“What do you mean?”
“That poor man must have thought he’d be going home a millionaire and now, not only is he not Oscar’s son, he may never learn who his real father is.”
Madigan’s was a turn-of-the-century tavern and chophouse with absolutely no pretensions of trendiness. Back in the days of sailing ships, laboring dockworkers had eaten and drunk here and its clientele was still more blue collar than white. Dirty sawdust soaked up any spilled beverages and the air was thick with the smells of beer, cigarettes, and grilled meat. The high-backed wooden booths were slightly sticky but more than roomy enough to hold six people. How it could pass a sanitary inspection was anyone’s guess, but when she mentioned this to Marcus once, he had laughed and said, “If they ever get cited, I’ll defend them pro bono.”
Like Marcus, Sigrid had been introduced to this relic of old New York by Oscar Nauman. Indeed, this was where they’d first eaten. In their short time together, he had taken her everywhere from four-star restaurants in midtown to dim sum places in Chinatown and a gyro stand in Times Square, but he’d had a special fondness for this scruffy old restaurant and it did serve the best steaks she’d ever tasted. She had avoided it since his death, but somehow it felt right to come here tonight to say goodbye to the man who wasn’t his son, but could have been.
Roman, of course, was enchanted. He stepped inside, took a deep breath, and immediately exclaimed in his deep bass voice, “What atmosphere! What ambience! I had no idea such a place still existed.”
Women could no longer be legally excluded, but neither were they encouraged, so Sigrid was the only female there that night.
She and Roman were the last to arrive and the other four slid over to make room for them. She introduced Roman and gave Vincent Haas a look of sympathy. “Are you very disappointed about the DNA results?”
“A little,” he admitted. “Once I met you, I knew you would do what was fair if things turned out that way, but I meant it when I said it wasn’t just about money. I really did think my birth certificate was true. Now I’ll never know who my biological father is. Lila certainly can’t tell me.” He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Oh well.”
A waiter arrived with thick glass mugs of beer and a basket of rolls. His apron was stained, but the rolls were warm and crusty. They were ready to order by the time he brought beers for Sigrid and Roman. She opted for chargrilled lamb chops while the others wanted varying cuts of steak with baked potatoes.
As the meal progressed, talk turned to other subjects: the things Haas had seen and done on this trip, suggestions for how to spend his final day, the souvenirs he had bought for his daughters, and the long flight back to Austria that was facing him.
It was almost nine as the meal drew to a close, but Marcus Livingston seemed in no hurry to leave. He signaled the waiter for another round of drinks.
“None for me,” said Vincent Haas. “I thought I was over my jet lag, but for some reason, I’m really tired.”
“I’ll help you get a cab,” Rudy Gottfried said. “Don’t let them take my beer. I’ll be back.”
Haas stood and they exchanged the usual parting pleasantries of people who did not know each other well and did not expect to meet again.
“I really do appreciate your kindness,” he told Sigrid.
“He seems like a decent man,” she said, watching him leave with Gottfried. “Did he want to challenge the test?”
“No,” said her lawyer.
“Where did you get a sample of Nauman’s DNA? I thought Mrs. Bayles had cleared everything from the Connecticut house.”
“She did.” He speared a final morsel of steak with his fork. “You do know that Oscar willed his body to science?”
Sigrid nodded.
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Science gave a little bit of it back.”
Rudy Gottfried rejoined them a few minutes later and downed his beer in one long swallow.
“Another?” asked Livingston, who was eyeing him closely.
“Yeah, what the hell.”
Roman exchanged a look of curiosity with Sigrid.
“Is something going on here?” asked Buntrock, who had also picked up on the sudden tension.
Livingston said nothing, just signaled the waiter with Gottfried’s empty glass.
“I didn’t tell him,” Rudy said.
“Tell him what?” Sigrid asked while Roman sat silently for once and did not chime in with a dozen questions.
“I gave the lab a sample of my DNA, too. It matched.”
“You and Lila Nagy?” Sigrid was stunned.
He gave her a shame-faced nod. “You’re going to think I betrayed Oscar, but it wasn’t like that. He and Lila had a huge fight. They both said it was over. Oscar meant it. She didn’t. He was gone for three days. When he came back to the loft, she tried every trick in her bag to get him back in her bed again, but none of them worked. Took her another month to face the facts and move out. I’m not proud of what happened. It was just rebound sex, though. She thought it would hurt him, but he really wouldn’t have given a damn at that point. It never occurred to either of us that she was pregnant when she left New York. Maybe she really believed Oscar was the father, or maybe it was wishful thinking. Who knows?”
The waiter set a fresh beer in front of him and he drank half of it, then pushed the rest aside.
“Will you see Haas again?” Sigrid asked.
Rudy shook his head. “It’s a little late to be his daddy.”
“Not too late to be a grandfather to his daughters,” said Buntrock.
“No, the past is past…” His voice trailed off into silence. “He gave me his card, but I won’t write. It really is too late.”
“Keep the card,” Livingston advised him. “You never know.”
Only the brightest stars make it through Manhattan’s light pollution, but the moon was nearly full and it shone brightly in the western sky as Sigrid and Roman walked home through nearly deserted streets.
“Do you ever wish you had children?” Roman asked.
Sigrid shook her head. “I like my work too much. Besides, I can’t see myself as a single mother.”
“You’re still young. You might find someone new.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Roman?”
“No!” He stopped and looked down at her earnestly. “Never that. Remember how we first met? When you thought I was a thief who had broken into Anne’s apartment?”
She smiled and started to walk on but he stayed where he was.
“Then we found Tante Ophelia’s house and you agreed to rent it with me?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t wish to sound maudlin, my dear, but these last years have been the happiest of my entire life. I would never have written a book without you.”
“It hasn’t been a one-way street, Roman.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, and impulsively tucked her arm in his as they walked on.
She would always miss Nauman but that cold lump of grief she had carried around for so long was almost completely melted. Without Roman to nag and prod, to ask endless questions about police procedure, to bombard her with quirky facts about science and nature, not to mention his forays into culinary wonders, she might still be in bed with the covers over her head.
They turned west at Christopher Street and the moon met them full on, casting long shadows behind them and lighting their way ahead.
Acknowledgments
Luci Zahray, aka “The Poison Lady,” briefed me on the effects of blood thinners and Roy Harris told me about stage hands and their unions. I thank them both.
Thanks also to Jamie Raab, my publisher and long-time friend from the old Warner Books days, for giving me warm support and advocacy within the corporation.
To Lindsey Rose, huge gratitude. Finally! The editor I’ve yearned for ever since Sara Ann Freed died. I wish I had another dozen books for you.
To Vicky Bijur, my nurturing agent for
more than thirty years—what absolute luck that I reviewed Jack Early’s A Creative Kind of Killer, which led to my becoming your first client. Pure serendipity.
Author’s Note
I had not intended to write a final Sigrid Harald book, but those pictures that had been left stashed in the basement of the Breul House (Corpus Christmas) kept begging to be taken out of that trunk. And many readers wanted reassurance that Sigrid would find true peace of mind in the end. So here we are.
While each book can be read as a stand-alone, there is an arc to them as a whole. I read Dorothy L. Sayers’s Lord Peter series completely out of order and can remember how delighted I was to see the dowager duchess appear for the chronologically first time when I had already met her in later books. Perhaps readers familiar with Elliott Buntrock will be similarly amused to meet him for the first time in Corpus Christmas.
Lila Nagy was initially mentioned in Corpus Christmas as well. Her story is dealt with more fully in Fugitive Colors.
Although the first eight books in this series were written in what was the current “now” at the time and with absolutely no regard to aging my characters, this book takes place in the 1990s, a year after Fugitive Colors but before Three-Day Town. Sigrid and Judge Deborah Knott have not met and Anne Harald has not yet married Captain McKinnon. People could still smoke in restaurants, subways still took tokens, and getting online required a dial-up service. No Google, no Facebook.
About the Author
Margaret Maron grew up in the country near Raleigh, North Carolina. After three years in Italy and several more in Brooklyn, New York, she and her artist husband returned to the farm that has been in her family for over a hundred years and she began writing a series based on her own background. The first book, Bootlegger’s Daughter, became a Washington Post bestseller that swept the major mystery awards for its year—winning the Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards for Best Novel—and is among the 100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century as selected by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. She is also the author of nine Sigrid Harald detective novels. In 2008, Maron received the North Carolina Award for Literature, the highest civilian honor the state bestows on its authors. In 2013, the Mystery Writers of America celebrated Maron’s contributions to the mystery genre by naming her a Grand Master—an honor first bestowed on Agatha Christie; and in 2016, she was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame. To find out more about her, visit MargaretMaron.com.
Deborah Knott Novels:
LONG UPON THE LAND
DESIGNATED DAUGHTERS
THE BUZZARD TABLE
THREE-DAY TOWN
CHRISTMAS MOURNING
SAND SHARKS
DEATH’S HALF ACRE
HARD ROW
WINTER’S CHILD
RITUALS OF THE SEASON
HIGH COUNTRY FALL
SLOW DOLLAR
UNCOMMON CLAY
STORM TRACK
HOME FIRES
KILLER MARKET
UP JUMPS THE DEVIL
SHOOTING AT LOONS
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT
BOOTLEGGER’S DAUGHTER
Sigrid Harald Novels:
FUGITIVE COLORS
PAST IMPERFECT
CORPUS CHRISTMAS
BABY DOLL GAMES
THE RIGHT JACK
DEATH IN BLUE FOLDERS
DEATH OF A BUTTERFLY
ONE COFFEE WITH
Non-series:
BLOODY KIN
SHOVELING SMOKE
LAST LESSONS OF SUMMER
SUITABLE FOR HANGING
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