All in One Piece (33 page)

“We doubt it.”

“She told me she met Luis Diaz. Steven wanted her to teach him rowing. He’s in the Helping Hand video. Have you found it?”

“Not yet. We’re looking. We’re also pursuing the phone numbers on that Corsair sheet. You’re right, Reggie, it’s a mooch list
of elderly women. We’re looking into whether Damelin worked alone or had accomplices.”

“But Luis had nothing to do with Steven’s death, right?” They nod. “And Dani’s passion—it wasn’t about money, it was love?”
They nod. “But he’s gay…” Then I recall the prom photo, Steven and Dani. “Oh, that’s it. You’re saying she felt betrayed?”

“And abandoned. She was in love with Steven but jealous of the attention her family gave him. It takes a psychiatrist to make
sense of this, but her loving Steven was a way to try to get closer to her parents.”

“So when she learned that he was gay, she felt more exiled than ever?”

“Isolated, yes.” Devaney nods. “When Damelin and Alex Ribideau ended their relationship, we think she probably hoped Damelin
would turn to her. A new window of opportunity would open.”

“But it didn’t,” I say. “And she felt more alone than ever?” Again, they nod. “And that was enough to trigger the murder?”

Maglia says, “We have reason to believe that Andrew Vogler was involving himself in the gay men’s scene with Steven. We think
her discovery of that involvement was the trigger.”

“Because it excluded her totally. And betrayed her hopes. And made a fool of her.”

“Humiliated her, yes,” says Maglia, who gives me a grudging nod.

“I have a certain photograph of Andrew Vogler,” I say. “It could be useful evidence. I’ll give it to you.” I look from Devaney
to Maglia. “Have you got actual evidence against her?”

“On a warrant, we recovered a nail gun—and a crowbar.”

“And we’re looking for climbing shoes. Rock climbing shoes.”

Not ballet. Not Alex Ribideau. So Stark was right. “Then it was Dani who climbed my wall the night of the storm. But why?
Why me?”

“It’s the psychic thing, Reggie. She knew about your aunt’s psychic ability.”

“Yes, Dani first brought up Jo’s paranormal ability that afternoon we first spoke at the boathouse. Steven had told her about
it. She seemed intrigued and called it ‘cool.’ She asked me what it’s like. I told her a little.”

“You also confirmed to her that you’re psychic?”

“I did, yes. But why attack me?”

“Because she believed that sooner or later you’d learn, as a psychic, the identity of Steven’s killer. She was sure your psychic
power would expose her.”

“So she tried to run me down before she killed him. I’d have been… a preliminary murder.”

They nod. “Then she tried to kill you
after
killing Steven.”

“With the crowbar. And my shot at her missed.”

“You better appreciate that fact, Ms. Cutter.” Maglia glowers. “We’d have to consider charging you.”

Devaney leans closer. “But in a way, she was right. Your clairvoyant ability worked. Your vision involved water and this log
shape. You saw these things. They were major clues.” This statement, I am sure, is meant for Maglia’s ears.

Devaney jots a note. Maglia frowns. They rise. I rise. Devaney walks me out. We’re on the granite step. My arm throbs. “Reggie,
you did good, but we need to work together. Next time, we’ll do better.”

Next time.
Next time.
This is music to my ears, a waltz, rock and roll, samba. “No more murders at Barlow Square, Frank.”

“The case I’m thinking about is near the harbor.”

The
case?

“It might involve crystal meth, but I have my doubts. If your aunt was still with us… anyway, we can talk when you feel
better.”

“I feel just fine.”

“Another time, Reggie. I’ll come by for the photograph. You take care of that arm.”

My whole self is one giant ache and pain, but I drive home on cloud nine.

I park beside the familiar cherry-red Harley. On my front step, Stark lights a Camel and blows smoke rings into the November
air. “Having a tea party with the cops? You need a better class of friends, Cutter. How’s the arm?”

“Fine.”

“Is that lady talk for ‘hurts like hell’?”

“Like hell. And it’s time for my Percodan.”

“Watch that stuff. People get hooked.”

I open the door. “Stark, you’re not my nanny.”

He takes a drag and crushes the cigarette. “Some call it taking care of business.” That sneer of his. “Do I get my jacket
back?”

“Come in. You deserve more than your jacket.”

“Hey, I’ll tell you what, we’ll swap. Hold the door.” He goes into the motorcycle saddlebag, bounds up the steps two at a
time, and dangles a ten-pound sack as Biscuit goes crazy to see him. I read the label. “One Earth Naturals. What is it?”

“Dog food.” He scratches her belly. “It’s a better diet for Biscuit now that she’s going back in training. I’m thinking the
lamb with brown rice, barley, baby carrots.”

“
Baby carrots?
For a dog?”

“A triathlon dog. Here’s your mail, Cutter.” He scoops it up. “So who’s in Beirut?”

I grab the card, an aerial view of the Mediterranean. “Hi, Regina—A Lebanese signature dish is
samek harra,
a garlic fish with pine nuts. Doable in Boston. Let’s discuss. Yrs, Knox.”

“Cutter, your face is red.”

“Stark, you need to mind your own business.”

His eyes narrow. “I need to help with your dose of dope.”

In fact, I feel light-headed as he guides me to a front room chair and sprints for water and a pill and Biscuit jumps into
my lap.

“H
₂
O, Cutter.”

“Isn’t this where we came in?”

“It’s the year of the rerun.” He watches me swallow the pill and asks, “What are you looking at?”

“That bottle on the top shelf… I mean, flask.”

“Where?” He twists to see. “That old green whiskey bottle?”

“It’s a souvenir,” I say. “It’s from the Bread and Roses Strike you told me about. It’s about courage and… an immigrant
bloodline that self-destructed, that bottomed out over generations.”

“That sounds deep.”

“I guess there are no guarantees.”

“For what? You want brave hearts in fancy pants? Forget it. You want a rundown on who built America, go for the real backbones.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like the bogtrotters and swamp Yankees. They had to hack it themselves. They still do.”

Beneath that weathered complexion, do I detect a blush? “You sound personal, Stark.” He empties my water glass. “I know bogtrotters
are the immigrant Irish,” I say. “Are you part Irish?”

“Could be.”

“But what’s a swamp Yankee?”

He meets my gaze. “The Yankees that didn’t have a dime. They lived in the backwoods and fought in the Revolution. They’re
stubborn and independent. They farmed. They’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. They’re the real deal to this day.”

“Do their descendants ride Harleys?”

“Vehicle of choice, Cutter. You live by the right code, you live proud. You never get rich, but you answer the call as you
hear it. So what the hell, Cutter, you want me to pull that historical bottle down for you?”

“No… let it be up there. It’s a lesson. The past sends its messages, and we need to hear them. As I hear you now, Stark.”
He leans toward the dog. Yes, that coppery cast to his cheek, it’s definitely a blush. Biscuit licks my wrist, and I nuzzle
her. My nose clogs from the damn allergy as she looks at me with those soft brown eyes, so very—so very
beagle
.

“Cutter, don’t you go weepy on me.”

“It’s an allergy attack, Stark. It’s from animal dander.”

“I’ll take the girl out for a run,” he says.

“Joint custody, partner.”

“Joint custody, partner.” He gets her leash and puts his jacket on. I smell leather, Camels, hospital gauze. I’ll have a scar,
the doctors say. Devaney and the murder near the harbor cross my mind, and I reread the card about Lebanese garlic fish. Bring
it on, I think. I’m back from the dead, alive alive-o. Bring it on. Bring it all on.

The author wishes to acknowledge the use of the following sources:

Ardis Cameron.
Radicals of the Worst Sort: Laboring Women in Lawrence, Massachusetts, 1860-1912
(1993).

Ruth Milkman, ed.
Women, Work, and Protest: A Century of U.S. Women’s Labor History
(1985).

William Moran.
The Belles of New England: The Women of the Textile Mills and the Families Whose Wealth They Wove
(2002).

Louise Brady Sandberg.
Lawrence in the Gilded Age
(2004).

Cecelia Tishy, a Pittsburgh native who has also lived in West Palm Beach, Florida, and Fairmont, West Virginia, made her home
in Boston, Massachusetts, for twenty years. She left in 1987 to relocate to Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband, Bill,
and two daughters. When she isn’t writing crowd-pleasing mysteries, she is professor of American Literature at Vanderbilt
University. Her first published Reggie Cutter mystery novel is titled
Now You See Her.
She has also written, under the name Cecelia Tichi, several nonfiction works on such diverse subjects as country music and
muckraking in America. Visit her website at
CeceliaTishy.com
.