“Meg, it’s Reggie. Hope I’m not calling too late. I need a favor.”
“Realtors and doctors, Reg, we’re both on call. What’s up?”
“I need Steven Damelin’s last known address. Is his sublet file in your office?” Here goes a white lie. “His previous landlord, and possibly his neighbors, ought to be included on the memorial service guest list. Do you happen to remember where he lived?”
“I’m thinking Roslindale or Hyde Park. Can this wait till morning?”
It’s not easy, but I say yes.
“Take heart, Reggie. Your soon-to-be tenant, Mackenzie Carruthers, has a sterling credit rating. You should have no problems.”
“No problems, what a notion.”
It’s 9:23 a.m., chill and overcast, when I set out for 1432 Deary Street in the Hyde Park section of Boston. Steven’s previous landlady, Meg tells me, is Alice (Mrs. Harold) Collier, who also provided a reference for the sublet. The phone number listed for H. Collier on Deary Street, however, is no longer in service.
Number 1432 Deary is an asphalt shingle two flights up concrete steps on a block of duplexes and foursquare single-family homes with in-law apartments. The Chevy in front has a Florida plate that says “Seminole County,” and the woman who answers the bell is fiftyish, with short apricot hair and a tight mouth. We had frost last night, but she’s wearing shorts and a green tube top under a windbreaker and seems breathless and impatient. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Collier? I’m Reggie—”
“She’s not here.” Behind the open door, I see stacked cartons.
“I would have phoned, but the number for H. Collier isn’t—”
“It was disconnected last month.” Her voice is clipped, definitely New England. She holds a roll of packing tape.
“Can you tell me where I can reach Mrs. Collier?”
“She moved out.” Indeed the space behind the woman looks bare. I see a rolled rug.
“Do you have a forwarding address? I need information about a man who lived here—a tenant.”
“The back apartment is empty.”
“I mean a previous tenant, a man named Steven Damelin.”
She fixes me with a hard stare, her eyes lasers.
“Do you know him? Did you know Mr. Damelin?”
The lasers lock on my face, and her voice is tempered steel. She yanks the tube top and zips the jacket. “We got nothing to say on that.”
“It’s important.”
“Nothing to say.”
Just then a U-Haul truck pulls up at the curb, and a bronzed young man—a kid—in jeans and a hooded sweat springs out and jumps the stairs two at a time. The woman says, “That’s the last stack, Jamie. Take it to Grandma’s. For godsake, don’t drop it.”
“How ’bout the rest?” His voice is a southern drawl.
“The rest, we’ll figure it out.” To me, she snaps, “Can’t you see we’re busy? She whirls and retreats as the kid hoists two cartons and starts out past me.
“If you—”
“I said we’re busy.” She slams the door.
I skip down the steps behind Jamie and peer over his shoulder to see any markings on the carton flaps, but lean so far forward that I stumble. “Oops.”
“You okay, ma’am?”
That drawl. “Yes, thanks.” But he turns, his shoulder blocking my sight line. If the cartons are addressed to someone—to Alice Collier?—I can’t tell. He shoves them into the truck, shuts the doors, jumps into the cab, and starts the engine. The side of the U-Haul sports a leaping dolphin. If the cartons are bound for delivery to “Grandma,” a.k.a. Mrs. Harold Collier, I’m a fool not to follow.
That is, if I’m not too late. The streets around Deary are a maze. In the Beetle, I turn and turn again. No U-Hauls in sight. Think, Reggie. Pause and think. If the kid’s visiting from Florida, he probably doesn’t know his way around. He’ll take main roads and avoid neighborhood shortcuts, especially in the bulky truck. That means I-95 or the Truman Highway, or maybe Blue Hill Avenue. What’s the likely connector? Focus, Reggie. You came in on… Metropolitan. That’s it, Metropolitan.
Yes, it’s him—far down on the right on Metropolitan and heading southeast to… Blue Hill. Turning right, I floor it, tailgate behind an SUV, then spurt past and cut in too soon. Horns blast. Cool it, Reggie, or you’ll end up with a faceful of air bag. I overtake Jamie just as the U-Haul exits onto Route 128. He’s going over seventy in the left lane, then cuts to exit south on Route 24, the AmVets Highway.
I barely make the exit. The Beetle surges, but I brake too hard on the ramp and feel the rear end of my car pull. Speeding, Jamie also oversteers. At highway speed, the U-Haul weaves in its lane like a ribbon of rickrack. I keep three or four car lengths behind, past exit signs for Randolph and Stoughton, then Avon. We’ve gone seven, nearly eight miles. A sign says we’re now in Plymouth County. Without signaling, Jamie crosses a lane, exits, and heads east on the the Reynolds Memorial Highway. We’re in the city of Brockton.
It’s hell to keep up. The U-Haul twists and turns past a mall, a golf course, houses, a pond, a cemetery, two schools, and at last a looping roadway that leads to a brick complex occupying two full blocks. Jamie pulls into the entrance with a sign that says “Silver Ridge Village.” It’s vaguely colonial, with chunky white pillars and squat cornices that need a fresh coat of paint. The U-Haul stops at the miniature colonial gatehouse, and Jamie leans out to talk to the uniformed guard who lifts the cross gate to let him inside.
The gate lowers. What to do? Try talking my way in? Not while Jamie’s inside. If Alice Collier proves to be “Grandma,” I want to see her by myself. So I park about two hundred yards from the entrance and wait. It’s 11:47 a.m., the temperature climbing into the high thirties. On the brown grass border, a squirrel noses in the dirt, while two workmen pull up frost-killed begonias. A few dead weeds poke along the roofline gutters, and some of the window screens are broken.
At 12:02 p.m., the U-Haul with the diving dolphins pulls out. Having unloaded the cartons, Jamie will now return to Deary Street. Reggie Cutter, however, will head for Barlow Square for online research. By 1:30, I’ve walked Biscuit, played fetch with her, refreshed her water, and grabbed a sandwich. It’s time for a prep session on Silver Ridge Village. Alice Collier may be a slim lead, but right now she’s the best I’ve got. Handle with care.
Silver Ridge, according to the miracle of Google, is a branded, franchised senior living residence. It features assisted living, Alzheimer’s care, nursing, and short-term stays in eight states east of the Mississippi. The text is what you’d expect: “home values… meet loved ones’ challenges… compassion, expertise… apartment-style living… homelike… landscaped gardens… cuisine… attentive, trained staff.” The photos show pink-cheeked, bright-eyed seniors with all their mental marbles intact. They’re spry. They’ve got gumption. Nary a wheelchair nor walker is in sight.
The clock hits 2:00 p.m. when Ms. Elaine Scarbino identifies herself on the phone as assistant manager of Silver Ridge’s Garden Court unit where Alice Collier resides. According to the Web site, the Garden Court unit means assisted living, so Alice’s mind ought to be clear.
“You say you’re a family friend, Ms. Cudder?”
“Cutter, Ms. Scarbino. Yes, and a friend of a former tenant of hers. From one day to the next, we don’t know what’s in store as the years go by, do we?”
“How very true that is.”
“I’m eager to visit Alice. I didn’t grasp the new situation until I spoke with her grandson, Jamie. How is she doing? I mean, from a professional viewpoint.”
“It’s always an adjustment, but her spirits are higher since we moved her up from the Gladstone unit.”
Gladstone—according to the Web site, that’s nursing care. “So she’s improving?”
“The cast is off. The leg hasn’t healed as quickly as we’d like, but everyone’s hopeful now that the dementia has lessened. It was quite a fall, and a serious concussion.”
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“Perhaps you could tell me when I might drop by. I’d like to surprise Alice, but not tire her. Perhaps I could stop in between the family’s visits—say later today? Tomorrow? At ten? And you’ll give my name to the gatehouse staff. Thanks much.”
Arriving at 9:30 a.m. the next day with a gift basket, I scan the parking lot and see no U-Haul. Of three vehicles with Florida plates, none are Chevies and none are from Seminole County. Good.
Elaine Scarbino greets me in a checkered suit and patent pumps. She’s a perky brunet of about forty, with cherry lipstick and a heavy layer of rose blush. Her lilac perfume blends with institutional odors of disinfectant. She admires the gift basket and leads the way across a lobby paneled with the dark wood popular back in the 1970s. We cross a waxed linoleum floor meant to look like slate. Puce silk hydrangeas flare in plastic pots against one wall, and the tiles of the low ceiling are edged with brown water stains.
“You’re the first visitor of the day. Won’t you please sign our registry?” I nod at the desk attendant and sign in. No Colliers have visited so far this morning, though a James Farr signed under yesterday’s date. “I think I see Jamie’s name—James Farr?”
“Oh, that boy’s worked nonstop with his mom since they drove up from Florida to clear out the family house. He brought down mementos from Alice’s home yesterday. We encourage personal decorative touches, you see, even though it’s troublesome for our housekeeping staff. Silver Ridge puts the resident first. It’s our hallmark. Woodie dear, would you phone Mrs. Collier’s apartment? She has a visitor.”
In moments, I’m ushered into a small, cramped apartment, where a plump woman in a pink sweat suit sits in a tan recliner with her left leg propped on a stool beside two open cardboard cartons. I’d guess Alice Collier is in her late seventies. Her face is fleshy, her complexion gray, and her watery blue eyes strain to recognize my features.
“Alice… Alice Collier, I’m Reggie Cutter. May I sit down? I’ve brought you a basket. How are you feeling today?” I raise my voice over a blast of hot air from a register vent.
“You… you’re the basket lady.”
“Well… yes, I am.” I pull up a side chair.
“Any Milky Ways in there? Take off the cellophane so I can see.” She fingers the nectarines, the cheese crackers and nuts. “I like chocolate with nougat. How about Three Musketeers?”
“How about these cookies instead?” I open the packet of soft chocolate cookies, and she grabs and bites in.
“They don’t feed us right. There’s no sweets, and you can’t get cream sherry. My home always had cream sherry. I had a large home in Hyde Park, number 1432 Deary Street. If my Harold was alive, this wouldn’t happen. Not in a thousand years. The thing is, you climb the same set of stairs every day for forty years, then one morning… I hit my head. They think my mind isn’t right. Well, they’re wrong. See that box? Reach in and help unwrap for me.”
I do. Inside the Bubble Wrap is a Hummel angel playing the clarinet.
“Put it on the table. I collect Hummels. Where’s the rest? My daughter wants me to sell them. They’re the only valuables left.”
“From your home?”
“From all the years. Save, save, save, what did it get me in the end? My daughter says I’m a fool.” Cookie crumbs tumble into her lap, and her free slippered foot thumps the thin tweed carpet. Alice cocks her head. “I don’t think this place is nice, do you?”
“Silver Ridge?”
“They tell me it’s nice. I say it’s a dump. And everything’s gone. Gone.” She chews another cookie, pinches crumbs from her lap, and eats them. Do I ask point-blank about Steven or let her ramble on and hope to glean something?
Or could the basket lady try a third way? “Alice,” I say slowly, “sometimes in life a person needs a helping hand.”
She suddenly stops as still as a statue. “What’s that you just said?”
“I said sometimes—”
“Helping hand. You said helping hand.”
“I did.”
Her agitation rises. “What do you know about it? Did you give him money too?”
“Give who money?”
“Don’t play bashful. You know who.”
“Was it your tenant, Steven?”
“Stevie. Like a second grandson.”
“He lived in your apartment, didn’t he?”
“Four years last March, sweet as a little prince. Of course, he traveled. Business, always business. That’s when he called about Helping Hand. We talked about it on the phone.”
“When he was traveling?”
“His phone calls kept me company. ‘I’m checking in, Alice.’ That’s what he said. He stayed in touch. You know that slogan, ‘Reach out and touch someone’?”
“Where did he call from?”
“From wherever he was.”
“Where did he go?”
“In taxis. Sometimes a week at a time. Sometimes a couple of days.”
“Alice, did you see the taxis?”
“That’s a funny question. What else is in that basket?”
“How about a nectarine?”
“I can’t chew nuts. They’re hard on my teeth.”
“How about lemon drops? Can you suck a lemon drop?” I open the decorator tin and set it beside her. “About the taxis, did any of them say ‘Charlie’s Cab’?”
“How would I know? I’m no snoop. Did he put you in the movie?”
“What movie?”
“He put me in. They came with a camera and bright lights, and it took all day. They dolled me up and stayed for lunch. We ate sandwiches on the back porch. I never got to see the movie.”
“What was it about?”
She pops two lemon drops. “Make-believe. Pretending to pay my bills.”
“Which bills?”
“These are too sour. Where’s a tissue?” I hand her a Kleenex, and she spits out the candy. “I don’t know why they’re so stingy with sugar.”
“What particular bills, Alice?”
“Everything. They covered my kitchen table with Verizon, New England Electric, the water bill, credit cards, Filene’s. There wasn’t room to sit down and eat. That’s why the back porch lunch.”
“Was there a script? Did you say lines?”
“It was a silent movie. That was the joke. They sat me down at the table and put a pen in my hand and ran the camera.”
“What did Steven say?”
“He said the movie would help the return on my investment. As it was, I was happy. The money poured in. Jamie’s college money was set, and I promised my daughter a new car. And the bathroom magazines that show those new jet tubs… every color in the rainbow. I had my eye on turquoise.”
“You invested? You gave Steven your money?”
“A wonderful company, Helping Hand for the sick, the old, everybody. You can’t get a live person on the phone nowadays, it’s ‘pound’ this and ‘star’ that. You talk to machines, and you can’t set your own timer on the TV. Jar lids, they won’t budge. Helping Hand, it was a dream come true, real people to lend a hand. It was better than the stock market.”
“Helping Hand is a private company?”
“Every investor was guaranteed a big return. The checks came like clockwork. I reinvested. Stevie said to make money, invest all you can. Finally I said Stevie, I gave you every dollar I’ve got. Where on earth would I get more money to invest, and he said Alice, dear, the house, the house. So he helped me get the new mortgage and promised to take care of everything.”
“And what happened?”
Her watery blue gaze hardens. “My crab apple tree was full of blossoms when the money stopped. That’s what I remember. The backyard was full of pink spring blossoms. Then the checks from Helping Hand quit. He said it was temporary. Be patient, Stevie said, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I was patient, I didn’t complain. Now here I am in this dump with my leg and the Hummels, and my daughter’s mad because I wouldn’t move to Florida.
“She says
none of this would have happened if I moved after my husband passed away. But I’m not crazy about her hair. It’s orange. I told her it looks sun-kissed. Get it, Sunkist? That made her even madder. Ruth never could take a joke. Jamie, now, he’s different. He’s good in school. He wants to go to college, but the money’s gone. That’s why I need sleeping pills. That’s the crime.” Her blue eyes focus somewhere deep inside, and her voice softens. “My grandson’s future, that’s the crime.”
I pause. The furnace blasts. Alice wipes a tear. Yes, this is crime in more ways than Harold Collier’s widow possibly knows. How many clients got burned along the way? How many out there never made their peace with Steven’s scams and weren’t safely stowed in a nursing home with a broken leg and fractured spirit?
Suppose just one victim smoldered inside until rage reached a murderous flash point.
Or did an insider get too scared or furious?
Or too greedy?
“Alice, did you meet Steven’s friend Alex? Alex Ribideau?” Her shrug could mean yes, no, or maybe. “Or perhaps Andrew—Drew Vogler?”
“He had friends in and out. Nice young men. I wasn’t strict about that as long as nobody made too much noise at night. I need my sleep.”
“These were very special friends. Alex is dark-haired. He’s athletic, a dancer.” She nods, but her gaze is fading. “Andrew is tall and blond. He and Steven owned a horse together.”
“The horse, yes, Stevie carried a picture of it… in his wallet.”
“So you met Andrew?” I lean foward as if to charge her up.
She hesitates, perhaps collecting her thoughts. “Maybe he was in the wallet too.”
All in One Piece Page 20
