One Coffee With

by Margaret Maron

  He looked at Sigrid expectantly, but she wasn’t quite prepared to share his surmises. Her curiosity about the odd lapse in the competent young secretary’s efficiency had been a shot in the dark, and after all, what did it prove? She tipped her chair back until it rested on its two rear legs and wedged her knee onto the edge of her desk.

  “What did Keppler accomplish by doublescheduling Nauman?” she mused aloud.

  “It wouldn’t have kept him from being there when Quinn drank his coffee,” said Tillie. “Classes were over at ten-fifty; his appointment with the dean was at eleven-fifteen. Anyhow, he still could have seen Harris at eleven if he’d wanted to. The dean’s office is just three floors down.”

  Sigrid thought about that and agreed. “Fifteen minutes should have been long enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to reverse the committee’s decision. The only thing canceling Harley Harris accomplished was to make him angry all over again.”

  Tillie resorted to his notes again, leafing through them as if they held the answer concealed in his neat script. At times like this he was humbly aware of his lack of imagination. The book made no mention of intuition, but he knew two and two didn’t always make four even when it looked as though they should.

  “1 guess I’m being rather stupid about this case,” Sigrid said, letting her chair hit the floor on all four legs. “After all, life’s not a convoluted doublecrostic. Why shouldn’t the simplest explanation be the right one?”

  “She had plenty of opportunity,” Tillie encouraged. He cited CHAPTER and verse, but Sigrid waved it aside impatiently.

  “We could build an airtight case against Sandy Keppler if all we needed was opportunity. Give me a motive, Tillie! Why would she do it? There’s no logical reason. Nauman says that as soon as she and Wade are married, they’ll probably leave New York. No, we need someone with a more solid motive. Someone like Jake Saxer. He and Quinn had a loud fight the night before last. Sounds very much as if Quinn were kicking him off their book project.” She repeated Doris Quinn’s account, and Tillie perked up.

  “What if he had the door cracked when Szabo brought in the tray? Then when Keppler took the hot chocolate into Vance—” He brought out his sketch of the Art Department floor plan and pointed to the partition separating Vance’s office from Nauman’s. “I don’t know how thick that wall is, but he might have been able to hear them talking. From the inner office to the bookcase and back is only thirty seconds, and that includes doctoring the coffee and putting the lid back on and wiping it. I timed it. Forty-five seconds for the others.”

  He was looking at his watch as he spoke, watching the sweep of the second hand. Suddenly he focused on the time itself and bounded to his feet. “I promised Chuck I’d leave on time today,” he exclaimed, his round face guilt-stricken. “He’s trying out for shortstop in Little League, and I’m supposed to help him with his fielding.”

  Sigrid inclined her head and paraphrased an old Henry Morgan weather report, “April showers followed by small boys with baseball bats?”

  “You’d better believe it! And out-of-shape dads with sore pitching arms,” Tillie grinned as he rushed from the room.

  A short while later Sigrid stood in the parking lot feeling suddenly edgy and restless. She unlocked her car, drove to the exit and paused indecisively. The sun was still high; it was too early for dinner, and besides, that odd sensation wasn’t hunger even though she couldn’t put a true name to it. Spring fever? Absurd! She gave herself a mental shake and drove over to her favorite health spa. Twenty laps of the pool left her pleasantly tired and in a better mood. On the way home she stopped in at a grocery close to her apartment and bought a frozen chicken potpie for dinner later.

  When she got home, she changed into jeans and an old shirt and went down the hall to a cubbyhole formally referred to as “bedroom #2” on the rental agent’s diagram, but which in Sigrid’s case had devolved into a storage closet/workroom. The rest of the apartment was almost Spartan in its bare neatness; this room held the small amount of messiness Sigrid allowed in her life. Its latest addition both fascinated and appalled her.

  Once a week large open trucks from the Sanitation Department make the rounds through Manhattan. On the night before, citizens wanting to rid themselves of old mattresses, dilapidated sofas, defunct refrigerators or any such furnishings too large for the regular garbage trucks, may stack these items on the sidewalk for early-morning pick up. Other citizens spend that same evening picking through the leavings. One person’s trash truly becomes another’s treasure; and scavenging is considered a respectable pastime.

  Sigrid had never indulged in the sport. Her furniture came from a proper store and was all modern, with neutral-colored no-nonsense fabrics and clean, functional lines. When her cousins cooed over Grandmother Lattimore’s Chippendale pie crust tables or her Queen Anne highboy, delicately asserting nebulous claims in case grandmother wished to dispose of anything, Sigrid had always yawned and gone off with a book. Yet two weeks ago, walking home from the Laundromat, she had paused by a motley collection of castoffs near the curb.

  Standing slightly apart, as if to separate itself from the rest of the debris, was a perfectly horrible armchair. It was square and massive, and the wood was slathered in thick layers of brown enamel, like peeling alligator skin. The seat and a central back panel were upholstered in cracked brown leather. The wooden back itself rose to a height of five feet, and instead of knobs its two uprights ended in roughly carved lions’ heads. Another pair of snarling long-toothed lions’ heads appeared on the ends of the broad armrests. All four were as large as a domestic cat’s head. Except for simple bevelings and turnings the rest of the wood was unornamented.

  Sigrid had stopped short at the sight of it, held by an inexplicable attraction. She was not the sort to talk about character in a piece of furniture, yet something about that hideous chair. . . .

  She’d hesitated, measuring its mass against her strength. Ridiculous. She’d shrugged and walked on. At the far end of the block she saw a young man and woman dressed in identical Levi’s and shirts. She saw the man point to the collection of things behind her, saw the woman’s interest revealed by a quickened pace. In that instant Sigrid knew they would want the chair and just as instantly knew that she was closer. Without stopping to analyze her decision, she turned back, slung her laundry bag into the chair and began tugging it down the sidewalk. She saw the envious glance the young couple gave her as they passed and felt a small pride of ownership mixed with a large portion of embarrassment. An adolescent from her building overtook her and offered to help drag her booty home; fortunately the elevator was empty so they were able to get it upstairs and into her apartment without enduring curious stares.

  The next day a helpful clerk at a nearby hardware store sold Sigrid paint remover, sandpaper and steel wool and gave her enough enthusiastic (and free) advice to make her succumb to the refinishing bug. The mindless activity was perfect for unwinding, yet physical enough to compensate for those days when she’d had to shuffle papers for eight hours. As she scraped and sanded and stripped away the old paint, she was even more delighted by the chair. Especially when judicious applications of the paint remover revealed that the lions’ eyes were inset with clear green glass marbles.

  She had no idea what wood the chair was made of, knowing only that it was close-grained and had a mellow tone. Beneath the brittle brown leather she’d found horsehair and cotton padding, which the hardware-store clerk advised her to try to salvage since it was probably the original. In her mind’s eye she pictured the chair waxed to a soft gleam. She hadn’t quite decided on new fabric, but moss-green velvet kept floating into that mental picture.

  What she would do with the damn thing when she finished it, she hadn’t the least idea. Nor did she want to look that far ahead. For the time being, all she cared about was the pleasure she derived from freeing the wood of its coat of ugly brown paint.

  But somehow she couldn’t settle into it this evening. Her ea
rlier restlessness had returned. At last she threw down the sandpaper and went into her bedroom to sit cross-legged in the middle of her bed, an elbow on each leg, her chin supported by her cupped hands. From early childhood this had been her soul-searching position, and she still reverted to it when troubled.

  So what was the matter? Was it a residue from last night? Was she in fact jealous of Cousin Hilda after all? Examined psyche answered no. Then did she regret not having a Chuck to keep promises to as did Detective Tildon? It was a relief to face this squarely; an even greater relief after honest examination to know she was not getting broody about children.

  So what was left? Work, of course. Duckett’s continued antagonism and that blasted interview first thing in the morning. Better make a special effort in clothes tomorrow in case that editor brought along a camera. As for her case loads, all were well in hand except for Riley Quinn’s death.

  If only there were some way to ascertain how the killer had known for sure which cup the deputy chairman would take. That was the key. Unless Keppler did it, in which case knowledge was a simple matter of a capital W on the lid. But if it were Keppler, what was her reason for wanting Quinn dead? Any of the others, even Vance with his resentment of art historians or Simpson with his promotion had more motive than the pretty young secretary. And there was Mike Szabo scheming for Karoly’s paintings and Harris’s anger about his failure.

  Opportunity without plausible motive; motives without provable opportunity. Round and round it went, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that somewhere in the past two days something she’d heard or seen or been told held the answer. She started with Harley Harris and worked her way up to Professor Simpson and then back down to Harris again without spotting it.

  If Harris could be believed, there was nothing unusual about the positioning of the cups; but the poison had been in Quinn’s cup and not in Nauman’s. Fantastic suppositions danced through her mind: could Riley Quinn have been a secret sugar addict? Could he have kept extra packets of sugar in his desk drawer to add to his already sweetened coffee, and could the poisoner have doctored the packets, substituting potassium dichromate? But the chemical was orange, dammit! Quinn would have noticed orange sugar. Unless he were colorblind?

  Oh, God, a color-blind art critic! And she was the one who’d preached simplicity to Tillie.

  All right, then, what’s simplest?

  That the killer had been a regular at the morning coffee breaks.

  Agreed.

  That he had noticed whether Quinn habitually went for the left or right cup.

  Agreed.

  That he (not forgetting that “he” could be Ross or Keppler) had been in the office when Quinn picked up the cup so that he could—à la Tillie’s first theory—knock over the tray before Nauman arrived if Quinn picked the wrong cup. (And it might be worthwhile to ask if the tray had been upset in the recent past.)

  So!

  She concentrated on those three points. If logic served, Harley Harris and Mike Szabo were again eliminated on the first two points alone, and even without the librarian’s alibi David Wade was eliminated by the third point. As was Professor Simpson? By all accounts he hadn’t entered the room until after Quinn had gone through to the inner office. So who did that leave in position to see precisely which cup Quinn took?

  She tried to visualize Sandy Keppler’s large office, collating all their statements. When Quinn chose the fatal cup, Sandy had been at her desk, Andrea Ross and Piers Leyden had stood talking by the mail rack, Vance had been waiting by the file cabinets to corner Nauman for a discussion of printing presses, and Saxer — Irritably she tried to place Jake Saxer in the room and failed.

  Another point to check on.

  Keppler, Ross, Leyden, Vance and Saxer. Could any of these be eliminated? Tentatively she removed Lemuel Vance’s name. He seemed to have a hot temper, so wouldn’t poison be too calculated? Especially since his strongest grudge against Quinn seemed to be an annual irritation about budget priorities or the usual friction between artist and art critic.

  And still no feasible motive for Sandy Keppler.

  Revenge was a strong motive for Ross, plus getting her promotion after all, since Quinn’s death opened up another professorship. Saxer kept his stakes in Quinn’s book, and Piers Leyden kept his professional reputation safe from Quinn’s vitriolic criticism. She and Tillie would have to hammer at those four until one of them cracked, or someone remembered a previously overlooked point. Which one, though?

  When the telephone rang, she was so tired of the squirrel cage her mind had become that she welcomed its interruption.

  “Miss Harald? This is Roman Tramegra. I do hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  Sigrid reassured him.

  “I tried to call you earlier—last-minute invitations are so gauche, don’t you think—but you weren’t in, so I’ll just have to be gauche anyhow.”

  “Not at all,” Sigrid murmured, a trifle bewildered. Tramegra’s deep bass voice was so at variance with the frivolous nature of his remarks that she had trouble reconciling the two.

  “I’ve felt such a Nosy Parker all day, moving your mother’s things out of the way, and I still can’t find everything. I say, do you suppose I could bribe you into coming over if I told you I have a wonderful lasagna in the oven? It’s real mozzarella. I smuggled a ball in from Italy last night—you mustn’t report me—the customs inspector thought it was some sort of soap on a rope for the shower. They’re quite thick. Do say you’ll come.”

  Sigrid weighed the invitation and decided that Mr. Tramegra was exactly what she needed to take her mind off work. “It’s kind of you to ask me. Lasagna sounds a lot better than the frozen potpie I was going to thaw.”

  “Now don’t bother to change,” he boomed. “Just come as you are. I’m not dressing, and the lasagna’ll be out of the oven in twenty-five minutes.”

  Sigrid promised she would be there in time. She brushed out her long dark hair and, instead of rebraiding it, let it hang loose down her back, secured only by a white scarf. She kept the jeans but exchanged a fresh blue and white shirt for the frayed chambray, which had paint-remover stains down its front. In less than five minutes after Tramegra’s call she had gathered up her black shoulder bag and the Life article that she’d borrowed from Anne’s files and was on her way.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Who can find a punctual woman? Her price is above rubies!” chanted Tramegra in his basso profundo as he opened the door to Sigrid’s ring.

  Last night the Great White Hunter, tonight a fugitive from a yacht club, Tramegra wore rope-soled sneakers, white duck slacks and a navy-and-white polka-dot scarf tucked into the open neck of his navy shirt. An aroma of burned tomato sauce wafted through her mother’s apartment.

  “Just the tiniest bit charred around the edges. Won’t hurt it a bit. In fact, it adds a certain piquancy to the flavor,” he assured Sigrid, whisking her into the dining area.

  Somewhere he’d found a red-checked tablecloth and a wrought-iron candelabrum that Anne had picked up in Spain. By candlelight the place looked homey, cheerful and above all neat.

  “It hasn’t looked this good since the day mother moved in, “Sigrid told him, diverted by the novelty of walking through the apartment without stumbling over something.

  Tramegra accepted her praise but admitted, “I took shortcuts. And whenever I was completely baffled by where to put something, I stuck it in Anne’s bedroom. Perhaps after dinner you could look through the things in there and help?”

  He brought in the casserole, and he’d been right. The slight charring hadn’t hurt the flavor at all. Sigrid was hungry by then and ate the lasagna with enjoyment. Also the garlic bread. The Chianti was cheap but drinkable. The salad, however. . . .

  “You don’t like the salad?” asked Tramegra.

  “I expect it’s the anise,” Sigrid answered as diplomatically as possible.

  “Now you know, I truly hesitated over whether or not to add anise. Not everyone c
ares for it, but it’s so typically Italian. Oh, not with an oil-andvinegar dressing perhaps, but plain oil and vinegar are so unadventurous, and cooking should always be an adventure, don’t you agree?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he described a cooking contest he’d won a few years back with a stuffed-artichoke dish of his own invention. “Well, not won actually, but second place is nothing to be ashamed of. Especially when the prize is five hundred dollars. That kept the wolf from my door a tidy few weeks. And then I wrote up my experiences as a cooking contest entrant, which I sold to three separate magazines.” He named them, but Sigrid didn’t recognize any of the titles.

  As dinner progressed, she found herself warming to the man. He still reminded her of Grandmother Lattimore’s pampered Persian, but there was more to him than that. His eyelids were heavily hooded—what Sigrid thought of as Elizabethan; but beneath those hoods his eyes were alert and knowing. There was an absurd pomposity about him that never quite slipped over into buffoonery, until one could almost suspect him of having constructed an elaborate protective facade. He chattered on about himself in that deep voice, as unselfconscious as a child. A bright, self-centered child who looked at the world through unjaundiced, inquisitive eyes.

  By meal’s end they were on a first-name basis, and Tramegra waved off her help in clearing the table. “I’ll just whisk these into the dishwasher and start the coffee, and you must see what you can do with that midden pile.”

  It was an apposite simile, Sigrid thought, looking at the muddle on the floor of her mother’s room and layering her bed. There were newspaper clippings, a half-eaten box of chocolate liquors (which Sigrid had always considered a dreadful thing to do to either chocolate or liquor), an envelope that held a handful of turquoise beads and a broken silver chain, several pairs of panty hose, an extra venetian blind, shoes, letters without envelopes, odd bits of photographic gear and most of the clothing Anne hadn’t taken to Italy with her this time.