luis Diaz. Steven wanted her to teach him rowing. He’s in the Helping Hand video. Have you found it?”

  “Not yet. We’re looking. We’re also pursuing the phone numbers on that Corsair sheet. You’re right, Reggie, it’s a mooch list of elderly women. We’re looking into whether Damelin worked alone or had accomplices.”

  “But Luis had nothing to do with Steven’s death, right?” They nod. “And Dani’s passion—it wasn’t about money, it was love?” They nod. “But he’s gay…” Then I recall the prom photo, Steven and Dani. “Oh, that’s it. You’re saying she felt betrayed?”

  “And abandoned. She was in love with Steven but jealous of the attention her family gave him. It takes a psychiatrist to make sense of this, but her loving Steven was a way to try to get closer to her parents.”

  “So when she learned that he was gay, she felt more exiled than ever?”

  “Isolated, yes.” Devaney nods. “When Damelin and Alex Ribideau ended their relationship, we think she probably hoped Damelin would turn to her. A new window of opportunity would open.”

  “But it didn’t,” I say. “And she felt more alone than ever?” Again, they nod. “And that was enough to trigger the murder?”

  Maglia says, “We have reason to believe that Andrew Vogler was involving himself in the gay men’s scene with Steven. We think her discovery of that involvement was the trigger.”

  “Because it excluded her totally. And betrayed her hopes. And made a fool of her.”

  “Humiliated her, yes,” says Maglia, who gives me a grudging nod.

  “I have a certain photograph of Andrew Vogler,” I say. “It could be useful evidence. I’ll give it to you.” I look from Devaney to Maglia. “Have you got actual evidence against her?”

  “On a warrant, we recovered a nail gun—and a crowbar.”

  “And we’re looking for climbing shoes. Rock climbing shoes.”

  Not ballet. Not Alex Ribideau. So Stark was right. “Then it was Dani who climbed my wall the night of the storm. But why? Why me?”

  “It’s the psychic thing, Reggie. She knew about your aunt’s psychic ability.”

  “Yes, Dani first brought up Jo’s paranormal ability that afternoon we first spoke at the boathouse. Steven had told her about it. She seemed intrigued and called it ‘cool.’ She asked me what it’s like. I told her a little.”

  “You also confirmed to her that you’re psychic?”

  “I did, yes. But why attack me?”

  “Because she believed that sooner or later you’d learn, as a psychic, the identity of Steven’s killer. She was sure your psychic power would expose her.”

  “So she tried to run me down before she killed him. I’d have been… a preliminary murder.”

  They nod. “Then she tried to kill you after killing Steven.”

  “With the crowbar. And my shot at her missed.”

  “You better appreciate that fact, Ms. Cutter.” Maglia glowers. “We’d have to consider charging you.”

  Devaney leans closer. “But in a way, she was right. Your clairvoyant ability worked. Your vision involved water and this log shape. You saw these things. They were major clues.” This statement, I am sure, is meant for Maglia’s ears.

  Devaney jots a note. Maglia frowns. They rise. I rise. Devaney walks me out. We’re on the granite step. My arm throbs. “Reggie, you did good, but we need to work together. Next time, we’ll do better.”

  Next time. Next time. This is music to my ears, a waltz, rock and roll, samba. “No more murders at Barlow Square, Frank.”

  “The case I’m thinking about is near the harbor.”

  The case?

  “It might involve crystal meth, but I have my doubts. If your aunt was still with us… anyway, we can talk when you feel better.”

  “I feel just fine.”

  “Another time, Reggie. I’ll come by for the photograph. You take care of that arm.”

  My whole self is one giant ache and pain, but I drive home on cloud nine.

  I park beside the familiar cherry-red Harley. On my front step, Stark lights a Camel and blows smoke rings into the November air. “Having a tea party with the cops? You need a better class of friends, Cutter. How’s the arm?”

  “Fine.”

  “Is that lady talk for ‘hurts like hell’?”

  “Like hell. And it’s time for my Percodan.”

  “Watch that stuff. People get hooked.”

  I open the door. “Stark, you’re not my nanny.”

  He takes a drag and crushes the cigarette. “Some call it taking care of business.” That sneer of his. “Do I get my jacket back?”

  “Come in. You deserve more than your jacket.”

  “Hey, I’ll tell you what, we’ll swap. Hold the door.” He goes into the motorcycle saddlebag, bounds up the steps two at a time, and dangles a ten-pound sack as Biscuit goes crazy to see him. I read the label. “One Earth Naturals. What is it?”

  “Dog food.” He scratches her belly. “It’s a better diet for Biscuit now that she’s going back in training. I’m thinking the lamb with brown rice, barley, baby ca
rrots.”

  “Baby carrots? For a dog?”

  “A triathlon dog. Here’s your mail, Cutter.” He scoops it up. “So who’s in Beirut?”

  I grab the card, an aerial view of the Mediterranean. “Hi, Regina—A Lebanese signature dish is samek harra, a garlic fish with pine nuts. Doable in Boston. Let’s discuss. Yrs, Knox.”

  “Cutter, your face is red.”

  “Stark, you need to mind your own business.”

  His eyes narrow. “I need to help with your dose of dope.”

  In fact, I feel light-headed as he guides me to a front room chair and sprints for water and a pill and Biscuit jumps into my lap.

  “H2O, Cutter.”

  “Isn’t this where we came in?”

  “It’s the year of the rerun.” He watches me swallow the pill and asks, “What are you looking at?”

  “That bottle on the top shelf… I mean, flask.”

  “Where?” He twists to see. “That old green whiskey bottle?”

  “It’s a souvenir,” I say. “It’s from the Bread and Roses Strike you told me about. It’s about courage and… an immigrant bloodline that self-destructed, that bottomed out over generations.”

  “That sounds deep.”

  “I guess there are no guarantees.”

  “For what? You want brave hearts in fancy pants? Forget it. You want a rundown on who built America, go for the real backbones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean like the bogtrotters and swamp Yankees. They had to hack it themselves. They still do.”

  Beneath that weathered complexion, do I detect a blush? “You sound personal, Stark.” He empties my water glass. “I know bogtrotters are the immigrant Irish,” I say. “Are you part Irish?”

  “Could be.”

  “But what’s a swamp Yankee?”

  He meets my gaze. “The Yankees that didn’t have a dime. They lived in the backwoods and fought in the Revolution. They’re stubborn and independent. They farmed. They’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. They’re the real deal to this day.”

  “Do their descendants ride Harleys?”

  “Vehicle of choice, Cutter. You live by the right code, you live proud. You never get rich, but you answer the call as you hear it. So what the hell, Cutter, you want me to pull that historical bottle down for you?”

  “No… let it be up there. It’s a lesson. The past sends its messages, and we need to hear them. As I hear you now, Stark.” He leans toward the dog. Yes, that coppery cast to his cheek, it’s definitely a blush. Biscuit licks my wrist, and I nuzzle her. My nose clogs from the damn allergy as she looks at me with those soft brown eyes, so very—so very beagle.

  “Cutter, don’t you go weepy on me.”

  “It’s an allergy attack, Stark. It’s from animal dander.”

  “I’ll take the girl out for a run,” he says.

  “Joint custody, partner.”

  “Joint custody, partner.” He gets her leash and puts his jacket on. I smell leather, Camels, hospital gauze. I’ll have a scar, the doctors say. Devaney and the murder near the harbor cross my mind, and I reread the card about Lebanese garlic fish. Bring it on, I think. I’m back from the dead, alive alive-o. Bring it on. Bring it all on.

  References

  The author wishes to acknowledge the use of the following sources:

  Ardis Cameron. Radicals of the Worst Sort: Laboring Women in Lawrence, Massachusetts, 1860-1912 (1993).

  Ruth Milkman, ed. Women, Work, and Protest: A Century of U.S. Women’s Labor History (1985).

  William Moran. The Belles of New England: The Women of the Textile Mills and the Families Whose Wealth They Wove (2002).

  Louise Brady Sandberg. Lawrence in the Gilded Age (2004).

  About the Author

  Cecelia Tishy, a Pittsburgh native who has also lived in West Palm Beach, Florida, and Fairmont, West Virginia, made her home in Boston, Massachusetts, for twenty years. She left in 1987 to relocate to Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband, Bill, and two daughters. When she isn’t writing crowd-pleasing mysteries, she is professor of American Literature at Vanderbilt University. Her first published Reggie Cutter mystery novel is titled Now You See Her. She has also written, under the name Cecelia Tichi, several nonfiction works on such diverse subjects as country music and muckraking in America. Visit her website at CeceliaTishy.com.