Laura Lippman - Baltimore Noir

Jeannie had gotten over the name brouhaha, but what continued to bother her, she thought as she yanked at some stubborn clover, was that Ivanhoe was one of the heroic personalities in the educational computer game that Charlie had made his fortune designing. Although Charlie would point out that the game’s success was Jeannie’s doing because of how she, an English major temping at Charlie’s fledgling games company, had suggested Charlie read Sir Walter Scott and Mary Shelley for ideas-after all, these were stories old enough not to be copyrighted.

The game was a language-building tool, packed with sharp swords and SAT vocabulary. The American Library Association had called Charlie a hero; and once public libraries and elementary schools started buying the program-well, Charlie could either let himself be bought out, which he thought he was too young to do, or do something creative, like take a wrecked old factory in inner-city Baltimore and remake it into a manufacturing plant for the game.

It was like Goodwood Gardens’ past come to life, Jeannie mused, as she continued pulling up weeds from between the bricks. Charlie was the lord of an old factory in East Baltimore; he even went to work in a three-piece suit, wanting to seem like anything but an ordinary computer game programmer. He lunched with people like the mayor, and the lawyer who owned the Baltimore Orioles.

“You know, you could hire someone to do that-but aren’t you cute doing it yourself.” Hodder Reeves’s private-school drawl cut through Jeannie’s gardening trance.

The real estate agent was standing a few feet away from her, hands splayed on the hips of his creaseless khakis, which broke crisply on the tops of his cordovan Gucci loafers. He had no socks on, as usual, and was wearing a turquoise Lacoste shirt that made his eyes look even bluer, and the longish hair that curled around the shirt’s upturned collar seem youthfully thick and blond, though Jeannie knew for a fact he was over forty and got his highlights at the same salon that she frequented.

“Hi, Hodder. Actually, one of my neighbors offered to share her gardener. It’s just that I don’t have that much to do anymore, now that Ivan’s at St. David’s Day School three mornings a week. He’s going into his second week there-I can hardly believe it! He loves school.” Jeannie didn’t mention how it tugged at her heart that her son went so cheerfully, without a second glance back.

“Ivan. Is that a new nickname?” Hodder’s voice sounded teasing.

“His teacher suggested it. Ivanhoe’s a bit… wordy… for three-year-olds, don’t you think?”

Reeves crouched down beside her, his breath smelling of Altoids. “I think it’s charming. As are you. Let me take you to lunch.”

“But why?” Jeannie blurted, feeling self-conscious about the dirt on the knees of her Levi’s.

“I stopped by to see if you’d come for a quick lunch at Petit Louis. After all, it’s our anniversary.” At Jeannie’s blank stare, he added, “We closed on your house six months ago to this day. Don’t you remember, I took you and Charlie out for champagne at the bar there?”

A loud honk came from a black Lexus. Jeannie looked over and realized that Hodder had left his Porsche, with its driver’s-side door hanging open, smack in the middle of the street. The more successful a man was in Baltimore, the smaller his car-and conversely, the larger his wife’s. Charlie had given Jeannie a Humvee as a Christmas present, and it devoured two-thirds of their garage.

“All right, all right.” Reeves gave an apologetic wave to the driver who, after all, could be his next client. “Is it okay if I pull into your driveway? Charlie coming home anytime soon?”

“No, he isn’t coming home till late tonight, but I still don’t think I can have lunch with you. Look at the state I’m in, and I have to pick Ivan up at 11:45-”

The driver honked again.

“Go in and change, and I’ll get over to St. David’s and wait with Ivanhoe for you.” Hodder grinned. “Then we’ll all walk to the restaurant. It’s never too early for a boy to learn the fish fork from the salad.”

The small, smiling maître d’ at the French bistro three blocks away welcomed Ivanhoe without the slightest show of dismay, and Hodder with a great deal of enthusiasm. Immediately, they were seated at a fine table with a booster seat for Ivanhoe, who was delivered a mountain of golden-brown pommes frites.

“So, tell me you’re happy ever after,” Reeves said, after they’d clinked glasses of the Côtes du Rhône the sommelier had suggested.

“What do you mean?” Jeannie unwillingly put down the menu, which looked fabulous.

“It’s a great house for a family, right? Almost everyone who’s lived there had a litter of little ones.”

“If it’s such a good house for children, why did everyone leave? Seven families in ten years, right?”

Hodder frowned. “Oh, they all have their reasons. Some divorce, some overstretch financially… some change jobs. Most of them choose to sell because, well, the Roland Park market being as hot as it is…” he paused. “The house is worth ten percent more now than it was when you bought it in April. If you sold next spring-twenty-five percent more.”

Jeannie picked up the menu again, because the last thing she wanted to contemplate was the hassle of moving house with a toddler. It was time to change the subject. “I wonder if I should bother with this three-course menu. It seems like a lot-”

“You have the kind of body where three courses is not a crime, and the cost should not be a factor, Jeannie,” Hodder purred. “If you want something light, go for the grilled salmon on greens. But don’t miss the chocolate roulade. You know what they say about chocolate!”

“Ivan will like the chocolate if I can’t finish it.” Jeannie blushed again, as Hodder was wont to make her do. Chocolate was a substitute for love, or, specifically, sex. Charlie was still interested, but Jeannie found herself so tired after a long day with Ivan that she’d rather have a cup of cocoa than anything.

They put their orders in, and more wine came. Ivan seemed to be growing smaller and quieter, and Hodder larg and louder, as the hour went on. He talked about how it was easy to make inroads in Baltimore society because all native Baltimoreans had inferiority complexes when it came to California and New York-and how he’d come back, after his years at Washington & Lee, and a brief stint on Wall Street, because he wanted to be with real people. He told her about his other clients, one a baseball player who had just signed with the Orioles, whose wife might be a nice friend for Jeannie. The baseball couple had driven down Goodwood Gardens during their tour of Roland Park and would have bought in a flash, except nothing was on the market. So now Hodder was shepherding them through Ruxton, though that was technically out of the city, less convenient…

“Are those houses old, too?” Jeannie asked. She’d heard of Ruxton because, for some reason, a lot of the teachers at Ivan’s school lived there.

“Yes. Nineteen-twenties, mostly. Yours is a good ten years older than that.” He smiled. “If the walls in your house could talk, I wonder what they’d say.”

Was Hodder talking about the past or the present? Jeannie wondered, as she picked at her salad, which had seemed delicious at first but had become suddenly acidic. She felt chilly, too, as if the scoop-necked cashmere sweater and tweed pants she’d changed into weren’t warm enough, even on a sixty-degree day. Well, the sweater had a low neck. Possibly too low a neck, from the way both the waiter and Hodder seemed to be smiling at something below the diamond-tipped choker she was wearing. Blame it on the Wonderbras Charlie insisted she wear.