Now You See Her (19 page)

“My daughter needs a car.”

“Mrs. Cutter, you’ve come to the right place at the right time. We have a spring sale all this week long. Tell me about your
daughter.”

The man sounds from a playbook. “She’s an art student. She lives in Rhode Island.”

“I’ve got the car for her. Follow me, please.” We walk the back rows. The vehicles are all sooty, which is strange. The inventory
looks as defeated as Steve Yung is perky. “You live around here, Mrs. Cutter?”

“The South End.”

“So you come so far out to Brighton for the spring sale.”

How can I slip the Eldridge side streets into the conversation? “I saw your Auto Mart Web site.” Why aren’t these cars shined
up?

“My cousin put me on the Internet. It’s good idea for business. See, you come all this way from South End. Parking there,
they say, is terrible.”

“A challenge.”

“The city, I stay away from there. Brighton is good for me. My family, we like home here in Brighton.”

“Nice.” I check my watch. This is dumb and I want out. Nicole is expecting me. Steve lays a hand on a metallic-raspberry car.

“Mrs. Cutter, this is your daughter’s Beretta.”

“Like the gun?”

He grins as though I’m Comedy Central. “It’s Chevrolet, a really good deal. Less than nine thousand miles. A little sporty,
great car for your daughter. It could be yours, ma’am, for a low down payment and easy finance. You can get amazing deal.
How about a test drive?”

“I don’t think today. I need to bring my daughter with me.”

“You can surprise her. Young lady daughters enjoy a big surprise.”

“Perhaps I’ll come back with her.”

“Let me give a price. Please come into my office, please.”

It’s ridiculous, yet somehow I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe it’s the brush with Meg, or some dim notion of Asian
propriety, or the rows of dingy cars, but I step into the clapboard shed with its cluttered desk and lumpy sofa and fluorescent
buzz.

He grabs a clipboard and motions me to the sofa. I sit. Give this five minutes, max. “Please, how much do you want to spend?”

“Not a lot.”

“You want to finance the car? I offer the whole package, easy payments. You thirsty, like a Pepsi? No? How about insurance?”

“I’m not sure.” This feels like a skit.

He turns on a calculator. “The best deal, you will see.”

He crunches his numbers. I sit, hands folded, looking out at the dispirited rows of sedans and coupes and aging SUVs. Inside,
a dusty electric fan awaits the summer season, and a Bruins cap hangs from a nail. Framed photos of beaming children line
the desk, babies in arms, tots, a pretty Asian woman in red with a golden hibiscus in her hair. The family photos are the
sole bright note in the place.

My gaze is drawn to a framed black-and-white glossy that’s half hidden behind the family grouping. It’s some kind of official
photograph, maybe an awards ceremony, a beaming Steve Yung shaking hands against a backdrop of duckpins and a banner that
says “Bowl for Kids.”

I shift on the sofa, my gaze steady on the glossy figures. I look away, then back again. With breath held, I focus on the
man Steve shakes hands with in the photo—a wiry dark man in a double-breasted suit. I stretch, then crane, then stand up to
get a better look. Partially blocked, the figure is nevertheless familiar and unmistakable. I stare until I’m positive. On
the desktop is a photo of Steve Yung shaking hands with Jeffrey Arnot.

The Newton Home and Garden Alliance occupies a 1700s white colonial on a street with a tearoom, a yarn shop, a dog groomer.
It’s a light-year away from the Brighton Auto Mart. A historical plaque on the Alliance house says it was built over two centuries
ago by Ebenezer Botts.

Four StyleSmart “models” crammed themselves into my Beetle all the way from Roxbury to this suburb, each woman proud, eager,
anxious, and a bit defensive too. I pull around to the back, followed by the donated dry cleaner’s van, which is our transport
for the pressed ensembles on hangers. Nicole’s two van passenger “models” get out fast: Rosalie, who’s nearly six feet in
flip-flops, and the doe-eyed Carmine, who reminds me of Kia Fayzer—and thus of the brother I’m not helping nearly enough.

“Mighty seasick in that van.”

One of my backseat passengers, Beverly, cracks about the Beetle, “Itty-bitty car for circus clowns.”

“Ladies, welcome!” In a powder-blue suit with box jacket, the Alliance’s Caroline French opens a service entrance door.

I smile. Frankly, I have a hidden agenda. No, it’s nothing to do with the photo of Steve Yung and Jeffrey Arnot, the charity
event photo op signaling possible deals, maybe stolen cars, maybe real estate parcels in the Eldridge area. For the moment,
my focus is on Newton. The Boston police chief’s closed-captioned plea has given me an idea. Newton was Sylvia Dempsey’s home
turf. One way or another, I’ll ask whether the murdered woman was a member of the Alliance or had friends among the members.
I might get tips for Devaney, tips I can offer to exchange for information on the Faiser-Wald case. What’s more, tips that
Devaney can use to buy back his time to work more fully on the Faiser case. Sylvia can be leverage for Henry Faiser. If the
right moment comes, I’ll ask. If it doesn’t, I’ll create it.

“Nicole, Regina, wonderful to see you. Everybody take care to duck those puddles! It showered all morning. We’re so excited
to have you here. Mickey, please give today’s guests a hand.”

Mickey is a bandy-legged, peppy seventy-plus in janitorial twills who jumps the puddles and grabs garment bags as our motley
group hopscotches across the parking area, which is filling up with Volvos and Lexuses. A few bumper stickers say “Carney-Wald.”

“Reggie, you got the makeup case in your car?”

“Makeup? Me? I thought you.”

The tally of things forgotten begins. We’re minus makeup, half the accessories, and one pair of size 10 snakeskin pumps for
our “big gal,” Rosalie.

“Then what am I s’posed to wear on my feet?” Collectively, we stare in silence at Rosalie’s orange flip-flops.

Nicole rolls her eyes. “Reggie, the scripture says, ‘They grope in the noonday as in the night.’ But ‘His hands make whole.
He saveth the poor.’ ”

The Book of Job, if I’m not mistaken.

Nicole, however, looks nothing like the biblical master of miseries. Hers is the formal but friendly look for the ladies of
Newton, a periwinkle knit suit with a deep V-neck and little regimental gold buttons down the front and cuffs, plus a gold
choker and gold button earrings. Under her guidance, I represent the power palette in a fiercely feminine café au lait business
suit with cream silk shirt and pearls. It’s ironic—I, the former full-time homemaker, Regina Baynes, will impersonate an executive
femme. The pose is perfect for a group of women who’d resent a Fortune 500 Wonder Woman casting her reproachful dragon lady’s
shadow over the sociable luncheon.

“Nicole and Regina, may I introduce our Alliance treasurer, Sissie Hehrborg. Sissie also chairs the committee in charge of
our clothing drive.” We shake hands with a wide-eyed, auburn-haired woman in a mushroom two-piece knit who promises to bring
us box lunches in the “greenroom.”

“Ever since the community theater group rented the building for Candide,” says Sissie, “we call the back parlor our greenroom.”

In we go, eight of us, four African-Americans, one Latina, one white, plus Nicole and me, in a ten-by-twelve room with our
thick clothes racks, folding chairs, and five windowsill pots of dying geraniums.

“Close quarters,” I murmur to Nicole. Then the damnedest thing: my right thumb starts to hurt, burning as though scalded and
raw. I raise my hand to see if I was stung or bitten. It looks normal but throbs. I blow on it. There’s no bee or wasp in
sight. No spider. But it feels like an open, angry wound.

Weak, I lean against a wall. The one time my thumb hurt this way was when Devaney showed me the stopwatch at the donut shop
booth, the first and only time. It’s the pain triggered by the watch the police recovered from the weedy vacant lot on Eldridge.
First my rib, now this, as if my psychic wires are crossed. It’s maddening, an onset that I cannot control.

“A few months ago we had a speaker,” Caroline is saying, “but last month’s program featured peony varieties—Regina, are you
all right?”

“I’m…fine… just need a minute.” I manage to smile. “I jammed my thumb last week. It’s probably a sprain.”

“Oh, sprains are dreadful. What can we get you? How about a pain pill?”

Pain pill? How about the identity of Peter Wald’s murderer, if not Henry Faiser? How about the real story of the Eldridge
fire? Those would be my real painkillers. The fierce burning at last starts to fade, the pain to subside. It feels like a
release. “I’m fine. Really.” My new smile offers proof.

Free of nursing duty, Caroline brightens. “Everybody is thrilled to have a fashion show for a good cause. And guess what?
We have live music, a piano and choir. Oh, here’s Sissie and Jeanne with your lunches. I’ll see about your bottled water.”

In moments, we arrange the chairs and unwrap sandwich halves. I am thankful for the momentary pause.

“What’s this grass? What’s this smeary green stuff in my sandwich?”

“Alfalfa sprouts and avocado pear, Carmine. Pretend it’s mayonnaise.” Nicole turns to the group. “Models, get your hearts
and souls ready.” She looks at Rosalie and says, “Iman!” Then she makes eye contact with each of the other five. “Lauren Hutton!
Tyra! Naomi!” It’s brilliant strategy. Nicole has prepped the six by giving them supermodel names. For two weeks, the StyleSmart
walls have been plastered with old Vogue and Sister covers for rehearsals doubling as pep rallies. “Natasha! Kate! Nobody
is shy when they got a super part to play.”

Nicole turns my way. “Reggie, give me whatever cosmetics you got, eye shadow, liners. We’ll make do while you go find out
about that music and choir. We’ll wrap up lunch and get the ladies dressing.”

I hand over my makeup kit, then go down the hall into the main parlor, where slipcovered folding chairs flank an aisle that
serves as our runway. The floral arrangements are lovely— hanging baskets of lobelia and fuchsia, and basket-weave planters
of bright grass. The garden club ladies are assembling at tables with their own box lunches; sauvignon blanc is poured by
waiters in white jackets.

For a moment, it takes my breath away. I’m Reggie in Wonderland down the rabbit hole into my past life. At any table of six,
I could claim my seat and join the conversation about opening a summer cottage in the mountains or at the shore. Yet I’m an
outsider now, like a ghost staring at a scene right out of my own life.

Across the coiffed and frosted heads, I wonder who here knew Sylvia Dempsey. There are over one hundred women in this room.
I can’t go table-to-table to inquire. Who were her friends?

“Regina, will you need a microphone?” Sissie Hehrborg has approached to lean close and point to an oak stand. That’s where
I’ll read my script as “Naomi” and “Tyra” and the others walk the ramp. “You’re our announcer, right, Regina? Our announcer?”
She slurs the word so it sounds like announsher. Beneath her perfume and the wine, do I detect the odor of juniper berries?
Gin? “We’ve set you up right here.” She takes a step, steadies herself on my arm. “Scuse me.”

I smile to signal no problem. “Sissie, do I understand that a choir will perform?”

“Children from the school for the blind. They’re outside in their bus. PB&J sandwiches for them. They’re gonna sing.”

“Oh. We weren’t informed.”

“Three songs. Then your StyleSmart gal will say a few words.”

“That’s Nicole Patrick.”

“And will she need a microphone?” Sissie hiccups. “Nicole? Definitely not.”

“I’ll come back to the greenroom to cue you. You’ll hear the choir. Wasn’t my idea, by the way. Peanut butter kids’ choir,
cookie bones for the guide dogs. Sometimes we go along to get along, don’t we?”

Indeed we do. Back in the greenroom, Nicole has the six models lined up for inspection as on a flight deck. She’s worked wonders
with everyone’s makeup. Renee’s cocoa skin is glowing, Carmine’s complexion is radiant with a bronze sheen. Kayzee’s shoulders
are squared in her light gray jacket with a sky-blue blouse. We have variety—A-lines, pleats—but office standards. Rosalie
will wedge her toes into Nicole’s mules and hope for the best. Nicole approaches me with pencils and liners for a touch-up.
I unfold my script.

Then we hear the piano and the children’s thin voices. “Climb Every Mountain.”

“Sound of Music.”

“I Believe.”

“Nicole,” I whisper, “those blind children, we weren’t told about an opening act.”

“Reggie, don’t you worry. With those old tunes, there won’t be a dry eye. Those ladies are gonna open their checkbooks and
clear out their closets for StyleSmart. When I come back next week to collect the donations, our inventory will be through
the roof.”

Twenty minutes later, the test. The choir’s back in the bus, and the spotlight is on us. Nicole is spellbinding, a natural-born
motivational speaker. “Scripture says, ‘In the day of prosperity, be joyful,’ and our joy at StyleSmart is helping wonderful
women prosper and find their joy in the world of gainful work—with the support of the Newton Home and Garden Alliance!”

Here we go. Renee leads off, and I read, “To soar with flying colors in a simple silhouette.” She’s down the aisle. The ladies
smile with trembling chins, still teary from the blind children. I continue. “Midcalf skirt looks like a million dollars and
spells out one word: professional.”

Renee pauses at the far end, as planned, to state her new job. “A receptionist in a dental clinic.” All applaud as she pivots
and starts back up while our own version of Naomi Campbell, a suited Rosalie, totters forward in the mules.

“Payroll clerk!” she booms. More applause.

And so it goes to the finale, when all six stand in the aisle and Nicole poses the scripted question. “For joyful prosperity,
for style-smart success, what does it take?” In turn, each speaks her line.