“Yes,” Gowen said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I have brought along some very preliminary sketches—I left them in the car. I do think you’ll be quite impressed with some of the plans. May I?”
“Of course,” Natalie said.
“Only a moment,” Gowen said. He hurried out.
Across the road and fifty yards further along, McParland thrust his hands deep into his pockets and sniffed forcefully. He watched Gowen cross the driveway in front of the garage and lean into the back seat of a black SUV, emerging with a roll of papers in a cardboard tube.
McParland shielded himself behind a leafless tree. His eyes narrowed and he sniffed again, quietly. He stood absolutely still.
Gowen closed the car door. He was smiling. He took a step toward the house and froze. His head snapped around and his chemical blue eyes surveyed the woods across the street very slowly, resting for a moment on the trunk of an oak that leaned slightly to the left.
Nothing.
He went inside.
Chapter Fourteen
The Westminster Dog Show
1912
In the noise of the crowd Isabel listened for cutting words about herself, about her new black suit not fitting just right or perhaps her walk being too feminine. She felt somewhat nauseous; she was sweaty and cold and could feel the bandage around her chest getting moist. But she was upright: she was crisp. She spoke in deep tones and nodded gruffly as a rich man would.
“Mr. Hammond,” she said, pausing, waiting for Hammond to come abreast with the dog.
“Mr. South,” Hammond said, with nothing in his face—they had practiced how to interact in public. His suit was brown and well-tailored; he looked small and clean, his face and collar scrubbed.
“Mr. Hammond,” she said again, nodding slightly in acknowledgment of his nothing face. “If you would, I would like a glass of water, please. I’ll take Harriet.”
Hammond nodded and handed her the dog’s leash. He surveyed the room for a moment and started through the crowd. Bits of sawdust and straw were scattered on the bare wood floor.
“Ahh, a Clumber,” said a stout man with prominent sideburns, stopping to scratch Harriet behind her ears. “A fine looking Clumber.”
“Yes, thank you,” Isabel said.
The man straightened and offered his hand. “Von Eckstein, Long Island,” he said.
“South, of Boston,” Isabel said, shaking his hand with as firm a grip as she could, worried that her hand was too damp.
“One doesn’t see many Clumbers,” Von Eckstein said. “A very handsome breed, I think. As if one put the head of a retriever on the body of a spaniel somehow, and then gave it the bearing of a medieval Archbishop. Don’t you think?”
Isabel forced a smile. “Yes, something like that,” she said. She looked at her dog, who was sitting, looking up at her as people and animals passed around them.
“Ahh, look how he watches only you,” Von Eckstein said. “Very nicely done. What’s his name?”
“Her name. Harriet,” Isabel said.
Von Eckstein laughed. “Harriet?” he repeated.
“Yes,” Isabel said. “I named her for Harriet Quimby, the great aviatrix.”
“Ahh, yes, the English Channel flight. Quite amazing. Very fine looking animal, South. Though I do wonder if her coat is quite as it should be. Do you know Evans? The judge for the sporting group? He is a stickler for coats, I’m afraid.” He scratched Harriet behind her ears again.
“And what is your breed?” Isabel asked. She was sweating more and wondered what was taking Hammond so long.
“English Setter,” Von Eckstein said. “Really the most noble breed, I believe. Strong and noble. And beautiful.”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “Quite a—a classical choice, almost.”
Von Eckstein looked at her. “I suppose,” he said. “We mustn’t all be so daring as to have Clumbers. What kind of show would it be then?”
Isabel nodded. A basset hound approached Harriet and the two dogs sniffed each other. The owner of the hound, a pleasant-looking man with slick black hair and a soft face, greeted Von Eckstein, who introduced him to South.
“Quite a crowd this year,” the owner of the hound said.
“Yes,” Von Eckstein agreed. “They say it will be the largest gate ever this year. And almost two thousand dogs entered.”
“Really?” the owner of the hound said. “And your Setter will be best in show, no doubt.”
Von Eckstein laughed. “One hopes,” he said.
Harriet had stood up, her tail wagging as the basset hound sniffed her.
“Harriet,” Isabel said quietly and the dog sat down again, looking up at her. Isabel patted her head. She searched the crowd for Hammond but couldn’t find him. Men in dark suits, women in stiff dresses; mingled conversation and laughter; dogs barking. Big dogs, small dogs, hairy dogs, sleek dogs. She needed to get Harriet registered and then she needed to lie down. Harriet seemed, for the first time, a poor choice of name—not grand enough. Perhaps she should’ve chosen Icarus, but how ominous that would have been. She thought of Harriet Quimby, the aviatrix—the first woman in America to have a flyer’s license—traveling the world, writing article after article, living alone in New York City, taking in huge sums of money to perform at air shows, always in her plum silk flying costume. Well, that was all grand enough. A dog could do much worse for a name.
Hammond touched her elbow and handed her a glass of water.
“Thank you,” Isabel said. She introduced him to the two men.
Harriet rose up off her haunches, tail wagging, and licked Hammond’s hand.
“We’ve got to get Harriet settled,” Isabel said, nodding at the two men. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes, of course,” Von Eckstein said. “Good luck to you.”
Isabel nodded. She walked slowly through the crowd, sipping her water. “What an awful man,” she said when they were safely away. “What a perfectly awful man.”
“What happened?” Hammond asked, looking back.
“Eyes front,” Isabel snapped. “He disparaged Harriet’s breed, her coat, and her name. All in five minutes. What an arrogant—”
“All that?” Hammond asked. “In such a short time?”
“It’s nothing to laugh about,” Isabel said, turning crossly to him.
“I wasn’t laughing,” Hammond said. “Only trying—”
“Do not only try anything,” Isabel said. “I will tell you what to only try, and when.”
Hammond’s eyes flattened. “Mr. South,” he said. “That ain’t right.”
“And you, sir, are all-seeing. To be at once fetching water and privy to a conversation at the other end of the floor—that is quite a trick, Mr. Hammond.”
The crowd was pressing around them. They kept walking until they reached the edge of it. Isabel stood as if she were studying a series of prints on the wall. She spoke through clenched teeth.
“I tell you that horrible man disparaged Harriet in every way possible. And us, too, I might add. But I gave no sign that I knew who he was. None. Pah! Harriet will best his Setter with no problem at all. At all.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Hammond said. “Von Eckstein—so that’s the great Von Eckstein.”
The crowd noise hummed around them. At length Isabel swallowed the last of her water and handed the glass to Hammond.
“Yes, that was him,” she said. “But I didn’t let on. Not a bit.”
Hammond toed the floor and patted Harriet. “So that’s our competition,” he said to the dog.
Isabel smiled and patted the dog, too. “Yes ma’am,” she said. “Yes it is.”
Hammond knocked gently on the door of Isabel’s hotel room. His face was red and pinched with scrubbing, his hair slicked into place, his collar starched and bright above his new midnight blue suit. His eyes moved slowly, as if they could muss his hair or wrinkle his jacket if they weren’t careful. He burped and tasted whiskey. He fixed his eyes at what would be Isa
bel’s shoulder level: he would need to assess her mood very quickly without seeming to search her face because if she saw him doing that her mood, good or bad, would get worse. And when it was bad it was like she’d lashed infinitely sensitive wires to his every glance, every expression, every movement. Just looking to take it out on him, somehow.
He heard a muffled bark and knocked again, more firmly.
“Mr. South?” he called, looking along the hallway. He knocked again.
“Go away,” an exhausted voice came from within.
“We’ll be late,” Hammond said.
“Go away, god damn it,” she yelled, her voice hoarse.
Hammond tried the door. It was locked.
“Mr. South, open the door,” he said. “Come on now, open the door. We’ll be late.”
He heard the dog bark twice; he heard Isabel moaning as she approached the door; he heard the lock turn and pushed the door open. Isabel was slumped on the edge of the bed in her bathrobe. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room dark. An overturned chair lay next to the desk and several drawers from the bureau were pulled out, the clothes in disordered piles. Isabel’s suit from the morning was in a pile on the floor.
“Come on,” Hammond said. “We’ve got to go.”
Isabel lay back on the bed and pulled the blankets around her. She moaned.
Harriet came to Hammond, tail wagging, and licked his hand. He scratched her.
“Are you all right?” he asked Isabel, righting the chair.
“For God’s sake, no,” Isabel said. “You idiot. Do I look all right? Is this all right?”
“We need to get you ready,” Hammond said. He approached the bed but stopped short: he saw, on the carpet, that Isabel had been sick. “You’ve been sick,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” Isabel said, propping herself on her elbows and looking at him. “Yes, you are a master of observation. Now go to hell.”
In the dark shadows her haggard face leered at Hammond like a flickering movie villain, the beginnings of a treacly moustache on her upper lip like a skin fungus.
“We’ll get you ready,” Hammond said. He went around to the other side of the bed and began straightening the blankets and pillows. “Here,” he said. “Sit back. Against here. Like that. Good. Good. Let’s get you some coffee to settle your stomach.” He plumped pillows. Her bathrobe hung open and her pale skin glowed in the shadows; he looked away from the flattened arc of her breasts. He rang for coffee, got towels from the bathroom and, gagging, cleaned up the mess on the floor by the bed.
“My pipe, you idiot,” Isabel said. She was sitting up against the headboard, propped on pillows, watching him with glowing eyes as he moved about.
“I’m sorry?” he said, folding the disordered clothes in the bureau.
“I don’t need coffee, I need my damned pipe,” Isabel said in a hoarse rage. “My God-damned pipe.”
“Yes,” Hammond said, picking up her crumpled suit and laying in on an armchair. “Where is it?”
“Look at me,” Isabel yelled, her voice cracking. “Can you? Or shall I send you back to the hovel you came from?”
Hammond clenched his teeth and looked at her. “I’m only trying to clean up,” he said.
“I need my pipe,” Isabel said. “Am I so difficult to understand? It is in my black wallet, which I cannot find anywhere. Anywhere.” She began to cry.
Hammond went to the closet and, in a back corner behind a pair of boots, found the leather wallet. He sat at the desk and prepared her pipe. A knock sounded on the door, and he accepted the coffee tray and made a cup for Isabel, who took it from him with shaking hands.
She took a sip. “Disgusting,” she said.
“It’ll do you good,” Hammond said, moving a chair to her bedside.
Isabel raised the shaking cup to her lips. Coffee dribbled down her chin. “Take this from me,” she said.
Hammond took the cup and put it on the bedside table. He lit the pipe for her as she sucked in smoke and held it.
“There,” Hammond said. “There you are.”
Isabel leaned back and closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
“More,” she said.
The flame of the match glowed in the dim room.
“Where is Harriet?” Isabel asked. “Harriet,” she called.
The dog got to its feet and approached the bed, tail wagging.
“Good, good,” Isabel said. She scratched the dog’s head and contemplated the ceiling, far above her, clear and white. Her stomach calmed; she sipped her coffee.
“We’ll be late,” Hammond said, closing the pipe into its black case and putting it in a drawer in the bedside table.
“We must hurry,” Isabel said. “I will need your help.”
She sighed and struggled to her feet. Hammond stood awkwardly by, ready to support her if she teetered. As she made her way slowly to the bathroom, washed her face, and soaked her hair with cold water, Hammond retrieved a clean suit and a fresh wrapping from her closet. When she came out of the bathroom her robe was hanging open over her pale skin and flattened breasts. Hammond averted his eyes.
“I’ll need a clean suit and wrap,” Isabel said.
Hammond nodded, holding up the suit and wrap.
“Very good,” Isabel said. “Shall we?” She dropped her robe and turned around. Her thick middle hung over the men’s underwear she wore.
Hammond laid her suit on the bed and approached her with the narrow strip of sheet. She held one end of the strip under her right armpit, passed it across her breasts, and handed it to Hammond, who wrapped it across her back.
“Tighter,” she said.
A tuft of hair had grown on her right shoulder. They passed the wrap around another time. Hammond pulled it tight.
“Breathing?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, tightly.
Hammond secured the wrap and helped her into a clean shirt and collar; he fastened her cufflinks and fixed her tie, helped her into her suit. She sat down and he worked her wet hair with a comb and brush.
“Very good,” she said when he finished.
Hammond lit a cigarette and admired his work as she stood before a mirror.
“That bit of gray in front is very distinguished,” he said.
Isabel touched the gray strands at her temples. “Yes,” she said, turning from side to side to consider herself. “Jacob South is quite a distinguished gentleman.”
Hammond smiled. “The moustache looks pretty good.”
“My Lord, will it ever fill out?” Isabel asked, touching the edges of it with her pinky and smiling at Hammond in the mirror.
“Come on, Harriet,” Hammond said. He attached a leash to her collar. She wagged her tail.
“Tonight is your night,” Isabel said, leaning over and kissing the dog on the nose. “Your night, sweet Harry. Sweet sweet Harry. Yes.”
Harriet licked her face.
“Careful! Careful,” Isabel said. “You’ll smudge me. Yes, you will.” She rubbed behind the dog’s ears with both hands. She straightened up.
“Ready, Mr. Hammond?” she asked.
“Ready, Mr. South,” he said.
He opened the door and as she passed him she put a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Jamie,” she said.
Hammond nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
On the main floor of the New Grand Central Palace the trainers of the hound group stood in a line with their dogs: Bassett Hounds, Bloodhounds, a Scottish Deer Hound. The crowd applauded.
Out of site of the audience, in the area that held the exercise pens, Isabel and Hammond sat on an empty shipping crate, smoking, their ties loosened. Harriet lay at their feet, wagging her tail occasionally at another dog. The floor was fairly covered with sawdust; a cold wind came from down the hall, where a wide door opened on to the street.
“Are you cold, Harry?” Hammond asked absently, scratching the dog’s ear.
“It’s taking forever,” Isabel said, glancing in the direction of the
main floor. She smiled. “Why bother picking from the hounds?” she asked.
Hammond snorted agreement.
Isabel looked around. “Von Eckstein won last year with a dog they said had the best head anyone had ever seen,” she said.
“Mmm,” Hammond sighed. He paced to the door, pushed it open a bit, and flipped his cigarette on to the cold winter street. A loud cheer rose from the main hall and he returned to Isabel. They buttoned their collars, smoothed their suits, and smiled nervously.
“Harry,” Isabel said, and the dog rose. She bent over the animal, nose to nose, and said a quick prayer.
“Ready,” Isabel said, straightening.
“Mr. South? Mr. South?” a breathless, heavy man in blue called, rushing up to her. “Best in show is next. Please make your way to the floor.”
Hammond walked with them to the entrance to main hall. “Good luck, Harry,” he said, patting the dog. He looked at Isabel. “When we get home I’ll build a new bookcase, just to hold the trophy,” he said.
Isabel nodded. “That will be fine,” she said. She was beginning to sweat; her mouth was dry.
Tall and short, hairy and sleek, long-snouted and flatfaced, the dogs and their trainers milled around her. At a signal from the heavy-set man in blue she led Harriet at a brisk trot out on to the floor. In the bright lights she could only feel the crowd and catch a glimpse of a gloved hand or nodding head. Her stomach churned. She bent her eyes to Harriet and the ground in front of them. Her damned stomach, that would never settle. But Harriet looked fine, serene, noble. She stopped in front of the table that had been hung with a sign that read “Clumber Spaniel” and at a slight motion of her hand Harriet sat, chin level, eyes front. Isabel stood beside her, still, smiling; she nodded at the judge who passed by.
When all the dogs were in place a thin man in a plaid waistcoat addressed the audience. Isabel blocked out what he was saying. Hats and suits and eyes seemed to float in a mass. She swallowed dryly, begging her stomach to be calm. Sweat gathered on her upper lip but she was scared to use her handkerchief, fearful of creating a visible smear.
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 14