Boston: Sam Smith Mysteries, #14

Chapter One

Boston at last, the plane touching down...Bernie Taupin’s lyric went dancing through my mind as our plane landed at Logan International Airport. We arrived to find snow in the air and a light dusting on the ground. All seemed fair for a white Christmas.

After the airport ritual, which seemed to take an age, we stepped into the shadow of the airport’s impressive control tower, a building around a dozen storeys high. The control tower contained a pair of segmented elliptical pylons with a six-storey platform placed between them.

Within the control tower’s shadow, we met Morgan Brooks. Like my husband, Alan, Morgan was a psychologist. Indeed, he was Alan’s mentor, a man who had shaped his early philosophical and psychological ideas. We planned to spend Christmas with Morgan and his family – his wife Amelia, a celebrity chef, and his teenage daughter, Madison.

Morgan offered Alan a wide smile and a warm handshake. A tall, lean man in his late fifties, his bearing spoke of dignity while his proud ebony features hinted at a placid nature. Furthermore, his chestnut eyes offered compassion while his hair, thinning and turning silver, suggested a certain gravitas. He wore a light grey suit, a white shirt and a purple tie. A gold wristwatch encircled his right wrist, which suggested that he was left-handed.

Alan, Morgan said, his left hand joining his right hand in a prolonged handshake, good to see you after all this time.

Good to see you too, Alan said. He turned towards me and offered an introduction. This is Samantha, the woman who’s revitalised my life.

Pleased to meet you, Samantha, Morgan said while shaking my hand.

Sam, I smiled, everyone calls me Sam.

Morgan bowed, a gesture that underlined his sense of dignity. I’ve heard a lot about you, he said.

Disregard the scandal elements, I said, they’re all lies. Although if you’ve heard the story about the flasher, the frostbite and the empty wine bottle, that one’s true.

The mind boggles, Morgan laughed.

Alan echoed Morgan’s laughter. Then he placed an arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. I think Sam enjoyed too much champagne on the plane, Alan said; she’ll sober up tomorrow.

It’s Christmas, I said, so don’t count on it.

Morgan continued to laugh. Then he glanced around at the bright lights, the happy families – reunited for Christmas – and the large flakes of snow. Come on, he said; let’s get out of here before we turn to ice.

We bundled our suitcases into the boot of Morgan’s bronze Chevrolet Cruze then, from Logan International Airport, we drove north to Lynn Woods. Due to the volume of traffic, and the inclement weather, the journey was horrendous. We were heading for the fringe of Lynn Woods, ten miles north of Boston, seven miles south-west of Salem, where the Brooks family lived in an isolated twenty-first century house. My guidebook informed me that Lynn was the ‘City of Sin’; fun times ahead!

Amelia should have dinner waiting for us when we arrive at the woods, Morgan said.

Amelia’s your wife, I said from my position on the back seat of Morgan’s car.

That’s right, he confirmed; we’ve been married for thirty-two years.

And she’s a celebrity chef, I said.

Right again. Morgan glanced up and smiled into his rear-view mirror. He drove at a steady pace, a reflection of the traffic, the road conditions and his placid nature. She writes cookbooks and she hosts her own Cable TV series.

That’s some achievement, I said.

It is, Morgan agreed, his rich baritone revealing his delight, his pride in his wife’s achievements.

Has Alan told you? I asked. He’s about to make a TV series.

Morgan frowned and deep wrinkles appeared on his forehead. He glanced over to Alan, who sat on the passenger seat, and smiled, You kept that quiet. What’s the story? he asked.

It’s centred on psychology, of course. The series will explore the history of psychology and its relevance today. An independent film producer approached me with the idea. He wants me to present the series, based on my book.

"Psychology – A Personal Perspective, I chimed in from the back seat, available from all good bookstores now."

I own a copy, Morgan said, his gaze now firmly back on the road, and I’ve read it. It’s excellent; it should provide the basis for a riveting series.

The producer seems keen, Alan said. He should have the shooting script ready by Easter, and we hope to start filming in late spring, early summer.

Sounds exciting, Morgan said. Once again, he glanced into his rear-view mirror to look at me. And, Sam, you’re a private detective; that must be exciting too.

It has its moments, I said.

Flashers, frostbite and wine bottles, Morgan laughed.

Not to mention errant husbands, drainpipes, and the unseen prickly bush.

Morgan laughed again, throwing his head back this time, his arms outstretched as he gripped the steering wheel tight.

We were driving along the Salem Turnpike, through the Rumney Marsh Reservation, a wetland area rich in wildlife, walking trails and aquatic endeavours, when I reflected on my agency. I’d placed my agency in limbo over Christmas. We were up to date. Therefore, we could afford the break. Faye, my assistant, was holidaying in the Alps, where she’d spend Christmas with Blake, her boyfriend. Alis, Alan’s teenage daughter, was spending the festive season with her new boyfriend, a student she’d met at university. That left Marlowe, our bruiser of a cat. Mrs Murphy, our domestic help, was looking after him, until we returned on New Year’s Eve. I wondered what the new year would bring; Alan and I were hoping for a baby, but there’d been no developments in that department, yet. For now, the new year could wait; first, we had Boston and Christmas to enjoy.

Here we are, Morgan said, our family home.

We’d turned off the Salem Turnpike and travelled through West Lynn to the fringe of Lynn Woods. There, amongst the snow-laden trees, I spied an isolated house, a white, circular building two storeys high with solar panels embedded in its conical slate roof. The building reminded me of a castle tower, in miniature. A rectangular single-storey annex resplendent with French windows abutted on to the circular tower. Furthermore, a porch looked out on to a gravelled courtyard surrounded by a white picket fence while, to the left, a large garage, with room for at least two cars, sat under the trees.

The building suggested style, individuality and a certain opulence. As a celebrity chef, Amelia earned a decent wage. Coupled with Morgan’s income, I could picture Madison enjoying a comfortable lifestyle. An ideal family living in an ideal home.

Morgan noted my look of admiration and smiled. Come on, he said, let’s get you and your suitcases inside before this blizzard really starts to bite.

Chapter Two

Morgan placed our suitcases in the guest bedroom within the circular tower. Then he led us into the kitchen, a spacious room equipped with a breakfast bar, a range of highly polished cooking utensils and a hi-tech stove. Under the strip lighting, everything gleamed; everything looked fresh and bright. We found Amelia, a woman in her late fifties with shoulder-length dark hair and a comfortable figure, in the kitchen, preparing dinner, while Madison sat at the breakfast bar, tapping messages into her mobile phone.

Hello, Alan, Amelia said, turning and smiling, stirring the ingredients of a large copper pot, her fingers wrapped around a long wooden spoon. Lovely to see you again.

Lovely to see you too, Alan said.

You remember Madison, Amelia said, nodding towards her daughter.

Alan appraised Madison, a tall, slender woman, aged nineteen. She possessed long, raven-black hair, tied back into a ponytail, an attractive oval face and large brown eyes. Even while sitting, her movements were languid and graceful. She wore a hooded top and jeans along with large, loopy earrings, and silver bangles on her left wrist. In truth, she looked nothing like her mother, although she did share some of her father’s characteristics.

You’ve grown, Alan said with a smile.

Madison glanced over her shoulder. She shrugged and offered a pale smile. Then she walked out of the kitchen without a word.

She’s grown, Amelia sighed, into a typical teenager. The matriarch placed her hands on her ample hips and yelled, Madison, come back here and say hello to our guests. Madison!

Leave her be, Morgan said. He walked over to the wine rack and selected a bottle of wine, a Chardonnay, then proceeded to pour a generous measure into four elegant wine glasses. She’ll join us later.

Alan accepted a glass from Morgan. Then he introduced me to Amelia, My wife, Sam.

Hi, Sam, Amelia said. She addressed me with a smile, although from the way she tugged at her pearl-drop earrings, I sensed that her mind was still on Madison.

You have a beautiful home, I said.

Amelia inclined her head. Her smile widened. Thank you. Did you have a good journey?

Trouble free, I said.

Morgan offered me a glass of wine, which I accepted. However, when he extended that offer to his wife, she refused. Instead, she returned to her stove and her cooking utensils.

The blizzard is really biting now, Morgan said as he sipped his wine and gazed through the large picture window.

It will make for a fantastic Christmas scene, Alan enthused.

Amelia nodded. Then she changed the subject. You’re a vegetarian, she said, addressing me. She squatted to open the oven door releasing a new range of aromatic flavours into the kitchen. At least, that’s what Morgan told me.

Just relaying a message from Alan, Morgan said between sips of wine.

I am a vegetarian, I confessed; I hope that doesn’t mean extra work for you.

Not at all, Amelia said. I’m preparing a sesame nut roast with an onion and mushroom sauce for this evening. And I always include at least one programme in my series, dedicated to vegetarian food.

I nursed my wine. In truth, I’d had my fill of alcohol on the plane and now I held the glass just to be sociable. That must be exciting, I said, filming a television series.

It can be fun, Amelia said. However, it can also be frustrating and dull, waiting around. But it’s a good living.

I nodded and watched as Amelia prepared a side dish of corn, kale, leeks and carrots, all of which had me salivating at an indecent rate.

Morgan also told me that you’re a private detective, Amelia said. She stood at the sink and washed her hands. Then she fingered her gold wedding band. That’s a neat coincidence because one of our neighbours is a private detective.

I didn’t see any other houses, I said, when we arrived.

I used the term ‘neighbour’ loosely, Amelia smiled. For the most part, her features were set, serious. However, they brightened considerably when she smiled. Our neighbour lives a mile down the track. His name is Gabriel, but everyone calls him Gabe. He owns a cabin down the track; he built it himself.

It would be good to meet him, I said.

He calls by occasionally, Morgan said, so chances are you will. He lives in Boston, but he gets out to his cabin whenever he can. I believe he’s staying there for Christmas.

You live here, I said, and commute to Boston?

Morgan and Amelia glanced at each other. In unison, they said with a smile, Best of both worlds.

What about the traffic? I asked.

Now, Amelia laughed. She possessed a surprisingly dirty laugh, one that would have been at home amongst the sweat, swirling smoke and sultry notes of a jazz club. The laugh added another facet to her character, a reminder that you shouldn’t take people at face value, that quite often they are multi-layered.

Sitting around in my car for too long, Amelia giggled, how do you think I developed these wide thighs?

Morgan offered his wife a loving look, which included an appreciative appraisal of