Now You See Her (21 page)

“Politicians?”

“Sure. And sports celebrities, TV personalities. We run the gamut. Don’t think for a minute we’re just ladies on the sidelines.”

“So Sylvia got Wald all by herself?”

“She showed her clout. The members took notice. Sylvia’s stock shot up. A garden can be a battleground. Sylvia had her goals.
Mickey, would you flatten the leftover cardboard? Thanks.” To me: “Now, what’s this about her clothes?”

I focus my pitch. “Sometimes in grief a family disposes of a loved one’s possessions too hastily and then regrets doing so.
Dr. Dempsey would serve a good cause and qualify for the appropriate deduction. Needless to say, a Chanel suit would enhance
our auction.”

Sissie flicks her ash. “Ah yes, Dr. Dempsey, the grieving widower.” Her sarcasm sounds an alarm.

“We find that requests are best made early.”

“Believe me, Bernie is the king of early.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They take their comfort where they find it, don’t they? On the prowl already, the younger the better. You know Bernie?”

“Let’s say I know the type.” I flick my ash and make a move. “I was married to one. Call it themes and variations.”

“Sylvia’s barely in the grave. And the insurance policy… rumors are flying like B-52s.”

“About Sylvia’s murder?”

“And Bernie’s money pit.”

“You mean his skin business? Advent Tissue Science?”

“It’s his ATM.”

We puff. Eager to pepper her with questions, I control myself and stay neutral. “I understand Advent got venture capital investment.”

“For his lab and his plane, so he can ski the Tetons.” Sissie crushes her cigarette underfoot. “Bernie’s looking beyond pimply
teens and skin cream. The clinic was just the start. He’s always had his eye on money and the social circuit. Some thought
Sylvia was his stepping-stone. His charm paid off.”

“Doesn’t it always?”

She nods. “But his temper, that’s Bernie’s Achilles’ heel.”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“All true. Provoke him and he’ll stare you down with those fire-and-brimstone eyes. You’ve met him?”

“Maybe once.”

“Never rub him the wrong way. You don’t want to meet those eyes.” Sissie looks at me with a watery gaze. “Sylvia’s Chanel
at auction… ghoulish, don’t you think?”

“Didn’t Jackie Kennedy’s suit and pillbox hat go to the Smithsonian?”

“I don’t remember.”

Actually, neither do I. “Could you call him for us?”

She hesitates. “Where is this auction held?”

“The Four Seasons.” Which is a lie. “Next year, possibly the Ritz.”

This is how I gain entrance to Sylvia Dempsey’s dressing room.

It’s the next Tuesday, a hellishly hot afternoon, when I climb the stairs behind the Dempsey housekeeper, the broad-faced,
bushy-browed Mrs. Manosa, whose black polyester swishes as she leads me across the carpeted balcony of the Chestnut Hill Tudor.
The house is furnished in heavy Queen Anne mahogany with virgin-white porcelain objets, mostly figurines of children. Sissie
Hehrborg, bless her, played the middlewoman. I’m led to understand that as the StyleSmart representative, I can select wardrobe
items under Mrs. Manosa’s watchful eye, with the stipulation that I provide proof that StyleSmart is a registered 501C3 not-for-profit
agency. I must also provide wardrobe appraisal of each donated item. Dr. Bernard Dempsey, it seems, is not too devastated
to think about tax deductions.

The Dempseys, it’s clear, had separate bedrooms. Sylvia’s is decorated in toile wall covering and furnished with a sleigh
bed and Empire dresser decked with the couple’s wedding photos. The eight-by-tens show a slender, ivory-complexioned Sylvia
in her twenties, blond hair swept into a French twist, eyes gazing heavenward in the classic expression of faith and staged
bliss. She’s in a gown of organza with seed pearls, a popular design of twenty years ago. Facing opposite is the tuxedoed,
olive-complexioned Bernard, slight of build with a narrow face and receding hairline. Sloe-eyed, I’d say, but not hellish.
At the time of his wedding, he looked about thirty-five.

Oddly, there are no other photos in the room, no record of life’s progression. The polished picture frames, I notice, rest
on surfaces that are coated with dust, as if the room has been neglected and the wedding photos placed here within the last
day or two. The night tables and mirror, too, are dusty, and a cobweb loops from a lamp finial to the shade. What housekeeper
would fail to notice and act? Unless perhaps superstition keeps Mrs. Manosa out of this room. Or orders from Dr. Dempsey.

In the doorway to Sylvia’s walk-in, the housekeeper stares straight ahead, mute and still. Finally, she says, “The doctor,
he says you can take from here.”

I begin to sort and select from among the newest goddess gowns in pastel chiffons, then the club suits with midthigh skirts,
finally the jackets and shoes, most with five-inch spike heels. Sylvia definitely liked her heels high and in browns and blacks,
tan, pinks, pale pistachio, open-toed and closed. Apart from two pairs of flats, none of these shoes were meant for walking
any distance, certainly not from Copley Place to the Charles. Perhaps Sylvia took a taxi. Or someone gave her a ride. Her
killer?

I shudder, then spot a dusky pink Chanel suit, whose proximate value I list before slipping it into a garment bag. Mrs. Manosa
nods, and I wipe my perspiring face and proceed to a cocoa Valentino gown and two Jil Sander pantsuits. Several outfits hang
with the store tags still on. A sign of planning ahead or compulsive shopping? Or an incentive to lose five pounds?

“May I use a restroom?”

Mrs. Manosa points to Sylvia’s bath, and I’m suddenly surrounded by the marble Jacuzzi, three sinks, lavender, linens, Khiel’s
lotions. Running the cold tap at a high splash with the door closed, I open the medicine cabinet and scan shelves of eyedrops,
a razor, floss, a tube of sunscreen. Each shelf shows gaps, as if containers were removed. There’s not one expired antibiotic
or prescription medicine of any kind. What did she take? Paxil? Zoloft? Xanax? I count six empty slots and close the cabinet.

The clock is running, and Mrs. Manosa waits outside the door, from which a lemon terry robe hangs on an inside hook. I reach
to the bulging pocket, find tissues and a lip balm, then lift up the hamper lid to see a mesh bag of soiled hosiery. I flush,
wash my hands in the cool water, and emerge with a question about purses or handbags. The housekeeper shows me a drawerful
of beaded evening bags.

“Mrs. Manosa, do you have a box for these?”

She slips downstairs to search for one, and I open Sylvia Dempsey’s lingerie drawer to find a surprise: a neat stack of pale
cotton panties, chaste bras, neutral camisoles and slips. It’s as if the era of Victoria’s Secret passed Sylvia by. Under
the Chanel and Valentino, she wore the lingerie of a nun. A nun in spike heels?

In the next moments, like a dry cleaner, I go through pockets, retrieving hairpins, handkerchiefs, and a few coins, all of
which I set aside on the dusty dresser. In the purses are papers, a CVS receipt, a cosmetologist’s card, a theater ticket
stub, a to-do list, and a note, which I scan in haste: “Just to say I appreciate what you do for me—J.” At the sudden sound
of Mrs. Manosa’s footsteps, I cram these papers into my pocket. I box the purses, complete the appraisal paperwork, and make
my way to the front door under Mrs. Manosa’s escort.

It’s hot and windy as I begin to load my Beetle and hear an engine roar. A huge black Mercedes zooms up fast behind me. The
tires spit gravel. Clutching the garment bag, I jump back as the car stops about a foot from my bumper. I catch my breath
and watch a slender, bald, dark-suited man get out. He yanks off dark glasses, plants his legs apart, and stares. In his mid-fifties,
he’s olive-skinned with sloe eyes.

“Dr. Dempsey?” He neither speaks nor nods. His gaze hardens to a stare. “Dr. Bernard Dempsey?”

He slams the Mercedes door and glares in silence. Two fat robins hop nearby, but the glaring gaze does not shift. It intensifies.
Awkwardly, I load the car. My mouth is dry, my scalp prickling in the heat. Those eyes lock on my every movement. “I left
paperwork with Mrs. Manosa…”

My words die in the face of the silent stare. I feel it on my back as I get into my own car and shut the door. I feel it through
the back window as I turn the key and nudge the gas. I try to look straight ahead, but the rearview mirror is a summons. In
the glass is a statue of a man, taut as a palace guard, his fixed glare beamed at me like twin black lasers. Those eyes follow
me all the way back to the city.

J
ust to say I appreciate what you do for me—J.”

The card pocketed from Sylvia Dempsey’s purse is vellum, the message in blue ballpoint in a crabbed handwriting.

Is J Jordan Wald?

The chill of Dempsey’s cold stare lingers, so I’m wearing a sweater as I sit at the kitchen table where I’ve spread the miscellaneous
bits from Sylvia’s purses. Technically, this is all the widower Bernard’s property. Would he have a ready guess about J’s
identity?

J for Jordan? The signature letter swings wide with a bold flourish. Perhaps Sylvia worked on his campaign and contributed
money and got this thank-you. Perhaps the doctor is also a supporter of Carney-Wald. If so, the card is more protocol than
personal.

Then again, it could signal deeper acquaintance.

Suppose, however, the Dempseys were as politically split as their bedrooms. If Wald was a big fish to land for the Garden
Alliance program, Sylvia would conceal the effort here at home. The purse might have been a hiding place. Maybe other notes
lie in various cracks and crevices of her bedroom. Did the police find them?

Biscuit squeals and yaps at the rap of the door knocker. Stark is due to pick her up, and he appears on the dot of 7:00 p.m.
in jeans, a sleeveless navy T-shirt, and sandals with soles that probably started life as snow tires. “Why the sweater, Cutter?
You sick?”

“Fighting a chill. Where’s the bike?”

“Fatso’s in the shop for maintenance. I drove a buddy’s pickup.” He scoops up Biscuit and roughs her ears. She loves it. “Are
you serving coffee, or is your work stoppage still on?”

“Stark, you’re getting far too much mileage out of one moody mini-moment. Come on, the galley’s open.” The three of us troop
to the kitchen, and I count the scoops and set out mugs. Biscuit thinks it’s a party.

“The Motorcycle Safety Foundation folks tell me they’re reviewing your application.”

This from my own Mr. Hell’s Angel. “Tell them to take their sweet time.”

“Gotta get in training, just like the pup.” Biscuit obligingly wiggles from head to tail. Stark says, “Sit,” and she sits.
“Roll over.” She rolls. “By the way, I’m extending her program.”

“Oh?”

“Gonna take her to Spy Pond, let her swim. I know a guy with a dock. I want to see how she dives.”

“Biscuit a diving beagle? I don’t like this.”

He looks coy. “You know, like dog triathlons. There’s extreme sports for dogs. She’s a sporting dog.”

“Stark, are you mad? She could be injured. Biscuit is a household pet.”

“She’s an athlete in training. I get her up off your couch.”

“She’s not allowed on the couch to begin with.”

He scratches her white belly and rocks her by her front paws. “I’m building aquatics into her program. She’ll learn new skills.”

“A tub bath is plenty of aquatics. And SeaWorld doesn’t feature diving dogs.”

“Don’t worry, I treat her right.” I can’t disagree. The coffeemaker gurgles and sighs. Agitated, I pour two mugs and hand
him the big one with the Bruins logo. “You need a program too, Cutter. We’ll borrow a bike for you, maybe a V-Star rice burner,
but what the hell.”

“A rice burner?”

“Made in Japan.”

“Stark, that’s crude racism.”

“It’s one biker’s patriotism.”

“Blind devotion to a motorcycle factory in Milwaukee?”

“Made in USA, that’s Harley. Where are these mugs from? China? Pakistan?” He lifts one. “Yeah, China. Used to be America that
made stuff. Now they’re gutting us like fish.”

“Here.” I slide the sugar bowl. “Domino. Pure cane sugar made in America.”

“With sugar subsidies to fatten the fat cats.”

“Hey, what’s going on with you?”

“The working stiffs are getting stiffed, that’s what. It’s taxation without representation. Today the rich bloodsuckers get
it all. For everybody else, table scraps.” He dumps in his five sugars, stirs, and chugs, then eyes my table. “What’s all
this stuff?”

“Call it lint from a woman’s pocket. I’m learning new life skills—pickpocketing and purse snatching.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s this J character?”

“I don’t know. Really, I don’t.” Coffee at this time of evening means surefire insomnia. I’ll lie awake worrying about the
dog, my kids, whether I heard a man murdered in the fog on Dartmouth Street. And of course, the constant: Henry Faiser. “What
do you know about handwriting analysis?”

“Camp Lejeune does not teach graphology, Cutter. Marines’ handwriting is lead and brass shell casings.” Stark leans to read
the vellum card. “Very fancy, this J. ‘Appreciate what you do for me.’ Woowee, you got a secret admirer, Cutter?”

A flush rises from my neck at the thought of a card signed by a certain man traveling in the Middle East. I continue to watch
the mail. “This wasn’t sent to me,” I say. “All the stuff you see here came from donated clothing.”

“So it’s trash, right?” I nod. “Then how come it’s all spread out in order like exhibit A?”

“It’s my neatness compulsion.”

“Try again, Cutter.”

I face him. “Okay, how’s this. It’s from the pockets and purses of a woman who was bludgeoned to death by the Charles last
April.”

He blinks. Biscuit whimpers. “The Newton woman?” I am silent. “The one that’s all over TV? Is this one of your psychic cop
gigs?”

“Yes and no.”

“What about the senator’s son? What about the black guy in Norfolk?”

“Henry Faiser, he’s the main case. This one is…related.”