“Do you think the puppy will be okay?” she said. “I left her in the crate without water. Just like Janet told us.”
“Janet knows dogs,” I said. “She knew both Pearls and now knows the third.”
“We shall see,” Susan said, peering up a flight of stairs at a brownstone shop and taking in a cheetah-print Diane von Furstenberg. I was pleased to see a closed sign in the window.
We continued along Newbury and turned onto Mass Ave and then into the Eliot. We found Wayne Arnett at the bar, sipping a martini inside a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. I liked the look of it and ordered two more. And then Susan corrected me. She wished to have a gimlet with fresh lime juice and Ketel One.
I had a gin martini. Straight up with extra olives.
“I like him,” Arnett said. “I like this big guy.”
“I do my best,” I said.
Arnett looked very much like a professional charity emcee and auctioneer. He was in his mid-forties, short and slightly chunky, with black hair and artfully trimmed facial hair. Blue eyes and a dimple in his chin. He was impeccably dressed. A navy blazer with a starched white shirt, red bow tie, and creased khaki pants. His shoes were old-school wingtips kicked up on the barstool.
“So,” Arnett said. “Peter Steiner.”
“Peter Steiner,” I said.
“What an asshole,” Arnett said.
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Do tell.”
“I don’t mean to speak out of school,” he said, smiling and waving his hand around. “But something is amiss with Peter Steiner. Something is wrong with Peter Steiner. He purports to be an international man of mystery. A great financier. Someone who deep-sea dives and owns two private planes. But god knows, he gives me the creeps.”
It appeared Wayne Arnett had begun without me. I looked up, signaled the bartender, and ordered him another cocktail. Spenser the Generous.
“You know, Wayne,” Susan said. “Spenser thought you might change your name to Auction Jackson. What do you think?”
“You don’t like Mr. Money Raiser?” he said.
“Miss Silverman is being cute,” I said, placing a hand on Susan’s knee. “She can’t help herself.”
Susan swatted my hand away. And Arnett shrugged and gleefully reached for his next cocktail. I liked very much where this was headed, as long as Mr. Money Raiser could remain on his barstool. Susan gave me the side eye and took a micro-sip of her gimlet.
“Do you mind saying why you’re asking me about Peter?” he said. “I mean, there are plenty of other people who can tell you about Peter. And Peter and Poppy Palmer.”
“Are they married?” I said.
“I don’t think so.”
“But they are a couple?” I said.
“Very much so,” Arnett said. “They are what you call a dynamic Boston power couple.”
I looked over at Susan and winked. She rolled her eyes.
“What does she do?” Susan said.
“Whatever Peter asks.”
“She’s devoted?” I said.
“Completely,” he said. “She assists him in whatever he’s into. She runs some type of modeling agency, I believe. Maybe a charity or two. But being this is Boston, and not New York, I don’t know about the modeling thing. He, on the other hand, has quite the stable of investors. I really don’t want to say. But there are some big names. Big, big names.”
“I have at least a few hundred bucks in the bank,” I said.
“Peter Steiner wouldn’t even pick up the phone unless you were a billionaire.”
“Damn,” I said. “I’ll make sure to buy a couple of scratch-off tickets on the way home.”
Two comely women in lovely summer dresses came over and said hello to Arnett. He smiled and put on some high-octane charm. They were in their late twenties or early thirties and seemed to have walked out of an ad for La Perla. Lots of flawless glowing skin and muscular calves. He introduced us as he rested his hands on their slim waists.
Susan watched me trying not to watch the women. She seemed to find this hilarious. I turned a blind eye and drank a little martini, completely unfettered.
When the women left, I said, “You’re quite the charmer.”
“Very beautiful,” he said. “But nope. Still gay.”
Susan laughed. “Are you with someone?” she asked.
“For five years,” he said. “We share an apartment in the South End and a cat named Perry Como.”
“Love makes the world go round,” I said.
“It sure does,” he said. He sighed and finished off the martini and then grabbed hold of the next. He drank some more and turned to me with red-rimmed eyes. “I guess you want to know about the incident.”
“Absolutely,” I said, having no idea which incident he meant. “That’s why I wanted to meet you.”
“There was a woman who worked for him,” he said. “I can’t recall her name. But she was young and very pretty. Some type of artist, I believe. In some way or another, she accused him of trying to force himself on her. This was maybe ten years ago. I don’t remember. I don’t remember all the details. But there was a lot of talk. It was all a big society scandal. No one could believe that Peter had eyes for anyone outside Poppy. They were such a dynamic and attractive couple.”
“I know the feeling,” I said.
“You think he was charged with something?” Susan said.
Arnett nodded. I looked to Susan and shook my head. I could find no criminal charges against Steiner in Boston.
“I think it went away as fast as it had come up,” Arnett said. “And obviously he and Poppy made amends. I know she told a lot of people that this woman was after Peter’s money and had made up the entire story.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who might remember this woman’s name?” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Whoever she is, I heard she left Boston. Most of her reputation as an artist had been built on her association with Peter and Poppy. God, what was her name? I remember them hosting a show for her at their house. You have seen Steiner’s home, haven’t you? Or at least heard about it?”
I shook my head.
“It used to be a school over on Comm Avenue,” Arnett said, trying to point a finger in the direction of Commonwealth. “It’s maybe an entire city block. Big old brownstone. I mean, there is Boston money and then there is Boston money.”