“We afraid for you, Mees Reggie.” Ari leans close. “We worry psukhé make you troubles. Summer comes, flowers grow. Life is good. We have melons and peaches, everything fresh. This Carlo, you stay away. Perk, he is not your business. B&B Auto is no more, gone. Big fire, finish. The red guy, maybe he is yelling far away.” Ari’s voice drops low. “PsukhÉ is good. You hear the spirits. But Greeks know also pride. Greeks know hybris.”
“Hubris,” I say. “Arrogance.”
“Hybris like a sickness. If your aunt here, she tell you watch out. She tell you hybris makes a falling down.”
“Downfall,” I say. “Downfall.” The word hangs. Silence builds as Biscuit rouses, shoulders tight. She plants her paws and barks hard and loud, as if warning, as if sounding an alarm.
Chapter Twelve
At 8:30 a.m. on Monday, a white limousine with black glass windows pulls up at the curb outside on Barlow Square. Nobody gets in or out. I keep an eye on it, thinking it’s for my neighbor, Trudy Pfaeltz, probably a premium for selling candy bars.
Me, I’m waiting for a car to be sent by Alison on behalf of Jeffrey Arnot, who wishes to speak with me. On business, was the message.
At nine, the appointed hour, the limo is still out front, but no sign of the car arranged by Alison. It’s five after. Then ten. Suddenly, a uniformed driver, a stocky white man with windburned cheeks, gets out of the limo and comes to knock on my front door. He tips his cap and says, “Mr. Arnot is here.” I grab my purse and follow him to the sidewalk. Opening a door, he ushers me inside the white limousine where Jeffrey Arnot sits with legs outstretched. In a double-breasted suit with a blinding white shirt and silk tie, he’s by himself, talking on the phone.
“Don’t push on this, or the deal’s history. You got till two. Don’t screw up, surprise me for a change. Ms. Cutter, good to see you. Have a seat.” The door shuts, and so does Arnot’s phone. I sit opposite him on a camel suede seat amid soft pools of apricot light. A coffee, a Wall Street Journal, and a laptop lie on a lacquered table between us.
“Drink?”
From a hidden pullout bar? “Thanks, no.”
“You won’t need that seat belt.”
“I always wear—”
“We’re not going anywhere, Ms. Cutter. You’re in my office.”
“Oh.” I feel the engine purr, the vented air. I’m in a light wool blue Brioni suit from the old days, deliberately muted. Jeffrey Arnot stares as if appraising merchandise.
“I want to follow up on that business with the plates.”
“I’m very sorry—”
“Forget it. It’s not important. Old art, you get cracks and breakage. One reason I go for armor, it doesn’t bust. Michelangelo and Rembrandt need tune-ups. Mrs. Arnot sent the pieces to a restorer. The plates’ll look good as new. This isn’t about plates.”
“I see.”
“It’s not about Marlborough either, not as such. The baseline is, we have a fine house, one of Boston’s best. Mrs. Arnot and I agree it’s a premier address in the city. No dispute.”
He crosses his legs. The socks are silk. “But men and women see things differently, Ms. Cutter. For my wife, Marlborough is home. That’s the woman’s viewpoint. It’s probably yours.”
I nod for simplicity’s sake. “A business point of view, however, is different. I picked a certain wallpaper pattern for personal reasons, it’s true. I’m a black man in a white city, and I fight hard for what’s mine. I have a thick hide, and I’m proud. You saw our custom chandelier. It was my idea, a warrior’s equipment. But to me, the house is an investment. Renovation helps the investment value. The house appreciates, and I utilize it. My wife and I entertain clients and business associates. You attended one of our candidate receptions.”
“Mr. Arnot, you needn’t explain—”
“But I do. The random noises are an inconvenience. We can’t explain them. To a point, they disrupt our lives. Mrs. Arnot is sensitive. Again, a woman-man thing. But we now agree to cease inquiries such as yours.”
“A search for spirit sources.”
“Superstition, mumbo jumbo. Which can be damaging, make no mistake. Gossip and rumor take a toll. A food scare in the restaurant business can bring you down, can put the whole chain at risk. In pro sports, a sex or drug scandal, true or not, cuts your sponsors. Likewise, a house can get a reputation, even in the Back Bay. The investment could be at risk.”
He steeples his fingers, his eyes never leaving my face. “Mrs. Arnot now understands the consequences of letting her nerves get out of control. She sees the smart thing to do is adjust to the situation. I protect my investment, she protects her home. It amounts to the same thing. Do you understand me?”
“Mr. Arnot, I have no intention of discussing the noises or plates with anyone.”
“The plates fell. Accident. End of story.”
“I only came as a favor—”
“As a misunderstanding. An intrusive mistake on a very important evening.”
“Your guests had no idea why I was there. I only mingled—”
“And saw our next governor, Michael Carney, who deserves allout support.”
Whatever “all-out” means. “You are aware, Ms. Cutter, of the slander laws.”
“Slander? Mr. Arnot, I have no intention of discussing the Marlborough house noises with anyone. Are you threatening me?”
“To protect my interests, I am vigilant. I am a watchful man.” He taps his fingertips on the tabletop. “But also fair. It’s a give-and-take world. Arnot Enterprises might be of some service to you, Ms. Cutter. I understand you are new in the city.”
“I spent childhood summers in Boston, Mr. Arnot.”
“It’s different now, new people, new projects on the drawing board. Politics and business dance cheek-to-cheek. You might benefit.”
“I can’t see how.”
“For the moment, benefit yourself three ways. Zip the lip, Ms. Cutter. Stay away from my wife. Stay clear of my house. We’ll all move ahead. We’ll all get our piece of the Boston cream pie.”
Meg Givens’s grim “Good morning” over the phone is drowned by a woman in the background crying, “Tell her, go ahead, tell her.” I’m just back inside my door from the encounter with Jeffrey.
“Go ahead. Tell her.” The gusty cabaret voice is unmistakable over the phone, even without a mike. “A Second Empire vase. Tell her Second Empire. Tell her it jumped off the chiffonier in the master suite last night. Tell her Jeffrey saw it too. He can’t deny it.”
Meg asks, “Reggie, did you hear that?”
“Just like the Limoges plates, it moved and crashed. Tell her 1880-something Christofle, priceless glass with gilded silver. That cold air blew too. It was freezing. Tell her, for godsake.”
“She hears you, Tania.”
“Now tell her who really owns the house. Go ahead, you’re the Realtor. You know the secret.” Fumbling noises—a scuffle for the phone. “Who cares if it’s confidential? Screw it, you tell her.”
Like a hostage, Meg speaks in a voice flattened by stress. “Against my better professional judgment, Mrs. Arnot wishes you to know that the Marlborough Street house is listed in her name.”
“Hear that? ‘Tania Rae Arnot’ is signed on the dotted line. The house is mine.”
“Technically,” Meg says, “for tax purposes—”
More fumbling, then the cabaret voice says to me, “Whatever Jeffrey told you, don’t believe him. The goddamn house is mine, and it’s haunted. He’s in his limousine gallivanting all over, and I’m stuck like a prisoner in a goddamn haunted house. I’m telling Meg and you too. You hear me, Cutter?”
“I hear you, Mrs. Arnot.”
“You fix it, or I’ll make sure Meg Givens never sells another house in Boston. I’ll contact every name in my Rolodex. I’ll get you too. You do your psychic thing or—”
“But it doesn’t work that way.”
“Lady, you make it work, or I’ll make your life hell. Sheer hell.” The phone goes d
ead.
Shaken, that’s the feeling. The hysterical woman’s threats would rattle anyone, the Arnots’ domestic rage spilling to the street. Meg’ll doubtless phone the second she’s free.
I try to concentrate on “Ticked Off” as a sedative. But it’s not easy to calm down when somebody promises “sheer hell.” Did the Arnots choreograph this Monday morning drama? No, that makes no sense. It’s him versus her, with bystanders caught in the cross fire. What could Tania do to me? Nothing.
Nothing at all.
I keep telling myself this, when Angie calls to say that Dr. Buxbaum needs two minor repairs upstairs. His bathtub drain is slow, and his smoke detector needs a new battery. “And, Ms. Cutter, Dr. Buxbaum wants you to know he got something special for you. It’s on the upstairs landing by his door.”
I trudge up. The something special is a book—Dare to Repair: A Do-It-HERself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home. The cover art is the familiar World War II classic factory queen, the manicured, pin-curled Rosie with sleeves rolled, flexing a bicep. The nerve of that dentist.
Rosie stares at me in her polka-dot head wrap, ready to open fire with her rivet gun. My own biceps, coaxed to life from dreary free-weight workouts that I maintain on schedule, were supposedly meant for sleeveless sportswear and evening dresses, for dancing in the dark on moonlit terraces. Not wrenches, not plungers.
There’s a note, which says, “Hope this helps.” But since when did I ask H. Forest Buxbaum, D.M.D., to be my personal trainer? Odds are, he’ll deduct the price of the book from the next rent check. The nerve.
I’m on a stool replacing the nine-volt battery in Buxbaum’s kitchen smoke detector when it hits me—the obvious, the insurance settlement from the Eldridge fire. The airborne cinders Suitcase Mary remembers might have been ignited not from human carelessness or drugs or religious fanaticism, but from cold hard cash. What can Devaney tell me?
Not much, it turns out when I reach him at noon. “First of all, the Arson Unit guys were under pressure to solve a rash of fires near the wharves. Frankly, there wasn’t much interest in the Eldridge fire.”
“The Globe article at the time said the cause was probably a cigarette or drug paraphernalia.”
I almost hear his shrug. “Or a portable heater in the crack house or maybe solvents at B&B Auto. I do remember the insurance claim was small.”
“How small?”
“I don’t know. Small.”
“But the land was valuable. Look at Eldridge Place.”
“Reggie, I’m in homicide, not insurance fraud. Figure it this way: a developer took a big risk putting up a deluxe condo high-rise on a parcel of slum land he picked up after the fire. It was a gamble that paid off. Look, I gotta go. I’m on a case. Call me later.”
Rain threatens, when I dress in a coral pantsuit, call Biscuit, and head out to Eldridge Place with an umbrella buried in the bottom of my handbag. One block from the columned entrance, I see the clump of birches marking the place where Peter Wald fell and died. Sure enough, my rib flares at the approach, confirming knowledge from my sixth sense. Deliberately, I walk Biscuit to the birches, my rib searing at the spot where the birches grow, where the darkened wet mulch shows the gardener’s care. I pause, my breathing shallow, the pain grounding me with purpose and resolve. Unknown to the groundskeeper, he’s tending a murder site and grave of sorts. I pick up the dog, who squirms in my arms. “Settle down, girl. Be a sweetie.”
A doorman in a blue blazer greets me at the glass doors with a gaze of cordial surveillance. He’s pale with brushed-back auburn hair and sideburns on the far side of clean-cut. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m Regina Cutter. This is my little dear, Biscuit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hope you aren’t frightened of dogs.”
“Oh no, ma’am.” I hold the dog toward him, and she obligingly licks his fingers. “I believe she’s hurt her paw, and my cell phone is dead. I’m afraid it’s going to rain. I wonder, could I use a telephone?” I move forward. He opens the door wider. I’m in.
The lobby is a deep rose stone with mahogany accents, the lighting recessed. We cross an Aubusson rug toward a lighted nook where a bouffant blonde with a flight attendant’s efficiency rises from a desk flanked by pedestal vases of lilies. She’s in a smart suit with crisp lines.
“Pam, this lady would like to use a phone.”
“It’s my little dog, I think she’s hurt her paw.” I nuzzle Biscuit’s nose. “Sweetie, it’s going to be all right, don’t you worry.” I smile at Pam. “I hope you’re not allergic to dogs.”
“Oh no, we have a good many dogs in the building.” She puts a phone on the desktop, and I dial my own number and say, “Hi, it’s me. I’ve got Biscuit. She’s hurt her paw. The minute you get back, come pick us up at—” I say to Pam, “Where in the world am I?”
“Eldridge Place, 300 Eldridge Street.”
“It’s the lovely pink high-rise, and I’m in the foyer.” I say fwahyea in a noblesse oblige voice for Pam’s benefit. The young man has gone back to door duty. Still no sign of the staff men who might recognize me.
“I don’t ordinarily walk in this neighborhood,” I say to Pam. “I took a wrong turn and lost my way. A few blocks can make such a difference.” Pam’s nook, I see, has surveillance monitors showing the parking garage and the lobby elevators. The hallway of each floor appears at thirty-second intervals.
“We have underground parking for residents and staff,” she says. “This is definitely not a pedestrian neighborhood.”
“Well, I should know better, but the name Eldridge rings a bell. It strikes me I might know of someone who perhaps works here. He’s a cousin of my mechanic. I think he might be on your staff, a man with an old-fashioned flattop haircut. His name is—” Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. I nuzzle the dog. “Biscuit, sweetie, do we remember the name of the nice man who helped fix the car? Was it…Marco? No, Carlo. It was Carlo.”
“Carlo Feggiotti?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“He’s our night manager. He’s in and out during the day but on duty for the night shift. He comes on at ten.”
“My goodness, a small world.” Pam agrees. “Come to think, a friend of his might work here too. Perk, I believe. Perk?” Pam shakes her head. No Perk works at Eldridge. Biscuit wriggles to get down. I hug her closer. Her tail waps my rib, which has cooled but feels pressure. “I hope I’m not keeping you from your duties, though perhaps my little Biscuit’s injury is serendipity.”
“Oh?”
“Because this building reminds me of the peace of mind that is possible with high-level security and services. Boston’s old townhouses are lovely, but with crime and uncertainty these days, sometimes I’m tempted to relocate.”
Pam nods. “I know just how you feel. We have just one unit available in the building at this time, though I understand there’s an offer on it. But if your needs are not immediate, plans are under way for Eldridge Place II.”
“Really?”
“Across the street.”
“But didn’t I see houses?”
“In major disrepair. They’ll come down.”
“And the new building will have the same standards of quality?” I gesture around the lobby.
Pam nods. “The same company, the same architect. The same partners. In fact, one of the partners is coming in this afternoon. We’re watching for him now.”
“Taking a personal interest in the project is a good sign.”
“Oh, this particular partner is very much involved. And we always know when he’s coming. It’s impossible to miss a limousine.”
“Limo?”
“Yes indeed. The other partners’ cars are top-of-the-line, but we can spot Mr. Arnot’s white limousine a mile away.”
Her pleasant smile prompts my own, a mask to conceal pure panic, as Biscuit wriggles and I fight to figure out what to do.
“So you took a taxi?”
“I faked a fit ab
out Biscuit, and the concierge called me a cab.”
“Good thinking. What a close call.”
Meg Givens doesn’t know how close. I glimpsed Arnot’s Moby limo as my taxi pulled out, and hunkered down all the way to Barlow Square.
“Reggie, could you just hang in with Tania a little longer?”
“Impossible, Meg. The Marlborough house is not my psychic turf.”
“Could I tell her you’re trying?”
“Bad idea. Jeffrey Arnot ordered me off the property.”
“Can’t psychics work at a distance?”
“Not me. I first need contact with an object, something authentic from the source of the haunting. For Marlborough, something historic.”
“But that’s out of the question. They stripped the house.” Her voice rings with despair.
“I’m sorry, Meg. No question, the woman is awful.”
“Reggie, you don’t know the half of it. How about this? I’ll tell Tania you’re researching the house. I’ll tell her that you, the psychic, seek knowledge from the past. Old documents, deeds, whatever.”
“Just like your coworker who moved to Dallas? The woman who felt chills, the same sort of chill we both felt when the Marlborough front door slammed on us?”
“Are you hinting the house really is haunted?”
Should I tell her about the cold blast I felt when the Limoges plates crashed? Or remind her that she brought up murders in the Back Bay—daggers, tonics spiked with poison, carriage horses run amok? No, not now. “So, Meg, you want me to be the new Igloo Sue?”
“Just get Tania off my back for the moment. Buy me time. I have two deals pending with acquaintances of the Arnots’. The spring real estate market is down, and I need these commissions. The Arnots’ fireworks make me happy to be single again. Those sixties lapel buttons you see on eBay—‘A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle’? Since my divorce, that’s me.”
I manage a laugh, but the words “me too” don’t come out. I admit to checking the mail for more postcards from Mr. Cairo. “Meg,” I say, “if it’ll make your life easier, go ahead, tell Tania the psychic is burrowed in the library.”
Now You See Her Page 11