Three-Day Town dk-17

by Margaret Maron

  Once they had walked through the apartment, they spread out to search more intensively. On the floor at the back of Denise’s closet, underneath three rows of shoeboxes, Urbanska found a cardboard box with dividers that had originally kept jars of mustard from bumping against each other. Each compartment was now stuffed with even more shiny knickknacks. She saw a crystal long-stemmed rose, a pretty cloisonné pillbox, a kitten of frosted gray glass, a porcelain shepherdess figurine, a pink glass perfume bottle, and a silver Santa Claus bell that tinkled when she picked it up.

  “What’s that?” Sigrid asked.

  “Looks like her overflow collection. She probably switches them out with each other. That’s what my aunt does, anyhow.” Urbanska paused and almost to herself murmured, “My aunt doesn’t have any children either.”

  At the end of another ten minutes, they had found nothing with writing on it except for that one card and the shopping list.

  “Everybody has papers,” Sigrid said. “Bills, bank statements, insurance policies. Where are theirs?”

  The cat followed them back through the apartment.

  “I guess he’ll be okay,” Urbanska said with a concerned look on her face. “I put out some dry food, too. And fresh water. The litter box was pretty clean, too.”

  “You looked?” asked Hentz, amused.

  Before he took them up to the twelfth floor, Sidney Jackson used the house phone to tell Mrs. Wall that two detectives were there to see her, and she was waiting at the door when Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry stepped off the elevator. Mid-fifties and confident with it, she was small and slender and carried herself like someone who was used to being photographed at opening receptions and charity functions. Her straight silver hair curved to frame a pointed chin, and ragged bangs softened her strong forehead. She wore black stretch pants and a slouchy black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to show several silver bracelets. Despite the laugh lines and wrinkles, she had beautiful skin, and her only makeup was lipstick that had almost worn off. She might have started the morning with mascara and eye shadow, but her hazel eyes were red-rimmed now and they realized that she had been crying.

  They introduced themselves and Mrs. Wall invited them into an apartment that was harmoniously furnished in earth tones and sturdy Arts and Crafts oak furniture. Craftsman touches were everywhere, from the rugs on the wooden floors to the brass lamps and slatted wood radiator covers. An earthenware teapot and a full cup of hot fragrant tea sat on a hammered brass tray atop the coffee table, and they declined her offer to bring more cups.

  “Everybody in the building is just devastated by Phil’s death,” she said when they were seated. “All sorts of rumors are flying around. Please tell me what really happened.”

  “The only thing we know is that he was struck down in apartment 6-A sometime between nine-thirty and eleven,” said Lowry.

  Mrs. Wall sat there slowly shaking her elegant head and her eyes filled up again. “He was just the dearest man. There’s no way we’ll ever find someone half as good again. Why was he killed, Detectives? He never hurt anyone or anything. Not even spiders. Our middle child used to go all Annie Hall on us whenever she saw one, and if my husband or I were out, Phil would come right up and catch it in a plastic cup and put it out on the balcony.”

  “How long had he worked here?” Albee asked gently.

  Struggling to keep her voice steady, Mrs. Wall said, “We moved in seventeen years ago and he was here at least two years before that.”

  “What about Mrs. Lundigren?”

  It seemed to Elaine that Mrs. Wall’s lips tightened when she said, “Denise? We’ve heard that an ambulance had to be called when they told her. Will she be all right?”

  “I think they expect to let her come home later today.”

  The older woman shook her head. “Poor woman. Her condition is so…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “… so fragile. I honestly don’t know how she will manage without Phil.”

  “Do either of them have family?”

  “I never heard him mention anyone. He listed Denise as next of kin when he applied for this job, and I do know he had a mother who died about eight years ago, because they went up for the funeral.”

  “Up?”

  “To New Hampshire. That’s where he was from originally. I don’t know if that’s where she’ll want to go, but part of the super’s salary is the free apartment and we’ll be needing it for Phil’s replacement.”

  “Is the building a co-op or condo?” Albee asked.

  “Co-op,” Mrs. Wall replied, which meant that the tenants were technically shareholders, not owners, who paid the building’s monthly expenses based on the size of each apartment. Newcomers who wish to buy into a co-operative building have to be approved by the building’s board, unlike a condo, where the conditions are less constrictive and tenants hold regular deeds to their own individual apartments.

  Mrs. Wall’s silver hair swung forward as she leaned over to retrieve a thick file folder. “I was looking at Phil’s records this morning to notify the insurance company. One of his benefits was a policy the board took out on his life with Denise as the beneficiary.”

  “How much are we talking about?” asked Jim Lowry.

  “A quarter-million. I know that’s not much in today’s economy, but it should allow her to start a new life. If she can. But here.” She handed him the folder and her thin bracelets tinkled softly against each other. “I made copies of the job application he filled out when he first came, along with his references. I wasn’t on the board then, of course, but it all seems very straightforward and I see no reason you shouldn’t have it.”

  Elaine Albee looked over his shoulder as Lowry opened the folder and read through the simple job application form. Their eyes immediately went to the box labeled Sex and saw that the M had been checked. Marital Status had the M checked, too. He turned the sheet over and they saw three references listed.

  “Do you know if the board actually checked these references?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” she replied with a sad smile. “I’m told that the building had been without a reliable super for several months. I don’t know who found Phil, but he came over in an emergency and handled it so promptly and without any dramatics that the board practically begged him to apply for the full-time position.”

  She took a sip of tea and cradled the cup in her hands. “Besides, anyone could see that Phil was competent and dependable and so honest that he could make George Washington look like a pathological liar.”

  “So if we told you that he had taken a gold earring?”

  Her fingers tightened around the cup and then she set it back on the tray very deliberately. “Phil steal? Never! He wouldn’t pick up a penny in the lobby without trying to find out who had dropped it.”

  Albee sat back in her seat and decided it was time to go fishing. “Mrs. Wall, you say that everyone loved Phil, but is that really accurate? Isn’t it true that there’s at least one shareholder who didn’t get along with him?”

  Mrs. Wall sighed. “You mean the people in 7-A?”

  “For starters,” Lowry said, trying to sound as if there might be several others.

  Resigned, the woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “We should never have approved the Rices. We should have realized they were trouble when they were willing to pay ten percent above the asking price in a down market. And all those glowing references from their former neighbors? They lied through their teeth just to get those awful creatures out of their own building. The Rices started alienating people here even before they moved in.”

  She ticked off several incidents on her fingers: the remodeling that went on too long because they tried to ignore building codes, the extra two dogs, the cavalier manner in which they repainted and recarpeted the common hall to suit their own questionable taste without asking anyone, their rudeness to the other owners, the tub they let overflow twice, and finally the illegal electrical wiring that could have burned the
building down.

  She topped her cup from the teapot and took another long swallow. “They tried to bribe Phil not to report it and they threatened to sue him for slander when he testified at their hearing before the board. We’ve begun the eviction process, but it takes time, and Phil was worried that they might try to do something to hurt the building before they’re actually gone even though they would be hurting themselves if it lowers the value of their own apartment.”

  “Judge Knott and Major Bryant found him in 6-A when they got in Friday evening,” said Lowry.

  “Who?” She looked puzzled and then her face cleared. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Jordy Lacour did say a couple from North Carolina would be using his place this week. This is awful for them, too. Have they left?”

  Albee shook her head. “No, ma’am. I think they’re planning to stay. Anyhow, Lundigren told them he was worried about a leak from the apartment overhead.”

  “The Rices! It would be just like them to think that if the Lacour apartment was empty, no one would notice a leak until it had done considerable damage.” She set her teacup down so firmly that it rattled the spoon in her saucer. “Unconscionable!”

  “What about the other employees in the building?” they asked.

  “So far as I know, there are no serious animosities, but you’ll have to ask them.” Again, she reached into the file and pulled out another sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of all the employees and the outside service people that we use.”

  “Could we see those personnel files?” Albee asked casually, but Mrs. Wall balked at that.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. That would be an invasion of their privacy. The only reason I can give you Phil’s in good conscience is because it may help you find who did this awful thing.”

  “What about a list of the building’s occupants?” asked Lowry.

  “Those you could get from the directory at the front door, so I drew up a current list for you,” she said, handing him a third sheet.

  “One further thing,” said Lowry. “How would you describe Lundigren’s marriage?”

  Mrs. Wall hesitated, then pushed up one of the sleeves that had crept down over some of her silver bracelets and lifted the teacup to her lips.

  The two detectives exchanged glances, both suddenly aware that Mrs. Wall had been using her tea as a stalling device throughout the interview.

  “Was it a good marriage?” Lowry asked.

  “You know about Denise’s condition?”

  “Her social anxiety disorder?”

  The older woman nodded.

  “It was hard on Phil, but he absolutely adored her and was very protective of her. We all understood and we did what we could to help. There’s no way she could go out to work, you see. You may have heard that she cleans some of the apartments? I know Jordy uses her on a regular basis, and I started using her, too, when my last woman moved out to Long Island, so Denise is used to us, but if you were having unexpected guests and you wanted her to come clean the bathrooms and change the sheets because your own cleaning person couldn’t come, you would have to make the arrangements through Phil, and he would bring her up and tell her what had to be done because she simply couldn’t handle having to talk to unfamiliar people.”

  “So you would say it was a happy marriage?” Albee persisted.

  “He was very devoted,” said Mrs. Wall. “And very protective.”

  “And what about her?”

  Again that hesitation. “She needed him.”

  True to Elliott Buntrock’s prediction, Luna DiSimone’s current boyfriend was lounging on her wicker swing when they walked into the apartment, and he gave her a sour look.

  “Where the hell have you been? And why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour.”

  Barrel-chested, with short legs, Nicco Marclay had once boasted a head of luxuriant red hair. Here in his twenty-seventh year, however, it had receded well past the crown and was now not much more than a fringe. He had taken to wearing flat golfing caps with narrow bills, and today’s was a tattersall check in shades of brown and gold that clashed with his red flannel shirt and jeans.

  His truculence faded as he realized who was with Luna. “Oh, hey there, Buntrock. I was hoping to talk to you last night, but then things got crazy.”

  Buntrock knew what “talk to you last night” meant. That was the opening feint of almost every artist on the make. It meant, “If you’re looking for the next Picasso to write about for The Loaded Brush, I’m your boy.” Indeed, it was his inclusion of Marclay in an article about emerging young artists two years ago that helped the man get into one of the better galleries.

  “Wish you’d found me before you went off with my topcoat,” he said mildly.

  “Was that yours? Sorry. I did bring it back, though.” He gestured to a stool at the bar that was now draped in a damp wool coat.

  “What about my scarf?”

  “Scarf? Didn’t see a scarf.”

  “Check the bowl there by the door,” Luna said. “Anything I found on the floor this morning, I stuck in there.” She went over to the swing, lifted Marclay’s cap, and planted a kiss on his bald head.

  “Dammit, Luna!”

  “Oh, lighten up, Nicco. And you haven’t been calling me for an hour, because we talked thirty minutes ago. Did the Tiempo people call?”

  “Yeah. They cancelled. Afraid of a little snow.”

  “Just as well,” said Buntrock. To get to his scarf at the bottom of the large green glass punchbowl that Luna used as a catchall for keys and other odds and ends, he had to move a couple of phones, a tube of lipstick, a flamingo-shaped earring, and a pair of new-looking red rubber flip-flops. A lei of silk orchids had tangled itself around his scarf and it took him a moment to untangle it. “The police want to talk to us.”

  “Us? Why? The only time I ever met the dead guy was when he and his creepy wife were up here yesterday morning.”

  “Creepy wife?”

  “Don’t be mean, Nicco,” Luna said. She sat down at the far end of the long swing, slipped off her shoes, leaned back against the pillows, and put her stockinged feet in the artist’s lap.

  “I’m not being mean. I’m being honest.” He began to massage her feet absentmindedly. “But you’ve got to admit that it’s creepy when somebody won’t look at you and you have to tell her husband what you want her to do before she’ll do it.”

  “She has a psychological hang-up,” Luna told Buntrock. “I forget what it’s called but it’s like being pathologically shy. Anyhow, the last time the caterers came, they said they had to start with a clean kitchen and mine was a total mess, but my regular guy doesn’t work on weekends, so when I asked Antoine if he knew anybody, he told me that Phil’s wife helps out sometimes, so I called Phil and they came up. He asked me what I wanted done and I told him, and then he took her out to the kitchen and asked us not to go in till he came back for her, that it made her nervous.”

  “Creepy,” Marclay muttered. “But that’s the only time I saw the man, so I don’t have anything to tell the police.”

  “I think they want us to go through Luna’s guest list and mark everybody who knows anything about art.”

  “Art?” asked Marclay. “Why?”

  “Ours not to reason why,” Buntrock said lightly. He finished untangling his scarf and dropped the lei back in the bowl. When he put the flip-flops back in, something clinked against the glass and he saw that a shiny button or something had embedded itself in the spongy sole.

  “Guest list?” said Luna. “I don’t have a guest list. I just went through the contact names on my phone and sent invitations to the people I like.”

  “Which is how that asshole Rathmann got invited,” Nicco Marclay said truculently. Charles Rathmann occasionally reviewed for one of the throwaway weekly papers and he had not been kind to Marclay’s last show.

  “So how do you know police people like that Lieutenant Vaughn and that professor from John Jay?”

&nb
sp; “The pilot I made for StarCrest Productions.”

  Marclay tweaked her big toe. “The one where you were supposed to play a Coney Island police officer?”

  Luna nodded. “They were consultants on the shooting and we got to be friends.”

  Of course they had, thought Buntrock. Luna was as friendly as a six-month-old puppy and just as confident as any puppy that everyone wanted to be her friend, too. Buntrock had to admit that such artlessness was appealing.

  Marclay gave the ball of her left foot a final rub, then began on her right. “Too bad it didn’t get past the pilot. You could’ve made some serious bread.”

  Buntrock lifted a cynical eyebrow. Trust Marclay to keep his eye on the economic ball. He himself had met Luna through the owner of Marclay’s gallery back when she was with another artist. Marclay had soon cut the other guy out. Out of the gallery and out of Luna’s life. Luna DiSimone might not be an A-list actor—hell, she was probably barely B-list—but she was a connection to that world, and it never hurt to have a sprinkling of showbiz glamour at your openings.

  “You add any names to the guest list?” he asked.

  Marclay shook his head. “It was her thing, not mine.”

  “But you did ask if I’d invited Elliott and Mischa and Orton,” Luna said. She gave a contented sigh as Marclay kneaded the ball of her foot with his knuckles. “Ummmm, that feels so good.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Many of [the drawing rooms] resemble nothing so much as antique shops…. Louis Seize cabinets back up against the walls and hold Chinese porcelains, silver, glass, miniatures.

  —

  The New New York

  , 1909

  The doorbell rang and I called, “It’s open, Elliott. Come on in.”

  “Sorry,” Lieutenant Harald said, “it’s not Elliott.”