Chapter Thirteen
When Sunday finally arrived Lucy woke with a sense of relief and excitement. Relief because she didn’t have to go to work and excitement because Zoe had surprised her by asking her to go apartment hunting in Portland and the day had finally arrived. Sometimes, she told herself as she threw back the covers, you simply needed a break. A distraction. Something entirely different from the usual routine, which in her case occasionally meant attending the early service at the Community Church or more usually spending most of the morning cleaning house, and spending a long afternoon catching up on the Sunday papers while Bill alternately cheered and groaned along with whatever sports team was in season. Bored as she was by the sports, she could never quite relax because she was constantly aware that her phone could go off at any moment and require her to drop everything to cover a breaking story. But if she was out of town, in Portland, she’d be out of reach of Ted’s calls.
Feeling that it was rather a special day, she took some extra time washing and getting dressed, choosing her good black slacks, low-heeled booties, a cashmere turtleneck, and topping it all off with an antique gold lavaliere necklace inherited from her grandmother.
“Wow, what’s the occasion?” asked Bill, who was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, the sports section of the paper, and a plate smeared with the yellow remnants of a couple of fried eggs.
“Did you forget? Zoe and I are going apartment hunting in Portland.” She filled a mug from the half-full drip pot. “I want to make a good impression.”
“It’s Zoe who needs to make a good impression,” said Bill. “She’s the one who needs an apartment.”
“She’ll probably need a co-signer,” said Lucy, sitting down at the table, “landlords being the suspicious sorts they are.”
“Who can blame them?” said Bill, who’d heard plenty of tales of woe from clients who had hired him to repair their rental units. Units that had often been damaged by careless tenants who had added insult to injury by leaving town abruptly while owing back rent.
“That’s why I’m trying to send the message that we’re responsible, upstanding folk.”
“So where’s Zoe? Or are you going alone?”
Lucy sighed, took a big swallow of coffee, and went upstairs to rouse her sleepy-head daughter.
Zoe, it seemed, wasn’t nearly as excited about spending a day apartment hunting as her mother was. “I had this all organized,” she grumbled, as they settled themselves in the car. “If only Leanne hadn’t bailed on me. I’ll never find a place I can afford, not a decent place.”
“Don’t be silly. Portland’s a big city, I’m sure there are lots of apartments. And I think you have an advantage as a single young woman rather than a group of roommates who’d be more likely to party and make a lot of noise.”
“Mom, why must you rub it in?” groaned Zoe. “I’m going to be all alone, eating frozen diet dinners and listening to sad music.”
“What you do is up to you,” said Lucy, determined to remain cheerful as they zipped along Red Top Road on the way to Route 1. “It’s not that hard to cook yourself a nice dinner, maybe a chop or a piece of salmon and a nice salad.”
“I’ll have to eat alone, Mom. And how will I meet people? If I had a roommate, we could go out together to one of those craft breweries, or a club.” They were passing a marsh and Zoe was staring out the window, but blind to the great blue heron picking its way along the winding creek. “I can’t go by myself, I’d feel weird.”
“Make a date with Leanne and her pals,” suggested Lucy.
“No way. That’s over. I hate her.”
“Have it your way,” said Lucy with a shake of her head.
The first place on Zoe’s list was a basement apartment in a two-family house near the medical center, and was no longer available. “Prime location,” said the owner, apologetically. “I guess I didn’t need to advertise. I had a little sign in the window and I swear, I no sooner taped it up when I had a nice young resident knocking on the door. And she wasn’t the only one.”
Lucy looked up and down the pleasant, tree-lined street. “Do you know of any other rentals nearby?”
“Sorry,” said the owner. “There’s plenty of new apartments going up out by the highway, why not try there?”
Back in the car, Zoe consulted her list, then unfolded a map. “It’s kind of out of town,” she said, stabbing a finger at the grid of streets. “But the rent is affordable.”
“Well, you’ve got a car. Let’s check it out.”
Lucy put the address in the GPS system and they followed the directions, finding themselves driving past what was clearly a run-down, low-income housing project.
“This doesn’t look very promising,” said Lucy as they passed discarded sofas left on the sidewalk and billowing newspapers sailing down the street along with discarded fast-food wrappers.
“You’re such a snob, Mom,” said Zoe, determined to press on.
They found the address a few blocks beyond the project, above an empty storefront.
“No way,” said Lucy as Zoe hopped out of the car. She was already knocking on the door beside the storefront, which was eventually opened by a man in a torn and faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, sporting an unkempt beard.
“You’re here about the apartment?” he asked as Lucy hurried to join her daughter on the front step.
“Yes, can we see it?” asked Zoe.
“Sure,” said the guy, looking them over. “Rent’s gone up, though. It’ll be nine hundred fifty dollars.”
“But it was advertised at eight hundred fifty dollars,” protested Lucy, following him up the filthy, creaky wooden stairs.
“That was wrong,” insisted the guy, pausing in the tiny landing at the top of the stairs and pushing open the door. Stepping aside, he invited them to enter with a bow and a flourish of his arm.
Lucy’s first sensation was the smell, which was musty and caused her to sneeze. Next she noticed the grimy windows, the amateurish orange paint job on the walls, and the absolutely filthy kitchen area, where the stove and counter were dotted with mouse droppings.
“Uh, sorry, but I don’t think this will do,” she said, reaching for Zoe’s arm and intending to make a quick retreat.
“Don’t be so quick. Just needs a little elbow grease.”
Which, thought Lucy, was really the responsibility of the landlord, not that she was going to mention that fact to Mr. Guns N’ Roses. Glancing out the window, she noticed two young men not even attempting to conceal the fact they were involved in a drug deal.
“The rent’s a little high,” said Zoe. “Do you think you could come down?”
The guy narrowed his eyes and looked Zoe over, scratching his chin. “Mebbe. Depends on what you’d be willing to do in exchange.”
“We’re out of here,” said Lucy, grabbing Zoe’s hand and yanking her along.
“Mom!” she protested, as Lucy dragged her down the stairs. “It was huge, so much space, I could’ve shared with a couple of roommates. I bet I could’ve even got him to come down on the rent. He seemed really eager to negotiate.”
“Yeah, if you were willing to let that jerk prostitute you.”
“He didn’t mean that,” insisted Zoe, reluctantly climbing into the car. “You always see the worst in people.”
Lucy didn’t reply but started the car, terrified of the dangers the city presented to her innocent daughter. How naïve was Zoe? How was she going to survive? “What’s next on the list?” she asked, hoping it was in a different neighborhood.
“Well, there’s this loft conversion downtown, in the arts district.”
“Sounds expensive,” said Lucy.
“C’mon, Mom, what do you want? If it’s affordable you don’t approve and if it’s upscale you assume it’s going to be too expensive.”
“How about something in the middle,” suggested Lucy with growing exasperation. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned a rare day spent with her daughter to unfold; she’d foolishly thought Zoe would appreciate her advice and support.
“I dunno, Mom. I think we’ve got to deal with what’s available.” She shrugged. “The studios in this place aren’t too expensive, and I’d save on gym membership, car, all that stuff.”
“Okay, okay,” said Lucy as they pulled up in front of the freshly rehabbed red brick mill, complete with a neon sign announcing the address and a gleaming modernistic steel structure overhanging the door. True to the ad, the building was indeed located among a cluster of art galleries and boutiques. Lucy came to a quick decision, realizing that sometimes you had to let your little chicks try their wings. “You go on in, I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“Are you sure?” asked Zoe, suddenly flummoxed.
“Yeah,” said Lucy, ready for a break. She was tired of being the bad guy, taking the blame for the tight rental market in Portland. She hoped that by removing herself from the situation, Zoe would get a healthy dose of reality. She remained sitting in the car for a few minutes, then, becoming restless, decided to take a little walk down the street. She climbed out of the car and straightened her good coat, slid her handbag onto her shoulder, and slipped into her city attitude. She was a city girl after all, she’d grown up in New York City, even if she had spent decades in quaint old Tinker’s Cove. She strolled down the sidewalk, glancing at the storefronts and stopping in front of a gallery that had a single painting in the window, a portrait of a woman that reminded her of her daughter Elizabeth. On impulse she opened the door and went in.
“Welcome,” said the smiling gallerina, who was seated at a Parsons table that was bare except for a laptop computer and a guest book. She was a young woman with long, black hair, wearing a slim black dress accented with a chunky blue necklace. “Would you like to sign our guest book?” she invited.
“Sure,” said Lucy, glancing around and finding herself disappointed to discover that most of the artwork on display was of the usual lighthouse and rocky coast variety. “The painting in the window caught my eye,” she said, picking up the pen and writing her name and email address.
“Ah, that’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s by Aurore Sonnay.”
“I didn’t notice a price . . .” said Lucy.
“Twenty-five.”
“Hundred?”
The gallerina chuckled. “Thousand. Her work has become increasingly sought after since her death last year. That painting is of her daughter, which perhaps explains why it’s so especially beautiful. It was painted with loving eyes.”
“Hmm,” sighed Lucy. “A bit out of my reach.” She turned to go, but the gallerina spoke up. “If these paintings aren’t to your taste you might enjoy the photographs we’ve got on display downstairs. They’re by Matthieu Colon. . . .” she said, emphasizing the photographer’s identity.
“Should I recognize that name?” asked Lucy.
The gallerina cocked her head and smiled. “Perhaps he’s not a household name just yet, but his reputation is growing. And now’s the time to buy before he really takes off. . . .”
“How can I resist?” laughed Lucy, following the gallerina’s directions to the display area in the gallery’s lower level.
Rounding a corner at the bottom of the stairs she was confronted by a large black-and-white poster featuring a portrait of the photographer, who was much older than she’d expected. He was clearly well into his sixties, perhaps even his seventies, with a gray beard and a full head of hair, wearing a military-style jacket with lots of pockets and a checked scarf, and holding a camera. She paused, studying his face, trying to figure out what exactly she found so fascinating and decided it was his eyes: deeply hooded, with bags beneath, they seemed to express an entire world’s worth of weariness and sadness.
Intrigued, she continued on into the exhibition where she encountered a display of news photos from the Bosnian War. No wonder he seemed so resigned, she thought, studying the photos of destroyed buildings, uncovered mass graves, and portraits of rape victims. All caught in perfect, clear focus, as if Colon was determined to capture each and every horrible detail. A child’s shoe, abandoned in the rubble of a bomb attack. Two bodies sprawled on a blood-smeared street, a man and a woman, who had struggled to touch hands in their last moments. A mosque, blown to bits with several prayer rugs still in place. A bearded father, his face blackened with dust and smoke, holding the limp body of his young child.
Lucy moved slowly from photograph to photograph, unable to turn away and struggling to understand why they held such a terrible fascination for her. It was hard for her to comprehend why people would do these horrible, destructive things to one another, to their towns and places of worship. What was the reason behind it all? Why so much hate? What was it that turned people into monsters, bent on destroying each other?
Finally, she decided she’d had enough and left, and returned to the cheery, sun-filled main gallery where lighthouses stood on rocky promontories and colorful sailboats bobbed in sapphire seas.
“It’s a very powerful show, no?” asked the gallerina.
“It certainly is,” agreed Lucy with a sigh.
“Here’s a little information about the photographer,” she said, offering Lucy a brochure.
“Do people buy those photographs?” asked Lucy, who couldn’t imagine living with one of the grim images on her wall.
“Oh, yes. Colon is a master of light and shadow, composition, he’s clearly on the rise,” she said, speaking authoritatively. “His work has real meaning and it’s beautifully crafted. He’s truly a master, and his work is a good investment, it will surely appreciate in value.”
Lucy smiled, amused by the sales pitch while tucking the brochure into her bag. Glancing out the window she saw rescue was at hand, noticing Zoe leaning against the parked car. “There’s my daughter, I’ve got to go. Thank you.”
“Come again,” invited the gallerina as Lucy exited onto the street.
“What took you so long?” demanded Zoe, clearly disgruntled to discover that her mother hadn’t waited patiently for her but had gone off to pursue her own interests.
“I popped into that gallery,” explained Lucy. “What did you think of the building? Any good apartments?”
“Oh, Mom, they were fabulous. Exposed brick, stainless steel appliances, granite counters, fabulous bathrooms, and huge windows. Oh, and the wood floors were gorgeous, cleaned up and polished but showing signs of age. Patina, they call it. Dings and paint spatters, they tell a story.”
“Sounds like you had a very good sales rep,” observed Lucy, seating herself behind the driver’s wheel. Zoe was easily impressed and didn’t have her powers of resistance.
“He was amazing,” continued Zoe enthusiastically, sliding onto the passenger seat. “He knew all about the people who worked in the factory. They had these big black-and-white photos opposite the elevators showing the looms and the people who worked back then. Women in long skirts with their hair up in buns, and cute young boys in high-water pants.”
“People who worked long hours for little pay in dangerous conditions,” said Lucy. “All to make the mill owners rich.”
“Mom,” exclaimed Zoe, rolling her eyes, “you don’t have to get all political. I know about the industrial revolution, and it wasn’t all bad. Those mills enabled young people, especially girls, to leave the drudgery of life as unpaid labor on family farms and to come to the city, where they could be more independent.”
Lucy shook her head. “So what is the bottom line?”
Zoe’s face fell. “Nearly two thousand for a studio, Mom. I can’t afford that, no way.” Zoe cast a mournful parting glance at the desired but unattainable building. “It’s so unfair. There was a pool and a gym, and a rooftop patio with grills and tables. It would be so much fun to live there but instead I’m going to have to settle for some grungy basement hole like Sara’s place.”
Lucy started the car. “How about some lunch,” she suggested, hoping to distract Zoe from her litany of complaints.
“I’m not really hungry,” she said, “but if you want to eat it’s okay by me.”
“Uh, thanks,” said Lucy, wishing that Zoe hadn’t made her feel like quite such a glutton. “Well, I do want a sandwich or something and I don’t think you should characterize Sara’s place as a grungy hole. She’s made it really cute.”
“She’s just got a bunch of stuff picked up at estate sales and hand-me-down pots and dishes. It’s like she took the cellar with her.”
“She’s gradually replacing the old stuff with new things,” said Lucy, defending her thrifty daughter, who lived in Quincy and worked at the Museum of Science in Boston. “She wants to know if you want her kitchen table; she doesn’t need it anymore.”
“That old thing? No way.” Zoe was staring out the window. “I just can’t believe Leanne. We were all set, that place was going to be so cute. She was bragging about the furniture her mom was going to give us, she works at Thayer’s Furniture, you know, and is always changing up her place.” Zoe turned and looked at Lucy. “Not like you, Mom, who never parts with anything.”
“I like my house, why would I change it?” Lucy had spotted a sandwich shop and was pulling into the driveway. “Are you coming in or are you going to skip lunch?”
“I’ll come in,” moaned Zoe, as if she were doing her mother a huge favor. “Maybe they’ve got salads—I need to lose a few pounds.”
As it happened, they did have salads and Zoe opted for a huge Cobb salad loaded with hard-boiled eggs, blue cheese, nuts, and creamy dressing, which Lucy was amused to see she devoured with dispatch. Lucy stuck with her usual BLT, limiting herself to only a few of the accompanying potato chips. After seeing the photos of people whose homes and lives had been ravaged by war, and watching Zoe chow down after complaining bitterly all morning about her situation, Lucy felt a word of correction might be in order. “You know, you’re really very fortunate. I think you should stop feeling sorry for yourself and start counting your blessings.”
Zoe’s eyes widened in surprise as she popped a cherry tomato into her mouth. “You just don’t get it, do you?” she challenged her mother. “I’m not like you and Sara. I’m not into estate sales and clipping coupons—I want more!”
Lucy stared at her, shocked at this revelation. “Well, I think you’ll find that there’s more to life than granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.” She signaled for the check. “You know those quaint old-fashioned folks in the factory photos? Do you have any idea of their living conditions, when they were working twelve hours a day in that mill?”
Zoe stood up. “Yeah, Mom, I do in fact. I’ve been to the Tenement Museum, you dragged me there, remember? But that was then and this is now and I am not a factory girl.”
Mother and daughter were quiet on the ride home. Zoe was scribbling away in a notebook adding up columns of figures in an attempt to make her starter salary stretch to cover the rent in the desirable loft building. Lucy, on the other hand, kept replaying the photos she’d seen at the gallery. One in particular stuck in her mind; it pictured a jumble of bodies piled atop one another in the bottom of a charred stairwell.
She remembered Geri saying that her mother had developed claustrophobia after covering a war somewhere and she wondered if she’d seen something similar. It was hard enough to look at a photograph in a neat, clean gallery miles from any conflict; it would have been devastating to witness firsthand. But if Agnes did have claustrophobia, no matter how it started, it was hard to see how she might have ended up in the emergency staircase at Heritage House. Why did she go into the stairs? That was the question that Lucy wanted to answer. What was Agnes up to in the last days of her life? What had she learned or discovered that made her determined to overcome her fear of small spaces so she could venture into the enclosed space that she would have been inclined to avoid?
Since she’d worked on Saturday, Lucy had some free time on Monday morning so Lucy paid a visit to Miss Tilley at Heritage House, and was encouraged to see that her old friend was moving about more easily, but her face and arm were still darkly bruised. She found her in one of the seating areas provided for residents and guests in the skilled nursing section, where she was sitting with Howard White.
“This is nice,” said Lucy, taking in the upholstered sofa and armchairs tucked into a niche off the hallway, “much pleasanter for visits than your room.”
“A change of scene is always good,” said Howard.
“And that hospital room is rather small,” said Miss Tilley, agreeing. “I’ll be glad when I can go home to my little house.”
“Any idea when that might be?” asked Lucy.
“It can’t be soon enough for me,” complained Miss Tilley.
“You need to relax and be patient to give your body time to heal,” advised Howard. “Let nature take its course.”
“In my experience, nature hasn’t always been my friend,” snapped Miss Tilley. “I’m beginning to think it wants to be done with me.”
“Now, now,” said Howard, patting her knee. “There’s plenty of fight left in your old bones. And like me, you’re too nosey to give up the ghost, you want to know what’s going to happen next.”
Lucy smiled at this insight and nodded. “You know, I was wondering about Agnes, she was very curious, too, wasn’t she?”
“And I suppose you’ve been wondering if it was her curiosity that led her into that stairwell?” asked Howard, raising an exuberantly bushy gray eyebrow.
“It has been bothering me because her daughter said she was claustrophobic. Why would she go into the stairwell?”
“Maybe she was trying to avoid someone,” said Miss Tilley. “Poor Howard is always dodging that Bitsy creature.”
“Now, now,” protested Howard. “Bitsy is a very dear person. . . .”
“You told me she’s practically your shadow, that you can’t get away from her.”
“Well, she is a bit clingy,” admitted Howard. “And I have to admit that if I see her first, I do my best to avoid her, but I try to be subtle about it. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“Was there anyone in particular that Agnes usually avoided?” asked Lucy.
“Not really,” said Howard, thoughtfully scratching his chin. “If anything, it was the other way round. She could be quite brusque, she didn’t suffer fools gladly, and people tended to avoid her.”
“I’ll have to try that,” said Miss Tilley with an approving nod. “Cut ’em off at the pass, before they have a chance to tell their boring stories for the hundredth time.”
Howard chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t think you’re cut out for life in a senior residence.”
“That’s the truth,” agreed Miss Tilley, slapping her veined hands on her thighs.
“Oddly enough, Geri said her mother loved it here,” said Lucy. “She liked the carefree lifestyle.”
“I think she did. She made it work for herself,” said Howard.
Lucy glanced down the hallway to the nurses’ station, watching as the elevator door opened and an aide pushed out an enormous cart loaded with patient meals. “Lunch is on its way,” she said. “I should be going.”
“It will keep,” said Miss Tilley with a sigh. “If it’s Monday, it’s gluey macaroni and cheese.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from that,” laughed Lucy. “But I have been wondering about Agnes’s last days. Did she behave any differently?”
“Ah-ha,” crowed Miss Tilley. “You think she was onto something? Something that wasn’t quite right?”
“She was an investigative reporter, after all. And it’s hard for people to change old habits,” admitted Howard. “Now that you mention it, she did have a special little spring in her step the last time I saw her. I even mentioned it to her, I asked her if she was excited about the hat contest and if she had another winner up her sleeve.” He sighed. “Now I wonder . . .”
“How did she reply?” asked Lucy.
“Oh,” he said, shrugging, “she said she wasn’t going to enter the contest this year. ‘Been there, done that,’ she said.”
“So you have no idea what she might have been excited about?”
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.
Lucy stood up, picking up her bag and jacket. “I’ll let you get to your mac n’ cheese before it gets cold.”
“Oh, goody,” said Miss Tilley, getting slowly to her feet. Howard took her arm and they walked off together down the hallway.
Lucy turned and headed for the elevator, wondering what had so interested Agnes. It certainly wasn’t the hat contest.