In the doorway to Sylvia’s walk-in, the housekeeper stares straight ahead, mute and still. Finally, she says, “The doctor, he says you can take from here.”
I begin to sort and select from among the newest goddess gowns in pastel chiffons, then the club suits with midthigh skirts, finally the jackets and shoes, most with five-inch spike heels. Sylvia definitely liked her heels high and in browns and blacks, tan, pinks, pale pistachio, open-toed and closed. Apart from two pairs of flats, none of these shoes were meant for walking any distance, certainly not from Copley Place to the Charles. Perhaps Sylvia took a taxi. Or someone gave her a ride. Her killer?
I shudder, then spot a dusky pink Chanel suit, whose proximate value I list before slipping it into a garment bag. Mrs. Manosa nods, and I wipe my perspiring face and proceed to a cocoa Valentino gown and two Jil Sander pantsuits. Several outfits hang with the store tags still on. A sign of planning ahead or compulsive shopping? Or an incentive to lose five pounds?
“May I use a restroom?”
Mrs. Manosa points to Sylvia’s bath, and I’m suddenly surrounded by the marble Jacuzzi, three sinks, lavender, linens, Khiel’s lotions. Running the cold tap at a high splash with the door closed, I open the medicine cabinet and scan shelves of eyedrops, a razor, floss, a tube of sunscreen. Each shelf shows gaps, as if containers were removed. There’s not one expired antibiotic or prescription medicine of any kind. What did she take? Paxil? Zoloft? Xanax? I count six empty slots and close the cabinet.
The clock is running, and Mrs. Manosa waits outside the door, from which a lemon terry robe hangs on an inside hook. I reach to the bulging pocket, find tissues and a lip balm, then lift up the hamper lid to see a mesh bag of soiled hosiery. I flush, wash my hands in the cool water, and emerge with a question about purses or handbags. The housekeeper shows me a drawerful of beaded evening bags.
“Mrs. Manosa, do you have a box for these?”
She slips downstairs to search for one, and I open Sylvia Dempsey’s lingerie drawer to find a surprise: a neat stack of pale cotton panties, chaste bras, neutral camisoles and slips. It’s as if the era of Victoria’s Secret passed Sylvia by. Under the Chanel and Valentino, she wore the lingerie of a nun. A nun in spike heels?
In the next moments, like a dry cleaner, I go through pockets, retrieving hairpins, handkerchiefs, and a few coins, all of which I set aside on the dusty dresser. In the purses are papers, a CVS receipt, a cosmetologist’s card, a theater ticket stub, a to-do list, and a note, which I scan in haste: “Just to say I appreciate what you do for me—J.” At the sudden sound of Mrs. Manosa’s footsteps, I cram these papers into my pocket. I box the purses, complete the appraisal paperwork, and make my way to the front door under Mrs. Manosa’s escort.
It’s hot and windy as I begin to load my Beetle and hear an engine roar. A huge black Mercedes zooms up fast behind me. The tires spit gravel. Clutching the garment bag, I jump back as the car stops about a foot from my bumper. I catch my breath and watch a slender, bald, dark-suited man get out. He yanks off dark glasses, plants his legs apart, and stares. In his mid-fifties, he’s olive-skinned with sloe eyes.
“Dr. Dempsey?” He neither speaks nor nods. His gaze hardens to a stare. “Dr. Bernard Dempsey?”
He slams the Mercedes door and glares in silence. Two fat robins hop nearby, but the glaring gaze does not shift. It intensifies. Awkwardly, I load the car. My mouth is dry, my scalp prickling in the heat. Those eyes lock on my every movement. “I left paperwork with Mrs. Manosa…”
My words die in the face of the silent stare. I feel it on my back as I get into my own car and shut the door. I feel it through the back window as I turn the key and nudge the gas. I try to look straight ahead, but the rearview mirror is a summons. In the glass is a statue of a man, taut as a palace guard, his fixed glare beamed at me like twin black lasers. Those eyes follow me all the way back to the city.
Chapter Eighteen
Just to say I appreciate what you do for me—J.”
The card pocketed from Sylvia Dempsey’s purse is vellum, the message in blue ballpoint in a crabbed handwriting.
Is J Jordan Wald?
The chill of Dempsey’s cold stare lingers, so I’m wearing a sweater as I sit at the kitchen table where I’ve spread the miscellaneous bits from Sylvia’s purses. Technically, this is all the widower Bernard’s property. Would he have a ready guess about J’s identity?
J for Jordan? The signature letter swings wide with a bold flourish. Perhaps Sylvia worked on his campaign and contributed money and got this thank-you. Perhaps the doctor is also a supporter of Carney-Wald. If so, the card is more protocol than personal.
Then again, it could signal deeper acquaintance.
Suppose, however, the Dempseys were as politically split as their bedrooms. If Wald was a big fish to land for the Garden Alliance program, Sylvia would conceal the effort here at home. The purse might have been a hiding place. Maybe other notes lie in various cracks and crevices of her bedroom. Did the police find them?
Biscuit squeals and yaps at the rap of the door knocker. Stark is due to pick her up, and he appears on the dot of 7:00 p.m. in jeans, a sleeveless navy T-shirt, and sandals with soles that probably started life as snow tires. “Why the sweater, Cutter? You sick?”
“Fighting a chill. Where’s the bike?”
“Fatso’s in the shop for maintenance. I drove a buddy’s pickup.” He scoops up Biscuit and roughs her ears. She loves it. “Are you serving coffee, or is your work stoppage still on?”
“Stark, you’re getting far too much mileage out of one moody mini-moment. Come on, the galley’s open.” The three of us troop to the kitchen, and I count the scoops and set out mugs. Biscuit thinks it’s a party.
“The Motorcycle Safety Foundation folks tell me they’re reviewing your application.”
This from my own Mr. Hell’s Angel. “Tell them to take their sweet time.”
“Gotta get in training, just like the pup.” Biscuit obligingly wiggles from head to tail. Stark says, “Sit,” and she sits. “Roll over.” She rolls. “By the way, I’m extending her program.”
“Oh?”
“Gonna take her to Spy Pond, let her swim. I know a guy with a dock. I want to see how she dives.”
“Biscuit a diving beagle? I don’t like this.”
He looks coy. “You know, like dog triathlons. There’s extreme sports for dogs. She’s a sporting dog.”
“Stark, are you mad? She could be injured. Biscuit is a household pet.”
“She’s an athlete in training. I get her up off your couch.”
“She’s not allowed on the couch to begin with.”
He scratches her white belly and rocks her by her front paws. “I’m building aquatics into her program. She’ll learn new skills.”
“A tub bath is plenty of aquatics. And SeaWorld doesn’t feature diving dogs.”
“Don’t worry, I treat her right.” I can’t disagree. The coffeemaker gurgles and sighs. Agitated, I pour two mugs and hand him the big one with the Bruins logo. “You need a program too, Cutter. We’ll borrow a bike for you, maybe a V-Star rice burner, but what the hell.”
“A rice burner?”
“Made in Japan.”
“Stark, that’s crude racism.”
“It’s one biker’s patriotism.”
“Blind devotion to a motorcycle factory in Milwaukee?”
“Made in USA, that’s Harley. Where are these mugs from? China? Pakistan?” He lifts one. “Yeah, China. Used to be America that made stuff. Now they’re gutting us like fish.”
“Here.” I slide the sugar bowl. “Domino. Pure cane sugar made in America.”
“With sugar subsidies to fatten the fat cats.”
“Hey, what’s going on with you?”
“The working stiffs are getting stiffed, that’s what. It’s taxation without representation. Today the rich bloodsuckers get it all. For everybody else, table scraps.” He dumps in his five sugars, stirs, and chugs, the
n eyes my table. “What’s all this stuff?”
“Call it lint from a woman’s pocket. I’m learning new life skills—pickpocketing and purse snatching.”
“Uh-huh. Who’s this J character?”
“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.” Coffee at this time of evening means surefire insomnia. I’ll lie awake worrying about the dog, my kids, whether I heard a man murdered in the fog on Dartmouth Street. And of course, the constant: Henry Faiser. “What do you know about handwriting analysis?”
“Camp Lejeune does not teach graphology, Cutter. Marines’ handwriting is lead and brass shell casings.” Stark leans to read the vellum card. “Very fancy, this J. ‘Appreciate what you do for me.’ Woowee, you got a secret admirer, Cutter?”
A flush rises from my neck at the thought of a card signed by a certain man traveling in the Middle East. I continue to watch the mail. “This wasn’t sent to me,” I say. “All the stuff you see here came from donated clothing.”
“So it’s trash, right?” I nod. “Then how come it’s all spread out in order like exhibit A?”
“It’s my neatness compulsion.”
“Try again, Cutter.”
I face him. “Okay, how’s this. It’s from the pockets and purses of a woman who was bludgeoned to death by the Charles last April.”
He blinks. Biscuit whimpers. “The Newton woman?” I am silent. “The one that’s all over TV? Is this one of your psychic cop gigs?”
“Yes and no.”
“What about the senator’s son? What about the black guy in Norfolk?”
“Henry Faiser, he’s the main case. This one is…related.”
He bites his lip. “The Newton woman is connected to the black guy in prison for murder?”
“Not the way you think. In fact, they’re actually separate.” His eyes narrow, and dark clouds gather across his brow. He’ll stay right here until he gets an explanation, knowing Stark. “I’m trying to help a certain detective. He’s swamped right now. I’m saving him some time.”
“With evidence on your kitchen table? This saves time?”
“In a way, yes, it does.”
“The cop knows what you’re up to?”
“We have an understanding.”
“That’s not what I asked, Cutter.”
“Maybe it’s not your business, Stark. Anyway, I don’t need a chaperone. But for what it’s worth, I’m on my own on this.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
His mug slams down on the countertop. It startles Biscuit, but Stark ignores her. His knuckles are white as foam. “You’re dancing with the devil, Cutter. You’re scaring me.”
I don’t answer. Stark reaches for the dog, who bays like a primal hound. I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat.
It’s Wednesday morning and still hot. In a twill skirt and checked yellow shirt, I set out on foot for the Eldridge neighborhood, following a wretched sleepless night and the dawn’s dead-end effort at “Ticked Off.” The items from Sylvia Dempsey’s purses are put away in a shoe box. My rib’s hot pulsing started up again at sunrise, a prod to action. You might say my rib is my conscience. This morning I’ll pound on strangers’ doors. Devaney would call it legwork, but he knows nothing about my morning’s whereabouts.
Forster Street, which Suitcase Mary named as her former home, is the first side street off Eldridge, the street where sparks and cinders flew through the night sky when the Eldridge houses and the chop shop burned. One block over is Remmer Street, then Sorrington and Werfair, mostly all dilapidated triple-deckers. I want to find out about the properties bought and sold to make way for Eldridge II. I want to know whether conditions are ripe for an arson repeat.
First house is a grimy white clapboard on Forster with a riotous blooming lilac bush in the front yard. Nobody answers the bell. A half dozen yellowed rolled newspapers lie on the porch in sodden lumps, and the house has an empty feeling. Next I knock at a pale gray house with bashed-in aluminum siding. A woman with heavy eyes and teeth like pegs answers and lets out a verbal barrage, which may be Estonian or Kazakh. She gestures with wide sweeps of her arms, but I can’t pick up a word.
Across the street, a man in ruby pants and hair like dust tells me that whatever I’m selling, he won’t buy it. “Magazines, right? Forget it.”
“No, not magazines.”
“Whatever. You’re in the wrong neighborhood. People are moving out.”
“That’s what I’d like to talk about.”
“Evacuation. We’re all refugees. It’s an outrage.” The door slams shut. I peck on the window glass, but it’s futile. If only Biscuit were here with me, my goodwill ambassador. As a social lubricant, she rivals a cooing baby in a carriage.
Three more houses on Forster, and nobody answers. It’s a workday, so it might be smarter to make these rounds in the evening hours. I’m on the next block on Remmer Street when a young woman in a calico skirt with a backpack descends an outside stair and heads toward a Corolla with an Illinois plate. “Miss, may I ask you a question?”
Her expression of midwestern openness reminds me of my years in Chicago. “Sure thing.”
“I’m interested in an apartment around here. But I hear people are moving.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame. They call us tenants at will. Nobody has a lease anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“Somebody’s been buying the houses. My own landlord sure sold out fast.”
“Maybe he got a price he couldn’t refuse?”
“Gee, I don’t know. He didn’t seem happy. I think it’s more like take-the-money-and-run. He moved to the South Shore. They say a big development is coming.”
“Is the development company buying the houses? Is it the Bevington Partners Group?”
“I don’t know. I’m a grad student. I’m moving myself next month. You might talk to this guy who lives on Sorrington—no, on Werfair. Yeah, on Werfair Street, two blocks over. His name’s Danny something. He tried to organize a neighborhood association.”
“Friends of Eldridge?”
“That’s it. He’s kind of an activist. I think he’s a grad student too.” She leans to unlock her car door. “One good thing about everybody leaving: it’s easy to get a parking place. Well, good luck.”
The third house on the left on Werfair is supposedly Danny Conaway’s apartment, according to a woman outside in a flowered robe and slippers whistling for her cat, Peaches. “Peaches! Peaches, come here, kitty kitty! Here, boy!”
There’s no sign of tomcat Peaches when the door is opened by a straw-haired, freckled young man in khakis and a plaid shirt desperate for the pass of an iron. He’s in his late twenties, barefoot, and looks as though the doorbell woke him up. It’s now almost noon. “Danny Conaway?” He nods, rubs his eyes. “I’m Reggie Cutter. I understand you’re the head of the Friends of Eldridge.”
He yawns. “Friends, yeah. You’re too late. It’s disbanded.”
“Were you the president?”
“No. I hate hierarchy. I’m no hegemon.”
“But you were the group leader? Organizer?”
His laugh is dry. “I got up the petitions and called meetings. I went door-to-door and facilitated. Yeah, I put in some time.” He scratches a stubbly cheek. “You looking for somebody in particular?”
“I’m scouting an apartment for my daughter. I hear you’re the man to see.”
He scowls. “Lady, tell your daughter to look someplace else. The wrecking ball’s due any day in this neighborhood. It’s our own local Big Dig.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This neighborhood is sold out from under. Kiss it good-bye. Tell your daughter.”
“These houses are scheduled for demolition?”
“You got it.”
“By whom? The city? The state? Is it eminent domain?”
A bitter laugh breaks as he shakes his head. “It’s eminent domain, all right. Eminent big money, another crib for rich people. Forget civic
action. Forget workers, students, Russian immigrants. We’re history. We learned something: the grass roots die when vultures want to eat your liver. Why do you ask? You a civics teacher?”
“I’m a voting citizen. What’s going on?”
“They bought off the zoning board and sent undercover errand boys to steal the properties.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Big money. Kleptos. Oligarchs.”
“But who?” He shrugs. “And everyone simply sold?”
“They’re slick. They sent flacks to front for them. Flacks with checkbooks.”
“Agents? Surrogates?”
“Totally. I lived here three years before I caught on. First was this guy from Southie, Irish like me, claimed he was a roofer and doing real well. He bought half a dozen houses. Good cash offers, every one. Then comes a Portuguese fella from Rhode Island, says he’s got a big extended family from the Azores and they all want to live in the same neighborhood. Before you know it, he’s bought nearly every house on Sorrington. Cash up front. But the Azores people never showed up. We were neutron-bombed but didn’t know it. The media wasn’t interested. They’re in their pod.”
“It’s hard to believe that every owner was so willing to sell. How many houses on these three streets, about forty?”
“Yeah. There were incentives.”
“High offers?”
His laugh is high, bitter. “There’s a homeless woman around here who raves about live coals and cinders.”
“Suitcase Mary.”
“That’s her. Some of the old-timers remember a fire before the first Eldridge Place went up. Word got around it could happen here—would happen. Big guys showed up with Dobermans and walked up and down at odd hours. A neighborhood guy got mauled. Then a woman on Remmer Street refused to sell. She got killed in a weird accident.”
Now You See Her Page 17