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Authors: Jeremiah Healy
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Registry of Deeds. I
even went there once to look them up. Zero."
"So you don't know who stands behind the C.W.
Realty Trust."
"No, but I do know one thing."
"What's that?”
"Their checks always clear."
"For the monthly maintenance on the units the
trust still owns."
"That's right."
Back to the form. "Do you and your husband have
any CHILDREN?"
"No. Actually, I can't have any."
That same neutral voice. I looked up.
"But, as a result, we can afford to live here
because we don't have to try to clothe, feed, and educate anybody
else. Also, Steven's on the school committee, and I do the condo
work, and I guess that's how we . . . compensate."
There was something hollow about that comment too,
but I had other things I wanted to cover with her.
"NEIGHBORS is next. I promise whatever you say
will remain strictly confidential, but it would be a help if you
could describe your neighbors for me, to give my clients a sense of
how comparable your complex's situation is to theirs."
"Our neighbors. You mean here in our cluster?"
"Yes."
"All right. First, there's Mr. Dees next door."
I sat as far forward in the marshmallow chair as I
could. "Spelling?"
"D-E-E-S."
"And where is he from?"
"From? You mean like 'hometown' again?"
"Yes."
"The Midwest somewhere. Chicago?" She
looked away, to the wall her townhouse shared with his. "Yes.
I'm pretty sure he said that to Steven once."
"EDUCATION?"
"I don't know. He certainly seems like he went
to college, if that's what matters to you, but I don't remember ever
talking with him about it."
"OCCUPATION?"
"He owns the photocopy store in town."
"Owns or just manages?"
"Owns, I think." The cocking of the head.
"Why don't you just ask him?"
"I plan to, but I saw him leaving just as I was
arriving."
"Oh. Oh, that would be late for him, but I was
on the deck, reading, so I might not have heard him."
"Does Mr. Dees have any family?"
"That lives with him here, you mean?"
"Or that visits."
"Well, he lives alone, and he's never introduced
me to anyone."
"To any family, you mean."
"Anyone, period. He stays pretty much to
himself. I believe he's kind of dating a . . ."
Stepanian stopped.
"What's the matter."
She looked at me. "I just realized I was
starting to sound like a gossip. I don't think it's right to invade
his privacy."
Olga Evorova had used the same phrase with me, and I
realized I'd have to watch how deeply my "condo clients"
would be interested in the personal life of Andrew Dees. "I
understand, and I certainly don't mean to pry. It would just help my
clients to know this general 'census' information?
Stepanian nodded, but more in wariness than
agreement, I thought.
To protect my cover story, I said, "How about
the other two townhouses here?"
"Well, next to Mr. Dees is Mrs. Robinette. And
her son, Jamey."
"Do you know where they're from?"
"I'm pretty sure Jamey was born in the states,
but she has a little bit of an accent, so maybe from the islands."
"The Caribbean, you mean?"
"Yes, she's . . . well, if she's from there, I'm
not sure whether you'd call her African-Arnerican or
whatever-American, but she and Jamey are black."
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen, sixteen."
"What does Mrs. Robinette do?"
"l don't know. I've never seen her going off to
work anywhere. Her husband died, so maybe there's some kind of
pension or death benefits, because she can afford a car and those
baggy clothes for Jamey that you see all the kids wearing now."
"Do you socialize with them much?"
"No." A pensive pause. "I'm not sure
how to put this, but everybody here at the Willows pretty much stays
to themselves except around the pool in the summer, and the
Robinettes aren't 'pool people.' " She gave me the cocked head
look. "Don't you want to know how long they've lived here?"
I hadn't thought of it, but Stepanian was right, I
"should" want to know that. "You said almost six years
for you and your husband, right'?"
"Right. Well, Mrs. Robinette and Jamey moved in
just, oh, two
even went there once to look them up. Zero."
"So you don't know who stands behind the C.W.
Realty Trust."
"No, but I do know one thing."
"What's that?”
"Their checks always clear."
"For the monthly maintenance on the units the
trust still owns."
"That's right."
Back to the form. "Do you and your husband have
any CHILDREN?"
"No. Actually, I can't have any."
That same neutral voice. I looked up.
"But, as a result, we can afford to live here
because we don't have to try to clothe, feed, and educate anybody
else. Also, Steven's on the school committee, and I do the condo
work, and I guess that's how we . . . compensate."
There was something hollow about that comment too,
but I had other things I wanted to cover with her.
"NEIGHBORS is next. I promise whatever you say
will remain strictly confidential, but it would be a help if you
could describe your neighbors for me, to give my clients a sense of
how comparable your complex's situation is to theirs."
"Our neighbors. You mean here in our cluster?"
"Yes."
"All right. First, there's Mr. Dees next door."
I sat as far forward in the marshmallow chair as I
could. "Spelling?"
"D-E-E-S."
"And where is he from?"
"From? You mean like 'hometown' again?"
"Yes."
"The Midwest somewhere. Chicago?" She
looked away, to the wall her townhouse shared with his. "Yes.
I'm pretty sure he said that to Steven once."
"EDUCATION?"
"I don't know. He certainly seems like he went
to college, if that's what matters to you, but I don't remember ever
talking with him about it."
"OCCUPATION?"
"He owns the photocopy store in town."
"Owns or just manages?"
"Owns, I think." The cocking of the head.
"Why don't you just ask him?"
"I plan to, but I saw him leaving just as I was
arriving."
"Oh. Oh, that would be late for him, but I was
on the deck, reading, so I might not have heard him."
"Does Mr. Dees have any family?"
"That lives with him here, you mean?"
"Or that visits."
"Well, he lives alone, and he's never introduced
me to anyone."
"To any family, you mean."
"Anyone, period. He stays pretty much to
himself. I believe he's kind of dating a . . ."
Stepanian stopped.
"What's the matter."
She looked at me. "I just realized I was
starting to sound like a gossip. I don't think it's right to invade
his privacy."
Olga Evorova had used the same phrase with me, and I
realized I'd have to watch how deeply my "condo clients"
would be interested in the personal life of Andrew Dees. "I
understand, and I certainly don't mean to pry. It would just help my
clients to know this general 'census' information?
Stepanian nodded, but more in wariness than
agreement, I thought.
To protect my cover story, I said, "How about
the other two townhouses here?"
"Well, next to Mr. Dees is Mrs. Robinette. And
her son, Jamey."
"Do you know where they're from?"
"I'm pretty sure Jamey was born in the states,
but she has a little bit of an accent, so maybe from the islands."
"The Caribbean, you mean?"
"Yes, she's . . . well, if she's from there, I'm
not sure whether you'd call her African-Arnerican or
whatever-American, but she and Jamey are black."
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen, sixteen."
"What does Mrs. Robinette do?"
"l don't know. I've never seen her going off to
work anywhere. Her husband died, so maybe there's some kind of
pension or death benefits, because she can afford a car and those
baggy clothes for Jamey that you see all the kids wearing now."
"Do you socialize with them much?"
"No." A pensive pause. "I'm not sure
how to put this, but everybody here at the Willows pretty much stays
to themselves except around the pool in the summer, and the
Robinettes aren't 'pool people.' " She gave me the cocked head
look. "Don't you want to know how long they've lived here?"
I hadn't thought of it, but Stepanian was right, I
"should" want to know that. "You said almost six years
for you and your husband, right'?"
"Right. Well, Mrs. Robinette and Jamey moved in
just, oh, two
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