Suspicion Page 4

  “Oh,” she said. She sniffed. “Will you excuse me? I think they burn the garlic.” She hurried down the hall.

  “Probably tasted like chicken,” Danny said.

  Galvin roared with laughter. “I’m going to do you a big favor and not tell Lina you said that.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Hey, you didn’t need to bring wine.”

  Danny shrugged. “Not a problem.”

  In a low, confiding voice, Galvin said, “Man, I love Trader Joe’s. Ever try the Two-Buck Chuck? Not bad at all.”

  9

  Busted.

  Danny smiled, but winced inwardly.

  It wasn’t as if he’d tried to pass off a nine-dollar bottle of wine as a two-hundred-dollar Bordeaux, but now it looked like he’d been somehow sneaky about it. Anyway, how the hell did Galvin know about Trader Joe’s? No way did a man who had his own home basketball court buy two-dollar bottles of wine.

  But maybe that was the point. Maybe Galvin wanted to show he was just a regular guy.

  Or maybe he was just ribbing Danny, the way guys do with their buddies.

  In any case, Galvin obviously didn’t miss a trick.

  “I figure our girls are spending all this time together, we ought to get to know each other,” he said.

  Somewhere deep within the house, someone was practicing a classical piano piece, imperfectly but well. He heard Abby’s laugh, smelled garlic and maybe fried chicken.

  “Love your house,” Danny said. “The layout is perfect.”

  “That’s Celina. She worked with the architect. Made all the decisions. I didn’t do squat.”

  Yeah, right, Danny thought. All you had to do was shell out fifty million bucks for it.

  “Hey, so Abby says you guys live right in the city.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re lucky, man. Back Bay, huh? I’ve always wanted to live there. Walk to work. All that scenery. The college girls walking around in shorts.”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Celina likes the whole suburban thing. I just do what I’m told.” He shrugged broadly.

  Their kitchen was magnificent, bigger than any restaurant kitchen he’d seen. Copper pots hung from racks over two large islands topped with black stone. There were several wall ovens, and an enormous, gleaming burgundy commercial gas range with copper trim, looking like an antique steam engine. Danny’s father had built a house in Wellfleet for a software magnate who’d specified this same La Cornue range.

  The vaulted ceiling was crisscrossed with hand-hewn beams that could have come from a medieval castle. The floor, ancient-looking limestone scarred and worn to a velvety patina, might have been salvaged from the same castle.

  Jenna stood over a giant round skillet that was sputtering and smoking.

  “¡Ay, Dios mío!” Celina said, rushing over to her daughter. “Don’t burn the chicken, mija! Just brown it.” The dogs scrabbled around the kitchen, yapping hysterically.

  “I’m not burning it!” Jenna protested.

  “Hey, Daddy,” Abby said. Her smile faded a bit when she saw him. She avoided his eyes. She stood at one of the islands, mashing something in a bowl. Obviously, she was still upset or angry or both, still worrying about whether she’d have to leave school. She didn’t believe her father had things under control, and he couldn’t blame her.

  “Hey, baby.” Danny entered the kitchen, gave Abby a hug. “What’re you making?”

  “Guacamole. Nice kitchen, huh?”

  If she intended a dig at their own, minuscule kitchen, he chose to ignore it. “Amazing.” Bravo could film Top Chef here with room for a studio audience. “Make sure and mash those lumps out, huh?”

  “No, Celina says it’s not supposed to look like you used a blender.”

  Celina quickly came over, placing her hands on Abby’s shoulders from behind. “In Mexico we make our guacamole always with little chunks in, just like she’s doing.” Danny could smell her perfume, something spicy and exotic. “That’s perfect, mi hija. Ooh, I want to keep this girl! Can we have her?”

  The second time it wasn’t quite so funny, Danny thought.

  Furtively, Danny ran a hand along the edge of the island. This wasn’t granite. Its surface had the delicate crazing pattern of Pyrolave, glazed lava stone, ridiculously expensive. The software magnate in Wellfleet had ordered Pyrolave. Galvin’s stone fabricator had done an awfully slick job, because you couldn’t see a seam anywhere. Then he realized there was no seam because it was one huge slab. Holy crap, what that must have cost.

  And that crazy little idea that had been tickling the back of his mind, drifting like tumbleweed way back there, suddenly lodged itself front and center.

  He thought: The guy probably spends sixteen thousand bucks a month on ties.

  I already owe him five thousand. What’s sixteen thousand more, really?

  Seriously. Why not?

  What was there to lose?

  He looked up and caught Galvin watching him. Their eyes locked. Galvin smiled. Danny smiled uncomfortably back.

  “Hey, were you feeling up my countertop?”

  Embarrassed, Danny said, “I didn’t know lava stone came that thick.”

  “You just do a renovation or something?”

  “My dad was a contractor. I used to work for him.”

  “Yeah? My dad was a plumber.”

  “In Southie?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I used to see those trucks around. Galvin Brothers Plumbing, right? The green shamrock?”

  “See, I knew I liked this guy,” Galvin said.

  10

  The two Galvin sons appeared from wherever they’d been hiding to join the family at dinner. Both of them were tall and rangy and good-looking: dark-haired and light-eyed, heavy brows and strong jaws. Brendan, the younger one, wore a Boston College sweatshirt, Old Navy sweatpants, and flip-flops. Ryan wore scruffy jeans and a Ron Jon Surf Shop T-shirt and was barefoot. He looked almost like Brendan’s fraternal twin, only he was somehow more finished, more refined, his jawline sharper and his face more angular. Apart from the eyes, they both looked a lot more like their mother than their father.

  “Brendan comes home once in a while to get a decent meal,” Galvin said. He’d removed his jacket and wore gold suspenders over his white shirt. He’d loosened his tie. “Ryan, what’s your excuse? Laundry piling up?”

  “Very funny,” Ryan said.

  “I told him he can bring home all the dirty clothes he wants,” said Celina, “but Manuela’s not going to do it for him. He can do his own laundry. We’re not a hotel.” She clapped her hands together briskly in front of her a few times to emphasize her point.

  Brendan was a sophomore at BC, and Ryan had graduated the year before and was doing some sort of scut work at a TV station. It sounded to Danny like he was supporting himself. His father, the gazillionaire, wasn’t paying the rent. That was interesting.

  Abby seemed to fit right in, as if she were the Galvins’ second daughter. She and Jenna whispered about something, and Abby giggled. Their plates were piled high with chicken and rice and beans, the most delicious arroz con pollo Danny had ever tasted.

  “So you’re a writer, huh?” Galvin said.

  “Yup.”

  “Very cool.” Galvin sat at one end of the long oak farm table in the kitchen, his wife at the other. The sons sat across from the two girls. They shifted in their chairs and feigned interest. The dogs slept under the table.

  “Well, I don’t know about cool, but . . . it’s a job.”

  “You write under your own name, or do you have a pen name?”

  “Under my name. Daniel Goodman.” Danny got asked that a lot. It was a polite way of saying I’ve never heard of you.

  “I’ve always wanted to write a book, but I can never
find the time. I got stories to tell. Maybe when I retire.”

  Danny was always amused when people told him they’d love to write if only they had the time. As if the only thing that held them back from a successful writing career was a lack of leisure.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’m just lucky enough to have all this free time on my hands,” he said.

  Galvin chuckled. “Ya got me there. So, you write novels or what?”

  “Nonfiction.” He clarified: “Biography.”

  Galvin held up the bottle of wine Danny had brought and waggled it. “No, thanks,” Danny said. Galvin topped off his own glass.

  “Anything I’ve read?” Galvin said.

  “The Kennedys of Boston.”

  “Huh. That sounds familiar. About Jack Kennedy and his family?”

  “More about Jack Kennedy’s grandfather, ‘Honey Fitz’ Fitzgerald, who used to be mayor of Boston a hundred years ago. The founder of the Kennedy dynasty. A colorful character.”

  “Colorful usually means corrupt,” Galvin pointed out.

  Danny smiled. “Exactly. Corrupt yet beloved.”

  “Working on one now?”

  “Always.”

  “What’s it about?”

  Danny hesitated. The phrase robber baron might not sound so good to Galvin’s ears. Especially if Danny were about to ask him for a loan. “A biography of a nineteenth-century businessman.”

  “Yeah? When can I get my copy?”

  “Mom, will you tell Brendan to give me back my shoe?” Jenna said.

  “Give your sister her shoe,” Celina said.

  “I don’t have it,” Brendan said, poker-faced.

  “He, like, took it off with his feet,” Jenna said. “He’s like a monkey.”

  “All of you, ya basta!” Celina said. “Are you six year old?”

  Danny was grateful for the interruption, but Galvin didn’t give up: “When’s your new book go on sale? Maybe I’ll pick up a copy.”

  “You’ll have to wait a while,” Danny said. “I’m still writing it.”

  “Going well?”

  “A little slow, frankly. Life gets in the way sometimes.”

  “You ever get writer’s block?” asked Ryan, the older son.

  “Nope. It’s a job like any other. Plumbers don’t get plumber’s block, right?”

  “I like that,” Galvin said. “You hear that, kids? That’s called a work ethic. No one tells him to work. He just sits down every day and makes himself write, whether he likes it or not.”

  Danny nodded uneasily.

  A sudden blast of music came from somewhere. Danny recognized the opening guitar riff from “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, rendered tinnily as a ringtone. Galvin got up and took a BlackBerry out of the breast pocket of his suit coat hanging on a peg. He glanced at the number, answered it. “I’m at dinner,” he said abruptly. A long pause. “It’s dinnertime. I’m having dinner with my family.” Another pause, then he snapped: “I said . . . I can’t.”

  Danny had the feeling he’d just seen a side of Galvin he didn’t like to show.

  Galvin jabbed at the BlackBerry to end the call. “Man oh man, ever have one of those days when it feels like everyone wants something from you?”

  Danny swallowed hard. “All the time.”

  Maybe asking him for a loan wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  “How’s the job search going, Bren?”

  Brendan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Let me know if I can make some calls for you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You don’t want to spend the summer on the beach in Nantucket again, do you?” his father said, a glint in his eye. “Be one of those losers in wet suits who spend all their time surfing?”

  “I’m trying,” Brendan said sullenly.

  “Aw, he’s in college, Tommy,” Celina said. “He can play. It’s okay for him to get a job after college.”

  “What’s wrong with spending the summer on the beach in Nantucket?” asked Jenna, indignant. “Why does he have to get a job?”

  “That’s right,” said Celina, “why?”

  Galvin grinned. “Now the girls are ganging up on me. Help me out here, Danny. Give me some cover.”

  Danny shook his head, unwilling to be lured into a family tiff. “Sorry, man, you’re on your own.”

  “Danny, you guys go to the Cape for the summer, right?” said Galvin. “How long have you had a house in Wellfleet?”

  “Wellfleet?” Danny didn’t remember telling Galvin that his parents lived in Wellfleet, that he’d grown up there. And he definitely hadn’t said anything about summers.

  “Your summer place. Abby told us all about it.”

  “Summer place in Wellfleet?” he said sardonically. “Yeah, I wish—”

  Then he caught a glimpse of Abby twisting uncomfortably and blushing.

  He realized she’d been trying to impress the Galvins by turning her grandparents’ modest tract house in Wellfleet into something it wasn’t, the place where she “summered” every year.

  And then he quickly finished the sentence: “—wish it didn’t take so long to get there.”

  “Cape traffic’s brutal on the weekends,” Galvin agreed.

  But Danny could see the amused detachment in his eyes and knew that Galvin had picked up on his slip.

  Galvin didn’t miss a thing.

  • • •

  After dinner, Galvin excused himself to take another call in his study. There was no kitchen help in sight. Danny wondered whether this was the maid’s night off or something. Then Abby and Jenna tried to teach Brendan some kind of complicated dance as a song came blasting over speakers concealed throughout the kitchen, something about “party rock” being “in the house tonight.”

  Brendan and the two girls hopped up and down, running in place, pivoting from one side to another, dipping low and then high. They shuffled and slid and moonwalked. Brendan scooped up one of the dogs and tried to manipulate its paws around to simulate dancing, but it struggled and growled menacingly, and Abby and Jenna dissolved in a fit of laughter.

  She seemed genuinely happy here. Danny finally understood why she was so drawn to the Galvins. It wasn’t their wealth. It was the big and warm, chaotic and welcoming Galvin clan that she longed to be part of.

  She wanted to be a member of a family.

  Galvin returned to the kitchen after a few minutes. He stood next to Danny for a moment, watching the kids dance.

  “Cute, huh?”

  Danny nodded.

  “She’s such a good kid, your daughter. She brings out something in Jenna we haven’t seen before. In years, anyway.”

  “Hmm,” Danny said and nodded again. “They both seem happy.”

  “That’s what I mean. Hey, how about we step away? Feel like a single malt?”

  Danny hesitated for a moment—he’d already had a glass of bad red wine and had to drive home on the turnpike—but before he could reply, Galvin said, “I need to ask you a favor.”

  11

  Tom Galvin poured them each a few fingers of whiskey from a bottle whose label read THE MACALLAN 1939. He stood at a wet bar in his study. The walls were lined with leather-bound volumes that were probably purchased by the yard and had never been read. Everything smelled like cigar smoke.

  “Not everyone gets the good stuff, you know.”

  A quiet knock at the door. They both turned. It was Esteban, the driver. Danny realized he’d never heard him speak.

  “Eh, Mr. Galvin, will I be driving your guests home?” Esteban’s voice was soft, his speech halting. He was unusually tall and broad, but his black suit fitted him perfectly. He had a large head, pockmarks on his high cheeks, and Bambi eyes. A large mole on the right side of his neck in the shape of Australia. A strange-look
ing fellow, neither ugly nor attractive, but somehow gentle and kindly seeming.

  “Go to bed, mi amigo.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Esteban made a slight bow, more a nod of the head, and was gone.

  Galvin finished pouring and handed Danny a cut-glass tumbler. They clinked glasses. “Here’s to our wives and girlfriends,” he said. “May they never meet.”

  Danny smiled and nodded. In the back of his mind he wondered what “favor” Galvin could possibly want from him.

  “Your daughter is Jenna’s only friend, you know,” Galvin said.

  “I know they’re close.”

  “She’s such a good influence on Jenna. I mean, Jenna’s actually doing the assigned reading for school without bitching and moaning about it. Like, she actually read To Kill a Mockingbird, and we didn’t have to nag her once.”

  “I read it out loud to Abby when she was probably too young for it, but . . . yeah, she’s a reader. Nice to know they talk about books, not just hip-hop or dubstep or whatever.”

  “It’s like . . . if you surround yourself with good people, it makes you a better person. Brings out the best in you. Surround yourself with bad people, it brings out your worst. Every other school she’s gone to, last couple of years, she always seemed to fall in with the druggy, no-good kids. Bad influence. But Abby brings out the best in her. You have no idea how amazing that is.” Galvin’s eyes shone, as if they might be moist.

  “That’s great,” Danny said, not knowing what else to say, surprised by the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

  “You’re doing something right, brother.”

  “Me? Nah, I just try not to get in her way too much. I don’t know what I’m doing. I screw up all the time.”

  Galvin smiled. “So you’re raising Abby yourself? How the hell do you do it?”

  “Hmm,” Danny said, half smiling, scratching the side of his face. He looked up and said musingly, “You know those old disaster movies when the airline pilot has a heart attack and the flight attendant has to fly the plane?”

  He smiled. “Karen Black in Airport 1975? Or maybe it was Airplane! and it was Julie something. . . .”