She had awakened earlier than usual, feeling at loose ends.
Despite what she’d told Nauman the morning before, her apartment needed little cleaning. Roman Tramegra had taken over the vacuuming lately—“Must earn my keep,” he said—so after she had spent an hour straightening and dusting and another hour at the laundromat, the day had stretched unappealingly before her. The Times’s Sunday crossword puzzles had been too easy this morning. Nauman was in Amsterdam, and she had seen the exhibit of illuminated manuscripts at the Morgan Library.
Nauman gone had nothing to do with her restlessness, she assured herself, but as long as she was in this mood, work was as good an activity as any, especially since she was technically off duty and could in good conscience ignore the paperwork piling up on her desk for the more agreeable aspects of her job.
“Give me the address of Redmond’s cleaning woman and I’ll stop by on my way over,” she told Tillie.
“I’m glad you’re coming,” he said. “Something odd happened here last night.”
Mrs. Ermaline Yow had shiny black eyes, wiry salt-and-pepper hair held back from her face by pink plastic combs, and a less than immaculate apartment. Still in her bathrobe, she led Sigrid inside, dumped the Sunday comics from the best chair, and carried an overflowing ashtray and several coffee cups from a cluttered end table over to an even more littered dining table.
“’Scuse the mess,” she said cheerfully, “but after I clean up for other people all week, I don’t seem to have the heart to start in here. So Miz Redmond went and got herself killed? Who’s keeping Timmy? Not his daddy, I bet.”
“At present, he seems to be staying with the Cavatoris next door,” said Sigrid.
“Now, they’re nice people!” said Mrs. Yaw. “Don’t you just love Miz Cavatori? So friendly and nice-speaking. And just crazy about Timmy. Both of ’em are. They think the sun rises and sets in him. More’n you could really say for his own mother. Ah well,” she sighed, “mustn’t talk like that now.”
On the contrary, Sigrid told her. Julie Redmond’s character and personality were precisely what she wanted to hear about if Mrs. Yaw wouldn’t mind.
In the best of all possible worlds, Mrs. Yaw might have made a good clinical psychologist. As it was, observing her fellow human beings’ quirks and foibles was an enjoyable pastime. She readjusted one of the pink combs in her thick hair and settled back comfortably to answer Sigrid’s questions.
Yes she had been cleaning for Miz Redmond almost three years now, starting right after the baby came. Half a day, twice a week, Tuesday and Friday mornings. All day Thursday at Miss Fitzpatrick’s and lordy, the difference between those two! The Redmond apartment was so stripped-down that she could vacuum and dust the whole place in forty-five minutes while it took that long just to clean the table tops in Miss Fitzpatrick’s living room.
“Now she’s a nice lady, too, but—”
“But what was Mrs. Redmond like herself?” asked Sigrid.
“Well, like I say, the work was easy enough, but she was particular. Knew right to the minute how much work a body could get through in a morning and she always had a list laid out of exactly what she wanted done and I had to cross it off when I’d done it.
“Sometimes, though, when Timmy was still a baby and fussy with his teeth, she’d tell me to take him out to the park or wheel him around the block till he went to sleep. She’d rather do the work herself than mess with him when he was cranky. That was when he was real small, though. These days, he’s a quiet little thing. Guess he wouldn’t dare not be the way she jumped on him when he got the least bit loud. Good thing Mr. and Miz Cavatori like having him come over so often. She thinks—thought, I guess I should say now—that Miz Cavatori was sorta bossy about telling her how to raise Timmy and she thought Mr. Cavatori was spoiling Timmy, but she’d never say it to their face, you know, because she wanted them to keep taking Timmy when she wanted to go out. Free babysitting anytime she asked. But if Timmy didn’t do just like she said, she’d tell him he might get his way across the hall, but he’d better not try it out on her or she’d blister his bottom.”
“Didn’t Mr. Redmond object to her treatment of the boy?”
“Him?” Mrs. Yow snorted and tightened the belt of her robe around her trim frame before disabusing the young lieutenant of such notions. “He never said boo to anybody. Besides, I don’t reckon he even knows. They’ve been split up about a year now. Timmy was still a baby back then, sleeping most of the time when Mr. Redmond was home. I think Timmy’s scared of him, too. When Miz Redmond wasn’t telling Timmy she was going to spank him, she was telling him how his daddy’d give it to him good if he acted up around him.”
Sigrid remembered the way Timmy had shied away from Tillie and that Mrs. Cavatori had said he was afraid of all men except her husband. Was that because of Karl Redmond? And how did Redmond feel to see his own son shrink away from him with such terror? Bryna Leighton had hinted at the strained relationship. Was Redmond bitter or resigned about it, and did he blame himself or his ex-wife? Something else to look into.
“Did Mrs. Redmond know someone named George?” she asked.
“George?” Mrs. Yow scratched the side of her head thoughtfully with one of the pink combs. “There was a George Somebody or other that she used to work for up until Timmy was born. Washington? No, that’s not right. Jefferson? The reason I know is that he called her up a lot around the time she was getting her divorce.
“I thought maybe she might be going to marry him, but then she just seemed to drop him flat, ‘cause one Tuesday morning, she was out and he must have called a dozen times. When she came back and I gave her his messages, she just shrugged her shoulders and made a face like she didn’t care if she ever talked to him again or not. And before that she’d been sweet as sugar when he called. What was that man’s name? Madison?”
She jabbed the comb back into her hair, annoyed by her inability to fit a last name. “Oh well, just go to where she used to work. They’ll tell you.”
“Can you suggest anyone who might have wanted Mrs. Redmond dead?” asked Sigrid.
Mrs. Yow shook her head. “I don’t think she had any good enough friends for that.”
She paused and observed shrewdly, “Sounds funny when you say it like that, doesn’t it? But she sure wasn’t one to hang on the telephone. Least, not when I was there. I think she went shopping by herself and nobody ever dropped in for a cup of coffee neither, unless you count her brother, and she didn’t like it if he came while I was there.”
“Were they close?”
“Well, it seemed like they were when he started coming around last spring. First couple of weeks, he was there almost every morning I was. Then she must have said something, ‘cause he started waiting till just as I was leaving. A couple of times though, she made me take Timmy to the park ’cause she said they had some business to discuss. About the divorce, I reckon.
“That was just before poor old Mr. Redmond was killed and the business went bust. I could hear the two of ’em almost every Thursday through Miss Fitzpatrick’s kitchen wall. Thick as thieves they were. But then after her and Mr. Redmond got divorced, he didn’t seem to come around as much, and when he did, I don’t know. It was like—” Mrs. Yow searched for a graphic analogy.
“You know how it feels in the summer before we get one of those bad thunder and lightning storms? When it’s so heavy feeling you need to take a deep breath every couple of minutes? Well, that’s the way it felt to be in the same room with Miz Redmond and that brother of hers all last summer.”
For a long moment, she thought about what she’d just put into words, then she looked at Sigrid in puzzled surprise. “You know something? It sounds terrible to say this about a brother and sister; but yeah, he just might have wanted her dead. I don’t know—somehow I used to have the feeling that she had something that belonged to him and wouldn’t give it back.” She paused again.
“What if he just killed her and took it?”
&nb
sp; CHAPTER 11
By ten-thirty, the bright May morning had gone from mild springtime to a warm reminder that summer’s heat lurked just around the next turn of a calendar page.
Sigrid parked half a block down from the Rensselaer Building and left her gray suit jacket slung across the front seat. As she emerged from the car in a long-sleeved white shirt and a dark blue vest over loose gray slacks, it occurred to her that perhaps she should have spent the day packing away winter clothes and airing out her summer wardrobe, which was at least lighter in weight and texture if not in colors.
Meeting the Cavatoris and Timmy Redmond on the sidewalk only underlined the point.
Timmy wore short white pants and a little red blazer and he clung to Vico Cavatori, who wore a well-cut light brown suit. But it was Mrs. Cavatori who made Sigrid self-consciously aware of how out of season her wool clothes were.
If Luisa Cavatori lived to be a hundred, she would still be making the most of her physical attractions. She’d never been thin, not even in her girlhood, but plumpness hadn’t led her into the sort of timid styling and unobtrusive colors other generously endowed women so often adopt. All her life she had been complacent about her vigorous beauty and had dressed with a style and flair that still turned male heads of all ages.
Looking like a firm and juicy Granny Smith apple today, Mrs. Cavatori wore a green linen coatdress piped in crisp white. Shoes and purse matched perfectly. A twisted circlet of white chiffon did hat duty on her sleek dark hair and her gloved hands carried a prayer book and rosary.
She did not immediately place the young woman who had paused before them. Automatically, her shrewd brown eyes cataloged the shapeless clothes—good enough quality, but so drab. Such a waste, too, because Dio mio, look at those bones! Like one of those girls who had modeled their spring line of tennis dresses back in January. Loosen that hair, add some liner to those eyes . . .
The penny dropped with those gray eyes, and Luisa Cavatori recognized the lieutenant who had come to ask them about Julie yesterday. And here she’d been taking the girl and her clothes apart in her mind! And that one, she knew it, no? A little redder in those thin cheeks?
Regretting her unintentional rudeness, Luisa Cavatori gave the younger woman a kindly smile. After all, how should a policewoman know about clothes?
Sigrid’s flush deepened as she perceived the charity in Mrs. Cavatori’s smile and she tried to cover her awkwardness by addressing the child.
“Hello, Timmy. Going to church this morning?”
He held Mr. Cavatori’s hand tighter, but nodded shyly. “An’ the zoo,” he whispered.
Vico Cavatori cupped the boy’s head with a gentle hand and smiled at Sigrid. “But first we go to church. To light candles for Timmy’s new little sister.”
“Born last night,” explained Mrs. Cavatori with a graceful shrug and an expressive roll of her eyes which conveyed blame for the parents while acknowledging the baby’s innocence, all in one humorous gesture.
Sigrid could not restrain an answering smile, and Luisa Cavatori tilted her head in the sunlight and gave a gurgle of rich laughter as she impulsively clasped the younger woman’s hand.
“Ah Lieutenant Harald! Such a world as we live in today, no?” Then, more seriously, she said, “Do you come again to ask us questions? I will go back up with you if you wish it.”
She consulted her frail husband. “You will be all right, caro?”
Over Mr. Cavatori’s assurances that he and Timmy could manage alone nicely, Sigrid explained that she was only joining Detective Tildon for an examination of Mrs. Redmond’s papers this morning, not conducting more interviews.
“At least not at the moment,” she told them. “I don’t guarantee that I won’t need your help again later.”
Vico Cavatori was courtly as he insisted that they were at the lieutenant’s service whenever she wished. He had been surprised by the charm of Sigrid’s spontaneous smile. Ah, but when, he reflected, did Luisa’s warmth not melt through all resistance?
His eyes met hers above Timmy’s head and he was seized by a moment of absolute clarity. A crystal awareness of the long years behind them, an acceptance of death’s nearness; but more than either, a reaffirmation that for such a woman he would do it all again. Everything. He would change nothing—none of their struggles during the war, none of their pain afterward—nothing so long as they were together.
“Caro?” she murmured.
“Niente,” he smiled.
To tell her these things now would only alarm her—make her worry that another heart attack was imminent.
Timmy held a hand of each and now he tugged at them and laughed up at their indulgent faces.
“Can I light a candle?”
“Ma sicuro,” said Vico. “We will all light candles for our blessings. Andiamo!”
There was no sign of either Dorritt twin when Sigrid passed through the lobby. Up on the third floor, Hodson’s relief stood up to intercept her, then saluted smartly as she flipped open her ID without breaking stride. The front door to apartment 3-D was slightly ajar, and she entered unheard by the two people in Julie Redmond’s living room.
His back to the door, Detective Tildon was at the white desk, bringing order to bills, canceled checks, and tax statements, while a girl of fragile appearance sat cross-legged on the carpet at his feet.
It was a very expensive carpet. A rich border of apricot, burnt orange, and yellow flowers edged the pale cream ground. The girl might be dressed in jeans, but she looked as if she were used to taking silk carpets for granted. Of course, the jeans did sport a designer label and were topped by a hand-embroidered batiste shirt. Her light brown hair was held back from a small-boned face by two long thin braids and a cloisonné barrette. A couple of gold chains, one partially strung with graduated gold beads, glinted at the neckline of her shirt.
Sigrid was just in time to hear Eliza Fitzpatrick ask, “How did you feel the first time a woman gave you a direct order?”
Tillie shrugged. “Angry, I suppose. And rebellious probably.”
“How did you handle it?” the girl pressed.
“I did as I was told,” said Tillie. “I picked up my toys, put them in my toy box, and went to bed.”
“That’s not what I meant! And you know—Oh! Lieutenant Harald,” she said, scrambling to her feet in obvious delight. “Neat! I was hoping you’d come before Aunt Elizabeth got back from church.”
Tillie’s pink cheeks went even pinker as he realized that the lieutenant must have overheard his last remark. He rather thought she had a sense of humor, but so far he hadn’t the confidence to take it for granted. Her gaze was mildly inquiring and he answered cautiously, “Miss Fitzpatrick came to offer her assistance.”
His instinct was confirmed by just the slightest glint of amusement in the young woman’s slate gray eyes. She became even more formal. Such a reaction, Tillie was learning, meant that she was prepared to enjoy the humor in a situation.
“You were a close friend of Mrs. Redmond’s?” she asked. “Knew her well?”
At fifteen, Eliza was too much like her great-aunt to have mastered much duplicity. She laughed outright at the idea of being Julie Redmond’s confidante.
“See? You do need my help. You can’t have too clear a picture of her if you seriously believe Julie had any close female friends. Let alone somebody still in high school like me. I’m as intelligent as anybody twice my age,” she said. It was a statement of fact, not a boast. “But Julie wasn’t exactly the sort of person you’d ever discuss ideas with. I mean, she was only interested in things.
“Most of the time the Cavatoris kept Timmy when she was going out, but I sat with him once in a while when they had to be away at the same time, and all I ever heard Julie talk about were things she wanted to buy—clothes, makeup, or furniture, stuff like that—or men. Especially men.”
Eliza’s eyes dropped, then her chin came up determinedly. “I saw what you were thinking about my father yesterday.”
“You thought he wasn’t telling the truth about not knowing Julie,” she accused.
Sigrid said nothing.
“You’ve got the wrong impression of him,” Eliza said. “Dad may be uptight, but he’s not repressed.”
A small strangled sound escaped from Tillie, and Sigrid turned a cold eye upon him. “Is there any more of that coffee?” she asked pointedly.
Lips twitching, Tillie grabbed his cup and escaped to the kitchen.
“In a way, I guess it is funny,” Eliza said. “As far as Dad’s concerned, women are either ladies or tramps. There’s no middle ground. And I think Julie used sex to get what she wanted. Any time a man got within fifty feet, her body just put itself on automatic. She couldn’t help it.”
Eliza paused, then added thoughtfully, “I guess it was like one of those positive-feedback experiments we did in biology class last fall: If something works, you keep trying it.
“Anyhow, I think she gave Dad the come-on once when they happened to ride down in the elevator together. Knowing Dad, his reaction probably insulted her and instead of ignoring him after that, whenever they met, she seemed to go out of her way to needle him.”
“How?”
“Silly things. She’d ask him if there was a run at the back of her stockings so he’d have to look at her legs; or she’d pretend to have a pebble in her shoe and have to hang onto his arm to keep her balance while she took her shoe off. Sometimes she’d slip her wrist under his nose and ask him if he thought the perfume was sexier than what she’d been wearing last time. You’d have to know Dad to know how much this sort of thing bugged him.
“Oh, and once she made one of the doormen ride up in the elevator with them like she was afraid to go up alone with Dad. He was furious and told Mom that the doorman was muttering under his breath about sex maniacs. Mom said if he’d pinch Julie’s bottom one time, she’d probably leave him alone; but for Dad, that was a case of the cure being worse than the disease.”
Death of a Butterfly (Sigrid Harald) Page 9
