Wicked Business

  “And?”

  She shrugged. “We went out a couple times, and I thought he liked me, and then this woman named Ann came along, and he got weird and dumped me.”

  “Do you have a last name for her?”

  “No. I don’t know anything about her.” She shelved another book. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—Gilbert Reedy was a very strange man. His area of expertise was Elizabethan England, but he was obsessed with an obscure poet from the nineteenth century. He had a little book of sonnets he could quote by heart. He was convinced it held the key to true love. Like it had mystical powers. And then one day last week, he called me up and said he didn’t need me anymore. That was the way he put it. He didn’t need me. Can you imagine? How am I supposed to interpret that? And he was babbling about Ann, Ann, Ann. And good triumphing over evil. And he should have seen it sooner.”

  “What should he have seen sooner?” I asked her.

  “He didn’t say. He was on a rant, making no sense. If it was anyone else, I’d think they were on drugs, but Gilbert Reedy wouldn’t have any idea where to get drugs. He was a total academic. It was almost like dating me was a science experiment.”

  “Did he carry the book of sonnets with him?” Diesel asked. “Did you see it?”

  “Yes. It was actually very wonderful. The sonnets were written by a man named Lovey, and the book cover was leather with hand-tooled almond blossoms scrawled across it. It reminded me of the Van Gogh painting. I did a little of my own research and found that Van Gogh and Lovey were contemporaries, so it’s possible Lovey copied the painting to decorate his book. Or it could just have been coincidence. The almond blossom has long been a symbol of hope. The book locked like a diary, and there was a little key that went with the book, but Gilbert never let me see the key. He said it was the last piece to the puzzle, and he kept it someplace safe.”

  “What did he mean by the last piece to the puzzle?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know,” Gordon said. “He was always making statements like that and then jumping off to something else. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I kept going out with him. He was sort of a crackpot.”

  “He read poetry to you, and he was searching for true love,” I said.

  Gordon smiled and nodded. “Yes. He was a romantic crackpot.”

  “Do you have any idea who might know something about the key and the puzzle?” I asked her. “Did he have any close relatives or friends that he might have spoken to?”

  “I don’t think he had friends, and he didn’t talk about his relatives. He mentioned his grad student a lot. Julie. He was her thesis advisor. He thought she was smart. He might have confided in her. And of course there’s Ann.”

  We left the library and returned to the SUV.

  “You said Reedy had chosen four women from the dating service,” I said to Diesel. “Is Ann the fourth?”

  “No. Deirdre Early is the fourth. She has a Boston address.”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. Do you want to keep going with this?”

  “Yeah. I’d like to poke around Harvard and see if I can find Reedy’s grad student. And then we can try to catch Early on our way home.”

  Diesel tapped a number into his cell phone and asked for assistance in contacting Reedy’s grad student. “I’ll be in Cambridge in an hour,” he said. “See if you can get her to meet me. And I’d like to see Reedy’s office.”

  “Was that your assistant?” I asked him when he disconnected.

  “More or less.”

  Diesel’s been through six assistants in the short time I’ve known him. I’ve stopped trying to remember names. They never have faces. They’re always just voices floating out of the hands-free car phone, brought to Diesel through the miracle of Bluetooth.

  We took 1A to Boston. The landscape was interesting at first and then turned ugly with potholed highways and crazy angry drivers careening around insane traffic circles that shot roads off in all directions.

  We left the North Shore and connected to Storrow Drive, rolling through Boston, following the Charles River. The back sides of four-story redbrick town houses hugged the left side of the road, with Boston’s high-rise office and condo buildings rising beyond them. I knew that tree-lined streets of prime real estate row houses ran for a couple blocks in from Storrow, ending with the two high-end boutique shopping streets, Newbury and Boylston. The Public Garden was at one end of Newbury, and the large indoor shopping mall was at the other end. And if you walked far enough south, you came to Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox.

  A narrow patch of grass and a bike path stretched along the river side of Storrow. A few people pedaled along the bike path, and a few hardy souls were out on the river in small sailboats. We passed an empty bandshell and some Porta-Potties left from a weekend event.

  Diesel drove the length of Storrow and took the bridge over the Charles River to Cambridge. I was in foreign territory now. I’d made lots of trips to downtown Boston since moving to Marblehead, but I’ve never ventured across the river to Cambridge.

  “You look like you know where you’re going,” I said to Diesel.

  “I spent some time here two years ago, looking for someone.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  Diesel stopped for a light. “It’s complicated.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “I don’t kill people.”

  “Did you turn him into a toad?”

  Diesel glanced over at me and smiled.

  I wasn’t sure what the smile meant, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, so I stared out the window at the passing buildings and sidewalks filled with college students. “Did we just pass Harvard?” I asked him.

  “No,” Diesel said. “That was MIT. Harvard is a couple miles up Massachusetts Avenue.”

  Mass Ave was four-lanes wide, and traffic was heavy but moving. Buildings were a mix of more high-rise offices and condos, plus lower-profile furniture stores, ethnic restaurants, bakeries, bike stores, car dealerships, churches, bookshops, and hotels.

  Diesel’s phone rang and a woman’s voice came up. “Julie Brodsky will meet you in the front lobby of the Barker Center, 12 Quincy Street. Follow Mass Ave to Harvard Yard and bear right after you pass the Inn. The building is on the corner of Quincy and Harvard streets. I told her you were Daniel Crowley, Reedy’s cousin from Chicago.”

  “Nice,” Diesel said. “Thanks.” And he hung up.

  “Where does your assistant live?” I asked him.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Have you seen this one?”

  “Nope.”

  “You go through a lot of assistants.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” I asked him.

  “I’ve heard rumors that I’m considered high maintenance with low reward.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Listen, when I’m hunting someone down in the Thar Desert in India, I’ve got dysentery, and my camel runs away, I expect a new camel to show up fast.”

  “Seems like a reasonable request. How often does that happen?”

  “More often than I’d care to remember.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Diesel drove past the Inn, turned right, and cruised around until he found on-street parking. Sidewalks and buildings were redbrick, there were a lot of grassy spaces, and I had the feeling I was in a small town inside a city. It was sunny, but there was a chill to the air, and people were wearing sweatshirts and sweaters and had long knit scarves wrapped around their necks.

  We entered the courtyard to Barker Center from Quincy Street and had no trouble locating Reedy’s grad student. She was wearing jeans and a bulky, tweedy sweater, and she was hugging a copy of The History of English Sixteenth-Century Verse. She had brown, super-curly hair pulled back into a ponytail that was a big round puffball. No makeup. Large, round, red-framed glasses. Five feet, two inches tall.
First impression was that she was twelve years old. On closer inspection, there were a few faint laugh lines around her eyes.

  Diesel introduced himself as Daniel Crowley, and Julie’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “Dr. Reedy was a wonderful man.”

  “I was hoping to see his office,” Diesel said. “I gave him a book several years ago that has sentimental value. I’d like it back, and it wasn’t in his condo.”

  “Of course. I can take you to his office. The police have already been here, but they didn’t take anything. They looked around, rolled their eyes, and left. We’ve been waiting for his family to clean things out, but so far you’re the only one who’s come forward.”

  We followed her one flight up, down the hall, and stopped at the doorway to Reedy’s office. It was instantly clear why the police rolled their eyes and left. The office was clogged with assorted professorial flotsam. Books overflowed the bookshelves and were stacked everywhere. Artifacts were stuck away in nooks and crannies. Rolled-up maps were scattered on the floor and desktop.

  “Wow,” I said. “There’s a lot of stuff here. His condo was so neat. It’s like he was two different people.”

  “He slept in his condo, but he lived here,” Julie said. “For that matter, I know there were nights when he worked late and slept here. There’s a couch buried under all those books and tapestries. His area of expertise was Elizabethan literature, but his passion was a forgotten poet of the late 1800s, John Lovey. Dr. Reedy stumbled upon some of Lovey’s sonnets ten years ago and was deeply affected by them. I think at heart Dr. Reedy was a true romantic.”

  “Have you read the sonnets?” I asked her.

  “Yes, but I have to admit I wasn’t as taken with them as Dr. Reedy.” She went to the desk and shuffled through some papers. “He wrote a scholarly paper on Lovey’s work and life. I know there’s a copy here somewhere. It’s very interesting. It seems that during Lovey’s time he was regarded as a visionary philosopher. Sort of an Ayn Rand. He had a small but dedicated cult following. They were all devoted to the search for true love.” She moved to a different stack of papers and began picking her way through it. “Lovey’s most ardent follower was a man named Abner Goodfellow. He lived in Hanover, New Hampshire, and Abner’s house is still in the Goodfellow family. Dr. Reedy visited Abner’s great-great-great-granddaughter, and she allowed him to prowl through the attic, which was filled to the rafters with all sorts of ancient treasures. At least Dr. Reedy said they were treasures, but I suspect much of it was the usual junk that collects over time in attics and garages.” She pulled some pages out of the pile and waved them in the air. “I found it!”

  Diesel took the paper from her. “Can I keep this?”

  “Of course.” She looked around the room. “Dr. Reedy was so absorbed in his work for the last couple months I’m afraid this office has gotten even messier than usual. Maybe I can help you find your book. What did it look like?”

  “It was a signed copy of The Wind in the Willows,” Diesel said. “Gilbert loved Mr. Toad.”

  “I don’t remember ever seeing it,” Julie said, “but I’ll look on this side of the room, and you look through the bookcase.”

  I went to his desk and systematically went through the drawers. The top right-side drawer was locked with no key in sight, so I got Diesel to do his magical unlocking thing. He opened the drawer, and we stared at a leather-bound book that I suspected might be similar to the book of sonnets. Hand-tooled cover and a small locking clasp. In this case, the cover design was an elaborate A and G.

  “It’s Abner’s diary,” Julie said, looking across the desk. “Dr. Reedy stumbled onto it when he was in Abner’s attic. Among other things, it describes the final days of Lovey’s life and details what Lovey told Abner Goodfellow moments before Lovey’s death. Dr. Reedy took it as gospel, but I thought it sounded like a very sick old man returning to a favorite childhood fairy tale.” Julie did a fast scan of the room. “I’m not sure you’re going to find your book here. Maybe you’d like to take the diary in its place. It was one of Dr. Reedy’s most prized possessions. I believe the little key is in the drawer with the diary.”

  “I’d love to have the diary,” Diesel said, taking the diary and the key. “That’s very generous of you. I appreciate all your help.”

  “Perhaps you could locate the rest of his family and let them know he has some wonderful things here.”

  “For sure,” Diesel said. “Thanks again.”

  Deirdre Early lived on Commonwealth Avenue in the Back Bay section of Boston. It was a short distance from Harvard, but it had taken us over an hour in rush-hour traffic that included a car fire on the Harry Houdini bridge. Fortunately, the car had pretty much burned itself out by the time we reached the bridge, and traffic was moving. Diesel circled Early’s block once looking for a parking place. When he returned to her address the second time, there was a car missing, and he pulled in.

  “How do you always manage to get a parking place?” I asked him, halfway afraid that some unsuspecting car had gotten beamed up into space by an unknown entity.

  “Positive thinking,” Diesel said. “And I’m exceptionally lucky . . . usually.”

  “Usually?”

  “There’s been the occasional lapse.”

  Early’s narrow, three-story row house had a postage-stamp front yard that might have been amazing in the summer, but at present time was a tangle of dead vines and shriveled shrubs. The façade was dark gray stone. The roof was gray slate. There were drapes on the windows with no light shining through. The door and wood trim were black.

  “Holy cats,” I said to Diesel, taking the house in.

  “Grim,” Diesel said.

  We walked to the front door, rang the bell, and a woman answered. She was movie star beautiful, with glossy midnight black hair cut into a short bob. She had long black lashes, and she was wearing bright red lip gloss. She was my height but much more voluptuous in a silky low-cut black shirt, tight black pencil skirt, and four-inch spike-heeled pumps.

  “Deirdre Early?” Diesel asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And you?”

  “Diesel.”

  Her smile was small and didn’t reach her eyes. “Interesting,” she said.

  Diesel didn’t return the smile. “I’d like to talk to you about Gilbert Reedy.”

  “Poor man,” she said. “Would you like to come in?”

  We stepped into her foyer and stopped there. I could see her living room and dining room from where I was standing. Very formal. Oriental rugs. Fabrics were burgundy and gold. Dark woods. Crystal chandelier over the table.

  “I believe you dated Reedy,” Diesel said.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Briefly. He’s dead, you know.”

  “You have a lovely home,” I said to her.

  She flicked her eyes to me. “Thank you. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Lizzy Tucker.”

  She studied me for a moment and turned back to Diesel. “Your move,” she said to him.

  “Were you looking for true love?” Diesel asked her.

  “Of course. Isn’t that everyone’s goal? Do you want true love?”

  “Not at the moment,” Diesel said.

  She looked at him from under lowered lashes. “Pity.”

  “And what about nineteenth-century poets?” Diesel asked Early. “Are you fond of them?”

  “With a passion. And you?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Hmm. I thought we would’ve had more in common,” Early said. “If you’ll excuse me now, I have a dinner engagement.”

  We left Back Bay, and we didn’t speak until we were on the 1A, heading home.

  “That was weird,” I said to Diesel. “The house was pretty inside but oppressive. And I had the feeling you knew each other.”

  “We’ve never met, but it’s possible she’s heard of me. And the negative energy you felt was from her. It was rolling off
her in waves. If I stayed there much longer, I would have started bleeding from my ears.”

  “Omigod. Would you really bleed from your ears?”

  Diesel grinned at me. “No. I was exaggerating.”

  “Deirdre Early isn’t normal.”

  “Not even a little,” Diesel said.

  “I suppose we aren’t normal, either.”

  “The only normal people are people you don’t know very well.”

  “That’s a quote from a famous person,” I told him.

  “Yeah. I think it was either Andy Griffith or Yoda.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Diesel took me back to my car and I went straight home. I made a grilled cheese for dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and threw some laundry in the washer. I surfed through a bunch of channels on television and gave up. Diesel was in his apartment reading the Goodfellow diary, and I was finding that while I’d wished for a quiet night to myself, it wasn’t working. I couldn’t get my mind off Gilbert Reedy, Deirdre Early, Lovey, and the Luxuria Stone. It was all in a mix in my head, going round and round. I called Glo and asked how late the Exotica Shoppe stayed open.

  “Usually until nine o’clock,” Glo said. “Sometimes later in October because of Halloween. I could go with you if you’re thinking of shopping.”

  “Don’t you have a date tonight?”

  “No. He called to say he was being detained, and I didn’t have enough money to bail him out. I never bail someone out on the first date anymore. Been there, done that.”

  Thirty minutes later, I had Glo and her broom in my car, and we were headed for the Exotica Shoppe.

  “This is way exciting,” Glo said. “I wanted the sonnets because they were hot, but this is better. They’re like magical and mystical. And I’m really into this whole saving mankind from descending into hell. I mean, it’s one thing to go green, but rescuing mankind from Satan is big.”

  Ye Olde Exotica Shoppe is located two blocks south of Dazzle’s Bakery. The name is written in gold script above the ancient wood door. The sign in the window reads OPEN and dares people to come inside. Exotica gets a lot of tourist trade, but believers in the occult and history buffs shop there as well. It’s a small store stocked floor to ceiling with who-knows-what. Jars are labeled for self-serve convenience. Pig ears, troll phlegm, dried dragon tongue, screech owl beaks, Gummi Bears, milkweed pods, bullock tails, kosher salt, Irish pixie dust, candied earthworm, rotted beetle brain, Belgian white rabbit gonads, and much, much more.