Inspector Leonora Wolf

A pair of binoculars rested on the vinyl floor between two glossy square shapes. Boots, I told myself. They were shaped to hold feet, and so they must. The boots rose into knees, the knees into khaki-covered thighs. Two hands hovered between them — pale, veined, obedient. Wrists disappeared into black wool. The fabric climbed to shoulders and then — nothing. No head. No face. Only the space where one should be. The image held, even as something in me loosened. The body remained upright. It was only the rest of me that slipped.

I tried to move and found my fingers reluctant. They did not answer me at once. I pressed them beneath my arms until sensation returned. The words of my old mentor echoed in my head: “Careful — window lock sets in after a few hours.” I had laughed then. “Only if I forget to blink,” I said. It seemed impossible to lose oneself while remaining so still. Now I understood. The body continues watching even when the mind recedes. That morning — hours before the window lock — I had met Mrs. Hammer in my office.

“Her name is Diane Steel,” Mrs. Hammer said. “I don’t know what sort of person she is. James has not been the same since Diane got her hooks into him.” I peered at Mrs. Hammer as George stirred sugar into my coffee, sloshing a bit over the side of my cup. George is my nephew; I took him on as a favor to my sister. George’s harmlessness made people forget to guard themselves around me. “Thank you, George, that will be all,” I said. I noticed Mrs. Hammer’s unsteady hands holding her teacup, unsure whether to leave the saucer on the table, rest it on her knee, or hover it above her lap. “And how exactly is he different, Mrs. Hammer?” She gathered herself. She is defensive, I thought. This is not entirely unusual. “James has undergone a striking change, Miss Wolf. He was an attentive son one day and absent the next — refusing to even speak to me! Surely you can understand my concern.” I nodded sagely, believing this was no great riddle, as she would have me believe. Mrs. Hammer was a possessive mother who had driven her son away. In this job, no one brings you the whole story.

I leaned back, flashing my open palms, prepared to tell Mrs. Hammer that I am not in the business of surveilling one-sided love triangles between mother, son, and girlfriend. Alarmed by my renunciation, Mrs. Hammer could not hold back the desperation in her voice. “Please, Miss Wolf, it is not what you think. My son and I have a true, loving bond. This is not him. I worry for his safety and happiness. I do not want him disturbed, I just need to know what is happening to him.” Unconvinced, I stayed quiet. Gravely, Mrs. Hammer reached into her purse and revealed an envelope. Inside was a folded piece of paper. She smoothed its creases on my desk and pushed it toward me, stopping just short of my fingers. I scanned the note’s scrawl. “I am no longer your son. Goodbye.” I looked up and caught the triumph she could not quite suppress. “Aha, you see, my son would never have written this. She has turned him against me,” she said. “But your son did write this note — didn’t he? Or do you suspect this is not his handwriting?” As she composed her answer, I took a moment to look at Mrs. Hammer. Her dress was straight from the window of the Saks on Newbury. She must have bought it this week: Burberry plaid in this season’s square cut. Mrs. Hammer did not have the look of a woman who had worn Burberry anything, I thought; the skin of her neck was reddened — irritated by the stiff fabric. The silver cuff on her wrist gleamed — also brand new. A silver cuff paired with gold earrings suggested the inherited ease of a wealthy woman; the department-store Burberry did not. Her lipstick, fresh when she arrived, had faded into a red ring around her lips from anxious licking — something she was not used to wearing. “I can’t say for sure,” she said. She pulled her hands into her lap, suddenly aware that I was studying the dirt under her bare fingernails. People come to me as slightly altered versions of themselves. Suspicious wives fortify their dignity in their finest clothes, dabbing their eyes with silk handkerchiefs — careful not to smudge what they have pulled together. Likewise, men perform their own rituals: They treat me as a threat — as if I am a womanly co-conspirator, and when I deliver the grim truth, they turn cold, resenting my greater intimacy with their wives.

“Where did you find this note?” I asked. “In his bedroom,” she said, “on his pillow.” James must be quite young. “And how old is your son, Mrs. Hammer?” She hesitates. “Thirty-two. But, you see, my James is no ordinary boy, he needs special help. He has always needed my special help.” I stood and walked to the window. “There is no reason for vagueness, Mrs. Hammer. The more you tell me, the more likely I am to help you.” Mrs. Hammer crossed her legs. Her red satin flats were soaked through and nearly worn through at the heel — practicality disguised as finery. “I do not mean to be vague,” she said, “I suppose I wish to protect my son, even now.” I said nothing. Rain sheeted down the glass, pooling in the street below. “The truth is, Miss Wolf, James isn’t as independent as a grown man should be. He’s always needed someone — since he was a little boy.” I watched as she shifted again. “It’s just the two of you living in the house?” I asked. “I am the only person who could have been in his room,” she said. “He knew I would find the note.” There was a smudge of gray grit on her stocking, just above the knee. “You said you live in Franklin County,” I said. “About a hundred miles out.” She nodded. “How did you get into the city today, Mrs. Hammer?” I remembered George shaking rain from her umbrella onto my carpet when she arrived — flushed, breathless. Her coat had already been unbuttoned, wet only at the hem. “Why does it matter?” she said. I didn’t answer. “I took a cab, of course.” She hadn’t. A woman who arrives by car does not come in overly warm and dirty, with dry shoulders and wet flats. Mrs. Hammer had walked from the station. “And you believe your son is with Diane Steel? Somewhere in the city?” As she slipped James’s letter back into her large tote, I caught sight of a folded map, its edges worn soft. “Leave that note with me, please,” I said. “He must be here,” she said quietly, pressing the note between her palms as if in prayer before letting it fall onto my desk — warm and crumpled. Mrs. Hammer’s mistake was believing that love entitled her to total vision. 

I watched George fetch Mrs. Hammer’s coat and umbrella through the frosted glass of my office door, and waited until I heard the front door shut. Only then did I tug the chain of my desk lamp and bring James’s note under the spotlight. The envelope was square, its edges softened by time in a pocket. I turned it over. It was addressed simply to Mother, as if meant to travel. The message was inscribed on thin and fibrous paper, with a faint blue ruling I’d only ever seen in luncheonettes near the Common. It was the kind of paper given to people who sat a long time and ordered little. I checked my watch — it was lunchtime. 

“George, I’m going out. Please remember to take cards at the door this time.” He followed after me down the stairs. “But Ms. Wolf, you’re supposed to meet with Doctor Hollenback at three o’clock!” I opened the front door and turned to look at him. “Don’t worry George, I’ll be back in time. But if I’m not, please entertain the old gentleman. Listen to his stories.” My umbrella unfurled with a pop and I took off to catch the train downtown, ignoring George’s slackened jaw. 

Outside Arlington station, the Public Garden had lost its brightness to the rain. Bronze Charles Sumner watched the lunch crowd stream around him — gazing through the downpour. I ducked into Bell-in-Hand and grabbed the last seat at the bar. A pad of thin, ruled paper sat by the register, already torn down to a nub. I ordered a coffee and turned in my stool, scanning the crowd. Men conversed loudly with their heads close together, ashing into glass trays, taking up space with ease. Tourist families squeezed around the small tables, damp from the rain, bleakly soaking their fish and chips with malt vinegar. I spotted a young woman sitting reading by the window. Two extra books and two empty coffee mugs told me she had been there for a while. She was alone, but someone had been sitting across from her, though they left already. If she had come in alone, she would not have chosen the seat closest to the door. Every time it opened, the cold blew in and a wet mist whirled into the entryway not far from her table. A large umbrella leaned against the wall by the chair across from her — a man’s umbrella: wide black canopy with a hooked handle. Whoever she had been with had left it for her. At that moment, a dutiful young man held the door open for an older woman, who took her time buttoning her coat and pulling her hood over her head. A gust of wind brought rain sweeping further into the dining room, and I could see a few fat raindrops stain the words of the young woman’s book, and she scuttered to the seat across the table, blowing air from her mouth onto the pages. I read the spines stacked next to her and raised an eyebrow: When Prophecy Fails, and Our Spoons Came from Woolworths. This must be Diane.

Two and a half hours later, the lunch rush had died, but Diane still sat by the window. I eyed my watch warily — hopefully George was entertaining the Doctor. When she turned her face towards the window, I could examine her reflection. She was pretty in a common sort of way — the way overbearing mothers with extreme vanity are offended by. The waitress brought Diane her check and they conversed familiarly before she stood, zipped her coat, slotted her books into the inside pockets, and hooked the black umbrella over her arm. The sun was out and drying the old streets as I followed Diane south on Congress. She turned west onto Court, and then hesitated when she reached the intersection with Cambridge, as if making a decision. I lingered by the Old State House, my watch hidden in the throng of tourists. Diane turned left onto Tremont. At that moment, a young couple asked me for directions to the Revere House. In thirty seconds, I had lost Diane. Once you lose someone in a crowd, you’ve learned nothing. 

I walked quickly down Tremont, thinking. Something in this direction inspired Diane to change course — instead of going home, she went this way. Perhaps she headed towards the Common to enjoy the weather, and I would find her on a bench facing the frog pond. Or maybe she decided she didn’t have enough ingredients for dinner, and stopped in Roche Bros. on Washington. I was suddenly aware of rows of weathered gravestones to my left and the peal of bells in the air. My gut told me to look for Diane inside King’s Chapel. I unlatched the iron gate and crossed the threshold, aware of the faint sensation that I was observing from somewhere slightly above myself. I tried to locate the flash of deduction that brought me here, but found none. I was operating below reason — or beyond it. 

The first word that came to mind was white. Walls, panels, pews, columns, pulpit — all washed in creamy monochrome, a twentieth-century phantasma of colonial history. A family sat facing one another inside a box pew, their clasped hands forming a small square against the blood-red upholstery. Murmurs from tourists and worshippers filled the space with low whispers. A high-pitched laugh — a quick shhh in response. Afternoon sunshine beamed through the clerestory windows. I felt like an ant beneath a magnifying glass. I didn’t see Diane. Perhaps this had been a miscalculation.

Turning back towards the rear of the church, I caught sight of a velvet rope across the entrance to a narrow stairwell. Cold air breathed faintly from the dimness below. No sign forbade entry, but the rope was warning enough. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder before descending. The sound of the chapel muffled into silence and the stone walls pressed close. Suddenly, I paused. A soft, irregular sound. At first I thought it was the building settling. A sharp intake of breath, a quiet attempt at composure — someone was crying. 

The sound hit just beneath my ribs and I hesitated, frozen in the darkness. I felt the edge of myself thin. I knew the confrontation waiting for me on the crypt floor was outside of my control. I almost turned back, but slowly I descended. At the bottom, the ceiling hung low, and rows of slate tablets, their names worn smooth, lined the walls. Diane stood with her back to me, arms were crossed, head bowed. Her shoulders were steady now. 

“You’re very quiet,” she said. My eyes burned. “I didn’t want to get caught by a docent,” I said. “Yes,” she said. “We missed the last tour of the day.” I stepped beside her so I wasn’t hovering like a ghost. “How strange,” I said. “This tomb is unmarked.” “Good eye. It is the Stranger’s Tomb. Those buried there were unknown to the community.” Her voice carried a faint melancholy. I stay silent. “There is something peaceful about it,” she said. “To belong to no one.” The rafters seemed to grow closer. “No one came looking for them,” I said. Diane shook her head. “Some people would rather be unknown than misnamed.” I turned to look at her, but she was already looking at me, her eyes still shining. “No one can be truly invisible,” I said. She sighed. “Indeed.” 

We stood before the anonymous stone in silence. I bent toward the placard, reading nothing. Diane did not move. Her gaze fixed on the slab as if waiting for it to answer her. “Enjoy the after-hours tour, stranger,” she said at last, turning toward the side door. She opened it. Rain struck the threshold in silver sheets. She lingered there, framed in gray. Something was missing. “Your umbrella,” I said. “I did have one,” she replied. “It wasn’t mine.” I sensed an opening. “There’s room under mine. Do you live nearby?” Diane smiled. “At the Conrad. Not five minutes down Tremont. Thank you.”

The rain hammered down on the canvas, pressing us close and foreclosing any small talk. As a matter of principle, I avoid this kind of proximity with people in my investigations. Some detectives cultivate it — befriending those they watch — but that has always seemed to me a kind of trespass. Observation remains neutral only at a distance. The narrow cylinder of dry air beneath my umbrella felt suddenly airless. As we approached the Conrad, a young man came running down the sidewalk toward the entrance, briefcase swinging, hair plastered to his forehead. He was drenched. Diane stepped out from under my umbrella without hesitation and crossed into the rain. She met him beneath the awning. I could not hear what they said. He looked over her shoulder and called through the downpour, “Thank you!” 

When I returned, the Doctor was still seated in the parlor. George hovered near the doorway, eyes wide with relief at my appearance. I pretended not to notice and asked the Doctor to step inside my office. “I apologize, Dr. Hollenback,” I said, removing my gloves. “I was delayed by the rain.” We took our usual chairs by the fireplace. He regarded me in that patient way of his. “You look tired, Leonora.” “I was looking for someone,” I said. “Did you find them?” I pulled James’s note out of my trouser pocket. The ink had bled into the fibers. For a moment I tried to remember what it said. “No.” He waited. “There is another house tonight,” I added. “And will you watch?” I folded the paper and left it on the table between us. “Yes.” Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. A light flickered across the street. A man crossed the room. I drew the curtains.