Peter on a Thursday night, dressed in a suit that shimmered oilily, a small gold cross pinned discreetly to his lapel as he attempted to be charming, apologetic, and manipulative all at the same time. Trying to pin down Carter Paragon was like trying to nail smoke.
Now it seemed that Grace Peltier had been due to meet with Paragon shortly before she died. I wondered if she had made the meeting. If so, Paragon might be worth talking to.
“Do you have any notes she might have made for her thesis, any computer disks?” I continued.
He shook his head. “Like I said, she took everything with her. She was planning to stay with a friend after she'd met with Paragon and do some work on her thesis there.”
“You know who the friend was?”
“Marcy Becker,” he said immediately. “She's a history grad, friend of Grace's from way back. Her family lives up in Bar Harbor. They run a motel there. Marcy's been living with them for the last couple of years, helping them to run the place.”
“Was she a good friend?”
“Pretty good. Or I used to think she was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that she never made it to the funeral.” I felt that little lance of guilt again. “That's kinda strange, don't you think?”
“I guess it is,” I said. “Did she have any other close friends who didn't show for the service?”
He thought for a moment. “There's a girl called Ali Wynn, younger than Grace. She came up here a couple of times and they seemed to get on well together. Grace shared an apartment with her when she was in Boston, and she used to stay with her when she traveled down to study. She's a student at Northeastern too, but works part-time in a fancy restaurant in Harvard, the ‘Hammer’ something.”
“The Blue Hammer?”
He nodded. “That's the one.”
It was on Holyoke Street, close by Harvard Square. I added the name to my notebook.
“Did Grace own a gun?” I asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. She hated guns.”
“Was she seeing anybody?”
“Not that I know of.”
He sipped his coffee and I found him watching me closely over the rim of the cup, as if my last question had caused a shift in his perception of me.
“I recall you, you know,” he said softly.
I felt myself flush red, and instantly I was more than a decade and a half younger, dropping Grace Peltier off outside this same house and then driving away, grateful that I would never have to look at her or hold her again. I wondered what Peltier knew about my time with his daughter and was surprised and embarrassed at my concern.
“I told Jack Mercier to ask for you,” he continued. “You knew Grace. I thought maybe you might help us because of that.”
“That was a long time ago,” I answered gently.
“Maybe,” he said, “but it seems like only yesterday to me that she was born. Her doctor was the worst doctor in the world. He couldn't deliver milk, but somehow, despite him, she managed to come wailing into the world. Everything since then, all of the little incidents that made up her life, seem to have occurred in the blink of an eye. You look at it like that and it wasn't so long ago, Mr. Parker. For me, in one way, she was barely here at all. Will you look into this? Will you try to find out the truth of what happened to my daughter?”
I sighed. I felt as if I was heading into deep waters just as I had begun to like the feel of the ground beneath my feet.
“I'll look into it,” I said at last. “I can't promise anything, but I'll do some work on it.”
We spoke a little more of Grace and of her friends, and Peltier gave me copies of the phone records for the last couple of months, as well as Grace's most recent bank and credit card statements, before he showed me to her bedroom. He left me alone in there. It was probably too soon for him to spend time in a room that still smelled of her, that still contained traces of her existence. I went through the drawers and closets, feeling awkward as my
Now it seemed that Grace Peltier had been due to meet with Paragon shortly before she died. I wondered if she had made the meeting. If so, Paragon might be worth talking to.
“Do you have any notes she might have made for her thesis, any computer disks?” I continued.
He shook his head. “Like I said, she took everything with her. She was planning to stay with a friend after she'd met with Paragon and do some work on her thesis there.”
“You know who the friend was?”
“Marcy Becker,” he said immediately. “She's a history grad, friend of Grace's from way back. Her family lives up in Bar Harbor. They run a motel there. Marcy's been living with them for the last couple of years, helping them to run the place.”
“Was she a good friend?”
“Pretty good. Or I used to think she was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that she never made it to the funeral.” I felt that little lance of guilt again. “That's kinda strange, don't you think?”
“I guess it is,” I said. “Did she have any other close friends who didn't show for the service?”
He thought for a moment. “There's a girl called Ali Wynn, younger than Grace. She came up here a couple of times and they seemed to get on well together. Grace shared an apartment with her when she was in Boston, and she used to stay with her when she traveled down to study. She's a student at Northeastern too, but works part-time in a fancy restaurant in Harvard, the ‘Hammer’ something.”
“The Blue Hammer?”
He nodded. “That's the one.”
It was on Holyoke Street, close by Harvard Square. I added the name to my notebook.
“Did Grace own a gun?” I asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. She hated guns.”
“Was she seeing anybody?”
“Not that I know of.”
He sipped his coffee and I found him watching me closely over the rim of the cup, as if my last question had caused a shift in his perception of me.
“I recall you, you know,” he said softly.
I felt myself flush red, and instantly I was more than a decade and a half younger, dropping Grace Peltier off outside this same house and then driving away, grateful that I would never have to look at her or hold her again. I wondered what Peltier knew about my time with his daughter and was surprised and embarrassed at my concern.
“I told Jack Mercier to ask for you,” he continued. “You knew Grace. I thought maybe you might help us because of that.”
“That was a long time ago,” I answered gently.
“Maybe,” he said, “but it seems like only yesterday to me that she was born. Her doctor was the worst doctor in the world. He couldn't deliver milk, but somehow, despite him, she managed to come wailing into the world. Everything since then, all of the little incidents that made up her life, seem to have occurred in the blink of an eye. You look at it like that and it wasn't so long ago, Mr. Parker. For me, in one way, she was barely here at all. Will you look into this? Will you try to find out the truth of what happened to my daughter?”
I sighed. I felt as if I was heading into deep waters just as I had begun to like the feel of the ground beneath my feet.
“I'll look into it,” I said at last. “I can't promise anything, but I'll do some work on it.”
We spoke a little more of Grace and of her friends, and Peltier gave me copies of the phone records for the last couple of months, as well as Grace's most recent bank and credit card statements, before he showed me to her bedroom. He left me alone in there. It was probably too soon for him to spend time in a room that still smelled of her, that still contained traces of her existence. I went through the drawers and closets, feeling awkward as my
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