All in One Piece (19 page)

“Steven didn’t…” Now Margaret’s eyes are fixed on Leonard’s face. “Steven was uncertain about his spiritual path.” The
two exchange glances.

“I’ll get in touch with All Souls. But I’ll need a list of Steven’s coworkers.”

“No problem.” Vogler snaps a suspender. Spurs flashing, the cocks bulge and shrink. “We can circulate the announcement.”

“And will your family take part—your son, Andrew? Your daughter?”

“Drew, yes. I’ll have him contact you. Dani’ll sing. My daughter has had extensive voice training.”

“Very nice,” I say. “And Steven’s friends outside of work? How can I reach them?”

“That’s more complicated.” Suddenly both Voglers look ill at ease, though perhaps for different reasons. Margaret is doubtless
thinking of Alex Ribideau. Vogler? Who knows?

“Perhaps Andrew and Danielle could help us,” I say.

“Steven’s new friends in recent years,” says Margaret, “we wouldn’t know them. I doubt Dani or Drew do.”

Vogler drinks. “To be blunt, Steven had friends in the gay community.”

“The family loved him all the same,” says Margaret. Leonard frowns. She rolls her shoulders and peers from the sunporch windows
into the darkening gray. She says, “We are equal in God’s eyes.”

“Discrimination is illegal,” says Vogler. “I couldn’t be a bigot and run a business, not these days.”

So Leonard Vogler dislikes his protégé “son” being gay. And he’s probably unaware that his wife introduced him to his longtime
partner.

“We are open-minded,” says Margaret. “My husband did the right thing for Steven no matter what.”

“Margaret my dear, here’s the right thing: Dani’s found a glass man to work on the greenhouse. Forgive this, Regina, but my
wife needs a ray of sunshine. You see, we’ve plunged into a new phase of life. Last March we moved lock, stock, and barrel
into this historic Crowninshed estate without a minute’s hesitation because we saw the possibilities. We decided country living
was just the ticket for good health. Isn’t that right, dear?” Margaret manages a wan smile. “You said it so cleverly, my dear.
Your turn of phrase about the house, what was it?”

“Good bones,” says Margaret dutifully. “I said the house has good bones.”

“Right, but the whole property cried out for restoration. Why, we’re practically homesteaders. I’m a western boy, you see.
I’m from Nevada. But Margaret’s old family home here is our latest project. Eventually Crowninshed will be a premier showplace.
It’s our new adventure.”

Margaret gives him a gaze of forbearance.

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance. The place will be back to its old glory days. This is the house that hardware built, Regina.
Does the name Crowninshed ring a bell? Think hardware.”

“Hardware?”

“That’s Margaret’s family on her mother’s side, and it goes way back in history. Why, Crowninshed picks and shovels were on-site
at the gold rush. America’s victory gardens were spaded with Crowninshed tools during World War II. Today the company’s smaller,
and while it might not sound glamorous, such things as staples and nail guns…”

“Nails. Did you say nails?”

“Family reunions with Margaret’s folks, all you hear is sixtypenny nails, ring nails, spiral nails. And the crown jewel, the
Crowninshed nail guns. All patented.”

These words flash like bloodred neon. Steven’s body, his nailed skin. Leonard Vogler is still talking. Margaret gives a little
shudder as from a chill in the sunless sunporch. I manage to ask, “I’m curious. Is a nail gun like a real gun?”

“It speeds up the work tenfold,” Leonard says. “
Pam, pam, pam
. Shingles, boards, shoots those suckers like no tomorrow.” Margaret folds her arms as the afternoon darkens to dusk. No one
has turned on a lamp. “So now we’re on the prowl for craftsmen, woodworkers, a team of landscape architects.” He reaches to
pat his wife’s knee, misses, and knocks over the cane. One sock bunches at his ankle. Awkward man.

I resolve to sit here till I learn when Steven last saw Leonard and Margaret Vogler, and till the three of us acknowledge
his murder. The cane is back at Margaret’s side. Vogler’s necktie has flipped backward. He doesn’t notice. “I just wondered,”
I say, “whether Steven was here shortly before he was killed.”

They stare, soundless, at the word “killed.” The clock chimes the half hour. Wrong time, wrong timing. I relent. “You must
have provided such a home to him.”

“The Lawrence years, Regina, were decisive.”

Try another angle. “Steven must have been terribly interested in your new-home project. Maybe he had one of the Crowninshed
nail guns?”

Vogler’s booming laugh is startling. “Steven,” he says, “had absolutely no aptitude in that direction. You see, he was destined
for a different future.”

“For Corsair Financial?”

“For thoroughbred racing.”

It’s my turn to stop and stare. Vogler says, “As a business, Regina. I formed a partnership to develop a track and a racing
season near Nashua, New Hampshire. There’s nothing in this world like thoroughbreds. Businesses come and go, but racing gets
in your blood.”

“And Steven was part of the plan?”

Vogler clears his throat. “Why, yes, the fact is, the boy’s size seemed a sure shot.”

“His smallness, Regina, as you saw in the albums.”

“He was horse crazy too. Jockeys are trained in a system of apprenticeship, you see.”

“Jockeys? So Steven was going to be a jockey?”

“A native son of Lawrence, think of the publicity for the Vogler Stable right here in New England.”

“Until he grew. The growth spurt took everyone by surprise.”

“The shoe size fooled us. We guessed he’d top out at about a hundred, hundred and a quarter.”

“But then, Regina, Leonard did the right thing.”

“Absolutely right thing.” Leonard and Margaret together, a portrait of righteousness.

“You continued to help him after he grew too large to be a jockey?”

“We kept him in the bosom of the family. Fixed his teeth. Saw to the scholarships. The whole package.” Vogler snaps the fighting
cocks. “Even when our interests shifted, when we backed off from racing and leased the bogs.”

“Cranberries, Regina.”

“Nothing says New England like cranberries, but our bogs were in Wisconsin. It was quite a commute.”

“With Cape Cod bogland so dear, you see.”

“And if the market hadn’t… I mean, if crop yields had just been a point or two higher in those years, why, Ocean Spray
would be our middle name.” He makes a pudgy fist.

I look from one to the other. Vogler’s business schemes over the years—were they financed by Corsair? By his first wife’s
money? Or Margaret’s?

“Regina, if you know of artisans, don’t hesitate. We’ll soon make history in the restoration of Crowninshed Farms. The area
will be buzzing with construction. Our own home deserves only the finest craftsmen.” He thumbs the suspenders. The cocks leap.

Margaret bunches the hem of her dress against her knees. She gives Leonard a half-lidded gaze and says, “Steven was here on
August third for dinner. It was my birthday. Drew and Dani came. We had fireworks. It was a lovely evening. Would you care
for more tea, Regina?”

It’s my cue. “Thanks, but I must go. I’m just wondering, is there anyone else to be contacted?”

Margaret wets her lips and hesitates. Vogler straightens his tie, clears his throat. They exchange glances.

“Anyone at all? Or perhaps I might ask Andrew and Danielle.”

Margaret says, “Perhaps…” Her voice trails.

Leonard snaps down his glass. “What’s the point?”

“For Drew and Dani’s sake.”

“What about us?”

“Leonard dear…”

They go back and forth until he says, “Margaret, if you must.”

She clears her throat and says, “This is awkward, Regina, but you’ll want to be in touch with Eleanor.”

“Eleanor—?”

“Comber. Formerly Vogler.”

“A relative?”

Vogler grunts.

With eyes closed, Margaret says, “Eleanor was Leonard’s first wife. She’s the mother of Drew and Danielle. You’ll find her
at Flint Ridge Trace. That’s in Hamilton, here on the North Shore.”

We rise, Margaret with her cane, me with this sudden bombshell. We recap plans for the service and promise to stay in touch,
as if Leonard’s ex has not ruptured the moment. I gather the photographs, and Leonard walks me out and points to the weedy
fields to be landscaped in the spring, he boasts, with a pond and trout stream to boot. He flicks his wrist as if fly casting,
pausing at the collapsed woodpile to ask whether I have a fireplace, then to insist on loading an armful of wood into my trunk
for the winter. “It’s apple, nature’s very best firewood—a lesson learned from a little business venture in wood some years
ago.”

This very next moment happened so fast I can’t be sure. Maybe signals got crossed. Maybe. Here’s how it goes in replay. The
applewood is loaded in, and I reach to close my trunk, my fingers extended—then feel a sharp current of air, yank back my
hand just as Vogler bangs the trunk hatch down. It’s nanoseconds and microns from a smash.

“Oh my goodness,” Vogler says, “we nearly hit your hand. Your wrist, your poor fingers. Why, we could have done some real
damage.” He shakes his head and snaps one suspender. “Oh, you’d have surgical pins and a metal plate, Regina. You’d have physical
therapy for a very long time. You must be careful.”

A blackbird circles overhead and drops a greenish splotch.

“We wouldn’t for the world want to see you hurt, Regina, not when you’re so kind and helpful. Why, my Margaret would feel
terrible. If anything happened, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. You take care, now. We want you healthy. We want
you all in one piece.”

C
ome anytime,” said Eleanor Comber of Flint Ridge Trace when I phoned to introduce myself. “Anytime,” she said in a whiskey
voice when I spoke Steven Damelin’s name. “Anytime at all.”

Which is universal for never.

“This very afternoon,” I shot back, and what could she say? In heavy gabardines and loafers, I pass the old stone walls and
dark-stained fences of the horse farms on Boston’s North Shore—White Gables, Heatherstone, Hawk’s Nest. It’s turned sunny,
and fallen leaves carpet the fields in brown, though a few maples shimmer red and gold.

The entrance gates to Flint Ridge Trace are open wide, but the stone cairns that flank the gates bring me to a dead stop.
Literally I brake, lower my window, and stare. Each cairn is topped by a stone pineapple.

I’m spooked. Of course I am. My door marks, that Chinese grocer and dictionary and exchange with Hugh Lee… here’s the
pineapple, the traditional symbol of welcome. Decoratively speaking, it’s everywhere from mailboxes to cheese spreaders. But
maybe this is different. Maybe the motif is a code. A sign just inside the gate reads “5 mph,” and I take it personally: proceed
with caution, Reggie.

The gravel roadway leads past a white Federal house and gray barn with a low roofline to a parking area with two Suburbans
and a truck. Outside, I hear a whinny, thudding hooves, and in the distance, an engine. It smells of hay and horses. In a
far ring, a rider exercises a tawny horse.

“Hello.” A tall woman, late thirties, in denim and boots greets me, her thick dark hair tied back, face tanned, eyes sea blue.
“You must be Regina. I’m Vicky. I’m a trainer. You might not want to shake hands, I’m dusty from currycombs.”

I shake firmly.

“Eleanor will be with you. Come in.”

So this is a horse barn. Big box stalls face each other across a wide aisle, the paneling a smooth dark hardwood. In front
of each stall—I count fourteen—is a trunk with a brass nameplate. The horses peer out, fine heads with combed and clipped
manes and ears at attention.

“They’re beautiful.”

“These horses are great. Eleanor’s a legend. There’s a long waiting list.”

“To board them?”

“Yes. Our horses are schooled for hunting and shows. And dressage. Most of these horses were made here.”

“Made?”

Vicky nods. “It means schooled. We don’t say broken.”

“Oh, the horse whisperer thing.”

“Lots of positive reinforcement. It takes longer, but it’s really the better way, except—” Vicky looks me in the eye. “When
I give a lesson, I always say, ‘They’re wonderful animals, but the fact is, a horse can kill you.’ They weigh over half a
ton, and they operate on fight-or-flight. There’s a T-shirt in the horse catalogs that says ‘I whisper, but my horse doesn’t
listen.’ Do you ride?”

“Not since my summer camp days.”

She pats the rump of a chestnut horse and explains the difference between a currycomb and dandy brush.

“Vicky, I hear that Andrew Vogler is a lifelong rider. You must know him?” She nods. “And Steven Damelin?”

“Him too.” Her nod is curt, and she brushes the horse. Does she know the Vogler family history? Or that Steven is dead?

“Diablo,” she says at last. “Steve and Drew owned Diablo together.” She points with her brush. “The far stall on the right
is his. The name’s on the tack trunk.”

I walk down and peer in. Much bigger than the chestnut horse, so black he’s blue, Diablo tenses at my approach, kicks hind
hooves against the stall, and swings his massive neck from side to side, his long mane looking storm-tossed. His eyes are
fierce, and pink ridges glisten across the shoulders and haunches. Ointment on lacerations? His deep whinny sounds like a
protest and threat. I backtrack to the open stall.

“Vicky, Diablo looks wild. I saw marks on his shoulders and rump. What are they?”

“They’re going to be scars.” She reaches for a bridle.

“How did Diablo get cut?”

She lifts the bridle over the horse’s head. “Barbed wire will wound a horse. And scar it.”

“I don’t see any barbed wire.”

She goes for a saddle. “Eleanor’s in the clubroom. She’ll be right with you.”

What clubroom? Why is there a lacerated horse in this “horse whisperer” barn that is owned and operated by an equestrian “legend”?
The Flint Ridge trainer clearly did not want to talk about it.