“Wait a minute,” Elliott said, rescuing one of the sheets of paper. “Look at this.” When I unpacked that miniature piece of sculpture earlier, I assumed Mrs. Lattimore had just used whatever was at hand. Now I saw that they were pages torn from a magazine.
“It’s the interview with Streichert’s granddaughter.” He smoothed them out and showed me a black-and-white photo. “That’s Albrecht Streichert.” The sculptor had possessed a pumpkin-shaped head, broad and quite rounded, wider at the brow than in the jaw. A receding hairline emphasized the bulging brow. Ordinary eyes and nose and thin lips that were tightly closed in what looked like a habitual frown. Further down the page was a picture of a sculpted steel cylinder that could have been a larger-than-life version of the one that had been stolen. Instead of Jews and blacks, this one was a writhing mass of generic Caucasian male and female nudes. Although slightly cleaner, it, too, was a depiction of carnal sensuality and… um… agility. Both were bounded by the cylinder shape and both had clearly sprung from the same artistic mindset.
“Let’s save this for Sigrid.”
“Have you known her long?” I asked, curious about their relationship.
“We met about three or four months before Oscar died.” A shadow passed across his avian face. “Hard to think he’s been gone so long.” “What was he like?” I asked softly, hoping to encourage his reminiscence.
“A brilliant artist. What he knew about color and—”
“I meant as a man.”
“As a man? Funny. Intelligent. Generous. Opinionated as hell and not shy about voicing those opinions.” He gave a wry smile. “He didn’t suffer fools, but he had the widest circle of friends of anyone I’ve ever met. From garbage men to governors.” He cocked his head at me like an egret examining a dubious minnow. “But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? You want to know about his affair with your not-kissing cousin, right?” “Guilty,” I admitted sheepishly. “And way out of line. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re not the first. He could have had almost any woman in the city, while Sigrid…” He hesitated. “Well, let’s just say she was no Lady Francesca Leeds when they first met.” “Francesca Leeds?” A mental image of that red-haired Irish beauty flashed through my head. She often appeared on the talk show circuit. A stunning and witty woman. “She was on the red carpet at the last Tony Awards, wasn’t she? On the arm of some gorgeous man?” “Probably.” He lifted the lid on the olives and popped one in his mouth. “She usually is.” I was impressed. “And Oscar Nauman knew her?”
Elliott nodded. “They were together for several months before Sigrid came along.” I was moving from impressed to incredulous. “She took him away from Francesca Leeds?” “He wouldn’t have put it like that, but in essence, yes. You want to put all this out on a platter or shall we just serve ourselves from the boxes?” “In other words, you don’t want to talk about it anymore?”
“Talk about what?” asked Dwight as he rounded the corner.
“The murder,” I said. “Pick up any tips from those detectives in there?”
“Nope. Everything’s standard procedure and their funding’s even worse than ours. They do a lot of their own preliminary lab work, too.” He held out his hand to Elliott. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk before. I’m Dwight Bryant.” “Elliott Buntrock. Hope you don’t mind that I’ve helped myself to one of your beers.” “Not a bit. In fact, I’ll join you.”
“So what brings Southerners to New York in January?” Elliott asked when we had filled our plates and Dwight had poured part of his ale into my glass.
“It’s supposed to be our honeymoon,” I said.
He lifted his glass in toast. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” said Dwight, “but the wedding was a year ago.”
Elliott grinned. “I thought you people only talked slow.”
Dwight laughed and cut himself a piece of some smelly cheese that was pockmarked with flecks of blue mold. “Things kept coming up.” “I gather you’re a police officer, too?”
“Sheriff’s deputy. Pass the mustard?”
Elliott put a dab of dill mustard on his salmon, then passed the little jar on to Dwight. “So you catch them and Deborah sentences them?” “If I find them guilty,” I said mildly.
“She keeps us honest. Won’t let us get by with sloppy work even if the guy’s guilty as sin and she knows it.” I ignored the bait and said, “And what do you do, Elliott?”
“I’m a freelance curator.”
“A curator? Does that mean you put on exhibits?”
“That’s part of the job description.”
“What’s the rest?”
“I’m on retainer at a few galleries and museums. Say a venue wants to have a special showing of an artist or a period. Take Oscar Nauman. He finally agreed to let the Arnheim give him a retrospective, but he died before any real planning got under way. I had to contact collectors all over the country and in Europe and Japan and arrange to borrow some key works. You can imagine the paperwork—insurance, customs forms, shipping. Then I had to go through the paintings that were still in his possession and come up with a theme that would tie his different periods together. Finally, I had to put together a full-color catalogue raisonné with essays by some of his contemporaries and fellow artists.” He pulled off a piece of the bruschetta and smeared a little mustard on it. “If a client wants me to, I’ll research, acquire, and authenticate certain works of modern art. I also do a little writing for various art journals.” “And run interference for Sigrid? Like with that Rathmann guy who wanted to interview her?” “When she lets me.” He gave a shrug and hunched into his gray tweed jacket like one of Aunt Sister’s guinea hens hunching into its gray feathers. Maybe I was reading more than was actually there, but his response sounded a little wistful.
“Who’s Rathmann?” Dwight asked.
“A wannabe art critic at the party tonight,” said Elliott. He speared an artichoke heart and said, “Tell me about Sigrid’s grandmother. Is she as strong-minded and eccentric as she sounds?” “Well, she’s certainly strong-minded,” I said cautiously, remembering her steely determination to keep her cancer from her daughters. “I don’t know that I’d call her eccentric.” “No more than most ninety-year-old women who’ve always had the money and power to set the rules for others,” said Dwight. “I doubt if all of ’em live in the South.” “Point taken,” said Elliott. “I didn’t mean to imply—” “Neither did I,” Dwight said with an amiable smile, and offered him another slice of tenderloin.
From there, the talk circled back to the murder, and we speculated freely about how and why the super had returned to the apartment when he’d already made certain that there were no leaks in the ceiling.
“He probably didn’t trust us to call him if we’d seen any dampness,” I said.
“Maybe he came in at the very moment someone was stealing those pillboxes or the Streichert piece,” Elliott suggested.
“And the thief panicked and lashed out?” Dwight considered it, then nodded. “People can do stupid things when they feel cornered.” “Is it valuable?” I asked.
“Could be.”
“What’s a maquette anyhow?” Dwight asked.
“It’s a scale model for a larger piece. A way to work out proportions before trying to cast a final version.” “Would someone who came in to use the bathroom know what it was?”
“Well, Rathmann certainly would, and there were at least three others at Luna’s party tonight with a background in art. Maybe more. Her boyfriend is an artist who’s starting to make a bit of a name for himself. And yes, that maquette’s probably worth a few thousand. I still don’t understand how Sigrid’s grandmother wound up with something like that.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost two. Wonder what’s keeping them?”
As if on cue, one of the detectives appeared in the kitchen doorway with his parka zipped and the hood up. “Major Bryant? We’re finished here for now. Lieutenant Harald will probably be back tomorr
ow, but she said she’d call first and—” Elliott swung around sharply. “She’s already gone?”
“Yessir. Did she know you were waiting to see her?”
“I guess not,” he said with a rueful shrug that had me feeling sorry for him.
We were nearly through a second round of ale and he emptied his glass, thanked us for his impromptu supper, then stood to go. “Sorry to have kept you unnecessarily.” “No problem,” Dwight said easily.
We walked out into the deserted hall with him and rang for the elevator. The doors to the other two apartments were closed and there was a tucked-in-for-the-night feel. The portable coat racks were still there but the hangers were empty except for a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and a fake orchid lei.
“Looks like someone’s gone off with my overcoat and scarf,” Elliott said. “Unless Luna’s got it.” He checked his watch again. “A little late to ask her tonight, I guess.” The elevator door slid back and a beefy white-haired man with a droopy white mustache opened the cage door.
“You’ll freeze out there without a warmer coat,” I said.
“No. I’ll hop in a cab and I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think so,” said the night man, whose name, according to his brass tag, was Jani. “The snow’s over a foot deep and still coming down. The crosstown streets are pretty well blocked and not much is moving on Broadway. The ambulance barely made it to the door, and that was a good forty minutes ago.” “Ambulance?” asked Dwight.
“Phil Lundigren’s wife flipped out when she heard about Phil and they had to call an ambulance for her.” Elliott turned back to us. “I don’t suppose you have an extra coat I could borrow? Or a heavy sweater so I can foot it down to the subway?” All four of us looked down at his shoes. Leather hiking shoes, not boots, and barely ankle high.
Dwight gave me an inquiring glance and I nodded.
“Looks like you’d better stay here tonight,” he said.
“Here?” Elliott looked around the hallway in puzzlement.
“With us,” I told him. “You can’t go out in this weather dressed like that. Not when we have an extra bedroom.” “Oh, but I couldn’t,” he protested.
“It’s pretty rough out there, sir,” said the night man.
“Then I’ll try the hotel down the block.”
“Full, sir. You’re not the only one stranded. I heard one of Luna’s party guests say they got the last room.” Elliott turned back to us and stretched his hands out in surrender. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?” “Of course we don’t mind,” I told him.
While Dwight put away the food and Elliott helpfully stacked the dishwasher, I pulled extra towels from the linen closet in the hall and made sure there were clean sheets on the bed in the guestroom.
We were all too tired for further socializing, and when I handed Elliott a robe that Rob had left in the owner’s closet, I said, “Sleep as late as you can. I certainly plan to.” Yawning, Dwight said, “I went ahead and filled the coffeemaker. If you’re up first, all you have to do is switch it on.” “Thanks again,” Elliott said as we headed for our own room. “I’ve heard about Southern hospitality all my life, but I never expected to find it in the middle of Manhattan.”
CHAPTER
7
It is generally supposed that the police of a city have but one duty to perform, namely to arrest law-breakers; but the New York police have other things than that on their schedule.
—The New New York, 1909
SIGRID HARALD—SUNDAY MORNING
When Sigrid joined him in the kitchen of 42½ Hawker Street on the edge of Greenwich Village, Roman Tramegra said, “Oh, good! I was about to tiptoe down the hall to see if you were awake yet. Have you seen the snowdrifts? A perfect winter morning for a hearty breakfast.”
Her housemate flourished his whisk at her and, in a deep voice that was a mixture of cinema English and educated Midwest, said, “What will it be, my dear? Hash browns, quiche, omelets, or waffles?”
Now in his early fifties, Roman fell somewhere between friend and surrogate uncle. He was an overly adventurous chef and his culinary experiments were often inedible, but breakfast was usually safe.
“An omelet would be good. Just cheese, though.”
“Only cheese? Not a few jalapeño peppers or chopped shallots and tomatoes?”
“Cheese,” Sigrid said firmly, and when Roman brought out a hunk of something with an odd color, she emended it to, “Cheddar cheese.”
Sighing, he returned his first choice to the refrigerator and exchanged it for the familiar orange wedge.
Sigrid poured herself a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose the paper came?”
“Actually, it did. At least there’s a plastic bag wedged in the snowbank inside the gate.” He broke two eggs into a bowl and gave them a brisk stir with the whisk. “I suppose you should get it before it’s completely buried.”
Sigrid smiled. Despite his bald dome and portly size, there were times that Roman reminded her of a large fluffy cat. He had a cat’s aversion to strenuous exercise and to the cold and wet. Snow might be beautiful, but that did not mean he wanted to walk across their small enclosed courtyard in it.
“If you go out for it, do you think you could manage to walk backwards?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s for my book. I want to see if a killer could make it look as if he only came in after a snowfall. Not that he went out.”
“It wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “Sorry. It’s not just the shoe tracks. Snow this deep will show which direction the legs were moving.”
Sigrid had first met Roman through one of her mother’s impulsive charitable acts. Due to an improbable set of circumstances, he had wound up camping in her tiny guestroom, and when her building went condo, he took it upon himself to find her a new apartment. Several frustrating fiascos later, he had brought her to this house built onto the side of a commercial building near the river on one of the shortest streets in Greenwich Village. The half-furnished rooms formed a sort of flipped L shape around a small courtyard with a high fence. The kitchen, utility room, and maid’s quarters were on the short segment, with a master suite on the long segment, along with a living room, dining area, and guestroom. The eccentric space was much too big for one person, yet the rent he quoted was quite reasonable.
“What’s the catch?” she had asked suspiciously.
“I have to live here, too,” he confessed. “It belongs to my godmother. Some of the furniture has been in her family for four generations, and I seem to be the only person she’ll rent the house to. I’ll live in the maid’s quarters and I promise I shan’t get in your way. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
That had not proved even remotely true, but Sigrid found that he was less intrusive than she had feared, and there were times that she was even grateful he was there. When Nauman’s death sent her into a deep depression, Roman’s constant presence and determined badgering had helped bring her out of it.
He had a magpie curiosity about everything that crossed his path and was entranced to learn she was a homicide detective, because he wanted to write mystery novels and thought she would be a handy resource. She could not convince him that most of her cases were open and shut and came with very little mystery attached. All the same, she could and did clarify points of police procedure for him, and she was quite touched when he dedicated his first book to her.
He had now written four books, and they were moderately successful. None had made the New York Times bestseller list, but they did sell well enough to pay his share of the rent, rent he now paid to her.
Buying this house was her only big indulgence after Nauman’s death, and his robe still hung in her closet. It no longer held the scent of his mellow pipe tobacco or aftershave, but merely touching it once in a while comforted her in ways she would not try to analyze.
There was a snow shovel in the utility room, and by the time she had cleared a short path out to the newspaper and made sure the gate could be opened, R
oman had sautéed peppers, onions, and tomatoes for his own omelet and was ready to lay the plain cheese one on her plate.
She shook the snowflakes from her coat, slipped off her boots, and joined him. However, instead of lingering over the paper and a third cup of coffee as was usual on Sunday mornings, she ate quickly and told Roman that she would be going in to work.
“But it’s still snowing.” He gestured first to the window and then to the tiny television screen that hung under one of the cabinets. The sound was off, but they saw a reporter standing in Central Park. Falling snow frosted her bare head. Behind her, skiers and sledders were happily frolicking in the deep drifts. “Most of the crosstown streets are blocked. People are skiing from their apartment buildings straight over to the parks. They’re asking people not to drive. Cars are skidding into each other everywhere.”
“Our street may not be plowed,” she said as she put her plate in the sink, “but I’m sure West or Sixth will be passable. I’ll have a car pick me up.”
Roman looked at her with sudden eagerness. “You never go in on Sunday unless it’s something interesting. And to brave the elements? Do tell!” He immediately began scanning the pages of the metro section. “Would it be in today’s paper?”
“I doubt it. And it’s not that interesting except that the murder weapon is probably a little bronze model my grandmother sent up for Mother.” Knowing that he would not leave it alone until she defused his interest, she gave him a bare-bones synopsis of last night and then went down to her room to dress.
9:15 and Grandmother Lattimore had always been an early riser, so she dialed the 919 area code. After two rings, a soft Southern voice answered, “Lattimore residence.”
“May I speak to Mrs. Lattimore?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the unfamiliar voice. “Mrs. Lattimore is sleeping. May I take a message?”
Surprised, Sigrid identified herself. “Grandmother’s not sick, is she?”
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