Then a man raised his hand and asked a question that Cantrell had hoped might be avoided. He recognized the man as a reporter for the Telegraph, one of the very few who seemed less than impressed today.
“Mr. Cantrell, can you tell us about the body?”
“The body?”
“Yes, the transient who was found in your basement a year or so ago, when construction began.”
The crowd grew silent as Cantrell tried to maintain his smile.
“It was very unfortunate. From what I know, the man apparently sought shelter here during a snowstorm. He froze to death.”
Cantrell moved to answer another question, but the reporter was persistent.
“Yes, that was the coroner’s ruling, sir, but don’t you think it’s odd that a man could freeze to death when he had already started a fire, and there seemed to be plenty of fuel to keep it going?”
Cantrell matched the reporter’s gaze. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for that.”
The crowd seemed to shift uncomfortably, but nobody seemed to have anything to say.
“What about workers dying on the job?”
The reporter’s polite voice now had a sharper edge.
“What’s your question?”
Cantrell’s voice was also growing harder.
“Your construction workers. My count is that three died during the renovations, and many walked off the job. Why?”
Cantrell swallowed. “Tragically, there was a heart attack, a stroke, and one fatal fall during the reconstruction. This was a very, very difficult renovation. Unfortunately, despite all of our precautions, there was a run of bad luck. I can’t think of another way to put it. On a job like this, where there’s plenty of danger, the margin for error is extremely small. And, yes, some workers did walk off the job. I really can’t blame them.”
He cleared his throat and before the reporter could speak again, invited the new tenants for coffee in the conference room.
“There are a few practical details I’d like to go over with all of you, and perhaps you’d like the chance to meet your new neighbors.”
He turned to the others. “For the rest of you, thank you very much for your attendance today.” They filed to the front door—the thwarted reporter among them—while the tenants followed Cantrell to the conference room.
Like the rest of the building, the scale was impressive. There were 30 people here, but the room could easily have held three times that. Designed both for conferences and social events, the room was further testimony that Cantrell had achieved the synthesis of art and function. A long walnut table dominated the center of the room, but there was plenty of space to accommodate sofas and easy chairs along the marble and silk-covered walls. Warm sconces bathed the room in soft amber illumination. English countryside paintings added to the gentle and soothing ambiance.
The tenants positioned themselves at various spots along the table, settling into soft leather chairs, awaiting his words.
“I want to welcome you all—the first residents of the Exeter.”
He began with a lengthy talk on practical matters—parking, trash and recycling; the use of common rooms for parties and events, keys and security, then fielded questions from the room.
“Now,” he continued. “Let’s have everyone introduce themselves; tell us a little about who you are and why you’re here. After all, we’re all neighbors now.
“I’ll begin with myself. My flat is in the tower, just behind the clock. The point I’m making is that I’m not an absentee landlord. I want you to know that I’m here to help with whatever you might need, whenever you might need it. Now you, sir.”
He gestured to the man who was sitting to his right; a short, rather rotund older gentleman, about 60 years old. He’d shaved his balding pate and wore expensive glasses, ornate and oversized, jeans and an expensive silk shirt, opened halfway down to reveal a heavy gold medallion laying upon his hairy, graying chest.
“Stu Brown,” he announced in a deep and gravelly voice, the accent reminiscent of Brooklyn. “I’m in the bar and restaurant business. I’d be surprised if most of you haven’t been in one or more of my establishments at one time or another—the Lancelot, Rick’s, the Lime Light, Fifteenth Street Grill… ”
Some of the others nodded their heads in recognition.
“… I’m pretty damn good at what I do,” Brown continued. “I make people happy.”
He smiled, the expression insincere, leering.
Cantrell made a mental note to himself: Tough character. Tread lightly with this guy…
He indicated the person to Brown’s right.
“My name is Derek Taylor… ”
He was in his late 20s, movie star handsome, complete with deep tan and dyed blonde hair. He was dressed impeccably in clothes that screamed Neiman Marcus or Hugo Boss; flowing baggy trousers, black t-shirt; a matching black linen sport-coat.
Taylor smiled casually. “I’m not exactly working right now, but I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. I’m here because I love this building. Mr. Cantrell, you’ve done an absolutely amazing job. It’s the most beautiful building in town. I can’t wait to move in this weekend.”
Trust fund punk; spoiled, self-infatuated; a kid who’s never worked a day in his life.
Next in line was a couple; a man in his 60s, dressed in plain khakis and a polo shirt, while the woman—just shy of fifty if Cantrell were any judge—wore a casual sun dress. They were holding hands. The man spoke for both of them:
“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Sloane, Bill and Janice. I’m a retired attorney—corporate and tax—and the little lady is my beautiful wife. She’s what they used to call a housewife, but I call her my better half.”
The others laughed.
“We’re looking forward to spending a lot of time on the home front, enjoying life. And enjoying this building. I have to second Mr. Taylor in giving kudos to Mr. Cantrell here.”
Nice people; a sweet couple, despite their cheesiness. Still, they were folksy and down-to-earth. They’d fit in well.
The next person introduced herself without prompting:
She was in her 40s, a little heavy, dressed in a conservative suit. She kept her red hair short in a bob with bangs and wore gold-rimmed glasses. She looked scholarly, but far from dowdy.
“My name is Sharon Knaster. I’m a shrink. I specialize in Alzheimer’s Disease and other forms of dementia, mostly associated with aging. I’m on staff at three hospitals in town and have run my own practice for the past ten years.”
She paused to examine her listeners. “And I warn you alclass="underline" I don’t give discounts.”
Everyone laughed, including Cantrell.
Honest, doesn’t take herself too seriously. I like her.
“As for my reasons for being here, let me be honest: I’m at that stage in my professional career where I can actually reward myself. I can afford to live here, and I’m happy about that. Let’s face it, this place ain’t cheap… ”
There was another ripple of laughter.
“… I think we all deserve this reward, or we wouldn’t be here… ”
Everyone’s heads were nodding.
“… but there’s another reason I’m here.” Knaster took the hand of the woman who sat next to her. “This is my dear friend, Su Ling Nguyen. I’ll let her speak for herself.”
She paused before she spoke. She appeared to be about 35, petite, dressed in pastel cotton. Her hair was medium length, straight, cut in a modern style.
Intriguing. He’d noticed her from the dais, before her daughter cut the ribbon. He saw the pride in her soft black eyes, the deep love she felt for her daughter; the pain in her smile. Beautiful.
“Thank you, Sharon. This is my daughter, Anna. She’s five years old.”
The little girl, pretty like her mother, kept her head down, eyes glued to the tabletop. She said nothing.