by Barbara Ross
I felt fine. The scary episode the night before must have been one of my usual panic attacks combined with a fair amount of alcohol and an overstimulated imagination.
People passed me, hurrying to their destinations. When I got to the corner of Marlborough and Dartmouth streets, I stood for a moment looking at Marguerite’s town house. Which window framed the room that would be mine? All the rooms on the second floor were occupied, so I assumed I’d be on the third, tucked under the mansard roof.
Before I could get to the front door, Clive stepped onto the stoop. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Hullo. Don’t tell.”
“Of course not,” I answered as I climbed the front steps. “Your secret is safe with me.”
The color drained from his handsome face. “What secret? Why would you think I have a secret?”
Which of his many secrets was he worried about? That he wasn’t who he said he was? That his app was a scam? Or, that he’d married Vivian for her money, perhaps a pointless effort if Marguerite found a way to cut him out. “Clive, you just told me you have a secret. You asked me to keep the smoking quiet.”
“Yeah, well.” He recovered himself. “Sorry. I’m a little off. It’s crazy in there.” He inclined his head to indicate the inside of the town house. “Everyone’s getting dressed, fighting over the bathrooms.” Clive looked down at the front of his snappy, charcoal-colored overcoat. “We’ve all got to look our best for old Hugh.”
“Paolo told me you read to him.”
“We all did. It was Hugh’s favorite way to pass the time, aside from napping, which he did a lot toward the end.”
“That was nice of you. Is everyone okay today?” I wanted to ask if anyone had stopped breathing in the night.
“Physically or mentally?” Clive answered my question with a joke.
“Today’s reception will be difficult for the entire family.” It wasn’t a day for joking.
He took a long drag. “My take with these WASPs is they’ll act like it’s a normal cocktail party on a normal day. They’re not big on public displays of emotion.”
If Clive Humphries wasn’t a WASPy name, I didn’t know what was. Perhaps “Clive” needed to remember more carefully who he was pretending to be.
Clive stubbed out his cigarette on the stone railing. “I hope there are some new prospects at this shindig I can pitch on GimmeThat!”
I played along. “Hugh’s friends must have money.”
He grunted. “Realtors. They invest in things they can see, touch, live, or work in. They’re not interested in tech. Besides, I already tried most of them as they came by the house to see Hugh near the end.”
I shuddered, thinking of Clive at the bottom of the stairs, buttonholing Hugh’s grieving visitors. “What about Vivian’s friends?”
Clive scoffed. Not many people can scoff, but Clive carried it off. “Already tried them too. I had one on the line, but her son got wind and put a stop to it. ‘She’s not a sophisticated investor. She doesn’t belong in something so risky.’ You know the drill.”
I didn’t. I knew about raising money for new businesses, but not doing it the way Clive operated. A gust of wind cut through my down coat. “Let’s go inside,” I suggested.
Clive opened the door and held it, like the gentleman he most definitely was not.
* * *
Marguerite was in the front hall, looking perfectly fit for a ninety-six-year-old. “You’re here.” She moved forward and took both my gloved hands.
“How are you?” I asked. “How did you sleep?”
“Quite well,” she answered. “Considering everything.” She gave a tilt of her head that indicated everything—Hugh’s death, the murder investigation, and Vivian’s marriage. Then, she called to Jake, who was in the living room. “Take Julia to her room so she can get settled. One of the center rooms on the third floor. They’re both made up.”
Jake and I chatted amiably as I followed him up the stairs. He was a likable guy, an easygoing presence in a house full of people who were anything but.
On the third floor, the ceilings were low, the rooms small and obviously meant for servants. In my room, a single bed was pushed against the wall and a naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Cracks spider-webbed across the dingy paint and discoloration from an old leak marked the ceiling.
Jake put down my suitcase. “Paolo’s in the room at the back, and Clive’s at the front.”
“Clive is?”
Jake let out a soft laugh. “Marguerite’s a stickler for propriety, I’m afraid. The room next to you was mine until my wedding.” He flashed his left hand with the simple gold band on his ring finger. “Of course, most nights, Marguerite goes to bed by ten, so she doesn’t know what happens after that. I did have some close calls when I was sneaking out of Tallulah’s room in the morning. I guess Clive will officially move down to Vivian’s room now that they’re married.” He looked at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the bureau. “I’d better get dressed.”
At the door, he lingered. “I’m sorry about the scene in the dining room last night. Lulah’s not normally like that, but she’s broken up about Hugh. Her dad was never in the picture, and her mom’s attention is sporadic, best case. Marguerite and Hugh were really her parents, in terms of what you’d expect from parents—consistency, stability, encouragement. Lulah’s had a lot to be sad about.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I had known Hugh.”
“You missed someone special.”
Not by my choice.
He turned to go. “Lunch is at one and the cars pick us up at two.”
When Jake was gone, I sat on the bed for a moment to decompress. I had no intention of unpacking. I wasn’t going to stay long.
I changed out of my jeans into the same skirt and top I’d worn the day before, the only decent clothes I’d brought. I found the bathroom down the hall, over the one on the second floor, and even less improved. The toilet had a pull chain that hung from a box high on the wall, and the shower was a jury-rigged tangle of plumbing over the claw-foot tub.
I returned to my room, thinking about the town house. The Black Widow was worth two-plus million dollars, but Marguerite’s house had to be worth five times that. Its gently crumbling state wouldn’t deter a developer who would reno and condo it.
* * *
There was a soft rap on the door. When I called, “Come in,” it swung gently open and Paolo appeared. He was dressed in a sport coat and a crisply ironed shirt. He looked sharp and not at all sinister. “I stopped in on my way downstairs to see if there is anything you need.”
“Thanks. Is there a Wi-Fi password?” I asked, the very definition of disingenuous.
“No, no such conveniences. Mr. Clive uses the network of one of the neighbors. I myself do not use the Internet.”
“You don’t use the Internet at all? Don’t you work with an agency that places you? How do you find jobs?”
He shook his head. “No agency. Word of mouth from client to client. An exclusive group looking for something particular. I have been lucky in my placements.”
That seemed odd to me. Could he really be employed full-time by personal recommendations only? “You told me Hugh never asked you to mail a package to my mother, and I believe you. But I think you know something about that package, or the reason it was sent.” I didn’t know if he would respond. I wasn’t even sure he knew anything, really.
Eventually, he spoke. “In the last weeks, Mr. Hugh was unable to leave his room. As you will have heard, the family came in. Sometimes they talked, and most often they read to him. I left them alone with him. Toward the end, Mr. Hugh slept more frequently. Often they could read only a few pages before he dropped off.”
I nodded, hoping Paolo would go on. His forehead twitched. He took a deep breath. “I noticed that both Mrs. Vivian and Mrs. Tallulah searched his room. Drawers were left pulled forward. Books rearranged on the shelves. Small things, but when you spend as many hours in a room as I did that one, you know whe
n something has been moved.”
“Vivian and Tallulah searched the room separately?”
“It is funny that you ask that. I believe they both did, but not at the same time. First Vivian, then when she stopped, Tallulah. Then when Tallulah stopped, Vivian started again, only more frantic this time. She left things about. Mr. Hugh was even more often sleeping, less and less wakeful. It was like she didn’t think he would notice or she didn’t care.”
“When was this?”
“It started two weeks before Mr. Hugh died. The last time Vivian searched his room was the day before he died. She may even have searched it after. I am less frequently there, now that Mr. Hugh has passed. I know everything in the room was supposed to go to your mother. I’m sorry if something you expected to be there is missing.”
I had expected nothing. Nor had my mother. She thought Hugh had been dead for all these years. “What did you do about this searching, if anything?” I asked.
“When I first suspected Vivian, I told Mr. Hugh. I said, ‘She looks for something.’ He said he would take care of it. After that conversation, Vivian came and searched again. I mentioned it to Mr. Hugh again. He told me not to worry. So I didn’t. There were many things to attend to by then, so I let it go.”
Chapter 26
I helped Rose put the leftover sandwiches from the previous day on the table for lunch. “Did you sleep well?” I asked.
“Like a baby. That’s what a late-night brandy will do for you.”
The household gathered, but only Jake ate more than a nibble. The conversation was limited to “Please pass me the—” and “Thank you.” Everyone seemed to be doing his or her best to forget the scene from the night before and to prepare themselves for the next few hours, when they’d have to maintain their public faces while receiving condolences about Hugh.
The cars arrived and we departed. Paolo and Jake helped Marguerite down the treacherous front walk. Vivian put herself, Marguerite, Tallulah, and Clive in the first car and Jake, Rose, Paolo, and me in the second. Clearly we were the B group.
We drove a short distance and stopped outside a solid brick building with flags fluttering in the wind. I understood why at ninety-six Marguerite had needed a ride, but the rest of us could have easily walked. Actually, given the vagaries of Boston’s one-way streets, traffic jams, jaywalkers, and kamikaze bike riders, we could have more easily walked than driven.
The driver of the town car jumped out and opened the rear door. He waved off the tip Jake offered. “Already taken cah of,” he said in a thick Boston accent. “I’ll be back to pick you up at fo-ah.” He looked toward the sky. “If you’d like me to come earlia, call. Ms. Morales has the numba.”
Inside the Harvard Club, a solicitous employee showed us to the room Marguerite had reserved for the occasion. I gathered she was a well-known guest, especially given the number of servers and others who approached her to say how sorry they were about Mr. Morales. As we walked down the hall, I thought about all the business deals done, the fortunes made and lost in these rooms across three different centuries, including our own.
We stood for a moment, staring at one another, and then there were voices in the hallway and wave after wave of people entered. We had formed a semicircle, not a receiving line exactly, but to make it easy for guests to greet the family as they came in. I didn’t know a soul, but Marguerite kept me firmly by her side, insisting I be introduced to everyone.
Hugh’s real estate friends were buttoned down and sleek, in well-tailored suits, both the men and the women. Tallulah and Jake’s friends were young and scruffy. I wondered what Marguerite made of the piercings and the body jewelry. Tallulah had covered her tattoo for the occasion, though she’d stuck with her usual heavy eye makeup. Her friends shuffled in, muttered “sorry about your uncle,” and went in search of the bar. I noticed Marguerite shaking her head, but their behavior wasn’t that different than the “so, so sorrys” and air-kisses of Vivian’s friends.
Vivian’s friends I recognized. They were the clubwomen and the volunteers, like the mothers of my prep school classmates. They were the kind of women who knew how things should be done and made sure they were done that way.
They were all women. Admittedly, it was 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, but my work experience told me the kinds of men these women would be married to could get away from the office in the middle of the day if they needed to. The men didn’t come, I assumed, because they didn’t want to, because they didn’t think it was important. Or, because there were no men—no husbands, partners, lovers, boyfriends. Vivian was a serial marryer. Maybe these were the women she returned to after each one ended. Her real tribe.
Vivian waved the ring Clive had “bought” her under their noses. Her announcement was met with shrieks and good wishes, so different from its reception at home. She didn’t seem to care about stealing the focus of the afternoon from Hugh. Tallulah stood with her cluster of friends and glared at her mother.
Clive had no friends, or at least none who thought it was important to show up for his wife’s cousin’s memorial reception. He leaned against the wall, champagne flute in hand.
I didn’t get the format of the event. Would someone—Marguerite, Tallulah, one of the friends—say some words about Hugh? But as Clive had predicted, everyone went about their business as if it was a normal cocktail party on a normal day, as if cocktail parties were normally held at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday. In the conversations around me, I heard snatches of reminiscences about Hugh, and conversations beginning, “When did you see him last?” But no one made a move to do anything more formal.
I spotted Paolo standing alone on the other side of the room and walked toward him. As I reached him, another woman strode purposely forward. “Paolo! How wonderful to see you.” She was a skinny woman dressed in a dark eggplant-colored suit. Her white hair was neatly coiffed, but from the rest of her it was impossible to tell how old she was or to guess if she was a friend of Vivian’s or Marguerite’s. She gave Paolo a tight hug, closing her eyes as if savoring the closeness. “It’s been too long.”
Paolo stepped politely out of the embrace. “How have you been, Mrs. Hoover?”
Her expression sobered. “Honestly, I have good days and bad. I miss Mom terribly, but her suffering is over. I’m so glad I was able to keep her in her home until the end. Thanks to you.” She turned to me and held out her hand. “I’m Claire Hoover, and you are—?”
“Ah, excuse me,” Paolo said. “This is Julia Snowden. She is a cousin to Mr. Morales.”
Claire Hoover shook my hand. “So nice to meet more family. I didn’t see you at the house when Hugh was ill.”
Where to even start? I hadn’t visited Hugh when he was sick because I thought he’d been dead longer than I’d been alive.
“Ms. Snowden lives in Maine,” Paolo said, as if that explained everything. Thankfully, for Claire it did.
“I must tell you what a wonder this man is,” she said, grasping Paolo’s forearm. “He was a saint with my mother, an absolute saint. He made her final days so joyful and comfortable. The whole family got to say their good-byes. My only regret . . .” She paused and her eyes filled with tears. The loss seemed deep and recent. “My only regret is that no one was with her when she died. But we had all seen her that day. She had a few more days on earth at best. I’m at peace with it.”
Paolo’s eyes slid from one side to the other. He took my arm. “I think we must talk to others. The family will be waiting.”
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll catch up.”
He turned reluctantly away. There was no way he could force me to move.
“When did your mother pass away?” I asked in a tone I hoped conveyed caring concern, not rabid curiosity.
“Two months ago. It was expected. She was quite elderly and suffered from heart failure and the beginnings of dementia. She died right before Marguerite brought Hugh home from the hospital the last time. The fortunate thing was the timin
g. When Marguerite called, I was able to recommend Paolo unreservedly, and happy that he found a new job so quickly. I suppose he’s looking now. I’ll try to think of any friends who might be in need.”
“How did you find Paolo?”
“From the Jenkinses. They’re here somewhere. Rita is in our book group with Marguerite and me.”
“Can you introduce me? I’d like to meet some of Cousin Marguerite’s friends.”
“Of course.”
It took only a few minutes with the Jenkinses, a husband and wife in late middle age, to discover that Paolo had cared for Mr. Jenkins’s father, who’d had a devastating stroke and then lingered for months. They spoke glowingly of the role Paolo had played in their household at the end of the senior Mr. Jenkins’s life.
“Were you with him when he died?” It was an inappropriate question, and somewhat out of the blue from a total stranger.
The Jenkinses didn’t seem to notice. “He passed away peacefully in his sleep,” Mr. Jenkins answered. “The night after my brother arrived from South Africa and had a chance to say good-bye. It was terrible. Dad lingered those last months after the stroke,” Mr. Jenkins said. “But he went, quietly, alone, without fuss, as he would have wanted.”
“Who recommended Paolo to you?” I asked.
“Mrs. Price.” Mrs. Jenkins pointed to an elderly woman seated in a chair against the wall. She hadn’t removed her overcoat and clutched her handbag as if she was on the street in the roughest part of town instead of at the Harvard Club. “Paolo cared for her husband during his final illness.” Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins both looked over at Mrs. Price. “Poor woman. I don’t think she’s gotten over his death.”
“Can you introduce me?”
* * *
By the time I’d finished talking to Mrs. Price, I was certain of what I had heard. “He was in so much pain,” Mrs. Price said. “He held on until our golden wedding anniversary. He was more lucid that day than he’d been in months. At midnight, we toasted. I fed him some champagne through a straw and left him. By morning, he was gone.”
