Now You See Her (5 page)

“Are their leaders called Doc?”

“Not that I know. What’s up?”

“I’m doing research. They smoke marijuana for religious reasons, right? Bob Marley and all that.”

“All that.”

“Do they preach? Is missionary work required, like Jehovah’s Witnesses? Or public preaching?”

“It’s based on Bible verses about hair and herbs. And the Lion of Judah. You could ask Marfah. Remember him?”

A scowling boy who hung around our Utica house and ate everything in sight. “Where is he?”

“In law school.”

“That boy got into law school?” Imagine, a lawyer with dreadlocks.

“At Northeastern. In Boston near you, in fact. You could look him up.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Gotta check the kiln, Mom. See you in a few days. Bye.”

I go to the Web and Google Rastafarian and read, “Early Rasta mystical experience emphasized the immediate presence of JAH
within the ‘dread’ (God-fearer)…Through union with JAH, the dread becomes who he truly is but never was.”

Mystical paradoxes were never my strong suit. I hit another Web site, this one illustrated with lions and a map of Jamaica.
“Rastafarians say scriptures prophesied the Emperor of Ethiopia as the one with feet unto burning brass… and hair of whose
head is like wool, the symbol of the Lion of Judah.” There are biblical quotations from Genesis, Exodus, and Proverbs, all
about the eating of herbs, none mentioning marijuana. Their colors are green, gold, and red. The red robe—was it Big Doc’s
vestment?

There’s nothing at all, however, about preaching or music, no Old Testament verses on poisons. I go to other Web sites, but
not one lists an obligation to stand outside on a porch preaching. Rastafarians speak out, the Web sites inform me, against
poverty, oppression, and inequality.

Could these be Big Doc’s “poison”?

I’ll ask Devaney. Sloppy case notes from the crackhead years are understandable; so are mix-ups on witnesses. But a ranting
preacher with dreadlocks in a red robe in a cult house blasting music at full volume? That would make a surefire lasting impression.

Unless Suitcase Mary’s brain is scrambled, that’s information Devaney withheld from me.

Deliberately? For reasons of his own? What about the sideways gaze, that guilty look as he pulled his tie? Guilt at Henry
Faiser’s imprisonment, I thought at the time.

But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe Devaney’s hiding something from me. The Homicide Division is not, of course, obligated
to inform psychic Reggie. I’m out of their loop.

But not necessarily out of their danger zone. Yes, I serve on a need-to-know basis, but it’s my ribs on fire at a murder site.
Thrilled to work with cops, I could be death’s own candidate for another clump of bone-white birches. I will indeed confront
the man. My ultimatum: tell me everything about the case, or else count me out.

Biscuit’s water needs freshening, and I put in the call to Devaney, grab a sandwich, and get back to “Ticked Off.”

The phone rings in minutes, but this voice is high and breathy. “Ms. Cutter, this is Angie from Dr. Buxbaum’s office. The
doctor asked me to call because the bathroom faucet in his apartment is dripping. He asks that you have it repaired. He would
appreciate promptness. He wants you to know it’s affecting his sleep. He trusts you will take care of it.”

I stare at the phone as if it’s a burst balloon. No showdown with Devaney. Instead, plumbing service for H. Forest Buxbaum,
D.M.D. I picture him drilling and filling, a high-maintenance tenant. This could be the start of phone pal chats with Angie.
“Dr. Buxbaum needs his lightbulb changed … his storm windows raised … lowered … grease trap cleared … shirts starched, shoes
shined.”

Excuse my nanosecond of self-pity, but in my previous life, plumbers were on autodial, along with the pool service guys, electricians,
lawn care experts, florists, vets, hairstylists, spa technicians, tutors for the kids all through school.

But with my divorce settlement stocks collapsed, I cannot take one dollar for granted. The five I gave Suitcase Mary—an impulse
I can ill afford. “Plumber” is no longer a touch-tone tap away, but a synonym for debit. I can’t simply throw money at leaks.
My new life isn’t calling but being the plumber.

“Please tell the doctor I’ll see to the faucet.”

To think, at this time of year, top management and spouses always met at Amelia Island. We played doubles, and one year Martha
Stewart—of course, before her trial—flew in to demonstrate bonsai. So many flights on the company Gulfstream with the onboard
three-star chef.

Meanwhile, back on earth, my late Aunt Jo, a high school history teacher and community activist extraordinaire and psychic
too, was probably fixing faucets for her tenant. Did she drag the toolbox from the back closet and thumb through the Complete
Do-It-Yourself Manual? Not that she mentioned it in her holiday visits to our suburban homes.

Jo in her seventies, wielding a wrench? Knowing my aunt, I have to answer yes.

And me now in my mid–late forties, a self-pitying pampered wimp? Absolutely not. In jeans and a sweatshirt, I grab Jo’s toolbox
and read up on “Faucets” in the manual. Stillson wrench, spindle assembly, and knurled nut sound like Urdu. Never mind, Reggie.
Get upstairs and give it your best.

Buxbaum’s bathroom sink faucet is indeed dripping. Step one, turn off water below sink, then remove faucet handle and turn
wrench counterclockwise. But it’s stuck. I push and pull, grunt and yank. It’s much worse than jar lids. Then the wrench slips.
Two nails break to the cuticle, but the faucet handle gives at last.

On to the packing nut and back to the wrench, which feels as heavy as gym equipment. It’s a strain. So much for the biceps
of Rosie the Riveter. My cuticles sting, and this is taking a long time. What if H. Forest Buxbaum comes home to find me here?
The very thought is a big incentive to get this done. Two-handed, I give the wrench a shove, and the nut loosens. Remove the
cracked old washer, insert a new one. Back to the wrench, tight and tighter. The drip has stopped. It’s done.

Ta-dah!

I did it. Me. Success on my maiden voyage with wrench. Break out the bubbly. Ride me aloft on a parade float. It’s a one-minute
high.

Then it’s over. Done with. I put the toolbox back and think: what if one life leads to small deeds like the faucet washer
and endless cups of tea? As the poet said, measuring life in spoonfuls. What if the alternate route means fire, danger… and
death? Yes, maybe the ultimate big D, though it’s risk with a purpose, not cheap thrills. It gives the term “to die for” real
meaning. It makes Jo’s bentwood rocker a launchpad, not a rest stop.

Fact: I’m damn lucky to be here.

Psychic service a la Reggie is my ace card and ticket to ride. Henry Faiser doesn’t know I exist, but come hell or high water,
I mean to find out what happened thirteen years ago on Eldridge Street. I know a little something of how it feels to be imprisoned.
If Faiser is innocent, I’m here to prove it and help set him free.

It’s almost four and overcast when I set out with Biscuit for Tsakis Brothers Grocery. On her own, the dog would sniff every
hydrant and parking meter, but this isn’t a leisurely stroll. Devaney hasn’t called, and I need information. We walk a half
mile on Tremont at a brisk pace on a chilly, overcast afternoon.

The brass bell at the store’s front door tinkles. Two baritone voices call, “Beeskit!”

“Mees Reggie!”

“Ari, George.” The Tsakis Brothers’ store is an aromatic world of coffee and cheeses, parsley and strawberries and bread.
Both brothers smile their warmest greeting, their black eyes twinkling beneath thick dark brows. Ari is sorting tomatoes,
while George waves from behind the deli case, where he’s slicing cold cuts for a buzz-cut man in a blue jacket. In white aprons
against dark trousers, the Tsakis brothers could be twins, except George is clean-shaven with a thick head of hair, while
Ari’s scalp shines as if polished, his mustache somewhere between handlebar and walrus.

Biscuit sits, her shoulders taut. She can’t wait for the trick she’s about to perform. Her white front paws are out, tail
whapping like a black and white windshield wiper. Ari reaches into his apron pocket and tosses a dog snack as Biscuit goes
airborne to catch it. She chomps and swallows, and then they do it all over again. Paying Ari at the register, the customer
scratches the dog’s head as Biscuit goes to her favorite spot by the big bag of onions. She lies down. Biscuit is in heaven.

To tell the truth, my own idea of heaven is increasingly Tsakis Brothers Grocery. As Jo’s niece, I am treated like family.
The grocery store is my neighborhood hearth.

“So, Mees Reggie, what you need?”

“Bananas, Ari.” I reach into the open produce bin, but he stops me.

“These too big. I get you some from the back.”

The legendary “back” is where the best and choicest of everything are kept for special customers, although everybody who comes
in seems to qualify as special. In moments, Ari returns with a ripe bunch of smaller fruit, which curls like fingers. “These
taste best. Some peoples likes the big ones, these out here for them. You want some strawberries too? Here, you try.” He offers
a ripe berry, enjoys my enjoyment.

“Delicious.”

“We say, win win.”

“Win win.” We smile. Ari will put the bananas and berries on my account. “Ari, George, here’s a question. Do you ever make
deliveries at Eldridge Place?”

George nods. “Big apartments, swanky. Customers phones us.”

“Do you remember Eldridge Street before the high-rise tower was built?”

“Before was different. Peoples from before, these are not our customers. We not deliver then.”

“But you remember the street, near the turnpike? A house with loud music? A big man stood outside and preached about poison.
He wore a red robe. And there was an auto body shop too. Cars.”

Ari bites his lip. George tightens his apron. They exchange glances but say nothing.

“I hear it all burned down. There was a big fire.”

“Long time ago. Our store was new.”

Both brothers seem agitated. George says, “Past, all finish.” Ari steps close. “Mees Reggie, why you ask this? Something happens
with that basement guy?”

“Stark?” The Tsakis brothers take a dim view of Stark. “Bad guy, Mees Reggie. We try to tell your aunt. Stark is one customer
we never miss. Go boom someday. We say, keep away from that guy.”

“This isn’t about Stark. He was on a ship in the Marines when the fire happened.”

“Then why you ask about fire?”

They both look worried. I have a magic word, however: it’s psukhé#233;, which is Greek for psychic. They knew about Jo’s powers.
In their eyes, she was Barlow Square’s own Delphic Oracle. The Tsakises believe psychic powers run in the family. Which evidently
is the case, though I was long loath to admit it. “It’s psukhé,” I say. “I’m trying to help somebody out.”

They nod. At last, George says, “We are new in America. We need a car. Somebody say go to B&B Auto on Eldridge Street. They
sell cheap.”

“You bought a car there?”

“We not know there is a problem.”

“Stolen car?”

“We not know.” They look sheepish. “You got into trouble?”

“Police takes the car.”

“Confiscated?” There must be a vehicle theft record. “What kind of car was it?”

“Ford,” says Ari. “Dodge,” says George.

They confer and agree to disagree. Neither recalls the model. George says it was a four-door. “Do you remember any names at
B&B Auto?”

At last, Ari says, “Carlo.”

“A mechanic? A manager?” Both men shrug. “Last name?”

“We not remember. We try to forget.”

“Maybe you have old papers filed away.”

“All cash.”

“Maybe you’ll remember later. It’s important. An innocent person could be freed from prison, a person who’s sick and badly
needs medical care.”

Ari picks up a tomato as two girls come in for chips and sodas and Newports. George says no cigarettes, the girls are too
young. It’s a standoff as I call Biscuit, wave bye, and head home. I’m counting on the Tsakis brothers’ memories of Carlo.
I’m counting on their conscience.

D
evaney left a phone message, but he’s gone when I call the station house. I wash the strawberries and treat myself to a bowlful,
one advantage of living solo—although sharing with a special someone would be nice. There’s still no word from the Hong Kong/Cairo
man on my voice mail. Is a promise still a promise? Suppose he doesn’t call, ever?

Well, so what? There are other fish in the sea and so on. Sulking and self-pity are not an option. I used up my quota in the
divorce. Life goes on.

I sleep badly, dreaming of cold riptides and swollen black sacks, grateful to awaken just before 7:00 a.m. to news about an
armed robbery at a convenience store in Saugus. TV coverage of the Dempsey case continues on all stations. You couldn’t avoid
it if you tried. One channel even shows her college yearbook photo. The TV ads for the governor’s race are starting. Michael
Carney and Jordan Wald shake hands against a backdrop of flags and applauding supporters.

I move closer to the screen. Carney, the gubernatorial candidate, is pink-cheeked and jovial with squinty eyes. Wald has a
jut-jawed, chiseled look and a penetrating gaze. I search his eyes for the deep sorrow of a parent who’s lost a child. Maybe
the TV image quality just isn’t vivid enough. Both men look like they’ve had their teeth whitened. I gaze in vain for a background
glimpse of an interracial couple who might own the “haunted” Marlborough house. Surely, the wind caused that front door to
slam. Or maybe the door hinges are off-balance. Or a pressurized closing mechanism pushed it shut. Meg and I were just too
rattled to talk about it driving back in the thick fog.

I take Biscuit out, feed her, make coffee. It’s cool with thin sunlight. Over cereal with a banana, I scan the Globe Metro
section, which is also filled with feature stories on the late Sylvia Dempsey. No bodies have been reported found in the city
or surrounding towns.