All in One Piece (17 page)

“So a murder upstairs, blood on your door, extra patrols for your block here. And now this: you turn over the wallet and he
escapes. Where’s the learning curve, Ms. Cutter? Tell me, where’s the curve?”

I slump a little, play the hangdog.

“Tell me about the pictures in the wallet.”

“I didn’t look at them.”

“I’m supposed to believe that? Try again.”

“It’s true. I thought it’d be tampering.”

“Tampering with evidence? Isn’t the knife evidence? Where’s the common sense, Ms. Cutter? On vacation? At the beach?” Seconds
crawl.

“Can you trace his phone?” I’m trying to be helpful. “The 917 number, did your electronic surveillance equipment—?”

“The phone’s stolen. It belongs to a college student in Brooklyn, New York.”

I keep quiet so he doesn’t feel needled. I am wrecked.

“Let’s use our heads on this, Ms. Cutter. Ribideau shows up again, you call me right away. Not a minute later. Immediately.
You understand?”

He slams into an SUV. I expect a burst of speed, but his engine idles while I dig out my key and go inside. Even then he lingers,
ten, twenty minutes. From the window I check. An hour later, he’s finally gone.

The next morning, 10:36 a.m., I’m in StyleSmart sorting jackets. After Maglia left last night, I went straight to the basement,
felt under every drawer of the blue chest—and got one ferocious splinter in my thumb. Period.

I’m now in the countdown to today’s lunch with Knox Baker. Weeks ago, a budding romance shimmered in my future. Now it’s more
like a mirage. A murder changes everything. Already my rose cashmere blend is wrinkled, and I don’t really care. I’m desperate
to ask Nicole whether Jo ever spoke of Alex Ribideau or knows anything about Steven’s modeling, but we’ve been too busy with
customers. Still nothing from sculptor Tom Chou about the blood marks on my door.

Nicole calls to the fitting room. “How’re you doin’ in there, Ms. Jackson?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

“You take your time.” She turns to me. “What a morning.”

“Nicole, when the store empties out, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Here’s one for you, Reggie: are you still holding out against window bars?”

I reply that my Biscuit is a first-rate watchdog.

“What’s that beagle weigh, about twenty pounds?”

“Twenty pounds of dynamite.” Nicole rolls her eyes, and we continue sorting cow-pattern jackets, relics of a bygone fashion
fad.

“Bless their hearts, they think they’re doin’ us a big favor, sending this old stuff. Let’s count ’em up, send ’em to the
Salvation Army.”

From the fitting room comes a grunt. Ms. Jackson is trying on a suit at least two sizes too small, but Nicole smiles like
Mother Teresa. If she’d hustle the woman out, I could ask about Alex. And about Steven and Jo. Will she think harder about
their “deal” if I describe the blood marks on my door—or will she only nag about welded window bars?

More grunts from the dressing room, which is off-limits unless we’re invited in, a StyleSmart rule. I tried to guide Marva
Jackson to the new big-size boutique. No luck. She’s been in the fitting room for over half an hour. I’m timing her. My guess:
a stuck zipper.

At last, Nicole pipes up. “Ms. J., can we help you out?”

The store is silent, then comes a whimper, then a muffled gasp. Nicole marches into the fitting room with a pair of shears.
I hear moans, murmurs, and the sound of scissors cutting cloth. Then, “Don’t you worry, Ms. J., we all of us make a size mistake
from time to time. No, you don’t owe us a thing, not one thing.” In minutes, Marva Jackson flees, a customer cut free of a
suit into which she shrink-wrapped herself and couldn’t budge.

“It happens now and then, Reggie. Pride goeth before the scissors.”

I smile, then ask, did Jo ever mention Alex Ribideau? Nicole shakes her head. Definitely not. Or a male dancer, any dancer?
No. She’s quite sure. “How about pineapple?”

“The fruit?”

“A connection between pineapple and Chinese?”

She shrugs. “Sweet-and-sour?”

“About Steven, Nicole… the part about Jo’s ship coming in? Did she use those actual words?”

“Sure. It’s just a figure of speech, Reggie.”

“Did she say anything else? Anything about a business named Corsair Financial? Anything?”

“No, nothing like that, nothing concrete.” She pauses. “I do remember she said something about a helping hand.”

“A helping hand?” The heart sinks at the cliché.

“Like he was gonna give her a helping hand, or maybe she gave him a helping hand. Something like that.”

A helping hand, a ship coming in… what’s next, a lucky day, the sun will shine, and the cow jumped over the moon? “I’ll
finish the cows.”

“You have a lunch date today, don’t you, Reggie? Why not leave a few minutes early, take your time, lower the stress? And
the candy-pink chiffon scarf on the accessories table—try it with your rose linen. Tie it loose and low, see what you think.
And have yourself a real good time. Unwind. Enjoy yourself.”

Enjoy myself? Maybe, maybe not. The scarf, I admit, looks terrific. Nicole’s a fashion fairy godmother, but it’s Alex Ribideau
and Steven’s body on my mind when I reach the café on Newbury and ask for Mr. Baker’s table.

It’s high noon, and suddenly I’m standing face-to-face with the man who’s rising to greet me—in his later forties, with quick,
deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, short salt-and-pepper hair with a little front wave. He’s wearing charcoal slacks, a sage
polo shirt, and loafers. A certain feeling of quiet intensity comes back to me, and he’s taller than I’d remembered.

“Knox?”

“Regina… Reggie.”

One quick air kiss, and we soon sit over a white burgundy and warm seafood plates. From reflex, I scan the scene for Alex
Ribideau in case he’s here for lunch. It’s a long shot but not impossible. You never know. “I’ve enjoyed your cards, Knox,”
I say. “Sphinx and pyramids.”

“With that phony postcard-blue sky?” We chuckle.

“So you’ve been to Egypt and Kuwait.”

“And Saudi Arabia and the Emirates. Have you been to the Middle East? No?”

It’s my cue to ask him what it’s like there, hold up my end of the conversation. “You go often on business?” He nods. “It
sounds intriguing.”

“I’ve been all over the world. There’s no place more interesting.”

As for interesting, I’d bet on Knox Baker. If I could. If I weren’t bound to a murder case. Two cops walk by outside on Newbury.
Were they on the Franklin detail last night?

Knox’s hand brushes mine as he raises his glass. “Here’s to the day. Tell me, Reggie, how are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” Our lunches are barely touched.

“I really want to know.”

What can I say? To tell of Steven’s death, the police, my vision, Alex… I can’t even begin. “I have some things on my
mind.”

“I thought so. I sense it.” He swirls his wine. “Reggie, it’s brutal to drop in and out this way, but I wanted to see you.”
He looks into my eyes. “The postcards, they’re meant to say that you’re on my mind.”

It’s an overture. And flattering. And also my cue to reciprocate. My romantic future, is it here across this table? Maybe
in the next months or year, but not at the moment, not when Steven’s death fills my days and nights. Knox Baker… any
number of women would flock to his table, his arms, his bed. And yes, if my mind and spirit were free, I’d imagine running
my fingers through this man’s hair. Or let myself think of the strong, tanned arms. Or look into his eyes and feel the yearning
that spans years and wakens something I have thought to be gone forever.

Yet the force field that holds me in its grip for now is homicide.

Knox taps the crystal of his watch. “Someday I’ll be back here for good. Right now my schedule isn’t my own. That’s all I
can say for now. Will you… will you hold a space for me? Will you try?”

I try to hear him. Is it a request? A challenge? An invitation? My pulse is up, but I can’t pretend it’s for Knox. Not now.
The pull is strong, but the drive to find Steven’s killer dictates everything. A moment passes. I murmur yes, that I’ll try,
but the warmth that fills my body is the fevered urge to solve this murder.

C
all it the afterglow or an aftertaste. Every block that I drive from the Newbury lunch to Barlow Square forces me to the fact
that I’m revved but stymied. Alex’s accusations spew from Luis to Corsair to Steven’s street pickup dates. Should I revisit
the Apollo Club for another round with surly Matt? And what did Luis mean when he asked about a movie or video from Steven’s
things? Focused on giving him the Lava lamp, I wasn’t nimble. Suppose Stark and I go back to Jamaica Plain. Suppose, suppose,
suppose.

Brooding? Am I thinking or brooding? I take Biscuit for a short walk, straighten up the kitchen, iron a blouse for a mindless
moment—and get the telephone call I’d schemed for. It’s Leonard Vogler of Corsair Financial.

He doesn’t waste a word. “My Margaret—Mrs. Vogler—would much appreciate your offer to meet with her regarding a memorial service
for Steven, Ms. Cutter. Would tomorrow afternoon be possible?” It’s that speakerphone voice again. “Corsair could send a car.”

“Mr. Vogler, I have a car. I might be able to rearrange my schedule. Yes, it’s just possible at three o’clock.” This gambit
is from my ex, Marty, always insisting on the impression of a full schedule. Leonard Vogler puts his assistant on with directions
to Crowninshed Farms.

The next day, Friday, is drizzling and gray as I pass the North Shore I-95 exits, reaching Crowninshed Farms just before 3:00
p.m. This will be lady-to-lady, so I’m in a slate skirt, silk shirt, and sienna Brioni Escorial jacket with pearls.

The gatehouse attendant gives me the once-over and points me into a subdivision that feels like a time warp of my former life.
Any one of these McMansions could have been ours. They’re gabled brick and half-timber with cedar shingle accents, Palladian
windows and chimney stacks, and multivehicle garages. Dignified entrance gates, beveled glass, super landscaping. Did the
developer lower the banister rails an inch or two so the man of the house feels just a little taller? Ours did.

At an S-curve, the subdivision suddenly ends. Now I’m in a corridor of dense dark evergreens, no house in sight. The gatehouse
attendent said nothing about this. I clock the distance, five-, six-tenths of a mile. The road narrows so that two vehicles
can barely pass. I’m alone on the road, and it feels like a one-way to the center of the earth.

Finally a clearing. A long rutted front drive leads left toward patchy brown fields and a house set back against a ridge,
as if pushed there, an outpost. I count five chimneys. There’s a barn and some sheds.

Pulling over, I verify the number, 11. Two strips of reflector tape make a crude
V
on a corroded mailbox here at the roadside.

Jolted in the ruts, I approach a brick house and outbuildings that loom in a gray mist. I’m looking at sagging shutters, a
collapsing barn, fallen fencing, and a huge greenhouse whose panes are mostly smashed like so many blinded eyes.

Surely a mistake, this can’t be the Voglers’ home—just as the Damelin house “couldn’t” be Steven’s. Not one window shines
against this gunmetal-gray sky. Except for a car parked in the front, the place looks abandoned, like one big
Keep Out
. Why is the Voglers’ home such a wreck? A financial pinch at Corsair? A family reversal of some sort? Lean times needn’t
call for extreme dilapidation. It’s as if they’re flaunting a New England ruin.

And nobody knows I’m here. No one at all. The nape of my neck prickles in the dampness. Don’t be silly, I tell myself. Don’t
overreact. Yet I’m wishing for a tracking device.

Be logical, Reggie. It’s a drab day in a rainy autumn. Inside is a woman who is “not well.” But gooseflesh from gloom? No,
it’s something else I feel—dread. I can’t imagine Steven here in this house any more than I can picture him on Croker Street
in Lawrence. Parked, I’m staring at a big rusted piece of farm equipment with teeth and claws.

One thing’s certain: there is no body of water visible at this North Shore location, neither a swimming pool nor creek nor
even a fishpond. The route to the Vogler property has stopped two miles short of the seacoast. The North Shore that promised
a link to my vision of Steven drowning is a dead end. The dull brass knocker thuds on a heavy door. The house smells like
mold, and the brick is the color of flesh.

“Miss Cutter?”

“Yes.” In the opened door stands a stocky woman with bobbed hair and stony eyes. A beeper is clipped to her apron strap. “I’m
Alma. I’m the housekeeper. Mrs. Vogler is in the sun parlor. This way.”

She leads me through a living room of Queen Anne and Chippendale sofas, chairs, case clock, secretary. To my eye, all authentic.

In a room off to the left, I glimpse ranks of wall-mounted rifles, pistols, and sailing ship paintings. But I’m focused on
the tabletops that hold clustered family photos. There’s a dark-haired boy and blond girl who must be Andrew and Dani Vogler
as children. Also a man in tweeds—Leonard Vogler? And a smiling blond woman on a boat deck. Surely Margaret. I’d love ten
minutes alone to study each face and to look for photos of Steven, especially photos of boyhood horse shows. But Alma marches
me briskly over a threadbare Sarouk. The rooms smell of dead roses.

“Ms. Cutter, so good of you to come. I’m Margaret Vogler.”

In a glassed-in porch, a bone-thin woman in a mango-print jersey dress with a halter top rises slowly in open-toe sandals
with spike heels. It makes me chilly just to look at her. She extends a hand flashing with rings. Sparkle combs hold back
platinum-streaked hair, which frames a full-featured face, a wide mouth, and a fawn complexion. Her fingers tremble as she
grips a cane for support. Her smile is wan, her soft gray-green eyes hollowed. Meant to be cling-sexy, the mango jersey hangs
on her frame, and the exposed skin of her bare shoulders is grayish in this light. The fawn complexion seems a triumph of
makeup.