The Blackstone Chronicles (13 page)

Blood oozed from her eviscerated belly, and crimson
threads were strung from the edge of the table to the scarlet pool on the floor
.

The door closed
.

The doctor pressed the locket into the woman’s hand, still warm with the heat of the patient’s body
.

The woman gazed at it for a second, then dropped it to the floor. Turning, she staggered toward the stairs, not looking back
.

When she was gone, the doctor picked the locket up, wiped it clean, and dropped it in his pocket
.

T
here was nothing about the First National Bank of Blackstone that Jules Hartwick didn’t love. It was a passion that had begun when he was a very small boy and his father brought him down to the Bank for the first time. The memory of that first visit remained vividly sharp through the half century that had since passed. Even now Jules could recall the awe with which, as a child of three, he had first beheld the gleaming polished walnut of the desks and the great slabs of green-veined marble that topped all the counters.

But the brightest memory of that day—brighter than any other memory he had—was of the fascination that came over him when he’d seen the great door to the vault standing open, the intricate works of its locking mechanism clearly visible through a glass plate on the inside of the door. Every shiny piece of brass had captivated him, and over and over he’d begged Miss Schmidt, who had been his father’s secretary right up until the day she died, to work the combination yet again so he could watch the tumblers fall, the levers work, and the huge pins that held the enormous door fast in its frame move in and out.

Half a century later, nothing had changed. The Bank (somehow, Jules always capitalized the word in his own mind) was no different now than it had been back then. Some of the marble showed a few chips, and there were some nicks in the walnut, but the tellers’ cages were still fronted by the same flimsy brass grills that offered little
in the way of security but a great deal in the way of atmosphere, and the huge vault door still stood open all day, allowing the Bank’s customers to enjoy the beauty of its inner workings as much as Jules had on that long-ago day. Had he been forced to make a choice, Jules would have been hard put to say which he could live better without: his wife, or the Bank. Not that he’d thought of it much, until the last few weeks, when the auditors from the Federal Reserve had begun to raise disconcerting questions about the Bank’s lending practices.

Now, as he sat in his office with Ed Becker, trying to concentrate on what his attorney was saying, his eyes fell on the desk calendar and the small notation in the box marking off this entire evening: “Dinner Party for Celeste and Andrew.”

It was a party he’d been looking forward to for weeks, ever since Andrew Sterling had formally requested permission to marry his daughter. To ask for Celeste’s hand in marriage was exactly the kind of endearingly anachronistic gesture Jules had come to expect of Andrew, who had been working at the Bank for almost five years, rising from teller to Chief Loan Officer not only on the merit of his work—which was considerable—but because Andrew, like Jules himself, preferred the old-fashioned way of banking.

“I know it’s an idea the business schools don’t approve of,” he’d told Jules when they were discussing his promotion to the job he now held, “but I think there are far better ways to judge a man’s worth than by his credit application.”

It was precisely the philosophy upon which the Hartwicks had founded the Blackstone bank, and it confirmed Jules’s judgment that Andrew, though only five years out of college, was perfectly qualified for the loan officer’s job.

Now, the engagement of Andrew and Celeste was to be formally announced that night, though Jules suspected
there were few people in Blackstone who weren’t already aware of it. The bethrothal of his only daughter to this upstanding young man was the frosting on Jules’s cake: a few more years and he might be able to consider the possibility of retirement, knowing the Bank would be in Andrew’s capable hands, and that Andrew would be part of the family.

The continuity of First National of Blackstone would be ensured.

“Jules?”

Ed Becker’s voice jerked the banker out of his reverie. When Jules shifted his eyes back from the calendar to his attorney, he saw the lawyer looking at him with a worried frown.

“Are you all right, Jules?”

“I’d be a lot lighter if this audit were behind us,” Hartwick replied, leaning forward. “Going to be some party tonight, isn’t it? It should be one of the happiest nights of my life, and now I have this ruining it.” He gestured to the stack of papers in front of them. The auditors were questioning nearly one hundred loans—and they were still at work. Jules could see no end in sight.

“But it’s nothing more than a nuisance, when you get right down to it,” Ed Becker said. “I’ve been over every one of these loans, and I haven’t found anything illegal in any of them.”

“And you won’t,” Jules Hartwick replied. He leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. “Maybe,” he said with a smile, “you were down there in Boston a little too long.”

Becker grinned. “About five years too long, at least,” he agreed. “But who knew I was going to get sick of—what did you used to call them?”

“ ‘Slimeballs,’ ” Jules Hartwick instantly replied. “And that’s what they were, Ed. Murderers and rapists and gangsters. I’ll never understand how—”

Ed Becker held up a hand in protest. “I know, I know.
But everyone deserves a defense, no matter what we might think of him. And I
did
get fed up with the whole thing, remember? I quit. I came back home to set up a nice quiet little practice, with nothing messier than the occasional divorce to deal with. But Jules, you probably know more than I do about business law. Sue me, or educate me. Why are you so worried about this? If there really isn’t anything illegal about any of these loans, why are you making yourself sick over this?”

A brief and hollow chuckle emerged from Jules Hartwick. “If this weren’t an independent bank, it wouldn’t matter a damn,” he said. “And maybe I’ve been wrong all these years. Maybe I should have sold out to one of the big interstate banks. God knows, it would have made Madeline and me far richer than we are today.”

“I’ve seen your accounts, Jules, remember?” the lawyer put in archly. “You’re not exactly suffering.”

“And I haven’t cashed out for a few hundred million like a lot of other bankers I won’t name,” Hartwick replied, the last trace of good humor vanishing from his voice. “I’ve always felt that this is more than just a bank, Ed. To me, and to my father, and to my grandfather, this bank has been a trust. We never thought it existed just for us. It’s not just a business, like any other. This bank has always been part of the community. A vital, life-giving part. And to keep Blackstone alive over the years, I’ve made a lot of loans that a lot of other bankers might not have made. But I know the people I loan money to, Ed.” He picked up one of the stacks of papers from his desk.

“These are not bad loans.”

The lawyer’s eyes met those of the banker. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you? It sounds like you should give the auditors what they’re asking for before they start issuing subpoenas.”

Hartwick’s face paled slightly. “They’re talking about subpoenas?”

“Of course they are.”

Hartwick stood up. “I’ll think about it,” he said, but the reluctance was evident in his voice. The material the auditors wanted would show no criminal behavior on his part, but certainly it could be used by anyone who wished to make a case that his banking methods did not always conform to the standards that were currently considered prudent. That, he knew, could easily shift the balance on his Board of Directors, a majority of whom might finally be convinced that it was time that First National of Blackstone—like practically every other little bank in the country—sold out to one of the interstates.

If that happened, rich though he may be, he would no longer be in possession of the one thing he loved most.

Under no circumstances would Jules Hartwick allow that to happen.

He would find a way to keep his bank—and his life—intact.

Oliver Metcalf checked himself in the mirror one last time. It had been years since the last time he’d put on a necktie for dinner—only the very fanciest restaurants down in Boston and New York still required them—but Madeline Hartwick had been very specific. Tonight’s dinner was going to be a throwback to days gone by—all the women were dressing, and all the men were expected to wear jackets and ties. Since he knew as well as everyone else that this was the night Celeste Hartwick and Andrew Sterling were announcing their engagement, he’d been more than happy to comply. His tie—the only one he owned—was more than a little out of date, and even his jacket—a tweed affair that had struck him as very “editorial” when he’d bought it—was starting to look just a bit shabby, now that it was entering its twentieth year. Still, it should all pass muster, and if Madeline
began needling him about how a wife might be able to do wonders with his wardrobe, he’d simply smile and threaten to woo Celeste away from Andrew.

Leaving the house, he considered whether it was too cold to walk across the Asylum grounds and follow the path that wound through the woods down to the top of Harvard Street, where the Hartwicks lived. Then, remembering that he’d left the gift he’d found for Celeste and Andrew in his office, he abandoned any idea of walking and got into his car—a Volvo almost as ancient as his tweed jacket.

Five minutes later he slid the car into an empty slot in front of the
Blackstone Chronicle
and left the engine idling while he dashed inside to pick up the antique silver tray he’d come across last weekend, and which Lois Martin had insisted on rewrapping for him this afternoon. Peering into the large shopping bag where Lois left the tray, Oliver had to admit she’d done a far better job than he: the leftover red and green Christmas paper he’d used had been replaced with a silver and blue design printed with wedding bells, and no ragged edges showed anywhere, despite the cumbersome oval shape of the tray. Scribbling a quick thank-you note that Lois would find first thing in the morning, he relocked the office door, got back in his car, and headed toward Harvard Street. As he slowed to make at least a pretense of obeying the stop sign at the next corner, he saw Rebecca Morrison coming out of the library, and pulled over to the curb.

“Give you a lift?” he asked.

Rebecca seemed almost startled by the offer, but came over to the car. “Oh, Oliver, it’s so far out of your way. I can walk.”

“It’s not out of my way at all,” Oliver told her, reaching over and pushing the passenger door open. “I’m going up to the Hartwicks’.”

Rebecca got into the car. “Are you going to the dinner?”

Oliver nodded. “You too?”

“Oh, no,” Rebecca said quickly. “Aunt Martha says I mustn’t go to things like that. She says I might say the wrong thing.”

Oliver glanced over at Rebecca, whose face, softly illuminated by the streetlights, seemed utterly serene, despite the less than kind words she was repeating about herself.

“What does Martha want you to do?” Oliver asked. “Spend the rest of your life at home with her?”

“Aunt Martha’s been very good to me since Mother and Father died,” Rebecca replied. Though she had neatly sidestepped his question, he still failed to hear even the slightest note of discontent in her voice.

“You still have a life to live,” Oliver said.

Rebecca’s gentle smile returned. “I have a wonderful life, Oliver. I have my job at the library, and I have Aunt Martha for company. I count my blessings every day.”

“Which is what Aunt Martha told you to do, right?” Oliver asked. Martha Ward, whose younger sister had been Rebecca’s mother, had retreated deep into her religion on the day her husband moved out twenty-five years earlier. Her only child, Andrea, had left home on her eighteenth birthday. It had been just a few months after Andrea’s departure that Rebecca’s parents died in the automobile accident that nearly killed Rebecca as well. Aunt Martha had promptly taken her young niece in. And there, twelve years later, Rebecca remained.

There were even a few skeptical souls in Blackstone who thought that the accident had occurred in answer to Martha Ward’s own prayers. “After all,” Oliver once heard someone say, “first Fred Ward got out, and Andrea left as soon as she could. And since the accident, Rebecca hasn’t been quite right in the head, so Martha
has someone to pray over, and Rebecca has a place to live.”

Except that Rebecca was perfectly all right “in the head,” as far as Oliver could see. She was just a little quiet, and totally without guile. She said whatever came into her mind, which could sometimes be unnerving—at least for some people. Edna Burnham, for instance, had yet to recover from the day that Rebecca stopped her on the street and announced in front of three of Edna’s best friends that she loved Edna’s new wig. “It’s so much better than that other one you used to wear,” Rebecca assured her. “It always looked like a wig, and this one really does look real!”