The Death of an Ambitious Woman (13 page)

“Now what?” Moscone asked as they walked back toward Ruth’s car in the Kendall drive.

Ruth checked her watch.Tracey’s family wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon and Ruth wanted to give them a little time to get settled before she spoke with them. “I’ve been thinking we need to know more about Tracey and Stephen’s relationship. Let’s cast the net a little wider, shall we? Let’s pay a visit to the ex-wife.”

Rosie Boyagian, Stephen Kendall’s ex-wife, lived in a warehouse converted into artists’ lofts in Derby Mills. She buzzed them into her building as soon as they explained who they were. She answered her door wiping her hands on a brightly colored rag. The large features of her face contrasted prettily with the petiteness of her frame. Her sunny studio was lined with canvases painted in a style Ruth recognized instantly.

“Police, huh?” Ms. Boyagian said. “I bet I know what this is about.”

“Tracey Kendall,” Ruth confirmed. “Ms. Boyagian, we have some questions for you.”

“I thought she was killed by her mechanic. It’s been on the news.”

“We don’t know yet what happened,” Ruth answered. “At this point we’re just gathering information.”

Rosie frowned. “I’m not sure if I can help, but I’ll tell you what I can. That poor, poor little boy. And Stephen, too, of course.” The artist treated them to a sweet smile. “I practically mainline caffeine,” she said. “May I offer you some coffee?”

Ruth accepted, even though she knew drinking coffee this late in the day would lead to trouble sleeping. Moscone waved the offer away. Rosie brought out a pair of beautiful, hand-thrown mugs. “A potter friend gave them to me in trade,” she said when she saw Ruth examining them. She motioned them to the plastic porch furniture in her spare living area. “What can I tell you?”

“You were married to Stephen Kendall,” Ruth stated.

“Sure was. We were married twelve years ago in June and divorced two years later in August. The decree was final three days before his wedding to Tracey.”

“You were angry.”

“I was angry. I was hurt. I knew Stephen enjoyed women, of course, but I didn’t think he would do that to me. I was the one he married, after all. And with Tracey. That made it worse.”

“You knew Tracey, too?”

“Stephen and I were together when we met her. It was at a gallery opening. We were there to support a friend. She was there with some money people. I saw the sparks fly the minute they shook hands. My stomach literally heaved. I knew. But then nothing seemed to happen. Tracey came around a lot, but the three of us always did things together. Or, at least, I thought we did. I convinced myself I had been wrong. So by the time they told me, I was blindsided. I was the proverbial last to know.”

“What happened?”

“I cried. I begged. I humiliated myself in ways I don’t care to think about now. I lost. She won. At least I thought so then.”

“But now you don’t feel that way.”

“No. Art circles in Boston are very small. There was no way to avoid them and within a few years all three of us moved past that awful point. We weren’t close friends, but I would say we were fond acquaintances, happy to run into each other at openings and parties. The truth is, eventually I came to feel grateful to Tracey. She saved Stephen and me from a life of abject poverty, from a life of teaching and grants and grinding. My little paintings don’t take much to support, but Stephen’s sculpture is expensive.” Rosie Boyagian spread her paint-stained fingers in front of her. “And she saved me from spending my life with a man who would never be faithful to me.”

“There were other ‘other women’?”

“A parade. I didn’t find out until later, of course. Between the time he left me and the time the divorce was final, people came out of the woodwork to tell me. They seemed to think it would make me feel better. All the time we were dating, engaged, and married, there was always someone. Always one at a time. My friend Helen says Stephen is a ‘serially monogamous philanderer.’ ” Rosie Boyagian laughed while Ruth, momentarily distracted by the mention of her sister’s name, reflected that Helen’s insights about men were limited to those with whom she wasn’t personally involved. “Stephen’s thing is falling in love,” Rosie continued. “He feeds on the energy of it. He thinks he needs it for his art, so he’s always looking for that sensation of falling.” She shook her head.

“So you wouldn’t be surprised that he was cheating on Tracey in the same way he cheated on you?”

Rosie hesitated. “For years after his marriage to Tracey, Stephen had a reputation as a bad boy tamed. Some even said she’d ruined him. He hasn’t had a major show since Carson’s birth. But then, this new show for Susan came up. Stephen’s under a lot of pressure to create, just as he was during his wunderkind days when he was with me. If he was going to roam, now would be the time.”

“Was Susan Gleason one of your husband’s lovers?”

“The physical part of Stephen and Susan’s relationship was over before he and I met. Susan and her husband, Mortimer, ‘discovered’ Stephen when he was a student. Mort declared Stephen a prodigy, gave him his first show. So much early promise. But Stephen was not an easy investment. Whenever the Gleasons would get buyers excited about a direction Stephen was taking, he’d turn and start going somewhere else. The Gleasons believed in Stephen’s talent and eventual ability to command high prices, but toward the end, Mort was getting impatient. Only Susan’s pleading kept him going.”

“Toward the end?”

“The Gleasons had a famously open marriage. Two years ago, Mort ran off with their secretary, Jean-Paul. It took eighteen months for the courts to unravel their business and professional relationships. You’d think Susan as the wronged party would have come out of it well, but Mort knew Susan would do anything to hang onto Stephen. His lawyers got her to give up the gallery, the co-op, and contracts with several reliably productive artists.”

Ruth sipped coffee from the elaborate cup, pondering this new information. Did it mean anything in relation to Tracey Kendall’s death? If Susan Gleason had given up so much to retain Stephen Kendall, then the success of his upcoming show would be critical to her. Surely, she wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize it. Or maybe it should be looked at another way. She wouldn’t allow anyone to get in her way.

“Would Stephen and Tracey have returned Ms. Gleason’s loyalty?”

“Tracey’s only loyalty was to Stephen’s career.Without Mort, Susan is weaker, financially and influentially. Tracey would have been concerned.”

“And Stephen? Would he have left Ms. Gleason if his wife advised it?”

“He would have resisted. It’s ironic for me to say it, but he is loyal, in his way.”

“And if Tracey persisted?”

“I can only tell you this. Stephen’s mother objected to his divorce from me and his marriage to Tracey. He chose Tracey. He hasn’t spoken to his mother since the day he and Tracey married. If you want to be in Stephen’s life, you don’t, you didn’t, align yourself against Tracey.”

Ruth looked the small woman directly in the eyes. “Rosie,” she said, “you were married to him. Did you ever think he might be capable of having his wife killed?”

The artist was plainly startled by the question, but she pulled herself together, answering carefully. “I don’t know. I hope not. You see, you’re asking the wrong woman. I have a proven blind spot when it comes to Stephen Kendall.”

Moscone shut his notebook. Ruth agreed there wasn’t much point to continuing. She thanked Rosie and stood to go.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more help,” the artist responded. “When all was said and done, I liked Tracey. There was a lot to admire about her. In fact, I gave her two of my paintings. They were titled, ‘Be Careful What You Wish For,’ and, ‘You Might Get It.’ ”

“I know,” Ruth responded. “They were hanging in her office when she died.”

“More background?” Moscone asked as they plowed out of the parking lot at his usual breakneck speed.

“More background,” Ruth confirmed and gave him directions to their next stop.

The Holden house stood on a couple of acres along School Street, which ran from Derby Four Corners to Upper Derby. Ruth had driven by it many times and always considered it a monstrosity. Built ten years earlier, it towered above the ground, a brick colonial with a thyroid condition. Wings hung off either side. One wing housed a three-car garage. Ruth was willing to bet the other held a “great room.”

Margot Holden opened the door immediately, as if she had been standing in the front hall. “You’re here about Tracey Kendall,” she said when they identified themselves. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I didn’t know that auto mechanic.”

She was a statuesque woman with thick blond hair piled casually on her head. She was cursed with the Brahmin horse-face, but her voice was warm and deep. She was accompanied by a large black Labrador that sniffed at Moscone. Moscone sniffed back. “C’mon in,” Mrs. Holden said. “He’s just a big old baby.” Evidently, she meant the dog.

They followed her through the large, formal, marble foyer, into a large, formal living room decorated in rich tones of aquamarine and contrasting peach. The house wasn’t dirty, just disheveled. CDs were piled on the mantel. A suitcase and basket of folded laundry sat in the front hall. Magazines were scattered across the sofa. Ruth thought about her own comfortable, feet-on-the-couch house, where things were always piled up on the steps, waiting to be carried up or down and the front hall was cluttered with backpacks and an assortment of oversized sweatshirts that never seemed to find their way back to their owners. The mess in this house wasn’t much different, but in this formal setting the clutter stuck out sorely, like a woman in a formal suit with her shirttail hanging out.

Margot Holden moved with great energy, picking up and putting things away. “I’d like to help if I can. We weren’t close, but I always liked Tracey.” In the living room, she turned. “I won’t ask you to sit down. I just ran back here after school to pick up a load of laundry and my things. I’ve got to get out of here.”

Mrs. Holden seemed to catch the puzzled look on their faces. “I teach,” she explained.

“Get out of here?” Ruth clarified.

“Jack didn’t tell you about our living arrangements?”

Ruth shook her head. Margot Holden kept moving, straightening as she talked. “When Jack and I separated, this house was only five years old and all three of our kids were still at home. Jack couldn’t bear to sell. He was so proud of his School Street address. And I didn’t want the kids shuttling back and forth, going somewhere else on the weekend. They had their friends, sleepovers, sports teams. They were more tied down than we were.” Margot Holden smiled. “So that turned out to be the solution. The children stayed put. Jack and I do the shuttling.

“I’m here during the week. Jack’s in a little condo we bought when they converted the old Abbott School. On Fridays, I move to the condo and Jack comes here after work and stays until Monday morning. The children are, or were, here all the time. The older two are at boarding school now. Johnny’s in the sixth grade, so we have a couple more years of this to go.” Margot Holden pointed toward the great room.

People truly were astonishing. Sometimes Ruth thought she’d heard everything. “Does this work?”

Margot Holden gave a little laugh. “For the kids, it’s been the best solution, though I sometimes worry Johnny and the dog think they own the house because they’re the only ones here all the time. Jack and I live out of the trunks of our cars.”

Ruth shot Moscone a look, remembering his objection to the smell of exhaust fumes on Holden’s suit.

Margot Holden continued, “We both got what we wanted. I got a permanent home for my kids. Jack gets to pretend he’s still married and living his life the way he imagined it would be.”

Ruth thought about the photo of the happy family on Hold-en’s desk and all it was meant to convey. “How long have you been divorced?”

“Separated five years, divorced for two of those.”

“You and your ex-husband share this condo?” Moscone clarified. “Why don’t you at least get your own places?”

Margot Holden held her hand up and rubbed her thumb against her fingers. Money.

“I thought your ex-husband made a good deal of money,” Moscone responded. “Tracey Kendall did.”

Margot shrugged. “It depends. Some years more than others. The last few years have been in the ‘other’ category, not the ‘more than.’ ”

“Did he and Tracey Kendall take the same amount of money out of the business?”

“No. They had a complex formula based on who brought in the client and who was the lead partner on the stock that I never really understood. Tracey was supposed to be the stock spotter and Jack was in charge of bringing in and managing the clients. Eventually, of course, the clients figured out Tracey was the brains and started coming to her directly. All I know is, as the years went by, Tracey made more and more, Jack less and less. Which is not to say that we’re poor. Most people would love to be as poor as we are.”

“How did your ex-husband feel about this? Tracey Kendall getting more and more.”

“Lately, when his need for money has been greater, he’s resented it. Appearances are everything to Jack. He was a boy of moderate means brought up surrounded by rich boys, the sons of his father’s customers. He’s still trying to prove that he’s playing in the right league.” Margot Holden glanced at the thin gold watch on her wrist. “I’ve got to get going. Technically, this place is Jack’s as soon as I leave Friday morning.” In the front hall she picked up the suitcase. Moscone grabbed the laundry basket. “Bye, Johnny!” she called in the general direction of the great room. “See you Monday, after school.”

Ruth, Moscone, and Mrs. Holden left together, pausing while Mrs. Holden unlocked her car. On the front steps, Ruth looked around. The Holden property rolled off in both directions. She caught sight of another structure behind a knoll below the house. Long and low, the building was not visible from the road. It was a garage, four bays in length.With a three-car garage attached to the house, what did they need this other building for? “What’s that?” She pointed down the hill.