All in One Piece (18 page)

“Will you have tea? Alma, hot tea, if you will.”

It takes a moment to realize this woman can’t be much over thirty-five. Her affliction has added years, a decade. By my count,
she’s barely older than Steven and can’t possibly be the Mrs. Vogler described by Crystal. The woman before me is, no question,
a new Mrs. Vogler.

In moments, we’re on first-name basis. Margaret hopes the traffic wasn’t too hideous. We agree the season has been unusually
wet, the autumn leaves less spectacular than usual. I speak slowly so as not to tax the strength of an invalid.

Alma sets a tea tray on a table at Margaret’s side and disappears. The cups are Beleek porcelain with cheerful shamrocks,
and the pouring takes considerable effort. The silver—old and heavy, monogrammed not with a
V
but a
C
—is tarnished. Does this woman have MS? Parkinson’s? Was it a stroke?

Is she the smiling blonde on the boat deck in the family photos? There’s no equestrian memorabilia in sight, and that shambles
of a barn surely isn’t a stable. The head of her cane is carved into a grinning leprechaun with ruby eyes. What happened to
Vogler’s first wife?

“Leonard tells me that you’ve offered to help us with the memorial service for Steven.” Her voice is husky.

“That’s right. Rev. Gail Welch of All Souls Church in Boston’s South End offers to officiate. Her church administers the Big
Buddies mentor program in which Steven has helped a Dominican boy named Luis Diaz. Perhaps he talked about the program? Or
Luis?”

“Luis? I’m afraid not.”

“Steven also knew and admired my late aunt, Josephine Cutter. Perhaps he mentioned her name?”

She murmurs, “So many names.”

“Or Jo? She went by ‘Jo.’”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps my husband…”

“Of course.” We sip our tea. “I myself met Steven just before he… late last month. He sublet my upstairs flat and showed
great kindness. He rushed to help me when I fell.”

“Oh, that’s Steven through and through.”

“I understand he was like a member of the Vogler family.”

“Oh yes, he was a brother to Andrew… Drew. And to Dani, that’s short for Danielle. They all loved horses, and they all
rode as children. My husband deserves great credit for rescuing Steven, sponsoring his education.”

“How fortunate for a boy, for a young man.”

“Absolutely. Steven himself told me that he was so puny as a boy that he wore Dani’s boots. They say he started riding Brownie,
the gentlest horse. Within two seasons, he was on an Arabian named Hurricane.”

She looks at me as if reciting this history lifts her beyond her own come-lately entry into the family. “You see, Regina,
the Vogler family had certain future plans that went beyond the boys’ friendship. My husband’s business, at first he thought—”

But she breaks off and reaches for her teacup. “My husband consoles himself that Steven’s life, though cut short, was fuller.
His birth parents… well, the father drives a taxi. I believe they live in Lawrence, and you know those depressed New
England mill towns. I understand the family grew apart. You do like Irish Breakfast?”

“It’s a favorite.”

“I grew up on it… I’m half Irish on my father’s side.” She looks me in the eye. “The fact is, Regina, when the heart’s
broken, the mind flies into pieces. My mind is a thousand pieces.”

Because of Steven’s death? Or her illness? Both? The leprechaun grins. The case clock strikes three, though it’s almost four.
Margaret Vogler takes no outward notice. On the stiff wicker sunporch furniture, she flouts comfort. Maybe she fights her
disability this way. Maybe the open-toe high heels and clingy jersey dress defy the season, the losing battle with her body,
and even the dilapidated homesite. Her acknowledgment of the Damelins only seems to erase them.

“Do have one of these crisps. Alma’s sister sent them over.”

The ginger wafer jams the roof of my mouth like cardboard. I murmur how tasty, work the cookie loose, and manage to swallow
as Margaret says, “Regina, it’s so important to have photographs at a memorial service. I’m sure you’d like to have a selection
from the framed ones in our front room. There are two or three of Steven.”

Good, here’s the topic of family photos. Run with this, Reggie. Get the family history. Strategize. “Candids are also nice,”
I say. “They’re not so formal. They help to celebrate the life. Perhaps there are family albums we might see?”

“Oh, the albums…” Her face clouds. “I hadn’t thought about the albums. They’re not really necessary, though, are they?”
She brushes her fingers as if in dismissal. Clearly the albums aren’t part of the afternoon plan. “Anyway, we recently did
some rearranging. Everything’s topsy-turvy. These days I can’t find a thing.”

Is she flighty or evasive? Is the second wife dodging the pictorial memory lane of her husband’s past? If so, it’s understandable.
But this is my one chance for deep background. I must push. “Margaret, I surely know that upside-down feeling. But sometimes
things turn up where you’d least expect them.”

“Nothing is in its place. The steak knives, the albums. It’s a bit comic, actually.”

“I’m sorry to hear that… because guests at a memorial service so appreciate the pictorial biography. There’s no substitute
for family albums.”

“But we can’t rummage through the house, can we? I’m afraid for now the framed photos will fill the bill.”

I nod to show agreement. Think faster, Reggie. Plan. I ask for another cookie. “So delicious,” I say brightly. “I wonder,
does your Alma have her sister’s recipe? Would it be too much trouble to ask?”

“Not at all.” I manage to swallow the doughy wad as Margaret beeps her housekeeper. Alma reappears. “Alma, Ms. Cutter is interested
in Liesl’s recipe for the ginger crisps.”

“Fantastic,” I say. “The texture is amazing.”

“That’s your gluten flour,” says Alma. “You want to use a gluten flour and hot oven, not too much shortening. My sister doesn’t
measure anything. She doesn’t have to.”

“Well, I’ll remember that.” I give Alma my warmest smile. “And while you’re here, Alma, Mrs. Vogler was just saying how confusing
new household arrangements are. We were regretting that the family albums are temporarily out of place. I don’t suppose you
know where they are?”

“Oh, did you want them? They’re in the great room on the second shelf. Should I bring them in, Mrs. Vogler?”

Cornered. Margaret looks cornered. “That would be fine, Alma.” She gives me a resigned smile. “If it weren’t for Alma . .
.”

“A treasure.” The housekeeper disappears and returns with an armful of leather-bound albums. I quickly pull my chair around
for the scrutiny I’d hoped for. In forced togetherness, Margaret and I gaze at color shots of children on horseback, on ski
slopes, in a pool. So far, there’s no sign of the first Mrs. Vogler. “That’s Dani. She talks about that red bathing suit to
this day.” The blond child beams, waist-high at the shallow end.

“And there’s Drew somersaulting from the diving board at the club.” I lean closer to see a boy with short dark hair, arms
and legs tucked into a ball in midair, the image blurry. We move to the second album, and Margaret flicks the page.

“There’s little Steven, one of the family’s first pictures of him.” Next up on the diving board, face unmistakable, Steven
clowns with a beach ball, his expression apprehensive. He must be ten or eleven, but extremely small for his age. In the next
picture, the boys play tug-of-war with the same ball, both laughing, though the larger Andrew seems to be wresting the ball
away.

Margaret turns the pages as if eager to get this over with short of rudeness. The years fast-forward, but the pattern stays
the same. Danielle is at the margins, seldom with the boys. She appears in a choir robe and sings at a piano. She sits at
an arts and crafts table while hand-lettering the family’s holiday cards. Dani looks delicate, though the field hockey stick
and tennis racket proclaim her as active in sports. In several photos, she poses with the tall, loose-limbed man with sandy
tousled hair and a bright red neckerchief—Vogler. Everybody’s in court whites.

The boys, however, seem inseparable. Steven and Andrew brush horses, soap saddles, ride in fenced rings, in horse shows. They
ski, roast hot dogs, bicycle, pass footballs, escort corsaged young women in tulle and satin prom gowns. Steven gains weight,
reaches full size beside Andrew. Her diamonds flash as Margaret turns the page to show the two young men posing in college
graduation robes. Arms around one another’s shoulders, laughing, they could be brothers, even fraternal twins. I can see that
Andrew Vogler, like Steven, is dark but finer-featured, his eyes deeper set, mouth narrower.

“Isn’t that Danielle on Steven’s arm? Was she his date?”

“That, I believe, was a college formal.”

Does Margaret know Steven was gay? Do the Voglers? At that time, did he? Each and every album page turned by Margaret’s tremulous
fingers, however, raises the question too obvious to ask aloud: where is the first Mrs. Vogler, the mother of Drew and Dani?
The younger second wife is the chronicler of a family history in which she plays no part. Looking closely at the photos, I
now see scissored borders, cropped edges. The albums have been purged. The first Mrs. Vogler is gone. From death? Divorce?

“Andrew is a handsome man,” I say, “just as Steven was. Why, they both look good enough to be male models.”

She gives a noncommittal smile. My model prompt goes nowhere. Few of the photographs show Steven alone, so I choose several
that include Andrew. For the memorial service, I promise good care. “And so Steven visited regularly here—up until the end—is
that right?”

She closes the last album. “Leonard and I were perfectly willing to make space available for Steven’s skis and paraphernalia,
just as we do for Drew and Dani. Our home is scheduled for major renovation. In the meantime, we protect their things with
waterproof tarpaulins. The Vogler front door has been thrown wide-open.”

Translation: Lately Steven drove up to this Crowninshed Farms near-ruin to get his stored stuff. Lately Margaret became the
superintendent of a storage locker. Which means it’s unlikely that she or her husband knows of the deal between Steven and
Jo.

“Perhaps you know Steven’s longtime friend Alex Ribideau?”

She seems surprised to hear me say Alex’s name. “Yes, of course. Of course, I do.” Her eyelids flutter. “He’s a dancer. I,
too, was a dancer.”

“Oh?” I try to conceal my shock.

“It was some time ago. But those of us in the performing arts are kindred spirits. We share a deep bond.” She pauses, twists
a diamond band, touches her throat, and says, “To help the police, my husband searched our records of contributions to the
arts.”

“To the Jeremiah Steele Dance Company?”

“Precisely.” She clasps her cup, her fingers tight. The fawn complexion reddens.

“As of this morning,” I say, “the police couldn’t find Alex. Right now he’s dancing faster than they are.” A smile breaks
through. How much does she know about Steven’s former lover? How deep is that dancer-to-dancer bond? “When Alex asked for
a memento of his time with Steven, Margaret, I couldn’t say no. I met him at the Parker House.”

“You saw him?”

“We had a drink together. He’s devastated.”

“Oh, poor Alex.” She looks at the sun parlor doorway as if Alma might lurk. We’re seated so close together our knees nearly
touch. There’s a faint medicinal odor that seeps through Margaret’s dress, her very pores. “I’ll tell you this,” she says.
“Alex and I have also spoken, days ago. He was frantic. He ought to be with us, planning the service.” Her cup rattles as
she puts it down. “If only I could help. You see”—she meets my gaze—“I introduced them.”

“Introduced Steven to Alex?”

She pauses, her eyes locked on mine, and says, “Alex to Steven.”

“Oh, I see.” It takes everything to nod calmly and set down the Beleek cup and saucer with the bright shamrocks. So this is
why Margaret Vogler’s mind has flown into a thousand pieces: it’s about Alex Ribideau. It’s Alex whom she’s upset about, not
Steven. Steven Damelin, I realize, is secondary. His death means crisis for Alex, even if Alex is the killer. As the case
clock chimes again, I realize that another hour has come and gone, and neither Margaret nor I have once spoken the word “murder.”

T
ires crunch outdoors, and footsteps approach the sun parlor. “Margaret, my dear—and you must be Ms. Cutter. I’m Leonard Vogler.”

His sandy hair has receded, but I recognize the red-neckerchief man in the tennis photos. He is ruddy complexioned, about
six feet, with watery blue eyes. His club tie is loosened and crooked, and his pinstripe suit padded. He shakes hands with
a little twist, as if for a backhand shot. His bright yellow suspenders are patterned with chickens wearing spurs… no,
they’re fighting cocks.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Vogler.”

“Make it ‘Leonard.’” From my shoe tops up, he surveys each item of my clothing and my pearls.

Margaret has unclipped her hair, which falls loose to her shoulders. “What can we get you, dear?”

“I’ll grab a bourbon. Join me, Ms. Cutter?”

“It’s ‘Regina,’ please. And no thank you.” I know better than to defect from ladies’ tea. In moments, drink in hand, he jams
his body into a wicker chair and swirls the ice in a hefty slug of whiskey. “Dreary day. Lousy fall. His ice rattles so hard
two cubes fly out. Fumbling, he drops them into a decorative Ming bowl. “Margaret and I were scheduled for Sea Island this
month. Had to cancel.”

So Margaret is not too housebound to travel. “Coastal Georgia,” I say, “is lovely at this time of year. But I’m afraid we’ve
made only modest progress in planning Steven’s memorial service. We’ve selected some photographs. Mostly we’ve been talking
informally.”

“It’s my fault,” Margaret says. She blinks rapidly. Or is she batting her eyes at her husband?

“My late aunt had a connection with All Souls Church,” I say, “and I’m acquainted with the minister there—unless Steven had
an affiliation elsewhere?”