Waiting his turn, Wald nods reverently. I search his face. No widower’s flash of grief shows nor mournful gaze in memory of his own lost son. So what? Give the man the benefit of the doubt. Not every politician is required to bare his soul to a roomful of strangers.
In minutes, Jordan Wald leaps up to join Carney, grabs the mike, and quips about the two bench-pressing for Massachusetts. “We’re both athletes—a wrestler to pin the problems and a marathon runner to go the distance for the people.”
Time-delay laughter. “Seriously, my friends, we’re in a tough race. The future is at stake.” His voice slightly reedy, Wald predicts a hard-fought campaign with victory in November. His four terms in the Massachusetts Senate, he says, are foundation stones for the future. He ticks off environmental legislation he has sponsored. The Carney-Wald administration will be pro-business and green. “Protection of our coasts, our wetlands.”
Wald makes eye contact so each guest feels addressed personally. He jabs the air with a few Kennedy gestures and turns his head from the shoulders, as business executives do. Marty practiced this. It’s an authority thing. Underlings twist their necks, but bosses strike the Mount Rushmore pose.
“My life is an open book. What you see is what you get. My good fortune… giving back in public life. My thanks to each and every one of you.”
He’s done. Tania invites all to stay and enjoy the party, and the candidates work the room. The black-clad headset handlers keep watch like a junior Secret Service. I turn, and a hand with a grip like wood and leather clasps mine.
“Jordan Wald.”
“Oh. I’m Regina Cutter.”
“Appreciate your support, Regina.” He leans close, the cleft in his chin quite charming, though his handshake doesn’t feel quite right. I smell wine breath, men’s cologne—and underneath his starched shirtfront, something vaguely sour. “For you, Regina, for Massachusetts.”
But his politician’s eyes have already moved on. The moment came and went. What did I learn—that perhaps thirteen years ago this man leaned on the DA to nail Henry Faiser whether or not the evidence was solid? No, nothing of the kind. He strikes me as a stereotype of a political candidate. The lasting impression is that Jordan Wald has an odd handshake and uses hair spray.
“Bulldog and Boxer, exit now. Repeat, exit now.”
Like border collies, the headset handlers cut the candidates from the pack and escort them outside into a black Suburban with dark-tinted windows. The SUV pulls out, corners, disappears.
The party winds down fast, the house emptying quickly. The trio packs up. I linger by a foyer fireplace, its mantel lined with decorative floral Limoges plates. I note the rose pattern on the plates, fine antiques in this home dominated by armor and weaponry. Here comes Alison with a short, wiry black man. She turns to him. “Mr. Jeffrey Arnot, I’d like to introduce Reggie Cutter.”
As an ex–corporate wife, I’m seasoned at hiding astonishment in social situations. So much for the midnight-blue chalk-stripe broad shoulders. Jeffrey Arnot can’t be more than five-six, lean and taut, his facial muscles tense, eyes steely yet opaque. We shake hands, mine moist, his dry and hard. He wears a black double-breasted suit with a mauve shirt and violet paisley tie, the color palette perfect. His French cuffs set off heavy gold monogrammed cuff links. His skin is a dark walnut.
“I understand you are an exorcist.”
“Exor—oh, nothing of the kind, Mr. Arnot, though I have experienced paranormal events. Paranormal.”
“My wife has the idea you can put a stop to the disruption of this house. You cast a spell, is that it?”
“No. What I do—”
“Cast out demons?”
“Perhaps Mrs. Arnot’s free to join us. I’ll go see.” This from a fretful Alison.
“I’m a plainspoken man, Miss Futter.”
“Cutter.”
“Plainspoken and business-minded. I indulge Mrs. Arnot in such things as this, but chitchat with a real estate agent is not my concern. Fair price and value are my terms. I am not a gullible man. I believe in dollars and good sense.”
“Jeffrey, Jeffrey dear, and Ms. Cutter.” With Alison in tow, Tania Arnot sweeps this way, her platforms marching through the shag as through a meadow. Her dress rustles. “So wonderful to meet you. We’ve heard marvelous things.” Her low voice gusts as she touches my shoulder. “Meg speaks so highly of your special talent, your powers.”
“I was just explaining, in order to correct a misunderstanding. Mr. Arnot seems to think that I’m—” I don’t want to say “witch.”
“That I’m someone with preternatural power.”
Tania nods. Jeffrey rocks back on his heels. “But I must tell you that I’ve made a good-faith effort to learn whether your house is—” I resist the word “haunted.” I won’t give Jeffrey Arnot the satisfaction of scoffing. “To learn whether your house is susceptible to mysterious events. But I must report that I detect nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all.”
Jeffrey Arnot’s lips bend to a near sneer. Tania looks as though she might weep. Alison twists her fingers.
This much I know for certain about the moment: none of us touch the mantel. We’re at least two or three feet from it, standing quietly. My eye catches the movement first. Of the four Limoges plates, two begin to tremble from side to side, as if shifted by an unsteady hand, as if inched from their grooved slots in the mantel.
We watch, all four of us, as the porcelain plates stutter and shift in a kind of dance. None of us move a muscle, not Alison, not Jeffrey or Tania. Not me. Time slows, the moment expanding as we stare, fixated. A cold current of air wafts as two plates, each delicately patterned with roses, push out, out.
The cold air strikes my neck. Tania visibly shivers. She folds her arms tight. The plates rattle. Jeffrey is stock-still. Alison’s eyes are huge. The plates tremble, advance to the mantel edge, linger for an instant until another blast of icy air sends them plunging.
At the last split second, one of us might reach out, catch at least one. As spectators, however, we only watch, frozen in the moment, statues ourselves as the two plates fall to the marble hearth and smash to bits.
Chapter Ten
I saw it with my own eyes. You’re thinking looks can deceive, but the plates were perfectly secure. Then they jiggled and moved as if pushed and pulled. Then they fell.”
I repeat the story like the compulsive Ancient Mariner. My daughter nods across the table. We’ve just finished dinner, her favorite chicken with herbs. She’s come for the mink coat. “Molly, those two plates moved as if an invisible hand pushed them.” She smiles. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Invisible hand. You know how Dad always talks about the market and the invisible hand.”
“Your father is not in this, Molly.”
“Sorry, Mom.” She puts down her fork. “It must have been scary.”
“No. It was weird. If it was an optical illusion, four people saw it. Four people picked up the shards.” Which isn’t exactly true. Alison got a server—Brenda—to sweep up the pieces.
“How about that cold draft? Sounds like the wind blew the plates.”
“It wasn’t wind. It was a cold zone, as if a freezer door opened. It felt that very same way on the night the front door closed. I was with a Realtor friend.”
“I see.” I’m not sure she does. “I hope you don’t obsess about this, Mom. The whole thing could be a trick, hidden wires and pulleys.”
“To destroy antique Limoges?”
“Maybe the plates were fake. Forgery’s not that hard. If you spent time with artists, Mom, you’d think behind the scenes.” Molly pokes at a stray salad leaf. Tonight her thick honey-blond hair is scissored like crow’s feathers and tinted a dull brass. Stylewise, I never know what’s coming next. She says, “Art’s just a big bag of magicians’ tricks.”
“Why would anyone play such a trick on the Arnots? This wasn’t the first time. Things crash and slam in that house. The Arnots are nearly b
erserk.”
“Maybe it’s his trick on her. Or hers on him.”
The shocked look I’d seen on both Jeffrey’s and Tania’s faces tells me no way. “Maybe you had to be there.”
“Maybe.”
There’s nothing left to say, except “No psychic message came through to me.”
Molly nods. Unspoken between us is the Josephine Cutter connection, meaning that my Molly, too, has a sixth sense. On occasion, it’s expressed in her art, though not recently.
“Just remember, Mom, you’re not in charge of party tricks.” She smiles. “Hey, did you hear? Jack’s new girfriend threw him a birthday party.”
“He called. He likes the new titanium gadget. I hope this girl’s nice.”
“Jack’s bedazzled, that’s what I think.”
Here’s what my son said to me: “In the middle of the night, Mom, I think I love her. But by midafternoon, I think I’m just stupid.” Of course, he’s on my mind.
“Sometimes Jack and I worry about you, Mom.”
“Me?” Talk about role reversal. “We think since the divorce you’re, like, overreaching. You need to feel personal success. Why not join a book club? People love book clubs.”
They do, though the one I want to join at the moment is Frank Devaney’s leather-notebook club.
“Reading is one of life’s great adventures.”
It’s amazing how grown children can patronize a parent with a statement of fact. Behind my back, in good faith, my children want to shrink-wrap my life.
“I might take a motorcycle riding course.”
“Oh, Mom, you’re hilarious. Let’s clear the dishes. I’d better get the mink. I have to get back to Providence. A friend’s coming to the studio to help with a sound system.”
“Music in your art studio?”
“I’m working on an installation featuring implants and anabolic steroids. We’re putting voice boxes inside Barbies and G.I. Joes.”
And she used to draw so beautifully, flowers and seascapes. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s America, Mom. It’s G.I. Joe and Barbie. I got razor wire too. It’s the idea of the nation as bulked-up security state.”
Don’t ask, Reggie. “Let’s leave the dishes, Mol, and look at the coats.” I’ve spread out the short female mink directional and the three-quarter Blackglama. Both came from Marty, commemorating his promotions. They were, so to speak, the coonskins nailed to the wall. I was scheduled to get an ankle-length Lagerfeld when he made CEO. Dream on, Marty. You hit the glass ceiling, I hit the fur floor.
“Mom, I just want to be sure you’re ready to give up a mink. Suppose you change your mind?” That hooded look I know so well on her oval face—it’s guilt.
“Molly, my dear, you are the one and only reason I hauled these coats to Boston. For me, they are relics of a bygone time of life.” I stop, lest my daughter think she herself is somehow from a bygone era of her mother’s life. “Take your pick, but first feel each one. Notice the hair is short and velvety and has a delicate sheen. Natural mink has clarity and is understated. The longer hairs— the guard hairs—are uniform in length.” I turn on an extra lamp. “Notice the depth of color. It’s quality mink.”
“Mom, you sound like a saleswoman.”
“Molly, if you own it, you need to know.”
She picks the shorter one. “This’ll be great.” The hooded look of guilt deepens.
“Put it on. Go ahead, Mol. Mink with jeans is stylish.” She puts it on. “Very nice. Though the funnel sleeves are definitely passé.”
“Today passé, tomorrow retro classic.”
“Remember your cape in high school?” We giggle, recalling Molly’s high school Saturdays at a warehouse where the clothes, baled like hay, were burst open so the kids scavenged and paid by the pound. “That Swiss loden cape, I rushed it to the dry cleaner. It was either that or Orkin.”
“I guess I drove you nuts.”
“I guess that was the point.” We chuckle. “You must see about summer storage.”
“I—” She looks suddenly sheepish as well as guilty. “What is it, dear?”
“I won’t lie to you, Mom. The mink is…I mean, when you come to my exhibit next month, how would you feel if you saw the coat in…in…”
“On display?”
“Sort of.”
“Then you don’t plan to wear it?”
“It’s a mixed-media thing.” Her gaze shifts sideways. “But it’ll be fun to wear next winter.”
She shakes her head and slips off the coat. “Mom, actually, what I have in mind is—” Her fingers mimic scissors.
“You’re going to cut up my mink coat?”
“Just a few strips. To twine them with the razor wire.”
“Oh, Molly…”
“Oh, Mom.” She looks suddenly forlorn and nine years old. “Mom, I don’t want to upset you. I think this is a bad idea. I’m sorry. You better keep the coat. I’ll use something else, maybe moleskin.”
It’s one of those moments, swirling with mixed motives, values, costs, high stakes, low stakes, my daughter, myself, our past and future. Believe me, this isn’t easy. Talk about counterintuitive. “Molly, a gift must be freely given. I’ll never wear that coat. I promised it to you. It’s yours. You’re an artist, and if your work needs mink strips …” I manage a swallow, pick up the coat, and put it into her arms. “Whatever you do with it, it’s yours. I can’t wait to see your show.”
Why did the Arnots’ house turn on them? Molly sparks the question. Is it possible that a saboteur lurks on their housekeeping staff, a maid or cook working on behalf of someone trying to oust them, maybe to force a sale at a low price? Their number is unlisted, so I get it from Meg Givens, dial the Arnots, and leave a message.
I fill dead-end moments with TV news and the Globe, which are still full of features on Sylvia Dempsey’s murder. The unnamed person who was questioned reportedly furnished no new information.
I make another phone call. “Are you still stuck on her case?” I ask Devaney. He grunts yes. “Any progress on Henry Faiser?” My heart sinks when I hear “Not really.” Maybe he’s telling the truth. Or it’s an excuse not to tell what he knows. “How about the caterer?”
“Alan Tegier hasn’t turned up yet. Missing Persons handles it.”
“So when does Homicide step in?”
A noise at Devaney’s end sounds like cracking peanut shells. “Tell me, Reggie,” he says in his driest voice, “have you heard that Homicide requires a body? Have you heard of the centuries-old principle of habeas corpus?”
“Never took Latin, Frank. I minored in French.”
He hangs up.
Next Tuesday morning at StyleSmart, I want to ask Nicole again about Big Doc. But she’s eager to plan the fashion show at the Newton Home and Garden Alliance. The plan is this: we put together the ensembles here at the store, and Nicole will snap Polaroids for my reference so I can write the narration. Time is short.
We work with a few customers, then turn to the show. Nicole has six StyleSmart regulars in mind as models. “Thing is, Reggie, this show will cost our ladies lost wages. When you’re only getting six or seven dollars an hour, you can’t afford a ladies’ lunch even if the salad’s free. My idea is, StyleSmart will pay our folks. Our budget’s lean, but this is high priority.”
No wonder my Aunt Jo adored this woman.
Admiration, however, can’t cloud the goal, which is information on the Rastafarian preacher. As always, I first pay my dues. Nicole is at hurricane force, plucking hangers of jackets, skirts, and tops plus scarves and pins for the show. “Our ladies need to look confident, competent, pulled together. No wilting violet, no flake, no slut look. Here’s a red jacket for a power look. And a pinstripe too. We got the pearls. Reggie, check our handbags, would you? How about shoes—black and brown, medium heels?”
In moments, she’s snapping the photos of a dozen outfits, two for each model. “The corporate look, Reggie. Our ladies need a business image.
You work up the story line and the adjectives. I’ll call Caroline French and tell her we’re set.”
“Just one thing, Nicole.”
She’s caught my tone. She turns. “What?”
“Some information I need.”
“What? Oh no, not that Rasta.”
I describe my talk with Kia Fayzer. “Reggie, you are courting trouble. If you think your white skin will save you—”
“Nicole, at this point in life, I have few illusions about my white skin.”
She blinks. I blink back. “Truth cometh to the light, Reggie, but some things are exceeding deep. Remember the wickedness of folly.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“Folly and foolishness, Reggie.”
“Just a few words.”
She shakes her head. “My covenant of life and peace—”
“Nicole, please.”
She rolls her shoulder in a monumental shrug. “His real name is Ernest Frynard. He preaches on street corners.”
“Here in Roxbury?”
“Vanity of vanities, Reggie.”
“I just want to talk.”
As if the words are dragged from her depths, she finally says, “Try lower Washington.”
* * *
For the next two days, I walk past street vendors and panhandlers downtown on lower Washington Street but see no preacher at midmorning, early or late afternoon. I breathe subway odors from the sidewalk grates and mingle with shoppers passing Filene’s windows, which feature summer beachwear. But I don’t see anyone remotely fitting Big Doc’s description.
Not until Friday. It’s nearly three, a warm, sunny afternoon in the sixties. The weather has been spectacular. Biscuit is beside me, trotting nicely on her lead. Stark brought her back this morning, freshly shampooed and full of pep. I’ve walked her from the South End, crossed the Public Garden and the Common and down Park Street, where two firefighters flush a hydrant. Wouldn’t you know, Biscuit leaps for the water. She half prances, half swims in the gushing stream before I step in and get her out. She shakes herself from ears to tail, droplets flying. My feet are wet. The firefighters laugh.
Now You See Her Page 9