Iced Under

by Barbara Ross

  Three cases, or four if you counted Hugh’s, where a terminally ill person had died, “expectedly, but unexpectedly,” immediately after the arrival of a loved one, or some other important milestone was passed. No one regarded the deaths as suspicious, like no one in the town house regarded Hugh’s death as suspicious. Except for the person who had called the police.

  Paolo had tracked me around the room with his eyes, though he never approached me. When I saw his back was turned, I scurried out of the function room and ducked into the coatroom across the hall. I pulled the business card Salinksy had left the first day from my bag and turned my phone on. I noticed four calls from Chris, spaced about twenty minutes apart. I’d have to get back to him too. I called Salinsky first.

  “Detective Salinsky, Boston Police Department, Homicide,” he answered.

  “This is Julia Snowden, Hugh Morales’s cousin.”

  “Ah, the mysterious heir.”

  “Yes, that’s me. Or actually my mother is the heir. I need to speak to you as soon as possible. There is someone I strongly suspect in Hugh Morales’s murder. I need to tell you who it is and why. I want to do it face to face.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Harvard Club in Back Bay.”

  “Is the person you suspect there with you?”

  “Yes. And I’d prefer not to make a fuss here. It’s a reception in Hugh’s memory. I don’t want to disrupt it.”

  “I’m at the precinct. Come to the front desk and ask for me.” He gave me the address and ended the call. I turned to leave the coatroom and heard a snuffle. Great, someone had overheard me. “Hullo? Who’s here?”

  “It’s me.” Tallulah stepped out from behind a rack of coats, eyes red, nose running. The heavy eye makeup she always wore ran down her cheeks.

  “What’s the matter?” She looked so miserable, I stepped forward to embrace her. “I know you loved Hugh.”

  She sniffed again, stepped back, and blotted her nose with a tissue. “It’s not that. I mean, I miss Hugh and all, but that’s not it.” She threw her hand outward in a gesture of despair. “I hate my mother. I hate her. I hate her.”

  I put the best spin I could on it. “Perhaps she’s mourning in her own way.”

  “You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

  That brought me up short. “Tallulah, what are you saying? You don’t think your mother murdered Hugh, do you?”

  The color drained from her face. “No, no, no, no, no.” She shook her head violently.

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “I can’t tell you. You, more than anyone, I can’t tell.” She turned and fled the room.

  “Tallulah!” I chased her across the hall into the ladies room. “Tallulah!” She rushed into a stall and threw the lock. “Tallulah, come out. What’s the matter? What did your mom—?”

  The door to the ladies room swung open and two women walked in chatting about a third woman. I went to the sink and rinsed my hands. “I have to go,” I called out casually. “Will you make my excuses to the family?”

  “Where shall I say you went?” Tallulah’s relieved voice echoed from the stall.

  “Tell them I needed air.”

  * * *

  On the street, I pressed call, waiting impatiently for Chris. I wanted to meet with Detective Salinsky as soon as possible, but the repeated pattern of Chris’s calls intrigued me. Maybe he wanted to apologize—to say his statement about spending winters in the Keys had been a momentary lapse, not meant to be taken seriously. When he answered, I heard music and chatter in the background. “Julia. Hang on a minute. I’m in a bar. I’ll step outside.”

  In a bar? I erased the image of regret my imagination had etched on his handsome face. “You tried to reach me?” I sounded like a harried executive barking at a subordinate. I cleared my throat and tried for a softer, more girlfriend-like tone. “Sorry. I had my phone off at the memorial reception.”

  He didn’t seem to notice my bark. “I got a flight out.”

  This was news? I hadn’t realized he didn’t have one. “That’s good. Tell me when and I’ll meet you.”

  “I get into Logan at three-thirty tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I thought you were due back on Saturday.”

  “I didn’t want to take the chance. What did you think I meant when I said I got a flight? With the storm coming, the airlines are crazy.”

  Storm coming? What kind of storms did they have in Key West in February? “Is it a hurricane?”

  There was a burst of noise and laughter behind him. “What? I can’t hear you! I’m moving down the street.”

  “Is it a hurricane?” I repeated.

  “A hurricane? Of course not. It’s a nor’easter and it’s headed in your direction. They’re talking three feet of snow in two separate storms. The airline said if I didn’t fly home tomorrow it might be into next week. Have you been living in a bubble?”

  Evidently. “When is this coming?”

  “Starts up there tonight, but that will be the least of it. There’ll be a break tomorrow—that’s when I hope to get in—and then it’ll start up again late afternoon.”

  “Maine too?” I could imagine Sonny’s furious preparations.

  “Maine too. I think you should pick me up at the airport and we’ll head straight home.”

  I didn’t respond. Things were so unsettled here, but suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be home, in my little town, in my little apartment, going through my little routine. With Chris.

  “Julia? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll meet you at the airport tomorrow with your truck.”

  Another burst of random yelling, more like roaring, traveled through the phone. “Good. See you then. Love you.”

  “Love you too. Bye.”

  Chapter 27

  I walked quickly, head down, wishing I had more practical footwear than the pumps I’d worn to the memorial. My phone told me the police station was a mile and a half away. The temperature had dropped while I’d been inside the Harvard Club. The wind slapped my cheeks, bringing tears to my eyes. I looked along Mass. Ave. for a cab, but none appeared, unsurprising given the weather and the time of day. Uber told me my best-case ride was ten minutes out and expensive. I kept walking.

  The Area Five building was surrounded by squad cars and other police vehicles. Uniformed cops bustled in and out of the building, bundled up in long, waterproof overcoats and caps. The scene in the reception area was equally busy. I fought my way to the front desk and asked for Detective Salinsky.

  He appeared right away and escorted me to a conference room. We sat across from one another. He pulled a pen and his small notebook from the pocket of his sports jacket.

  “You needed to see me urgently,” he said.

  As if I needed reminding. “I’ve been at Hugh Morales’s memorial reception, where I met a woman named Hoover. She employed Paolo Paolini before Hugh and Marguerite did. Then I met a couple named Jenkins and a woman named Price, who had employed Paolo prior to that. They each told me an interesting story.” I recounted their histories as I understood them. Three terminally ill patients. Three quiet, peaceful deaths, each one after the family had gathered and said good-bye. Each one expected, yet surprising in its own way. Each one unattended, in a house filled with family.

  When I was done, Salinsky put his pen down. I noticed he hadn’t written anything, not even the names of Paolo’s former employers. “The people you spoke to didn’t mention any doubts?”

  “The deaths were expected. Both Claire Hoover and Mrs. Price expressed some regret that their family member was alone at the time of their passing, but no suspicion. These deaths were largely a relief to the family, and to the person who died.”

  He furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “You’re telling me about a ‘killer angel’ type who takes matters into his own hands when he believes his patients have suffered enough. I can see how you reached this conclusion. Taken together, these cases look worri
some. We never would have looked into Hugh Morales’s death if someone hadn’t called to express suspicion.”

  He sat back in his chair. “I checked you out, you know. Lieutenant Jerry Binder of the Maine State Police speaks of you highly, says you’ve got tremendous instincts. Unfortunately, you are wrong in this case. Mr. Paolini is not a suspect in Hugh Morales’s death.”

  “Even after what I’ve told you? Why not?”

  “Because it was Mr. Paolini who called us and tipped us off. We never would have begun this investigation if it weren’t for Mr. Paolini.” Salinsky’s thick lips turned up into something that came up short of a smile.

  My cheeks felt hot with embarrassment and disappointment. I’d been sure I was onto something with Paolo.

  “Is that all you’ve come to tell me?” Salinsky asked.

  I grasped at straws. “What about Clive? Have you looked into him?”

  Salinsky nodded. “Yup. He’s no more Clive Humphries than I’m the queen of England.” He paused. “Though it’s not, strictly speaking, illegal, to go by a name other than your own.”

  “Even if you marry under false pretenses? He and Vivian got married yesterday.”

  The eyebrows rose. “Seems like odd timing.”

  “Doesn’t it? Is it true wives can’t be compelled to testify against their husbands?”

  “Depends on the circumstances, but yes, that is generally true. Has Mr. Humphries done anything to incriminate himself since I saw you yesterday?”

  I hesitated. I’d already made one wrong accusation today. I thought about the dramatic dinner the night before and my conversation with Clive on the front stoop that morning. Really, there was nothing new. “Do you think Clive murdered Hugh?” I asked.

  “I’m not prepared to discuss that with you. But tell me, what’s his motive?”

  “The town house. It’s got to be worth a fortune, and now that he’s married to Vivian . . .” I let the thought hang out there.

  Salinksy steepled his sausagelike fingers. “Hugh owned the town house in joint tenancy with Marguerite Morales. Dr. Morrow assures me Mrs. Morales could live several more years. If Clive was moving Hugh out of the way to speed up the timeline for Vivian to inherit, all he had to do was wait. It’s Mrs. Morales who’s the obstacle, not Hugh. I go back to the question I’ve asked from the beginning. Who benefited from Hugh dying a few days early?”

  Salinsky walked me back to the reception area, which still bustled with uniformed officers. He gestured toward the crowd. “We’re getting ready for the storm tonight. Never am I as happy to be out of uniform as I am during a blizzard. There will be traffic accidents, power outages that take out traffic lights and trap people in elevators, heart attacks where the ambulances can’t get down the road. The busier the uniforms are, the less busy I am. You can’t do a drive-by when you literally can’t drive by.”

  “I’m supposed to go back to Maine tomorrow.”

  Salinsky looked out the big windows at the low, gray sky. “Then you’d better get out early, before the second part of this storm comes through. I hear it’s going to be a doozy.”

  Chapter 28

  I arrived back at the town house at the same time as the group returning from the memorial. Jake and Paolo held on to Marguerite as she made her way across the sidewalk to the house.

  She put a hand out to me. “I’m going inside to rest. You and Rose will be my guests at my favorite restaurant tonight. I’ve told the others they’re on their own. I would like to spend some time with my out-of-town guests. The car will pick us up at seven.”

  Everyone scattered. The house was quiet, except for the sound of Tallulah’s throaty voice, accompanied by Jake on the piano. She sang a bluesy tune I didn’t recognize. The lovely, sad sound floated through the house.

  I hovered close to the pocket doors to the living room. Especially after striking out with my Paolo theory, I wanted to talk to Tallulah about our conversation in the coatroom. What had she meant about her mother? But she and Jake continued rehearsing with no sign of a break. I went to my room.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Paolo entered, his expression grave, his big, sad eyes somehow bigger and sadder. “We must talk,” he said. His voice was low and serious. “Today at the reception, you thought I had killed Mr. Hugh.” I had to strain to hear him. The only place to sit in the sparsely furnished room was on my bed. We huddled awkwardly, side by side.

  “I did,” I admitted.

  “But I was the one who called the police.”

  “I know. I spoke to Detective Salinsky.” I shifted on the bed to face him. “Paolo, I’m sorry for what I suspected. I heard the same story three times—four if you count Hugh—someone terminally ill who holds on until their family arrives to say good-bye, and then that night, drifts away in their sleep while no one is there. It seemed like more than a coincidence.”

  “It is more than a coincidence, Ms. Julia. It is my job. After everything is settled, and all the words have been spoken, and everyone is gone, I tell my patients, ‘You can let go now.’ Then I leave them alone, so they have no obligation to me or to anyone else, and they go.” He spoke confidently, like someone who was good at his work, and knew it. “You would be amazed how many people, old, sick, in pain, exhausted, stay here just to be polite to us, the healthy and the living. All I do is give them permission.”

  “But how did you know Hugh hadn’t drifted off? Why did you suspect he was killed?”

  “Because he wasn’t ready. I hadn’t given him this permission.”

  “Rose was here. He’d said his good-byes.”

  Paolo trained his eyes on me. “He had one thing left to do. One major wrong he needed to make right. He needed to reach out to your mother.”

  Chapter 29

  The town car idled by the curb, double-parked and snarling late rush hour traffic. I helped Rose bring Marguerite down the front steps. I had to admire her. At ninety-six, I thought I would have chosen to stay in on a February night when snow was predicted. She was light as a bird, which came in handy again when we got to the curb and had to lift her over the snow bank. I was worried all the handling might hurt her, but she showed her surprising strength and didn’t protest.

  When we were settled in the limo, we glided off into the night. I didn’t know where we were headed. The city was a tangle of stoplights, one-way streets, and aggressive driving performed in small spaces. There were plenty of delightful-looking restaurants right in Marguerite’s neighborhood. I had trouble understanding why we had to leave it.

  The car brought us at last over a bridge and then swept into a parking lot bordered by modern brick buildings. The driver stopped at the last building and we got out. “That’s the federal courthouse,” Marguerite said, pointing to the next building over. “All the big trials are there. Whitey Bulger, the Boston Marathon bomber. I come down to watch them when I have a chance.”

  Over the top of Marguerite’s head, Rose raised an eyebrow at me. This was a new side of our elderly cousin. We walked through the archway at the end of the row of buildings and the silhouette of the city opened up in front of us. In the foreground was the harbor, and then the city lights behind it—the new skyscrapers and hotels, and the old Custom House.

  “You should see this on a summer night.” Marguerite’s arm swept the plaza area. “The restaurant has seating out here and it is delightful. The thought of a summer evening at the Daily Catch makes me want to stay on this earth for one more ride around the sun.” She took both our arms, folding them in hers. “Thank you for coming out with me and reminding me how wonderful life can be. It’s been hard to contemplate going on since Hugh died.”

  We stepped inside the restaurant, which was as intimate and warm as the plaza was sweeping. A smiling woman rushed over to us. “Mrs. Morales, how lovely to see you again. Your regular table is ready.”

  “Thank you.” Marguerite led the way to a corner table. When we were seated she ordered a Manhattan and urged Rose
and me to try one. I was skeptical, but Marguerite was a hard woman to say no to. I nodded my head and the waiter strode away.

  “I have brought you both here,” Marguerite said, “because the Daily Catch has the very best fish in Boston. Julia, you know something about the preparation of fish, and being from San Francisco, Rose, I suspect you do too.”

  Rose squinted at the menu. “It looks wonderful.”

  ‘That’s something that has stayed in the genes,” Marguerite said. “We are all in different cities, living different lives, but we all live near the sea.”

  We chatted until the waiter returned and we made our selections, monkfish marsala over pasta for Marguerite—“my usual”—while Rose and I fell to the temptation of a calamari salad followed by lobster fra diavolo, all signature dishes at the Daily Catch. Marguerite added a bottle of Montepulciano to the order. She kept up a pleasant commentary about the memorial and the guests. As we drank our Manhattans, Rose and I followed along, asking about this person and that, even though there were so many other things I was dying to talk about.

  The waiter arrived with our appetizers. The calamari was like none I had ever tasted. Its texture paired beautifully with the crunch of the salad greens and vegetables. Beneath the vinegary, lemony flavors of the dressing, the squid retained a hint of its origins in the ocean.

  When I looked up from my salad, both my tablemates were staring at me. Rose gave a slight nod of her head, and Marguerite spoke.

  “Julia, I’m afraid we’ve brought you here under false pretenses. You still haven’t told us why you came to Boston. If Mr. Dickison didn’t contact you, how did you find us? We hoped, if it was just Rose and me, apart from the others, you would tell us the truth.”

  Cuthie Cuthbertson had counseled caution and Detective Salinsky had asked me outright not to talk about the Black Widow. Yet, these women had been so kind to me. They had taken me into their hearts and now Marguerite had taken me quite literally into her home. I wanted to repay their straightforwardness with my own. The Manhattan followed by the Montepulciano gave me courage. “Someone sent a valuable necklace to my mother days before Hugh died. A black diamond with twenty-four white diamonds. I came to Boston to find out who sent it.”