THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston

by Thomas Kennedy Lowenstein

  “Done,” Isabel repeated, lying back.

  But the mixture, instantly rejected, surged back up. She clenched her jaw and reached convulsively for the sun, away up there, or one of the stray filaments of silver treading air around her.

  She felt the hand on her head again. A gentle voice soothed her and her legs kicked off the sofa, into the air, as if, suspended, she could swim.

  Oh Lord forgive Your wicked servant—

  The sun, up and sparkling, faded now, streaked the sky in hideous late night purples and then stopped—still, hovering, as in the miracle at Jericho.

  The pipe was offered to her lips again and Isabel drew deeply upon it. She chewed a remnant bony particle to paste, swallowed it, and clenched her jaw.

  Someone coughed. Someone nearer by giggled; the dark purple-streaked room settled around her and her feet rested on the couch again. She felt sick, so sick. But the room floated from under her and the sun hung low and the short summer grass of her father’s lawn spread over everything, rendering people and surfaces and rooms and streetcars and beasts soft as laziness, vast as effort, big as God.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Deed

  Sam stretched his arms above his head, yawned, and stared out the window. The city huddled, blinking, to the edge of the harbor. He felt—what. Homesick? For what? He was too old for that. It must have some fancier name in adults. Or maybe knowing you were in the wrong place was enough to make you homesick for somewhere else. He took Mr. South’s yellow deed from the desk in front of him and studied the elaborate handwriting: some clerk almost ninety years ago had toiled over it, someone like me, he thought. The pile of papers and books on his desk stretched time a hundred and twenty years. How many clerks, how many afternoons of copying. For a moment he wished he’d lived at some other time but realized he’d probably have felt the same in any present.

  He turned to his computer and tapped a few keys. He would be happy to get rid of this case; he hadn’t minded the research but it all could have been done by a paralegal. The bill was going to be high for such a simple matter, but Sam had the impression South was rich. What had given him that impression—South’s suit, the way he talked?

  The phone rang. He had a visitor upstairs, a Mr. South. What timing. He straightened his tie, pulled on his suit jacket, tidied his desk, and walked quickly upstairs.

  South was sitting on the sofa in the reception area, one leg crossed over the other. He wore a black suit and a white shirt; his arms were crossed and with one hand he stroked his moustache. His eyes, pale and bright like spots off the sun, fixed on Sam.

  Sam wondered where South got suits with that old-fashioned cut—not “retro,” as Robin called anything that reminded her somehow of a different time, but solid and demure, as if the last thing it was supposed to do was call attention to itself. He decided to buy one like it.

  “Hello, Mr. South,” he said, shaking the plump damp hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Morgan,” South replied, nodding. “I trust you have had time to look into the matter with which I entrusted you.”

  “Yes, I have,” Sam said. “Personally,” he added, at what he took to be a questioning glance from South.

  “Very good,” South said, brushing the edge of his moustache with a bright square of handkerchief.

  “Right this way,” Sam said, gesturing. He walked slowly so as not to press South to keep pace.

  “So, Mr. Morgan, are you enjoying the construction?” South asked.

  “The construction?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, the spectacular cranes and the marvelous trenches dug into the earth all around the city. It’s quite beautiful, I think.”

  “Oh, the Big Dig? Well, I don’t drive much, so it doesn’t bother me as much as some people. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say they enjoy it.”

  “The Big Dig, is that what they call it?” South asked. “Wonderful. It is the fate of Boston to be perpetually under construction. They are always putting something up or taking something down or digging.”

  “Yes,” Sam said absently. He held his office door open. “After you.”

  South lowered himself into the armchair near the window and gazed at the pile of papers on Sam’s desk. “Very good,” he said. “Very good.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t ask if—would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea? Soda?”

  “No, thank you,” South replied, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I never take coffee in the afternoon, I find it to be a terrible distraction.”

  “Fine,” Sam said, sitting at his desk and reaching for South’s deed. He stopped with his arm outstretched and turned to South. “May I?” he asked.

  “By all means,” South said, nodding in the direction of the books. “I am quite eager to hear what you’ve discovered.”

  “Fine,” Sam said again. He held a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. He located several papers, arranged them on his lap, and turned to South. “Now then,” he started, taking the deed delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “This deed—the deed you gave me—was superseded in 1919 by—well, let me start again.”

  South nodded. His hands were folded in his lap, his face and eyes leaning toward Sam.

  “For our purposes, this plot of land was originally owned, as of 1874, by a Mr. Arthur South, though it might have been in the South family—in your family?—for years before that,” Sam said. The room was dim and he turned on his desk lamp. “I didn’t go any further back.”

  “Ahh, you did not. That is interesting,” South said.

  “Yes, I thought—my understanding was that—”

  “By all means. Your understanding was quite correct.” South nodded.

  “Yes. Well,” Sam said. He blinked. The walls seemed closer than usual, and South seemed almost on top of him. “These are—are these relatives of yours? Ancestors?”

  South stared at him without answering. A drop of sweat trickled down his pale, pink cheek.

  “I apologize,” Sam said. “That is not my business, of course.”

  “Yes,” South said. “They are relatives of mine. Would you continue, please?”

  “Of course.” Sam shuffled through the papers on his lap again. The spider’s web handwriting was littered with elongated, formal “Ses”. “Now, in 1909, when Mr. Arthur South died, he had three children, two of whom were sons. He left this particular piece of land to his youngest, a daughter, named Isabel South. This is her deed, the one you gave me. She had possession of the land for—let’s see. Not for very long. Ten years. It appears she died in 1919, about age 45. The deed was transferred to its new owner in 1919.”

  Sam held up the deed again and looked at South.

  “Forty-three,” South said, all color gone from his face, sweat standing out on his forehead.

  “Right,” Sam said. “Forty-three. Would you like some water, Mr. South?”

  “No, thank you. Please continue.”

  “There’s not much more I can tell you,” Sam said. “She left the property to a Mr. Hammond, a Mr. James Hammond. I can’t say who he was—presumably her fiancé or a boyfriend of some sort.”

  “Pah,” South snorted. “Presume nothing, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

  “Of course,” Sam said, nodding. “I meant only—you see, Ms. South left everything to this Hammond person, and—”

  “What a lovely modern construction this ‘Ms.’ word is.”

  Sam let the papers he had been holding up settle in his lap and stared at his ashen client.

  “Have you ever been—no, no, that is the wrong question,” South said, shifting his legs. “Have you ever known a true confidence man?” he asked, touching his moustache with a pale finger.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think I have.”

  “You are lucky for it,” South said. “Once one has worked you over—worked for years to secure your confidence and then shattered it, you will never look at people the same way. And what is more important than giving
your confidence, Mr. Morgan? What is the essence of human interaction, if not confidence? Tell me that, sir.”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said, his eyebrows drawing together as he studied South’s face.

  “I see you are disturbed,” South said. “I have upset you. I apologize, sir. Only, Mr. Hammond was just such a confidence man, if I may say that much. A hard worker in the field of thievery, Mr. Morgan. Not a lover, if I may use the word; not capable of it. A cruel heart withered like a mummy’s cannot love. Now proceed, if you will.”

  “Proceed,” Sam said. “Yes. Well, actually, I am sorry to report, I have not been able to locate a more recent deed for this property. It may be—if I had more time I might—”

  “But you say the deed I have was superceded in—when?”

  “In 1919. Her will was probated in 1919.”

  South smoothed his moustache, turning to his right to look out the narrow window at the late-afternoon darkness. Streetlights were on and in other office buildings tiny people gestured in fluorescent light. Across the harbor a line of lights indicated a runway at the airport, on to which a blinking jumbo jet set itself.

  “Nothing since then,” South said.

  “Nothing,” Sam said.

  South turned back to Sam, smiling. “You may mail the bill to me in care of the Beacon Club,” he said, standing up.

  “Of course,” Sam said.

  They shook hands. South had regained his pink color. “You have done excellent work, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Sam said.

  South put on his coat. “Now, if I may, I will ask you one more thing,” he said, adjusting his hat. “And if you refuse, I will attempt to impose upon you to do it for me anyway.” He smiled.

  “Alright,” Sam said.

  “You will be my guest for a supper at the Beacon Club, date to be arranged. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Sam said.

  “Splendid,” South said, bowing slightly. “I thank you again for your fine work.”

  “You’re welcome,” Sam said.

  “I will, as they say, be in touch,” South said. “And good evening to you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Good evening,” Sam said.

  South nodded again, smiled, and left.

  Sam slumped into his chair and stared out at the city. A car horn sounded far below. The desk light seemed dimmer than usual and Sam tapped a pencil against it. It wasn’t his business to wonder about his clients’ personal lives, but South’s must be pretty strange, he thought. South certainly wasn’t ugly, as if by defeat and despair or, even worse, sycophancy; yet there was something odd about him, his skin seemed too pristine for a man who should’ve earned wrinkles by that point in his life. There was something almost physically repellent about him that made Sam nervous. How on earth had South gotten his name? But then, how had he ended up living a life in which people like South came to see him?

  He wondered what supper at the Beacon Club would be like. Maybe South would never call and he’d never have to go. But he would go if South called, he couldn’t say no. South must be very lonely, Sam thought.

  Die in love. Someone had told him that, or he’d read it somewhere. What would Mrs. Atlee think of that? So he should’ve died years earlier, in college, that night at the film society when he’d sat through an entire French movie hardly able to read the subtitles because he was thinking of the woman beside him: Lesley, with short blonde hair and a wheeling focus on the world and when it settled on him in the form of her green eyes he felt nothing else, nothing but her. One weekend he’d noticed that her attention had moved on from him and soon enough she’d followed it.

  Sam laughed quietly and chewed a pen. This is bad. Lesley was married, she had a couple of kids. Realistically, he told himself, you will fall in love again. Odds are. You’re still young.

  He hunched over and held his head in his hands. Still, there had been a way Lesley had smiled at him when they were making love, taking his face in both hands and smiling, her eyes widening and flashing at the same instant. To die in love, he should’ve died just then. All this extra time had just taken him further away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gowen

  Ernest Pinchbeck had spent much of his morning trying to think of how he could convince his wife she didn’t need to be there when he talked to the developer. He came up with this:

  “Just having that developer over today, Hon. No need to put yourself out.”

  To which Natalie, scraping eyeliner from her eyelid with a long plastic fingernail, replied:

  “Don’t be silly, Ernest, it’s not putting me out at all.”

  Yes, of course, Ernest thought, smiling broadly at her. Joint decisions on all financial matters. Though her contributions to the joint financial matters had been minimal, inherited money very little, earned money slightly less. Not that he minded her spending money; he viewed that as her role. He just wondered if she needed to be included in every decision, especially given that her contribution to the decision-making process usually consisted of explaining to him several times that he was being swindled and, in recent years, that he knew he was being swindled and therefore must take some perverse pleasure in it since he allowed it to continue.

  He walked slowly upstairs and dressed in clothes she had selected almost exclusively from the Country Squire pages of a nationally-distributed catalog. You see, he thought, this she is good at. Wide-wale cords, shiny black boots. Even the barn coat had silver buttons and velvet edging on the corduroy collar.

  She looked wonderful, too, he had to admit, in an outfit of plaids and scarves and silver that went with his without seeming to try to.

  “You look lovely,” he told her.

  “Well, where is he?” Natalie asked, her heels clicking on the floor.

  “He won’t be late,” Ernest said.

  “He already is. Don’t say ‘he won’t be late’ when he already is.” Natalie snorted.

  “I think he’s got a few minutes,” Ernest said, his voice rising.

  “What time was he supposed to be here?”

  “Five minutes from now.”

  “Ernest. Your watch is slow, it’s always been slow. Quite frankly, this worries me, this lateness. It’s extremely unprofessional.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you—”

  “Do not use that tone with me, Ernest. I know what I am saying quite well and it’s unprofessional. That’s all.”

  “Please,” Ernest said. “If you have to have ideas about things you know nothing about, at least promise me you won’t talk when he’s here.”

  Natalie sucked on her lips.

  Did she even understand that he was selling the land in the first place to pay for her things? The house had been late and over-budget. Russell was going to Europe, he and Nat had just taken three weeks in France over the summer. Ann had needed the new car—it went on and on. He wasn’t behind, exactly, he wasn’t in debt, really. But this life they all had was expensive and Natalie, unaware of the difficulties, insisted on joint decisions. But why should she be aware, he reproached himself. She shouldn’t have to think about it, about any of it.

  “Nat,” he started.

  “Mother, I absolutely must borrow your car for the afternoon,” Ann said, striding in. “Can I?”

  “Where is your car?” Ernest asked.

  “Russell took it without asking. May I borrow yours, mother?” She flipped her hair away from her face.

  “Of course,” Natalie said. “The keys are in the kitchen.”

  Ann thanked her mother, blew her father a kiss, and was gone.

  Natalie tapped her foot.

  “Don’t you think this room needs a bigger TV?” Ernest asked.

  “Of course, I’ve been pleading with you for weeks about that,” Natalie answered. “He’s late now.”

  The doorbell rang. Ernest stood up but his wife motioned for him to sit. If you don’t get the price you want, don’t sell, he told himself.

  Natali
e opened the front door and smiled imperiously but then blinked several times quickly. “Hello,” she said.

  “Good morning,” a soft man said in a low voice that was somehow rounded, almost British in its vowels, maybe a touch eastern European in its “r”’s. His light hair was gelled in a tight, flat layer and his eyes were bright blue. “You must be Mrs. Pinchbeck,” he added. “I am Frederick Gowen. It’s a pleasure to meet you finally.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Gowen,” Natalie said. “Won’t you come in?”

  She took a deep breath and led Gowen to the living room. Her husband jumped up from his chair too quickly, of course.

  The two men shook hands and Gowen complimented Ernest and Natalie on their lovely home. Natalie brought in a tray of coffee and pastries. Gowen sipped a cup of coffee.

  “Are you from the ‘land of cotton’, Mr. Gowen?” Natalie asked.

  She’s going to start flirting with him? Ernest thought. Oh please don’t.

  “Not originally,” Gowen said. “Though I have spent some time there.”

  “I can’t place your accent,” Natalie said.

  “I wasn’t aware I had one,” Gowen answered, smiling.

  Natalie laughed.

  With a smile Ernest pressed a button and one of the bookcases turned itself inside out, revealing a home theater.

  “We’re going to upgrade on the TV,” Ernest explained.

  Gowen nodded. “Very nice,” he said.

  “So, shall we discuss business?” Ernest asked.

  “Yes.” Gowen put his coffee cup down. He looked at Ernest, looked at Natalie, and smiled, his lips stretching without showing any tooth.

  “My husband and I make all decisions jointly, Mr. Gowen,” Natalie said.

  “Of course,” Gowen said. “Let me begin by assuring you that my company wants only what is best for that land and for the people in the surrounding communities. Our goals are to enhance the quality of life, to create opportunities, and, of course, to preserve the local ecosystem.”

  “We quite agree,” Ernest said.

  “Of course,” Natalie said.

  “It is a fine piece of land,” Ernest said. “My wife and I just visited it the other day. It has been in the family a long time.”