“Is there anything I need to do?” I ask.
“Just put yourself in our hands.”
Mi casa es su casa?
I know the script. The detective will give me his card. So he does, then adds a twist: the order not to leave the area without first informing the Homicide Division of the Boston police.
Chapter Five
Am I a suspect? Maglia disappears before I can ask.
What now? It’s after ten, and Steven’s body is still upstairs. Uniformed police cluster outside, and my right shoulder aches. What’s a woman to do? Get a bucket, cold water, sponge, and Clorox. I pull on my oldest jeans and shirt, stand over the radiator area, and say something close to a prayer, then sink to my knees and start scrubbing the blood from my floor.
Each spongeful of rusty rose brings the slaughter of Steven Damelin home. The sponge and brush pace my sobs and feel oceanic. Tears mix with the water and blood like a ritual bathing. Like a grisly sponge bath.
There is no catharsis. Forget tragedy’s platitudes, Steven Damelin is dead, and sponging his blood from my floor feels wrong. It’s sacrilegious to empty the pail into a bathroom drain. A votive candle should glow brightly. Instead, the air sharpens with chlorine bleach.
With knees wet, I scrub hard and rhythmically despite the aches and pains from yesterday. Biscuit stays back, tail down, ears dropped. Then an unanticipated feeling begins, like a warm hand on my shoulder as I work along. The hand squeezes, gently at first, then harder, like a clamp. It’s physical, though nothing like the bruises from yesterday’s fall.
I push up, kneeling with sponge in hand as I try to blink back a teary blur. The blur thickens, and the clamped feeling yields to double vision as shapes form as if through a lens. Eyes wide open, I’m now in two places. This is my apartment, my floor, but in my mind there’s blue-brown water and a pale floating log. The watery scene draws me, sweeps me in. Calm at the surface, the currents below are roiling. Whirlpools suck at my arms and legs. A spiral twists at my thighs and torso, and my lungs fill and my head reels from a hard blow from the log. It’s a drowning place, this picture. Somehow I know this and cannot blink it all away.
What is happening here? The blood… it’s triggered my sixth sense. As if I’m drugged, the scene claims me. Now a figure, a human form. I make out… Steven. It’s Steven Damelin. Though I can’t see his features, it’s him, far-off but near too. He twists in the current, dodges the log. He flails and tries to swim away, but the current is too powerful. He thrashes at the surface but goes down, drowning before my eyes. I cannot help to save him. My lungs… my own lungs are filling as my chest burns. On my knees on the hardwood, I myself am experiencing Steven Damelin in the act of drowning.
Eyes wide open, I drop the sponge and try to wait. Biscuit whines, and the fur on her neck is rising. The dog growls and bares her teeth. “Biscuit, girl, no—” Crouching low, Biscuit is ready to lunge, attack the very air. Can I stand up? Yes, but I stagger back, half sick. The water and log stay like a photo print as I cough and swallow and lean against a wall here in my home. I hear my own breath.
Panting.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the vision fades as I stand against the wall and breathe. For a fact, I do breathe. Normality is edging back; that is, if a murder site counts as normal. Yet my heart pounds. Looking down, I expect to see each hard beat at my chest.
Why this vision? What’s it about? Have I relived a particular moment from Steven’s past when he came close to drowning? Did I experience a trauma in his life? Some psychics do bear the burden of others’ catastrophes, but I don’t want to be one of them. If my psychic self channels Steven’s life crises, can I block them? Or could I be destined—doomed—to relive events of his life, a man I barely knew?
Or maybe the vision is post-traumatic stress from the murder, plus the hit-and-run. Some psychic messages speak in symbols. The drowning, is it symbolic? Water for blood? Whichever, I’m limp, my scalp actually tender from the “log.” Steven in water with a tree trunk? It’s as vivid as the young man’s corpse. There’s one practical thing to do. I take a deep breath, pick up the scrub pail, hold it away from my body, then pour the bloody water down my toilet, flush, step out of the bathroom. Another intake of breath, a second flush. And a third.
If only I’d known Steven better.
If only I had not known him at all.
What about my bloody door? Loath to step out and face that brushwork pattern, I force myself to go speak to one of the cops, Sergeant Dorecki, a nervous, pale-faced man who could use a few hours in the sun. He tells me Steven’s body will be removed to the ME.
“Is that the morgue?”
“The medical examiner.” His lip twitches. “Yes, the morgue. It takes four to six hours for police to work a homicide scene.”
“Will the police photographer take photos of this door?”
“Already did, ma’am. Took quite a few.”
“The blood marks, don’t they they look deliberate, like Oriental writing?” But the sergeant won’t say. I ask, “Will the police clean the marks from my door when you’re all through?”
“Clean the door? No, ma’am.”
It dawns on me, the whole upstairs cleanup will be my job when the police are finally finished. Mr. Clean, that’s who I need. Mr. Clean in his white muscle shirt and earring. In person.
“You know, ma’am, there’s companies that clean up after crime scenes. It’s what you’d call a niche market.” He rhymes it with “itch.” “I’m not allowed to recommend any specific service, but some folks say Right True Clean does fine work. They could do your door too.”
Right True Clean. I write it down.
Another task is for right now: “Biscuit, it’s bath time.” In minutes, she’s in the tub, soothed by the lather, the warm rinse her Nirvana. My water beagle. I rub her down with my thickest towel, then blow-dry her back, belly, tail. She’s delighted, and it’s a lovely time-out from everything while we play tug-of-war with the towel. Biscuit makes her faux growl, and I playfully growl back. Dander allergies have plagued me forever, but frankly I can’t imagine life without this dear dog.
In the bathroom, the door closed, I then strip, put all my clothing into a trash bag, step into the tub shower, and stand under the scalding water until it runs cold, not once looking down for fear I’ll see the blood from my hair and scalp tinting the water at my feet. Or that I’ll reenter that realm of Steven’s drowning. I touch the spot where the “log” hit my head.
Why is it still sore?
Forget it, Reggie. Stop obsessing. Dry off and put on a nice cable sweater and slacks and slip into Ferragamo flats, a vestige of your former high-end life as Gina Baynes. Maglia’s line comes to mind: “Put yourself in our hands.”
The hands I’ve put myself into—Marty’s, the divorce lawyer’s, the wretched stockbroker’s. They’re the gang of three I hold responsible for my financial undoing.
Arms out, I inspect my hands, turning backs to palms. The wedding diamond set, gone. The sapphire ring from Marty’s promotion, gone. The red polish, stripped.
The work life of these hands—the diapers, dishes, floors, typing, Marty’s daily massages as he climbed the corporate ladder. Later on, the rose bouquets, graceful penmanship, delicate handshakes, tying bows, ladling punch, pouring tea, holding sterling and crystal stemware in manicured fingers at benefits.
Scrubbing Steven Damelin’s blood from my floor.
Put yourself in our hands—like the women who believe that court orders will restrain the men who come back and kill them? Suppose my door was marked with blood on purpose. Suppose my apartment is earmarked.
Suppose whoever was driving the blue car was waiting to run me down. An old slogan pops up: The Life You Save May Be Your Own.
I rub my cheek, recalling a saying of Jo’s: “You’re responsible for what you touch.”
I touched that murder scene with my eyes. I scrubbed the bloody floor. Hands-on, that’s the life I craved when I moved here to Boston.
Close to broke, I’m grateful as hell to have Jo’s town house, with its upstairs apartment, which is a major source of my income, along with my little weekly newspaper column, “Ticked Off.” My laptop keyboard, it’s hands-on. But be careful what you wish for—because I touched, and the blood spattered my floor and left a bitter taste of fear in my mouth. Am I responsible? For what, exactly?
My stomach clenches, fists tighten, toes curl. Something stirs deep inside, like I’m out on a ledge in a cutting wind. It’s a sense of risk, of danger. I have things to do.
Lady, start your engine.
Chapter Six
First, call my kids. Jack doesn’t answer, but Molly’s voice is light and chipper.
“I was just leaving for the studio, Mom. How goes it?”
“Sit down, Molly. I have something to tell you.” In my PTA president voice, and sparing her the gruesome specifics, I describe the murder over her gasps and outcries. “The police are professionals, dear, the detectives and officers have everything under control.”
“Mom. I’m coming up to spend the night with you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll take a train and come back down to Providence in the morning. You can’t stay by yourself alone.”
“Of course I can. I’m perfectly safe. Platoons of police are camped outside. Right now I need information. Tell me, did Aunt Jo ever talk about a man named Steven Damelin?”
“He’s the murdered guy?”
“Did she ever talk about a ‘deal’ with him?”
“Not to me. But, of course, her mind wandered there at the end. I don’t remember anybody named Steven. Tell me more about the deal.”
“I’m asking you.”
She pauses. “Jo never said ‘deal,’ but last Christmas she said I could have the studio of my dreams when her ship came in. I remember because she didn’t say if. She said when. And you know how she was about grammar.”
“What ship?”
“Probably the lottery, what else? But I couldn’t imagine her spending money on lottery tickets. Can you?” I cannot. “So maybe she meant something else. Or maybe she was disoriented. Back to tonight, Mom. I want to come up there and stay with you. I can help.”
Actually she could. My daughter the artist could look at the blood marking and tell for certain whether it was deliberately brushed and dabbed onto the door. But she mustn’t babysit Mother in a homicide house.
“I can get the next train up.”
“Sweetie, no. You have work to do, and I’m doing great.”
“Mom, get out of there for a couple days. Go to a hotel.”
Hotel? Like Mrs. Martin Baynes in countless hotels on business trips with her executive husband—the carpeted, soundproof suites with fruit baskets and champagne. Looking back, it was suffocation masked as luxury. “Can’t do, Molly. Too costly in all kinds of ways.”
“Put it on a credit card.”
“Sorry, dear, that plastic firewall has melted. But the police’ll sort the whole thing out. Let’s plan on dinner over the weekend. I’ll drive down. You can show me the latest art at the Rhode Island School of Design. I promise to be shocked.”
“For godsake, Mom—” Suddenly her ire is up. “For godsake, the man upstairs was murdered. What if you’re in danger too? Wake up!”
I’m hyperawake, if she only knew. Though “Wake up!” was my daughter’s trumpet call when everybody but me knew about Marty and Celina.
“I am awake, Molly. Trust me, I am fully awake and under complete police protection.”
“You mean that detective you work with on the psychic homicide stuff? Delaney?”
“Frank Devaney. Absolutely he’s on the case.”
“How about psychic vibes about the murder upstairs? Do you feel anything?”
I lie and tell her no vibes so far, but not to worry. “Biscuit’s a good watchdog.”
“Taffy and Boyo were better.” She means our two former family dogs, the golden retriever and the black Lab that drove me crazy with my allergies. This moment isn’t strictly about dogs. My daughter wants affirmation of her own childhood. “They were the world’s greatest dogs, Mol. But Biscuit’s nice too.”
“Well, don’t you walk around outside. Dad says it’s dangerous.”
“Your dad hates Boston. He’s Middle American to the core.”
On that sour note of parental split, we say bye and I notch up the heat and call Gibralter Realty, hit the voice mail extension, and ask my agent friend Meg Givens to get back to me with her file of background information on Steven Damelin.
Out front, Dorecki is still guarding my door. Nobody answers any of the three doorbells at the next town house, 25 Barlow.
Autumn chill has settled in as I walk to the end of the block, where the blue car shot forward with a squeal. Surely somebody in this neighborhood talked with Steven in the last month. Back inside, a kitchen fridge magnet gives me an idea. “Biscuit, let’s get your lead. We’re going for a walk to visit the Tsakis brothers.”
“Eez Mees Reggie and Beescuit!” The man who greets us in the grocery store several blocks up Tremont has a classic handlebar mustache, thick black hair, and shining jet-black eyes. George Tsakis is spooning dark olives from brine in a store that resembles the mom-and-pop groceries in small Lake Michigan resort towns where we vacationed in my past life, where even canned noodle soup somehow looks personal and local treats are featured at the front counter. Here it’s baklava and spanakopita.
“So Biscuit takes you for a walk today in cool weather. Come in, get warm. Hey, Ari, comes special friends.” A flurry of Greek brings out a man who could be a stockier twin, except for his shining pink scalp. Ari Tsakis takes a dog treat from an apron pocket. Here’s the ritual: Ari says, “I give her treat?” I nod, and Biscuit leaps to catch the dog cookie in midair. We listen to the chomping, enjoy the dog’s pleasure, feel charmed when she lies down in her favorite spot by the onions. This dog knows she’s among friends.
“So, Mees Reggie, what you like today? A pumpkin?”
“Not yet. Maybe closer to Halloween.”
“Ah, your aunt… she buys the biggest pumpkin. She makes it smile.”
“A jack-o’-lantern?”
“And candy corn. She buys all our candy corn to give away to kids. Now is too late, she is gone, our good friend.” Ari points to a wall filled with corkboard notices. “This is her idea. You know this? Jo tells us, put a bulletin board in the store, everybody comes in. Is good for business, like gold. Is true. We miss her.”
“So do I.”
George says, “How about fresh apples today? We keep special Macs in back.” The magical “back” is where luscious treats await every customer. “We deliver to Barlow Square. We bring apples to your door today.”
The blood-marked door. I fight a chill. “Let me think a few minutes. I want to ask a question. My new upstairs tenant, the young man with dark hair?” They nod. “I told him to shop here. When he moved in, I said he must come to Tsakis Brothers.”
“Ah, Steeeven?”
“Yes, Steven Damelin.”
“Is good. Cheerful guy. He likes deli roast beef. A good customer.”
My throat tightens. If I lose my nerve and fail to tell them, they’ll find out from the neighborhood grapevine and be offended by my silence. Besides, I need information.
“George and Ari, I have something terrible to tell you. Something that’s happened to Steven.”
“He sick?” George asks.
“No, not sick. Worse than sick.” Their eyes narrow to black pinpricks. Biscuit whines, and I reach for the word “homicide.”
“Keeled—how he keeled?”
I say this carefully. “Drill.”
Ari makes his finger and thumb into a gun and goes “brrrr.”
“No, not that kind. I mean… with a power drill. Hardware.”
Their horror and kindness are touching. Ari staggers back. The brothers speak in rapid Greek. George pours me a thick black coffee in a tiny cup and pa
ts my shoulder. A customer comes in for bananas and Oreos. Biscuit nestles closer against the onion sack. We all drink coffee in an atmosphere growing heavier by the moment.
Ari’s brows draw into a deep frown. “Who does this? Is a breaking-in?”
“A break-in? It’s not clear.” I add, “The police are investigating. Many police at the house.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Fingerprints.” Plus, no doubt, DNA samples, skin flecks, whatever else. I wish I hadn’t kicked the drill, even accidentally.
Ari shakes his head and sips. “So we wait for police to work.”
George says, “Such nice guy. Like sunshine. We happy to see him.”
The same talk as for Jo. I wait while two teen boys come in for chips, Twinkies, sodas, then I get to the point. “Somebody didn’t like Steven. George, Ari, I need to ask a few questions. You saw Steven several times this past month?”
Their faces are a mix of elegy and anguish. “Sometimes every day, yes.”
“Did he ever talk about himself?”
“Talk? No special talk. ‘Weather is cool.’ American chitterchat.”
“Was he alone? Did he come by himself?”
The brothers exchange glances. George says, “Sometimes a big kid.”
“Luis?”
“Dark like a night.”
“You mean his skin?”
“Like a storm.”
“Oh, you mean moody? Angry?”
George scowls. “That guy.”
“Bad guy,” says Ari.
“I think he’s fifteen. Big for his age. Do you know his last name? Luis what?”
Ari shrugs, shakes his head, and stirs the olives. “Steven calls him Lueez.”
“Does he live nearby?”
They don’t know. “He is a dark sky, that kid,” George says. “Like a bomb. Like he go boom!” Ari points to the deli case. “Nothing please him. Order a sub, not enough ham, the bread no good. Steven buys him a lottery ticket. The number almost wins. He blames us, says we give him a bad number.”
All in One Piece Page 3
