Without being invited in, yet never questioning her welcome, she walked past me and put the platter on the table. Dwight and Elliott had come to their feet, Elliott unfolding himself one storklike joint at a time as he leaned over to accept her kiss on the cheek.
“Don’t let me interrupt your breakfast,” she said with that gurgling lilt that made her commercials so easy on the ears.
“Please,” I said, gesturing to one of the empty chairs. “We’re pretty much finished. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
She circled the table to sit next to Elliott and smiled happily. “Coffee would be absolutely wonderful. Black, please, and no sugar.”
I brought it to her and said, “I think you left the door of your apartment open.”
She dismissed my warning with an airy wave. “That’s okay. Everybody’s honest on this floor.”
Elliott cocked his head at her. “Luna, you do realize that someone was killed here last night?”
A shadow crossed her smooth face. “Poor Phil! It’s so awful. I still can’t believe it. He was so sweet when he brought up the coat racks for me last night. I absolutely had to force him to take a tip. Who on earth do you think could have done that? It must have been someone who pretended he was invited to my party. Sidney’s going to be so mad at himself when he realizes what he’s done.”
“The elevator man? What’d he do?” Dwight asked.
“He brought the killer up, didn’t he? Without asking if he was one of the people I’d invited.”
Elliott frowned. “He wasn’t checking IDs when I came up, and I didn’t see a list.”
“I didn’t give him one, but—”
“But he should have recognized the mark of Cain on the killer’s forehead and refused to let him get on the elevator?”
“Okay, I guess that was silly,” Luna admitted with another graceful wave of her hand. “But none of my friends are killers. Honest. I won’t say they wouldn’t stab you in the back if they thought it would get them a part in a TV series, but really kill? Never!”
“Any of your guests have sticky fingers?” Dwight asked casually.
Luna half turned in her chair and her eyes widened as if she were seeing him for the first time and rather liked what she saw. Her eyes moved deliberately down his muscular body and she reminded me of a golden retriever when it suddenly spots an unguarded bone.
“Sticky fingers, Dwight? It is Dwight, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Several of your guests were in here last night.”
“And something’s missing? What?” Her eyes swept the dining room and vestibule in undisguised interest. “I just realized that this is the first time I’ve been in Jordy’s apartment. How do you two know him anyhow? I don’t think he’s ever been further south in America than the Village, so you must have met him here. And this place is so him, isn’t it? Traditional landscapes, old pieces of wood furniture. Oh, look! Are those strips of stained glass original to these windowpanes?”
She didn’t seem to expect any answers to her cascade of questions, and when she stood up and walked toward the living room, there was no way to stop her short of putting my foot out to trip her.
“Where did it happen? In here? Ewww! Is that Phil’s blood on the floor? How could you stand to stay here last night, Deborah? Doesn’t this gross you out? It would me. I’ll give you my cleaning guy’s number. You certainly can’t ask Denise to come and clean up her own husband’s blood, now can you?”
I suppose I should have taken offense, but her chatter and her questions were those of an artless child. Dwight, Elliott, and I exchanged raised eyebrows and the three of us trailed her into the living room in time to hear her shriek, “My cat! Oh my God! That’s my Oaxacan cat! How did it get here?”
She snatched up that brightly painted handcarved wooden cat from the side table. Graphite smudged her fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice. Cradling it protectively in her hands, she looked at Dwight and me in bewilderment. “Did you take it?”
“Certainly not,” I said indignantly. “Last night was the first time I noticed it.” I appealed to Dwight. “Did you?”
He shook his head. “When did you last see it, Miss DiSimone?”
“Oh no!” she wailed, her long blonde tresses swirling around her face. “Please, Dwight. Don’t go formal on me. I’m sorry. Of course you and Deborah didn’t steal it. I know you didn’t. I’m so confused by all this—Phil getting killed, my party messed up, police taking down our names like we’re criminals—I’m not thinking straight.” She set the cat on the nearest surface and clutched the sleeve of Elliott’s Yamaha sweatshirt with both hands, leaving traces of fingerprint powder. “Elliott, tell them I didn’t mean it like that!”
Shaking his head at her dramatic apologies, he said, “What can I tell you? She’s an actress. She needs a scriptwriter to keep her on track.”
He looked at his watch and frowned. “I wonder what’s holding Sigrid up? Luna, dear, stop posturing and tell me that my overcoat and scarf wound up in your apartment last night.”
“Was that your coat? I knew it belonged to somebody really tall and skinny. It was still on the rack last night when Nicco had to leave. He could barely get it buttoned and it was practically dragging the floor on him. He had to go to his studio to walk his dogs and then it was snowing too hard to get back, but I’m sure he’ll bring it with him when he comes. What time is it? He swore he’d be here by eleven so we could have brunch with the Tiempo people, although they may cancel because of the snow. He’ll be so pissed if they do because he was hoping they’d run an in-depth interview about his new paintings and—”
Elliott held up a hand to stop her chatter and herded her toward the front door. “It’s well past eleven and he’s probably sitting on your swing at this very minute, wondering where you are.”
“Oh. Right.”
I followed them to the door and reminded Elliott that he’d left his jacket on a chair in the dining room.
“I’ll be right back if Marclay has my coat,” he said.
I left the door on the latch and fetched a wet cloth from the kitchen to begin wiping surfaces that had been dusted for fingerprints, including the cat that Luna had forgotten to take. Dwight came down the hall from the second bathroom with a bath mat in his hand. “I’m going to put this over that bloodstain till we can get it cleaned,” he said.
The chenille mat had interlocking circles of blue and green and didn’t exactly go with anything in the room, but yes, I was glad to have the blood covered.
CHAPTER
9
The citizen of Gotham and his wife dodge the servant question at the start by taking an apartment instead of a whole house…. A maid looks after the sweeping and cleaning, messenger boys and the telephone do the errands, and the janitor fights off agents, gas men, and beggars. One does not have to think about light or fuel or ice or ashes.
—
The New New York
, 1909
S IGRID H ARALD —S UNDAY MORNING (CONTINUED)
Once the others had gotten past the obvious raunchy remarks and readjusted their theories in light of the ME’s report, Sigrid said, “Not a word of this to anyone unless it appears to be common knowledge. Until we learn more about the whole situation, Lundigren is a ‘he.’ Understood?”
Her words were meant for the whole team, but it was Urbanska who flushed bright red, aware that her impulsive tongue had spoken out of turn more than once.
“Understood, ma’am.”
The street in front of the apartment building had not been plowed when they arrived, but employees from the buildings along here seemed to be keeping the sidewalk shoveled and blown fairly clean as snow continued to fall. The pure white drifts turned New York’s gritty streets into a New Year’s greeting card, and even Sigrid, who seldom paid much attention to nature, found herself caught up in the beauty of bare tree limbs etched in white against the dark brick or stone of the buildings.
Hentz nosed t
he car in as close to the curb as possible. Last night’s rain meant that ice had formed beneath the snow, but they managed to get to the sidewalk without falling, although Sigrid and Elaine Albee both grasped the nearest arms when their booted feet almost slipped out from under them. The front door was locked, and Sigrid was surprised by the elevator man, who opened the door for them in his neat brown uniform.
“Weren’t you on duty last night?”
There were shadows under Sidney Jackson’s almond-shaped eyes and his face seemed pale and tired beneath its faint golden skin. “The day man walked off the job this morning so I got called back in. I couldn’t believe it when Mrs. Wall told me Phil got killed last night.”
The elevator was small, but the six of them managed to squeeze in.
“Vlad—he’s a porter and he got called in, too. He says Denise flipped out and they took her to Bellevue. She gonna be okay? How’d Phil die anyhow? Somebody cut him?”
“Why do you say that?” Hentz asked.
“I’m back and forth to the sixth floor all night and I didn’t hear anybody say anything about a gunshot. Jani took over for me around eleven so I could get home before the snow got too deep, and he told Vlad the same thing. So what did happen?”
Ignoring his question, Sigrid asked, “Did you see Lundigren last night around ten?”
“No, but he would’ve used the back elevator or the back stairs.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Good as anybody, I guess. Friendly enough, but he doesn’t hang out with us. He’s a hard worker an’ he keeps at it. Building this old, something’s always breaking down and the boiler needs watching like a baby—that’s why they called Vlad in. He knows boilers. But Phil, he’s right on top of things. He’ll get on you bad if he thinks you’re slacking off or not being a good representative for the building.” He gestured over his shoulder to the open elevator car. “He makes us keep the cage polished and we can’t let stuff pile up in the corners because Denise, she vacuums it out every day.”
The detectives noted that nothing in Sidney Jackson’s words gave any indication that he knew the victim’s true sex.
“Mrs. Lundigren is on the payroll?” asked Lowry.
He shrugged. “She helps Phil out with stuff like that. She’s okay as long as you don’t talk to her. She wants you to act like you don’t know she’s there. She cleans for Mr. Lacour and Mrs. Wall, and that reminds me: Mrs. Wall said for me tell her when you get here.”
“Who’s she?” asked Hentz.
“Chair of the co-op board.” A loud buzz interrupted him. “Gotta go.”
“One minute,” said Sigrid. “Lowry, you and Albee go talk to this Mrs. Wall. See if Lundigren had a personnel file. You know what to look for.”
They nodded and stepped into the elevator. Sidney looked at the remaining three dubiously as he pulled the brass accordion gate closed. “What about you? You can’t get to the stairs without a key.”
Hentz jingled the key ring they’d taken off Lundigren’s body. “We’ll manage.”
Followed by Dinah Urbanska, he and Sigrid walked across the Arts and Crafts ceramic tile floor and turned a corner into a short hall that led to two doors. One was for the fire stairs. After three tries, Hentz found the key that unlocked it. Inside the stairwell was the service elevator. While one could exit from the stairwell without a key, the door could not be left unlocked for access from the lobby side. The elevator here was larger and more modern than the one out in the lobby and it appeared to be self-service when they rang for it. The doors opened automatically without a key. Like the stairwell, the floor of the car was spotless and even gave off a strong smell of a pine-scented cleaner. The elevator walls were hung with quilted plastic pads, and there was the usual panel with a button for each floor.
Urbanska looked at Hentz and stated the obvious. “So once someone’s on an upper floor, they can get down and out, but if you don’t have a key, the only way to get up is on the front elevator that’s manned twenty-four/seven?”
“So it would appear,” he said.
They stepped back into the hall and Hentz unlocked the door to the Lundigren apartment. They were met by a white Persian cat that mewed loudly upon seeing them.
Urbanska immediately stooped and crooned reassurances, her hand stretched out to the animal. Cautiously, the cat sniffed her fingers, then rubbed against her knee and accepted her strokes. When Urbanska stood up, the cat walked to the archway that led deeper into the apartment, looked back at the young woman, and gave a soft cry.
“He’s probably hungry,” she said. “Okay if I look for his food?”
Sigrid, who had never owned a pet and was not particularly fond of cats, nodded.
Urbanska glanced around the little jewel box of a living room. “Pretty room,” she said.
“Doesn’t look as if it gets much use, though, does it?” asked Sigrid.
The small space was indeed pretty, but as impersonal as a doctor’s waiting room. No family photos, no magazines or newspapers, nothing out of alignment. Behind the gauzy white curtains, a window overlooked a narrow alley that probably led to the street. Although sparkling clean on the inside, the window was dirty on the outside and was not only barred, but painted shut as well. Hentz noted that there was a ramp up from the basement and that someone had swept it clean within the past hour, for there was only a light dusting of snow.
“Seems to be letting up,” he said as he dropped the curtain.
Beyond the formal living room lay the kitchen, bedroom, bath, and a den that had probably begun life as a dining room. Everything was neat and tidy, but the den was clearly where the Lundigrens had done their living. A large plush recliner faced the plasma screen, and the remote lay on a table beside the chair along with a copy of TV Guide and Al Gore’s book on climate change.
All very masculine, thought Sigrid.
The couch was probably Denise Lundigren’s usual seat. It was upholstered in a bright floral print and several ruffled cushions picked up those colors and formed a cozy nest at one end. A half dozen shelter magazines were neatly stacked on the shelf of the nearest end table. Here, too, were the photographs that had been missing in the living room, but all seemed to be of Denise. Denise as a pretty little girl in a ruffled dress and patent leather Mary Janes. Denise in a high school cap and gown. Denise in a polka-dot dress on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Denise curled up on this very couch with that white cat in her arms.
But none of Phil. And none of anyone else.
Out in the kitchen, they watched Urbanska spoon a small tin of cat food into a delicate china saucer that sat on the floor beside a matching bowl of water. Here, white tiles, white cabinets, and white appliances were brightened by floral dishtowels and pot holders. The magnets on the refrigerator were enameled cats and flowers, and the magnetized shopping list—soap, carrots, cat food, O.J.—continued the motif. A tall narrow window at the end of the room had been frosted, then fitted with glass shelves that held a collection of shiny crystal animals, mostly cats but also porcupines, rabbits, and birds, each one cut and faceted to reflect light from every angle. The bottom shelf was reserved for small glass perfume bottles that looked to be handblown. The thin glass stoppers were fanciful swirls, and they, too, glittered under the lights that were concealed at the top of the window.
“She must wash those things every day,” Urbanska marveled. She rinsed out the tin and put it in a waste can under the sink. “My aunt collects crystal figurines and they’re always dusty.”
The bedroom was clearly decorated by and for Denise. A floral perfume lingered on the air here. The white furniture featured curlicues and piecrust and was stenciled in thin gold lines. The king-size bed was outfitted with ruffled pillow shams and matching dust ruffle, floral comforter, and pale blue sheets. The comforter had been turned back but only one side of the bed was rumpled. A biography of Eleanor Roosevelt sat on the nightstand next to the unrumpled side.
“Looks like she w
ent to bed alone while her husband—” Urbanska caught herself and looked at Sigrid in confusion.
“Husband’s fine for now,” Hentz told her. “Keep thinking of our victim as a man and you won’t slip up when you’re questioning the others.”
Sigrid said nothing, but doubted if Urbanska could stop herself from turning red every time she was reminded of the victim’s true sex.
Urbanska doggedly continued. “So she went to bed and he went up to check on the noise. Why would he go into a different apartment?”
“The night man said that he hadn’t seen Lundigren all evening, so he probably took the stairs or the service elevator,” said Hentz. “Did we check to see whether 6-A’s service door opens onto the main hall or a back hall?”
“I saw a service door in the kitchen,” Sigrid said, “but I couldn’t say where it went.”
As they returned to the search, the white cat came in and wound himself around Urbanska’s legs. She gave him an absentminded stroke and he jumped up on the bed to begin washing himself.
A dainty dressing table held little bottles of creams and lotions, additional fragile perfume bottles, and a chrome makeup mirror that was framed in lights. Opening a side drawer, Sigrid found a tangle of costume jewelry and a blue velvet jeweler’s box. Inside that was an elaborate crystal necklace and a handwritten gift card: Happy anniversary, xoxo, Phil.
One drawer of the tall dresser held masculine socks and underwear, the other four drawers were filled with lingerie and feminine sweaters.
Ditto the two closets. Denise’s was stuffed to overflowing with the usual women’s apparel. Phil’s held three brown coveralls in plastic dry cleaners’ bags, a brown suit, several shirts and ties, a sports jacket, and four pairs of slacks.
In the bathroom’s medicine cabinet were over-the-counter painkillers, vitamins and calcium supplements, first aid remedies, Band-Aids, and three prescription bottles. One was an antidepressant in Denise’s name. Another, also in her name, held mild sleeping pills. The third, in Phil’s name, contained pills to control high blood pressure.
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