The Dorchester Five

by Peter Manus

  So, anyway, we leave Mr. Love’s place, I pull it together, and, you know, we work. Let’s take it from sunset, with Harry and me down the South Shore checking in with Dorchester Five defendant number five. Or trying to. All at Super Jack’s urging that we move quickity-quick on this one—Jack himself had phoned the lady and ascertained that young Bruno was living with mother, à la Norman Bates. We figured we’d do the rest face-to-face.

  As you know, Zoey, the bulk of the South Shore is pretty nondescript—lot of raised ranches, hamburger stands, billboards advertising deep sea fishing tours. Nevertheless, anywhere there’s a shoreline in New England, you’re going to have your Newport-style mansions, and the Myeroff place, called Briars according to the tarnished brass plaque, is one of these. Picture a mass of worn red stone shaped vaguely like a medieval castle, streaked with the soot of the ages where it isn’t strangled in ivy, and stamped here and there with lead-framed windows that seem to emit a kind of algae glow as night enfolds the grounds. The gravel drive goes right up to the door, in the style of the great manors. I half expect a couple of loping hounds to burst from the swaying scrub pines that crouch on either side of the spreading wings, so I’m relieved when we get away with just a wild gust of sea spray and a couple of angry gulls.

  Ancient fellow who hauls the nail-studded door inward never explains himself, but, Zoey, this was a butler—talking the kind who graduated butling school. Interior’s a lot of oiled paneling and ten-foot walls, solid with unreadable-looking books. The old gent has us park in the drawing room with an invitation to “please be seated.” Neither of us is tempted by the horsehair-stuffed relics she’s got poised about as furniture, so we stand, making eyebrows about the stuffed grouses.

  We hear the lady of the house before we see her. She’s tottering along on heels somewhere, warbling into her cell. “Mercy, dearest? Yolie,” she says. “I can’t do the twelfth, don’t you know…But the poor dears knew about the Oppenheimers and that’s been for ages. Love to Bats, won’t you?” She’s got one of those old-style Long Island accents, like the rich folk who hire Philip Marlowe. She stops, then, and seems to listen to the butler’s murmur, then sighs and says, “Well, let’s have at it, then,” and appears through a curtain-trimmed entrance at the far end of the room. She’s short, just shy of tubby, and clad in a dressy suit that seems like it was made at the same factory as her upholstered stuff. Everything about her from hair to makeup to the tint of her stockings is kind of pressed and primped but just a bit unraveled, except maybe the sleek little phone that waves back and forth with her upraised hands—this is a lady who walks with both hands raised, palms facing you, almost like a poodle on its back legs. Not stupid, though—no, this type's more resolutely obtuse.

  “Detectives,” she says, trying to be fearless. She paces her way forward across the rug. “Tell me nothing terrible has happened?” She seems to discern from our wooden smiles that the news isn’t the worst she’s gotten over the years from cops at the door, and makes a quick assessment that ends with our shoes. “Is it wet out?” She doesn’t seem to need a reply, and then finally she allows a bit of fear to flash in her eyes. “Is it Brewster again?”

  I imagine she means the dog, but apparently she’s less scattered than she comes off. “It’s about your son Bruno,” Harry says.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she says, pursing her very painted lips. “Well, you’d better tell me. Don’t hide anything please. Mother must know.”

  “It’s not that he’s done anything, Mrs. Myeroff, but we need to locate Bruno. We understand he’s been living here at home.”

  “Brewster,” she says patiently.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” H.P.’s always super polite with your older women.

  “Bruno. He’s gone over to Brewster now.”

  Scatty ladies always throw me. “Would that be Brewster, New York, Mrs. Myeroff?”

  “Not at all,” she explains pleasantly, evidently pegging me as the limited one. “It’s Bruno’s name. He’s going by Brewster now. Brewster Van Ness, in fact. And I go by Mrs. Van Ness, these days, at Brewster’s insistence. It’s terribly flattering to have him embrace my family name, now that his father’s gone.” She doesn’t look as sure as all that.

  “So it’s Brewster we need to talk to,” Harry says.

  “Indeed.” She seems genuinely pleased that we’ve reached this point of understanding. “But you can’t, of course.”

  “Ma’am? Is there some problem?”

  “Well, no, not exactly a problem. It’s just that he isn’t here at the moment.” She looks at us and we wait. Then she seems to remember our wet shoes on her rug, and cocks her head. “You know, perhaps we’d be more comfortable talking in the kitchen? It’s warmer there, and Gunther can dry your outer things. Gunther?”

  We concur on going to the kitchen, but reject Gunther’s offer to take our coats and do whatever he does to magically dry off people’s outerwear. Soon we’re settled with Yolie at her kitchen table, an antique English slab that could seat fifteen. Yolie cuddles a cup of something hot between her fingertips—I’m guessing from the scent that it’s some sort of custom tisane. Definitely not ginger echinacea. We’ve assured her that we’re not interested in a cup.

  “There, that’s better,” she says as the sea wind beats furiously against the bay behind her.

  “So about contacting Bruno—uh, Brewster,” I prompt her.

  “Oh, yes.” Her face falls a little. “I’m happy to give you his number, but it won’t do to call him. I tried a bit earlier, and he’s got the cell off. Must be at auction. That’s usually it when I can’t reach him, or so he tells me. You know how strict they are about phones at auction.”

  “Where is the auction house?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know which one Brewster might have been planning on attending tonight. I try and let him run the business in his own way.”

  “The business?”

  “The antique business.” She forages with one finger in a few of her little decorative pockets and comes out with a card, which she lays flat on the table for us to admire, kind of the way people show off their kid’s artwork. “Van Ness Collectibles. Brewster operates it quite on his own, these days.”

  “Does he, now?” Harry picks up the card with interest.

  “It’s so good to see him keeping busy. I do think that it’s running a business that so often keeps a youngster out of trouble.”

  “Actually, we’d like to sit down with him, if possible,” Harry says. “Will he be at the shop in the morning?”

  She hesitates. “I couldn’t say, really. I don’t often know his schedule. But certainly Armand will be there, and you can get in touch with Brewster through him. Will that do?”

  I think I see the issue. “Like we said earlier, Mrs. Myeroff—Mrs. Van Ness—he’s in no trouble as far as we know, but it’s important we see him.” On our way over, we’d worked up an explanation designed to keep her from worrying unduly about the potential threat to her son’s life, but by now I realize that she is the type who would never ask about someone else’s private business, so no explanation is going to be necessary. Unfortunately, this code of conduct is also keeping her suspicious that Brewster’s gotten his spoiled ass in trouble again. I can’t blame the lady for not liking the idea of being the one to divulge where he might be.

  She looks a little hopeless. “I will deliver the message next I hear from Brewster,” she says. “But I can’t say that he always listens to Mother. Not anymore. It’s all been so hard on him, and I do believe that he can sometimes behave perversely, as an assertion of independence.” She looks across at us sympathetically. “His father’s death, you know.”

  “I’m so sorry. When did your husband die, Mrs. Van Ness?”

  “Seven months ago, now.” She nods back and forth, her little button eyes going from one to the other of us. “Stomach cancer. It happened rather quickly, all told.”

  “Must be hard on both of you.”

  �
��Oh, I’m over and done with mourning.” She bops a fragile fist against the air. “Can’t hang onto your grief. Not healthy. But Brewster, you know he and Hiram never reconciled, so of course it’s harder for him. He’s always been the sensitive one in the family.”

  “When you say they never reconciled, do you mean after the Dorchester Five incident? I only ask because it’s pertinent to our reason for needing to reach Brewster,” Harry says.

  She nods at us. “Such a difficult period. Our friends were quite supportive, but I worried so that the Van Ness name would be pulled into it. How Father would have hated that.”

  “Your father is alive?” I ask stupidly.

  “No, dear, he’s quite dead, but that’s not exactly the point, now is it?” she says politely.

  “I know it’s tough,” Harry says, “but would you mind telling us what Brewster was doing in Dorchester that day, if you know, Mrs. Van Ness?”

  “Why, yes, of course I don’t mind telling you in the least. He’d gotten into shenanigans at college, and so was taking a bit of time to, well, to give back to the community. I believe he was working at a youth center for some period of months. It was quite a wonderful charity. We gave it a little gift of our own afterwards.”

  “That was very generous of you,” Harry says solemnly.

  I have a mini-revelation. “You were very generous toward the Culligans, too,” I blurt. Luckily it comes out as if I already know and not as the guesswork it is.

  “Indeed, we were,” she says a tad pompously. “Hiram insisted on providing for that unfortunate young man in the car, and it was we who set up the trust so that he could enjoy home care for his lifetime. Hiram’s only stipulation was that the source of the funds would not be made public or known to the Culligans, as it has not over these years.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Harry says. “Shame that it caused bad blood between Mr. Myeroff and Brewster.”

  “You know it wasn’t that part of it, really,” she says. “The money was—well, you know how it is—that was just money.”

  “So what caused the friction between father and son?” Harry prods her.

  She pauses, then looks up as if with an admission. “It was that lawyer, actually, although I hate to say so. The one who died recently in that rather terrible way.”

  “Elliot Becker?”

  “Yes. Mr. Becker.”

  “The Culligans’ lawyer.”

  “Well, you see, that’s just the point. Mr. Becker had been our lawyer, or I should say Brewster’s lawyer, before the incident in Dorchester. One would assume that he would have offered to represent Brewster again. But right away we learned that he was representing the injured man. It felt like a betrayal.”

  “I can see how that would be. Now when you say that Becker was Brewster’s lawyer, in what capacity are we talking about? Did he manage Brewster’s trust fund?”

  “Oh, no, no. If he’d worked for the family on that sort of ongoing matter, there would have been a conflict that would have prevented him from representing the Culligans. But he’d helped us out on a number of discrete matters. On a case-by-case basis, but regularly. So it wasn’t as if he were not a part of the Myeroff team, as it were.”

  Harry says, “So what types of cases had Becker handled, you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Oh, you know.” She waves her fingers evasively. “Brewster had his little peccadillos. Young men will.”

  “Little criminal peccadillos, I’m gathering?”

  “I suppose some of them must have been.” She nods sadly. “Seemed quite fond of pharmaceuticals, that sort of thing. He had an experimental streak, I always said.”

  “Did he straighten out after the Dorchester trial closed down?” Harry asks.

  “He did,” she says, brightening. “Became quite grown-up and responsible.”

  “Although he still lives here,” I can’t help noting.

  “Yes, indeed,” she says, smiling, apparently not seeing any contradiction.

  “So I’m a little confused,” I say, seeking to nudge us back to topic. “If Elliot Becker was your regular lawyer for criminal matters involving Brewster, why wouldn’t he have wanted to represent Brewster in the Dorchester Five case?”

  “There, you see? You’ve hit right on it!” She reaches over and pats my hand like she’s proud of me. “It seemed wrong to Hiram as well. And then when Mr. Becker also got to manage the trust that Hiram and I so generously created, I think Hiram rather resented that.”

  “And so he resented Brewster, too, for putting him in that position with Becker.”

  She nods sadly. “I must admit, Hiram and I never spoke a word about it, not between ourselves.”

  “No?” Harry clucks in concern.

  “Oh, no. One didn’t.”

  “Not even when Mr. Myeroff knew he was terminal?”

  She shakes her head sadly. “He was very ill, but it didn’t make him any less angry. I begged him to at least allow me to put some money into The Old Lady, but he wouldn’t. He knew that Brewster always loved The Old Lady so much, and that he might have read it as Hiram’s giving in to him if Hiram had allowed me to fix her up.” She pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and goes at her eyes a little.

  “The Old Lady?” I ask, almost afraid that it’s yet another gaff.

  “The Nantucket house,” she says tearfully.

  “It’s name is The Old Lady?”

  She nods, still fighting the tears. “She’s on the cliff, and there’s an erosion problem, quite a famous one. Of course she needs to be moved. Well, it’s a hardship, getting something like that done, but I always say “just have at it and get it right!” And she really is mine, from my side, so it didn’t seem quite fair for Hiram to deny me the privilege of giving her the help she needed. I think Hiram wanted to see The Old Lady crash into the sea. Well, he didn’t manage that, and now I’ve started the work so that the old dear will be saved. Brewster is very pleased, but it doesn’t change the fact that father and son never reconciled. Nothing will change that.”

  “No, nothing will,” Harry says sympathetically. “You know, I don’t suppose that Brewster could have been thinking about heading out to Nantucket, staying in The Old Lady, just lately? Maybe checking out some antiques on the island? Must be some sweet deals during the off season.”

  “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be possible. The Old Lady isn’t habitable. Holes in the roof, some windows missing, rot everywhere—she’s a beautiful old place, but she’s become quite battered over these past few years without her regular maintenance—and I believe they’ve even begun digging round the foundation in preparation for the move. So no, he couldn’t be heading there. Besides, the weather would have prevented it tonight, regardless of The Old Lady’s condition. He’d never be able to maneuver the sloop through this.”

  “The sloop?”

  She nods proudly. “Brewster’s forty-footer. Handles her like the grande dame she is. You know he was planning a solo circumnavigation for a while? Wanted to be the youngest sailor to take a boat round the world nonstop.”

  “Wow,” I say. “What got in the way?”

  She looks at me, and her eyes go from proud to puzzled. “Life, don’t you know? Life always does get in the way.”

  I’m getting the premmies like there’s bugs under my skin. It’s all I can do to stay seated, much less to sound offhand when I say, “So, uh, where does Brewster keep the sloop, anyway?”

  “She’s moored down in Falmouth,” Yolie assures us. “It’s really quite handy. Brewster can drive to her from here in less than an hour, and then it’s an easy day’s sail. I’ve never done it myself. Don’t have the sea legs.”

  “That makes two of us,” I say, straining for casual. “Say, um, what’s her name?”

  She shakes her head, smiling politely. Old thing has picked up that I’m too curious.

  “It’s just a thing with me,” I say, putting my pad away and trying to sound sheepish. “My brother has this little fifteen-footer—
nothing you’d even try to call a sloop. Named her the Lizzie Dane—that’s after the ship in the flick The Fog. I always think you can tell a lot about a guy by what he names his vessel.”

  “Ah, I see,” she says, brightening. “I suppose that’s true. Brewster’s boat is called the Jane Guy. Do you know where that name hails from?” She likes this topic.

  “Old girlfriend?” Harry guesses, playing along.

  “Not at all,” she says. “It’s the name of the boat in The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, which was written by none other than Edgar Allen Poe. Imagine that!”

  I laugh. “Well, I guess it displays a fundamental difference between the artistic tastes of my brother and your son, Mrs. Van Ness.”

  We stand and make our exit, which happens not so quickly as you might hope, once you’ve flattered Yolie Van Ness about the one part of her life that makes her want to preen. We walk by Brewster’s sailing trophies on the way out. Gunther keeps them shiny.

  Heading back to Boston, Harry’s curious. “Nikos has a boat?”

  “No,” I assure him. “He did for a little while, couple years back. Turns out they don’t attract the babes like a puppy, and they’re a lot more work, so now he just has Romeo.”

  “Retriever?”

  “Bulldog.”

  “I think chicks are supposed to like goldens.”

  “Nick wanted to be better looking than his animal.”

  Harry absorbs this. “So what was up with the boat talk back there?”

  “Oh, a few things,” I say, poking about in one of my phone apps. “First, I wanted to leave it kind of chummy with the lady. Maybe she’ll actually get Brewster to contact us.”