"Mr. Gant?"
"Why I married him, John. He provided total benefits while we were together, and enough alimony to see me through after we split. Good thing, too, since I couldn't very well rely on my family."
"Your family."
"Right." Pollard raked her left hand through the hair on that side before tucking it back behind her ear. "Mum grew up in London, and Dad was a Yank pilot over from Chicago. Met during the Blitz, so you'd think they'd be open-minded about relationships, wouldn't you? But no, neither of them was exactly thrilled when I decided to marry a 'black-a-moor,' which was Mum's way of showing off her Shakespeare and chiding me in the bargain. They disowned me, and frankly never have forgiven me."
"I'm sorry."
"Hey, man—whoops, that's Woodrow talking now. But truly, John, don't be sorry. Life with barrister Gant was good while it lasted."
"How did you meet?"
"I let him pick me up in a bar, one of the model hangouts on Boylston Street across from the Pru, He was lounging on a stool, I came up to order a drink from the bartender. Woodrow said, 'Let me get that for you,' and I asked him—because I'm five-ten and he was sitting down?—'Just how big are you?' And he smiled that wide smile of his, and said, 'Can you be more specific?' And then—oh." Pollard's eyes glittered. "I've shocked you, haven't I?"
"Not so far."
"Well, then, this might. Woodrow had one you could slam a door on without hurting it much. A genuine Merlin."
"Merlin?"
"Camelot again. A 'Merlin' is a burning wizard in bed."
"Jenifer, I'm—"
"Oh, please don't be 'sorry' again, John." A wave of melancholy suddenly washed across Pollard's features. "It's not your fault that what started out with Woodrow as 'bewitched, bothered, and bewildered,' degenerated into 'repelled, repulsed, and revolted.' "
The first evidence of sincerity I'd seen from her. "What I was going to say is, I'm working for Alan Spaeth, trying to—"
"Spaeth? The irate hubby the police think did it?"
"I think differently."
"Well, then." Pollard seemed to brighten a little. "I have a bit of advice for you, John."
"Which is?"
"Focus on whomever Woodrow was sleeping with. God knows he made me want to kill him often enough."
I watched her a moment before saying, "A woman was seen with him at a restaurant before he got shot that night."
"There you are."
"But I can't find anybody who seems to know who she was."
"Well, Woodrow certainly stopped confiding in me long ago. But I can tell you this. He was into sex, very heavily."
"So I gathered."
"No, John. If what I said before shocked you, prepare for electrocution." Pollard leaned forward, as though she were posing again. "Woodrow liked me to dress up. Fishnet body stockings, lavish wigs, grotesque makeup, you name it. Frankly, I found it to be fun at first, but then that was all he wanted to do." The melancholy again. "Eventually there came a point when he must have asked himself, 'Why stick with a one-woman show when you can have the whole repertory company?' "
I stopped. "Meaning he might be seeing more than one woman at a time?"
"It wouldn't surprise me."
I thought about Imogene Burbage and Deborah Ling. "How about people at work?"
"Never really met his law firm chums, though I did get a letter from the one handling Woodrow's estate"
"Any women from his job in the D.A.'s office?"
A stagey shrug. "I'm not sure any of them would still be there. Rather a transitional environment, I always thought, and it was over three years ago that he left."
"Any names you recall?"
"No," she said a bit quickly, then saddened again. "I guess I'm not technically Woodrow's 'widow,' but his murder reminded me of being the wife of a prosecutor, and I suppose it surprises me that I still can . . She looked out her wall of windows. "Miss him."
A second slip into sincerity, and I found myself wondering just how attractive Pollard would be if she could just stay there. "How about any males?"
She turned back to me, confused. "John, I can assure you that Woodrow was heterosexual."
"Not what I meant. Were there any men from his time in the D.A.'s office who might have known him well?"
"Oh. Let me see .... " Back to posing, a finger to her chin. "Woodrow did have an office-mate. Now, what was—yes. Yes, a Tom someone or other. Spelled it queerly, though."
"How do you mean?"
"T—H—O—M, if I'm remembering correctly."
"Last name?"
"Oh, no hope there, John. It began with an 'A,' though. Arthur, Arnold?"
Another stagey shrug, and I got up from the chair. "Well, Jenifer, thanks for your time."
She leaned back into the throw pillows, yet another pose. "I'm not at all like Woodrow, by the by."
"You lost me."
"I find a man I like, I stick with him."
"Good trait."
The glitter came back into her eyes. "I was hoping you'd think so."
Ah. "Unfortunately, I'm already spoken for."
"We wouldn't have to spend all that much time 'speaking'."
"Thanks again, but no."
"Pity," said Jenifer Pollard, finally breaking the pillow pose. "You seemed about the right . . . size, too."
* * *
I drove slowly down V.F.W. Parkway in West Roxbury, the section of Boston that lies farthest from downtown. The houses in West Rox are mostly modest single-family homes, the demographics heavily white. I found the Spaeths' street and turned onto it, both sides lined with small ranches.
The address I had was 396. In front of 388, four early-teen kids were playing in the street under the lights. Wearing baggy shorts, sleeveless sweatshirts, and backward baseball caps, they'd arranged themselves in a rough rectangle, tossing what looked like an orange toy football in a diagonal pattern, corner-to-corner among them. Rather than break up their game, I parked and began moving down the sidewalk toward the Spaeths' house.
As I drew even with the closest boy, a throw to him went a little awry, the football spiraling down near me. That was when I heard the whistling howl of incoming artillery and almost hit the deck before the thing landed six feet away.
"Sorry," said the kid, wearing a San Diego Padres cap and a little silver ring through his left eyebrow. "But it wasn't, like, going to hit you or anything."
I watched as the boy came over and picked up his "toy." It was football-shaped upfront, all right, though plastic fletching—like a giant throwing dart—stuck out from the back. When the Padres kid tossed it to his friend, I could hear the artillery whistle again. "What is that?"
The boy said, "A Howla."
" 'Howla'?"
"Yeah. Sounds just like a cannonball coming at you. Cool, huh?" The word "cool" came out in two syllables, "koo-uhl." The kid then said, "You want to know where you can buy one?"
I thought back to a time before the lads were born, when I wasn't that much older than them, and the other side's "howlas" were for real. I said, "Thanks, anyway," and walked on. When I reached 396, there was a Mazda hatchback in the driveway and lights coming through the windows. As I went up the path, a dried yellow leaf, shell-shaped, skittered across the flagstones like a crab scrabbling over a dock.
Shortly after I rang the bell, the door was opened by a woman in her mid-thirties, with sandy-brown hair clipped like a helmet that stopped at the tops of her ears. Nudging five-five in sneakers, she also wore a lemon-colored sweater and blue jeans. I'd have called her attractive, with haunting hazel eyes and full lips, but right then she looked more tired than fetching. There was a hardcover book with a clear plastic cover in her right hand, the index finger marking her place.
“Nicole Spaeth?"
“Kind of late to be selling something, don't you think?"
A tired voice, too. "My name's John Cuddy. I'm investigating the killing of Woodrow Gant."
Her eyes narrowed, her tone deepene
d. "I've already talked to the other police officers."
"I'm not the police, either."
Spaeth moved her left hand, as if to close the door. "No reporters, no interviews."
"I'm working for the attorney representing your husband."
She hesitated, her eyes suggesting she was trying to work something through.
"Mrs. Spaeth, please. I won't take very long, and you might be able to help me help him."
"That's pretty funny," she said, as though it were anything but. "Okay, I'll talk to you."
I followed her into a living room with wall-to-wall carpeting, that sculpted style popular fifteen years back. There was matching but also aging furniture, all the wooden surfaces shining as though freshly polished. Spaeth laid the book on an end table and waved me toward a chair while she took the sofa, sitting straight up rather than leaning back into the cushion.
A lot like Helen Gant, once you noticed it.
From the chair, I said, "Just so you know where I'm heading, I think there's some possibility your husband didn't shoot Woodrow Gant."
"I don't," she said, stonily. "But ask your questions."
I thought back to my talk with Alan Spaeth at Nashua Street. "You're a teacher, correct?"
"Sixth grade." She named a district three towns away. "Not exactly a great job, either."
"How do you mean?"
"All I do is try to keep track of the students, not really teach them anything that might be considered academic. The courses are supposed to get them 'in touch with their feelings' so they can 'develop to their fullest potential'. "
"Glorified day care."
"More like horrified night-mare. But, it pays the mortgage and gives us medical coverage, thank God. And Terry's old enough that I don't have to worry too much about him when I have parent—teacher meetings at night"
I remembered her husband telling me that Terry was the son. "So, your job provided the bulk of the family income?"
"All of it." Spaeth seemed to hesitate again. "No, that's not really fair. Before he got laid off, Alan was a good provider. I must even have loved him, once upon a time." She sounded as tired as she looked. "But since Alan lost his job and started drinking, Terry and I have been on our own in more ways than one."
"Mrs. Spaeth, other people described the way your husband behaved at Mr. Gant's law firm the day of the deposition"
"I hope that means you don't have to ask me."
"It'd be a help to hear your version."
"My version." She closed her eyes. "My version is that Alan was—and is—crazy. Maybe not legally, technically crazy, but functionally. He imagines things, then blows even the things he imagines way out of proportion."
"Could you give me some examples?"
"You name it, Alan overdid it. The drinking, the hunting stuff with Terry."
Her husband had told me that, too. "He took your son hunting?"
"After deer, without discussing it first. No, that's not fair to my side of things. Terry was excited about going, but I said no, and Alan took him anyway."
"How old was your son at the time?"
"It was last year, so only thirteen. Can you believe it?"
Didn't seem completely "crazy" to me, but then I'm neither for nor against the sport. "Mrs. Spaeth, witnesses at a restaurant say a woman was with Mr. Gant the night he was killed."
Her eyes narrowed again. "So?"
"So I was wondering if maybe he mentioned something to you about who he was seeing."
The eyes now became slits. "Why in the world would Woodrow do that?"
"As a matter of small talk. You were a client, he would have spent time with you."
"No. No, Woodrow never said anything about his personal life to me. All we ever talked about was my divorce. Which is another headache."
"Headache?"
"Now I need to find somebody else to finish the case."
Frank Neely and Imogene Burbage had said they were referring Gant's clients to other attorneys. "Can't the law firm help you with that?"
Spaeth drew herself up a little straighter on the couch. "Mr. Cuddy, Woodrow was a fine man." Her voice began to crack. "He helped me through the hardest time of my life, divorcing a husband who flew off the handle over every little thing. And I don't think it's fair to make his firm relive its own loss by trying to help me anymore."
"Especially since it was a member of the firm who put you in touch with Mr. Gant in the first place."
Spaeth grew stiff this time, reaching up a finger to wipe away a sudden tear. "That's right. Now, if there's nothing else?"
* * *
"Hey, like, what were you doing in my house?"
It was the kid with the Padres hat and eyebrow ring. He stood on the sidewalk at the end of the flagstone path, his friends nowhere to be seen.
I finished coming down the path. "Terry, right?"
A jaundiced look. "Who are you?"
I showed him my identification, which he had to angle up to the streetlight to read. "A private detective?"
"Investigator. Detectives are on police forces."
"But this is so cool," the two-syllable variety again. "What're you trying to find out?"
"Let's start with the eyebrow ring. Doesn't it hurt?"
A laugh. "Everybody asks me that. No, it didn't hurt to have my eyebrow pierced, account of it's only skin there. You don't have any, like, nerve endings or stuff. And it doesn't hurt to keep the ring in, either. Only real pain was when . . ."
"When what, Terry?"
"I got into a fight at school. Over what my dad . . ." Then he seemed to remember why he stopped me. "So, what were you talking to my mom about?"
"I'm trying to help your father."
It was like a curtain came down, ending the first act abruptly. "Because he killed Mom's lawyer."
"That's what the police think, and why your father's in jail. But I think maybe he didn't do it."
"Hey, that's pretty lame, you know? I can read. The police have his fingerprints."
"Which is just evidence."
“Yeah, well, I was staying over at my friends for Bachelor Pad that night, so what can I tell you?"
"Bachelor pad?"
"Space Age pop music. You gotta be old enough to remember that instrumental stuff from the fifties and sixties. Neal Hefti, Quincy Jones, all those dudes."
I was having trouble with this. "You and your friends listen to that music?"
"Yeah. It's major cool. You can go to the old shops that sell used vinyls, or there's some fresh tracks coming out on CD. They even have fan mags and a website you can browse."
I shook my head. "Look, Terry, I'm trying to help your father with—"
"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna help you."
"Why not?"
"My dad's been a shit from day one in this whole thing, and my mind's, like, on overload just thinking about it."
"But what if he didn't kill Mr. Gant?"
"He did, dude." Terry compressed his lips, having trouble himself with what he was about to say. "You heard about my dad going, like, nuts at the law firm, right?"
"Right, but—"
"No but's, just listen, okay?"
"Okay."
"Just before that, he calls me when Mom's not home. Says he thinks her lawyer's been hitting on her."
"Hitting . . . you mean, sexually?"
An exasperated huff. "Of course, 'sexually'. My dad claimed that wasn't right, that he was gonna report the guy to the lawyers' thing."
Uh-oh. "The Board of Bar Overseers?"
"I don't know the name of it, okay? But what got me is, my dad wanted me to spy on Mom for him. Like, can you imagine that? The guy turns into a drunk, leaves us with zero money, and he expects me to . . " Terry shook his head.
“Did your mother and Mr.—"
"I don't know that either, okay? I just know what my dad wanted me to do, and I wouldn't do it. Now, I've told you, so be prepared, okay?"
Absently, I said, "The Boy Scout motto."
> Terry looked at me, confused now. “Boy Scout . . . ?"
"Motto. 'Always be prepared'. "
A smirk. "I was thinking more, like, condoms against AIDS, dude."
As Terry Spaeth walked up the path, I had to keep reminding myself: A different world, they're growing up in a different world.
* * *
Since Nicole Spaeth had stressed that her relationship with Woodrow Gant had been strictly professional, I decided to talk with Steve Rothenberg and his client before pushing her. But that could wait till the morning. Another stop shouldn't.
After pressing the bell button and hearing the dentist's drill noise, I waited under the center portico of the Chateau. A few minutes passed, but I didn't want to tick off Vincennes Dufresne by ringing again if I could help it.
The big door took a hit from the interior side before creaking open. Dufresne peered out at me, the head cocked and a half-glass of red wine in his right hand. "You again, eh?"
"John Cuddy, Mr. Dufresne."
"I'da remembered that."
"I was wondering if you'd seen Michael Mantle."
"Not since the last time you was here."
"Mind if I check his room, anyway?"
"I don't exactly feel like hiking up two flights with you."
"A good chance I can find it myself."
"I'll have to give you the master key." Digging around in his pocket, Dufresne lowered his eyelids and recocked the head. "And then there's another viewing fee, of course."
"Of course," I said, reaching for my wallet.
* * *
Once on the third floor, I went directly to Mantle's door. Nobody else was in sight, though more wheezing came from the room on the landing below where Dufresne had said a man with emphysema was living. Or dying.
After knocking twice, I used the master key to open Mantle's door. The place still looked like it had been shot at and hit. Hard to say for sure, but nothing seemed to have been moved, and the towel at the foot of the bureau remained dry to the touch.
* * *
As I went back downstairs, I heard another wheezing cough from the second-floor room. I thought, Nothing ventured. Pocketing Dufresne's master key, I knocked on the door. If I hadn't been listening for the response, I'm not sure I'd have recognized it as a word. Or even a human voice.
"Come."
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 13
