Three-Day Town Read online

  “Ah,” said Deborah, who nodded in understanding. “Therefore the need to blackmail Antoine instead of turning him in. After talking to Mrs. Lundigren, I thought maybe Antoine had killed her husband because Lundigren walked in on him while he was loading his pockets in our apartment. Could that still be the case?”

  “Unless it was Corey Wall that Lundigren walked in on and the kid panicked,” Sigrid said. “Clarke was in the building, if not in the apartment itself. It’s possible that he was in the back hall and saw Corey slip out of the apartment through the service door.”

  “This could be a blackmailing standoff that left Clarke dead,” Hentz said thoughtfully. “Corey was certainly at the party, so he could have seen that your door wasn’t locked and decided to see what he could pick up to feed his gambling habit.”

  “That latch is getting worse, too,” Deborah said. “Dwight, maybe you could take a look at it tomorrow? See if something could be tightened? I had to pull it to twice before I was sure it was locked.”

  An ambulance with siren wailing and lights flashing roared through the intersection at West 23rd and Sigrid had to brake sharply to avoid clipping its back bumper. A minute or two later, she turned onto West 14th. One of her rear tires hit a patch of ice at the curb and the car almost fishtailed into a delivery van in the next lane.

  “Whoa!” Deborah said as Sigrid quickly corrected. “Good reflexes.”

  White-knuckled, Sigrid slowed as she tried to decide which of these branching streets would lead her to the West Village restaurant Buntrock had selected.

  “He said for us to get off the train at Christopher and walk north on Seventh Avenue,” Bryant said as they all began peering through the windows.

  “Must be near the club,” Hentz said.

  “There it is!” Deborah cried, pointing to a sign two doors off Seventh.

  Sigrid signaled to turn. Miraculously, a car pulled out directly across the street from the restaurant and she slid her own car into the spot.

  Helped along by rock salt and the day’s weak sunshine, the street itself appeared almost completely ice-free, but dirty gray snow was still piled along the curb and had frozen back into ice so that Dwight’s boots crunched on it when he got out to hold the door for Deborah.

  As they were thanking Sigrid for the ride, Elliott Buntrock rounded the corner on foot and a big smile lit up his bony face.

  “Perfect timing,” he called, his open overcoat and scarf flapping in the wind like the wings of a giant heron. “I was afraid I was going to be late. Sigrid? Aren’t you staying?”

  She lowered her window. “Hello, Elliott. No, I’m just their gypsy cab.”

  “But why not? You have to eat. Unless you have other plans?” He gave a crafty smile. “Or is Roman cooking something special tonight?”

  “Oh, God, you’re right. He did mention medallions of calf’s liver poached in wine. When I left this morning, he was trying to decide whether merlot or chardonnay would go better with the capers and the green beans.”

  Deborah, who did not like calf’s liver or green beans, made a face. “You’re joking, right? Who’s Roman?”

  “My housemate, and no, I’m not joking. He’s an inventive cook, but some of his inventions are bombs.”

  “At least he cooks,” Buntrock said with a half smile, which Sigrid returned.

  “Elliott’s seen my collection of take-out menus,” she said, turning to the others. “You sure you don’t mind if I join you?” It had suddenly occurred to her that there would be more than one source of some specific information at the table.

  The Bryants assured her that she was quite welcome. Hentz, however, looked a bit apprehensive.

  “And we can all go on to Smalls later and hear Sam play,” Elliott said.

  Sigrid was amused to see the look of discomfort deepen on Hentz’s face. Not quite enough revenge for his laughter when Captain Fortesque had led the singing of “Happy Birthday, dear Sigrid” last February, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER

  21

  The stranger passing from restaurant to restaurant in up-town New York after seven in the evening would be very apt to conclude that most of the city had given up house-keeping and was taking its meals “out.”… The constant irritation over servants has driven many thousands to seek… eating accommodations in hotels and restaurants.

  —The New New York, 1909

  SIGRID, HARALD—MONDAY NIGHT

  On this slow Monday night in January, the hostess at the Thai restaurant was quite willing to change Buntrock’s reservation for three to a round table for five at the rear of the long narrow room.

  “Ignore the décor,” Buntrock said, breezily dismissing the scuffed chairs, the crazed mirrors, and the red-and-gold wall hangings that had long since lost whatever crisp charm they might have begun with. “Wait till you taste their tom yum goong and the peanut sauce they serve with their pad thai.”

  Hentz and Bryant wanted to try the Thai beer, so Buntrock ordered two Singhas for them and a bottle of white wine for the table.

  After an animated discussion, they decided to make their meal from a variety of appetizers that they could share rather than full entrees. When the drinks arrived, Buntrock made a graceful toast to the not-so-newlywed honeymooners, then said, “Any luck recovering that Streichert maquette, Sigrid?”

  She shook her head and Deborah, who was seated across from her next to Buntrock, gave a gurgle of laughter. “I forgot to tell you, Dwight. I finally remembered where I’ve seen Cameron Broughton before.”

  He recognized that mischievous expression on her face, took a sip of his beer, and leaned back in his chair, prepared to be entertained.

  “It was about three years ago,” she told Sigrid. “I was holding court down on the coast, in Wilmington, and he was one of four men who pleaded guilty to a D&D.”

  “Oh?”

  “The drunk part was no surprise. They’d spent the evening inside the Salty Dog Bar down on the Cape Fear River Walk. The disorderly part came when they took it outside, dropped their pants, and invited passing tourists to judge whose was the biggest.”

  Buntrock laughed. “You weren’t asked to rule on that aspect, too, were you?”

  Her easy laughter joined his. “No, but the reason I remembered was that Luna DiSimone tells me that he has a thing for penile humor.” Trying to use decorous language more suited to a dinner table, Deborah repeated Luna’s description of the Venetian figurines Broughton collected. “If he was in our apartment that night, I doubt if he could have resisted that maquette.”

  “You saying he killed Lundigren?” Dwight asked.

  Deborah shook her head. “Not for a minute. Lundigren probably didn’t know him and he certainly wouldn’t have known the maquette wasn’t Broughton’s. I think the killer maybe dropped it on the floor, Broughton came in and saw it, thought it would make a good addition to his collection, and simply walked out with it—maybe slipped it in his overcoat pocket when he passed the coat rack out in the hall.”

  “I’ll invite Mr. Broughton to come talk to us tomorrow,” Hentz said.

  “Good,” said Sigrid, who had maneuvered to sit next to Dwight Bryant. While his wife and Buntrock listened to Hentz describe how playing piano in a noisy bar made him feel like wallpaper, Sigrid steered the conversation to his work as a deputy sheriff. At a pause, she casually said, “By the way, who is Chloe Adams?”

  “Chloe Adams? She’s—” He broke off suddenly and looked at his wife, who had evidently been listening to both conversations.

  “Didn’t I tell you when you asked me that earlier?” Deborah asked contritely. “I’m sorry. I thought I did. She’s related to a lot of cleaning women around town and comes in when they need an extra pair of hands. I expect she’s working for your grandmother now. Kate said Mrs. Lattimore had decided to go through the house and dump a lot of stuff that’s been accumulating.”

  Sigrid nodded. “That’s what her note said.” She glanced over at Buntrock. “I know you wer
e wondering where she got that maquette, but she didn’t say. Just that she knew it was awful when she got it and that she had forgotten it was in the attic till she saw that magazine article.”

  “Streichert’s granddaughter—the one that gave that interview? She lives in L.A.,” Buntrock said, “but she’s scheduled to speak at the 92nd Street Y in a couple of weeks. If you’ve found that thing by then and still want to give it back to her, I think I could arrange a meeting.”

  “Sorry,” Sigrid said. “If it really is the murder weapon, we’ll have to hang on to it till it goes to trial.”

  Their food arrived and the conversation turned to the weather, snow removal, and the trouble Deborah’s nephew was in over a suggestive picture taken with his phone and posted on his Facebook page. She described the kids who had the three lockers around the nephew’s locker and they batted around suggestions as to how a jealous and horny teenage boy might have worked the scam.

  From there, talk moved on to memorable meals and travel. Buntrock was the only one who had been to Bangkok, and they were amused to hear that when he was there a few years back, he had bought a recording made by the king of Thailand. “Believe it or not, he was a pretty good jazz musician. Back in the thirties, he even sat in on some sessions with Benny Goodman and Lionel Hampton.”

  “You’re kidding,” Deborah said.

  Buntrock raised his right hand in a Boy Scout salute. “Word of honor. He played the tenor sax.”

  “The kings of Siam have come a long way since Yul Brynner,” Sigrid said dryly.

  Shortly after nine, Sam Hentz stood up and said he had to go. He tried to pay Buntrock for his share of the dinner, but was waved off. “You can buy me a drink later.”

  “It’s a deal.” He buttoned his overcoat and wound his scarf around his neck. “See you at the club, then.”

  When he was gone, Sigrid forked another dumpling onto her plate and turned a jaundiced gaze on her putative cousin. “Okay, so who is Chloe Adams? The truth this time, if you don’t mind.”

  Before Deborah could protest, Sigrid held up a slender hand to stop her. “When a wife kicks her husband under the table, it generally means that he’s about to say something she doesn’t want him to.”

  Buntrock looked puzzled, but Dwight gave a rueful smile. “You got that right.”

  “So far as I know, domestic help doesn’t come in on Sundays to clean, do they? Not in the South anyhow.”

  “Look,” Deborah said quietly. “Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

  Buntrock put his fork down. “Shall I leave?”

  “Why?” Sigrid asked. “You already know most of my secrets, Elliott, and I’m sure Major Bryant knows what this is about. True, Major?”

  “You might as well tell her, shug.”

  Deborah was clearly conflicted. “All right,” she said at last. “She made Kate promise not to tell any of you, but Chloe Adams is an LPN.”

  “As in licensed practical nurse?”

  Deborah nodded.

  Sigrid frowned. “What’s wrong with my grandmother?”

  “She’s dying,” Deborah said bluntly. “Her cancer’s back.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sigrid’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand. She had surgery and chemo six years ago, but at Thanksgiving she told us she was still clean.”

  “She lied. Kate says it came roaring back last summer and the doctors said more surgery would be useless.”

  “But chemo… radiation—”

  “Chemo and radiation are precisely why she hasn’t told y’all. She’s afraid you’ll try to badger her into it. Her exact words to Kate were that she didn’t want to spend the last year of her life bald and throwing up just so she could have an extra two months, and that’s about all the doctors could promise her if she took the treatments.”

  “That sounds like Grandmother,” Sigrid said as the implications sank in. “She wanted all of us there for Thanksgiving and one of my aunts kept saying she looked a little tired, but we thought it was because of too much company and overdoing on the dinner. She was supposed to go to my Denver aunt’s for Christmas, but at the last minute she said she had a minor ear infection and didn’t want to fly. That wasn’t true either, was it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Sigrid sighed and gave a wry smile. “Poor Grandmother. She does know her daughters, though. Mother will understand, but both my aunts will be on the next plane when they hear about it. I can’t blame her for not wanting a fight if her mind’s made up. How long does she have?”

  “I’m sorry. I really don’t know. Maybe March or April?”

  “So soon?” For a moment she looked bereft. “Then it really is too late for the aunts to do anything, isn’t it?” She pushed her plate away and looked at her watch. “What time is it in New Zealand? I’d better let my mother know. She’ll want to go down and spend some time with her. And she can help fend off the others.”

  “It’s great that you’ll have a chance to say goodbye to her while she’s still in control of her life,” Deborah said. Her voice wobbled and Dwight reached for her hand.

  Sigrid frowned. “Deborah?”

  “Sorry.” Her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. “My mother died the summer I turned eighteen. She had chemotherapy, radiation, the whole nine yards, and she was so miserably sick at the end. Weak and nauseated. And it only bought her a few extra weeks of life. I think Mrs. Lattimore’s made a better choice.”

  Sigrid nodded. “Grandmother’s always been a realist.”

  Buntrock poured the last of the wine into Sigrid’s glass and handed it to her. She took a small sip, then set the glass back on the table and reached for her coat. “I’m sorry if this has ruined your dinner party, Elliott, but I’m going to take a pass on jazz. Tell Hentz I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t ruin a thing.” He stood and held her coat for her. “Want me to drive you home?”

  “Thanks but no thanks. Besides, you’ve had more wine than I did.” She turned to the others. “Thanks for telling me, Deborah.”

  They watched her walk away and Elliott said, “I don’t suppose you guys feel like hearing jazz tonight, either?”

  “Sorry,” Deborah said. “I really don’t. Dwight? If you want to stay, I can get a cab back.”

  “We’ll both get a cab back,” Dwight said.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Such criminals as these seem more cunning than brutal, but perhaps they are more dangerous for that very reason.

  —The New New York, 1909

  SIGRID HARALD—MONDAY NIGHT (CONTINUED)

  When Sigrid crossed the small shadowy courtyard from the gate to her front door, the streetlight on the corner picked out a blackened saucepan lying in the snow, its contents turned to charcoal. She let herself in to find Roman stacking the dishwasher. An odor of burned meat and vegetables permeated the entry hall and kitchen. Both the range hood and the guest bathroom off the hall had their exhaust fans running full blast.

  “Did it again, hmm?” Sigrid said, hanging her coat and scarf in the hall closet.

  “We really must install more smoke alarms,” Roman said, a sheepish look on his face. “By the time I smelled smoke, the liver was burned to a crisp, and the beans! Well, you must have seen the pan? Completely ruined.”

  “The book’s going well, then?” Her housemate’s rooms lay beyond the laundry and utility room. When he plugged into his iPod and lost himself in his writing, a dozen fire engines could roll past and he would hear nothing, certainly not a smoke alarm over in this part of the house.

  “Was going well. Was, my dear, until I hit such a tremendous roadblock, and that’s when I finally noticed the smoke. Too late to save even a morsel, I fear. Have you dined? I could whip up something.”

  “No, I’ve eaten, thank you. Elliott invited me to join him, along with that couple I told you about, the ones that know my grandmother.”

  “The visitors who found
a body in that apartment Saturday night?” Roman pushed the start button on the dishwasher, untied the apron from his ample waist, and hung it on a peg in the pantry. “The nine o’clock news said that there’s been a second murder in that same building. Is it true?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “In a garbage bag?”

  His fastidiousness made Sigrid smile. “It was a clean garbage bag.”

  Which in turn drew a rueful smile from him. “I suppose that did sound a bit Lady Bracknell-ish. And I do know that murder isn’t a sanitized drawing room comedy. All the same, my dear, finally! A homicide that isn’t open and shut! I want to hear every detail.”

  He plucked two goblets from the cupboard, extracted a corkscrew from a nearby drawer, and led the way to the living room. “We shall have a glass of the merlot I marinated the liver in and you can tell me all about it. Perhaps something will trigger a solution to my roadblock.”

  “I thought your plot involved the poisoning of a dean at a woman’s college,” Sigrid protested. “The death of an apartment super and an elevator operator is nothing like that. Besides, it probably is open and shut. We’re looking for one of the tenants, a teenage boy with a gambling problem who was blackmailing the last victim and who hasn’t been seen since.”

  “One never knows,” he said.

  She accepted the wine he poured for her and settled onto the couch, not entirely reluctant to rehash the facts. Soon she would have to go to her computer and tell her mother the bad news. For the moment, though, she would relax and indulge his curiosity about her work.