All in One Piece (11 page)

Stark grunts and stays put. Biscuit naps. I ring the bell, hear nothing inside, knock hard. A face appears at the two little
shadow-box panes, and the door opens slightly.

In the woman’s thin face before me I see traces of Steven, except that her expression is wary and weary, as if all his boyishness
got reworked into hardship. In black sweatpants and a faded blue cardigan, she could be fifty. Or seventy. She wears no makeup.
Her hair is the inky black of a bathroom sink dye job. Could she be Steven’s grandmother?

Her voice is pinched and nasal. “What is it?”

“My name is Regina Cutter. I’m from Boston. I’m here about my late tenant, Steven Damelin. Are you a relative?”

Her chin trembles. Her eyes are filmed over. Cataracts? Cataracts of pain. She starts to speak.

But a man bellows, “Who’s at the door, Doris?”

I recognize the vocal rasp. It’s the voice on the message machine. Doris seems to shrink as he suddenly looms up behind her,
unshaven with graying hair, thick furry arms, and piggy eyes. His soft pale chest is blazoned with a faded tattoo of a hula
dancer. He clamps a hand on Doris’s shoulder and glares. “Whatever you got, we don’t want it.”

“I’m here about the late Steven Damelin. I’m looking for his family.”

“Shut that door, Doris.”

“But, Char—”

“Shut the goddamned door.”

Bang
. The hockey stops dead with a shot that sends the pink ball under the cab. The boys gather at the edge of the driveway. One
pokes his stick toward the bumper. It doesn’t begin to reach. Inside the Beetle, Stark is on his cell phone. Biscuit’s nose
is a black button against the window glass. The kids appoint a player to retrieve their ball, and the boy walks as if the
asphalt might split open and swallow him up. The front door opens again. It’s Doris.

“You kids, get offa this property right now.”

She eyes me, hesitates, then grabs my elbow in a forced march down the walk. She does not look at my face but says, “Hinkton
Avenue, number 869. You want to talk to Crystal.” She repeats the address and Crystal’s name, still pressing my elbow. As
Stark and I drive away, Doris is poking underneath the cab with a hockey stick she wields like a broom.

A blue curtain parts a few inches when I knock at 869 Hinkton, which is a gray clapboard duplex a few blocks from Croker.
Stark got directions from an Amoco cashier. Otherwise, we haven’t spoken.

In this open doorway, I face a woman in her late twenties, her cheeks more chafed than rosy. She’s dark-eyed, about my height
but big-boned, wearing tight leggings and a green Polo Ralph Lauren shirt. Around the eyes there’s maybe a hint of Steven.
She holds a baby in a hot-pink jumper that says “Spoiled Rotten By Grandma.” The complexions of mother and baby are pallid.
The baby, about eighteen months old, clasps a Barney.

“Are you Crystal? Doris sent me to talk to you. I’m Regina Cutter. I’ve come up from Boston. It’s about Steven Damelin.”

“You another cop?”

“No. I was Steven’s landlady just before he died.”

“I’m not payin’ his rent. You’re out of luck.”

“This is about Steven’s furniture. It’s for his family.”

Her eyes suddenly glitter. “I’ll take it.”

“Could I talk to you for a few minutes first?”

She motions me inside, where it smells of sour bedding and burned toast. In the kitchen, she points to a dinette table and
puts the baby in a high chair with a Fig Newton from an open package. A TV plays in another room. “This is Faith.”

“Hi, Faith.”

“She’s named after Faith Hill, the country music star.”

I know nothing about country singers, though Jack tells me Marty’s Celina is an ardent fan. “Crystal, I’m mainly here about
the furniture. But I also understand Steven Damelin knew my late aunt.”

“Late? Everybody’s ‘late.’ Way too late, that’s what I think.” She sounds like Doris but harder. “Cops too.”

“The Lawrence police?”

“No, Boston. Two of them. A million questions.”

“Devaney and Maglia?”

“The dark one had clear nail polish.”

“That’s Maglia. They can be tough.”

Faith feeds Barney a slobbery Fig Newton. “About this furniture, is it leather?”

“No. It’s upholstered fabric and wood. Was Steven a close relative?”

“He was my brother.”

“Your brother.” Shocking. “And so Doris is—”

“My mother. Our mother.”

Not the grandmother. I’ve skipped a generation. I now see a family resemblance at the jawline, except Crystal has an overbite.
No orthodontist for her. At the sink, a faucet drips. “I tried to talk to Doris,” I say, “but your father, if it’s your father—?”

“Slammed the door, right?” I nod. “That’s Charlie. He’s pissed because he couldn’t slam the door on the cops. Did Stevie have
a recliner? I could sure use a nice La-Z-Boy. What about his sofa?”

“We’ll get to that, Crystal. When did you last see your brother?”

“Three years ago. You gonna tell me about the furniture, or what?”

“Your brother died in my house. I need to know a few things. This is strictly personal.”

She leans closer. “When you’re the landlady and he’s the tenant, then it’s not personal.”

“Crystal, Steven’s apartment is directly over my own. My security is an issue. Which makes it very personal.”

She bites a cuticle and scowls. “So ask your questions.”

The faucet is a drumbeat. I remind myself this woman has just lost her brother. Even if they weren’t close, she’s probably
reeling from the murder. “I want the same thing as the police—to find out who’d harm Steven.”

“No idea. Like we told the cops, Steve was long gone. Horrible he’s dead like that, but we lost him years back.” She wipes
cookie from the baby’s mouth. Crystal, I now see, is pregnant, I’d guess five months. There’s no sign of a man around.

“Did you recently talk to Steven on the phone?”

“No.”

“Or visit him in Boston?”

Side to side, her hair whips her cheeks. “No.”

“And your parents?”

“Them neither.”

“As far as you know.”

“As far as I—hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe your father gets a fare to Boston from time to time. Doesn’t he drive a taxi?”

“Runs old ladies to the senior center and drunks home from bars.” But she blinks a little too fast. “I mean, if he ever saw
Stevie—which don’t get me wrong, I don’t think so—he didn’t never tell me or Doris.”

Crystal says no more but has opened the possibility, however slight, that Charlie Damelin might have picked up Steven at curbside
on Barlow Square as Trudy Pfaeltz said hi. A soap theme plays.
All My Children?

“So you saw Steven three years ago. A family visit?”

“Three years ago last May. Doris was sick and needed a home aide, and Stevie helped us out with arrangements. I mean, if you
call that a visit. Which I don’t. Stevie didn’t even stay at the house. He got a room in North Andover at a country inn. Him
and his friend. The whole city of Lawrence wasn’t good enough.”

“He came with a friend?”

“Alex somebody.”

“A girlfriend?”

Her sharp laugh startles the baby. “Try again.”

“Alex is male?” She brushes back Faith’s hair and nods. “Do you remember Alex’s last name?”

“So you can give him some of the furniture?”

“Crystal, Steven’s things are for your family. If you’d just try to recall the last name?”

“He’s some kind of dancer. Ballet, whatever. It was a first-name basis. They stayed two nights… no, three, because the
old man tried to convince Stevie about a Hummer.”

“A Hummer?”

“For a hearse. The cab business isn’t great. The old man thinks he’d do good with a Hummer to rent for funerals. He wanted
Stevie to go in with him. They had a big fight. The old Damelinski temper…”

“Damelinski?”

“It’s Polish, or Lithuanian. The whole family came from the old country and worked in the mills a hundred years ago. Lawrence
was a big mill town. They were spinners and spoolers and weavers. All the women worked in the mills. The men too. It’s all
gone. There’s no jobs to speak of. Raytheon laid everybody off, now I’m part-time in a parking garage. The Hummer hearse idea,
I thought Charlie had something. Stevie turned him down flat.”

“And that’s the last time you saw your brother?”

“Last time. Now, how about that furniture? You got a list?” The faucet drips on. Crystal reaches for a box of Newport Lights.

Is this what I’ve come to Lawrence for? To learn that Steven Damelin had a dancer boyfriend three years ago and did not spend
one night in the family home where he grew up, or even inside the city limits? And to find out that Steven was a working-class
kid who somehow reinvented himself, a bootstrap boy who fled his family?

No, it’s doubtful that he did the whole Horatio Alger thing all by himself. Somebody groomed Steven. Who? “A few more questions,
Crystal. Steven mentioned a deal with my aunt. He worked for a Boston company, but let me ask this: when you were kids, did
your brother think up different get-rich schemes?”

“He shoveled walks in the winter. We did a Kool-Aid stand in summer. What do you want to know this stuff for? You sound like
a cop.”

“Not me.”

“Or a school counselor. I hated school.” But Faith wails, and Crystal leaps to fill a bottle with Hawaiian Punch. The baby
grabs and sucks. Crystal slowly sits back down. “You ought to talk to the Voglers.”

“And who are the Voglers?”

“Too good for us, too high up for the Damelins. For the Damelinskis.”

“Who are they?”

“You’re giving me Steve’s furniture, right? All of it?”

“That’s why I’m here. First the Voglers.”

“Kidnappers.”

“Kidnappers?” It’s a jolt.

“That’s what I call the whole bunch. Oh, the Voglers didn’t just grab my brother off the street. People like that operate
different.” She lights a Newport while Faith sucks her sticky hand. But the mood has shifted. Something’s on Crystal’s mind.
“This goes back. Way back.” She inhales. “You probably did good in school.”

“I did okay.”

“None of my teachers knew I existed. Biggest part I ever got in a school play was a carrot in
Peter Rabbit
. My costume was an orange garbage bag with armholes.” She exhales sideways. “Little Stevie, now, he’s Robin Hood. Doris sewed
him a velvet costume by hand. Little tiny stitches, beautiful if you like all that. My brother, the little star.”

“That’s tough on a brother and sister.” Stop, Reggie. Forget the amateur therapy. “Tell me about the Voglers.”

She lays the cigarette in an ashtray, wets one finger, tamps Fig Newton crumbs on the table, licks them. “This third-grade
volunteer lady fell in love with him—no, not what you’re thinking. I mean… special attention. He was real small and,
everybody thought, cute as a button. All of a sudden, Stevie gets horseback riding lessons on Saturdays. You know how a kid
loves to ride a horse? Me, I get a carnival ride and the pony’s half dead. Stevie’s the… what’s that word, starts with
an
e
?”

“Equestrian?”

“They got him boots and a velvet hard hat.”

“They? You mean the Voglers?”

“My brother was pals with their precious An
drew
. He got in tight with the whole bunch,
Drew
and the little princess of a sister, Dani. It’s Dani with an
i
. They rode their horses and won ribbons. Yellow and green, shiny satin ribbons. Myself, I won a pair of goldfish at bingo.
Saturdays I watched cartoons. The closest I got to a horse is this shirt Steve left when he came to help with Doris and blew
up at the old man. Ralph Lauren Polo, that’s my horse.”

“And Steven stayed in contact with the Voglers?”

She flicks the ash. The faucet beats time. “Comes high school, surprise! Stevie the Star wasn’t going to the regional high.
Not him. The Voglers got him into Alden Academy.” She says the name in a nasal exaggeration,
Awl-den
.

I recognize the name. We considered it for Jack the year Marty got furious about the science fair awards. “It’s near here,
isn’t it?”

“In New Hampshire. The kids live there. And precious Stevie got scholarships and went with his buddy, An
drew
. That’s when he got, like, too good for the rest of us. That’s when Doris finally got clued in. I mean, my mother was
for
all this stuff. Couldn’t get enough. She’d scrape mud and horse crap off Stevie’s riding boots and shine them like she was
making out with the boots.”

She flicks the ash again. “I’d Vaseline my Mary Janes, ten minutes and you’re done. Doris, she’d spend hours. Her Stevie was
the prince. It was Voglers this and Voglers that. They paid for his braces. They took him skiing. Not here in New England.
Our snow isn’t good enough. They all go out West where it’s soft if you land on your ass. Some place with a
B
.”

“Breckenridge.” Crystal glares as if I’m a double agent. I say nothing about the Baynes family ski vacations. “Crystal, where
do the Voglers live?”

“Outside Boston someplace. Stevie went there most weekends.”

“And your father? What did Charlie think about all this?”

“Charlie Damelin never turns down something free. You see the backyard?”

“No.”

“There’s a carload of scrap glass somebody gave him for nothing. And old pipes. It’s like a junkyard. Always was. My old man
called the Voglers a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He thought my brother’s luck could rub off. When he got smart,
it was way too late. The Voglers—to be polite, you could say they sort of adopted Stevie. Truth is, they stole him. Those
people had their own son. Why take somebody else’s?” In this moment, Crystal’s gaze turns mournful. The quiet moment hangs.

“And that’s how Steven… dropped out of your family?”

“He went to the same college as An
drew
. Scholarships right and left. They have a business. That’s who Steve worked for in the summer. And then after college.”

“Corsair Financial?”

“I guess.” She nods again. “In Boston.”

“It must have been difficult.”