All in One Piece (22 page)

“It’s molded glass with a double collar lip and a heavily whittled neck. There’s some light stain but no chips or cracking.
It’s a nice old piece, early twentieth century. What else do you wish to know?”

“Anything… you don’t sense any… energies?”

“From the flask? Superstitious feelings, madam, are not my forte. Is it the glassware that interests you, or the distiller?”

“It came from a family in Lawrence. I realize it’s not your specialty.”

He chuckles. “This flask reminds me of the barn auctions of my younger days. We sold off a good many bottles and flasks. I
may still have a reference book…” From the rear of the shop, he brings a binder and goes through it while I eye the bottle—flask—as
if it might explode. “Blanchard & Farrar, Dock Square, here we are. You say price isn’t your concern.”

“No. Was the whiskey distributed as far as Lawrence?”

“Very likely. Rail service was excellent between Boston and Lawrence by the turn of the century. Of course, the temperance
folks fought the whiskey business, but Blanchard is a good old New England name, and the Blanchard & Farrar distillery bottled
several different brands.” He runs a finger down a page. “My book lists Old Dock and Clover Leaf, but the premium whiskey
was Beacon Club. Your flask… its paper label is long gone, but I’d guess it’s the cheaper spirits.”

“For public taverns?”

“And kitchen barrooms.”

“What?”

He chortles. “Just what it sounds like, taverns in home kitchens in Lawrence.”

“Family taverns?”

“Women typically ran them, but the patrons were men. The kitchens were warm in the winter, homey and comfortable. The men
played cards, and the women had themselves a nice little business. Of course, the city fathers tried to shut them down, but
they dotted the neighborhoods of the mill workers. You do know about the Lawrence mills?”

“A little.”

“Chances are, if it came from Lawrence, your flask contained the whiskey of mill workers. They probably tippled in a kitchen
bar in an area called the Plains.”

“The Plains—that’s it. That’s the neighborhood.”

“There you are. Mystery solved.”

I wish.

The Orange Line subway car clanks and jerks and smells of hot grease and ripe sneakers. Every seat is taken. It’s 2:08 p.m.,
and I’m avoiding the parking hassles around the Corsair Financial building. QUART is back on my top shelf, untouched by me,
thanks to several towels, though I don’t feel closer to finding Steven’s killer. The flask took me to a world of primal fear
and hope in the Plains neighborhood where Steven’s family toiled as immigrants. Though the kitchen bar was a business venture.
Someone in Steven’s family defied the odds and got a business going on the side. How does that history connect to his life?

To his death?

I grip a pole in this subway car and flex knees in a ski-slope tactic to stay upright. At each lurch, my muscles cry foul
from day-after miseries of Flint Ridge Trace’s beloved Aztec.

Suppose Drew Vogler follows the family tradition of near misses. If not a slamming car trunk or runaway horse, maybe some
kind of hanging plant falling from its bracket. In a gray and cream basket-weave skirt and jacket, I’ve got the Xerox of the
Corsair sheet that the Right True Clean crew found behind Steven’s mantel. At the right moment, I’ll ask. Maybe it’s connected
to Helping Hand.

The man who greets me on the seventeenth floor of a brass and glass high-rise looks uncannily like Steven except for the mustache.
He’s about six feet, thirty-plus, in dark slacks, a navy blazer, and club tie, his face the jaundice yellow of a fading tan.
“Andrew Vogler,” he says. “Call me Drew. Welcome.”

But we shake hands with conspicuous delicacy on his part. No wonder. The fingers and the backs of his hands are raked with
raw cuts and deep red gashes.

“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Cutter? Sarita, please hold my calls.” This to a gorgeous Latina receptionist with espresso eyeliner.
We enter a small conference room with Aalto chairs and paintings of clipper ships and horses.

“Ms. Cutter, I’m sorry about your mishap with Aztec yesterday. My mother is seriously concerned. Everyone’s embarrassed. Please
sit here so you don’t have to look at any horses, not even in picture frames.”

His courtesy is touching. He holds my chair, seats me before a bank of sailing ships across the birch table. He displays his
hands in plain sight, like a European at dinner.

“My mother hopes you’re feeling better.”

“Eleanor needn’t worry. No one forced me into the saddle. Please tell her I’m a bit sore but unharmed.”

“You’re a good sport. But I can tell you that horse is—excuse my vulgar language, Aztec is a crotch rocket, especially on
the creek trail. You’re not the first, but I guarantee you’re the last. This time Mother’s learned her lesson.”

So Andrew Vogler practically admits I was booby-trapped. Keep calm, Reggie. Keep your head. The fact is, I’m fixated on his
hands, trying not to stare. Steven’s death wounds fill my mind. Have the police seen these gashes?

“How about coffee, Ms. Cutter—or join me in a bottled water?”

Deft as a Ritz bartender, Andrew flaunts the wounds while handling glasses and ice from a concealed fridge. He winces but
chats as if nothing’s wrong.

“Sorry, fresh out of lemon wedges.” We drink. Then he reaches gingerly into his inside pocket and puts an envelope on the
table between us. “This is a list of names for the memorial service—Corsair people and old acquaintances from a few years
ago. They’re on address labels. We put a roll of stamps in there.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Sarita worked hard to get everybody, but it’s been so hectic and miserable around here.”

“Since Steven’s”—I say it deliberately—“murder.”

He looks me straight in the eye and nods. “Savage, barbaric… no words fit. We’re all in shock. The whole office is on
edge. The police have been here every day to question our brokers. Dad flew in for a long interview with them last week. My
turn’s this afternoon. I understand you were… Steve’s new landlady?”

“Yes.”

“They say you found the… him.”

“
They
say?”

“Nobody in particular. Office talk, e-mails across the cubicles.”

So I’m a Corsair factoid. “It’s true,” I say. “And it was gruesome beyond description.”

His face pales beneath the yellowed tan. “But we’re very thankful for your help on the memorial service. You’ll want to ask
my sister about singing. She does Mozart, all the classical. Here’s her number. She hangs out at a boathouse on the Charles,
the Renfrew Rowing Club.” Andrew spells “Renfrew.” “Steve loved Dani’s pop style. ‘I Will Always Love You’ was his favorite.”

Suddenly he breaks off, squeezes his eyelids shut, takes out a handkerchief, and daubs his eyes. “Excuse me… losing it.
This is the first death of someone really close, and the service is going to be tough.” His eyes film over. “Damn.”

“I know you were close to Steven. Both your parents—and Margaret—told me you were like brothers.”

“Since grade school. Practically a whole lifetime.”

“And you saw one another almost every day.” Which I know is untrue. I want to see his reaction.

He keeps blinking. “Actually, in recent years, Ms. Cutter, I didn’t see Steve that much. Our schedules didn’t fit. He worked
out of his apartment, and he came into the office at odd hours. Outside Corsair, we traveled different routes. I think we
just took each other for granted. He was around, I was around. We e-mailed constantly, moved the paperwork—but mostly from
our workstations. Workwise, we were in sync. If you don’t mind—I’m trying to kick the cigarettes.” He pops a piece of beige
gum. “Nicotine to combat nicotine. Strange. Everything feels strange now. I hope the church is big, because it’s going to
be crowded. Most people on that list would tell you Steve did them some special favor. Me most of all.”

“Because you were so close.”

He nods. “Steve’d give the shirt off his back. To me, he was like a counselor. A couple years ago, I was ready to quit Corsair.
Money isn’t everything. I felt stuck in an office with a phone grafted to my ear. A fishing camp in Maine was up for sale.
It seemed a better bet.”

“You felt burned-out?”

“Burnout for sure. I called Steve, and we went out for chicken fingers and a bucket of brews. And I told him I felt like a
money machine. He knew I couldn’t tell my dad. He built Corsair from nothing. It’s his big success… did he tell you about
the cranberries? Well, let’s not go into that. Anyway, I laid it out to Steve. And you know what? When we left that eatery,
my life was turned around.”

“No more Maine?”

“Here’s what Steve said to me: ‘You’re not their money machine, you’re their pilot. You fly them to their destination.’ It’s
service work. That’s the point.”

“Like, humanitarian service?”

“It’s not so far-fetched. A high-energy investor can get reckless, a timid one too cautious. Opportunities are lost either
way. People’s lives can take off or crash. Look at the market collapse, the stock scandals. Investment is personal. The right
advice means everything. You see, our specialty here at Corsair is select stocks we earmark for high performance in the short
run. Contrary to some viewpoints, the creation of wealth need not move at a snail’s crawl nor risk disaster. The hare can
beat the tortoise.”

“So you and Steven worked together in higher-risk projects?”

“High-risk great opportunities.”

I’m ready to ask about the scrawled mantel sheet but see pale adhesive marks on the skin of his hands, as if he’s just now
pulled off bandages. He did not cut himself piloting stock portfolios.

“Ms. Cutter, I’m probably talking too much about myself.”

“No, we’re remembering Steven. He gave me first aid when I fell on the street the day before his death. He was quite close
to my late aunt, Josephine Cutter. He called her Jo. Did you ever meet her?”

“Josephine Cutter? I don’t think so.”

“Steven said he sometimes helped her, gave her a helping hand.”

He doesn’t even blink. Not one facial feature reacts to the term. Nor do his shoulders move, nor fingers.

“I wonder, was my aunt a Corsair client? I’m her heir, you see, and I’m still trying to sort out her financial records.”

“Hey, easy to check.” He hits a phone button. “Ned, see if the name Josephine Cutter appears in our master client file . .
.
C-u-t-t-e-r
.” We wait. Ned replies, no Cutter.

“I suppose that unofficial advice on Steven’s part would violate Corsair company rules.”

“SEC regulations, you mean. A rep would be subject to fine or suspension. The Securities and Exchange Commission is tough
and getting tougher.”

“I see.”

“Unless maybe Steve advised your aunt on an informal basis.”

“That’s possible. As I said, he gave her a helping hand.”

Still no visible reaction. “Was your aunt a person of means?”

“She was a high school teacher. Her income was modest.”

“Well, Corsair wouldn’t like it, but nobody’d make a federal case out of a few tips to a little old lady—no offense to your
aunt.”

Which tells me Andrew never met Jo, because nobody would call Jo Cutter an LOL.

“Remember, Ms. Cutter, I didn’t see much of Steve here at the office the last couple years. He turned up for family occasions,
my stepmother’s birthday, and, of course, at Flint Ridge. You could say it this way—I like the ladies, but Steve decided to
swing with the guys. A whole lot follows from that, if you know what I mean. I’m not judging good or bad, just saying there’s
a big difference.”

He holds out his hands. “But underneath everything, I have one huge consolation. You probably noticed all these cuts? A nurse
scrubbed them with a brush, pure torture. And they got infected, so it’s taken longer. I just took off the gauze and tape
this morning.” He holds them up. “There’s something particular I can tell you… if you have the time, I mean… it’s
about me and Steve.”

“I’ll make the time.”

He stows the gum in one cheek. “You were busy with Aztec, so I don’t suppose you saw our horse, Diablo? He’s one hell of a
horse. Steve and I owned him together, fifty-fifty. It’s the one thing we shared, and Steve paid his half for boarding even
though I rode him most of the time. Steve didn’t own a car, so I was usually the one at Flint Ridge.”

“I saw Diablo,” I say.

He hesitates. “So… did you happen to notice his buttocks and shoulders?”

“The lacerations?”

“It’s that obvious. Who am I fooling? You probably got the whole Andrew-and-Steve story too, because my mother loves telling
the before and after. I’ll bet she showed you photos and ribbons from when I was seven years old, didn’t she? She probably
told you that I was the wild child? I’m used to it, more or less. I’m the one who broke the rules, drove everybody crazy.
My poor sister, no wonder she’s anorex—… anyway, with Steve, it’s true, things calmed down.”

He manages a boy-devil smile. “Don’t think Steve and I were choirboys. One summer we caddied and crashed golf carts racing
on a fairway at night. We were both fired and spent the rest of that summer fishing. And, of course, riding at Flint Ridge.
Looking back, though, without Steve I’d probably be in jail. I mean that, jail.”

“Surely that’s more fear than reality, Mr. Vogler.”

“Drew. Call me Drew.” He pops another nicotine gum, chews hard, looks away. “Can I tell you a secret? The night before he
was… the night before he died, I had one chance to come to Steve’s rescue. That’s my consolation.”

“You mean that Monday?”

“Monday night, and I’ve been dodging my mother ever since. At least Diablo’s healing. There’s no infections, so Vicky tells
me. She’s a good soldier, keeps things quiet, but she suspects some kind of negligence. As for scarring, we’ll have to wait
and see.” He tugs at his tie. “I felt terrible about it, and so did Steve. My first worry was to dress the cuts, and the second—”

“Drew, you’re losing me.”

“Sorry. That Monday was just a horrible night.” He swirls his ice. “Who’d guess that Steve would decide to take Diablo for
a night ride? Just a snap decision. He borrowed a car and headed up to Flint Ridge. Mother wasn’t home. He went to the barn,
saddled up, thought he knew the trail, but he got lost in the woods. Flint Ridge joins other farms, you see, and there’s trails
for miles. Anyway, Steve got caught in brambles, then a barbed-wire fence.”