Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy Read Online Free Page A

least three distinct populations. One was the
old-towners, enjoying substantial ancestral money and spectacular
homes across the sheltered harbor on a spit of land called Marblehead
Neck. The second group consisted of established, blue-collar families
involved in commercial fishing or boat servicing. New-towners
comprised the third population, mostly professionals who worked in
Boston but had tired of city life and come to Marblehead to enjoy the
sights and smells of a suburb on the sea. Word had it that some folks
had done very well in the import business, specializing in a certain
brown-green, vegetablelike substitute for tobacco.
    Chris finally found Arnold’s address, a beautifully
restored two-story mansion on a high hill overlooking the harbor.
Outside the car, the sea breeze lifted the A high, metallic singsong
of the masts and stays of thousands of pleasure sailers moored below
us. At an average length of twenty-four feet and an average cost of
$15,000, there was probably more seaworthiness there than we lost at
Pearl Harbor.
    A receptionist greeted us inside the heavy
brass-knockered front door and led us upstairs. I was last in line,
and as I reached the top of the steps, I saw off in a desk area to my
right a svelte woman, fortyish with auburn hair clipped in a
not-quite-punk style. She arched an eyebrow and smiled at me. A
younger, lawyerlike man with tinted eyeglasses and a beard appeared
beside her. She said something to him out of the side of her mouth
while she watched me. I had the distinct feeling of being inspected
and assessed as her smile became a smirk. The young man glared at me
and turned away from her.
    "Sir?" said the receptionist at my left.
    "Yes?"
    "The conference room is this way."
    "Yes, thank you."
    She showed me into a lushly carpeted arena with a
glass-walled vista of sails so bright I had to squint. Chris and
Hanna were already seated. Chris had both hands in his battered
briefcase, coaxing a slim file past a bulging one. Hanna fidgeted
next to him.
    The receptionist said, "Ms. Arnold will be with
you shortly" and closed the door.
    Chris slapped a form in front of Hanna that had a
slew of dollar figures in pencil, some of them with question marks
and others crossed out and rewritten.
    "This is your financial statement."
    Hanna’s mind took a moment to click in. "I’m
sorry, what?"
    “ Your financial statement. Weekly expenses and
stuff you need like we talked about on the phone. It’s just a
draft, but we’ll be using it today and you gotta make sure it’s
accurate."
    Chris turned back to his file, madly flipping through
it for something. Any fool could see that Hanna, who spent all of
five seconds on the financial statement, was in no shape to verify
anything, especially without her checkbook and bills for comparison.
I also couldn’t believe that Chris intended to show an opponent the
uncertainties the hand-scratched form suggested about Hanna’s, and
Vickie’s, needs.
    There was a polite tap at the door, and my
inspector/assessor came in. Up close, she seemed nearer to fifty and
as carefully restored as her offices, with taut facial features, a
glowing tan, and flattering highlights in the auburn hair that I
somehow didn’t think came from the sun. She smiled at all of us,
lingering on me before saying, "Hello, Chris. And you must be
Hanna. I’m Felicia Arnold."
    Arnold extended her hand, with long, lacquered nails,
to Hanna, who shook, both figuratively and literally. Arnold turned
to me and said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?"
    I stood and said, "John Cuddy. I’m—"
    "He’s my new associate," Chris blurted.
    I tried to keep the anger off my face as Arnold took
my hand, then drew a nail along my palm as she released it, saying,
"I’ll have to follow your recruitment technique more closely,
Chris. I hadn’t realized you were expanding?
    He said, "It was kinda sudden."
    Before I could think of an acceptable way to tell the
truth, Arnold swung her head around